When Dragons Die- The Complete Trilogy Box Set

by K. Scott Lewis

  “Why would you ask this of me?” she questioned.

  “Because it’s time you took your role in the Church,” he said. “You’ve put this off too long. And because you’ve asked me to undo the coronation rite I did for the king of Hammerfold. Such a thing cannot be done by any priest. It must be me, or someone with as much authority as me in the gods’ eyes. It must be you, daughter of Graelyn. You are the Heart of the Dragon.”

  She looked at the perched birds watching her. Her students. Some had already fought on the borders. Some had lost loved ones, and would lose much more if they didn’t slow the contagion’s spread.

  “None of the others,” she said. “I will not have my druids pledge to the gods for this. Your priests will perform the coronation rites for the cities, and we will carry your instructions to them.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “We will do this now, with all here to witness. The world is our temple. Kneel, so I can give you my blessing.”

  “Mom?” Fernwalker asked.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” Suleima asked. There was a sad happiness in her eyes.

  No! The Fae voices within Aradma’s inner faerie court flared to life. No! You must not do this.

  I have no choice, Aradma thought. I’ve spent too long on the sidelines. If I had acted earlier, this might not have been the price.

  She knelt. “I am sure,” she answered Suleima. “For the people of this land.”

  Rajamin extended his leathery hands and laid thickly knuckled fingers on her head.

  “I consecrate you in the name of Athra,” he said, “whose works have laid the foundation for kingship, and in the name of Daag from whom sovereignty flows through Athra. I confer upon you the power to grant authority and make rulers of men and the power to take it away. In Athra’s name!”

  Aradma knew she was the only one who could see this, but as Rajamin said his final words the matrix of golden energy flowed through his fingers and into her head. It spread over her skin, and then buried itself within her body, coiling around her heart and spine.

  “Suleima,” Rajamin turned to the troll runewarden, “Contact Aiella and ask that her staff help you with copying the instructions for the rite. I will place my seal on it, and as soon as each message is ready, let’s get it to the druids.”

  Suleima nodded and headed off towards the castle.

  “Go now,” he said. “Return to King Donogan and strip him of his power.”

  “What are the words?” she asked, standing. “I don’t know how to perform the rite.”

  He smiled. “For you, it doesn’t matter.” He absently gesticulated in the air. “Just gather his people to witness and say something dramatic. Declare his power undone, and it will be undone. Declare him king again of his city, and it will be done in the eyes of the gods… as long as the faithful are there to witness. The authority I’ve granted you, and the fact that the people already believe in you, will be enough.”

  Aradma took her daughter’s hand and left, feeling sick to her stomach. She took Fernwalker back to Yinkle’s house before she departed.

  “I don’t want her at the temple any more,” Aradma said.

  Yinkle cocked her head quizzically for a moment. “I understand,” she replied.

  “Mom!” Fernwalker cried out. “I don’t understand! What just happened?”

  But Aradma had already stepped back into the sky, feathered wings carrying her south once more.

  It happened as Rajamin said it would. Aradma gathered King Donogan and his subjects in the grand hall. The doors and windows were open so the people standing outside on winding streets and bridges and walkways could hear.

  “It must be real,” Donogan said. “There can be no going back.”

  Aradma nodded. When all were gathered there, Donogan knelt on the dais steps facing the stone throne of Hammerfold. It bore the runes of Modhrin, engraved hammers on each side. Unlike the rustic style of the rest of the city, the throne seemed much older, made of thick, sturdy dwarven stone.

  Aradma stood beside the throne. She looked out over the masses and prepared to strip him of his kingship and the throne of its power. The gold light encrusting her heart glimmered, and she saw a soft glow build in the hearts and minds of each person. She wondered if Rajamin saw the same thing when he stood before his congregation, but neither he nor any other runewarden had ever expressed experiencing their faith so visually.

  She stood before Donogan and removed his crown, taking it in her left hand. With her right hand still on his head, she said, “Donogan of Hearthholm, in Athra’s name I revoke your kingship and any claim of your blood to the Throne of Hammerfold.”

