by C. M. Hayden
His eyes seemed to glow from the inside, and Taro could feel Kurian’s stare tracing over him and Lokír as Fenn came to sit opposite of him.
“Gods below,” Fenn said, his voice raised several octaves. “I never thought I’d say this, but you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He fumbled a bit, searching for the right word. “It’s been forever! What are you doing in here? Wait until Kyra sees you.”
“She’s here in Castiana?” Kurian asked, his voice touching the edges of excitement.
Fenn sighed hard. “She’s somewhere around here.” He picked at Kurian’s ragged clothing. “You look like shit.”
Kurian laughed, showing off his perfectly white teeth. They weren’t sharpened, exactly, but they seemed ever so slightly sharper than a normal human’s. “I see you haven’t changed. Who are your friends?”
Fenn shrugged. “‘Friends’ might be a strong word. Minor acquaintances, really. Lokír the Great, Lord of Nurengard, son of—” He glanced back.
“Harsthír,” Lokír said.
“Son of Harsthír,” Fenn finished, then pointed his thumb at Taro. “And that’s Taro of Who Gives A Shit, son of Nobody Cares.”
Taro very nearly hit him again, but remembered the jolt he’d gotten a moment earlier.
“Still making enemies, Fenn?” Kurian asked. He moved closer to Taro, and held out his hand to shake. Taro took it. “Taro, is it?”
Taro nodded.
“I’ve heard about you,” Kurian said.
“How could that be?”
Kurian eyed his cell. “My dad visits me in here sometimes. He told me you rescued him from Helia. Pretty damned impressive.”
“W-Wait,” Taro stammered. “You’re Arangathras’ son?” He looked Kurian over a second time, not seeing even the slightest resemblance.
Kurian gave a charming smile. “Not surprised he wouldn’t mention me. He’s not much of a talker to begin with, less so when it comes to his little half-breed son. He said you were with Antherion in his final moments, too.”
Taro nodded grimly. The memory still stung. “I was.”
“He died in the Conservatorium?”
Taro nodded again. “He did.”
“There’s that, at least. He always loved it. When I found out that witch, Vexis, killed him, I wanted to fly off and gut her myself. Obviously, they wouldn’t let me.”
“What?” Fenn said, bewildered. “Antherion’s been dead for over two years. How long have you been locked up?”
“Well.” Kurian slumped down and sat cross-legged. “The trial when I got back to Castiana was brief. My father was on the Brood Council, so I thought maybe I’d get a light sentence. Foolishness. I destroyed Syseril and Liatou.”
“But you had no choice. Sith-Narosa was—” Fenn began.
Kurian cut him off. “Believe me, I already told them everything. As far as they’re concerned, I destroyed something irreplaceable and opened Arkos to ‘the corruptors,’ whatever that means.”
“Four years in here,” Taro said with a grimace. “How long do you have left?”
Kurian counted on his fingers. “Let’s see, today’s Tuesday?” he asked in an overly casual voice. “Then four hundred and seventy-two years left.”
“Will you even live that long?” Fenn asked.
“Maybe. Dragons are functionally immortal, but I’m not sure how much of that gets passed along. The dragonkin don’t keep records on their half-breeds. I guess if I die in here then we’ll know.”
“Still… almost five hundred years?” Fenn asked. “Seems a mite excessive.”
“Maybe I can get off for good behavior in a century or two, I’m still hopeful,” Kurian said. It was clear that he was trying to lighten the mood, but there was a distinct twinge of sorrow in his bright eyes. He tried to change the subject. “What are you doing in Castiana?”
“I came to talk to Sivion,” Taro said.
Kurian laughed for a moment before realization struck him. “You’re serious?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” Taro asked.
“It’s just…nobody just talks to Sivion.” He made a chopping motion with his hand. “There’s a whole process, you know?”
“I’ve talked to her before. Alone,” Taro said, a slight bit of pride creeping into his voice.
