Shadow Dawn

by Chris Claremont

  They found a fulfillment.

  “I know you,” Elora cried wildly to Duguay, using his title for the first time, “my Lord of the Dance.”

  “I know you,” was his reply, “as I have from the beginning, my lady.”

  “I want to dance, Duguay, as we never have before.”

  “To what end, pet?”

  “I want to burn. I want to find the firedrake in my soul and turn it loose. I want to light a furnace in this crater that no cold can stand against. I want them to be free! I want Mohdri dead!”

  “It can’t be done.”

  “Don’t tell me that!”

  “I tell you what is true.”

  “No! We can end this madness, here and now.”

  “Will you slay hope as well, Elora?”

  She lost a beat, her feet snagging in the sand, and nearly fell, to find Duguay no longer in her arms but Kieron Dineer, the dragon who had died for her, once more wearing his human aspect.

  “Kieron?” she stammered.

  “Don’t look so shocked,” he said with a merry laugh. “Magic place, magic race, whose province is the Realm of Wonder. For us, especially here, all things are possible.”

  “Then save yourselves.”

  “We’re doing our best.”

  “I don’t understand. Where’s Duguay, what’s happening?”

  “He’s in your arms, as you are in his. But you have thoughts besides, and memories—and dreams. They are part of this as well.”

  “You shouldn’t have died, Kieron.” Her voice broke as he gathered her into his arms. “You shouldn’t have died for me.”

  All things die, little dancer, change of voice, change of figure, taller than she and broader in every dimension with a thick shock of hair the color of jet and eyes that sparkled. He had a light dusting of beard, as much salt as pepper, and the shape of his bones marked him instantly as Kieron’s sire. There was a crinkling about his eyes that spoke of a man who loved to laugh, and a gentleness to their depths that spoke of a kindly nature. His strength was self-evident and, she guessed, was matched by courage. She must have thought too loudly then, because she made him laugh.

  A brave catalog of merits, my child, I am flattered.

  “You’re Calan,” she said softly, respectfully, remembering his name from Thorn’s tales of their sole encounter.

  I am Calan.

  “I want to stop the Deceiver.”

  And so you must, for much depends on it. Broad shoulders, but a young heart to bear such a burden. Fate does not always choose kindly.

  There was a flash of sadness across his eyes, a remembrance that brought him pain, and she wanted to stop a moment, to tell him everything would be all right. Instead she put a surge of joy into her dance, whirling him after her in a circular four-four pattern that had just become all the rage in Sandeni. The elder dragon seemed much amused by her inspiration.

  The circles turn, Elora, like wheels, he told her. That is the way of things. Eternal and immutable. That cannot be stopped. But the direction can be changed.

  “That sounds like something Mohdri would say.”

  You are more alike than you know.

  “Don’t be so cruel. You’re supposed to know everything, be everything—how could you let that monster take you by surprise?”

  Is that what happened here? Truly?

  “Always questions,” she exploded in fury, “always riddles!”

  Some things are best earned. What comes too easily is too often taken for granted, as a right. To bear the title of Sacred Princess is not necessarily to deserve it. Look about you, my child, tell me what you see.

  “Desolation.”

  In that moment it was as though she’d been cleaved by a splitting wedge. Elora splintered, a part of her continuing gaily along with Duguay in her arms while a separate aspect stood stock-still upon the sand, her mouth forming an O of astonishment as she turned herself in a slow revolve, her eyes searching the magnificent forms entombed in ice about her. She’d been so caught up in the dance, and in her fury at what had been done here, she hadn’t noticed an underlying sense of tremendous age, almost a weariness of spirit beside which the ennui of the Malevoiy was as nothing.

  The spirit form of Calan stood beside her, to all appearances a Daikini in the prime of middle age. It was his eyes that gave the lie to that illusion, for within them was a depth that had no bottom, the accumulation of wisdom and folly, of sheer experience that Elora found wholly beyond her comprehension. These were eyes that could have seen the first dawn of Creation, this was the dragon whose fires could have ignited stars across the whole of the celestial firmament.

