by Alison Baird
“You may deny your destiny, Prince,” the regent declared, raising his voice, “but it will find you in the end. Play with this human king of yours if you will, and make a sacrifice of him. But you will come to the altar of Valdur at last, however you seek to avoid it.”
Mandrake turned sharply, but the regent’s words were intended as a parting shot; he was already passing out through the doorway. Roglug scuttled after him, not wanting to be left alone with the prince. On the throne room a heavy silence settled once more.
4
The Gathering Storm
“HE WAS ONLY A MOUTHPIECE, for all his boasts,” said Ana, gazing at each member of the Council in turn with her gray veiled eyes. “Khalazar is not a Nemerei. He has no power to summon the armies of the Valei from their worlds. But neither should he be able to project his image across the void between Mera and Arainia.”
The World Council had convened in haste to address the matter of King Khalazar’s appearance and his threats to their world. Ana had been invited to speak to the high dignitaries, who were seated around the vast circular table in the center of the Hall of Governance—with the exception of Ailia, who sat apart on a carved wooden throne under a blue canopy. This arrangement had been devised both to satisfy Ailia’s followers and to appease those who were against her reign: the separate chair indicated a special status, but also set her outside the circle of councillors. She sat silent on the throne, looking stiff and formal in her regalia of white gown and starred mantle, her hair bound in braids about her head. Her three friends and her father sat in chairs to either side, and they too said nothing, but only watched and listened.
Ana continued, “I see the hand of Mandrake in this.”
“Mandrake!” exclaimed Chancellor Defara. “The same man whom Ailia drove out of Halmirion!”
“The same,” said King Tiron, his voice grim, “if you can call him a man.”
“Who is this Mandrake?” asked Governor Gwentyn of the Outer Territories.
“He is a curious creature,” explained Ana, “quite unique, in many ways. He is the son of Brannar Andarion of Mera—”
“Andarion!” gasped Governor Ramonia of the Mid-sea Havens, her eyes going wide in her dusky face. “You cannot mean . . . not the Andarion of Mera who lived five centuries ago? The Maurainian king?” Ana nodded.
“This is the very same monster who appears in the annals of Mera,” said Tiron. “Prince Morlyn—the wer-worm, as some call him, for his mother was of the Loänei.”
Ailia shivered, as she always did when she heard that name spoken. Morlyn: it was a name out of the distant past, dark with terror and tragedy. Now that name had a living form and face: a nightmare come to life. She looked about the room, as though seeking escape to the world outside—but there was none, not even for the eye. The windows of the chamber were set too high to see out of: through them only the dull gold of sunset and the feathery crowns of a few tall palms showed.
“But he would be five hundred years old, then,” Chancellor Defara objected. “Even the Elei do not live so long!”
“The Nemerei mages can control all the natural rhythms of their bodies, and thus many have extended their lifespans. Queen Eliana herself is more than five hundred years old,” Head Sibyl Marima countered.
Governor Gwentyn lifted his grizzled brows. “I cannot accept that.”
“No? How then do you explain the ancient histories, which clearly show Eliana reigned for centuries?”
“Bah! Many monarchs pass down the same names to their heirs. There were likely many queens who went by the name of Eliana, and historians have confused them as one person.”
“Friends—friends!” interrupted the chancellor in distress as Marima bridled. “Let us not quarrel among ourselves.”
“I know that much of what we say may appear incredible, the stuff of myths and wonder-tales,” Ana said in her quiet voice. “But every word of it is true. You all take for granted the extraordinary powers of the Nemerei mages here in Arainia, clairvoyance and the rest: yet in the world of Mera these same powers would be dismissed as faerie tales. I am regarded as a myth in my home world: to Merans, Eliana the Fay is a figure out of old tales. Yet here I sit before you.”
“But you at least—begging your pardon, Majesty—you at least appear to have aged,” argued Ramonia. “Those who saw Mandrake have described him as a young man.”
