by Alison Baird
“IT DOESN’T SEEM REAL AT all, does it?” Jemma breathed.
Ailia’s foster family had come to Arainia with the returning army, at the Tryna Lia’s invitation. As they descended the ramp from their flying vessel they were ushered to an open carriage by a special escort. They wondered at the greeting Tiron gave them, and that he should be riding with them in the same carriage: this “king” who wore no crown save only the thinnest of silver bands about his brow, and who treated them with reverence, as though they and not he were royalty. They stared all around them as they rode, as well they might, for wonders were everywhere. Ambassadors of many worlds had come here with Orbion. In addition to the Fairfolk, there were dryads, sylphs, and satyrs, and woodwoses, or wild men, who were clad all over in thick hair like beasts. The Merans marveled at these: and at the dwarfs, or gnomes, with their inhumanly short and broad build; and at the still smaller pygmy people, whose height seldom passed two feet, and who rode upon goats and rams because they were too small to mount horses.
On they went, and still the wonders increased. A woman walked toward their carriage as they paused at a turning of the way, and they stared at her: she was tall as a man, with bronze-colored skin and dark hair dressed in rows of tight braids woven with leather thongs. She wore gold-plated armor over a short white linen tunic, and she hailed them with a great shout, holding aloft a wooden spear.
“A Malija, what you would call an amazon. They are from a world where women are the rulers and warriors,” King Tiron said, smiling at their startled faces. “There are other peoples in Talmirennia that are stranger still, or so I am told: the Androgyni that are neither men nor women, for instance, and the Cyclopes that have but one eye apiece. And in some worlds, the creatures you call beasts have gained the power of reason. They have mated with humankind, producing offspring that can be either shape at will. Those fair ladies you see there, my friend,” Tiron said to Jaimon, who was eyeing a bevy of black-haired women clad in garments of green and gold that shimmered and clung to their figures, “they seem to be human, but they are not. They are Nagas, and in their true forms they are serpents.” The Merans hardly knew whether to believe him or not; but the unearthly beauty of the Naga women haunted Jaimon for many days.
And there were dragons too, and cherubim, and sphinxes and tengus, manticores and myrmecoleons. Even to the Arainians such sights were amazing. To these humble Meran folk it was as though they moved in the tales that Ailia had once told them. Jemma and Jaimon and their parents, and Nella and Dannor, rode on through the city streets in a daze. At Jemma’s side her two little boys were all eager, straining eyes. At last the carriage took them through the gates of Halmirion, into its gracious grounds and on to the faerie palace itself on its high hill: and they were ushered by guards in splendid livery into the cool marble halls beyond. Nella felt small and shabby, and yet the grand people looked at her and her family in apparent awe. For they were the protectors of the Princess, who had twice given her shelter at need.
Into the hall of audience they went, staring up at the frescoed clouds of the ceiling. And they came to the end of the hall, where sat a goddess on a crystal throne, with stars on her scepter and diadem and in her train. Her long hair flowed about her, and she had a white gown on under her starry blue mantle. Nella scarcely recognized Ailia at first, and when she did she quaked a little. Had she raised this girl, nursed her and cared for her? And made her do chores, and tried to wed her to a fisherman? As she looked at the Tryna Lia on her throne, Nella felt like the hen in the old folktale who raised an eagle from the egg and then watched it soar aloft among the clouds. She surrendered in her mind every claim she still felt she had upon the girl, and merely gazed at her in wonder and in awe. Jaimon too found himself acknowledging the truth at last: She’s not ours, and never really was. But then she looked down at them, and smiled her old familiar smile, and they knew her again.
Afterward Ailia spoke with them all in one of the receiving rooms. They laughed together, and cried a little, and then Ailia grew solemn. “Now we must make ready for war. I would have you remain here, where you will be safe.”
“But isn’t it all over now?” Jaimon asked. “The rebel Zimbourans have been defeated, and we have been allowed into this world—”
“The battle in Mera was only a small part of a much larger war. The Book of Doom spoke of the deliverance of your world only. This conflict hasn’t ended: it has only started. But don’t trouble yourselves about it now. Rest, and take your ease.”
