Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords

by John Marco

  “And because our cause was just,” said Merceron. “Even you must see that now.”

  “No one loves the Skylords,” said Dreojen. “But I still wonder why we sacrificed so much.” She studied his coat and bulging pockets. “The Starfinder?”

  Merceron removed the Starfinder from his pocket. Its silvery surface gleamed in the candlelight. The object mesmerized Dreojen, but not because of its beauty. To her, the Starfinder was a symbol for everything she’d lost.

  “The others won’t change their minds,” she said. “Whatever you do, you’ll have to do alone.”

  “Is there a chance you’ll come with me?” asked Merceron hopefully. “It’s been so long.”

  Dreojen’s golden eyes swelled. “This is my home now. This time, I’m not leaving.”

  Merceron wanted to argue, but couldn’t. A wall remained between them. Brick by brick, the years since Elaniel’s death had made the wall strong. He realized Dreojen still hadn’t answered his question, then realized she didn’t have to. She would always blame him for his death, at least a little.

  The sunlight through the crack began to fade. Night was coming fast. Night might bring Redeemers. Merceron summoned Esme to his shoulder again.

  “It’s time,” he told his mate.

  They embraced without a word. Merceron held Dreojen, wanting to tell her he’d return someday, but knowing he could never make such a promise. In his heart, he knew he’d never see Dreojen again.

  Merceron and Esme emerged from the crevice into the last rays of sunlight. The tide had risen, splashing over Merceron’s clawed feet. Overhead the stars were emerging. Merceron fondly scratched Esme’s feathered neck. Things had gone from bad to worse. They were out of options.

  “I’m sorry, my Lady,” he told Esme. “There’s only one person who can help us now.”

  EGG

  THE BLACK TOWER REMINDED MOTH of a light-house. From what he could tell from his tiny cell, it was the only structure on the island, jutting up from the barren earth like an outstretched arm. Sluggish water surrounded the island, licking at its gray shores. Moth stared through the barred window, watching the sun go down. There were no candles in his prison, and no torches or lamps, either. Once the sun was gone, all he’d have was the light of the moon.

  The Redeemer had carried him for hours, flying off with him into the cold night, her powerful arms wrapped around his chest like snakes. At first Moth had screamed and screamed, afraid she would drop him. He imagined himself falling, tumbling helplessly to the ground, his body breaking against trees and rocks. Then, when his voice gave out and he could no longer scream, he lay limp in the creature’s grasp, carried away like a half-dead squirrel.

  And she had done it all without saying a word.

  A chill wind rolled off the water. Moth put his nose through the window bars. The lower the sun fell in the sky, the faster it seemed to drop. Darkness gathered above the tower, and Moth could see stars popping out one by one, like freckles on a face. The freckles reminded him of Fiona. He wondered if she could see the stars, too. He wondered if she was even alive.

  His empty stomach rumbled. He scanned the sky, waiting for a rescue that probably wasn’t coming. Once, he thought he heard the engine of a dragonfly, but it was only the wind.

  Moth’s cold fingers slipped from the bars. Looking out the window took too much effort. He had to stand on tip-toe just to see. When he turned away, he glimpsed a single bloodshot eye blinking through the peephole of the door.

  “Hey!”

  The eye disappeared. Moth ran to the door.

  “Get back here!”

  He put his own eye up to the square. The hall was nothing but shadows. He strained to see, finally catching a glimpse of his jailor pressed against the wall. Her wings lay flat against her back. Yellow, straggly hair tangled on her shoulders.

  “I see you!” said Moth. “Why are you spying on me?”

  The Redeemer skulked a little closer. Around her waist hung a thick silver chain.

  “Why are you keeping me here?” asked Moth. He banged on the door. “Let me out!”

  The creature watched him, infuriatingly silent.

  “I need food, water!” Moth demanded. “You gonna starve me? Say something!”

  “You’re small,” said the Redeemer. She cupped her hands over her ears. “But loud. Softly, speak.”

  “Huh?” Moth took a breath. “Okay, listen. I want to get out of here. Do you understand?” He opened his mouth wide to make the “O” sound. “Out . . .”

  “Noooo,” mimicked the creature.

