The Archons of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  Mandrake flew down toward the round inner ward. “We cannot fly to the throne room at the top of the tower,” he explained as they alighted. “There is iron in it, the Iron Diadem, so we must take the long way up in our human forms. There is a stair within the central keep that we can take, but it must be reached from inside the pit.”

  “The pit!” Ailia looked in dismay at the yawning chasm only a few paces from where they stood.

  “There was a path cut into its side in olden days, for the slaves to use. That is how he protected his fortress: nothing could approach him by air, and the ascent of the tower stair is long and weary. It will take us many hours.”

  They found the earthen path and walked down, mindful of the fathomless fall to their left. Ailia clung close to the wall and would not look, even though her powers could still protect her this far from the keep. The abyss itself horrified her. She could see the dark holes within its walls, mouths of mines that led into the earth, where countless slaves had worked and died. Far below were the stony shelves where the roosting drakes clustered. Occasionally one would fly up toward the pit’s opening high above, turning a malevolent eye on the two interlopers, but Mandrake’s power and Ailia’s warded them off for now. At last the two intruders came upon a wide entrance that gave onto a narrow passage, and this in turn led to a stair of stone that wound endlessly upward.

  For Ailia this was the most unendurable leg of the journey yet. In the lower stories it was still possible to make use of sorcery, and they changed to winged forms in order to make the ascent. But at last it changed from rock to adamant like thick, gray glass: they were inside the tower’s base, gazing up at a stair that looked as if it were carved out of ice. And with each turn of the spiral flights they sensed a growing power above them, heavy and oppressive, thunderous with malign enchantment. Soon they could no longer use their own magic, and must climb the steps in human form. The treads were smooth and treacherous, and the central shaft plunged into shadowy depths. At first Ailia was comforted to think that she could still take another form lower down, before she hit the bottom; but then fatigue set in as the barrage of Elombar’s hatred took its toll, and as her back and shoulders sagged she realized that she would not have the strength to save herself should she fall. From time to time they both rested, perched on the narrow stair, though they dared not sleep. Then up and on they went: step after step, turn after turn. Mandrake had to carry Ailia once or twice, but she could not do the same for him and had to pause when he tired. At such times, she noticed, the scales reappeared on his face: when he weakened, Valdur grew stronger. The only light was the blue glow of Lotara, seeping faint and cold through the pellucid walls. At last, after what seemed like days, the stair turned from adamant to stone once more: a black stone, like obsidian or dark marble. They were within the upper reaches of the tower proper. And still it went ever upward in the same tight turns.

  They came at length to a landing, broad and flat, and Ailia flung herself down, too spent to go any farther. The prince also halted, leaning his aching back against the wall. They rested in silence, too fatigued to speak, for more than an hour. Then once again Mandrake lifted her in his arms, and holding her carefully he mounted the last coiling flight, emerging from it into a round chamber of stone. It was empty, but another short flight of steps at the far end led up through a square hole in the ceiling. “Rest here,” said Mandrake, setting Ailia down and giving her his cloak to lie upon. “There is nothing that can harm you in this place. I will go on up, and see what is to be seen.”

  While Ailia sprawled upon the dark cloak he climbed the last stair, with a grim anticipation in which not a little cold dread was mingled. The straight flight brought him into a second chamber, far higher than the first: he could not see the roof at all in the wan light. In the eastern wall gaped the windowlike embrasure they had seen from below. The great height had made it look small, but it was wide enough for half a dozen men to pass through abreast, and more than twenty feet high. Through it showed the pallid peaks of the mountains, and the dark sky. All the room’s interior was black, so that at first his eye could not distinguish details. Then dimly, by the dull blue light of Lotara, he saw high on the western wall the form of a circle surrounded by many rays: it was the shape of a star carved into the stone wall, black upon black. Beneath this insignia there stood a black throne, far too large to have been made for any mortal man; and in it there rested a tall crown of black iron, also too big for a human head, its circle of ten sharp tines imitating the shape of the tower. The crown of the lord of Vartara, still lying here where it had been abandoned millennia ago. In the front of the diadem there was a small round depression, the empty setting where the Star Stone had long ago been placed.

