by John Marco
“Port side’s still a little wobbly,” said Donnar. “No worries. One engine will get us home.”
“Home.” Rendor took another cigar from his pocket and offered it to Donnar. “Take a minute with me, Erich.”
Donnar, who never smoked, was immediately suspicious. “What are you doing out here, sir?”
Rendor tilted his chin at the mountains. “How high would you say they are?”
“Oh, no . . .”
“Can we make it over them?”
“Sir, we need to leave. We’ve got the Starfinder. Remember what Merceron said—there’s just no time.”
“Not much air up there. Cold too.”
“Impossible,” said Donnar. “With one engine?”
“One and a half,” Rendor reminded him. “We’ll strip her down, make her real light. Just like the dragonfly. We’ll over-pump the envelope.”
“Are you asking for my permission or my advice?”
“She’s my granddaughter, Erich.”
“Yes sir, but you gave the dragon your word.”
“I gave him the word of an Eldrin Knight. The Eldrin Knights are dead. Extinct. I don’t think anyone’s going to throw me in jail for that, do you?”
Donnar sighed as he considered the formidable mountains. “I think, sir, that I’d like that cigar now.”
THE CLOUD HORSE
TRUE TO ARTAIOS’ WORD, Moth had his run of the Skylords’ amazing palace. With Alisaundra as his chaperon, he explored the many towers and theaters, the galleries where the Skylords made art and the libraries where they sat in quiet contemplation. He marveled at their hallways filled with sculptures and the way the spires clung to the hillsides, seemingly defying gravity, and he watched as the Skylords—young and old—sprang from place to place the way birds do, without even thinking about the miracle of flight. He stared at the stars, spit over the edge of balconies, and lost himself in the gigantic murals that graced the palace walls. And for a while, he was contented.
Artaios let his servants see to every whim a human boy might have, giving Moth his own room with a peculiar round bed and sheets so soft Moth thought they’d been spun from magical silk. Strange, delicious foods were brought to him at mealtimes, carried on gleaming platters by eager young Skylords. Moth ate them all with abandon, seeing no real harm in making his captivity bearable. Fiona was alive, at least according to Artaios, and Moth knew he would see her again. He forced himself to believe it. They’d laugh and hug and tell each other how they’d managed to survive, and then they would go home again.
As for Alisaundra, she spent every waking moment with Moth, sometimes watching him from a distance but never quite leaving him alone. She rarely spoke, showed no interest in his predicament, and yet Moth could tell he fascinated her. He had seen a spark of humanity in the Redeemer that night in the prison tower, and again when she had saved him from Artaios. Instead of calling her a monster, Moth simply called her “Alis” now.
Finally, the time came for Moth to see Artaios again. He had been spying on a pair of beautiful Skylord girls, watching them from a balcony as they gossiped, when Alis put a hand on his shoulder.
“Do not stare,” she said.
Moth jumped at the intrusion. “I wasn’t!”
“You were listening. Come with me. The Master wants you.”
“Artaios?” asked Moth. “Why?”
Alis turned away. Curious, a little frightened, Moth followed her off the balcony, through the tower, and across a stone bridge. The Redeemer said nothing, not even bothering to acknowledge Moth as he peppered her with questions. The bridge led them to a colonnade of rounded archways, and then at last to a quiet building apart from all the others, a huge domed structure. As he walked with Alis through the open gate, Moth suspected another tribunal.
“What is this place?” he asked, his voice echoing in the stone corridor.
“Artaios is waiting for you,” replied Alis. She pointed forward. “There.”
Up ahead the hallway ended, spilling out into the enormous space beneath the dome. As Moth approached he saw Artaios standing in the center of the chamber, beneath a fretted roof of glass and gold. Sunlight poured down upon the Skylord like sparkling water. In his hand rested the golden reins of a cloud horse.
“Do you remember,” said Artaios, “that night when I found you? I told you I would teach you what it means to fly.”
Moth stepped forward, spellbound by the cloud horse. A twinkling mist shrouded the creature, lit by its flashing orange eyes. It clopped its insubstantial hooves when it noticed Moth, making no sound against the polished floor.
