It was the first time that Cistre had heard Tayem refer to her as anything other than a loyal member of her Royal Guard. The fact that she derived solace from her company touched a place she had not dared hope existed.
“I must admit, my emotions are all asunder,” Cistre said.
“It is so,” Tayem replied and held her close.
They remained like that for a long time.
~ ~ ~
Next morning, dampened by a light rain, another couple had their own emotional parting.
“I won’t tell you to take care,” Mahren said.
“Neither of us take advice well,” Brethis replied.
“At least we had one last night together.”
“Don’t make it sound so final. We will meet again — soon.”
Mahren stroked Jaestrum’s nose, a displacement activity to stop her crying. “It seems the fates conspire to keep us apart.”
“You know I don’t believe in fate.”
“Then what do you believe in?”
“Our love,” he said, “and that is more than enough.”
They kissed one more time, then Brethis mounted Sashaim’s dragon, riding in the pillion position. Tayem sat astride Quassu, and Oathair had taken his position behind Aibrator. Four dragons, two separate directions, one common purpose.
Tayem looked down at Cistre, who was holding her composure remarkably well. Beside her, Beredere saluted and uttered his parting words to them all in a suitably officious voice.
“May Sesnath be with you,” Tayem said to them.
“Dixtrath semlessin,” they all replied in unison. And with that, the dragons took to the skies, majestic wings beating against the rain-filled air, cries echoing across Herethorn as they disappeared into the distance.
43
Holy outlaw
It had been almost a week since the Dragonian queen and her sister had left Herethorn, and if one word could be used to describe the atmosphere that hung over the village, Wobas guessed it would be foreboding. He observed the orb of Sol-Ar, resting like a malignant violet spider’s egg above the Ardesk Mountains and sensed its communion with the Black Hallows to the north. He imagined the purple cauldron roiling close to his cave in response to Sol-Ar’s influence and sighed with relief that for now it was contained by the earth magic of Herethorn. But how long would it last?
He had taken to meeting with Milissandia on the seat overlooking the village every morning. There they discussed how their Dreamworld peregrinations progressed. To the south, the business of the dragon folk could be heard as they built more shelters, forged weapons and trained for the battle that was sure to come. Up above, Cistre led a sortie of three dragons northwards, partly to investigate the unknown lands that existed there, partly to give the creatures their daily exercise and a chance to hunt.
“It is not the peaceful sanctuary it once was,” reflected Milissandia.
“Nothing remains the same,” Wobas replied. “We must accept it for what it is. Let us be thankful that the tribulations south of our borders have not yet breached our defences.”
Milissandia grinned. “My father accepting change? Matters must be dire indeed!”
“Any word from the dragon folk regarding the Queen’s expedition?”
“Nothing as of this morning.”
“How are they taking to you?”
“The Dragonians? Beredere is accommodating, but Cistre mistrusts me.”
Wobas nodded. “She is very protective. I sense a turbulent past.”
“You saw Ebar earlier,” Milissandia said, changing the subject. “Has Brownbeak returned from yesterday’s ranging?”
“Yes. He reports further barracking of troops in and around Wyverneth, and his brothers confirm the complete destruction of the Kaldoran stronghold.”
Milissandia took a draught from a small wooden water bottle she always carried with her, and then stoppered it again. “The Dragonian warriors are brave, but so small in number. They need allies.”
“True. They might benefit from an alliance with the dissidents. Sashaim returned with news from Brethis. He and Oathair evade detection so far, and they’ve already met with leaders from the tribes of Midna, Amara and Quila. But he has much work to do in uniting them.”
“I sense time running out for us. Etezora builds her defences stronger, and all the while there is the threat to the dragons from Zodarin.”
“Sashaim said the wizard has not been heard from, and broods in his tower. I’m not sure what that means.”
Milissandia looked at him as if weighing something up.
“There is something on your mind, Daughter. Speak up. I have not suffered our estrangement all these sols simply for your reproach to return.”
“It is not reproach,” she said. “Only that you do not speak much of this Zodarin. What is he to you?”
“Once a friend, now a mortal enemy.” Wobas knew his tone was clipped, and he wanted to say more about his shared history with the sorcerer, but now was not the time. Would there ever be a time? He put his hand on hers. “Forgive me. The memories are painful.”
“But if we must face this creature again, anything you know may be important.”
“True. Let us talk after our completion of today’s journey.”
“The last five days have been little more than fruitless. There is no sign of Memek-Tal and the dragon avatars continue to be safe.”
“We must maintain our vigil, protect the dragons and continue to seek the Spirit Guide.”
“Very well,” she said. “Let us perform this task. Shall we retire to your cabin?”
They made their way across the village, locked the door to Wobas’s dwelling and settled themselves on a shaman seat each.
“Remember our plan for if things go awry in the Far Beyond?” Wobas said.
“Yes,” she replied, rubbing the anduleso paste on her wrists and swallowing a yellow mushroom. “Face off the harroc di wurunwi in the first instance. Distract him, and then attack using the joint power of our vargachic weaponry.”
“This we must practice. There are still vulnerabilities in our approach.”