  “Why?” cried Moth. “I’m nothing! You can let me go, I won’t tell anyone. The Skylords won’t even know I was here.”

  “The Masters know already,” said the Redeemer. “You are the Starfinder boy.”

  Moth’s heart sank. If the Skylords knew that, they’d be coming for him.

  “Is that why you snatched me? For the Starfinder?” Quickly he turned out the pockets of his coat. “Look! I don’t have it, see? I don’t know where it is.”

  “The dragon Merceron has the Starfinder.” The Redeemer’s smile frightened Moth. “I can feel it.”

  “Merceron? Do you know where he is?”

  “He is with the feathered Master. They run. But soon we’ll find them.”

  “And then what? You’re just gonna hand the Starfinder back to the Skylords? Let them make slaves of everyone?” Moth sneered, “Slave. That’s you!”

  The Redeemer brushed her filthy fingernails over her silver chain. “Soon you will have one of these, too,” she said. “Then you will serve the Skylords. Or, if you wish, you will die. The Masters are generous.”

  “C’mon, you were human once,” said Moth desperately. “You’re still human, I bet, right? You can let me go. You can just open the door and—”

  The Redeemer turned and began walking away.

  “Wait!” cried Moth. “If the Skylords come they’ll kill me!”

  She paused.

  “Please,” said Moth. “If you let me go, maybe I can help you. Maybe Merceron can figure out a way to change you back to normal.”

  The Redeemer hesitated. Moth could see her struggling. If he could just nudge her a little more . . .

  “You’re a person,” he said. He pressed himself against the door, making that little square of his face look as sincere as possible. “No matter what the Skylords did to you, you’re still human. Just do the right thing. All you have to do is make a choice.”

  For just a second, Moth thought he had her. For just a flash, her face seemed human again. But too soon it vanished.

  “I made a choice, a long, long time ago,” she said. “I belong to the Skylords now.”

  As the Redeemer walked off into the shadows, Moth sank from the door. Outside his window he heard the wind again. He imagined the sound was a dragonfly, coming to rescue him.

  Moth guessed it was midnight by the way the moon hung in the sky. He had passed the hours by counting the bricks in the wall, watching a spider weave a web, picking at a scab, and tossing pebbles out the window. His stomach ached with hunger. Once he’d read a book about a prisoner who’d gone mad thinking about food. He slumped against the wall beneath the window, wondering which would kill him first—lack of food or the Skylords.

  His eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, adjusting to the little bit of moonlight slanting through the bars. His mind wandered to his warm bed in Leroux’s apartment. Suddenly, the moonlight faded. Moth stood and peered through the window, guessing a storm was coming. Instead he saw what looked like an enormous silver cloud passing overhead. He craned his neck for a better look, astonished to see wisps of fire breaking off the cloud, flashing as they died away. A noise like the braying of some giant beast rumbled from the sky.

  It wasn’t an airship or a storm cloud, but whatever it was stopped somewhere above the tower. Moth twisted for a better look, finally stopping when he heard the door to his cell creaking open.

  “Come,” said the R
edeemer. She entered quickly, pulling Moth away from the window.

  “Huh . . . ?”

  The Redeemer shoved him toward the door. “Hurry. He’s waiting.”

  Moth spun on her. “Who’s waiting?” He pointed toward the roof. “That thing up there?”

  The Redeemer grabbed his wrist and pulled him from the cell. Moth stumbled after her, trying to keep from falling. “What is it?” he asked. “A Skylord?”

  Out in the dark hallway, the creature released him. “Artaios,” she said. She pointed toward the winding stairwell. “It’s time now. Move.”

  Moth couldn’t make himself obey. “No,” he refused. “I won’t go.”

  “It’s time,” she repeated.

  “No!”

  “Artaios is waiting!” Her claws snapped out and grabbed Moth’s coat. “Go or I will drag you!”

  Moth knew she could do it—she had flown with him all the way to the island. He decided not to plead or beg. Inside he was panicking, but outside he put on his bravest face.

  “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll finally get to see one of these monsters for myself!”