  And on the steps leading up to the throne, muffled in a hooded sable cloak so that he seemed a part of the chamber itself, there sat a hideous goblinlike man. Naugra looked up as the Dragon Prince approached, his face showing pale within the hood.

  “Avatar,” he said. “You come back to us in Ombar, as I said you would. And you have delivered to us the Tryna Lia, and the Sovereign Stone.”

  “No,” Mandrake answered. “I came back to perform another task. I did not expect to meet you in battle, Regent. A rat must be routed out of its nest.”

  He advanced on Naugra, but the other man did not move. He gestured instead toward the crown resting on the seat of the throne. “The Iron Diadem. It has waited many thousands of years for you to come here. And now you may claim it.”

  “I do not want it. In any case, you may have noticed it would be a poor fit.” Mandrake spoke in a dry voice.

  “True. Modrian-Valdur favored a form that was manlike, but larger than any living man could ever be. But your mortal frame can be molded into many other forms, human and otherwise. And after you there will be others, children of your line, who will receive the Diadem in their turn. And like the crown the deathless spirit of Valdur will pass from one body to the next, owning each in turn and then setting it aside.”

  “Not if I cast your precious Diadem into the pit,” said the Prince.

  Naugra smiled. “But will you? We shall see. Take it up now, and see what doom befalls you.”

  THE LANDS BELOW WERE UTTERLY dark, the haunt of eyeless things. As they flew, Auron and his three companions peered ahead, trying to follow the faint line of the road marked with venudor as it wound through the range. At last they came over the mountains, even as Ailia and Mandrake had done before them, and they saw the secret vale and what lay within.

  “The Perilous Citadel,” Lorelyn whispered, averting her eyes.

  “You know it?” asked Jomar, astonished.

  “I’ve seen pictures, in old books. The Fortress of Perdition. I didn’t know it was a real place.”

  “There is cold iron within the tower,” said Auron. “I cannot fly to it.”

  Taleera, who had flown ahead with her luminous plumes shining like a lantern before them, called out. “You will not need to. Look, there is Falaar down there on the valley floor, with Damion.”

  They flew down and settled next to the cherub and the Archon.

  “I knew you would come,” Damion said with resignation as Jomar and Lorelyn jumped down and walked over to him. “Ailia and Mandrake are in the keep.”

  “What are we to do?” Lorelyn implored.

  “Wait,” said Damion quietly.

  Jomar said, “Is there nothing we can do? For heaven’s sake, you’re an Archon—one of them—is there anything at all that you can do to help her?”

  “It is all out of our hands now, Jo,” replied Damion. “We cannot interfere.”

  “But if all our fates hang in the balance?” said Taleera. “It would be the end of everything if Ailia lost.”

  “No, not the end of everything,” said Damion. “Not even the end of Ailia. Her spirit will survive even if her body is destroyed. But it will be the end of the Celestial Empire, of things as we have known them. And for mortals there will be no escape but death.”<
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  They looked at the fortress and tried to imagine what powers were striving there. The mortals felt that they awaited a battle of two gods, whose outcome would decide their own fates.

  “We will not intervene,” said Auron heavily. “If, as you say, all rests on Ailia now, we must trust in her.”

  “But how can we leave her to fight on her own?” cried Taleera.

  “She will not be alone,” said Damion softly. “Those who serve the light are with her, in the Stone and in spirit. There are still more of us in the Ether than the darkened ones.”

  “All the same,” said Auron, “I will remain in this world.”

  “Auron,” said Damion gently, “there is nothing that you can do.”

  “You say yourself that Archons do not see the future,” said Taleera. “Auron and I are Ailia’s protectors, and even if she no longer requires our protection we will continue to be present, though the only support we can offer is our love.”

  “And we’re her friends,” said Lorelyn, with a glance at Jomar. He nodded. “We’re staying too.”

  “I can fly ye all to the top of the tower,” offered the cherub. “Except Auron, of course. He must remain at a distance lest he lose his power of flight. Iron is nothing to me.”