After seeing that her foster family were comfortable in their guest rooms, Ailia went to the war council. Mandrake, it was reported, had retreated to his stronghold of Nemorah; his servants—or his masters—had prevailed on him to go to Ombar for safety, but he had resisted them, perhaps as he began to realize what confinement and enslavement awaited him there. How long, though, would his resistance last in the face of their constant persuasion?
“Now is the time to strike,” said Auron. “While he is still in a position of weakness. For if he does flee to Ombar he will have the full protection of the evil Archons—perhaps of Valdur himself. He must not be allowed to go there.”
Taleera grumbled, “All very well for these Archons! All they have to do is watch. They’ve forbidden themselves to help, you say.”
“But that is the hardest part of all,” said Ailia. “What can be worse than watching those you love struggle and suffer, and perhaps fail—knowing you can do nothing for them? I think I pity the Archons the most.”
THE NEMEREI WORKED FEVERISHLY TO create the new flameproof armor, the mail of overlapping golden scales, the shirts and trousers of close-spun silk to go underneath and the surcoats and mantles of wool. Over the visors went the dark eye coverings that the salamanders cast off with their skins.
“I can’t see very well,” remarked Lorelyn, peering through hers. “It’s like looking through smoky glass. But I suppose we shall only need them when the flames are right in our faces.”
Throughout the battle preparations at Melnemeron Ailia was curiously silent, pale and withdrawn. Damion watched her with concern.
“She hates battles, you know that,” said Lorelyn.
“I know,” replied Damion. But as he looked at Ailia sitting silent on her carved seat, the serenity left his face and eyes for the first time since his return. He knew her now for what she truly was, a spirit, and yet still he flinched at the thought of any bodily harm coming to her. For he had also learned, from his own experience, that suffering too was real.
“Well, I for one can’t wait to get at Mandrake,” declared Jomar.
It was decided that the host should be transported by means of the dragon-gate to the enemy’s world. Ailia’s knowledge of the land surrounding Mandrake’s fortress was called upon in planning the assault. The human army would attack by land, and the dragons would engage Mandrake’s Loänan in the air.
Ailia strove not to remember the courteous, attentive, gracious Mandrake she had known during her stay there. That man, she told herself, had been an illusion, false as any glaumerie; the true Mandrake was the one who had betrayed the Paladins, supported the murderous tyrant Khalazar, and was allied now with evil Archons to destroy Talmirennia. Even if Mandrake had been virtuous once upon a time, the enemy had transformed him into a monster and a murderer. If she grieved for him at all, it was for one who was dead.
“I do not hate Mandrake,” declared Falaar. “He at least is a worthy adversary, and were that task not appointed to the Tryna Lia I would seek to kill him and win much honor thereby. But I shall do what I can. I was made for war,” he said, spreading his great wings as he spoke. “Also, I have brought the Star Sward from Mera.”
Jomar held up his iron blade with a fierce joy before giving it back to Falaar to carry: for its power would prevent any sky-ship or dragon from flying. The blade that could destroy the Dragon King! He was almost grateful to Mandrake for taking the role of Avatar. At long last the elusive, shadowy power that had mocked Jomar from behin
d other men’s faces had manifested, taken on a form of flesh: now in Mandrake’s person it could be challenged, assailed, slain.
THE DAYS PASSED—FOR AILIA all too swiftly—and the hour came at last when all was ready. The warriors donned their salamandrine armor. The dragons on the plateau of Melnemeron all prepared for flight, flexing their great venous wings. Those with human riders ensured that they had a firm hold and were not in danger of falling off. On Auron’s golden back Ailia sat looking up at the deep blue sky above them, and the comets that now followed harmless courses thanks to the efforts of these celestial warriors. Their foes had retreated, following their leader. The first battle was won, it appeared, but a still greater one lay ahead. They would no longer endure the forays of the enemy, but advance upon his own fortress.
