Dragon Road

by Joseph Brassey

  “Don’t make the mistake of assuming he’s not brave,” Elias said, suddenly and quietly. “Arrogant. Selfish. Feeling entitled to a power he believes is his… but he is not a coward. If pushed, he’ll fight.”

  The council exploded into an eruption of voices in the wake of Pentus’s announcement. “Better get moving,” Rachim grunted. Harkon agreed with a nod, and they crossed a floor filled with rising uniforms, jabbing fingers, and raised voices.

  “ASSEMBLED COUNCIL, HEED ME!” Harkon thundered, so loud that Aimee nearly lost her balance from the shock of it. The room quieted, and turned to the suddenly authoritative face of the mage who meddled. “I confess,” he said, “that I am not learned on this particular subject, and that I suspect it falls outside the purview of the task you set for me, so I will defer to Lord Rachim. But before you dissolve to your duties, I implore you do so peaceably.”

  As he stepped back, Rachim stepped forward. “Well, that was a damn fool thing to do. Still, there are ancient protocols for this. As Pentus has declared this as his intent, those upon Iseult are bound not to oppose his attempts to pass these trials. The eyes of the gods and the heart of Iseult are watching us, and watching him, the poor bastard. As of now, you are all bound to this requirement, I remind you.”

  A murmur of grudging assent passed through the assembled, and the roar of argument died down. Aimee breathed out and exchanged a look with her companions. The lull in the chaos was broken by the sounds of the vast doors to the hall slamming shut.

  Yaresh had stormed out.

  Frost. Flame. Wind. As they walked back to Elysium, Belit talking with Rachim up ahead, Aimee made use of the time to run through the gestures and the words in her mind, repeating them over and over as if doing so would soothe the raw shudders raking over her nerves. Her sense of relief at who the tie in votes had kept out of power was overridden by an overpowering awareness of just how bad the split amongst the officer aristocracy was.

  Frost. Flame. Wind. She forced her mind to focus and her heart to steady. They were no closer to finding Amut’s killer. No nearer to knowing where the cult was hiding, or who might be among them. A chorus of menaces seemed to play at the edge of her thoughts, threatening to drown out her ability to do.

  “Are you alright?” Elias asked quietly. The young man had fallen into stride beside her. His leather and chain didn’t fit well, and their time since Port Providence had worn him down, on reflection. He’d lost some weight, and his face was thinner. The prideful look he’d had as Azrael was gone, and with it, so much of the arrogance that he seemed an utterly different person.

  She wrestled for a long moment with whether to admit her frustration, then simply repeated what he had said to her a day or two ago in the doorway to his cabin.

  Honesty won.

  “No,” she said. “The council was split three ways between two politicians and a militaristic ass. It’s hard for me to forget that. Maybe a year ago I might have thought it normal, but I’ve seen war now.”

  The man beside her said, very quietly, “I’m sorry.”

  She glanced his way, uncertain of how to respond. It hadn’t struck her until just then that she hadn’t even thought to ask for an apology, or thought of things in such a way as to consider that one might be necessary. After a few difficult seconds spent sussing out how she was to respond, she paused, then said, “The man who did that is dead. Don’t you dare apologize to me, Elias Leblanc.”

  He watched her in unreadable silence for measured seconds, then his brows drew together over his green eyes. His mouth opened twice as if to summon a response, but none came.

  Instead, as they drew close to Rachim’s estate, Belit’s hand closed on her shoulder, pulling her to a stop as the others forged ahead. Turning, she watched as the swordswoman shook her head and held a finger up to her lips. Eventually the sounds of the rest of the group receded. She caught Harkon’s eye, and her teacher said nothing, giving a faint approving nod before continuing on.

  “We have a visitor,” Belit said in low tones, and both Aimee and Elias turned in time to see the slight form of Ferret slipping from the shadows.

  “Come quickly. The Oracle hasn’t forgotten you, and she’s sent me to find you.”

