Citadels of the Lost

by Tracy Hickman

  The crowd erupted in deafening cheers.

  The Emperor watched from his box, his eyes fixed on Shebin as she continued to walk from the arena, holding her pose and never acknowledging the crowd or their thundering approval. She was a symbol of the war . . . and she played the part well.

  The Emperor stood and with him all the attendants in the box rose as well.

  “Wejon, I believe you petitioned me for a private audience,” the Emperor said as he left the box. “That can now be arranged.”

  The great oval of the Emperor’s throne room was completely deserted except for three individuals. Two were seated on large chairs set slightly to one side in the center of the hall. The third sat on a throne floating on a cloud just higher than the two set on the polished marble of the floor.

  All three waited in silence. One of those seated wore the robes of the Fifth High Priest of the Myrdin-dai. The other, an older woman of frail and mean countenance, wore the robes of the Keeper of the Iblisi. The Emperor had not spoken from his floating perch on his cloud-top throne and thus neither of his companions, more earthbound, deigned to speak.

  The gates of the throne room opened at the far end of the great hall. The figure of a young elf woman entered, her long hands held demurely in front of her as she walked; her slippers making a swishing sound as she made her way across the polished marble floor. Her elongated head was bowed as she walked; her black-eyed gaze cast down to the floor. The rim of her white hair was carefully coiffed upward around the bald crown. The dress she wore appeared to be torn in places but that was merely an effect of the cut and tailoring of the dress. The fabric was new and glittered slightly with silver threads woven into it. It had become all the rage in the Imperial City known as the “Shebin” for the woman whose tragedy and legendary sorrow had inspired it.

  That Shebin being, of course, the young elf approaching the Emperor in the dress named after her.

  An inlaid circle of red marble thirty feet across marked the center of the hall. As instructed, Shebin stopped in the center of this circle and waited though, unlike the two elves seated at the edge of the circle, she did not have to wait for long. The Emperor leaned forward on his floating throne almost at the moment Shebin came to a halt.

  “Tsi-Shebin,” the Emperor acknowledged, thus opening the conversation and allowing Shebin to speak by the usual elven protocol.

  “Your Glory,” Shebin answered quietly with a deep curtsy.

  “Daughter of the Empire,” the Emperor said through his sharp-toothed smile, “we have heard much about you and your troubles. You are given leave to look upon me. Let us talk to one another as friends may converse—with ease and confidence in one another.”

  Shebin looked up and smiled her most endearing smile.

  “I hope you will indulge me today,” the Emperor said, returning her smile though perhaps not as warmly. “I have asked two of my friends to attend us today. Wejon Rei of the Myrdin-dai and Keeper Ch’drei.”

  Shebin bowed to both, each curtsy measured carefully to recognize their relative stations to the Emperor. “Priest Wejon and I are already of some acquaintance. His efforts to support Your Glory’s armies in the north have been a great comfort to me. I have not previously had the fortune to be introduced to Mistress Ch’drei as the circles of our associations have not previously intersected, but I am honored that she should find this young woman of interest to her most august calling.”

  Everyone smiled. Everyone knew it was a lie. Sjei Shurian had carefully managed to keep Shebin as far from Ch’drei as possible. Wejon had ambitions, however, that would place him in Sjei’s seat among the Modalis, and he believed Shebin to be a sword that could cut with both edges.

  “Indeed, my Glorious and Exalted Emperor,” Shebin said, “I have heard news that may be of interest to the Keeper of Truth . . . news concerning the location and prosperous health of one of her Order familiar to Your Majesty: Soen Tjen-rei.”

  Ch’drei’s right eyelid twitched ever so slightly as she spoke. “Indeed, child. I would be delighted to hear it.”

  Shebin turned to face the Emperor. “And I should be delighted to convey it as it concerns us all. I have come before you, Mighty Emperor, to offer my soul to you as a loyal and loving servant of the Imperial Will. All that is required among us here is to come to some accommodation one with another. Grant me the desires of my heart, Glorious Emperor, and all here may benefit by your magnanimous boon.”

