DragonThrone02 The Empire of the Stars

by Alison Baird

  But then along had come the Tryna Lia, on whom the whole world’s attention had been lavished: Ailia Elmiria, whose father was himself a mere half-breed. Yet mages and governors had journeyed from all over Arainia to pay homage to her when she was still a mere infant, and augurs had announced that her Nemerei powers would not be lessened by her paternal line, but grow as great as her mother’s. Syndra had inevitably begun to resent this prodigy: the corrosion of envy had set in at once, and turned to seething hatred over time, hatred keen enough to make Syndra use her own powers to reach out through the Ether to Arainia’s oldest foes, who alone could threaten the Tryna Lia.

  The Archon Elarainia had sensed something was amiss, for she had fled her world, taking her human child with her. It must have been a great shock for Syndra when Ailia returned alive to reclaim her throne. The Magus was becoming spiteful, and therefore more dangerous to herself and Mandrake: she would end by giving herself away, and the mages of Melnemeron would discover her link with him.

  “Mandrake.”

  He started at the mental voice, looked up to see another phantom form floating before him: a small slight figure, with hair white as her robe. He rose, staring at her in disbelief. Eliana!

  “What do you want, old woman?” he demanded harshly, forcing back his fear. Had she somehow overheard his conversation with Syndra?

  “I have come to appeal to you to reconsider your present course,” she said quietly. “Mandrake, you are fast approaching the point from which there can be no return. Come back to us, to the Nemerei. It is not too late, even now.”

  She did not mention Syndra—she must not know of her, then. Eliana was losing her powers: there had been a time when nothing would have escaped her. He looked at the aged features, recalling a younger version of that face, and with the image came recollections dredged up from a centuries-old childhood: a soft voice, long pale hair brushing his cheek, arms that had embraced him protectively . . . Angrily he shook himself free of the memories. It had not been for love that she had saved him, he told himself, but for the sake of her precious principles, and a desire to mold and control him.

  He looked coolly at the projection. “It’s no use, Ana,” he replied. “You have lost your claim on my soul. I will never return to you.”

  Ana’s form seemed to fade slightly at that, but when she spoke again her voice was firm. “Mandrake, I am coming to Mera soon,” she told him. “I do not want to fight you, but be sure I will if you leave me no choice. I cannot allow you to harm the Tryna Lia.”

  And then she was gone, leaving him with a chill of apprehension and, beneath it, an aching sense of loss. But he brushed both feelings aside.

  It is done—I am free of her at last.

  KHALAZAR’S FLEET WAS SET TO SAIL. Against the Armada alone the Commonwealth might have prevailed, but now the God-king had aid, in the form of armies from the Morugei worlds. These they could not hope to defeat—in fact the mere sight of such creatures, long banished to the realm of myth, would surely be enough to unman any Maurainian soldier.

  On learning this Jomar had returned to the council of Arainia, this time in his official capacity as Ailia’s appointed general, and argued strenuously that they could not stand idly by while their sister world suffered. It was one thing to refuse to fight for oneself, another to disregard the plight of others. From Melnemeron had come the news that the Nemerei had at long last learned how to open the airy gate leading to the Ether: Syndra Magus, it transpired, had uncovered a long-lost parchment filled with ancient lore. The Council agreed, after long discussion and with much reluctance, that the army could be transported to Mera with the Nemerei’s aid, through the way that lay beyond the ethereal portal. But no fighting must be done. Their mere presence in Zimboura might, after all, cause his frightened subjects to rise against Khalazar in panic and overthrow him, all without the need for a single arrow to be fired. With this compromise Jomar had to be content. But he had secured from the Council a concession that, should the God-king’s forces attack them, they had leave to fight in their own defense before retreating from that world.

  Those of the men who had trained to be Paladins took their formal vows in the chapel of Melnemeron, dressed in full armor and the robelike surcoats of the Order. All that night they kept a candlelit vigil before the altar of the Elmir, praying over their weapons, and at dawn Ailia knighted them. Standing before the altar—a golden bird-figure supporting a marble slab on its wings—she took from it the ceremonial sword and touched the bowed head of each knight as he knelt before her. The sword was light, not being made for battle, and only once were the Tryna Lia’s hands seen to tremble on its jeweled hilt. And her voice too seemed to hold a tremor when she said, “Arise, Sir Damion Athariel!”