Ana nodded. “Mandrake owes his long life to his heredity. The Loänan can live a thousand years and more.”
“I saw him,” interjected Damion from his seat. “It was in a vision I had of Trynisia at the time of the Disaster: he was there, and looking no different than he does now.”
Gwentyn huffed into his mustache. “You cannot expect us to believe these nursery tales, surely!” he objected.
“Will you accuse us all of speaking falsehoods?” said Marima, her dark eyes flashing. The Head Sibyl glanced around the table. “With our own eyes some of us here beheld the warlock changing from man to dragon, right before the palace gates.”
“And Mandrake is unusually powerful, even for a Loänei,” Ana added. “In some accounts it is said that his mother, Moriana, fled King Andarion’s castle by changing to Loänan form while the child was yet within her womb, then later returned to her human form. This may have . . . affected Mandrake strangely. His eyes, for instance, are more dragonlike than human, and as a child he grew claws upon his fingers. One must remember, too, that legend says his sire was himself only half-human. Andarion was of the faerie blood—that is to say, the offspring of an Old One.”
“But, Your Majesty—a moment if you will! I had thought this Prince Morlyn was slain by Sir Ingard the Bold,” ventured Ramonia. “All the tales agree on that.”
“So it was thought for many centuries,” said Tiron, looking grim. “It would appear that the Meran loremasters were mistaken, and Morlyn survived.”
“What more can you tell us of this being, Queen Eliana?” Ramonia implored Ana.
Ana was silent for a moment, her misty eyes looking inward to ancient memories. Slowly she began to speak. “Morlyn was born in a secret place in the land of Zimboura, after his Loänei mother fled Maurainia. There, amid a small coven of surviving worshipers of Valdur, Moriana gave birth to her son. The priests delivered the infant, whom they believed to be their dark messiah, and named him Morlyn—‘Night Sky,’ after the starry empire he would one day rule. As for his mother, her part was to give birth: having done so she was of no further use to the thralls of Valdur. When she sickened they did nothing to save her, but allowed her to die.” Ana shook her head. “That is how the Dark One rewards those who serve him.
“These priests lived in hiding, for Andarion had banned their religion and the Zimbouran people, freed from its yoke, persecuted any remaining adherents. In secret, then, Morlyn was raised. His guardians were more than a little afraid of him: the Zimbouran woman who later confessed to nursing him said that at birth he was covered in a scaly skin, which he later cast off as a snake does. Also, he was awake and aware right from the moment of his birth, and as a tiny infant learned quickly to walk and talk—only to be expected, when one thinks of it: for dragonets are fully sentient even in the egg, and active from the moment they leave it.
“The priests of Valdur moved about continually with their charge in the effort to avoid discovery, but in the end they were caught and their own people executed them. Many wanted Morlyn killed, too, for the priests had said he was born to become Valdur’s new incarnation. Morlyn managed to escape however, and lived on for over a year in hiding until at last I found him.”
“And you did not destroy him?” exclaimed Ramonia, appalled.
Ana’s face turned pensive. “We Nemerei had thought that the child had no soul—that he was indeed nothing but a wild and mindless vessel, a body waiting for its master to enter and take command. When I saw that he did, in fact, possess a mind and free will, I could not justify slaying him.” Her tone softened. “He was a pathetic little creature—a
freak raised without love or understanding. He had gone from the priests’ unloving hands to a life of fear and hiding, of being reviled as a monster and hunted like an animal. It was the Zimbourans’ hatred, I realized, and not his own nature that made him savage. When I saw him, cowering in the cave that was his only refuge, small and half-starved and terrified—I could not find it in me to do him any harm.”
“No doubt Valdur himself counted on that,” observed Master Wu with a shake of his white head.
