DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  Then Ailia felt afraid, without knowing why: it was as though a shadow had fallen on her mind. “Consumed? What could do that?” she asked in a low voice, though she was not certain she wished to know the answer.

  He took a moment to reply, as though he too were reluctant to say more. “You have heard of the tales of Vartara, the Black Star? It is no legend. There are such things in our cosmos. Do you recall that old Maurainian fable of the ravenous monster that ended by turning and devouring itself, until nothing but its own gaping jaws remained? Some stars, a very few, do something like that: instead of bursting at the end of their lives they collapse, shrinking into themselves. Such a star consumes itself, its own fires and light, and then the light of other stars and anything else that comes within its reach. Vartara is a star of this kind, a black star. It cannot be seen, for it no longer gives forth radiance. But as it sucks at the sphere of its companion star, Lotara, it surrounds itself with the brightness of the stolen energies, and this ring of fire reveals where it lies.” Ailia looked unwillingly at the glowing circle at the end of the streamer. It had a black center, like the throat of a whirlpool, that seemed to catch her eye and draw it in. “And so,” Wu said, “it is called the Worm’s Mouth. There are some who say it is the Mouth of Hell.”

  Ailia felt as though she wavered on the edge of a pit. She had read all the mythic accounts of Modrian-Valdur, and the dark realm of Perdition he was said to have ruled. Some writers of elder days had described it as a bottomless black pit, while artists portrayed it as a monster’s head with gaping jaws. The Hell-mouth. Might there really be such a place? Valdur had reigned over it first as an angel, according to the old lore, then as a hideous, monstrous dragon with a crown upon its head. That too might be myth, and it might not. She recalled what Mandrake had said of the Old Ones and their shape-changing powers, the winged forms they had worn on Arainia and Mera, and their extraordinarily long lives. Was there truth, then, behind these nightmarish fancies? Valdur had truly existed, Mandrake said, and Ana always spoke of “the enemy” as though he lived still. But could any creature exist for thousands upon thousands of years?

  “Is—is Valdur real, do you think?” she queried.

  “I believe he was real, yes. The being we call Modrian-Valdur lived ages ago, in a past so distant that its history is long lost in myth and dream. He lived then, with the others of his kind who also became legends in time.”

  She asked in a faint voice, “And this black star—will it eat up everything? Our world—the whole cosmos?”

  “No, Highness. It can only devour what comes within its maw. So long as we do not go near it, we are safe.”

  She breathed deeply, relieved: that dark hole in the heavens had begun to fill her with something like terror. She still found it hard to free her eyes from it. Wu waved a small, plump hand, banishing the image and the field of stars beyond. Once more the interior of the observatory surrounded them. “But such stars are very rare. Most are like those you see in the night sky, pouring out light upon the cosmos. Light is Life: the ancients sensed this when they saw plants wither and people grow weak without the sun. Your sun is a star, and the stars are suns, many with planetary systems that can support life. Without the stars there would not only be no light in the universe, but no planets and therefore no living creatures. For planets are birthed from the wombs of stars, and their living creatures are nursed on light. This is the nature of things: light is life and Being, and darkness death and Nonbeing. These are not poetic metaphors, but realities.”

  “On Mera,” said Ailia, “the worshipers of Modrian used to shut themselves up in caves beneath the ground, so that they could never see the light, or the world that the light revealed.”

  “Yes, that is the Valei philosophy: hatred of the creation. Some of their greatest sorcerers dreamed of one day destroying the stars themselves—annihilating all light, and therefore all life, from our cosmos. But you are shivering, Highness,” Wu observed with concern. “Perhaps you should go to your private chamber and warm yourself?”

  “And the Star Stone,” Ailia said as they walked back down the passage, “is it truly of Archonic make, do you think?”

  “That would explain the legends of its origin. A treasure of the gods.”

  “It almost seems—alive,” said Ailia.

