A man came forward at a run, halting to kneel so abruptly that he slid on the dry, caked ground of the Wasteland. He wore the uniform of a scout, dark fabric almost white with its coating of dust. The man gasped for air, hand fisted over his heart. “My liege, the veiled-one has escaped. Do you wish us to mount a pursuit?”
“Let him go,” said Manual, surprising even Gustav. He met his friend’s gaze. “Let it be known that the High Cleric Luther Viccole has in his employ a rogue veiled-one. His ploy to set us against Serephina has failed.” He looked beyond Gustav at the circle of captains. “Josue, prepare a courier and bring me paper and ink. We must alert the queen that her army is no longer unknown by the enemy. Gaspar, double—no, triple—the watch. Franz, Andre, Dalmas, mobilize the regiments. We do not wait for first light but move forthwith.”
When the men were gone, Gustav murmured, “Perhaps the ploy was not to indicate Serephina, but to draw us into a trap.”
Manual grunted. “It had occurred to me that the…” He paused, swallowed thickly. “That the removal of my son was indeed the goal, to drive me without caution into Tanalon.”
“We could—”
“No,” interrupted the king. “We do not turn back, old friend. I will not face our people, much less my wife and daughters, as a coward. If the entire army of the Church waits for us at dawn, so be it.”
“We would be overwhelmed.”
Manual’s eyes narrowed, perceived the true reason of his friend’s concern. “I will grieve when the High Cleric is dead, Borgetza driven back to their opulent hell, and Serephina crowned queen of Tanalon.” He sighed, dragged a hand over his face. “I was a fool, Gustav, to play this war like a game, and my son like a piece on the board. I am clearheaded now. We both know that if we do not march against tyranny it is only a matter of time before it marches upon us.”
“I never knew you for an idealist,” Gustav said wryly.
He almost smiled, but grief was too large a thing to allow brevity. “I did not know myself for one, either.”
“To war, then,” said his oldest friend. “To victory and valor, and the God’s Eternal Hunt.”
There were no crypts in Argenta, no graveyards for the bereaved to gather. In keeping with the ancient custom of his people, Prince Victor di Lucía was burned atop a pyre. The barren Wasteland offered no wood so a supply wagon was deconstructed, its horses joined with the herd of replacement steeds, its goods separated between the other wagons.
Stars glittered in the cloudless night sky, obscured only a little by the column of smoke. A wind came up, spreading the ashes across the silent army of fifteen-thousand souls. Every last man breathed deep, touched their brows and hearts in remembrance of their prince, now free to ride unburdened through the forests and vales of the afterlife.
Chapter Thirty-three
Where Isidora’s spirit dwelled, she might have witnessed the passing of the young Argentan prince. As it was, she did not have the learning, so thought nothing of the ribbon of light that streaked past, upward and toward the shining portal of Beyond.
The occurrence was not uncommon in this place, though the place itself was certainly that.
The meadow was an exact image of one she’d played in as a child, its rolling green pastures extended eternally. Trees dotted the landscape, their long, flexible arms dipping and lifting in a temperate breeze. Though blessed with the fixed, golden light of summer, the sky above the meadow was that of deepest night. It was a firmament never beheld by mortal eyes, a black so deep it was brilliant, wearing millions of heavy, gemlike stars. The colorful array blazed and pulsed, sometimes seeming so close that they might brush against her uplifted fingers, touch upon her upturned face.
And set beneath the most vibrant crown of stars was a full, glistening moon.
When first Isidora had opened her eyes and seen the heavenly face of the Goddess, she had wept for joy. The thought that she was dead did not dampen her emotion. The life behind her was a small, painful thing compared to the glory of the divine.
The first glimmer of doubt came days later, when there had been no change in the land but the gradual waning of the moon. The only events to break monotony were occasional spectral lights, comets of color and beauty which streaked across the sky. Always the lights vanished into the moon’s cool glow.
