Ghostflame (The Dragon's Scion Book 2)

by Alex Raizman

  “Assuming it comes alone,” Tellias counters. “Assuming it doesn’t bring a flying Alohym with it and cuts us down before we can even make it to this valley.”

  “If they had an army of the flyers, they would have brought them to the plateau. I think they only have the one.” Tythel considered for a minute, then sighed. “I think it’s human, too. This is personal.”

  Both Tellias and Eupheme gave her blank stares. “Human?” Eupheme finally asked.

  “I heard its voice. His voice. I think he’s a human inside an Alohym skin, like how the Alohym have those worms inside them.” Tythel shook her head to get rid of a particularly disturbing thought that occurred to her. Some of Rephylon’s last words were combining with the taunts of the flying Alohym to lead to a terrible conclusion. It can’t be that. You’re being needlessly paranoid, she chided herself. “I think the worm is actually the Alohym, in the same way that when you’re wearing imperiplate, you’re not the suit. A…flesh plate.”

  “Oh, we are definitely not letting that name stick,” Eupheme said with a scowl. [] “You’re certain about the voice?”

  “As certain as I can be,” Tythel said with a shrug. “I won’t know until we crack open that plate and see what’s inside, but I’d bet every last copper I’ve ever touched that it was a human“

  “So if they can make these suits for humans…we could get some for our own people!” Tellias exclaimed. “Like how we’ve adapted the Imperiplate into the Arcplate. Only far more powerful.”

  “And vile,” Tythel said, blinking in disgust. “We don’t know how much freedom the wearer has. Or what it does to them. Perhaps the person inside is horribly warped by the experienced, or they…bond on some level.”

  “It wouldn’t matter anyway,” Eupheme said. “Even if we could get one, even if we could control it, they use unlight. We’d have to find a way to convert that to normal light, otherwise it’ll just heal the Alohym when we shoot them with it.”

  Tellias’ excitement started to fade. “Shadow embrace it. I was really hoping we’d finally have something that could truly challenge the Alohym on their own term.” he glanced sidelong at Tythel. “Something besides ghostflame, I mean. Unless you have some way for the rest of us to do that?”

  Tythel shook her head. “Not that I know of. Even if I learn heartflame, I couldn’t gift my draconic nature to anyone else. Only true dragons can do that.”

  “Speaking of advantages we don’t have,” Eupheme said, “we do have the slight problem of Tellias’ armor being completely without power.”

  “We can carry it,” Tythel said. “If I take the chest plate and leg plate, you two can split the remaining load. We’ll need to get a power source for it. I hoping one of you know how to contact the black market for that.”

  “With what money?” Tellias asked.

  Tythel shifted uncomfortably. This was the part she didn’t want to get into, but there was no mistaking it. “I have some things I took when I left my father’s lair. A single Sunstone should provide us plenty of funds to the right seller.”

  “A sunstone?” Tellias asked, his eyes widening. “That’s…flath, those are almost impossibly rare.”

  Tythel nodded. “It should keep us funded for the duration of the journey.”

  Eupheme gave Tythel a concerned look. “Are you sure about selling it?”

  “No,” Tythel admitted, leaning against a tree to support herself. Her leg was starting to ache again from yesterday’s injury. “But I don’t see any other choice. If we’re trying to buy things on the black market…well, honestly, I don’t know anything about that. But I can’t imagine it’s cheap.”

  Eupheme shook her head. “I should be able to make contact with some sources when we get to a major city.”

  “I’m still not convinced this is a good idea,” Tellias said, crossing his arms across his chest. “There are too many things that could go wrong. How are we even going to lead it? How can we make sure it doesn’t catch up with us before we’re ready to fight?”

  Tythel rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I’m not sure,” she whispered. “But I think we have to try. Unless you have a better idea.”

  “I do,” Tellias said firmly. “We go to the rendezvous as planned. We join up with the resistance and get ready for it to come. You proved these things aren’t immortal, your highness. We can kill it.”

  “We can,” Tythel said quietly. “But how many will die before we do?”

  “What about the three that will almost certainly die if we try to face this thing alone?” Tellias said, throwing up his hands in the air in exasperation. “We were hopelessly outmatched before. I’m having trouble seeing how this time will be any different. Forcing it to the ground does us some good, but it’s not exactly guaranteed.”

  “When is victory ever guaranteed?” Tythel asked. “No, it’s not. But if we cared about a guaranteed victory, we’d be fighting for the Alohym.”

  Tellias scowled at her, but didn’t have a counter argument.

  “We should get moving,” Eupheme said to break the silence. “Either way, it’s the same way out of the valley. Once we’ve crested the canyon, then we’ll really need to decide.”

  They broke camp to set out. From the feeling in the air, Tythel had a very strong feeling that this argument was far from over.