Kurian’s eyes widened and he made an appreciative noise. “I guess heroes get special treatment. Forgive me for prying, but the only information I get is from my dad or an odd cellmate now and again. Is the world burning down or something? The guards have been on edge lately.”
“It’s not burning down yet, but the fire’s been lit,” Fenn said. “Vexis has taken over Helia. Ousted her father, and set up a puppet ruler. She was apparently trying to bring the Northmen to her side. And…there’s Craetos.”
“That much, I’ve heard,” Kurian said, shivering slightly. “Trust me, that’s not something that can stay a secret.” He paused, as if gathering his thoughts. “The idea of my grandfather’s desecrated corpse flying around and burning cities…”
Taro gave a sour frown. “Craetos destroyed our airship on the way here. We barely escaped. Last we heard of him, he was flying around the countryside burning northern villages. Firholt, and gods know where else.”
Lokír, who’d been silently observing up until this point, finally spoke. “I came to beseech Her Grace for help against this scourge.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” Kurian said. “They’re as afraid of him as you are. Maybe more.”
“More than us mere mortals?” Taro asked.
Kurian nodded. “They’ve got more to be afraid of. You’ve got an afterlife to look forward to. Dragons have no souls. When we die, it’s straight to oblivion. At least, that’s what they say. I guess there’s no real way to know if it’s true.”
“They can’t just sit here and do nothing,” Taro said.
“Oh, you don’t know them very well if you think that. That’s exactly what they’ll do. Believe it. They’ll talk, and talk, and talk, then agree to do absolutely nothing.”
“If they do, it’ll get so much worse,” Taro said.
“How?” Kurian asked.
“Vexis may have risen Craetos from the dead, but she doesn’t control him. She needs an artifact of the Old Gods—the Deeplight—to control him.”
Kurian’s ears perked. “I’ve heard of it. That’s old, old magic.”
Taro nodded. “We’ve got a Helian defector that knows where and when she’s going to try to retrieve the Deeplight. If we can get to her in time, we can stop her for good.”
“Woah, woah,” Fenn said, waving his hands. “’Defector’? That’s going a bit far, isn’t it? We’ve got no reason to believe Praxis is telling us the truth. He’s Vexis’ older brother, cut from the same cloth.”
Taro conceded the point. “I don’t disagree, but he’s all we’ve got.”
Fenn leaned against the stone bars with a hard sigh. “I guess it doesn’t matter. The dragonkin aren’t big on speed. We’ll probably never get to even tell Sivion.”
“He is right, Taro-sin,” Lokír said, frowning hard. “We could be in here for a great long while.”
Chapter Twenty-five
The Triumphs of Craetos
It wasn’t the FIRST time Taro had ended up in a jail cell, not by a long shot, though he had to admit this one was the worst. While it was more spacious than the cells in Ashwick or Endra Edûn, the darkness made it feel much more cramped. The heat and humidity were high, as it was throughout Castiana—dragons seemed to enjoy a higher temperature than humans. The sweat and dampness made Taro’s shirt stick to his skin, and he longed to take just one breath of cool air.
Taro lay on his back, staring up at the glowing vines running across the rocky ceiling. He was vaguely aware that Fenn had said s
omething, but wasn’t sure what.
“Beg your pardon?” he said in a haze.
“How long do you think they’ll keep us here?” Fenn repeated.
“The dragonkin have a treaty with Endra,” Taro said. “I think they’ll have to return us to the capital eventually, but they don’t seem to be in too much of a rush.” Taro glanced sideways at Fenn, who was leafing through Craetos’ journal in the dim light of the glowing vines.
Kurian didn’t seem to have any problem seeing in the dark. “You still have that?” he asked, moving closer.
Fenn smirked. “Good thing, too. It’s the only thing keeping me from going stark mad.”
“A book?” Lokír asked, stirring in his cell.
“I can’t believe it survived Syseril in one piece,” Kurian said.
