Citadels of the Lost

by Tracy Hickman

  The villagers quieted at the sign.

  “I am Ishander, son of Pellender, the son of Koben Dakan! We are Far-runners of the Ambeth. We outrun the wind and rivers. We slip in silence from death’s chill grasp. We fly before the dragon on the wing and the drakoneti on the hunt, and none stop us in our flight!”

  The crowd cheered once more.

  “Is he saying that they run from a fight better than anyone?” Ethis chuckled.

  “Maybe,” Drakis said with a quick snorting laugh.

  Ishander held his arms up again, his voice demanding. “Who is there who will keep my soul while I fly from Ambeth?”

  Drakis furrowed his brow. What was the boy talking about?

  Koben Dakan emerged from the crowd. He moved with great difficulty on the shortened stubs of his legs, each capped by hardened leather fittings. The elder Far-runner could barely stand on his own but refused two of the village guards their offer to help him. The old man’s wispy hair flew about his face in the breeze coming up the river, his blank gaze seeming to search in front of him. In the old Far-Runner’s arms lay the young man’s leather vest.

  Behind him, Audelai-El, the Clan-mother, followed. She was clad in a robe of the same metallic scales and crowned with a towering headdress of dried reeds. In her outstretched hands, she held a weathered wooden box.

  Ishander stepped toward the old man and the Clan-mother, removing the tall, feathered hat.

  “May the sights seen by my eyes be ever with the clan. May the words that I hear be ever with the clan,” Ishander said, handing the tall headdress to his grandfather. He then removed the metallic vest, which clanked as he exchanged it for the leather vest. “May the soul of my body be ever with the clan.”

  Koben Dakan’s eyes were filled with intense pride as he handed the simple leather vest to Ishander. “The Ambeth honor you always. Your name is sung always. Your soul is with us always.”

  The villagers erupted in wild cheering.

  The Clan-mother held up her arms and the crowd quieted. “I, Audelai-El of Ambeth, bestow the Akumau . . . the seal of people’s runner on this great quest.”

  An excited murmur ran through the crowd. Drakis gave Ethis a questioning look, but the chimerian only shrugged with all four of his shoulders. Ishander stood tall, his head held high in anticipation.

  “This Akumau was last worn by Pellender, Far-runner of our Clan,” Audelai spoke over the murmur of the crowd, quieting them. “Before his last journey, he left it to me—asking that I bestow it upon the one chosen by the gods to bear it next in the name of the Ambeth!”

  Ishander took a step forward, his chin raised in pride.

  “The female called Mala of the Strangers will bear the Akumau,” Audelai said in a clear voice.

  The assembled clan gasped, their eyes all turning toward a suddenly very uncomfortable Mala.

  “No!” Ishander yelped. Hurt, anger, and horror all passed over his features. “I am the Far-runner! My father bore that seal. It is mine by right!”

  “It is not your right,” Audelai said firmly into the stunned silence. “It is the Clan-mother’s right to bestow this seal on the god’s choice of bearer—and the gods have chosen the woman called Mala.”

  “But it was the Akumau that my father wore . . .”

  “And now Mala will wear it . . . the gods have decreed it; it is clan-law.”

  Mala stammered. “But . . . but I don’t want . . .”

  “It is clan-law!” Audelai said firmly, the old woman’s jaw set. Drakis realized that the crowd did not like what was happening any more than Ishander did. Nevertheless, Audelai reached into a small box and, opening it, presented it to Mala.

  Inside was a small, polished gemstone set in an ornately patterned medallion less than a thumb’s length in diameter. The engraving was of two heads of a dragon intertwined and facing outward, both set on a background of dragon wings around a polished green gemstone. The piece was suspended from a narrow, golden chain.

  Mala took up the chain, drawing it over her head. The necklace hung around her neck and she bowed slightly to a smattering of clapping from the crowd, who remained stunned at this turn of events.

  Jugar scowled in obvious disapproval.

  The Lyric beamed.

  “Her?” Urulani spat at the ground. “A traitor who would sell our lives without a second thought, and they honor her?”

  Drakis kept a gloomy silence.