An ethereal dragon hurled her huge silvery body into the air, and spread her wings. Others followed: white, gold, blue, red, and green wings sprang open, flared and lifted their owners aloft. How wonderful it would be, if one were able merely to enjoy it! But Ailia’s breath was coming fast at the thought of what lay before them.
At last her turn and Auron’s came. He spread his wings and flexed them carefully, then crouched low like a lion about to spring. And they were off in a rush of wind, and the other dragons were no longer above but all around them. For an instant Ailia did forget her fear in the exhilaration of it all. She had never before flown with an entire flight of dragons: now she recalled those she had seen long ago, soaring above the peaks of the Holymount in Trynisia. All around her were beating wings and winding, sinuous bodies, as they swept around the mountain top and sped toward the Gate of Earth and Heaven.
After many centuries the Loänan were at last going to war. But the heart of their chosen leader was still weighed down with doubts.
Part Two
THE BATTLE
13
Nemorah
NO ONE WHO HAD SEEN it in its former days would now recognize the Forbidden Palace of the Loänei. Most of the dragon-folk had abandoned it when news came of the defeats in Mera and Arainia, and the human servants had fled. Many of the Loänei that remained partook of the bliss-flower from the jungle, whose sweet perfume brought ease and forgetfulness to the mind: it had once been used for the ill and for women in the pangs of childbirth, but in the face of looming despair it had now become a mere drug. As they withdrew in mind and body from their fortress, the Morugei from Ombar had moved in, and invited others of their kind from the city; they had taken over most of the larger rooms. The once lovingly tended carpets were soiled, the tapestries torn, and the tall standing candelabra broken from much use as weapons in jousts playful and not so playful. In the pleasure gardens the wild native flora and fauna were invading and driving out the otherworldly ones that had been so carefully cultivated. The carp were gone from the ornamental pools, seized and devoured; the roses were reduced to tangles of bristling thorns, half-choked by strangling vines.
The formal throne hall looked much as it always had, save for a fine layer of dust upon all its furnishings. Mandrake sat in his throne, his claw-tipped fingers tapping a sharp staccato on the armrests as he brooded. He knew well that the ranks of his court were steadily thinning, as one by one his subjects deserted him. A few of his dragons remained: he was their Trynoloänan, and they would defend him with their lives. But he and they no longer inspired the fear they once had. New gods would soon appear from the skies, challenging Loänanmar’s God-ruler, and already the people were abandoning the city. Mandrake was aware of this, but felt curiously indifferent. His mind was too taken up with other fears.
It was said in some old legends that no tomb for King Andarion had ever been found because he had not died, but had passed into the realm of the Ether to sit at the side of his immortal sire; and it was said too that he would one day return to Mera and continue his reign. Mandrake had dismissed this as myth and wishful thinking, spawned by the terror and uncertainty of the Dark Age; and now it was rumored that Andarion did live still, that he had returned. In response perhaps to his alarm at the reports, the wound inflicted by his father’s sword long years ago had remanifested as a throbbing scar on Mandrake’s neck. No matter that the weapon had been wielded by another hand: such had been the devotion of Ingard the Bold to his liege lord that he had seemed at times but an extension of Brannar Andarion’s will, knowing the king’s inmost desires and acting upon them when he himself would not. And my father did nothing to prevent him, Mandrake thought. It was honor, not love, that stayed his hand from slaying me; he was glad enough to have another do the deed for him. His face was still scored too with the angry red welts Ailia’s dragon claws had left upon his dragon’s countenance. Even his shift to human form had not banished these injuries, for his mind as well as his body had been wounded. The pain was far worse in his draconic form however, and as he could not hold any other shape so long as the two that were his birth heritage, he was forced to be a man. The burden of human weakness had again fallen upon him. Was this what Ailia had intended?
As he brooded, a form appeared in the air at his side. The Regent of Ombar gazed at him with narrowed eyes. “How long will you persist in this madness?” Naugra demanded. “I tell you the enemy is coming. You must remove to Ombar.”