  After the ceremony Lady Syndra suggested that the guests all go for a walk on the mountainside. “I can show you the Temple Grove, where the trees are thousands of years old and tall as towers, and many other wonders,” she offered. Ailia exchanged her formal gown and circlet for a plain walking-dress, and she and her father and friends followed Syndra and Master Wu down the mountain to the tree line.

  “The army should be here in another day or so. But do these sorcerers really think they can send me and my men all the way to Mera?” Jomar asked as they descended the slope.

  “The Nemerei have successfully reopened the rift within the gate,” Wu replied. “The void is now passable—though whether that is a good thing remains to be seen.”

  King Tiron smiled. “Master Wu, I consider myself a reasonably learned man, but I simply cannot understand these ethereal passageways of yours. You say to me they are there, and yet not there. How can that be?”

  “Hmm!” Wu frowned. “Let me try an analogy, Majesty. Imagine that the universe is like an immense, round fruit, then picture all the beings of the material plane as tiny ants crawling about on the rind. They know nothing of the fruit’s interior: all they know is its outside, the rind. Then one day an ant happens upon a hole eaten through the rind by some enterprising worm, and entering it he finds a long tunnel gouged through the fruit’s interior. He follows this, right through the core, until presently he comes out of another hole at the tunnel end and finds himself on the far side of the fruit. The ants there are astonished to see another of their kind appear, as it seems, out of nowhere. He explains about the wormhole, and how he has traveled through the inside of the fruit to get to this part of the rind. They are bewildered—there is nothing but the rind, they say, no way of getting from one side of the fruit to the other without crawling over its rounded surface. How could this strange thing called the inside exist? And they will not believe the adventurous insect until they have entered the hole and seen the worm-tunnel for themselves.”

  “I believe I see,” said Tiron after a moment. “Yes . . . the material plane is the rind, the Ether is the inner part, and that gate is the opening of the worm-hole—the dragon-way.”

  “With which we are able to circumvent material space, just as the ant circumvents the outer rind. Here is another question, Majesty: where is the center of the fruit?”

  He looked surprised. “The center? In the core, naturally.”

  “Exactly! And so you see, the ants that have never been inside the fruit have never seen the center of their universe: to them, it has no center. And it is the same with our own universe. The material plane has no center, for it is only one part of reality. The core of things does not lie here, but elsewhere. You could journey through the Great Void forever without reaching it.”

  “Then not only can our army reach Mera, but any of us could journey to any world of Talmirennia.”

  Wu bowed his head by way of acknowledgment. “Still, the Ether presents many perils, and you would be well advised not to enter it without a Nemerei guide.”

  Ailia felt a sharp twinge at these words, knowing that she could not make any such journey. Otherworldly ambassadors might pass through the portal in years to come, but Ailia would not travel through it herself for some
time—decades, perhaps. Her duty was to remain here in safety, learning to increase her powers and so give protection to Arainia’s people. But to travel beyond the sky, beyond the domain of the sun to other, alien suns and worlds! To meet peoples with whom no one in Mera or Arainia had communicated for hundreds of years . . . Once again, as on Great Island long ago, she was cut off, imprisoned, deprived of the adventure and knowledge that her spirit craved.

  If only I weren’t what I am. Could they all be wrong about me, even now? There is nothing at all special about me, or my powers—such as they are! And as a person I’m really quite ordinary. All that about Mother being an Archon is nonsense . . .

