Return of the Guardian-King

by Karen Hancock

  Abramm stared back at it. “What did you mean earlier when you said they used to be men?”

  “Before they were trapped here,” Lema said as he tugged Abramm around and forward, “they were men. Well, not ‘men’ as you take the word. Ban’astori we call ourselves. The Shining Ones. Like us they were once beautiful and talented and wise. They flew above the clouds, composed odes and poetry, and built many great and wondrous cities.” He gestured around. “Like this one.”

  “Trapped here?” Abramm frowned, remembering the open gateway through which he had entered the city.

  “By the Old One’s decree. He was angry with us—he was afraid of us, because of our dual natures. So he cursed us and put us here.” Bitterness laced his voice. “Now some of us”—he gestured at a big dragon lying along the wall—“have been so long in this place, so long frustrated with the injustice of their fate, they have lapsed into the forms you see now and have forgotten how to change back.”

  Abramm contemplated that for a moment, then asked, “And who is the Old One?”

  “Oh, he goes by many names—Eloshin, Sheleft’Ai, the Dying One . . .” Lema turned toward him. “I’ve heard that more recently his followers are calling him Eidon.”

  Abramm met his fierce gaze stoically, surprised and yet not, for on some level he’d seen this coming. “You are the fathers of the tanniym, then,” he murmured. Oh, my Lord Eidon, what are you doing? Why have you brought me here?

  Lema regarded him narrowly. “All we did was seek the freedom to make our own decisions and live out our lives as we chose. Is that so bad a thing?”

  “You raped the wives and daughters of men!”

  “Rape?! Is that what he’s told you?” Lema shook his head, laughing. “It wasn’t that at all. The women wanted us. Loved us. Begged us to take them. And we loved them in our turn.” The amused expression became a scowl. “But he could not abide that. He had to be center of everything. As if his ideas and ways were the only ones of any worth.”

  “Well, seeing as he knows the end from the beginning and has made us all—”

  Lema snapped around, fast as a dragon, nostrils flaring, blue eyes fierce and cold. “What do you know!” he sneered, cutting Abramm off. His brows drew down and his face flashed with a preternatural fire. “Blind, stupid little termite. The Old One made us all! Ha! If you had the least idea what he really was . . .” He had leaned so close Abramm could smell his astringent breath. Now he stopped as if coming to his senses. “Why am I wasting words on you? You’ll never understand until it’s too late.”

  He turned and walked away, leaving Abramm to breathe a sigh of relief, happy to be rid of him. But Lema hadn’t gone far before he turned back. “Come along. It’s not far now.” And it was as if a different person spoke. All the dark rage was gone, the man’s breezy golden air returned as if it had never left.

  Unnerved by the change, knowing for certain now that this man was his enemy, the last thing Abramm wanted to do was come along. But what else could he do? Even if he had been shown another way to go, Lema would undoubtedly follow.

  They continued through the city, the mist unveiling new sights ahead as it closed in from behind. Dragons rose and scuttled out of their way, or grunted and stirred behind the open street-level doorways, and it wasn’t long before Abramm noticed he and Lema had acquired a procession of reptilian attendants following along after them.

  Lema ignored them, taking it upon himself to serve as impromptu tour guide and consumed with his descriptions and explanations.

  His great city had once been divided into three distinct regions—the outer two now lost—and was so vast that it had taken a man ten days to traverse and three times that to encircle. Those who could always flew. Common men, such as Abramm, with their short legs and constant need for rest and replenishment, took even longer to cross it.

  He delighted in pointing out the ruins of an ancient theater here, a marketplace there, the home of a once-prominent resident, a particularly well-preserved artwork or architectural detail. He waxed eloquently on the Ban’astori’s skill and grace in the arts. And even in its present state of decline, Abramm saw signs of wondrous beauty—like the stone fig trees that marched down the divider of the thoroughfare. The sheered-off pillars Abramm had seen near the dragon square were actually beautifully rendered tree stumps, broken by the heedlessness of fighting dragons. As they progressed toward the city’s center, more and more trees remained intact and were as amazingly crafted as the dragon statue in the square—accurate down to each twig and leaf, and so cunningly shaped they seemed to quiver in a nonexistent breeze.

