Song of the Dragon

by Tracy Hickman

  “Shebin . . . Timuran . . . I don’t remember anything like this.”

  “But you can remember,” Jugar said earnestly. He reached up and grabbed Drakis by the shoulders. “You can know the truth for yourself! You don’t need the word of an old dwarf or anyone else for that matter. You want to know about the gods—I’ll tell you about the gods! The gods know the future because they understand the past. You cannot see where you’re going if you forget where you’ve been. You can be like the gods—you can come to know who you truly are, who you’ve truly been, and you can shape your own destiny. All you have to do is not participate in Devotions tonight.”

  “That’s insane,” Drakis said, pulling back. “Everything that has gone wrong in my life lately has been because I haven’t been able to perform my Devotions.”

  “House Devotions are your problem, Drakis,” Jugar growled in frustration. “It’s how they keep you the happy little slave! They make you forget the pain and the suffering and the loss and the agony of your existence every night. But if that’s what you want—if you want to remain the blissful slave-boy who wants to forget that his master regularly beats him into the shadow of death just for the pleasure it brings him, whose daughter plays with him like her personal filthy toy . . . if you want to be the slave who just dreams of a better life that will forever be promised and never delivered . . . if that is what you want, then take House Devotions tonight and go back to sleep, Drakis!”

  The dwarf spat on the polished floor.

  “But if you do . . . you’ll condemn all of us to sleep forever.”

  CHAPTER 13

  The Altar

  HOUSE DEVOTIONS were the touchstone of every elven household. Each evening—from the over five thousand elves of the First and Second Estates assembled to see and be seen in the glowing courts of the Imperial Cloud Palace to the handful of Fourth and Fifth Estate elves gathered in a humble garden on the farthest frontiers of the Empire—every citizen and slave of Rhonas gathered about their respective altars to offer their Devotions.

  The ceremony was universal and unerringly prescribed. At the House Altar, usually situated in the subatria garden although any large space where the House Aether Well was located would suffice, every member of the household would gather. Each would arrange themselves according to their estate—those of highest rank nearest the altar with lesser estates in successive groups behind them ending with those of the Seventh Estate—the slaves of the Empire.

  The rites were conducted by the Lord of the House and began with the invoking of the Emperor’s blessing on the proceedings and rededicating the household to bring its actions and thoughts in accord with the Emperor’s Will. This was followed by beseeching the blessing of the particular gods worshiped by that family upon the House and its servants, each god placated in turn, their praises lauded and then chorused in turn by the assembly. Then, the glories of the House were praised, and, in the case of recent battles, its treasures were displayed to the House as evidence of their power and entitled rank in the Empire. Only when the status of the House had been thus properly accounted did the Devotions proper begin.

  It was the ranking member of the highest Estate who first knelt before the altar, placed his hands on its surface, and murmured his Devotions. Occasionally, a House might be blessed with the visit of a member of a higher Estate, and in such rare instances, he would take precedence in the ceremony; but in nearly all cases the Lord of the House was first to offer Devotions, and such was true of House Timuran. His words and thoughts were thus communicated through the medium of the altar and its connected Aether Well to the realms of both the gods and the blessed Emperor. The words of the supplication were always in the ancient elven tongue and conjured the Aether magic, filling the House Aether Well with light during the Lord’s Devotions. Then, by turns, each subsequent member of the household knelt before the altar, pressed their hands against the stone, and paid homage to the gods and the Emperor whom the gods had chosen.

  For the slaves of the Empire, who were the last to approach the altar and universally the greatest in numbers, it was always a moment of rest and hope. To touch the altar was to touch—for the briefest of moments—the power of the Empire and the gods. It left them with the profound feeling of being bound to something greater than themselves and, during the long days of their servitude, granted them each night a sublime rest beyond anything else in their experience.

  It was this thought that carried every slave through the day—the anticipation of the ecstasy that came with the Devotions each night. It was the embodiment of their hope to rise in status and someday become citizens themselves.

  No slave ever willingly missed Devotions.

  Drakis could not keep his hands still. Standing against the curving wall around the central garden, he was uncomfortable inside his own skin. Though he could no longer feel the scars on his back, they still burned in his mind, causing his back muscles to spasm involuntarily, flinching again with each imagined strike of the firereed.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Belag rumbled under his breath. It was as close to a whisper as the manticore could manage as he stood next to the human. “You look as though you were about to die.”

  Drakis shook his head quickly. His eyes were locked on the altar. It stood at the bottom of the great curved bowl that formed the central garden of House Timuran, just at the base of the towering crystalline facets of the Aether Well. The Well plunged into the earth below like a dagger, anchoring the entire household with the land on which it rested and connected it with the House Wells around them. Those, in turn, were connected to the Wells of the Houses beyond—in theory—until all the Wells of the Empire connected to the great Well of the Emperor in the heart of Rhonas itself. He glanced above the garden to where the towering avatria—supported by the force of the Aether emanating from the Well—floated just clear of the upper reaches of the subatria’s garden wall. The underside of the avatria was a hemisphere of fitted alabaster carved with intricate patterns of inlaid blue sapphire. It was achingly beautiful and cold as a tomb.