  He looked thoughtful. “Dragons possess dracontias crystals that are part of their living bodies. But the Star Stone is not alive, I think. It is an artifact, a made thing—the oldest such thing in our universe. Not only its cut facets but the lattices within it were made to a deliberate design. As to its substance, it seems to be akin to adamant, the Archon-crystal.”

  “And the shining light?”

  “That I cannot explain. Power of some kind, from beyond this plane.”

  They had arrived at her room. Ailia opened the door to the bare little cell, and went to her bedside table. She opened the alabaster casket in which the gem lay. It had been removed from the royal diadem and reposed now on a blue velvet cushion. Wu entered behind her, and they both gazed at it in silence. The Stone lay glimmering like a great droplet of clear water: it held no flaw; no fissure or discoloration marred its perfect translucency. It was not glowing with its heatless light now, but seemed quiescent, withdrawn. Stone seemed too gross a word for this exquisite thing. Only the play of light and reflection on its facets defined it for the eye: it was like air framed in rainbows. Yet diamonds broke upon its edges. Defying analysis or explanation, it merely was. “Really, I am almost afraid of it. I can’t think why it was given to me, of all people. I can’t protect it, and I daren’t use it.”

  “You are not meant to protect it: quite the opposite. It is intended to protect you. How, I do not know. I do not believe the power that lies within it could be put to evil uses, though the stuff of which it is formed is still the stuff of this material plane, and so like any other stone it is neither good nor evil in itself. The gem can be held by anyone—or Modrian-Valdur and King Gurusha of Zimboura could not have taken it for themselves. Our enemies wish to seize it from us, why we do not know, since they cannot use it. Perhaps they merely wish to keep what power it contains out of your reach.”

  “Strange things happen when I touch it,” said Ailia.

  “What things?” Wu asked.

  “I have . . . peculiar feelings. There are images in my head, which slip away when I try to grasp them. Have you ever tried to recall a dream just after you’ve awakened, and not been quite able to? That’s what it feels like. The sibyls tell me the spirits who guard it are sending me visions. If so, I wish they’d speak more plainly.” But despite her words Ailia felt a lightening of the heart. As Wu spoke so calmly and matter-of-factly about it the Stone ceased to be mysterious and frightening. It could be theorized about, perhaps even explained. “The night of the great storm in Mirimar—I think the Stone took me over, somehow.”

  “In a sense it did. Ana and I felt that it was channeling ethereal energies through you. Energies sent from the Ether, by someone or something unknown.”

  “I can’t seem to summon my powers at will, as the Nemerei do. Things just—happen, and I’ve no control over them at all. Magic frightens me, Master. What if I were to do something terrible with it?”

  Wu smiled again. “If that is your first concern,” he soothed, “then I think we need not worry about such a thing happening.”

  “But at the moment I can’t do a thing, anyway,” she said. “I can’t even listen with my mind, like Lorelyn: and she’s done it for years.”

  “Do you understand the Kaanish tongue, Princess?” asked Wu abruptly.

  “Kaanish?” repeated Ailia, puzzled at the change of subject. “Why—no. Lorelyn speaks it, of course, and Damion knows a little—but I don’t.”

  “That’s very interesting. For you see, I’m speaking it to you now, and have been for the past twenty minutes. And you’ve understood every word.” She turned to him, mouth open in amazement. He laughed. “You see—already you are listening wi
th your mind, not your ears only. You can sense a thought through the shell of a spoken word. It may be that an early childhood ordeal stifled your developing gift. Or perhaps your mother used her own power in some way to suppress yours once you reached Mera, so that as a small child you would not use magic and betray yourself.” He paused. “Ailia, there is . . . something else that I must tell you.”

  His expression was serene as ever, yet something in his tone alerted her. She looked at him in alarm. “What, Master? What is it you must say?”

  “There are some Nemerei who believe that your mother was not human at all.”

  “You mean they believe she was a goddess, too?”

  “Not precisely. They think she may have been an Archon.”

  “An Archon!” she gasped.

