DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  The Dragon Emperor called out in his great trumpeting voice, and the other dragons fell silent. He was an ethereal Loänan of great age, his mane and beard white as fresh-fallen snow, his nacreous wings billowing high above his head like the silken canopy that surmounts a human monarch’s throne. At his summons a lone Imperial dragon approached him, its golden scales flashing like a carp’s when it swims up from the bottom of a pool. It took a subservient position, horned head bowed low beneath the Emperor’s foreclaws. Orbion’s eyes, coldly blue as mountain tarns, rested long upon the golden dragon. Then he spoke in the Loänan tongue.

  “Come, Auron. You said you had something of great importance to divulge, yet dared not speak mind to mind.”

  “That is so, my Emperor. It was too vital a matter: an enemy in the Ether might have overheard.”

  “Now that you are come I shall judge whether you were right. There are no foes in this place. Speak!”

  The Imperial dragon obeyed, meeting the Emperor’s eyes with his own deep viridian ones. “What I wished to tell you, O Son of Heaven,” he declared, “is that I am certain now. She is the one, without a doubt.”

  There was a murmur among the Loänan, and a stirring of wings that sent light breezes flowing throughout the crystal hall. But the old Emperor remained motionless. “The human female you saved in Mera?” he replied. “How can you be so sure?”

  “We saved one another, Son of Heaven,” the golden dragon corrected humbly. “I could never have escaped the mountain peak without her aid.”

  “Yes—you were bound with iron, as I recall. That was careless of you, Auron.”

  “It was, O my Emperor,” said the other, hanging his head. “I had spent many days on the mountaintop, guarding the gate of Heaven and awaiting the travelers of whom the cherubim spoke. I was very weary. Morlyn came and chained me while I slept before the gate, leaving me unable to fly or shift my shape or even to mind-speak to the cherubim. The girl Ailia was my salvation. She did not know, then, that I was a thinking being like herself: she would have seen me as a mere beast, and one larger than any she had ever encountered. What she did required not only compassion, but uncommon courage. She is the one, my Emperor: I began to suspect it from that moment. I have watched her in Arainia ever since, taking various forms natural to that world. Among them is a human disguise—”

  A low hiss escaped the Emperor’s tusked jaws. “Dangerousss,” he rasped.

  Auron bowed his head again. “I have taken all possible precautions: no one there suspects my true identity.”

  A silence fell, broken only by the trilling cries of martlets as they darted in and out of the palace’s open door and through its high-ceilinged chambers. They resembled Meran swallows, save that they lacked legs: they spent all their lives on the wing, feeding upon airborne motes, never able to alight even in sleep. Through the glassy roof above them a fierce white sun blazed. Nine hundred years ago its rays had pierced the pellucid shell of Auron’s egg, calling him forth to a life of duty and service to the Celestial Empire. More than seven centuries ago Auron had left his native star, and after many wanderings had come to the world of Mera, then in its golden age. He had guarded the palace of the Elei in the land of Trynisia for generations.

  But during the tumultuous Dark Age that followed, the Celestial Emperor had forbidden any further contact with humans, even with the Elei. They were a strange and troubling race, and he deemed it best to leave them to their own devices. Still, the Loänan continued to watch the worlds of Mera and Arainia, and occasional permission was given a Loänan to move among their inhabitants in sorcerous guise. Many humans forgot about the Loänan in time, and none of them knew of the dragons’ secret surveillance.

  A red earth-dragon stepped forward. “You bring no proof of your claim.”

  The Emperor and assembled monarchs watched as Auron turned and faced the red dragon, his head and wings lowered. But this deferential posture was at odds with his words. “What do you require by way of proof, King Torok? Or can it be that you prefer to follow Prince Morlyn? I saw many young dragons of your race flying with him in the skies of Mera. Has he deceived and subverted you also?”