Upon the seventh day, as she watched the shadowed portion of the celestial globe, it occurred to Isidora that she might not be dead. She felt no hunger or thirst. Awareness of bodily form was minimal. She had assumed that it was a comfort manifested by the mind to ease the soul from earthly life. Now she was not so certain.
Five more days and the moon sat half-full. For the first time, Isidora saw what gathered in its growing shadow. She watched, trembling, as a red stain touched upon the white orb, spreading slowly like ink atop water.
*
In Damáskenos, Gertrude had just finished spooning broth into the Lady Fiannan’s slack mouth. She never stirred, but enough habitual function remained that she was able to swallow. At the same time every day, Gertrude fed and bathed the lady, then spoke aloud to the deaf ears. Each afternoon she spent talking until her voice was hoarse. There were always small gaps of silence in her speaking, usually filled with imagined responses.
On the day she ran out of folk lore and fables, Gertrude began telling the lady of her life, how lucky she was to have found a home with the duke. She admitted as well her feelings for Diego Roldan, confessed that on the morn of the army’s departure she had gone to him weeping. He had kissed her and told her not to fear, that he would return.
Broth leaked from a corner of the lady’s mouth. Gertrude placed the spoon in the half-full bowl and rose to fetch a damp towel. She was halfway across the room when the figure in the bed gave a soft cry. The bowl slid from her fingers, contents splashing against her skirts. She spun and darted back to the bed.
Lady Fiannan lay as still as ever, breathing deeply.
Thinking the sound had been some effect of the wind against the high tower, she fetched two towels. One for the lady and one for the floor.
Outside the castle, Shenlith stirred, tail twitching and eyes opening. Since his arrival, the last Derkesthai had barely moved. In one of their brief dialogues, he’d told Eduardo Vasquez that it would take time to recover from a millennium of hibernation.
Pausing in his usual rounds high atop the windswept ramparts of Damáskenos, Eduardo called down to the dragon. “Is all well?”
It was a long while before the creature replied. Finally, his voice whispered in Eduardo’s mind. I must leave for a time, but I will return.
Now that he’d grown accustomed Shenlith’s mighty presence outside the wall, the thought of his absence provoked fear. “But, what if—”
Worry not, youngling, the dragon interjected. In my absence you will be presserved.
Eduardo clamped his mouth shut on an undignified plea. The castle foundations shook as the dragon lumbered to his feet. Suddenly he could not remember fear, so awesome was the sight of the creature stretching to full height. The sinuous neck turned and flexed, flat head rising up and up toward the wall on which Eduardo stood.
He was barely aware of breathing and blinking as the dragon’s eye appeared before him. The diagonally slitted pupil was easily as long as he was tall. Seen from a distance, the iris had appeared golden. Now, from just feet away, he saw that it was many colors combined, greens and blues and deeper hues, and across them all were golden swells fanning from the pupil.
Have you sseen the flight of Derkesthai, youngling? Shenlith asked, a deep hissing in his voice that Eduardo had learned was humor. Dizzy from the beauty of the dragon’s eye, he shook his head mutedly. We ssshall ssee if I can remember how.
The head swung up and away, back toward the body. Dark wings extended with a snap, curved bone structure visible through leathery membrane. Eduardo was reminded of a visit to his m
other’s family near Cartenía, of sitting on the docks to watch the graceful sails of galleons anchored outside the bay.
The two sights did not compare, really.
His fingers dug into the rough stone of the wall as, with a loud huff of breath, Shenlith turned about and launched into a run. Sunlight glanced from the scaled body, heavy muscles rippling over the sides and haunches. Teeth jarring with every impact, Eduardo couldn’t help a whoop of triumph as the ancient beast gained grace and speed with every step.
“What in the—Dear Gods have mercy!” gasped Gerard. The chamberlain stumbled against the wall, eyes riveted on the valley and the incomparable sight of the dragon running.
Eduardo continued to holler and laugh. “Fly, Shenlith!” he yelled.