  “No,” she breathed, as a sense came to her of what transpired here.

  You cannot save what is already doomed, Elora.

  “No!” A keening wail that mingled denial with a terrible sense of loss.

  All things have their allotted span. The struggle is not for the lives that are, but for the hopes and dreams that yet will be. You and Duguay are Lady and Lord of the Dance; you have a purpose. Now that purpose must be chosen.

  “Mohdri!” Thorn bellowed again, even louder than before, in a voice and with a passion that would have done a dragon proud.

  “I’m here, peck,” said the Deceiver.

  In form and feature he remained perfection. A sculpted body, whose face was defined by a succession of sharp and savage planes. Dark hair and darker eyes, every aspect of his being complemented by the abyssal hues of his armor. It was said in battle that Castellan Mohdri always emerged with his armor unscathed and pristine because any drop of blood that fell upon his person was instantly consumed. To face him in battle was to cast away all ties to life, because in single combat the lord of the Maizan could not be beaten. To try was death, not only of the body but of the soul as well.

  Thorn had no knowledge of what the man had been like before the Deceiver claimed his form, but as far as the years since were concerned, he was prepared to believe every story. Like all Maizan, Mohdri carried a multitude of weapons, though the only ones in plain and constant view were the swords and assorted lesser blades he wore on his belt. As for the rest, chances are they would never be seen until the moment they took your life.

  “Bastard,” Thorn cried. “What have you done?”

  “What I swore from the start. I am not the enemy, peck.” The words were evenly, clearly spaced, as though to a backward child. “I am salvation.”

  “Not from what I see.” The Nelwyn swept his staff around to show the frozen figures about them.

  “Your vision was always limited. The Realms are at each other’s throats, someone must teach them all their proper place.”

  “You, is it?”

  “My destiny, Drumheller. My curse! I have fought my whole life to bring about this moment, I have beheld suffering the like of which you cannot comprehend, much less endure, I have sacrificed—!” He never told Thorn what was sacrificed. It didn’t matter. Mohdri’s eyes were wide, the expression in them so achingly familiar to the Nelwyn that Thorn was a full step forward in a reflexive gesture of comfort before Khory’s hand upon his shoulder restored him to a semblance of his senses.

  “And I will not be denied,” the Deceiver said.

  “I deny you,” Thorn said.

  “So you’ve said. What of it?”

  “I am Thorn Drumheller,” he said, drawing himself up proudly to his full height and letting his voice ring out as if it alone would prove sufficient to wake these ensorcelled creatures.

  “I remember you with a kinder name.”

  “How can you remember what you’ve never known?”

  “Let that be my mystery. Leave,” the Deceiver said with such resignation in his voice that Thorn thought he saw this as a scene he’d played before, “and live.”

  The Nelwyn didn’t move, save to hand El
ora’s belt over to Khory together with an injunction that she clear away.

  She didn’t listen, of course.

  The demon child let fly a pair of knives and drew her sword to follow. Mohdri slapped them aside and met her with a bared blade of his own. Steel rang over the ancient sands and Thorn had a sudden surge of hope as he saw that, for all Mohdri’s considerable reputation, Khory was better. This was no duel of finesse and elegance; the two warriors hammered at each other with both hands, blades flashing faster in the crystalline light with every exchange of blows. Neither gave the slightest ground, the one found wanting would be the one to fall.

  It should have been Mohdri.

  With a terrific sequence of thrust and parry, Khory brought her weapon around a hair faster than his could follow. The swords snagged at the hilt and with a fierce twist and yank, the Castellan’s hands were empty. Then, as if bored by the whole encounter, he struck with a casual sideswipe of his arm that sent her crashing to a pile of rocks nearby with the terrible sick sound of impact that spoke of bones breaking.