  Ishander turned back to face Jugar, the Lyric, and Mala as he put on his leather vest. He eyed each of them for a moment, glaring at Mala with contempt, and then abruptly said, “It’s time to leave.”

  Ishander strode past the trio and walked directly toward the boat grounded ashore next to Drakis, Urulani, and Ethis. He barely glanced at Drakis as he spoke, “You three tie these boats together right now—about six arm’s lengths of cording between them.”

  “It would be better for us to launch the boats now,” Urulani said, “and tie them off when we get afloat.”

  Ishander turned on the dark woman. “You know nothing about it! Do as I tell you and do it now!”

  Urulani lunged toward Ishander with the clear intent to do harm. Drakis managed to block her at the last moment. The rage drained from Urulani’s features, and she stepped back, turning to the last boat and quickly securing a line with considerable vehemence.

  “Ishander,” Drakis called after the young man. “Urulani knows what she is doing. You don’t have to . . .”

  The boy stopped, turning quickly to face Drakis. “I am the Far-runner! I am the guide! The black-skinned woman knows nothing of the river. You and the four-armed one will push me and the dwarf off in the first boat after they are all tied together. Then you will join the women in the second boat. The Urulani woman will steady the third. We are leaving at once! It is clan-law!”

  “Of course,” Drakis said quietly. “Clan-law.”

  “Come, dwarf . . . you ride the river with me.” The young Far-runner grabbed the dwarf by the shoulder.

  Ethis’ face was featureless as he stared at the young Ambeth Far-runner stomping off toward the first boat. The chimerian scratched his head with his third hand as he spoke. “He seems to believe he is in charge.”

  Drakis glanced at Ethis, then began securing a second line to the prow of the middle boat. “He can believe what he wants, and I’m perfectly willing to let him believe it until the time is right.”

  “And when might that be?” Ethis asked.

  “Probably when you give the dwarf back his stone,” Drakis replied quietly.

  Ishander climbed into the first boat along with the dwarf. Ethis and Drakis managed to push it off of the sand. The young Far-runner instructed everyone else to get into the second boat except Urulani, who grudgingly took her place on the third. Ishander held the first boat against the current, pushing farther and farther out into the river. Then, suddenly, he pulled up his river pole, releasing the first boat into the current. The rope snapped taut, yanking the second boat off the shore. Ethis, Drakis, and the Lyric all lost their footing while Mala nearly fell over the side into the river. Urulani watched as both boats gained speed in the current, the rope between her boat and the second drawing up its slack at an alarming rate. Urulani gripped the raised tail of her boat with both arms as the rope suddenly tightened. The third boat leaped from the shore. This caused Drakis and Ethis, who were just then regaining their footing in the boat to come crashing down again. Urulani’s boat scudded into the water so quickly that the rope slacked again, and the third boat nearly collided with the second, sending a wave of water up from between the boats to drench the occupants of both.

  Ishander stood at the prow of the first boat, guiding it under the wooden framing of the Abratias Bridge, acknowledging the cheers of the crowd on the bridge above and seemingly oblivious to the disarray in the boats trailing behind him, each bumping awkwardly against the pylons supporting the bridge.

  Drakis dragged himself to sit up in the boat, his back against the
gunnels.

  “So the heroes of Ambeth set off on their quest,” he muttered, wiping the river water from his face.

  Audelai-El was nowhere to be seen.

  Audelai El could hear the distant sound of the townsfolk still cheering as she walked carefully among the ruins. Each step was taken with distaste, as she hated being in the wild. She preferred things all neatly ordered around her. Broad avenues and clear, open spaces to look out across and see trouble coming from a distance—that was her idea of a pleasant place. The jungle was just too unpredictable and filled with things that were simply out of place.

  She came at last to the great ruin of the temple. She had forgotten to which god or goddess it had once belonged. Elucia, perhaps . . . she could not recall though she thought someone had once told her. It was the best of the ruins outside the stockade with its walls intact and large sections of the dome still standing. The villagers all believed it cursed; she supposed she did too, so far as curses went. Nasty, broken-up old things, these ruins. She had no desire to enter them.