  “Then let us go,” said Damion.

  He and the two humans mounted, and the firebird flew on ahead. Auron had to content himself with flying alongside them for as long as he could, then sheering away to circle the tower beyond the iron’s range. Damion, Lorelyn, and Taleera could not use their powers past that point. And without the speech of the mind, most of the party could not now understand one another’s tongues. Taleera knew Elensi, for she had spoken it when in her woman’s form, but Lorelyn and Damion now heard from the T’kiri’s beak only the fluid birdsong that Jomar had always heard. Falaar could not understand her either, and for the other four his own aquiline cries had no translation. As they drew ever nearer to the tower they could only meet one another’s eyes with urgent looks, and make signs. Auron, moving in his restricted orbit, felt the moment when their thoughts were severed from his, and his anxiety grew all the greater.

  The cherub rose steeply, his wings nearly furled to his sides, and flew right into the high black casement. For a moment the five companions saw only darkness within. Then something moved: two shadows that resolved themselves into the figures of men. Mandrake stood there, and before him was a stooping gaunt form that Damion, Taleera and Falaar recognized as the Regent of Ombar. Mandrake turned to face them.

  “Where is Ailia?” Lorelyn demanded of him, holding out her adamantine blade.

  “She is safe,” the prince replied. “She is resting in the chamber below. I did not bring her here to do her harm, but to give her a last chance to join with me. The two of us together have the power to end this war. She need only consent to reign alongside me, and the battle of empires will be ended.”

  “Ailia would never agree to that! She knows the Valei are evil, and serve only Valdur. You’re holding her prisoner!” Lorelyn accused. She brandished her sword, turning to look at Jomar.

  But Jomar was silent. He gazed on Mandrake’s face, which appeared whiter than ever before in the cold light, and he saw its long years of suffering as though they were engraved upon it. His anger and his hatred left him. He, Jomar, had known a life of pain and bitterness, and he knew how it could scar the soul; but this creature had suffered for centuries longer than Jomar had been alive. Much as he had longed to kill Mandrake, he suddenly felt the stirrings of shame. He asked himself, for the first time, how it was that he had come to fasten all his rage, all the blame for his travails and those of others, upon this one person. It was strange, he reflected, that Mandrake of all people should have taught him pity.

  “Ailia and I will reign together,” the prince insisted. “I brought her out of Nemorah, but she came here to the Citadel of her own free will.”

  “You cannot escape the doom,” said Damion. “If you seek to avoid it, Mandrake, you will find that it overtakes you all the same. You can only reject the crown and the Power it serves.”

  Mandrake stared at him, pride and anger in his eyes. “I say I will avoid it, and this is the only way. By ruling those who would rule me.”

  “You will become a tyrant,” said Damion. “Mandrake, whatever you have now become, you were once an honorable knight in Mera. Remember what you once stood for!”

  Mandrake hesitated. If he drew on the dark Power now, he could defeat them all. But he did not wish to do so—he feared it too much. “Go now,” commanded the Dragon Prince. “I will not destroy Ailia’s friends. But I will fight you, if you force me. You know you cannot match my strength if I do call on the Power here—not even the cherub.” He advanced upon them.

  But as he stepped forward, he turned his back toward the Regent. The latter sprang up, and lunged at Mandrake from behind. Something flashed in his hand, swift as a striking snake. And then there was a blade of iron thrusting out through the left of Mandrake’s chest.

  All stood immobile: Ailia’s allies, the stricken prince. Mandrake’s eyes widened, and then he fell—toppling forward without a cry. “Well done,” said the Regent to the staring intruders, jerking his blade out of Mandrake’s back. “I had planned to wait until his guard slipped, and then use my dagger. But you have done my work for me, by drawing his eye away from me.”

  “You’re mad!” Lorelyn cried in amazement. “He is your ruler!”

  “No, not he. I am but removing an encumbrance from my Master’s way.” The Regent stood over Mandrake. “Now, Prince, you must use the Power or die. No sorcery of your own can heal you: summon it, and save yourself. Just one last time.”