“What’s this for?” Moth asked, unable to take his eyes off the cloud horse. “It’s so small! Like a pony.”
“A young one,” explained Artaios. He reached into the mists and rubbed the creature’s nose. “Small like you, Egg.”
“But why?” asked Moth. “I don’t understand.”
Artaios replied, “Those machines your people make—you think that is how flying is done. They’re abominations. To fly you need wings . . . or a cloud horse. Now I will teach you, as I promised.”
“Artaios, I can’t fly a cloud horse. What if I fall?”
“This is where all Skylords train with the cloud horses.” Artaios pointed at the roof. “There’s nowhere for the creature to go.”
“Are you kidding? If I fall from up there I’ll kill myself!”
“Am I not here to catch you?” said Artaios crossly. “Come here now. The horse will obey me.”
Moth couldn’t help himself, drawn forward by the amazing creature, its mist gathering at his feet, its sweet effervescence tickling his nose. With a tug of the reins, Artaios guided the horse down for Moth.
“I’ve never even ridden a real horse,” Moth said. “What do I do?”
“Just climb on its back,” said Artaios. “He’ll keep steady for me.”
Wanting desperately to ride the thing, Moth managed to trust Artaios. He reached into the mists, finding a solidness he didn’t expect. When his fingers brushed the luminous skin, the cloud horse simply materialized.
“It knows what to do,” Artaios reassured him. “Go on.”
Moth struggled to lift himself over the creature’s back. Its flesh yielded magically beneath him. Moth held its white mane for balance, feeling electricity coursing through the snowy hair. As if it knew Moth was ready, the cloud horse rose up again, this time leaving the ground.
“What now?” Moth cried.
Artaios let go of the reins. “Now you fly.”
“Huh? No . . . !”
The horse headed steadily upward, its shifting mists turning a dazzling orange, its head and limbs almost invisible. Moth crouched to keep from falling, one hand gathering up the dangling reins. The polished floor dropped away. Beside him, Artaios was smiling, his powerful wings carrying him aloft.
“I’m gonna fall!” shouted Moth.
“You won’t.”
“But—”
“Calm yourself! Let the horse feel your will.”
The cloud horse turned gently, pirouetting ever higher. Moth at last took up the reins and settled tightly on its back. Slowly, he felt the creature respond.
“Ah, you are doing it!” said Artaios. “Now you are flying, Egg!”
“I thought you said only Skylords could fly these things!”
“It obeys you because I am here. If I were not . . .” Artaios suddenly laughed. “I do not know!”
Suddenly Moth wished there was no roof at all, that he and the cloud horse could rise up forever. He glanced over and saw Artaios beaming proudly. Moth felt himself smiling back at the Skylord, then caught a glimpse of Alis far below.
The Redeemer’s joyless expression left Moth bewildered.
That night, Moth washed away all his aches and pains in a pool of steaming water. He leaned his head against the edge of the pool, letting the warmth relax his knotted muscles as he marveled at the underground bath chamber, running like a catacomb beneath the tower o
f Korace. At the far end of the chamber a gentle waterfall trickled down the rocky wall, feeding the bath. Like everything in the Palace of the Moon, the chamber was enormous, yet Moth had it entirely to himself. He floated, naked, his body obscured by the minerals clouding the water.
No one had seen him naked in years, not even his mother. At first he’d been afraid, but he wasn’t anymore. The hot bath melted his shyness away. Esculor, the young Skylord assigned to Moth, had explained that all the Skylords bathed this way. Young and old, male and female, they shared the baths without shame, something unimaginable in the world Moth came from.
“You have everything I have,” Esculor had joked, “except wings. No one cares enough to stare.”
Sure that Esculor would return for him soon, Moth stretched out his arms along the side of the pool, dunking himself quickly, then lifting himself up with a mouthful of water, squirting it like a fountain. Tomorrow, if he was lucky, Artaios would teach him more about flying. He closed his eyes, daydreaming about the cloud horse as the warm water lulled him to sleep.