“Therefore let us traverse there,” she said. “I am impatient to hone our skills.”
Minutes later they were passing through the mists of the Dreamworld. Wobas kept his protective eye on Milissandia’s anduleso avatar. He wished she could adopt a more mobile form, but multiple bodies were something beyond even his capabilities. Thus, he flitted and circled about her as she scuttled on her little feet upon the pine needles of the forest floor.
Another periarch and we should find the dragon avatars, he sent.
I do not sense the harroc di wurunwi, she replied.
Neither do I, but there is a presence travelling from the northern moors. It might be a Spirit Guide, but it moves slowly — most unlike Memek-Tal.
Could it be a different threat? The anduleso sent.
If so, it is hiding its signature well.
We should await its appearance, make sure we have secured the dragon avatar’s well-being.
Agreed.
They travelled in this manner until they arrived at the once hidden grotto of the dragons. Wobas counted them, and apart from Oga’s continued absence they appeared intact and content, albeit a little restless.
Should it not concern us that the giant one has disappeared? Milissandia sent.
Perhaps, Wobas replied. Then again, he remained at Wyverneth — according to Tayem. Mayhap his absence here means he has escaped.
Milissandia’s anduleso form raised its head as if trying to count the dragon avatars.
Do you feel some affinity for them? Wobas sent.
Strangely, yes.
It should not surprise you. The tree serpents trace a lineage branching off from the ancient dragon family trees.
I wish the tie was stronger. I can’t seem to communicate with them, not even to warn of their vulnerability to the harroc di wurunwi.
Wobas couldn’t help a rise of mirth i
n his spirit.
You find their plight amusing? Milissandia sent.
Not at all, simply that we give Zodarin that title and it elevates him in terms of our perception, instils fear. Yet I still think of him as ‘Strip-Willow.’
The anduleso cocked her head. The spindly tree of the plains?
Yes, he replied, a chuckle emerging from the scops’s beak as a ‘chirrup’ sound. You never met him in person, but he’s rather tall, with pallid skin and sunken amber eyes. I common-named him Strip-Willow when I dwelt with him amongst the dragon folk. He never liked it.
All the more reason to call him that.
That we will do. We must see him as a being we can defeat. Humour helps diminish him in everyone’s eyes.
He deserves to be diminished.
Wobas turned his ear northwards as he perched on a branch and listened to the approach of the entity he had detected earlier.
I hear it too, Milissandia sent. I sense no threatening aura.
No, but it appears … wounded.
As they watched the line of trees beyond the dragon avatars, the dream mists parted and revealed Memek-Tal. Gone was his regal posture. Instead, he limped forward, favouring his left side. The scales on his flanks looked raised and flaky, while feathers stuck out at awkward angles from his eagle head. He skirted the herd of dragon avatars and slowly made his way toward them.
Wobas had the urge to approach the Spirit Guide, to prevent him having to travel further, but respect kept him on his perch. Eventually he stopped before them, and slumped to the grassy sward, taking a moment to lick a still-bleeding wound.
Memek-Tal, Wobas said, What has befallen you? Did the Zodarin-beast inflict these wounds?
No, the Spirit Guide sent. It is the cost of intervention. It is not permitted for our kind to offer the kind of aid I extended to you.
Who withholds permission? Milissandia said.
Memek-Tal paused, choosing his words carefully. Those who hold the balance of power in this realm; those who are unseen.
But this is monstrous, she continued. Who are these beings to inflict such —
Hold, Daughter, Wobas sent. I sense he oversteps the mark even approaching us in this way.
Memek-Tal nodded. I paid a price, and I will pay another after this meeting. But I must convey a premonition of grave portent to you. Please listen, as I do not have much time. The one you once called friend is gathering his strength. He intends to strike soon, and when he does, the dragons will face complete destruction.
He was strong before, Wobas sent. You say his might will be greater? Who can stand against him?
In this realm? Only the two of you. But now you are re-united, a new weapon is forged. Together you might yet prevail. An inner weakness afflicts the harroc di wurunwi, brought on by contracting the dragon-disease. You must use this to undo him.
How? Milissandia pressed.
Memek-Tal looked over his shoulder towards the woods. I will suffer much for this. He paused for a moment longer, and then continued. Only by entering into wurunwa vargachic will this be revealed.
Wobas considered what the Spirit Guide had said, trying his best to suppress the rising frustration within. Then we cannot fully prepare.
The Spirit Guide looked towards the trees again, and Wobas thought he felt a change in the direction of the wind. There is more. If the dragons fall before the Donnephon retake Wyverneth they are doomed. The Dragon Riders must strike at the Cuscosians immediately.
The Spirit Guide’s counsel was disconcerting beyond measure. Wobas’s thoughts were a maelstrom of confusion and panic. There is no time. The Dragon Riders are not ready. How can they prevail?
They will find a way. But I have said too much. There is a cost to everything, and you, shaman, will face your own exactment. Now, when the harroc di wurunwi comes, I will call you.
From across the realms — is this possible?
Possible, and irrevocable.
What do you mean?