  Though usually he agreed with Lema that all had been quite magnificent, he once made the mistake of wondering why it had been allowed to fall into such ruin. Lema’s tone sharpened as he attributed the decline to the Old One and reverted to complaining of how unjustly he and his people had been trapped here. As he went on and on, Abramm came to understand that not all the dragons in the city were Ban’astori in various states of regression. Some, like Lema, had retained the full awareness and use of their dual natures. Others, consumed by bitterness and anger, had lived in their dragon aspects so long, the strength of their gentler, more civilized side had wasted away. Now, living only in their lusts of the moment, those poor beings had lost even some of the higher characteristics of the dragon, like their wings and the beauty of their scaling, becoming little more than overgrown lizards.

  “It will not always be like this, though,” Lema promised. “One day the Chosen One will come to set us free. Some of us think it will be soon.” He eyed Abramm speculatively. “With us as his army, he will unite the realms into one and end the divisiveness that has so long plagued the world. We will regain what has always been ours, and the Old One will be exposed for the fraud he is. A drooling, hunchbacked old man, who survives only so long as other foolish men believe in him. Maybe we will save a little bit of the desert just for him and those he has deceived to wander in for the rest of time.” He thought for a moment, then chuckled. “Then again, maybe not, since there’d be no one to care enough about him to keep him alive.”

  Something big flew over their heads, hidden in the mist but for the wind its passage generated.

  “We will set forth a new order where men will be cared for properly and no one will go without. Where wisdom and talent will be appreciated, where faith will mean peace not war and worship will become the greatest joy ever known. Where men will know no limits, free to progress beyond anything they can even imagine.” He smiled and glanced at Abramm. “What say you to that, friend Alaric? Does that sound like such a dreadful thing?”

  Abramm found himself unable to speak. Even aside from Lema’s boasting at the demise of Eidon, his glowing description of the new order had made Abramm’s skin crawl, for he’d remembered all too clearly how earlier Lema, bristling with hatred and disgust, had called him a termite. As if he were some kind of infestation needing to be removed, not “cared for properly . . .”

  And he was more at a loss than ever to explain why he had been brought here.

  The crowd of dragons following them continued to grow, both behind and before them, joined now by large men of Lema’s kind. They stood at the side of the street, watching silently as the two passed. Lema ignored them all, and Abramm supposed himself to be something of a novelty here, so why wouldn’t the locals turn out to have a look at him?

  Yet, despite the sense they were about to reach their destination, they walked on and on, until it seemed they’d walked three times the distance he’d walked in the desert. His legs and back and hips ached with fatigue, and he was beginning to wonder if they were walking in circles when the mist dissolved before them to reveal a sudden drop in the city’s elevation. Stairs descended to and through a landing from which flat rooftops extended into one long connected network of buildings. These encircled a vast, circular flat that sloped down to a dark central pit from which a gout of mist arose to meet the cloud overhead.

  A glut
of dragons crowded the flat’s near edge, as if they, too, had been awaiting Abramm’s arrival. There were giant men, as well, lining the stair and pressed onto the landing below. Not a landing, exactly, but a platform overlook extending out from the stairway, which continued through it to a chamber below.

  He eyed the circular expanse, the dark clot of mist, and the dragons, shimmering with exquisite jewel tones as they jostled for position. They bugled and roared and whistled their excitement, and occasionally one would leap up from the mass to fly over Abramm’s head and return.

  This was the Central Plaza he’d been seeking?

  My Lord?

  For answer the path of light, which he had not seen since before he had entered the city, now flashed down the stair before him, disappearing into the landing and reappearing on the terrace below it, where it shot across the dragon-filled flat all the way to the smoking pit. It flared for a moment, then faded.

  Dismay filled him. None of this made any sense. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he’d fallen in the desert and lay dying in the sand. . . .

  Things are not always what they seem . . . my son. In fact, they are often not what they seem. I am with you still.

  The thought drifted softly into his awareness as the men began to cheer, while the dragons shook the air with their roaring.