  His tomb.

  “You can live, if you choose,” the dwarf urged from Drakis’ left. “You can know the truth . . . the truth about the elves . . . the truth about yourself . . .”

  Drakis shot the dwarf a withering look and then turned back to face the altar. Timuran was in the ceremonial robes that he wore each night, though he looked far less resplendent than Drakis remembered him in his mind’s eye. He was just finishing his invocation of the Emperor’s Will. Now, with his hands reaching above him—toward the base of the avatria it seemed—he called upon the gods Jolnar and Rhon for their blessings upon his House in bringing to it the power of destiny and victory in battle.

  He looked away. Timuran had always been like a father to him—a demanding yet benevolent and wise master. He could barely conceive of the cruelty that he had experienced at his master’s hand, and yet it had happened, and, according to the dwarf, from the evidence on his own back it had happened many times before.

  He suddenly realized that he had not actually seen his own back—nor was he likely to do so. All he had was the word of this dwarf who, so far, had been filled only with words. Jugar had made a lot of promises and had not truly delivered yet on a single one. Perhaps, he considered, it was all an elaborate trick by the dwarf.

  But the beating the dwarf had predicted had been no trick. His near death had been no trick. And his healing and what happened afterward . . .

  Drakis glanced at Tsi-Shebin where she stood next to her father. Her black eyes were featureless, and yet he was sure they were staring directly at him. He shuddered again, forcing the memories out of his mind and looking away.

  His eyes settled on the members of the household arrayed about the garden for the Devotion. The garden was largely empty, due in no small part to the fact that most of the Centurai were still spread out among the folds between here and the battlefield nearly one hundred and thirty leagues to the north. Nearest to the center
of the garden were the elven guild overseers of the Fourth Estate, craftsmen who were in charge of the various divisions within the household. Se’Djinka stood among them, his patched eye giving him a more sinister look than the rest of the overseers. Drakis realized that he must have arrived that same afternoon—had he come to watch the human die? He didn’t remember him being at his audience with Sha-Timuran, but he could easily have not noticed him.

  Behind them stood the Fifth Estate elves, the free workers of the household. These primarily included those who served in the avatria—since slaves were not welcome in those confines—but also included a number of Free Guardians, elves who took care of the safety of House Timuran while the Centurai was fighting for its greater honor. Drakis’ practiced eye considered them at a glance: Their stance was practiced ease, but they moved well and touched their sheathed weapons with familiarity. The seasoned warrior in Drakis measured the Guardians as worthy opponents.

  There were no Sixth Estate in the Timuran House—a fact that only now bothered Drakis—so the last, arrayed around the edge of the garden, were the lowest of the Seven Estates: the slaves. The household slaves of the subatria stood apart from the warriors of the Centurai. Drakis looked down the rows arrayed to their right and quickly caught sight of a familiar face smiling back at him.

  Mala, he thought. How can I tell her what has happened to me? How can I pretend that it did not happen at all?

  She must have seen something in his face, for her smile fell at once into an expression of question and concern. He looked away again, focusing once more on the altar and the ritual of the Devotion in its relentless and prescribed cycle of words, gestures, and chanted phrases.

  There, arrayed about the altar, were the treasures that he had sent back as their bounty from the war. The pieces of armor that had been so impressive in their original setting now seemed short and comical when placed at the feet of the elves. One of the suits of armor had been carefully arranged to be holding out the black, onyx shard that Jugar had called the Heart of Aer. Here, in the glorious garden of his master, it seemed like a pitiful offering, and it had nearly cost him his life.

  How could his entire world have turned so terribly wrong? The dwarf had prophesied it with frightening, fated accuracy—or possibly caused it. And yet all along the dwarf had insisted that Drakis could know the truth of it for himself, that he didn’t have to take the dwarf’s word or believe in anything but himself.

  Drakis stared at the altar.

  He didn’t want to know the truth.

  He wanted to embrace his ignorance.

  Drakis wanted to just forget everything that had happened. There was comfort in that, he thought. The memories of what had happened to him over the last few days—of the senseless slaughter of friends and enemy alike, of the horrific violence done just to capture a crown of a kingdom that had already been conquered, not to even consider the violence done to both his body and his spirit that very afternoon—all these things had caused him to wonder how he could possibly ever sleep again, let alone face Mala. That the altar might offer him blissful forgetfulness of all of that was deeply alluring to him. He knew he could not live with the truth of his memories—so perhaps it was better to live a lie without them.

  Lord Timuran had finished his Devotions as had his family. The overseers were passing the altar now, each in turn kneeling and making their Devotion as Timuran looked on. Those who were finished moved up the carefully manicured path out of the bowl of the garden and waited patiently for the rest of the household to join them.

  “Drakis,” the dwarf muttered behind him. “All our lives are in your hands! You don’t have to be a slave . . . you can be free! You can know the truth . . .”

  “I don’t want to know the truth,” Drakis said with a shuddering breath. He turned with Belag as the Centurai was preparing to take its turn at the Devotions. “I want to forget the truth.”