  But the temple did serve one function very well that was to her interests.

  It was easily spotted from the sky.

  A gale of hot air suddenly encompassed the Clan-mother from behind. She yelped in startled surprise, turning at once.

  The enormous head of the dragon Pharis lay largely hidden by the mammoth ferns of the jungle floor. Audelai El reached up to touch her heart, wondering all over again how it was that a creature of that size could possibly hide so well in the brush.

  Audelai El reached out carefully and touched one of the dragon’s unbroken horns on the right side of its head.

  The world vanished around them. Suddenly they were on a bright, grass-covered plain where everything was nicely arranged. The flowers grew in perfect rows and the trees were all uniformly shaped. Even the dragon lay in perfect symmetry.

  Audelai sighed in relief.

  “Have they gone?” the dragon said to her. He always spoke to her in this place, and it was one of the things that she loved about talking with the dragon.

  “Yes, Pharis,” Audelai El replied with a smile. “Just as I promised you they would.”

  “So they are off chasing the Lost Citadels,” the dragon murmured.

  “Indeed, I believe they said they were searching for the truth about their past and what happened to the magic,” Audelai El replied cheerfully. “It is exactly as you had suggested, O mighty one.”

  “And the talisman,” Pharis continued. “You gave it to Mala?”

  “As you instructed,” the Clan-mother answered. “Although why is a mystery to me. She is the weakest among them.”

  “Weaker than you know,” Pharis chuckled. “I learned much about her when I communed with the man Drakis. He is brave and determined but not yet disciplined enough to guard his mind. She betrayed his love for her before—she betrayed them all. It is only fitting that she do so again.”

  “Mala?” Audelai El frowned. “I would have thought that one of the others . . . any of the others . . .”

  “Would Drakis wear the talisman beyond the first bend in the river, let alone long enough to be of any use to us?” Pharis rumbled. “Their Lyric is unpredictable; their dwarf too scheming, their chimerian too clever and the warrior woman too savvy. Among them, Mala is the only one vain enough to want to wear it. It will serve us well; Drakis will not leave her side.”

  “I told them Pellender had returned it to me,” the Clan-mother said, smiling at her own cleverness. “None of them suspect the truth.”

  “You have done well, Audelai El,” the dragon responded.

  “It was the only way to keep everyone safe,” the Clan-mother replied. “You said so yourself. All Ambeth was in danger from the Dragon Queen had we let them remain. Hestia would have discovered them here and everything would have been undone! The dragons under her sway would have destroyed us all.”

  “She is a treacherous Queen,” Pharis hissed. “She must not learn where Drakis and his companions have gone, or she will hunt them.”

  “The villagers know they have been here, but I have taught them not to trust the Dragon Queen,” Audelai El said confidently. She was enjoying the perfect smell of the flowers in their perfect rows. “They flee from all dragonkind, so their coming will remain between us and the dragons in your company.”

  “For a while,” Pharis said. “But these . . . heroes . . . Hestia is seeking them, and it is only a matter of time before she discovers them. She fears what they may learn. She fears what they may do . . . or undo.”

  “I do not understand you,” Audelai El said, doubt playing at the edge of her mind.

  “You need not worry. You have fulfilled your bargain,” Pharis replied, flicking the tips of his enormous leathery wings in his pleasure.

  “Then you will keep my village safe from Hestia’s wrath?” Audelai El prompted.

  “It shall be as I promised,” Pharis said.

  “And the heroes . . . our Far-runner and the others?” Audelai El continued. “You will watch over them on this journey until the very end?”

  Pharis smiled. “Until the very end.”

  Pharis hated the temple, and his reasons were deeper than those of the Clan-mother. So it was that Marush—the yellow-green dragon of Pharis’ flight—having learned of Pharis’ rendezvous the previous day, felt perfectly safe in quietly sliding into the temple ruins undetected several hours in advance. The temple would mask his presence even from Pharis, so he waited with patience honed over centuries.