  The earth-dragon king responded with a sound like the rumble in a volcano’s throat. He stretched out his neck and took an aggressive stance, spreading wide his crimson wings. “My people are free to do as they wish. We Loänan of the earth will not be ruled by others. Many among us wish to select our leaders in the old way, by their prowess in combat.” He snapped his jaws shut on this last word, the crack of the mighty teeth echoing around the crystal chamber.

  There was an uneasy rustle and murmur among the dragons at this unusual show of belligerence. It was primitive, atavistic, a disquieting reminder of their ancestry. A hundred million years ago their ancestors had glided over primal seas, on a small lunar world where they could fly without need for levitation. Coasting on the ocean winds, they had snatched great fish and sea-snakes from the waves, and had battled one another for territory and for mates. Nature had made the Loänan predators without peer. But their descendants had long since ceased from hunting, finding through sorcery other ways to nourish themselves: the Loänan were now an enlightened race that abhorred violence.

  “You wish for a return to barbarism, King Torok?” inquired the Emperor in his calm, dry voice. “Shall we go back to slaying and eating raw flesh? Fighting over mates? Choosing our leaders from among the young and headstrong, rather than the aged and wise?”

  “Perhaps what you call barbarism is in truth the way we were intended to be,” returned the red king. But he lowered his wings and neck as he spoke, not wishing to challenge the Emperor—or his six guards.

  “Your Majesty speaks of the way of the beasts,” said Auron to Torok. “We have long since left it behind, and turned to the realm of reason.”

  “You, a warrior of the Empire, can say this?”

  Auron growled, deep in his throat. “I fight only when I must, or at the Emperor’s bidding.”

  The red dragon showed all his teeth again. “And what of the Meraalia—the Star Stone? Some of us had hoped that it was merely a myth. It was said that the one who claimed it would rule the Empire. Now that it is found, would you entrust that rule to a mere human creature?”

  “To this human, yes. I trust her absolutely, Majesty. It is plain that the ancients intended her to have it. I tell you she is the true heir to their realm—our realm. If the people of her world are right, her mother was not of their kind at all, but an Archon: one of the last of that race to walk the worlds. Ailia has a rightful claim to the Celestial Empire.”

  “Impossible!” King Torok snapped. “Our kind is older and greater than hers, whatever blood may run in her veins. The cosmos was ours before humans ever came to be. Shall we become like their captive beasts?”

  There was much beating of wings and hissing among the Loänan at that. Some dragons sprang up and flapped about the chamber in agitation. “Peace!” commanded Orbion, and at his thundering voice the storm of wings subsided. “Listen to yourselves! When have Loänan sparred like this before? Only when the claw of Valdur divided us and sent us to war with one another, ages ago.”

  “Could not one of the cherubim take the Stone, O Son of Heaven?” asked a sky-dragon. “They too claim descent from the Archons, or so it is said. So they must have a claim to the gem, now that it is found again.”

  The Emperor said nothing. It was Auron who answered. “No cherub has claimed the Stone or the title of heir, Queen Kauri. They all look with eagerness for a new ruler to serve; not one of them wishes to be that ruler.”

  Torok growled. “You know well that Loänan, T’kiri, cherubim, all the old races are sworn to obey the one who bears the Stone. If you are mistaken, you may end by making us all slaves to the whim of a foolish, infantile being!”

  “You have not met her, Majesty,” Auron said: “How then can you judge her?” He turned back to the Emperor. “I beg you to let me continue protecting her, Son of Heaven. Our
enemies also know of her, and she is in great peril.”

  “You may return to Arainia, Auron, and watch over this human creature,” the Emperor said. “But do not reveal yourself to her, no matter what danger threatens. For I am still not satisfied that she is the one we seek. And if no proof arises that she is indeed the one expected, I shall have to look elsewhere for my successor.”

  It was clear from his voice and posture that Orbion would brook no argument. Auron bowed his head, and beating his golden wings upon the still air he departed the Imperial presence.

  BEFORE THE DRAGON THRONE OF NEMORAH a thousand men and women stood in silent rows.