  Thorn lashed out with all the sorcery at his command and for a while thought he, too, had a chance. He clapped fire from his hands. Mohdri shunted it aside, but only just. He brought the sand to life to entomb the Deceiver, only to watch that prison crumble to nothingness. He called lightning, he used all the raw elements of nature, he mixed spells with a madcap invention that defied sanity and, because they were in a place where no boundaries existed to divide dream from reality, watched them explode to bilious life.

  He found no limit to his sorcery and summoned forth his talent in ways he’d only dreamed. He gave full vent to rage, to grief, to hatred. He made lances of solid air and laced their cores with poison. He conjured creatures of such magnitude and horror that the sight of them alone was enough to shrivel heart and soul. He hunted out the darkest parts of himself and cast them forth to battle, without restraint, without mercy. He used every aspect of his imagination in the only place there was where dreams could be manifested as the most deadly and destructive reality.

  When he was done, shaking from the effects of so violent and thorough a purging, on his knees because his legs wouldn’t hold him, clutching desperately to his staff to keep himself at least a little upright, he felt a strange sort of peace, like a house too long sealed, where all the windows have been suddenly thrown wide to admit the first sweet-scented breeze of spring.

  He knew he hadn’t won. He suspected he hadn’t done the Deceiver the slightest lasting harm. He’d used all the weapons of his adversary, realizing as he did so that his adversary had to know them better. He found the Drumheller who lived without any form of constraint, who had no moral center, who was more a demon than any creature so named. He went to the place within himself where no sane man would dare to go and let loose the part of him that could do evil.

  If he lived a thousand lifetimes, or found a way to walk from time’s beginning to its end, he would never do so again.

  There was no fear in Thorn’s eyes as he watched the Deceiver emerge from the smoke and flame of his—Thorn’s—conflagration. It might have been a trick of the eye, but it seemed to the Nelwyn that all those elements of foulness torn so brutally from his own soul swooped and eddied around Mohdri like boon companions.

  To his surprise, he felt sorry for the man. Bavmorda was evil, that was plain fact, like the morning sunrise. Here, though, was someone who spoke of doing good, who yearned with all his heart for a better world, yet to accomplish it had embraced the most hideous of powers.

  He wanted to tell Mohdri but knew it would be a waste of breath. Hearing, the Castellan most likely would not believe. And worse, believing, he would not care.

  He cast about for Elora, wishing there was some way to spare her what was to come, and shook his head in wonderment to see her and Duguay dancing still.

  “I knew about the skin, of course,” said the fiend, referring to Elora with a pleasantness Thorn found disconcerting, as though they were old, dear chums having a teatime chat, “but what has she done to her hair? Elora Danan, I am so disappointed. No matter,” he finished with that same companionable air. “When I have what I require from the girl, no more than is mine by right, all this nonsense will be speedily remedied.”

  “Do not do this,” Thorn begged.

  “I take no pleasure in it, believe me.”

  “Then find another way. If your goals are noble, why not use noble means to achieve them?”

  “I tried. They failed. I’m sorry.”

  “Elora!” cried the Deceiver then, and if the tone of voice wasn’t enough to stop the dancers in their tracks, the sight of his sword upraised over Thorn’s bare neck was.

  “I am the Danan,” Elora replied, as though she was introducing herself to some stranger. Slowly, proudly, every inch a monarch in her own right, she turned from Duguay to face her nemesis.

  Thorn’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of her, because it suddenly seemed to him that he was looking at a stranger. The wildest elements of Duguay’s paints had faded, allowing her natural argent tones to reassert themselves, interrupted by the violent colors of her skirt and top, equally dramatic slashes of color to accent lips and eyes and the blue-black tangle of her hair.

  She looked savage but that wasn’t the wonder of it. Seeing her standing in the heart of the caldera, for the first time since he’d found her in the bullrushes, he had the sense that she had found her home.

  Mohdri didn’t see it, or refused to understand. He chose to relate to her still as a pesky child.