  The Redeemer followed him up the dark staircase, urging him to hurry. Up and up the steps spiraled, the slimy walls the only way for Moth to keep his balance. The higher he climbed, the louder the noise grew from above, something like the crackling of fire.

  Light crept over the top of the stairs, a silver light that popped and glistened, hissed and brayed, flooding down upon the tower. Moth stepped out onto the roof. He stared up at the enormous cloud-thing in bewilderment. The Redeemer’s cold claw gripped his shoulder.

  “Look!” she said, her voice dripping with awe. “Artaios comes!”

  Finally, Moth could see the whole thing clearly. The clouds were creatures, horselike things with vapors for tails and long, smoky limbs that pawed at the air. Sparks shot from their nostrils and fire from their hooves, yet they looked so insubstantial that a strong wind might blow them away. There were four of the beasts, and behind them a vessel, tethered to the horses by golden ropes.

  A chariot, realized Moth, peering through the haze. The translucent carriage had no wheels—at least none that Moth could see. Smoke swirled around it, revealing hints of bronze and inlaid jewels. Slowly the thing floated down toward the roof. The horses—if they were horses—appeared and disappeared in the mists. The chariot hovered at the edge of the roof, wrapping the tower in vaporous tendrils.

  “Down,” the Redeemer commanded. She fell to her knees, pulling Moth with her. “Do not look at him,” she said, “not until he speaks to you.”

  Moth still didn’t know who or what had come for him, and keeping his eyes down was impossible. He lifted his chin just as a figure stepped from the mists.

  It was a man, and yet not a man, dressed in white linen with one bare shoulder and naked, muscular arms. Gold piping trimmed his tunic and the lacings of his sandals snaked around his calves. Light surrounded him, pouring from his chariot—or was it he himself that gave the light? His hair was a golden waterfall, his skin like polished bronze. A blade gleamed at his side, a long sword of pulsing metal.

  The being stepped from the mists, pausing a few feet from where Moth knelt with the Redeemer. As if to explain what he really was, two gigantic wings fanned out behind him. The wings folded gently forward, encasing the man in downy feathers. His sparkling eyes beguiled Moth.

  This is what Esme must look like, he thought. But he refused to cower. Defying the Redeemer’s order, he stood up.

  “Great Artaios,” stammered the Redeemer. “Here is the boy I promised you. A stupid boy! He hasn’t even the sense to kneel!”

  “Artaios,” said Moth. “That’s your name?”

  “Silence!” shrieked the Redeemer. “Don’t you dare speak!”

  Moth ignored her. If he was going to die, he’d do it like a man. “You’re a Skylord, huh? I heard Skylords were beautiful. Someone I once knew told me that.” He put out his chin. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  Artaios the Skylord looked Moth up and down. He studied his face, then his old, wrinkled coat. He sniffed at his dirty hair and grimaced at his fingernails. Finally, he looked down at the Redeemer.

  “This is the one who commands the Starfinder?”

  The Redeemer nodded quickly without raising her head. “Yes, great Master. He’s the one!”

  Artaios’ bright eyes widened. He looked young to Moth, though Moth knew he must be impossibly old. “I have never seen a human child before,” he said. “And never a living thing but a Skylord who could command the Starfinder.”

  “I can,” countered Moth. “And I’m not a boy. I’m thirteen.”

  “Thir . . . ?” Artaios laughed. “Thirteen years?” His white wings fluttered. “You’re right. You’re not even a boy yet. You’re an egg! But I’ve never seen an egg command the Starfinder either, so that makes you remarkable.” Artaios kicked at the Redeemer. “Get up.”

  The Redeemer flew to her feet. “I serve you, Master.”

  “This boy is in rags. He looks starved. Have you fed him?”

  “No, Master, no,” said the Redeemer. “We waited, is all.”

  Moth couldn’t help staring at Artaios. His youth and golden hair reminded him of Skyhigh, but his voice was more like thunder, and his skin like mirrored bronze.

  “Are you hungry, Egg?” asked the Skylord.

  “Yes,” answered Moth hotly. “And my name’s not Egg. It’s Moth.”

  “Moth? Like an insect?” Again Artaios laughed. “If you’re hungry, you will feast.”

  Moth hesitated. He expected an execution, not an invitation. “Where are we going?”