  To the outward eye every one appeared to be human. But they were all of them Loänei, children of dragons. The hall in which they stood was decorated with many murals, now mottled with mold and age, telling in picture form the strange and ancient history of their race, and the downfall of their empire. The murals began with the dawn-time, when dragons took human form to mate with men and women (for love, some said, though the Loänei declared that their human ancestors had been selected for their superiority). Then came the first human offspring with full Loänan powers, able to control the elements at will, to travel freely between the worlds—and, most wondrous of all, to take draconic form whenever they chose. These were depicted as godlike figures, receiving homage from their human vassals. In the present age such beings had ceased to exist: only a very few Loänei, oldest of all, could still take dragon forms, and even they could do so only for brief periods of time. The Children of Wind and Water were few in number now, inbred, their magic for the most part only a faint shadow of their ancestors’. Many of the Loänan were dismayed at the thought of having human kin. They had sought in ages past to destroy the Loänei race, not by slaying them, but by scattering them throughout many worlds and so forcing them to mate with common humans. With each generation the descendants of the dragon-folk showed fewer signs of their draconic heritage, including the powers it granted. But still they believed themselves superior. Still they were the Loänei.

  Those gathered here were the most powerful of their fugitive race, highly gifted and skilled in sorcery. They had come to this world of Nemorah, to the remains of one of their ancestors’ proud-towered cities, to witness an execution.

  Subdued light from the mist-shrouded sky outside seeped in through gaps in the vine-hung windows, gleaming dully on the gilded throne at the far end of the hall and the embroidered saffron robes of its occupant. Only the most powerful sorcerer could lay claim to the title of Great Dragon. The current claimant sat on his throne with serene confidence, gazing on the prisoner who stood facing him between two guards. The iron-shackled man was young and tall, his tawny hair sweeping broad shoulders, whereas the Lord Komora was thin and elderly, his face deeply lined, his eyes all but lost in folds of wrinkled skin. But among the Loänei age, not youth, conferred advantage. The younger a Loänei, the more his or her draconic blood was diluted and weakened by many human forebears. The Great Dragon Komora was nearly two hundred years old, closer to his Loänan ancestors, his blood more richly laden with the dragon-magic. And his mind was not enfeebled but rather fortified by wisdom and experience. He sat fingering his wispy beard—which, despite his advanced age, was still more gray than white—but said nothing. He had watched this particular dragon-sorcerer for some time from afar: the young man’s powers and his growing influence were much too strong for Komora’s liking.

  Mandrake stood silent in his chains, returning the old one’s gaze. He had longed for many an age to join with the Loänei, ever since learning that some of that ancient race had hidden from the dragons in secret places and had used their undiminished powers to contact others in whose veins the forbidden blood yet ran. But they had made no such offers to Mandrake. It seemed that these people—his people—knew nothing of his ancestry and did not suspect that he was in fact Prince Morlyn. Their cunningly concealed refuges had eluded even his centuries of search, and it had become apparent that, for reasons of their own, they did not wish him to find them. After his powers were revealed in his confrontation with the Tryna Lia in Arainia, they had begun to set traps for him, seeking to take him captive. Even the other dragon-mages viewed him as a threat.

  He had avoided their first attempts at capture with ease. But now he had allowed himself to be taken, for it seemed that only in this way could he confront them at last and learn the location of their secret retreat. They had not been long in this world, he judged—no more than a century or two. For he himself had dwelt in Nemorah two hundred years ago, drawn here by rumors of Loänei still dwelling in their fallen cities. Combing through the overgrown ruins, he had found to his despair that once again rumor had played him false: though carved likenesses of his people still stared down from the broken walls, no living dragon-folk remained.

  But to this place they had at last returned, and it was hard to keep elation from clouding his thoughts. It must not, for his danger was very real. With these iron bonds he could not use sorcery, and if his plans went awry he could lose his life. This, clearly, was the reason for the Loänei’s earlier avoidance of him: Lord Komora and his predecessors must have feared in Mandrake a potential rival for the leadership. It was fortunate that Komora had gathered his people together, for this would give Mandrake’s arguments a wider audience. But it was not yet time for him to attempt to address them. Even by a condemned captive royal protocol must be observed: the ruler must speak first.