  Ch’drei raised a single, plucked eyebrow.

  “That is, Majestic Master, why we have come together today, is it not?”

  “What did you have in mind, child,” Ch’drei asked.

  “That I deliver to my Emperor, at his will, the knowledge, power, and wealth of the Modalis—and, need I add, the goodwill of the adoring rabble who want only to right the wrongs done to me by this world,” Shebin replied softly.

  “And your price?” Ch’drei urged.

  “Only to be seen as the most favored of the Emperor’s Will,” Shebin nodded.

  The Emperor smiled once more.

  CHAPTER 35

  Dead Silence

  DRAKIS STRETCHED THE STIFFNESS out of his arms and legs, then, placing his hands behind his head, lay still on the woven mat on which he had slept through the night and gazed up in satisfaction.

  After Jugar and Ishander had managed to open the tower, they had all secured the boats and moved into it at once. They had left the doorway open—none of them willing to risk closing a magical gate without some assurance of it opening again—but the rain and weather had remained outside of its boundaries. Indeed, it had been something of a marvel to Drakis to see the rain driving against the space where the door had been, only to drop down in sheets at the threshold. Not even Jugar attempted to explain that phenomenon. Jugar suggested building a fire in the center of the hall, but the Lyric had argued against it on the grounds that it would be disrespectful to such an honored monument. Drakis was inclined to agree with her—though the thought that he was agreeing with the madwoman more frequently of late troubled him. So they had spread their mats from the boats, wrapped themselves in what cloaks and blankets they had brought with them, and prepared for the night.

  Drakis took the first watch. While they felt reasonably certain nothing had gotten into the tower before Jugar had opened the door, that did not hold for some dreadful creature following them in now that the way was clear. Drakis had sat pondering into the night their next course of action as he found himself watching Mala as she slept, her chest rising and falling as she lay silhouetted against the occasional lightning flash in the distant clouds beyond the door.

  He still cared for her. After all she had done—her betrayal of them to the very Empire that sought to take all their lives—he still found himself caring for her. He told himself that his feelings had been engineered and drawn out of him by false memories planted there by his elven masters, but it did not change the feelings that welled up inside of him each time he looked at her. Knowing it was wrong did not take away the yearning for her, but it did fill him alternately with dread, anger, and guilt. The torturous memories that had been restored to them when the enchantment over them was removed had driven many of Drakis’ fellow slaves insane. Drakis had wished in his idle thoughts that it had done so to him, for if he were insane, perhaps the madness that was his reality would be lost in a madness of the mind and he would not hurt anymore. The things he had been forced to do—or was it induced or seduced, it mattered not—had been viciously hurtful to Mala and their memories felt unforgivable. And Mala in her turn had betrayed them all, leading the Inquisitors toward them at every turn in their flight. He blamed her, hated her for her betrayal. He reflected and reasoned that she had had no choice in the matter. He could not stop loving her—which made his hatred all the more bitter. Thus the storm raged through his mind and body like the storm outside as he sat so very still in the darkness of the ancient tower.

  But then, in the night, the rain washed away the complex m
emories that tortured him and the lightning burned away his confusion. He had promised to take her home. Perhaps that was the answer for them both after all. He had wondered if he could live with the pain and realized that he didn’t have to live with it. If freedom was so painful a thing, why not give it up for a life of blissful ignorance?

  But the lightning cut through the thought. It would not change the beatings, the abuse, the horror of every waking moment—only dull the memory of it. Every day would be dreadful with the only solace he could take lying in ignorance of why the scars covered his body and his soul.

  Pain, he realized, was better than living a pointless existence. He had promised to take her back because she could not live with the pain—but he realized that if he fell back into that painless oblivion of Impression, then he would never have her. He would forget everything they had gone through together and never even remember why he had sacrificed his free soul for her. No, he realized, he would take her back—find a way to put her under his own benevolent Aether Devotions, allow her to forget the past and then win her heart afresh.