  The gold light in the room flared from the gathered people. Just as Rajamin had told her, it worked. She saw a fading lattice of energy break and fall away from Donogan, making him just a man once more, no longer a king.

  Be dramatic, Rajamin had said. Make it real, Donogan had said. The Throne of Hammerfold was older than Donogan’s coronation, far older than even the Artalonian Empire. It was the seat of Hammerfoldian kings from the dawn of the Third Age. In order for any of the new states to be granted sovereignty, it wasn’t enough to revoke Donogan’s kingship. She had to break the throne.

  Athra is inside you now, the Fae whispered. It is her understanding you feel, through her seal on your heart. No way out…

  “Malahkma’s contagion must be defeated,” Aradma whispered aloud to herself. “We’ll deal with the rest later.”

  She was supposed to place the crown back on his head and declare him king of the city. She needed to reestablish the smaller sovereign border that would protect this town. Instead, she turned and placed her hand on the throne. The stone was smooth, but all stone was porous. She reached into Ahmbren and pulled in the earth’s green light. Tiny mosses and spores crept up, encircling the throne, sending their creeping tendrils into smooth rock. The spores grew and expanded into roots. Greenery engulfed the throne, and flowers bloomed. Aradma raised her right arm for dramatic effect and pulled her hand into a fist. The throne cracked and split from the thickening veins of wood, and a silver tree sprouted from inside, dropping purple flower petals over the cracked seat of power.

  The crowd gasped and Aradma turned to face them. The golden light had strengthened. She realized that their belief in her, in what she’d just performed, was an act of a goddess and not druidry. Their belief fueled divine power that she could now reach out and control if she wished.

  Rajamin, what have you done to me? He could not have known how she could see divine power in the world. He had opened her to more temptation than he could have possibly intended.

  She placed the crown on Donogan’s head.

  “I crown you King Donogan of Hearthholm,” she declared swiftly, and then shifted into the falcon and fled the golden light that continued to gather.

  She flew straight through to Windbowl, almost falling out of the sky in exhaustion by the time she made it home. She descended into the city, aiming at the street in front of Yinkle’s house. All she wanted to do was gather her daughter, climb into bed beneath warm quilts, and sleep for days knowing her child was wrapped safely in her arms.

  She fell to the ground and shifted into elven form, stumbling at the rough landing. Odoune was there, though she hadn’t noticed him in her eagerness to get home. He was about to knock on Yinkle’s door when he turned to her with a grim look on his face.

  She fell into his arms. “Odoune, I couldn’t help it,” she babbled. “They made me a priestess. I have the Church’s mark within me. I had to do it.”

  “Aradma,” he said. “It doesn’t matter right now.”

  “Yes, it does,” Aradma said. “He won. Rajamin won. He has me as his prize priestess.”

  “Aradma, listen to me,” he told her.

  She calmed herself. Something in his voice grabbed her attention. “What is it?” she asked, fear rising in her breath.

  “Hylda’s dead.”

  27 - Athra’s Jewel


  Arda recovered from the spear strike to her spine. Even though the armor had stiffened to save her life, the impact had hurt her back. She found it difficult to move but knew it would pass after she channeled a trickle of Light to help her body heal quickly. She was getting older. She wasn’t as resilient as she had been in her early twenties.

  Don’t complain out loud, or you’ll start sounding like Attaris.

  But that wasn’t her immediate concern. Anuit huddled against the wall in Kaldor’s living room, face horribly split by rows of teeth. Her forearms from her elbows to her fingertips were covered in olive-green leathery scales. Her fingers were twice as long as normal, extending in thin razor talons, each knuckle adorned by thorns. Anuit’s eyes were as black as Arda’s, and inky shadows slithered over her skin.

  Arda knew she had fallen for the woman. In the past, she would have reacted with disgust to one who had given themselves over to evil so readily. Now she only felt genuine concern and compassion. She knelt beside the sorceress and put her hands on her shoulders.

  “Anuit,” she whispered. “Anuit, come back to me, dearest.”

  Anuit’s black eyes glimmered, pregnant with tears. She opened her toothy jaws and a forked tongue slithered over her lips. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” she moaned.