The clawed hands tightened on the armrests. “I have been to your world before,” Mandrake replied. “I have no desire to return to it, now or ever.”
“For your own safety—”
“Tell me, is what awaits me in Ombar any better than what awaits me here?”
“You still do not trust us, even now? We have stood between you and your foe.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart,” said Mandrake dryly.
“Naturally not—but your well-being is in our interests, all the same. To find another being with both Archon and Loänan blood in his immediate ancestry would be unlikely, and to create another would be impossible. You are unique, and were meant to be so.”
Mandrake snarled, “I want nothing to do with Archons and their machinations.”
“But we are rebelling against the dominant Archons,” said the Regent. “Like you, we disapprove of their plans for the Empire. Our own masters parted company with them many ages ago.”
“They have done their share of meddling. They ruled the Zimbourans through their offspring Gurusha, transformed humans into wretched goblins and dragons into firedrakes, raised them up as a fighting force to serve their own ends—”
“To thwart the Archon empire! Elmera, that you call Eliana, and her allies—and Ailia, the Archons’ heir—”
Mandrake ignored the interruption. “And as you say, they planned my birth for generations—they foresaw the king’s coming, and bred the Loänei sorceress Moriana so that Andarion should sire me to be your weapon in the conflict to come. We are their tools. The Archons are all the same.”
Naugra’s phantom eyes gazed steadily at him. “Say what you will, they made you, Mandrake—without them you would never have existed.”
“Then I have them to thank for all that I have suffered,” said Mandrake. “Enough of this. If I am your ruler, then you must obey me. Be gone! And remember, if I grow tired of this game I can always take my own life—and you will lose your precious weapon!”
“Do not linger here over-long, or the new Empress may yet perform that service for you.” With that the Regent faded from sight.
Left alone once more, Mandrake got up from the throne and began to pace about. He had watched the converging ranks of the enemy in his crystal scrying globe. Perhaps the Archons had been right, perhaps he should have fled when he had the chance. But to Ombar—he shuddered, recalling darkness. He had spoken lightly of the world to Ailia, but he knew it to be a place of horror, its memory an evil dream. Still, Ailia and her army would hesitate to follow him there . . . What to do? His present, chosen refuge was no longer safe. The Tryna Lia could not command such power in Nemorah as she had in her own world, but she had improved her skill with sorcery and she had many other s
orcerers at her command. Surrender was not possible—not to foes who had sworn to destroy him, who believed him to be the greatest danger their Empire had ever faced. They could not even safely imprison him, bound with iron, lest the Valei rescue him. There was nowhere to flee to, no safe haven where he would not soon be discovered, save only for Ombar. No matter how often his thoughts pursued solutions, always they cycled back to Valdur’s world as if compelled by some remorseless fate. It was a bastion, he acknowledged, defended not only by sorcerers but also by lingering Archonic powers. These would protect him—but to what end? They meant to make use of him, considered him their lawful property since they had brought him into being.
Presently a voice hailed him from the doorway. It was Syndra. Alone of the humans she had remained with him. Her black hair with its glints like witches’ oils was unbound, pouring down her back, and she was clad in a long, loose garment of deepest red. The shadow of a smile was upon her lips. That smile, and something that hinted of gloating in her expression, unsettled him.
“What is it you want?” he snapped.
“No: what is it that you want?” she asked. “Tell me, and I will give it you.”
“At the moment, I desire chiefly to be left alone,” he replied.
“But you will never be alone, Mandrake,” she said. “You never have been, from the first.” She advanced with a soft rustle of her robe. “I know this. I was there when you were born—and before.”
He stared at her. Had she partaken of the bliss-flower? Her eyes were fever-bright, her cheeks flushed. She laughed low in her throat. “Naugra is right. We endured the tyranny of the high Archons for centuries, but we could do them no harm. We could only harm their precious creatures, and for that we required a mortal servant to act on our behalf.”