  “Why are they so excited?” Abramm wondered.

  He did not think Lema could hear him over the din, but the Ban’astori leaned close. “They think perhaps you are the Chosen One.”

  “The Chosen One? I’m a Terstan. I serve Eidon, whom you’ve been reviling from the moment we met.”

  “We hope your eyes will be opened.”

  As they descended the platform, the Ban’astori continued to cheer, and Lema waved and grinned and nodded. Then they descended into the long dim-lit chamber under the platform, and Abramm understood what was happening.

  He was surrounded by treasure. Golden shields lined the walls behind full-sized marble figures decked out in breastplates and helms of gold. Velvetlined boxes held artful arrangements of jeweled necklaces, bracelets, ear and nose rings. Silk-draped tables displayed golden plates and cups and tableware, candlesticks, vases, and silver chests overflowing with jewels. There were basins, lamps, carts, wardrobes, even tables and chairs—all of gold. There was even a collection of golden idols—fat-bellied Khrell, voluptuous Laevian, Aggos with his stern face and prodigious masculine endowments, as well as others he did not know. Jewels sparkled throughout: ruby, diamond, emerald, sapphire, amethyst. Waist-high ceramic jars piled with golden coins of many nations and denominations stood everywhere. Never had he seen such an accumulation of wealth. Never would he have even been able to imagine such a gathering.

  The legends were true. And then some.

  “I knew it was the treasure you sought!” Lema exclaimed. “And this is only the first room of it. Come. Let me show you the rest.” He started toward one of two doorways that—Abramm saw as he drew closer—opened into adjoining galleries whose far ends linked to another set and another after that, all filled with more of the same.

  The amount of wealth was more than he could comprehend.

  “Come,” Lema said again. “Let me show you.” He stood in the doorway beckoning.

  Curiosity niggled at Abramm, but he resisted it. This was far too obvious a temptation, and he’d already seen enough.

  “I did not come for the treasure,” he said firmly, continuing on toward the daylight opening at the chamber’s far end, where the stone terrace overlooked the flat full of dragons.

  Lema hurried after him. “If you didn’t come for it, then, why are you here?”

  Ahead a marble warrior loomed in Abramm’s path, backlit by the light from the terrace door. Just as he was about to alter course to go around it, a pink-orange light blazed from the ceiling above and he stopped, stunned by the sight of a golden breastplate above a kilt of gold, armbands of the same, a sword scabbard of scrolled gold, and on the faceless head, a crown—a filigree of rich yellow gold set with diamonds and rubies. Looking at it, he shuddered, for it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  “I think it is yours,” Lema whispered at his side.

  Abramm shuddered again, then glanced at Lema. “I thought you said I’d not be able to leave the city with any of this.”

  “Only if you intended to steal it. But if you are the Chosen One . . .”

  “I’m not.”

  “No one comes to this place save they who have been brought here. And there is only one who could have brought you to us. Our great father . . .”

  “Moroq is not my father. He is my enemy.”

  “Are you sure? For I have seen upon your arm his very mark.”

  The words drove into Abramm’s soul with a jolt of shock—painful truth that spawned a host of doubts and questions.

  “You could be the one to return and conquer, Alaric. With all of us at your back. What has Eidon ever done for you save wound and steal from you? With us you could rule the world.”

  Temptation struck him like a lightning bolt. For a moment he could hardly breathe. Possibilities tumbled through his mind. He could overthrow the Esurhites, drive the Gadrielites out of Kiriath and retake it for his own. Even Chesedh would fall under his sway. He would kill that handsome eastern lord who was lusting for his wife and take her back once and for all. And who could stop him? No one! Not with this kind of wealth. Not with these kinds of warriors.

  Lema grinned at him, his eyes bright and cold with that metallic sheen, as if he knew all that went through Abramm’s head. Outside the dragons roared and bugled, their voices enflaming his imagination. Lema lifted the crown from off the marble head. “This is yours, my friend. Made for you to wear . . . You will be king of all. . . .”