  “Will you never learn?” he hissed, giving way to an anger that bordered on the irrational as he strode toward her. Neither’s gaze was still, each of them searching the other’s face for something neither had a proper name for.

  “I’m stubborn,” Elora told him as he approached.

  “I am Salvation.”

  “Go to hell!”

  “This is my chance to set things right,” Mohdri cried.

  “How?”

  “The dragons are the dream. Take it away—or rather, place it under proper control—and the Realms become manageable. Nothing will change, because all within them will have lost the capacity to conceive of such a thing. A balance will be achieved and, once achieved, maintained. When the time is right, growth will be apportioned as needed. Society will have order. The future will be preserved.”

  “What future?” cried Elora, aghast by what she’d just heard. “You’re talking about another kind of death!”

  “I’ve seen death, girl. Believe me, this is better. And wherein am I cruel here? What you condemn as slavery, others might label peace. None will resent their place in the scheme of things because none will have the slightest inkling that something better is possible. Because that judgment requires a leap of faith, of logic, of imagination—that my control of the dragons will deny them. It requires the capacity to dream.”

  “That’s obscene.”

  “Don’t you judge me, Elora Danan, you haven’t the right.”

  “I am the Danan. I will fight you.”

  The Deceiver lashed out to catch her by the throat.

  “You are nothing. You are a memory, soon to be expunged as I would cauterize a rotting wound.”

  Elora heard the opening stanza of the Spell of Dissolution, felt those silver moonglow tendrils reach out from the Deceiver’s consciousness to hers. There was fear at their touch, but not the terror she’d felt the night of her Ascension. The image came to her of Khory in their duels together and most important of that last confrontation, when skill and talent and above all desire had coalesced to allow her, for those minutes, to stretch herself to the demon child’s level.

  She remembered the firedrakes, of how gloriously they slipped through the warp and woof of reality, without a care for any of the boundaries imposed on them by subjective or objective reality. They went where they
pleased, and if something barred their way, they found a different path that either led them around the obstacle or to somewhere wholly different.

  So it was here. The spell reached out for her but she wasn’t there to be ensnared. She made the substance of her soul molten, as impossible to grasp as quicksilver, able in the process to confound the leading elements of Mohdri’s spell, to tangle them and disrupt the cohesive patterning so integral to the proper dissolution of her personality.

  It wasn’t salvation. For a confrontation on this magus level, Thorn’s power and his resources weren’t sufficient to win the day, as his duel with Mohdri had most cruelly demonstrated. She wasn’t even that good yet, or truly that strong.

  She didn’t need to be.

  She reached her arms past Mohdri, felt the electric tingle of Duguay’s touch.

  Music swelled in both of them, he led, she followed, with the Castellan between them. The problem with casting a spell is the amount of concentration it takes. Casting one of Dissolution requires a tremendous amount, so much so that Mohdri was forced to withdraw deep inside himself to properly wield the necessary powers. He had to take especial care with Elora, far more than Bavmorda did when she attempted the same rite. She wanted the child annihilated, body and soul. Mohdri needed the body intact. That required precision.

  He in no way left himself vulnerable. Any overt threat, physical or mystic, would snap him from his trance in an instant and be dealt with almost as quickly. But this was a dance. There was no danger here, how could there possibly be?

  Together, the three of them retraced the steps already laid out by Elora and Duguay. Seemingly, it was a random pattern of movements, with nothing special about them. Only from a dragon’s perspective could the truth be seen. They had marked the floor of the caldera with the sigil Elora had found at the end of the storybook, in effect crafting for themselves a monstrous World Gate. As Carig had etched one symbol as a Summons, so was this in turn a Banishment. The Dancer comes to the world alone, he claims a partner, and on the rarest of occasions, the pair of them return to his domain together. For Elora, once she realized the Deceiver’s ultimate destination and intent, this seemed the only choice and a sacrifice she was more than willing to make.