  Ferret led them quickly down the side street by which they’d come, until he reached a seemingly innocuous place in the wall, where he stopped. “I had to come by some complex ways to find you,” he said. “Old, secret passages running between the top levels and the lower ones, predating the officer aristocracy, the functionaries, and the whole mess of them. Only she knows, since only she has the unbroken memory to recall them.”

  At this, he held out his hands and pressed them against the stone. There was a grinding noise that echoed beneath their feet, and Aimee felt the familiar tug in her gut as magic was released. A hidden door.

  A passage, lit by fading, flickering lamps opened up before them, and Ferret beckoned for them to follow. “She’s been watching you,” he said. “But the evil threatening Iseult drains her, makes communicating harder. It took her days after our encounter to sufficiently recover to contact me.” The downleveler looked deeply worried. “I’ve never seen her this sapped of strength. She won’t be able to talk for long, but I can get you to where she’s manifesting.”

  “You see why I held you back,” Belit said, though now that they were apparently getting closer, she looked more afraid than sure of herself. Beads of sweat stood out on her brow, and her hand flexed occasionally beside the hilt of her sword.

  This time, they entered a confluence of two other passages. The distant sound of wind through worn exterior paneling could be heard somewhere, and cobwebs rippled in an unseen breeze over their heads.

  And in the center of the space, semi-translucent and surrounded with a halo of light, was the same figure they’d previously seen in the bowels of Iseult. This time, when she turned, Aimee glimpsed more of the face beneath the cowl, and took an involuntary step back. The features were youthful, beautiful even. But the eyes were immense. Luminous. Pupils swollen to the edge of the iris and filled with stars.

  “Forgive my long silence,” she said, in a voice that echoed from far away. “This is not easy. Heed what I say, please, and do not ignore the signs.”

  “Augress,” Aimee finally said. “I have so many questions. The symbols of the Eternal Order are scratched on the inner wall of the metadrive chamber. Lord Yaresh condemns any who heed you. The Faceless remains elusive, and I have been warned of storms, and those they bring.”

  “You have a little while,” the Oracle answered. Her gaze was now fixed on Aimee. “Ask.”

  “Who killed Amut?” Aimee asked. “Who is this necromancer? Imitator or echo?”

  “Neither,” the Oracle answered, and her face was pained. “The Faceless himself yet lives. I have felt his presence, diminished, but here.”

  Somehow Aimee had known it. Dreaded it, yet understood on a fundamental level that this was what they were contending with. “The cult…” she started.

  “More dangerous, and numerous, by far,” the Oracle said. “Older, with an origin that is hidden from me, but I know their name. Beware the Children of the Empty Sky, sky-splitter. Beware the Grandfather. They have been plotting their vengeance for longer than the history of some kingdoms.”

  “Revenge for what?” Elias asked. There was an earnest, worried look on his face. Aimee remembered what he’d said in the metadrive chamber. Visions.

  “For what not?” the Oracle answered, and the weight of her tone was heavy with grief. “The rank and file turn because they are desperate. And how not? Those beneath the officer aristocracy live lives of rigid servitude and eternally blunted ambition. In their dogma, they mourn for their beginning. But in their day to day, they hunger for the pound of flesh denied to them by justice.”

  “My mother once said that the officer aristocracy would have to learn,” Belit said, “or they would be their own undoing.”

  “Yet you serve them,” the Oracle rep
lied.

  “I served Amut,” Belit said with quiet verve. “And I serve Iseult.”

  “My pardons,” the Oracle answered. “But you will only perform those tasks to your full ability when you stop living in denial. The trials have begun, Belit, and the time is nigh for choices.”

  “There has to be more than that,” Aimee pleaded. “The Children of the Empty Sky, the Faceless. Who is Grandfather? How could they hide for so long? And where are they hiding?”

  “The song reveals only so much,” the Oracle answered. “And the nearer we draw to the Tempest Crescent, the harder that music is to hear. This is by their design, I suspect. In the shadow of the storm, we are all blind and deaf. Expect more powerful undead. Expect them to strike when their attack will bring the greatest despair. Expect storms. As to where they are,” the Oracle paused, “look for them in the shadows cast by the brightest light. Among the richest and the poorest, but above all else in those who have lost so much that oblivion seems preferable.”