  She had done all she could to wake her slumbering talent, studying hard and imbibing the ambrosia elixir, which only gave her dreamlike visions that might or might not be true. She had learned to command her body as well as her mind, to control at will all its living rhythms from her breathing to the flow of blood in her veins. Her hair had grown, falling now almost to her thighs—a little indulgence she had half guiltily allowed herself. There were so many avenues to explore, so many newfound powers to test, that at times she was overwhelmed. Inevitably, there was temptation: how easy it would be, she thought, to spy on people. She could know exactly where Damion and Lorelyn were, for instance, whether or not they were together . . . Though she did not yield to these urges, they gave her many a restless night. She had recovered, through long sessions of supervised meditation, a few very early memories: some clear recollections of her mother’s face and voice; of riding on the shaggy back of her mimic dog while a younger Benia looked on indulgently—of being lifted in her father’s arms to watch her birthday fireworks display . . . long-lost scenes from her earliest childhood, more precious to her than any triumph of sorcery. Only once had she dared try to see the future, so great was her fear of it. A deep ambrosia-assisted trance had shown her the figure of Mandrake dressed in kingly robes and standing on what looked like the roof of a great tower. The sky above had been dark, with a full golden moon in it—the moon of some alien world, she thought. By its light she had seen Mandrake’s face quite clearly. He was looking directly at her, hostility and hatred in his inhuman eyes.

  She trembled at the recollection. Wu had tried to reassure her afterward, explaining that not all future visions came to pass: they were not foreordained, but were simply “projections of probability” that stemmed from current situations and events. She hoped fervently that he was right, that she need never come face to face with that threatening figure. But if she did, she would surely need all the strength she could summon to defeat him: far more than she now possessed.

  I can’t even fight, like Lorelyn . . .

  Ailia shuddered. She had long since lost her own early notions of war as an exciting and heroic enterprise. Jomar’s descriptions of battles he had fought in had dispelled them completely. Now the mention of war only filled her imagination with scenes of blood and turmoil: smoke and spears and confusion, screaming horses and screaming men, the bodies of the dead strewn like lifeless debris on the trampled ground. She did wish sometimes that she could have been some great Rialainish warrior-queen, rallying her troops around her chariot as she plunged boldly into the fray. The trouble was, she realized, that she had entirely too much imagination ever to be a good warrior. She would constantly be imagining not only her own hurts but those she would have to inflict upon her foes. And the grief and remorse, afterward! She recalled Damion’s anguish in the forest of Trynisia after slaying the Anthropophagus. How to live with the knowledge that one had taken a human life, even an enemy’s, even in self-defense . . . ?

  And these young knights and soldiers of Arainia, who had just completed their training—did they understand what they might one day have to do?

  “Most do. Some of them still think it’s all a game,” Jomar said when she gave voice to her concern.

  Ailia sighed. “They’re so innocent, they all think of war as a great adventure. I am glad you’re with us, Jo. You’re the only seasoned warrior in this entire world, the only one who can teach us what to do and to expect. It’s curious, isn’t it: those battle experiences must have been terrible for you, but they could end by saving countless people in two worlds. You’re the real savior, not I.” A lump suddenly came into her throat, and impulsively she turned and embraced him. “Come back to us, Jo—come back safe and sound, please!” she implored him.

  “I’ll try,” he replied, looking awkward at her display of emotion.

  “What about Lori?” Ailia asked him, quickly changing the subject. “Does she still want to be a soldier?” She waved a hand toward the tall blonde girl, who was walking with Damion. Lorelyn had not attended the knighting ceremony, and only turned up late for the outing looking “mulish” as Jomar put it.

  He groaned. “I think she still hopes I’m going to give in and let her go to Mera. I won’t. War may yet come of this, and war’s not for women.”

  “Rialainish women used to fight in battles beside their men, long ago—and I’ve a feeling Lori’s Rialainish by descent. It must be in her blood.”

  Lorelyn noticed them looking at her. “I still think you’re wrong not to let me go,” she called.

  “Women don’t fight,” Jomar growled back.

  “My whole purpose in life is to protect the Tryna Lia. Ana said so.” She turned to point at the aged queen of Mera, who was following at a distance with her gray cat padding at her heels.

  “You already did that by substituting for her back on Mera. Ana said that, too.”

  Lorelyn stood still and crossed her arms, her pale eyes burning. “She never said it was all I would do. And I still have no idea who I am, or who my parents were. How did I come to be in that Kaanish monastery? How did I know that my Purpose was to save somebody else? I want to go back to Mera, and look for answers.”