  Mandrake lay gasping, eyes glazed, clutching at his chest. He seemed not to hear Naugra’s words. The Regent stooped to hold the injured man, supporting his head—almost cradling him as he spoke in a low, gloating voice. “The Power—the great magic that no iron can master! It will save you. Call on it now, and heal yourself. For you know you must not die: you are the last hope.”

  He truly was mad, Jomar thought, incredulous. If Mandrake used dark sorcery in order to save himself, would he not then turn on the Regent and take revenge? The Dragon Prince’s eyes were closed now, and his breathing shallow.

  Then, slowly, he sat up. His eyes opened, glinting in the wan light. His face was no longer contorted with pain. Naugra, on the other hand, seemed to lose what strength had shown in his withered face. He appeared to shrink and shrivel before their sight, cowering low upon the floor and turning deadly pale. His eyes were suddenly bewildered: they blinked up at the figure towering over him.

  The firebird gave a piercing cry. “Possessed! The Regent was possessed by the Dark One! And now the enemy’s spirit has passed from him into Mandrake—can you not see?” Taleera, seized with terror and frantic at her inability to make herself understood, screamed at her companions, and then rose up in a flurry and dashed at their faces, beating at them with her wings and trying to force them back toward the cherub. They started, as if roused from a trance. Falaar, understanding what she was about though not the reason for it, retreated toward the embrasure and opened his own wings, and as the agitated firebird flew at them again, and again, Damion, Lorelyn, and Jomar ran for the cherub’s back. He waited only long enough for them to find their places before spinning about and fleeing through the air.

  The prince stood tall, and looked after Ailia’s fleeing friends with a glance that, had they seen it, would have seemed colder and more inimical than any he had given before. The uncertainty and hesitation were gone. But he spoke to the Regent. “Your task is fulfilled. You were yourself but a vessel, though you did not know it. A vessel too weak and flawed to hold my full power. I take on a new one that is a more fit housing for my spirit.” And showing now no sign of wound or weakness, he took up the dagger, and with it he struck the cringing Regent a blow to the side of the neck. Naugra crumpled before the blade and lay still.

  The prince cast the wea
pon aside. Then he strode toward the throne, and, reaching out with both hands, he took up the Iron Diadem.

  20

  The Prince of Shadow

  AILIA WAS IN THE DARK, alone. Filled with a growing fear she wandered aimlessly through great silent empty spaces that she could not see, feeling her way, looking for Mandrake, who did not answer any of her calls. She sensed that there was someone or something dogging her footsteps, but she could not see it in the darkness when she turned.

  “Wake up, Ailia,” said a voice.

  She came back out of the dark dreams, and opened her eyes to find that waking reality was the same: darkness still surrounded her. She could just see Mandrake standing there above her, only a tall shade in the gloom; and then with a spasm of loathing and dread she remembered where she was. “Are you rested?” he asked. “There is a chamber above us. The throne room of Valdur himself. Come up, and I will show it to you.”

  She was not at all certain that she wanted to see it, but she took his outstretched hand and let him haul her to her feet. Up the short stair they went, and emerged into the black cavern of the room above. And there, as her eyes slowly adjusted, the obsidian throne and iron crown took shape out of the shadows. At the sight of them she recoiled. And then she saw the dead sprawled body of Naugra lying on the floor, wrapped in his dark cloak.

  “You killed him!” she exclaimed.

  “Of course,” Mandrake told her. “He was a vile creature, and not to be trusted.” He went to the high arched portal and indicated the view below with a sweep of his arm. She went to stand at his side. “Here was the seat of Valdur’s reign in ancient days. Here he looked out as ores were mined and forged into weapons for his mortal armies, all at his command. They made automata in the shapes of men, brazen giants that could loose arrows and wield gigantic swords: armies no soldier could face, no valor could defeat. Can you imagine such a spectacle? And the Archons in their strange composite forms, neither man nor beast. You could see these things for yourself if you tried: you no longer require a draught of ambrosia to visit past and future.”