Moth listened to the waterfall over his own contented breathing. Then another sound reached his ears, very softy. He opened his eyes, expecting to see Esculor. A glimpse of yellow hair appeared behind a column.
“Alis?”
Discovered, Alisaundra stepped from her hiding spot.
“Uh, Alis, I’m naked in here,” said Moth, suddenly self-conscious. “Could you stay back a little?”
The Redeemer looked bemused and grossly overdressed in her heavy cloak and silver chain.
“Something on your mind?” asked Moth.
Alisaundra seemed to struggle with her thoughts, unnerving Moth with her silence.
“You’re staring,” he pointed out. “You told me not to stare, remember?”
She glided closer, her brow ridged in troubled thought. Moth shifted uncomfortably in his bath, glad for the cloudy water. He thought of calling out for Esculor or jumping up to get his clothes, but Alis wasn’t really frightening him. She came to the very edge of the pool, squatting down next to him and threading her clawed fingers through the water.
“Listen,” said Moth, trying to distract her. “I never thanked you for saving me the other day. From Artaios, I mean. I got a little mad when he started talking about Fiona. I shouldn’t have done that. So thanks. Okay?”
Alis went from squatting to kneeling. She tapped a long fingernail against her blonde head. “In here. I see pictures. Old things.”
“Pictures? You mean memories?”
“I remember,” she said, “because of you.”
Moth wasn’t sure if she was happy or just accusing him. He kept his voice low and said, “Because you’ve been around humans again, right? You’ve been mucking around in my head. But this is good, Alis. You see? You are human.”
“I am a Redeemer,” Alis insisted. “I serve the Skylords.”
“Yeah, all right. Tell me about your memories. What do you see?”
“They scream at me. They want to come out! I can’t let them.”
“Who? Who’s screaming at you?”
Alis put her claws to her face, driving her nails into her scaly cheeks. “Family.”
Moth stayed very still. “Tell me,” he whispered.
“I remember . . .” Alis hesitated. “Remember . . .” Her reptilian eyes glazed over. “Sitting. My father’s lap.”
“Go on,” said Moth. “You remember sitting in your father’s lap . . .”
“He smelled like earth. I remember being afraid.”
“Why?” Moth rolled onto his side, intrigued. “Why were you afraid of him?”
“Not of him,” said Alis. Her eyes sparkled as the memory took hold. “Afraid to move. Afraid to make him uncomfortable. Afraid he would tell me to get off his lap.” She made a little noise of happiness. “That was the best place. On Father.”
Her fanged mouth smiled. Her black wings shrouded her body. But she was human, and Moth saw it.
“I would sit with him for hours,” Alis continued. “And he would touch my hair.” She pulled at a tangled blonde tendril, horrified by it. “Not this hair. Real hair. He would sit and I would sing, and he would stroke my hair.”
Then she started humming to herself, her voice softly echoing through the cavernous baths. She no longer looked at Moth; her vision turned inward instead.
“Alis?” said Moth. “Look away.”
“Why?” asked the Redeemer.
“I want to get dressed. Close your eyes or something.”
Alis obeyed, letting Moth climb out of the pool and grab up his clothing. He didn’t bother drying off, just slipped on his breeches.
“Alis, you can’t talk like this to anyone,” said Moth as he pulled his shirt over his head. “If Artaios knows about your memories he’ll punish you. You shouldn’t even be telling me about them.”
Alis stood up. “Do not trust Artaios,” she warned.
“Huh?”
“He gives you the cloud horse. He gives you a room, servants. Do you wonder why?”
“Yes,” admitted Moth. He felt ashamed suddenly. “I guess I do.”
“Soon he will ask you questions,” whispered Alis. “About Calio. The airships. Things no one else can tell him. About how strong humans are.”
“You mean he’s bribing me? But why? Why does he want to know—”
Before Moth could finish he heard Esculor returning, heading for the bath chamber in a flutter of wings. Moth turned back to Alis.
“Why, Alis?”
Alis flashed her pointed teeth and hissed, “To end the human dream.”
She said nothing more, bowing to Esculor as the young Skylord entered the chamber, then left quietly, disappearing through the steam.