  At last Komora left off stroking the gray strands of his beard and sat up straight on his throne. “No doubt you wonder, Mandrake, for what purpose you have been brought to Nemorah. But perhaps it is better not to know.”

  This pronouncement sounded distinctly ominous. “Tell me, lord,” Mandrake replied, keeping his voice and gaze steady.

  “It is said by our people,” Komora said, “that the fresh-spilled blood of a dragon can be distilled into a magical draught, conveying its power to the one who drinks it. For this potion to have effect the blood must be taken from the heart, so I fear the one providing it must be slain. We are too few in number for one of us to make such a sacrifice, even in so noble a cause. It is for this reason that I have sought you, Mandrake, and ordered you brought here to me.”

  Idle tales and superstition, thought Mandrake in disgust. Is this what my people have come to? But he chose his words with care, knowing now how great his peril was. “There, lord, is your mistake,” he said, keeping his tone respectful. “I am not in dragon shape, as you can plainly see. I am a man. If you slay me while I am in this form it can do you no good.”

  Komora smiled. “You are cunning. Almost I wish I need not slay you, but could spare you and keep you for an ally. But it does not do to make a pet of a poisonous serpent. I know that you are a true wer-worm, able to take a dragon’s form at will. That is why you name yourself Man-drake in that uncouth Meran tongue—ah! Did you think I could not decipher its meaning? I am old, and a master of tongues, among many other things.

  “How it is that one so young is able to take the draconic form, I cannot say. Perhaps you have found some spell long hidden from the wise. But this matters little. As a wer-worm your blood is as potent in one form as in the other: be your heart human or dragon when the knife pierces it, the result will be the same. I will make the draught, so that your power shall pass into me, and make me the stronger, and better able to serve my people. Be comforted, therefore, that you do not die in vain.” He gestured to his kneeling servants. “Bring the dagger and basin, and prepare the fire for the cauldron.”

  The time for courtesy was clearly past. “What have we become?” Mandrake shouted as the servants went to do their lord’s bidding. “Have we Loänei not enemies enough, that we must murder one another? We should be uniting against our common foes.”

  “It is to fight those foes that I require the blood-draught. I am old and powerful, but our enemies are also strong.”

  The servants returned, bearing a huge bronze basin and a curved dagg
er, which they set before the lord, bowing deeply. “Do not slaughter me like an animal!” exclaimed Mandrake as Komora took up the dagger. “Let me fight for my life. You know I cannot win against you, lord.”

  Komora raised his silvered brows. “Why fight, then? Only a coward delays what is inevitable.”

  “To die fighting would give me some dignity and honor. Have the Loänei forgotten what those words mean?” Mandrake drew himself up and faced the assembly as he said this, and he could tell from their faces that they were moved at his words. Some vestige of the old proud Loänei race must remain in them yet.

  The old leader, too, felt a trace of rebellion in the air, and he scowled. It would have been better, he now knew, to have had the young Loänei assassinated at a distance. He did not believe in the blood-draught. It merely provided him with a convenient excuse, so that the true motive for slaying his rival—fear—would not be too apparent to the Loänei. Now Mandrake had spoken, and the effect of his words on the dragon-folk could not be undone. Komora was once more trapped by the need to appear fearless. If he did not fight, it might seem that he did not dare to.

  The old lord had not lived so long, however, by sorcery alone. Already his subtle mind had grasped and pondered the situation, and seen in it a possible advantage for himself. He would indeed pay his rival the high compliment of challenging him to single combat. It would still be an execution, after all; Mandrake was right that he could not hope to win. In the end Komora would reinforce his people’s respect by triumphing in single combat—the old traditional test of Loänei leaders. The killing itself would serve, moreover, as an effective demonstration of his power. Let any other potential challengers to his reign beware! He rose without speaking, and made a curt motion to the younger man’s guards to lead him outside. The Great Dragon followed, and all the Loänei flowed behind him into the outer court.