  “Find yourself,” Arda coaxed. “Find your center and come back to us.”

  Anuit closed her eyes and shuddered. When she opened them again they were no longer black, returning to her natural brown. Her face shifted and the fangs vanished, receding into human features. The inky shadows dissolved, and her arms and hands returned to normal.

  “It’s the demons who died,” Anuit said. “A piece of them returns to you when they die. The vampire queen killed Khiighun.”

  “I know,” Arda said. “I was there, remember?”

  Anuit slumped forward onto Arda’s shoulder. The paladin held the sorceress close.

  “I’m so ashamed,” Anuit whispered. “I’m losing control. The worst is, I would do it again. I saw them going for you, and I know I would do it again to save you.”

  “Shhh,” Arda replied, kissing the top of Anuit’s head. “Shhh.”

  * * *

  The egg lay on Kaldor’s coffee table. He was glad the table had been constructed of solid oak, for the egg was quite heavy. He left it alone and heated water for fresh coffee while Arda calmed Anuit. Oriand stood in the middle of the room, fidgeting awkwardly.

  “Would you help me with the coffee?” he asked the troll woman.

  She came over, grateful for something to do.

  “The woman’s dangerous,” she whispered.

  “Indeed,” Kaldor answered. “But she has friends now, and someone who…” his eyes flickered back to the two women who had now moved to the sofa. “I daresay, who loves her. I don’t think she’s had that before.”

  A pained look overshadowed Oriand’s eyes.

  “You’ve loved before,” Kaldor observed. “Loved, and lost.”

  She nodded. “She didn’t feel the same way.”

  “Mugs?”

  She retrieved four clay mugs from the cabinet, and then set out a dish of sugar lumps.

  Kaldor took a mug in each hand. “You know,” he said to the troll as she took the other two. “I hope the troglodytes don’t rise to the surface there. I was rather fond of the camel.”

  Oriand stopped at that. She snickered, and then laughed openly.

  “What?” Arda asked from the sofa.

  “I… it’s just with everything,” the troll said when she caught her breath. “The poor camel.” She handed coffee to each of them.

  Arda’s eyes widened. “Damn it! My duster.”

  “I’m sure the camel will be fine,” Kaldor said. “He’ll wander back to the river and find food. The duster was ratty anyway.” He brought the drinks out to the rest of them.

  Anuit smiled softly.

  They all sat in silence for a moment, sipping at their coffee. It was a bit surreal. One moment they were about to be swarmed by troglodytes. The next, they were here, almost before it started.

  Kaldor stared at the egg. It was a container of some sort.

  “Do you know what to do with it?” Oriand asked.

  The wizard nodded. “Oh yes. Yes, I do.” It was meant for him and him alone. Valkrage had locked it with magic that would only open with Archurion’s seal. That was the last bit of the Gold Dragon that existed, a mystical mark upon Kaldor’s soul that identified him as Archurion. Even though the Gold Dragon was dead, with the seal, magic that responded to it would recognize it in his aura, just as the egg chamber had opened to him.

  He reached out and concentrated, moving the mystical seal into the focus of his awareness. He touched the top of the egg.

  At first, nothing happened. A few seconds later, a small click sounded, and all the sapphires receded momentarily before popping out and falling free on the ground. The panels of the egg split and spread into layers of curling petals, opening into a blooming lotus.

  In the center of the egg, another form lay huddled and curled in upon itself. He wasn’t quite sure what it was, other than another series of curved metallic lines and surfaces.

  The form moved and loosened, and then stood.

  “A woman!” he exclaimed. The animated statue of a life-sized woman.

  She rose to her feet. She was a series of perfectly crafted metal plates, proportioned to the athletic build of a human woman. He suspected the smooth portions of her joints were made from flexible armor-resin, perfectly integrated with the hard zorium plates and bands of her body and limbs. Her face was beautifully inhuman, gold and perfectly symmetrical. It reminded Kaldor of a Tavenport carnival mask. Her head was formed with a metal headdress that descended to the sides of the neck. The eyes were clear, faceted gems, glowing light blue, matching the luminescence that shown beneath the seams in her body’s plates.