  “Yes—the very last of her kind. There were likely still some Old Ones living in Mera right up to a few centuries ago—hence all the tales you humans have of children sired by demons or faeries or outcast angels. They were few in number by then, perhaps, but their race had not yet died out. One of them could have taken a human form and likeness: your mother’s lack of any family and her extraordinary powers incline one to think that she may have been a surviving Archon—perhaps even the chief Archon of this world. For she used the name of Elarainia, and accepted the title of queen.”

  Ailia sat down on her bed and put her hands to her head. “My mother wasn’t—human!” The painted portrait of the golden-haired woman seemed to float before her eyes. Her mother an Old One, an Archon. How could it be? “But—but then what am I?” Ailia cried, appalled.

  Wu sat beside her and laid a plump, comforting hand on her shoulder. “There, now! I do not say it is true, and of course no one knows for certain. But I thought it best that you knew.” She turned away from him.

  I don’t believe it. I don’t . . .

  6

  Dragon and Phoenix

  “ENTER,” MANDRAKE’S VOICE CALLED.

  Roglug hesitated before obeying: there was something in the prince’s tone that set his flesh to crawling. He eased the heavy door open and took three steps into the chamber beyond, then halted abruptly. Mandrake was seated at the vast, claw-footed table of polished ebony that stood at the far end, apparently perusing a faded roll of vellum. The leaded panes of the window behind him were flung wide open: several were shattered, and glass shards glittered on the stone floor beneath. Blood spattered the floor.

  Mandrake spoke in a mild tone, without looking up. “If you are looking for your messenger, he is not here. He had an unfortunate accident. Really, Rog, you should know better than to send some ill-trained Zimbouran to assassinate me.”

  “Assassinate?” Roglug sank to his knees in a genuine show of terror. “Someone attacked you? But I sent no one!” There was a dagger on the floor, he saw now, its blade gleaming among the shards of glass.

  “Spare me your protests, Rog. He said you sent him.” As the goblin stooped to take up the dagger Mandrake added, still without lifting his gaze, “And poison on the tip, too—I see you have learned from my lectures.”

  Roglug snatched his hand back from the weapon. “I tell you it wasn’t I!” he wailed.

  Mandrake looked up at last, his eyes sharp. “I believe you are telling the truth, for once,” he said. “But if it wasn’t you, then who was it?”

  “Someone who knew no better, that is plain!”

  Mandrake rose, frowning. “The Valei do not wish for my death. Khalazar has no desire to harm me either—and in any case he believes I am an undead spirit. One of his innumerable enemies, then? But surely if anyone could get an assassin into Yanuvan the king himself would be the first to fall?”

  Roglug shuddered. “Whoever it was must hate me, too. He wanted me blamed for the attack, should you survive—”

  “That may not mean he has a personal grudge against you: he could simply have viewed you as a likely scapegoat. I must make some inquiries. In the meantime, see if you can find a glazier: I want that window fixed.” He sighed as the goblin scuttled from the room. So he had another, unknown enemy. It was a minor annoyance, but one that he did not need. A biting fly, when a man is dueling a deadly foe, might be a trivial thing; but it takes the edge off his concentration. He would have to do something about it. But just now he had more pressing concerns.

  A new challenge had been sent to Arainia, and still nothing had happened. Ailia must be drawn out of Arainia, and soon—before her training at Melnemeron was completed. Nemorah, the new seat of his strength, would be the best place in which to confront her: there he would hold a clear advantage. But it was more than unlikely that she could be lured there: her guardians would never allow it, and in any case he did not want her armies in his world. The Loänei had endured enough without having to suffer an attack on their home. Mera would have to suffice, with Khalazar serving as the bait: she must be made to believe that the fated battle awaited her in this sphere, and she must enter it while her Nemerei skills were still weak. She did not really alarm him, not yet: she had at this point in time an almost touching awkwardness as she struggled to understand her powers and control them. She made him think of an eaglet, big-eyed and clumsy and covered with down, tripping over its own talons and flapping its stubby wings in a travesty of flight. She was a pathetic creature, and killing her now could bring him little satisfaction. But though he would have preferred to slay the mature eagle at the height of its strength, in a fair contest of evenly matched skills, he knew he would have to strike before then. After all these centuries it would have been intriguing to pit his powers against a truly worthy opponent. But he had not lived to this great age by taking unnecessary risks.