  Jomar shrugged. “You may go there someday. But not yet, and not to fight. If you die in battle you’ll never find your family. And anyway, Ailia said you’d decided to join her palace guard.”

  Lorelyn’s face brightened a little at that. “Yes, I go back to Mirimar for my training tomorrow, and to get fitted for my livery. But it’s not the same: I won’t get to see any fighting. The enemy will likely never make it to Eldimia.” She spoke these words in a tone of utmost pessimism before striding off.

  Ana had caught up with them while they stood arguing, but remained silent throughout the conversation. Her misty eyes seemed to be trained upon faraway places and events that had nothing to do with their present situation. “I fear I must leave also,” she said presently. “The Nemerei of Mera cannot fight Mandrake alone.”

  “Ana! You can’t leave!” cried Ailia. “You’re the wisest of us all. I was hoping you would stay here in Arainia, and help us.”

  “I am sorry, my dear,” replied the old sorceress, gently laying a hand on her shoulder. “But Mera is my world, and it needs me. Do not fear, though: I am leaving you in the very best of hands. There are powers in this place that are a match for Mandrake and his allies.”

  Ailia could only gaze at her in dismay, and made no reply.

  They walked on into a clearing where a cascade fell into a mountain tarn, and many wild beasts gathered to drink. It might have been a scene at some water hole in the Antipodes of Mera. But the animals were strange: mimic dogs, long-necked camelopards like attenuated giraffes, four-horned musimons, and the peculiar gnulike catoblepases whose bodies were covered like a pangolin’s in scaly plates of fused hair. In the middle of the lake wallowed a family of behemoths: great gray beasts with heavy heads, blunt snouts, and jutting teeth. And there were birds: splendid purple tragopans, their heads crowned not with feathers but with hornlike projections of bone, and the lovely white caladriuses whose arching flexible necks were as graceful as any swan’s. They fluttered around the beasts, even perching impudently on their backs. As the humans drew closer, one beast rose from the water’s edge and came bounding toward them. It looked like a lynx—if a lynx
could be the size of a lion. Jomar gave an oath while his hand, of itself, groped for the weapon he had not thought to wear.

  Master Wu held up his hand. “It is but a gulon. It will do you no harm: it is not like your Meran beasts, Master Jomar. There are no eaters of flesh in this world save for carrion-scavengers.” The enormous cat watched them, his amber eyes curious and unafraid. Now that their minds too were freed of fear, they saw that he was a beautiful creature: his pelt was long and luxuriant and a warm gold in color. Ana’s cat approached the gulon fearlessly and raised her head to touch her small pink nose to his. He snuffed at her, waving his long plume of a tail, then turned and ambled back to the water.

  Ailia and her young Meran friends watched in wonder. So the difference between that world and this lay not only in the alien forms of its beasts. The tranquility that reigned here was normal; no temporary truce brought on by common need, but an unbroken and enduring peace. As the wild beasts stooped to drink, seeming to kiss their own reflections in the water, there were no nervous side glances, nor any wary raising of heads; all drank their fill without fear. A lean pard crouched there at the water’s edge, tongue lapping; had he been a Meran beast, the big cat would have worn a hide that disguised him while he stalked his prey. But here he need not hunt to live, and he was gaily arrayed in harlequin hues, rainbow spangles on a snow-white pelt. A cock and hen huppe strutted unmolested right across the path, followed by their downy brood: the hen was as colorful as her mate, with long trailing plumes. In Mera her plumage would have been drab, all brown and gray, to conceal her when she brooded on her eggs. But here in Arainia there was no need for any such protective coloration.

  “But don’t the animals here overbreed, and starve?” Jomar asked Wu in puzzlement when he explained this.

  “Not at all. The creatures of Mera breed copiously because they know they will soon perish, and because so few of their offspring will survive. Arainian creatures do not feel that same urgency. They breed only to replace themselves, and they are longer-lived than Meran beasts. Their purpose is not mere survival, but the joy of being.”