Yet the Spirit Guide was already turning on his hooves. The rising wind ruffled his feathers, and as he retreated to the trees once more he seemed even more stooped in his gait than minutes before, as if resigned to some dreadful fate.
Is this the last time we will meet? Wobas called after it.
There was no reply. Whether the wind caught it, or whether Memek-Tal lacked the strength or will to speak further, he could not tell.
Come, Daughter, he sent. We must call the councils together. Perhaps Memek-Tal has warned us early enough, but we must hurry.
44
Hiding from the light
The Northern Wastes are an expanse like no other. Frozen plains of purest white, ringed by spines of white-fanged mountains, shining like pyramids that tower above the surrounding vastness.
As Tayem and Mahren soared on their beasts above yet another range, Tayem imagined these peaks belonging to another earth, inhabited by alien races. Yet not another living soul did they see, even after four days of travel in that desolate landscape. They stopped hourly to rest Quassu and Jaestrum. These pauses were uncomfortable as the sisters absorbed the cold more keenly when exposed on a lofty crag or next to a frozen lake. The dragons’ inner burning seemed to generate a warmth that they clung to while in flight, and Tayem wondered how long they would have survived without their beasts as a source of warmth.
While Sol-Ar was at its highest, they had halted on the slopes of a peak crowned with a headdress of glistening ice. The reflection of its rays blinded them, and they sat with backs to their beasts to avoid the glare. Tayem consulted the map she had procured from Ebar’s library, while Mahren whispered softly in each of the dragon’s ears, comforting them and throwing morsels of cured garbear meat into their expectant mouths.
During the first two days of their quest, the landscape had unfolded before them in mysterious splendour, and although it grew colder Tayem could yet marvel at the carpeting of conifers on the northern Herethorn Mountains. She regarded the beauty of crystal lakes and frozen waterfalls that appeared in glimpses as they soared the air currents circulating over what seemed like the roof of the world.
After spending a bitter night in a shallow cave at the end of their third day, the mood of the landscape changed. The trees, found only in isolated huddles appeared skeletal, shadow-like with icicles hanging from their branches like Death’s fingers. Soon, even this hardy plant life disappeared and a blizzard falling from dark skies beset them. The snow beat against their faces, harsh and biting until they were blinded by a frantic wall of swirling white. The wind, brutal and unforgiving cut through their leather gauntlets and furs such that Tayem’s skin became as constantly lumped as the mountain range they traversed, and her muscles quivered uncontrollably. It was a tempestuous onslaught of nature, wild and untamed.
As they attempted to fight their way through the blinding sea of white, Tayem thought of home, Wyverneth, curled up in front of a roaring fire in her private palace nook. She tried to remember the soothing caress of Cistre’s hands as they massaged her neck and shoulders, easing out the tensions that wracked her aching muscles. But the memory seemed indistinct and lost in the fog that had become her every waking minute.
Eventually they were compelled to hunker down in a pothole gouged out in the rock and wait for the storm to pass by. Minutes turned to hours while the wind howled around them, piling up snow in drifts and blinding the night with ice-white dust. As they huddled together, resigned to spending the night, they talked of their hopes, fears and dreams; and it seemed to Tayem that every last prickle of sensitivity was withdrawn through their discourse. Mahren dreaded the loss of Brethis, just as Tayem feared the loss of the Kingdom and extermination of her people. Such being the stakes, how could she hold any animosity towards Mahren anymore? It was through this kind of union with a Cuscosian that the Dragonians might yet sow the seeds of their people’s future.
They had spoken like this for many hours until the travel weariness overtook them, and they fell asleep to the backdrop
of snoring dragons.
Once morning broke, the storm had abated, and they pushed a hole through the snow bank that had accumulated during the night. Before them, beyond the flatness of a frozen waste, a distant range of mountains lay like a sleeping leviathan of granite bones. Mahren likened it to a mighty titan, slumbering since before time began. “Perhaps the beast fell into an enchanted sleep,” she said. These words led Tayem to imagine Agathon, entombed in those compacted icy layers, slumbering away the centuries until she became one with the stone that surrounded her.
Perhaps, even if we find her, she might not be woken, she thought. Turned to rock, her furnace heart doused by the ravages of time.
And so, on the fifth day, after passing over an icy waste that appeared as a sea frozen in mid-swell, they found themselves on this magnificent mountain; a snow-wreathed precipice reaching into the purpling sky.
“Please tell me we near the end of our journey,” Mahren said as Tayem traced her finger along what she thought was the range of mountains they now found themselves upon.
“If it is not,” Tayem said, “we will have to turn back. We were lucky to find shelter last night, and I’m not sure we could survive another storm out in the open.”
Mahren sighed. “Much as I hate giving up, I fear you are right. There is no food for the dragons in these wastes and our own supply runs short.”
“This mountain,” Tayem said, pointing to a pyramid shape on her map. “Ebar described it as made of black glass. Does it not seem to you that this rock surrounding us has such a resemblance?”
Mahren ran her hand over the smooth obsidian surface of the boulder next to her. “It does, but surely all the surrounding mountains must be made of the same stuff.”
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