  Drakis knew in that moment that he could become the master of Mala—and with that power he could keep her secure in her ignorance, could ensure that she would love him because he would make her forget everything else . . .

  Then Urulani had relieved him of the watch. As Drakis lay down, he realized that for him to ever truly know that she was his, he would have to risk losing her. He would have to take her back with him to the southern lands, help her heal as best he could—and hope that someday she would love him despite their past; love him as he loved her.

  Now he lay on his back and looked up into the incredible vault of the rotunda above him. Morning light was spilling in through the great open doors of the tower, and for the first time he could see the incredible carvings that filled the rotunda ceiling. Sweeping columns rose upward, converging at the apex of the dome. Colored light also filled the space like a prism from stained glass windows between the columns, which he had not seen in the dark of the previous night. It was an inspiring space, one that seemed to draw him upward toward the realms of the gods.

  He drew in a deep breath.

  Maybe it wasn’t about what had happened in his memories. There was nothing, Drakis realized, that he could do to change the past—but he could do something about right now and believed that there was something better to come. He did not for one moment believe in any of this prophecy nonsense or that he was some sort of fated hero who would free the world of tyranny. But, gazing up into the beautiful space above him, he realized that he was hoping for something better to come. He could, perhaps, have a little faith in something after all.

  The sound of wood breaking open resounded through the hall. Drakis sat up at once.

  Urulani was prying apart the most reluctant of the boxes at the side of the rotunda, just finishing her inspection of the cache. She stood upright, shaking her head, her lips curling in disgust.

  “I see you are up for breakfast,” Drakis said through a yawn. “Are you going to cook?”

  “If I am, you wouldn’t like it,” the dark-hued captain replied, striding over toward Drakis. “The jars were improperly sealed so the wine in them has gone to vinegar. Still, I managed to clean some of them out during my watch last night and get them outside. They should be full of rainwater, so you might try some of that.”

  “Anything edible?” Drakis asked, nodding toward the open boxes of the supply cache.

  “Some,” Urulani replied, handing Drakis a strip of dried fruit. “There may be enough to get us through another week but . . .”

  Urulani fell silent.

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that!”

  “Sorry,” Drakis corrected. “What’s bothering you?”

  Urulani faced Drakis. “Well, we have, if we’re disciplined, a week’s worth of supplies now to continue on but . . . continue on to where? Our guide is useless and all we have at this point are some instructions carved into the top of a crate by his father—who, may I point out, has not been seen since he apparently went in the same direction we’re so anxious to follow.”

  “The dwarf thinks he can get the magic flowing again,” Drakis shrugged. “If he manages that, then we should be able to use the old folds to get back to your people on the shores of Vestasia—or at least most of the way. He has his precious magical rock back now and he thinks he can use it to guide us to the source of the ancient magic. We need to find the source and that means finding this Citadel at some city called Chelesta.”

  “And we just open the Well when we get there, I suppose,” Urulani said, folding her arms across her chest. “With the help of that miraculous book you discovered—the one that so far does not contain a single useful idea—and magically transport ourselves across the ocean and back into our snug beds.”

  “You are always so cheerful in the morning,” Drakis replied dryly. “Where is everyone else?”

  “The women went down to the boats with the dwarf,” Urulani said, her voice curiously detached. “He had apparently spent much of the night using that rock of his to help heal his leg.”

  “And did he?”

  “Did he what?”

  “Heal his leg?”

  “He’s managing without his crutch this morning and says he has improved his temperament although I have not noticed any change,” she said, looking toward the doorway. “I’ve managed to load what supplies were salvageable into the boats.”

  “What about Ethis and . . .”