“Perhaps. Yet who can say that what I did was worse than what I might have done? To murder a child, any child, would have been to betray all that I stood for—all that the Nemerei have ever believed in. Perhaps, indeed, that was Valdur’s purpose—to create this child in order to make us commit the heinous act of killing him, to stain our souls and honor with his innocent blood. Our enemy’s intent is not always what we suppose.
“I took Morlyn alive, therefore, and tamed him. Though he was only ten Meran years of age at the time, I saw great potential in him. His parentage—half Elei, half Loänei—would give him tremendous powers. I brought him back to Trynisia with me and placed him in the care of the Nemerei at Liamar. When he had been properly trained in the Elei ideals of justice and mercy, I took him to his father in Maurainia. At first all went well. But deep in his soul Andarion feared his son. He could not help but see the dragon-youth as the distorted and unnatural product of an unholy union. The rest—” she added with a sigh, “is now legend.”
A silence fell. Ailia glanced worriedly at Ana. How very old she looked in the wan light, her eyes faded and filmy, her face seamed with age and sorrow. There was an air of weariness about her that Ailia had not seen before. She felt a surge of panic. Despite her frail appearance, Ana was their greatest Nemerei, a tower of strength and knowledge. How could they manage if she were . . . no longer there?
The chancellor spoke at last. “If this wer-worm—this man-drake as he calls himself—still lives, then he must be slain or captured before he does any more mischief.”
“But how can we seek a being who moves freely between worlds and can alter his shape at will?” argued Governor Ramonia.
“He will not come to this world again, certainly,” Ana said. “In Arainia’s sphere his powers are diminished. As for crossing the void between the worlds, there are many ways to do that: the mages of Melnemeron are already studying means to travel beyond this world. The cherubim and the Celestial Loänan can also be summoned to our aid. They will not intervene in human affairs as a rule, but they will protect the Star Stone and the one chosen to wield it.”
The chancellor looked doubtful. “Can you not reason with this Morlyn?” he asked Ana.
Ana shook her head. “We were close once, and up until a few years ago he would still answer me if I called to him through the Ether. He had not forgotten that I once saved his life. But now that I have allied myself with the Tryna Lia he considers me an enemy. The bond between us—such as it was—is broken. And while he spared the Tryna Lia and her companions on Elendor, he did not do so out of compassion. It is possible that having other human beings to talk with at last may have given him some pleasure. But he abducted Lorelyn to make use of her all the same, and abandoned the others to the merciless Zimbourans. Living in solitude, and to such a great age, has made him cold-hearted; indeed he is now hardly human as we understand that word.”
“But this is terrible!” said Ramonia. “How can we go to war with a being so ancient and powerful? One who has the blood of both the Old Ones and the Loänan in his veins, who can command dragons to obey him—even become one at will? What evil arts might he not have perfected over the centuries? How are we to fight him?”
“It will be difficult,” Ana conceded. “There are beings in other worlds who still follow Valdur, like the Morugei; and many of them believe that Prince Morlyn is the prophesied avatar of their god. He knows this, and be certain that he will use it to his advantage. Also it is plain that he is making use of the Zimbouran people on Mera.”
“It will not avail him. If he comes here he will still have to defeat the power of the mother-goddess, and that he cannot do.” The one who spoke these words was the Lady Syndra Magus, chief of the Nemerei who had provided the entertainment for the feast. She had sat silent until now. Ailia noted the many jewels that hung about the woman’s neck and arms: to a sorceress, of course, gemstones were no vain adornments, but the dwelling places of spirit familiars whose powers augmented her own. A huge square-cut reflambine hung at Syndra’s throat, glowing with fiery yellow depths in the dying light.
“And do not forget,” Syndra continued, “that though our people may know not the arts of war, yet many among them have inborn talent, and can with time and training become Nemerei.”
“They may not have that time,” Jomar countered. He had been fidgeting while the others spoke: now he stood up and stepped forward. “Why should we wait for the enemy to come here and attack us? Why don’t we seek Mandrake out? If Ana’s right, he’s probably in Mera.”
