by Tom Barczak
The murmur of the Servian Knights grew again.
The Mother narrowed her eyes at Al-Aaron but her stare was not scornful. It was one of sorrow, or waiting. “And so you have.”
Al-Aaron closed his eyes. His mouth opened as if to speak. His face whitened. Then he toppled.
Two of the knights standing nearest caught him as he fell.
Chaelus pressed his way, past the unseen hand, through the crowd towards Al-Aaron.
“Take him to his rest,” the Mother said. She bowed her head.
The two Servians returned Al-Aaron up the stairs.
Chaelus felt the Mother’s stare hold him through the crowd. The sorrow and waiting in them remained.
“Then the Gorondian Legions have been reborn,” the Mother whispered. Her stare broke away to gaze into the fire.
“It’s no surprise,” Al-Hoanar broke out. His beard trembled as he spoke. “There’s no doubt of the evil that rules the Theocracy.”
“The Dragon will act more freely under this guise,” Maedelous added. “It won’t suffer us now that the Fallen Ones have been destroyed and the Hunting has returned.”
“The Theocratic Council has always been the Dragon’s sanctuary,” the Mother said. “Ever since the rise of the Taurate, the hearts and minds of the Theocratic Council have been poisoned to the Dragon’s will. But this means nothing to where our own faith should rest. Instead, it speaks to the very reason it was lost to begin with.”
“What do you mean?” Maedelous sounded surprised.
“We’ve lost our vision, Maedelous. We’ve been blind to the Dragon’s return. For too long we’ve balked at the sins of others. In doing so we’ve failed to look at our own.”
“So you say we are to blame for this?” Al-Hoanar said.
“No,” the Mother said. “But I do say that we can no longer stop it alone. Perhaps we were never meant to.”
The Mother stood. To Chaelus, she was no longer frail but instead the younger woman who had once come before his father. Her stare returned its hold upon him.
“Not all of the Fallen Ones have been destroyed. The Dragon still waits for the return of all twelve. Chaelus, Roan Lord of the House of Malius, your father was one of the twelve Servian Lords who fell. By your hand, and the grief you hold, was he spared the Dragon’s call. I know you’re aware of the eyes of the past resting upon you.”
The entire Synod turned to him.
Chaelus’ fever wept across his brow. Its lament brought a stinging pain to his eyes. He flushed beneath it, but raised his head and stepped towards the Mother. Her knights parted before him.
“I won’t deny their weight or their shadow,” he said.
“And I can do nothing of either for you, but to say that I once loved and knew your father well.”
“You came to him when I was a child.” Chaelus stared at Maedelous beside her. The old man’s eyes were veiled. “You came with another.”
“We sought to save you from the same fate as your father,” the Mother said. “The same fate that brings you to us now.”
“We were not successful.” Maedelous let loose a bitter smile. He leaned forward. “So much less so for the blood that has been spilled, and the souls we have lost because of it.”
The Mother’s eyes darted to Maedelous. “Yet it seems, in the end, providence did what we could not.”
Maedelous stood. He drew his long tunic close in the orators’ fashion. He held his other hand open, outstretched before him. “It is only because in the end, Malius heeded the cautions we paid him. For too long he’d been warned, of his own failings and the need for his son’s protection.”
“My father believed it was you who betrayed him,” Chaelus returned. “And although I was only a child, I remember the word he used for you particularly. Serpent.”
Maedelous’ eyes narrowed still more. “His greatest betrayal was by you – and himself. He betrayed both his oath and his order! His union with your mother should never have been. We forgave him once. We shan’t do so again. And now it’s you before us; the very fruit of his betrayal, bearing shamelessly the unbound blade of your father.”
Chaelus stepped forward as a chill swept through him. The old man was baiting him. Chaelus stayed his hand as it crept towards Sundengal’s hilt. He stepped closer to Maedelous.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Maedelous bristled as he returned to his seat. His robe caught his feet and he staggered. “Your arrogance only reveals his failure.”
The Mother stood. “That’s enough, Maedelous. Be wise.”
Maedelous paused, but then he nodded and sank into his seat, his eyes narrower and darker than before.
The Mother lowered herself back into hers. “We did not gather for this purpose, yet our purpose it has become. For you, Chaelus, Roan Lord of the House of Malius, I’ve but one question. Why have you come here?”
“I’ve come to restore my father’s House,” Chaelus answered.
“The light of your father’s House diminished long ago, along with any hope it once carried. So tell me again, Chaelus, son of Malius, why have you come to us?”
Chaelus hesitated, unsure. He knew of no other words to say. “To slay the Dragon.”
The murmuring around the Synod deepened.
“And so you have,” the Mother said. “Al-Thinneas, it is time.”
Al-Thinneas stood. He bowed his head, first to the Mother, and then to each of those seated.