  He watched Audelai El touch the horn of Pharis. Once the bond was made, however, it was easier for Marush to overhear the conversation between them. The bond is a loud thing, to a dragon’s understanding, for the dragons themselves communicate more by their thoughts than through their restricted voices.

  For dragonkind this is easy, but with humans it is far more difficult; it requires the dragon to have more control in the bond, and often it results in the mental equivalent of shouting. Indeed, it even requires the human to physically touch the dragon’s horn for a proper bond to be made: otherwise humans tend to hear only the subconscious patterns of dragon thoughts—what humans often refer to as Dragon Song. It was in no small part the concerted effort to project these thoughts that called this Drakis human from the southern lands. It is what has always called humans to dragonkind—but understanding thoughts of humans comes only through the bond with touch.

  Once made, however, the loud mental exchange between dragons and humans can be overheard by other dragons—especially those with talent.

  Like Marush.

  It was because of his talent and through long and careful effort that he became accepted among the Dragons of the Eastern Skies and, in time, became the companion of Pharis the Prince of the East. And now, as was his duty and the purpose of all the plans long laid, he overheard the conversation between Audelai El and this ancient dragon, their bargain, and the story of this Drakis-human.

  All that was left was for Marush to patiently wait for Pharis to leave and then find a way of telling it to Hestia, his Dragon Queen.

  Book 2:

  MISTRALS

  CHAPTER 25

  Braun

  SOEN PUSHED HIS WAY forward between the pilgrims. He knew his opportunity to get close to the brilliantly lit figure at the crest of the small hill was rapidly ending as the throngs of humans, manticores, and other races converged on the spot.

  Soen’s black, featureless eyes squinted against the dazzling rays darting through the air, but he had barely advanced a few steps before he realized that it was his staff that he was approaching.

  Some human was wielding his own Matei staff!

  Soen bared his sharp teeth in a grimace, shoving his way through the crowd. That he had lost his staff among the strange phantoms in the surrounding fog was embarrassing enough.

  But to have it retrieved and used by a human was a humiliation beyond tolerance.

  The elf could now see several other figures stand
ing about the human; the unmistakable silhouette of a manticore and several elves. There appeared to also be at least one chimerian among them, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to see them through the crowd of pilgrims pressing toward the light, blocking his way. In moments, Soen was in the surging mass of the multitude, pressed on all sides by the desperate procession. The massive throng became a river of creatures, taking on a motion of their own. Soen was swept up by them, being pushed forward involuntarily now toward the hilltop.

  Soen drew in a fierce breath, the nostrils of his pointed nose flaring.

  He recognized the human wielding his staff. He had seemed such an insignificant creature, barely worthy of his notice when he met him on the Panaris Road just the day before—the mad Proxi of the insignificant Captain Shuchai.

  He remembered the human’s name . . .

  Braun.

  Braun turned his broad, swarthy face, looked directly at Soen across the immense crowd, and smiled. The stocky man then turned with the staff, planting its tip into a crumbling set of foundation stones behind him.

  The light of the staff flared, and to Soen’s astonishment the bright glow of a fold erupted above the stones. The glow at its edges was a deep blue color and spherical. That it was a fold was unquestionable since he could see an altered and shimmering landscape beyond it, but the form of it was unlike anything he had seen before. Pushing back the surrounding fog, it grew in size, expanding beyond its pedestal base.

  Its existence was impossible.

  Soen searched his memory for some explanation. Folds had to be established between two points—it was a fundamental law of the Aether governing their construction—so these stones must have been linked to another location in the past. If a fold had been established here on the Shrouded Plain, it must have predated the War of Desolation. That conflict had been largely expurgated from the histories of the elves. It was the first time the Rhonas Legions had suffered a devastating loss in warfare and had been pushed back from their objective of conquest on the borders of Nordesia. Not that the Legions left the land quietly. There were stories told of human settlements cut off from their armies on the Mistral Peninsula who fled southward along the Mournful Mountains only to be surrounded by the retreating Legions at Panaris. Panaris itself had been a beautiful plains city but it was an easy place for the retreating elven Legions to exact revenge for their frustration. Their cold and merciless destruction of that city had resulted in the cursed plain where not even elves cared to conquer.