  “Ishander, our noble native guide?” Urulani finished with her eyebrows arched. “They both set off to climb this tower before dawn. Last I saw of them they were heading up those stairs. That was about three hours ago. Now that you are finally awake, I’ll go see what happened to them.”

  “I’ll go and find them,” Drakis said, strapping his sword belt and scabbard back around his waist. He pulled the blade out to check it before sliding it back into place. “You stay here and . . .”

  “No,” Urulani said sharply. “I will go.”

  Drakis was picking up his leather cuirass and stopped. “What is it, Urulani? What’s wrong?”

  “Everything . . . everything is wrong,” Urulani yelled. “I’ve lost my ship—my crew—and I’m piloting some fishing dinghy through the middle of a jungle following a . . . a fool’s dream! And I’m the fool for following the fool!”

  “Look,” Drakis said, trying with effort not to rise to the argument and keep his voice calm. “I’m just trying to get us back home . . .”

  “Whose home, Drakis? Mala’s home?” Urulani yelled. “Her home is a cage—you know that better than any of us, yet all you want to do is go back to sleep in the lie again instead of standing up, facing the pain, and living. You’re already halfway there, Drakis; you turn a blind eye to anything having to do with Mala. She’s got that medallion thing hanging around her neck that Ishander’s papa was supposed to have taken with him on some big expedition where he was lost—that medallion lost along with him—and yet it shows up in the hands of the Clan-mother and is hanging around her neck? Someone had to find it. Someone had to bring it back. Mala is poison, Drakis, and you think that holding your nose while you swallow will make it all right. You’re better than that, Drakis! You have a better destiny than that!”

  Drakis shook his head. “Urulani, you don’t know who I’ve been . . . or who I am. Half of what I remember, I can’t tell if it’s real or made up.”

  “Look at this place, Drakis,” Urulani said, her arms open, gesturing at the tower around them. “This is real. This was what our ancestors built . . . all this beauty, all this incredible wonder . . . and they threw it all away. We were a great people, once. I don’t think I realized how great we were, and look at us now; either slaves who don’t even remember who we are let alone what we have lost or . . . or hiding from the world so that we don’t have to think about it. But we’re here, Drakis and I’ve seen things . . . heard
things . . . and I know what we’ve lost.”

  Urulani stepped up to Drakis, jabbing her long, elegant finger into his chest.

  “And you are a man of destiny, Drakis, whether you like it or not!” she said. “You could make a difference in this insane world if you would just choose to do something with your sorry life.”

  “What?” Drakis was incredulous. “Now you think I’m this legend?”

  “Yes! . . . I mean, of course not. Oh!” Urulani huffed. “Sometimes I think I’d really like to just knock you to the ground!”

  “Are we interrupting something?” Ethis called, his voice echoing down through the chamber from above.

  “No, not at all,” Drakis replied, taking a step back from Urulani. “Just discussing our next move.”

  “We take the river to the right!” Ishander said. The young Far-runner was descending the steps quickly in front of Ethis. “We find Chelestra.”

  “If we do,” Ethis added as he made his way down, “it would seem that these celebrated ‘towers of light’ are invisible. We were at the top of this tower at dawn and I made a careful survey of the horizon. There are no towers or structures visible of any kind as far as I can see; just the canopy of the rain forest.”

  “My father went down the right-hand river,” Ishander said in a tone that defied contradiction. “That is the road to Chelestra.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Urulani asked.

  “He learned it from one who had seen it,” Ishander replied. “He told me so before he left.”

  “Another Far-runner?”

  “No,” Ishander said with a grin. “From Clan-mother—who got it from a dragon!”

  Three days.

  For three days, the boats drifted down the River Tyra into a silent, dead land.

  Jugar had become their compass although initially there were problems with his using Aer to detect Aether. Mala emanated tremendous Aether power—so much so that it made it impossible at first for Jugar to discover any magic other than what radiated from her. The Akumau she wore, they decided, was the problem. Jugar was able to compensate for the effects of the medallion only after considerable effort.