Fenn tilted the book in Kurian’s direction, and ran his finger over aluminum braces running along the spine. “It was in such poor condition when we found it, when I made it back to the Librarium I braced the spine, took some pencil rubs of the engravings, and copied a few important pages down just in case. This thing’s a piece of living history. You should’ve seen the look on Moira’s face when I brought it in.” After a moment, he offered it to Kurian. “Craetos is your grandfather, so I suppose it really belongs to you.”
Kurian took it, handling it like it was a piece of frail art. He opened it, and touched a finger to one of the withered pages. “Gramps’s own handwriting.” He smiled a bittersweet smile. “Gods below, what have they done to him?”
Fenn leaned back onto a rock. “To be honest, I’ve only really scratched the surface of what it says. Your language is a confusing mess. Seriously, pick either an active or a passive subject transitive and stick with it.”
“I’ll bring it up at the next council meeting,” Kurian said. He tried to manage a smile, but came just short. It was obvious that his mind was dwelling on his grandfather.
Taro pulled himself up and sat with his arms wrapped around his knees. “Well, since we’ll be here a while, maybe Kurian can help translate the parts you couldn’t.”
Fenn looked expectantly at Kurian. “I was going to wait to ask, but if you don’t mind, I am curious. History usually is told by secondhand people. It’s rare you get something written by one of the legends of the Old World.”
Kurian nodded, flipping through it. “Most of it details his designs for Syseril and Nir Daras, then it goes on to a firsthand account of his fights against Nuruthil’s lieutenants.”
Kurian began to read directly from the text:
1897 in the month of the Navigator
It’s expected that my children should look to my guidance in these troubling times. Truly, I wish that I, too, had someone to guide me. The Elder Gods are silent to my inquiries. Sivion and Sirion have fallen into despair. Antherion has fled to the human kingdom, for what reason I cannot say. Treldair and Sethetrion refuse my counsel.
Corruption spreads across The Arkos, quickened by Nuruthil’s dark influence. Fear abounds. And where fear dwells, evil festers. Nuruthil—cursed be his name—is unable to unmake the world through his powers alone. However, even in defeat he has found a way to bring about his dark design. From the deepest fathoms of the Void, he has pulled creatures of immense power and malice.
They are neither alive, nor dead. They stand outside that cycle. Deathless. Sleepless. Orderless. Seeking only to further their master’s will. Through my travels, I have heard much of their influence. Their whispers drive mortal men to madness.
I fear, should I speak their terrible names, it might bring them hither. But let them be written:
Isaroth the Deceiver.
Suborgath the Corrupter.
Cthurihl the Breaker.
Sith-Narosa the Devourer.
Kurian turned to another page:
1897 in the month of the Cartographer
I have traveled to the human kingdom to speak with Antherion. The mortals here bask in the glow of the Arclight of Amín, uncaring for the plights of those outside. They refuse to heed my warnings of the dangers in manipulating machinations of the Elder Gods. They are a curious people, but may be useful in the wars to come.
Antherion’s fascination with their kind is a source of contention. I have asked him to join me on my quest to cleanse The Arkos of Nuruthil’s corruption, but he refuses. We do not part on good terms.
1898 in the month of the Shipwright
The corruption runs deeper than I could’ve known. I have uncovered one on the continent of Shin. The beast called Sith-Narosa seeps into the skin of men, wearing their likeness as a puppet, and bending them to his purpose.
It is only now that I see what these creatures were put on this world to do. On their own, in their true form, they are weak. Easily defeated. They do not conquer through force. They conquer through whispers. They do not fight in the Mad God’s armies, they fight in the minds and hearts of men. When they are driven out, they find another host and the cycle begins anew. In this way, the Mad God hopes to stifle opposition to his Great War, and hamper my attempts to counter him through joint arms.