  “Forget the truth?!” the dwarf sputtered. They began moving forward, slowly. The Free Guardians had already finished their Devotions. The slaves of the subatria were approaching the altar. “I cannot believe I’m hearing this! You, of all humans, giving up your future . . . your great destiny . . . just to save yourself a little pain?”

  Drakis snorted. He looked again to the altar. Mala was kneeling, her bald head bowing down before the altar as her hands pressed down into its surface. A little pain? he thought. You have no idea how much pain I’m giving up.

  The dwarf had followed his gaze. “Ah, yes, and what about that girl of yours?”

  He watched as Mala walked up the path to join the other House slaves waiting at the base of the garden wall. She turned and her eyes met his.

  She looked back at him without expression.

  “What or who will they make her forget?” Jugar urged, a vicious edge to his voice. “You could die tomorrow, Drakis, and she would never remember that you existed let alone that you . . .”

  “SHUT UP!” Drakis shouted, wheeling suddenly on the dwarf. In an instant, he grasped the dwarf by his tunic with his left hand, slamming his right fist into Jugar’s face.

  From behind a nose that was bleeding and most probably broken, Jugar smiled.

  Drakis looked up. The entire assembly was staring at him in shocked astonishment. Sha-Timuran raised his head slightly and frowned.

  Drakis released his grip on the dwarf, his breathing coming heavily. He turned from his astonished comrades and stepped to his right toward the delicately arched opening leading back toward the chakrilya and the Warrior pens beyond. Even as he did, however, a tall elven Guardian stepped in front of him.

  “You are disturbing the Devotions,” the Guardian said in a reedy voice. “Calm yourself and return to your place.”

  “I . . . I’m not well,” Drakis replied. It was true enough; he felt overwhelmingly nauseated. “I just . . . I just need a few minutes . . . I just need to breathe . . .”

  The Guardian reached down, his hand fingering the grip on his sheathed sword. “You will feel better after your Devotions, slave. Just return to your place and everything will be better soon.”

  “Please . . . just give me a few minutes,” Drakis hissed through clenched teeth. He could see the chakrilya beyond the Guardian, its anonymous space and emptiness inviting to his eyes and beckoning him. “I’ll be right back . . . I can’t . . . I just need to breathe . . .”

  “Do as you’re told and everything will be right again.” The Guardian said forcefully, gripping the human’s arm.

  “NO!” Drakis shouted. Training overcame thought as the Impress Warrior suddenly stepped into the Guardian, forcing the elf to release his grip. He reached for the handle of the sword, but the elf was too quick, clasping his own hand over the human’s and keeping the blade firmly sheathed in the scabbard.

  A gasp rushed through the crowd of servants. Belag, Thuri, and Ethis all remained in their places, astonished at the sight of their Centurai commander striking one of their elven masters and uncertain as to what to do.

  The elves, however, reacted quickly and surely. Guardians from around the room converged on the disturbance. One of them gripped Drakis from behind, pulling him away from the first Guardian while a third immediately reached to restrain his left arm.

  Drakis would not relent. He flailed with his free arm, kicking as they tried to drag him down the path toward the altar. He kept yelling throughout. “Let me go! I just need a moment . . . I don’t want to hurt anyone . . . just let me go!”

  Several more Guardians were rushing in his direction. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sha-Timuran striding up the path toward him, a grim smile fixed on his face as he drew the long, curving blade from its sheath.

  Unnoticed in the spectacle unfolding at the base of the subatria wall, Jugar the Jester slipped between the bushes of the garden.

  No eyes witnessed him deftly remove the armored glove from the dwarven armor or, having donned it, use it to remove the Heart of Aer from where it was displayed.


  Only Se’Djinka, embroiled in subduing the berserk Drakis saw the danger as the dwarf leaped up onto the altar, but he was too late.

  The dwarf swung the Heart of Aer with all his strength. It struck against the crystalline structure of the House Aether Well with the precision that only a dwarf, knowing minerals, could achieve. The interior lattice of the Well fractured in an instant, the power of the Aether contained by it released a moment later. The Aether Well exploded into a million shards.

  In that instant, every slave of House Timuran . . . from the lowest scullery maid to the most fearless gladiator . . . suddenly and horribly REMEMBERED.

  CHAPTER 14

  The Fall

  DRAKIS COULD NOT stop screaming.

  The garden of Timuran spun uncontrollably down into madness as each slave reacted at once to the flood of suppressed memories surging raw and unbidden into their conscious minds. A sudden, terrifying discord of anguished shrieks filled the air, an agonized chorus of despair and pain. In panic, most of the slaves bolted from their ordered ranks, running blindly about the garden chased by the ghosts of their own remembrance.

  Drakis noticed none of this. He arched his back so hard that the Guardian Elves nearly dropped him from their iron grip. The sound continued from his gaping mouth, animalistic and unbidden. His eyes were wide, focused not on the elven Guardians or their rising panic and uncertainty but on visions from his own past suddenly confronting him like phantoms escaping from the prison of his thoughts.

  Mother . . . first mother, real mother . . . stories of father and the Time Before . . . running with mother and brother . . . brother! Recaptured and enslaved . . .