  Kaldor suspected for a moment she might be a golem, but he sensed no magic within her. She was purely mechanical. Her power source must have been her eyes, made from elodian crystals, whose properties gnomes had just begun to explore when he was imprisoned in Taer Iriliandrel.

  In uncannily natural human fluidity, she turned at her waist, leaving her feet planted on the table and her arms gracefully hovering at her sides. She surveyed the four of them and focused her crystalline gaze on the wizard. “You are Kaldor,” the mechanoid construct said. Her voice warbled but was definitely feminine.

  “Are you… Athra’s Jewel?” he asked.

  “Yes. I was Xandelbrot’s greatest achievement, but it was the Archmage Valkrage who named me thus.”

  “Why did he name you that?” Kaldor asked. “Are you connected to the goddess?”

  “No,” the construct replied. Then: “You’ll find it awkward if I speak to you from atop your table. May I step down?”

  He couldn’t help but smile, filled with wonder at Xandelbrot’s ingenuity at creating the simulated personality. True to all gnomish technology, there was nothing magical about her, but such a thing couldn’t be created without a magical means of construction. He would have to ask her how she was made, but that could come later. “Please,” he invited.

  She stepped off the table and moved to a point in the room where she could face all four of them. “The one called Valkrage named me as a private joke—or perhaps as a means of obfuscation. Before the Library of Astiana was destroyed, Valkrage had Xandelbrot capture all its knowledge in me. Books are the records of civilization, wisdom its building block. And so Valkrage named me Athra’s Jewel, the only true face of Athra. I will answer any question you ask to the best of my capacity, but I don’t know what to tell you to ask. I was never given that knowledge in case someone else found me first.”

  “The true face of Athra?” Oriand asked.

  “Yes,” said Kaldor. He was beginning to understand. Valkrage couldn’t reveal the key question, but he could hint at it. “Because Athra’s not real. This is what Valkrage wants me to as
k you about. Who is Athra?”

  “Athra is a name given to a magical construct within the Kairantheum.”

  “A construct?”

  “An artificial being,” the mechanoid woman confirmed. “She is formed from the fabric of the Kairantheum, from the captured faith and hope of millions of Ahmbren’s inhabitants.”

  Kaldor already knew the gods responded to people’s faith, but the nature of the Kairantheum was always a mystery. This was the key. Valkrage must have unlocked it.

  “What about other gods?” Oriand interjected.

  “All gods and demons are constructs of the Kairantheum,” Athra’s Jewel responded. “Gods’ runes are reflections of their patterns within the Kairantheum.”

  “What is the nature of the Kairantheum?” Kaldor asked. “How is it that the Archdragons never knew of it before the younger races came to be?”

  “The Kairantheum is an artificial field of magical energy, constructed by sidhe wizards while dragons slumbered. The sidhe made innovations in magical art beyond the intricacies of dragon magic. They detected beings, Those Who Dwell Beyond, moving in the Void of the Dark. To protect the planet of Ahmbren, they created the Kairantheum to harness the latent magical power of all Ahmbren’s inhabitants’ hopes, aspirations, and fears. They intended these gathered powers to rival the power of the Those Who Dwell Beyond and protect this world from them.”

  “Why didn’t the sidhe tell us this?” the wizard asked.

  “Over time, the gods took lives of their own. The origins of the Kairantheum were kept secret by the few sidhe who created it; it was never common knowledge. Eventually, the sidhe forgot its secrets, save for a select few. They lost control of the Kairantheum, for its creations responded to the beliefs of their creators. If a people believed their gods created them, then so too do the gods believe it. The sidhe wizards could not undo what they had put into motion. The tables turned. The younger races were made to serve their creations. The greatest horrors of mortal history—whether it was wars against each other or the machinations of dragons against the gods—have all been the result of the gods’ involvement in mortal affairs. Even the High Elven Imperium’s war on humankind was sparked because of Artalon, which, in turn was created because of the Kairantheum. The sidhe traded freedom for safety, though that was not their intent.”