If my kin are to survive the coming conflict, I must find a way to contain their essence. For that, I, like the humans I chastised before, look to the machinations of the Elder Gods for the answer. There is one piece of old magic that can contain their evil, but I fear the consequences of using it for such a perversion of purpose. It is the second of two stars that sit beneath the surface of Nir Daras. That which gives all men free will, and which shaped all.
The Deeplight.
Footsteps came from the opening to the cell block, startling everyone listening to Kurian. There wasn’t a door there, specifically, rather a large part of the rock face peeled away, revealing Arangathras’ enormous form lurking, motionless. His eyes searched through the darkness, and settled on Taro.
“You,” he said, his voice barely coming above a whisper.
Taro stood, and pressed himself against the stone bars of the cell. “Arangathras, please. I need to—”
Arangathras took a hulking step forward, and Taro noticed that he had Raethelas in his right hand. The dragon held the dark blade toward Taro. “Explain this.”
Arangathras’ templar was overwhelming, and him activating the Deeplight was like an ocean being dropped on Taro’s body. There was not even a semblance of resistance against the dragon’s command.
“I found it with the Netherlight in Helia. It was beneath the Aculam,” Taro said through gritted teeth, compelled to answer.
Arangathras lowered Raethelas, and Taro took a few frantic gasps of air, as if he’d just come up from being submerged under water.
“It was in the possession of the Shahl?” Arangathras asked. “Why?”
“Let me out of here, and I’ll tell you everything.”
Arangathras used the Deeplight again. “You’ll tell me now.”
Taro tried to resist the effects, managing to keep quiet for a moment, but it was too much to handle. “Yes,” he said, strained. “He wanted to use it in conjunction with the...”
Arangathras released, and the dragon looked even worse off that Taro did. He was panting hard, and his limbs were trembling. Using the Deeplight seemed to be a taxing ordeal, even for him.
“With what?” Arangathras demanded.
Taro slumped to his knees, shaking his head. “Let me out of here, and we’ll talk.”
The dragon snarled, and raised Raethelas once again. “Answer.”
This time, Taro didn’t yield. He stared down Arangathras with eyes like iron. His fists clenched, his muscles tightened, and he held firm. “No.”
After a full minute, Arangathras relented.
Taro choked hard, then looked back at the dragon. “I don’t know why you’re doing this. I saved your life. You owe me.”
>
“This goes well beyond a life debt,” Arangathras said. He held the sword forward, and the blade shifted between several forms. “You say the Shahl had this? This was one of several shards of the Deeplight, this one was at Syseril, and held Sith-Narosa. How did he get it?”
Taro shook his head. “I won’t help you unless you let us out of here.”
Arangathras attempted to use the Deeplight to compel an answer once more, but failed. There was a tense minute of silence before the dragon came and unlocked the cell.
“Come,” he said.
Taro breathed a sigh of relief as he, Fenn, and Lokír were let out.
Kurian stayed put, looking up at his father. “I don’t suppose I’m free to go, too?”
Arangathras wasn’t amused. “You’re part of the reason for this mess. Sit in your cell, and contemplate the choices you’ve made.”
Taro looked back at Kurian as he was led out of the cell block. Kurian turned away from his father, and though he wore a smile on his face, there were the beginnings of tears in his bright, yellow eyes.
“Taro. Fenn,” Kurian said, his voice cracking.
Taro and Fenn stopped.
Kurian turned away, and spoke directly into a wall. “If you see Kyra…tell her…tell her to stay away. I don’t want her to see me like this.”
Taro didn’t know what to say to that, but was saved from having to respond as Arangathras seized him by the arm and forced him forward. Free of the cell block, and not hindered by a blindfold, Taro could see that they were, indeed, beneath the surface of Castiana. Not technically underground, as the city itself was in the air, but in some sort of naturally made cavern that was hundreds of feet deep. The cell block they were in was only one of hundreds lining the black stone walls. There were a great many noises coming from the cells: shouting in a dozen languages, wings flapping, screams, and weeping. Along the sides of the cavern were ramps that zigzagged along the cave walls and up to the surface.