“One of our own was confronted upon the streets of Tulon but three days past,” he said. “It was a servant of Ras Dumas who found him. The boy said little but passed to our brother a message, pleading that it be delivered to the Mother herself. Our brother tried to gain more, but whether from ignorance or fear, the boy said nothing more before he fled.”
“Read what it says,” the Mother said.
“Of course.” Al-Thinneas pulled from his robes a small round red leather case. Opening one end, he slid out a bone tube. Its seal had already been broken, and from it he withdrew a parchment, unrolling it before him.
“It is written in the lost tongue of the Evarun. Ras Dumas, indeed, took no small care in giving this message to us.”
“Read it,” the Mother urged.
“It’s but a single word,” Al-Thinneas said, and then paused. “Magedos.”
The silence returned as Al-Thinneas sat down.
The Mother waited as one by one the whispered questions began again between them all. She waited until the whispers fell away and only silence remained again.
“Ras Dumas sends us word of where his own House stands,” Maedelous quipped.
“No,” the Mother said. “It’s more. Magedos is more. It’s the place where the Giver fell. It’s where the Dragon can be defeated again.”
“Then the Giver has returned,” one of the knights in the gathered Synod cried out.
Chaelus stared into the dance of the flames. The chatter of the gathered knights erupted into flames of their own. The circle around him widened. They did not speak of him by name. Surely, they would not speak of him.
“No,” the Mother said, silencing their growing murmur. “The Giver has not returned.”
Chaelus looked up. Al-Aaron’s words of prophecy felt heavy upon him.
The Mother’s stare fixed upon him.
“But I believe we have been given the way to prepare for him,” she said.
Chaelus could read nothing in her eyes, nothing to tell him what she, in fact, believed. Yet it was certainly more than what she claimed before the gathered host.
“Or perhaps it’s an invitation to our slaughter,” Maedelous said. “It’s folly to believe in such madness. Surely this is a trap that Ras Dumas laid before his death.”
“Perhaps,” the Mother said. She pulled her shawl close again. “But it’s no secret that it was in the valley of Magedos that the Giver fell. His blood still remains there, and by the words of the prophecy, it is by the blood of the Giver that the Dragon will be defeated.”
Chaelus ste
pped into the circle. The heat of the fire and the stares of those around it pressed like a cutting knife. “I was told by Al-Aaron that when the Dragon is destroyed, the Pale will be restored, and with it my kingdom.”
No voices replied, only the returned silence and the crackling song of the fire.
“You speak words of prophecy well,” the Mother proffered.
“But are they true?”
“Yes.”
“They are words of blasphemy!” Maedelous exclaimed.
“Perhaps blasphemy is the only way,” the Mother countered, unmoving, measured.
“He’s not worthy!” Maedelous argued.
The Mother looked at Chaelus. “Nor does he believe we are.”
Chaelus girded himself as Maedelous unveiled his eyes to him. Cold fire burned within them.
“He’s a barbarian,” Maedelous said. “He’s not a man of Rua. He’s not Servian!”
“Nor was Talus before he was raised and the last Giver he became,” the Mother said. “Indeed, a prince turned thief he was and a soulless man, stoned to death before he was raised.”
“I don’t claim your prophecy,” Chaelus resumed, “but I will do what I must to restore my father’s House. I will do what I must to regain my throne. And if I must go to Magedos to do it, then I will slay the Dragon there. I only ask that you show me the way. Or do not. But if Rua is with me and you are not, than pray that you stand aside.”
The Mother’s soft voice drifted. “You will meet the Dragon in Magedos. But you cannot do it alone.” She reached out with her staff into the roots of the fire. Blue flame swirled around it like the azure glow of Al-Aaron’s gossamer blade. “Maedelous, who will you send as council?”
His face contorted in a leer. “If it must be this way, then Al-Hoanar I will send as my proxy.”
“And I will send Al-Thinneas as mine.”
Al-Thinneas nodded to the Mother and again to Chaelus. Yet Chaelus’ thoughts had already passed to another.
“What of Al-Aaron?” he asked.
The Mother’s eyes softened. “Go to him while you can. The Younger succumbs to the Dragon’s Sleep just as you did. There is little left for him now but his faith. Prepare yourself, barbarian, for you leave on the morrow. The shadow of the Dragon deepens. The time of your testing has already begun.”
The Mother’s gaze passed from face to face, and as each eye met hers in turn, there occurred something intimate between them, a silent dialogue between their souls.
Chaelus stiffened as her stare returned to him. It was only for a moment, but it was enough for him to know that something had changed between them. There would be no secrets kept from her. He was transparent to her. He was a ghost. Just as his father had once been. He looked again to the surrounding faces, most of them still veiled from him by the fire. From those that he could see, tears fell. Whether they were from shame or joy, he didn’t know.