There was a final impact of clawed feet upon the ground, then silence. The dragon was a distant, dark shape at the valley’s end. Slowly, it began to rise, and rise, until its silhouette resembled a large bird. The path of its flight veered east, then north. From such a length away it seemed to move slowly, even lethargically.
“What’s wrong with it?” Gerard whispered.
Eduardo grinned. “Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
Soon enough the dark shape grew larger and they could see the relaxed lift of its wings, hear the displacement of air as they beat down hard.
“What on earth is happening now?” asked Gertrude, voice pitched in displeasure. “I was down speaking with the women about our food stores when I heard… Oh!” She fell against the wall much as the chamberlain had, expression one of slack-jawed wonder. “It’s flying!” she gasped, and began to laugh.
Indeed, it ssseems sssome thingss are never forgotten.
The beat of Shenlith’s wings was loud now. He dipped low over the forested hillsides, the trees beneath bending as if beset by gale-force winds.
“He’s not…” Gerard began. “Is he coming...”
“Yes!” Eduardo shouted, raising his arms to wave them madly in the air. He felt the chamberlain take a firm hold of his belt. It was a sensible precaution, for Shenlith loomed before them, flying straight at the castle. Gertrude’s laughter turned sour and Gerard began to curse.
In the last possible moment the Drakon thumped his wings and rose steeply, blotting out the sunlight. His scaled belly grazed the wall to which they clung, his wings barely missing the jutting stones of sentry points. The sound of his passing was an all-consuming deluge, eliciting involuntary cries from them all.
Within moments the dragon was a high dot in the sky.
“Not above a bit of grandstanding, is he?” Gertrude muttered.
Gerard straightened from his crouch, forced numbed fingers to unclench from Eduardo’s belt. “Where is he going, do you think?”
“Somewhere beyond this world,” Eduardo said.
Gerard and Gertrude shared a glance, then looked bemusedly at the boy.
*
The fields of the eternal meadow were slowly turning the dark, garish color of a nightmare. When the growing band of sickly, pulsing crimson light neared her feet, Isidora turned and ran. In her logical mind, she knew there was no escape from opening of the Gates. She ran because the alternative was too staggering to contemplate.
It was a long way to the first tree and when she reached it she sagged against its base, curling into a fetal position. Her head tucked down against her knees, she shut her eyes tightly so as to not see the bloody advent of the army of Beyond.
“Arturo,” she whispered brokenly, knowing she had failed.
Child of Isstar, hissed a familiar voice.
Her head jerked up. Shenlith!
Above, a massive, dark shape streaked through the sky. Its wings undulated slowly, broad head set like a compass needle on the gates of Beyond. With every beat of its wings it grew nearer to the moon’s spreading stain. Panicked, Isidora leapt to her feet and ran once more, back in the direction she’d come, screaming, No, do not! You will perish!
The dragon flew high and straight, passing into the red haze. Isidora sunk to her knees, shaking uncontrollably. She felt her sanity unraveling, barely heard the numbed litany of, “No, no, no,” coming from her lips.
ISTAR! ANSHAR! roared the first and last of a once beloved race.
The voice of the Gods was one sound, a fusion of starlight and turned earth. Grating, hauntingly beautiful, soprano and baritone blended in answer.
We…. Will… Not… Abide…
Shenlith replied in a voice of power, opening his maw to release a tidal wave of flame. Liquid in the absence of atmosphere, the fire churned like a waterfall toward the throbbing shadow of the moon.
The Gods slammed closed the Gates and the fire dissolved harmlessly before the serene white of the moon and its crescent shadow, which was only that. The meadow’s grasses shone wetly green with the return of summer’s glow.
Some time later, Isidora became aware of the ground shaking as the dragon approached, his light, prancing gait bespeaking diffidence. She looked up as he neared, watched his forelegs fold, his head slide over the grass and come to rest beside her.
In spite of residual terror, she reached out to touch the silken, scaly skin of his jaw.
I am lost.
Narrow ribbons of smoke curled from the elongated nostrils. I have found you.
“Is this… real?”
Look into my eye.