  “To the Palace of the Moon,” said Artaios. He gestured to his chariot. “I’ve seen your wretched airships. Floating junk. Come with me, Egg, and I will show you what it means to fly.”

  THE HOUSE OF JORIAN

  FIONA AWOKE WITH A SHOUT. The dream she’d been having fled from her mind. She lifted her head from the pillow of grass, heart pounding, and tried to recognize her strange surroundings. The fabric walls, the smell of clean air, the unfamiliar scene through an unshuttered window—all these things bewildered her. Then like a knife came the one thing she remembered.

  Pain.

  It throbbed in her skull, driving her down to the pillow again. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut and sobbed, hoping someone would hear her.

  “Hello?” she called, but it was a kitten’s voice that spoke, and no one answered.

  Fiona turned her head, spotting a giant archway with a curtain for a door. The fabric was left open, but she couldn’t see what was on the other side. When her fingers clawed her bedding, she realized she wasn’t in a bed at all, but sprawled out on clean, soft straw and tucked into a blanket.

  Heaven had beds, or maybe even clouds, so Fiona knew she wasn’t dead. She remembered the river. And drowning, too. She remembered . . .

  “Moth!”

  Her cry startled someone in the other room. The sound of heavy footfalls came closer. Fiona pulled her blanket to her chin as a big shadow darkened the doorway. A face peered around the corner, first puzzled, then lighting with pleasure as it noticed Fiona.

  “You’re awake!”

  Fiona squinted her blurry eyes. The face was pretty, with the complexion of cream and gemstone eyes. A woman’s face. A tall woman, Fiona decided, until she rounded the doorway on the four legs of a horse. Instead of hair, a white mane rippled down her shoulders. Pointed ears twitched with excitement. Her hooves clopped closer. She smiled at Fiona in the bed of straw, bending as if to coo at a baby.

  “Look at you!” chirped the woman. “Now don’t be afraid. Just lie still and catch your breath.”

  Fiona forgot her many pains. She sat up, gaping in disbelief. She knew horses and she knew humans, but the thing staring at her was both. From its withers on up was the body of the most stunning woman Fiona had ever seen, with skin as soft as a teardrop and long, snowy hair that touched its equine shoulders. Her coat was whi
te as well, looking like velvet to Fiona, her back draped with scarlet fabric tied to her tail with a golden braid.

  “Nessa,” said the woman softly. She pointed to herself, repeating the word. “Nessa.”

  When Fiona didn’t answer, the creature frowned. “Poor thing.” She knelt down on her forelegs, running human fingers through Fiona’s tangled hair. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you to speak.”

  At last Fiona said, “You’re a centaur!”

  Startled, the creature jerked back. Then she laughed and said, “You understand me! Oh, I knew I was right about you! I knew you would speak!”

  “Yeah, I can speak,” said Fiona. “I’m a person. I . . .” She put a hand to her aching head. “Where am I?” She glanced down and noticed her clothes had changed, replaced by a soft, baggy tunic that looked like a nightshirt, tied around her waist by a belt of fabric. “What happened to my clothes?”

  The centaur pinched her nose. “Phew! They were rags.”

  Fiona looked under the blanket. Her legs and feet were naked. “My boots! My stockings . . .”

  “Mended,” said the centaur. “And dry now. Sit back . . .”

  Fiona’s head was spinning. She felt like a mess and knew she looked it too. She lay down again, staring up into the creature’s remarkable eyes. “Tell me what happened. Where am I?”

  “Pandera.” The creature lightly touched Fiona’s bruised head. “How does that feel?”

  “Hurts.” Fiona winced. She felt the bruise again, this time detecting bumpy threads. “Oh my god, stitches?”

  “You were in the water with the rocks,” said the centaur. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  “I was with somebody . . . a boy . . . my friend Moth.”

  The odd face grew gentle. “Only you made it through the mountains.”

  Fiona thought hard, yanking memories from the darkness. “Pandera,” she said. “I saw you,” she remembered. “On the sand. You saved me.”

  “Tyrin found you,” the creature corrected. “He was hunting when he saw you on the bank. The river must have carried you under the mountain.”