  “Why,” Elias suddenly, desperately demanded, “do I see visions of a black knight even when waking? Why are the symbols of my old masters etched into the walls of the metadrive chamber? What in all the hells does the Eternal Order have to do with Iseult?”

  Slowly, the Oracle turned her gaze towards the one-time black knight, and cocked her head to the side as she looked at him. “Three deafening fates before me, discordant melodies in the song that drown out what is with what might be. Forgive the riddles, Elias Leblanc, but sometimes there is no straightforward way to articulate the truth. You are not the first time the order has come here, and they do not forgive. So great is their hatred that even the echo of their memory will lash out at one who betrayed their trust. As to the chamber–” the cowled head shook, regretful “–the heart of Iseult is beyond my sight. It is too bright, its place in the song too indistinct. I hear because of Iseult’s beating heart, but you cannot see the inside of your own head. As to Grandfather, I don’t know. Beware the shadow behind the shadow,” the Oracle said. “The monster that monsters fear.”

  A flicker passed across the projection. Ferret stirred beside Belit. “She’s weakening,” he pleaded. “Augress, you mustn’t tax yourself. The ship still needs you.”

  “I have strength enough,” the Oracle said with difficulty. “To say my proper farewells. I am glad to have met you, Aimee de Laurent, sky-splitter. Elias Leblanc, knight upon the White Path. This ship will not forget your service. Skyfarers remember.”

  “Please,” Belit said suddenly, stepping impulsively forward. “Augress, I don’t know what to do. Vallus thrusts himself daily into dangers to which he is not equal, and I do not have the heart to watch him die. My people are suffering by the day, and I do not know how to protect them.”

  “Yes, you do,” the Oracle said, and her voice was full of rebuke. “You have always known, since the very beginning. But you will only see when you stop ignoring the plain truth, and do what must be done.”

  And with that, before another question could be asked or answer given, the glimmering spell projection flickered and vanished, leaving the four of them alone at the confluence of two dim, uncertain passages.

  Aimee finished giving the report to Harkon two hours later. The two of them were alone, in the small room that served as his private library aboard Elysium. Her teacher paused, considering the full length of the story with his contemplative eyes.

  “Sky-splitter has a fine ring to it,” he said at last, in his unhelpful way. “What is your view of this?”

  “She’s no charlatan,” Aimee said. “That much has been clear since the first time we saw her. The sort of magic necessary to maintain a projection like that is powerful, and the toll it took from her physically was obvious. The passages likewise made me think. Everything we were told about the behemoths growing up, that they were trade ships built by the guild for the sole furtherance of trade… I’m starting to have my doubts. My uncle always said they were older than the guilds claimed, by far.”

  The memory of her uncle made Aimee smile. Jester de Laurent had been one of her closest relatives as a little girl, had been the one who inspired her to make her career as a portalmage traveling the drifting lands on a skyship. His death in an explosion when she was still little had only solidified the desire.

  “The Children of the Empty Sky,” Harkon considered, rolling the words around in his mouth as if trying them. “Whoever they are, they’re unique to Iseult. That’s not the name of any apocalyptic movement I’ve ever encountered or read about in all my years exploring. Her warnings are cryptic, but there’s useful information. Grandfather, as well.”

  “We know that the cult is recruiting from among the destitute and desperate,” Aimee affirmed. “And the nihilistic. We know they’re not offering hope. And we know that the Faceless is still – somehow – alive. It gives us more of a sense of what we’re stacked against than what we can actually use, but that’s better than before. As to Grandfather,” she sighed. “I have no idea what she’s talking about.”

  “Worry about details as they become relevant,” Harkon said. “Your spells. How are they coming?”

  “Frost, flame and wind?” Aimee answered. “I’m ready to demonstrate them at any time. Didn’t figure it was safe to do that in the library, though.”