“Hideous creatures,” said Esculor. He turned his perfect smile toward Moth. A hair comb flashed in his hand, ready to pamper his human charge. “Finished?”
“Yes,” nodded Moth. “I think I am.”
He stood, frozen, letting Esculor’s jeweled comb sweep through his wet hair, trying to imagine Alisaundra as a girl.
HIGHER
THE AVATAR HOVERED at fifteen thousand feet, the last mark on her vacuum-powered altimeter. For nearly an hour she had been at that height, time for her crew to acclimate to the cold and thin air as they prepared for their ascent. Each man had left behind every bit of extra weight possible, shedding every knickknack and memento brought from home. Canisters and barrels had been tossed overboard, weapons were stripped of their heavy safety shields, and even the furniture in Rendor’s quarters had been discarded, all to make the airship light enough for the climb.
Rendor peered through the rectangle of netting sewn into the tarp stretched across the ship’s damaged bridge. His nose burned from the cold, but he did not shiver as he looked at the sheer wall of rock facing them. Snow and mist obscured the mountaintops. His breath froze on his lips. Already a headache from altitude sickness throbbed in his skull. On the other side of the mountain waited Pandera, warm and thick with breathable air. Rendor blew into his gloved hands. Behind him, Lieutenant Stringfellow sat at the engine console, taking deep, rapid breaths the way Rendor had shown him. Rendor counted ten breaths, then twelve as Stringfellow kept going.
“That’s enough,” barked Rendor. “A dozen breaths, no more.” He looked at the others on the bridge. “If your hands and feet start tingling you’ve done too many,” he warned. “Ten to twelve deep breaths every five minutes. Don’t do it unless you have to.”
Donnar nodded as he paced the bridge, seemingly immune to the dwindling air pressure. Bottling, on the other hand, had already vomited twice. He kept a bucket next to him as he watched a bank of gauges, his eyes the only part of his face visible behind a woolen scarf. Four additional crewmen manned the bridge as well, a pair of them assigned to consoles, the other two ready with tools to mend steam pipes or tears in the tarp. The entire crew had dressed in layers and drunk gallons of water to prepare their bodies for the moisture-sucking atmosphere.
They were all well-trained and hand-picked, but none of them had ever flown as high as they would today.
Through the netting, the world was a swirl of clouds and jagged rock. Rendor felt the thrumming of the engines under his feet, felt the way the wind rattled the airship like a baby’s toy, and knew the time had come.
“Commander Donnar,” he said, “get ready to climb.”
Donnar strapped himself in his captain’s chair, pulling a stout leather belt across his lap. Bottling turned his covered face toward the Commander, waiting for the order. His right hand, fitted with a fingerless glove, hovered over a silver lever.
“Slow climb, Mister Bottling,” said Donnar. “Stringfellow, listen for the watch.”
Bottling eased the lever forward. The Avatar shuddered as hidrenium swelled her envelope. Rendor peered through his viewport as the airship slowly rose. The wind off the peaks swayed her back and forth. Stringfellow manned the engine deck, listening for Rendor’s orders.
“Steady on the watch,” said Rendor.
He ignored his growing fatigue and the pounding in his forehead, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth as the Avatar floated upward. Unlike the other airships he’d designed, the Avatar’s flatter shape made climbing easier, relying not just on hidrenium but also the force of the atmosphere to push her skyward. But it was the job of the engines to move her laterally, and unless he held a steady watch, one stray wind might send them crashing into the face of the mountain.
Rendor scanned the peaks, trying to spot the zenith. Broken clouds obscured his view. Behind him, Bottling was breathing hard to keep from blacking out. He tapped the glass of his many gauges, worried. Donnar sat with steely calm, scanning his nervous crew. When a sudden gust rocked the Avatar, he barely flinched.
“Report the watch,” he called.
Rendor squinted hard, trying to squeeze back his nausea. Outside he saw the rocks rising still above them. “Higher.”
Minutes passed. Bottling shivered over his bucket. Stringfellow gulped down nervous breaths . . . four, five, six. Even Donnar had turned blue. Rendor felt his hands and face starting to swell.