Gwentyn glared at him. “Must we tolerate these continual interruptions? The friends of the Tryna Lia have no formal right to address the assembly.”
Ailia looked at the fuming Jomar. “Let him speak,” she urged, leaning forward in her chair.
Had one of the carved marble caryatids adorning the chamber walls suddenly given tongue, the councillors could not have been more startled. Never before had the Tryna Lia exercised her right to advise the assembly. There was a stunned silence, and Jomar promptly seized advantage of it. “I know what I’m talking about,” he declared roughly. “You’ve never fought in a war and I have. I know the Zimbourans, and I’ve met Mandrake. You can’t reason with people like them. You can only fight.”
“It is useless to talk of our fighting the wer-worm,” said Syndra. “The prophecy is clear on this matter: only the Tryna Lia can slay the avatar of Valdur.”
There was a strained silence following this pronouncement. Not all present believed in the Tryna Lia, or the prophecy. Ailia went pale at the words, shrinking back into her throne. Seeing the expression on her face, Jomar turned angrily on the sorceress. “That’s a lot of rubbish,” he snapped. “Leave Ailia out of it. I say we march against Mandrake with an army—I can go with the troops, to show them what to do. You Nemerei find a way to cross the void to Mera, and I’ll do the rest.”
“Then we will be the aggressor,” protested the chancellor.
“Exactly. Go after your enemy in his own land, before he comes and starts ruining yours.”
“We may yet sway them with words of reason,” objected Ramonia. She glanced at Syndra Magus. “If they can reach through the void to speak to us, so too can our Nemerei reach them. They can offer peace to this king.”
“He won’t listen!” Jomar shouted, clenching his fists. “Don’t you understand? If you had only seen half of the things I’ve seen—” His eyes smoldered, and Ailia wondered what horrors they had witnessed, atrocities beyond the imagining of any Arainian. “Let me train some men at least, teach them how to fight. Every land needs an army to defend itself.”
“That would be permissible,” the chancellor said after a lengthy pause, during which no voice was raised in protest. “So long as they remain in Arainia, and are only for our protection.” Other heads around the circle nodded. “It is decided then,” he concluded. “The Nemerei shall send their messages, and the army will be trained—though only as a precaution.”
“Ailia too should be trained,” said Syndra. “The mages at Melnemeron can teach her the ways of the Nemerei.”
“A thought that has occurred to me also,” said Master Wu. “She would be safer there, as well.”
“We will gladly receive her. Will you come, Your Highness?” Syndra’s dark gray eyes turned to Ailia.
Was there, perhaps, the very smallest of sardonic pauses before that “highness”—had the woman looked down her nose as she said it, as if noting Ailia’s lack of height? No: Ailia decided that her worries
made her oversensitive, perceiving slights where there were none. Or perhaps the woman was merely disappointed: many people expected the Tryna Lia to be taller, or more beautiful. She glanced curiously at the woman’s proud, chiseled face and flowing, blue-black hair. The Lady Syndra looked to be no more than twenty-five. But for the purebred Elei, many of whom lived for two Arainian centuries, “young” was up to sixty years.
The head sibyl Marima looked askance at both Syndra and Wu. “The Tryna Lia does not require training! She is no common sorcerer, but an emissary of the Divine. The power to fulfill her appointed task is already within her. The people would be filled with confusion if she were sent away to be tutored like any other mortal.”
Wu ruminated a moment. “Then we will say that she has merely gone to visit Melnemeron for a time, to share her wisdom with the Nemerei.”
“That comes too near to deceit for my liking. No good can come of such a course.” There was a pause, and then the head sibyl spoke again. “Do what you will,” she said, her gaze sweeping the room. “But all your efforts, of war and diplomacy alike, will be to no avail. Syndra Magus is right in this: for the threat we face, there is but one solution. Only the Tryna Lia can conquer Morlyn and his armies, and only when the proper time has come.”