  “Good,” Harkon said. “Good. Because the time has come to give you the next one, and it’s taken on a greater urgency with our friend’s warning. I spoke with Elias, about what his sword did to the assassins you faced deep within the ship. The effects closely mirror those of something I am going to teach you: something whose gestures and words combine elements of all three that I had you memorize and perfect. Frost to focus, wind to direct, flame to burn. Fetch your notebook and form-scroll. It’s time for you to learn not only to destroy the dead, but to repel necromancy itself. This will be difficult, as it relies not only on proper gesture and phrasing, neither of which is easy, but also upon will and strength of heart. Are you ready?”

  Aimee’s grin spread from ear to ear and her fingertips tingled at the thought of the challenge. No more being left unready in the face of a sort of enemy for which she had no ideal spells, she now scented the thrill of possibility, and the advantage of a fresh card added to her deck.

  “Born that way,” she answered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  An Impending Fete

  Somehow the prospect of Pentus’s upcoming fete was more unnerving than being shot at. As Elias looked over the trunk that contained his few meagre possessions, it struck him how ridiculous that actually was. Shipboard fatigues. A handful of pants and simple shirts. Books he’d found for cheaper than expected. An atlas – why was he staring at the atlas when he needed to find something proper in which to not shame his crewmates in a few days?

  Behind him, the mirror was a fractured kaleidoscope from his previously vented fury. His knuckles hadn’t healed yet. He could have asked either Harkon or Aimee to mend them, but somehow that didn’t seem right. No more right than telling them of Yaresh or Pentus’s suspicions. Those were his to carry. They didn’t need the extra complication, especially when the ship on which they traveled seemed ready to fly apart.

  Unfortunately, it also left Elias with no immediate confidants. Even as Azrael, he had possessed a few of those. His fellow knights of the Eternal Order. Lord Roland on one occasion. Esric – monster that he was – had served as a twisted sort of adviser. It seemed absurd that some part of Elias should actually miss the people that had abused, twisted, and used him for sixteen years of his life. And yet.

  Noble and brave. Gentle and kind. A melody played in his deepest thoughts whose words he didn’t know, and whose origin he could barely place, but for a mother that had once hummed it in echo. His fist balled as he addressed the emptiness of his cabin. “Dammit,” he whispered. “I need more than that.”

  He closed his eyes, breathed in and out. White Path. Junk ritter. Azrael had been little more than a pastiche of a person, a facsimile
of a personality stitched together from the remnants of the Elias whom Roland’s monsters had inadvertently broken. And now? Chasms. Good intentions. Chasms.

  Elias forced himself to breathe in and out. In and out. One hand rested on his sword. Belit’s words came back to him. When we break, what remains is what we know.

  His art. He had to make sure that the lessons he drew from it were the right ones. Chasm. A shaking threatened his hands as the screaming faces of former allies-turned-enemies rose from the abyss. Betrayal. Murder. Death. Disgrace. The void was big, and he stood at its edge. What will you do? The mocking voice came back. This time, the face it wore was that of Malfenshir, who lay dead by Elias’s own hand, beneath a thousand feet of crumbled mountain. How long before you succumb to the pit?

  The even breaths slowed, and a final cessation of tension in Elias’s limbs came, though his hands didn’t quite cease their trembling. “If you’re trying to scare me,” he whispered out loud, “you’ll have to do better than the face of an enemy I already killed. It’s a hole. I will do what you do with holes: fill it up.”

  He dressed in something simple, buckled his sword about his waist, and left the ship for Rachim’s villa.

  This early in the morning, the space was mainly abuzz with hired staff. Elias understood that their host employed considerably fewer than most people of his station. He stopped to examine the art he’d first admired awkwardly when they’d come to the villa. The painting in question was of a whirling storm seething around a single point of light; staring more closely, he saw a tiny skyship in the center, illuminated by the eye of the hurricane. Within the storm were writhing, indistinct shapes.

  “The eye of the maelstrom,” Rachim said, walking up. “Painted by Vierus of Albatross. I took it off an art thief who had murdered the original owner when I was a younger, bolder man. There was no one to give it back to, so I kept it as a dual reminder of how there’s always light in the storms, and always storms waiting to break. Also to remind myself that expensive things shouldn’t be sold just because they can be.”