  Chapter 18

  Haradeth stretched as dawn light began to filter through the great dome over the Sylvani’s hidden city. Some trick of Anotira’s kept the clear glass from being too clear, gradually brightening with the sunlight to allow more light to come through. The bed he was sleeping in was the most comfortable one he’d ever rested in. According to Lorathor, it actually pockets of air that filled a thin membrane and perfectly adjusted themselves to provide optimal support for the being sleeping in them. Although it was designed for the Sylvani’s unique physiology, it had no problem adapted to Haradeth’s comfort.

  I hope the others are half as comfortable as this, Haradeth thought as he climbed out of bed, feeling a stab of guilt. The resistance was holed up in the ruins of an ancient city, in a bedroll that rested on slabs of stone left by a civilization that had vanished when Haradeth’s mother’s mother was a young Lesser Goddess. Of course they weren’t comfortable. I should be out there with them, Haradeth thought, shaking the sleep out of his head. His long, dark hair hung around his face. His mother was still healing from the terrible injury the Alohym had dealt her forest. What right did he have to sleep in comfort?

  “You know why you’re here,” Haradeth said to the empty room. The resistance had hoped sending a Godling could help awe the Sylvani into lending their aid. Lorathor had agreed, and that had settled it for the rest of the leadership. Unfortunately, it had been a waste of time. They’d traveled halfway across the continent, only to be told by the strange goddess of light that governed the Sylvani that no help would be coming. Not only that she wouldn’t, but she couldn’t. She was a glorified goddess of dance trying to do the work of an entire pantheon.

  Lorathor had been furious when he’d stalked off to rest, but Haradeth had felt more sympathy. He tried to imagine his mother, the small goddess of a single forest, trying to take responsibility for all the nine seas as well as the fate of humanity. It would be an unthinkably monumental task. Anotira was a being of light bound to these buildings, cut off from her brethren. She’s as alone as you are, Haradeth realized with a start. As far as anyone knew, Lathariel had been the last living goddess on the planet. With her fate uncertain, Haradeth could easily be the last of the lesser gods. It’s becoming a recurring nightmare, he realized with discomfort. Anotira was last of the Sylvani’s light gods. Tythel was the last dragon. Haradeth could be the last of the –

  “No,” he said aloud, again breaking the silence. “My mother will not die.”

  “Glad to hear your optimism,” Lorathor said, sliding through the door that opened just as Haradeth finished the sentence. “I agree with it, but still, glad to hear you hold it.”

 
; Haradeth gave the Sylvani a wan smile. “Have your people not invented the concept of knocking?”

  “You lived in a forest,” Lorathor countered. “I figured you were used to beings barging in on you at all hours.”

  “Mice and sparrows are different,” Haradeth said. He was glad to see the Sylvani was joking again. Last night he had been taciturn. “How are you today?”

  “Aside from learning I’m as native to this world as the flathing Alohym? Aside from learning my goddess is naught more than an advanced control lattice for a Skitterer? I’m feeling phenomenal, thank you for asking.” The bitterness was back in Lorathor’s voice now, so thick it threatened to drip across the floor. “We wasted our time here. I think I’ve wasted my life here. We should go to where we can actually do some good.”

  Haradeth wanted to agree. Desperately. Getting back to the resistance would feel like he was being proactive again. Getting back to the resistance would mean getting back to his mother. He hated himself as he shook his head. “Not yet. I don’t think we should give up.”

  Lorathor frowned. “I’m sorry, my diaphragms seem to be clogged. I could have sworn I heard you say you wanted to stay.”

  “You heard correctly,” Haradeth said, settling back into a seat. The air bladders under him rose to meet the motion, molding perfectly under him. Lorathor walked over to the other chair and sat on it, scowling openly.

  “Haradeth. I understand not wanting to go back empty handed, but right now we have absolutely no reason to believe Anotira can assist us.” Lorathor spread his hands helplessly. “Our cause would be better served if we went back to do something useful.”

  “What more difference would two more soldiers make,” Haradeth asked, “against the might of an empire from beyond this world?”

  “You dismiss us as ‘two more soldiers?’” Lorathor said, scoffing. “With what we’ve accomplished, you think so little of us?”

  “Hardly.” Haradeth shook his head to emphasize the point. “But I’m not talking about the might of the Alohym.”

  Lorathor’s face contorted into a frown. “My people won’t help, Haradeth. We have lived a lie for millennia. Even if Anotira confesses to all of the Sylvani the truth of her deception, it won’t matter.”

  “Do you truly believe that?” Haradeth asked, his voice low. “Or are you simply angry?”

  Lorathor leapt to his feet. “Angry? Angry? I’m far beyond angry, you arrogant little-” Lorathor caught the insult before it left his lips and took a deep breath. “Haradeth, imagine your mother confessed to you she was not truly a goddess. That she was a lumcaster with some minor tricks she used to fool you into being worshiped. That, on top of that, there were no such things as humans. That they were all poorly shaved apes she had putting on a pantomime for you.”