Chapter Ten
Whispers
Chaelus knelt beside Al-Aaron. The flames of the small fire pot quickened in the breeze from the open window.
Al-Aaron slumped back into his pallet. His pallor had deepened. His eyes fluttered. His voice was a hoarse whisper. “Tell me what you saw. Tell me what you saw as you passed through the forest’s veil.”
“The Dragon came to me,” Chaelus said.
Al-Aaron closed his eyes. “It was a vision of the darkness within you.”
“It was no vision,” Chaelus said, his voice cold. “It was the Dragon, and it was waiting for me, here, in your sanctuary. For a moment I even stood against it, until three spirits came against me.”
Al-Aaron’s eyes opened. “Spirits?”
“They floated above me, bathed in a glow. They cast apart Sundengal, and left me defenseless against the Dragon.”
Al-Aaron stared lost into the ceiling and the faded mural there. It showed three Angels. He leaned back and closed his eyes again. He smiled. “Malius was right.”
Chaelus withdrew, uncertain at the utterance of his father’s name. “My father died in madness. In the end he knew no right.”
“He knew what you were. He alone understood what you would become. He knew more than the order I serve.”
“And how would you know this?” A trace of foreboding crept up Chaelus’ spine.
Al-Aaron stared back at him. Silence was his answer. His eyes sparkled like dark mead beneath the veil that still remained, but revealed nothing more. “And now the Nephelium have come to you, just as he said they would.”
Chaelus looked again to where Al-Aaron had been staring. The three Angels overlooked a prostrate man. A shattered staff rested on the ground beneath them.
“They have come to name you,” Al-Aaron said.
“I will not be sacrificed again.”
“Your sacrifice is already over. The Giver’s already been reborn.”
***
Al-Mariam pressed her hands into the deep pleats of her robe. She lowered her head as one of the three Tenders rushed past her, his errand his own. Al-Mariam’s thoughts raced as well.
The Synod was over. Whispers already floated amongst the broken halls; whispers of prophecy, whispers of the Dragon reborn. Ras Dumas was dead, along with the rest of the Fallen Ones. They had been taken back to the Dragon they had ultimately come to serve. Now the Synod had asked the blood of one of the Fallen to save them while her brother, if he even lived, waited still, alone.
And perhaps he did - live. Her heart had soared at Al-Thinneas’ word of the servant boy found in Tulon. Then it broke when she realized the Mother had kept the news from her.
The door to the Mother’s chapel stood open. The small room was dark but for the light of the fire pot at its center. Its deep coals glowed crimson. The Mother stood beyond it, turned away.
“I’ve come as you asked, Mother,” Al-Mariam whispered.
“Come in, child,” the Mother replied.
“I was wrong,” Al-Mariam offered.
“Yes you were. But can you tell me why? Can you tell me why you fear the son of Malius so?”
Al-Mariam stepped back, for some reason surprised at the painful truth of the Mother’s words. The wall stopped her. “I don’t understand, Mother. I do not fear him.”
“Don’t lie to me, child. Tell me. Is it the smell of him? Or do you see in his face, the faces of the foul men who took you? Or is that you see the face of his father and, within it, the face of one who took your kin?”
Each word struck Al-Mariam like a dagger. The Mother had always, or so she had thought, spoken the truth to her, but never like this. No. Never like this.
“I see nothing in him,” Al-Mariam replied.
“So you lie to me again,” the Mother said. “I believe the face that you see in his is perhaps your own.”
Al-Mariam closed her eyes. Anger rushed through her like a wave breaking against the shore. Yet all that came were more quiet tears. “Why do you do this to me?”
“I do this because I gave you rest when you were broken. Because you lied to me too often, and I’ve let you. This is my sin and it shames me so.”
The Mother turned around. She raised a woven wick before her. She blessed it. Then she lowered its tip above the coals. Each of the bound grasses erupted independent of the other as soon as they were near, until the whole end was consumed. Then the fire died, leaving the end of the wick as a single glowing ember like the one that had made it so.
She raised this glowing end to the nearest of the four burners, each opposite the other. “Bring the son of Malius to me. I would speak with him alone. He waits by the window above the servants’ stair. Then prepare yourself to go with him. Go with him to Magedos and find your brother. Perhaps then you may find your way home.”
The Mother turned her back to her, her admonition over.
Al-Mariam backed out of the chapel, stunned. Her feelings were mute but tangled as she took the narrow stair to where the barbarian waited. The triumph of her release was diminished by her failure at the very same.
The solace of the passage broke like a wave upon the moonlit halo above. Al-Mariam withdrew into her cowl. Her sandaled feet sounded out in harsh whispers as she climbed the final steps, the bound steel of her blade bouncing in rhythm against her robes.
She stopped just within the vestigial shadow of the doorway.