She gazed into the black pupil, around which pulsed waves of gold. In the blackness an image began to form of a tower, and the cold stone room at its apex. Within was a bed, and upon it her body slept. The vision dissolved. Disquieted, Isidora stared at the soft, dark fold of the dragon’s eyelid.
Why? she questioned at length.
Your body wass dying, its frail flessh no match for the opening of the Gatess.
I do not know how to stop it.
The beast sighed, breath blowing her hair from her face. It cannot be sstopped, he said sorrowfully. The only way is to desstroy the Stone of Beginning, which cannot be desstroyed. The Gatess will open, regardlesss of our effortss.
“I don’t understand.”
Shenlith continued as though he hadn’t heard her, his tone as old as time and as tired. My death would sseal the Gatess, but I am the Root. My death is the death of Calabria.
“The Root,” she echoed.
The golden eye blinked, focusing on her. She saw a distorted reflection of herself in the pupil, a small waver of light amidst the blackness. Yes, he replied. I am domhain lár.
Isidora said nothing, letting the truth find its own standing. She looked along the giant body, the glittering scales, and finally understood. “The amulet from which the Gods sprung,” she murmured. “The needs of the land, the bond of the veiled-ones.” She smiled, felt the warm prick of tears. “You are Calabria.”
It was my name once, agreed Shenlith.
They sat for a time in silence, the dragon’s breath sighing against her face. Finally, Isidora asked, “How do we combat the Gods?”
We cannot.
“Then why am I here?” she asked helplessly.
Because it wass necessary for you to ssee the Gates. I am ssorry, but I had to know that you would resisst the lure of Beyond, that you would sssacrifice to keep closed the Gates.
Isidora shook her head. “But there was no lure.”
There wass a time when your heart told me it wass all you wanted. When the only causse keeping your sspirit bound to the land wass the final requesst of your mother.
“For remembering,” she whispered.
Yess, and now?
With dawning clarity, Isidora said, “I am bound to the needs of the land.”
Yess, he whispered. The soft eyelid closed, liquid gathering at the inner corner of his eye. Hold out your hand, Isidora Fiannan. She did, and the dragon’s tear fell, slapping against her palm with the weight and feel of
crystal.
She stared at the palm-sized disc, near in shape and size to her amulet. But this crystal was a sparkling blue, shot through with bronze and gold. “What is it?” she asked, though a part of her knew, had always known. It was in the eyes of the man she loved. It was in her eyes.
The tool of Calabria’s need, Shenlith said.
“Arturo.”
And you, child. And you.
Blinking tears from her eyes, she stroked the dragon’s jaw. “What must I do, Calabria?”
Awaken.
Gertrude settled the sheet around the Lady Fiannan’s shoulders. “Never in my whole life did I imagine to witness a dragon flying,” she said idly, watching the sleeping face. “I wish you had seen it.”
“I did,” croaked the figure on the bed.
Gertrude yelped and jerked back, tripped over her own heel and fell hard on her backside. Almost as soon as she landed she was up again, bounding forward to stare into open blue eyes.
“My lady?”
“Water,” Isidora said hoarsely.
At dawn the following morning, Eduardo returned to his post on the wall. There, sleeping soundly, mist curling about his wings and sloping spine, was Shenlith.
Chapter Thirty-four
Arturo stood on a gentle slope of land looking over the army spread across the plains. Dawn moved through low clouds, touched hesitantly there, and there; a sea of black that was the veiled-ones of Dunak followed by waves of green and grey, the men of Damáskenos. The bulky grouping of wagons was touched by light, which then passed beyond to the hundreds of snorting, resting horses, bordered thickly by sleeping laypersons and the shadows of sentries.
To the west, as the land dipped and lifted into low hills, the sun finally broke through in full glory, casting into sharp relief the spearhead of a moving army as it topped the highest rise. Sentries whistled, horns were blown. Beneath Arturo, the ocean of men stirred, jerking and lifting as water around the impact of a large rock. The amorphous din of moving bodies, clinking weaponry, and raised voices lifted from the land.
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