  “Most humans I know are fairly well shaved apes,” Haradeth said, holding up a hand to forestall Lorathor’s explosive reaction to the joke. “I understand your anger. Light, I thought my mother was immortal. Do not think I’m unsympathetic. But the fact that your people came here so long ago, from another world…why do you think they did, Lorathor?”

  “A great cosmic joke?” Lorathor responded bitterly.

  “I doubt it. Think, my friend. What would be so terrible to drive a people to flee their entire world? What would drive people to cross the void between stars, not as conquerors, but as refugees seeking a new home?”

  “You think it was the Alohym,” Lorathor said, raising an eyebrow in thought. “I….don’t see how that changes anything, even assuming it’s true. Anotira still said she would not aid us.”

  “I don’t think she sees the full picture yet,” Haradeth said. “Something she said last night, something that stuck with me. ‘I was to run only when absolutely needed, and pass the important parts of the Sylvani culture and history down through organic, memetic methods, and prepare for the Alohym’s arrival on this world.’ The Alohym have arrived. She must have made some preparations. Perhaps this…catastrophic failure, this Eylohir, has hidden it from her. We can help her find it.”

  Lorathor pursed his lips. “Fine. For now. But we cannot waste too much time, Haradeth. This is a fool’s errand, but I’ll let you play it out.”

  “That’s all I can ask.” Haradeth said, bowing his head respectfully. “Now…who would we talk to who might know where we could find those preparations, if it’s hidden from Anotira?”

  Lorathor thought for a moment, then slowly nodded his head. “I might know exactly who can help us. I just hope she’s feeling agreeable.”

  It was Haradeth’s turn to frown. “Agreeable?”

  “You wanted her help, Haradeth. Remember that.” Lorathor’s grin had a nasty bend to it that Haradeth misliked. “Come on. Let us go meet the Tarnished One.”

  ***

  It had never occurred to Haradeth that something as beautiful as the dome city of the Sylvani could have a seedy underbelly. Yet as they wound down through the passages and left the light behind, the corridors gradually grew more and more decayed. The gleaming green metal that composed most of the hallways was showing signs of tarnish, scraps of trash were laying on the floors, and the air gained a faintly unwholesome smell that Haradeth associated with undisturbed caves and tombs, as if the air itself had gone stale. In various places there was graffiti on the walls, a mishmash of the Sylvani’s curved script, the angular lines of the Cardomethi alphabet, and a series of dots, circles, and lines that Haradeth vaguely recalled as belonging to the Ancient Alohym.

  The modern Alohym script, with its spirals and harsh gashes, was nowhere to be seen.

  I suppose that’s a good sign, Haradeth thought, although there’s little else comforting about this. Haradeth’s knowledge of the Sylvani script only barely exceeded his absolute ignorance of Ancient Alohym, but the phrases he could see in Cardomethi were disturbing in their vague implications. “He Comes with Dusk.” “The Veiled Moon Watches All.” “Alert! Alert! Beseech Her Not!”

  “Where are we going?” Haradeth asked Lorathor, his voice a low whisper.

  “The Tombs of the Lost,” Lorathor said, his face grim. “Sylvani don’t age the same way as humans. In our final hours, we undergo a process not unlike a caterpillar turning into a butterfly. Only instead of a beautiful creature fluttering about, an ageless and mad creature climbs out. The Lost. They migrate to the Tombs, where they can rant at each other until disease eventually claims them.”

  “That’s horrible!” Haradeth exclaimed, forgetting his hushed reverence of earlier. “Elders should be respected, their opinions cherished for their wisdom.”

  Lorathor chuckled darkly. “Maybe among humans, although most of the ‘wisdom’ I’ve observed from the elders of that species boils down to attitudes held over from a bygone era mixed with cute sayings and folklore.” Before Haradeth could object to Lorathor’s characterization, the Sylvani was pushing the conversation ahead. “We do not force them to go wait in the Tombs, my friend. They climb down here of their own volition, and they wallow in their madness.” Lorathor shook his head. “It’s the fate that awaits all of our species.”

  Haradeth shuddered at the thought. Knowing that at the end of your life, you didn’t have a gradual decline into the grave, but would one day pupate into something that would crawl away… “I’m sorry,” Haradeth said.

  “It is as it is,” Lorathor said with the smallest of shrugs. “I do not waste time dreading it. All beings come to an end. Ours is just stranger than most.”

  Haradeth found he had no answer to that. It was for the best, because at that moment, they rounded a bend in the path and encountered their first of the Lost.

  It was a pitiful thing, every line of its body showing signs of age and a weariness that made Haradeth ache just to look at it. A single large eye was all that belied its Sylvani ancestry, the distinctive w-shaped pupil something that Haradeth had never seen on any other creature. Our first sign they were not of this world, he thought. The rest of the creature slithered about on a single
, massive tentacle that gave it the appearance of a slug, and from its back arose a series of spindly arms it used to drag itself along the ground on three-pronged hands. In the front of its mass, just under the eye, was a hooked beak. “I see you,” it said in a high, fluting voice that echoed in the narrow hallways. “But do you see me?”