  Yes. King . . . He stared at the gold crown with its jewels. I will rule the world. There would be no more wars, no more famines, no more persecutions. . . . I will . . . He stopped. What am I thinking?! These are horrible ideas. Arrogant ideas. And this creature is lying to me. I would never rule. That is reserved for his master.

  He wrenched his eyes from the crown and looked at Lema. “Your king, you say? Or merely king of the termites?”

  Gratified to see the Ban’astori’s eyes widen in surprise, he started around the golden armor before his treacherous inner Shadow could get hold of him once more.

  “Wait!” Lema gripped his shoulder, and a vision of Gillard kneeling before him filled his mind. He saw himself touch the fine white hair of his brother’s head, saw the other man flinch as he did so, felt his brother’s fear and shame and remorse. “Consider what we offer you.”

  “No.” Abramm shook free of him. “It will never be like that with Gillard. And I do not want to be king of the termites at the behest of your master.”

  He strode around the armor and headed for the doorway, where the men on the terrace and the dragons beyond them had fallen silent.

  “You cannot go that way,” Lema warned. “The dragons will kill you if you try. . . .”

  Abramm kept walking, out the door and onto the terrace, following the light path as he recalled it.

  “Stupid termite,” Lema said at his back. “You could have everything.”

  He kept going, right for them. The dragons piled upon the stair, watching him come, some half standing on their fellows. They were big as draft horses, with heavy, thick chests, powerful wings, and mighty tails—compared to these, Tapheina was small and feeble. Their teeth were uncountable, white, sharp, dripping with drool. Their eyes, a myriad of metallic gleams, were as cold and hard as any he had ever looked into. Images crowded into his mind of the silver dragon torn asunder.

  He glanced down at his feet, but the path of light did not show itself. His knees trembled. Fear congealed in his belly, and the compulsion to turn back pressed him strongly.

  When he had drawn within five paces of them, the dragons erupted, screaming and hissing and bellowing, lashing one another with their tails, climbing up one ano
ther’s backs, filling the air with their roaring. Sheathed with sweat, he looked again at his feet, begging the lane of light to lead him, aghast at how badly he was shaking, trying to quell a terror that would not be quelled. If he could have closed his eyes and still walked, he would have. Already he smelled the acidic odor of their exhalations, which no doubt would be as poisonous and seductive as anything Tapheina had breathed on him. He’d have to hold his breath as far as he could—at the rate he was panting, he wouldn’t get very far.

  Oh, my Lord, I don’t know—

  He cut off the thought and, focusing fiercely on the Light within him, held his staff waist-high, at the ready, and stepped among them. The din shook the organs in his chest, and his heart was hammering so fast he didn’t see how it could even pump his blood.

  He braced for the first of them to seize him, but to his surprise, they drew back, as if he had some margin of personal space they could not penetrate. So the Light really was with him. This really was the way he was to go. He strode on, confidence rising giddily. It was just another test. How could he ever have doubted?

  As soon as he was completely surrounded with no hope of ever fighting his way back to the stairs, they attacked, lunging as if of one mind, jaws snapping, gouts of breath burning into his face and eyes. Reflexively, he flipped the stick down, striking a nose, then up to strike another, whirling to bat this one and that away. They were far too fast for him to get in any solid blows, and far too many for him to keep them at bay. His robe jerked at his left shoulder, then gave way as he whirled, while another pull came at the back hem. A sleeve tore, and then his ragged, poorly wound turban was pulled off. . . . They had him spinning and dodging in an increasing frenzy, and as he saw how helpless he was, he wanted again and again to bolt, as if he could run fast enough to evade any of them.

  They are playing with you.

  The thought burst into his chaos and brought him to a stop. He let them come at him, and soon saw that they attacked only his clothing, never quite reaching his flesh. It was all a deception. Empty threats. He took a deep breath to calm himself—and realized in dismay that was the last thing he should have done. Not that it mattered, since in his panic he’d long ago forgotten to hold his breath. Now he realized that even so, he’d not felt the least bit sick. It must be a more subtle sort that didn’t hurt, didn’t sicken. Indeed, now that he sought for it, he felt the faint tingly burn in his nose and throat and brought the Light up to meet it, burning it off, holding it back with every breath.