  And he could no longer counsel himself to be patient. Time was pressing: he must know what was unfolding in Arainia. Seating himself upon a low divan, hands on knees, he drew several deep breaths—not centering himself for meditation, but rather projecting his thoughts outward, out of his body and into the Ethereal Plane, where minds could meet.

  And she responded, in swift obedience, for both knew that each such sending was a risk. There were many Nemerei in Arainia: any one of them might sense and intercept an ethereal message. He did not project his image into that world: she came to him instead, her ethereal form drifting before him in the still air of the chamber like a ghost. A tall feminine form, robed in red, with flowing dark hair.

  Lady Syndra Magus.

  “My lord prince,” she said, bowing her black head.

  “You have not reported in many months,” said Mandrake. “How is she progressing?”

  Syndra’s face contorted. “I have done all I can to slow her training. I have feigned to send messages and images to her mind, for instance, and expressed surprise when she heard and saw nothing. But she has a gift, and her aged tutor Wu is drawing it out. At best I can but give her the impression that her powers are inconstant, working at some times and failing at others. I have sought to stir up insurrection in the cities, to depose her, but all to no avail. The common people have been raised from the cradle on tales of the wondrous Tryna Lia”—her voice grew bitter—“and taught to revere her human incarnation. I myself believed that the Daughter of the Mother would be great and majestic when she took on flesh, a living goddess, full of power; not the poor, craven, stunted thing that now claims the throne of Halmirion!”

  Ah, but you envy her all the same, Mandrake thought shrewdly. You would trade your own splendid body for hers just to have a taste of the power she has, and the adulation of the mobs.

  Syndra continued: “She is not the true Daughter: how could she be? Would you not think the people could see this power-seeking little fraud for what she is? We have all been deceived, by her and by her blaspheming parents. But the people are blind! They think her the most wondrous thing they ever set eyes upon, and she thrives upon their adoration and begins to believe her own lie. Her presence in the city draws countless gawking pilgrims, so the merchants grow fat and flourish. Those opposed to her rule are few, and remain so for al
l my efforts.”

  “Then she must be made to leave that world. You have received the parchment from the Loänei? No one saw my dragon deliver it?”

  “No one. The parchment was where you said it would be, and I have passed it on to the chiefs of the Nemerei. They now know how to open the Gate of Earth and Heaven, and send the army into Mera. But Eliana will not permit Ailia to lead the men into battle, nor has she any such inclination. She wishes to destroy you and all the Valei, but dares not make the attempt yet. Ailia is still a weakling and a coward, magic notwithstanding: she will send others to their deaths, but will not risk her own life.”

  “Then I have failed. My one hope was that her exalted position would go to her head, and make her incautious.”

  “There is hope yet, Prince. She has another weakness you might yet use to your advantage,” Syndra continued. “I have spied on her and learned a secret. Indeed, the girl is utterly transparent when it comes to this one thing. She believes that no one knows it, but I can tell: she is in love with the priest, Damion Athariel. I have seen the look on her face whenever his name is mentioned. And I understand he is contemplating joining the army. If you were to seize this Damion, you would have her utterly in your power. She would do anything for him, I think.”

  “Very well. But the priest seems as far out of my range at the moment as Ailia herself. Continue to observe her,” he instructed his spy. “But exercise great care. There are many powerful Nemerei surrounding her and one of them may guess what you are about.”

  The phantom figure bowed again, and vanished. Mandrake sat still for a time, gazing into space. It was well that Syndra was ambitious and power loving: it had not been hard to wake jealousy in her. Her father’s Merei blood was to blame, for it doomed her to lesser powers and a shorter span of years than her purebred Elei kin. If only she had been brought up among Merei, she could at least have lorded it over them; but she had been raised in her mother’s country, among Elei whose powers far surpassed her own. That in itself might have been enough to warp her character.