by Alison Baird
Mandrake said no more, but turned away from him and left the room. Shame was an emotion he had not felt in literal ages: he had forgotten its peculiar sting. Ailia’s downfall had come about because of her trust in him—she had taken the draught believing he would put nothing in it that would harm her. And now . . . Mandrake recalled the writhing medusan hair, the powdered face and scarlet lounging robe that showed off her long graceful neck and slender waist. His hands clenched tightly at his sides. That look in her eyes of utter devotion, where only sympathy had shown before—he was utterly repelled by it. In a sense it was not Ailia who had stood there before him but an automaton, a being without real feeling and subject to commands. He, who loved freedom best of all things, had stolen it from her.
But it is better this way, his other side insisted. This way she does not control me, but I her. I am the one in power. It was true that under the influence of the philter she would never harm him—could not even think to harm him. Her power was rendered null: she would use it only at his command. They would not have to fight the duel he had dreaded, and he would not have to kill her. Together they could defy both Nemerei and Valei, their blended strength a match for any foe.
But to keep her in that loathsome enchantment—!
There was a counter-potion, that likely would not be difficult to obtain. But he could not afford to release Ailia from the philter. Mandrake saw, too late, how perfectly he was trapped. Were he to free her, she would realize his treachery as soon as her normal state of mind was restored, and turn on him in anger. Perhaps the sly Erron had even planned it so? No, he was seeing conspiracies in every corner now. But to release Ailia was impossible. Then was killing her the only solution?
The last report from the goblins in Mera had told of Damion Athariel’s capture. But though he had instructed them to watch over the priest, he had also realized that the holding of such hostages was a futile gesture. Ailia was not one to put her personal feelings before her duty. He could no longer hope to control her that way.
He had tried to turn her to his side, playing on her love of knowledge and her desire to escape confinement. He had sought to interest her in learning to become a dragon, to throw off her humanity; instead she had hesitated, and it was he who had been obliged to spend more and more time in human form. And in consequence he had grown more human with every day that he spent in this body, while his thoughts and his nature became correspondingly petty. He was reminded suddenly of the temple virgin who had lured him from his lair centuries ago. He had been besotted with the girl, never looking ahead, never wondering what he would do when her shorter lifespan began to tell, her beauty to wither, and her vitality to diminish while his own remained unchanged. He had had some vague idea of “aging” himself with glaumerie for her sake, but his mind had shied away from the future. One did not think of a flower fading after it was cut and placed in the vase. What a fool he had been! This was the folly he committed when in human form. If he did not find a way to cast it aside forever, he would be lost.
He could feel the dragon within him as a palpable presence: writhing, struggling, beating its wings in the desperate effort to break through, to be free. The iron-wound in his chest had remanifested, as had the older scars in his side and neck: they throbbed with a dull, nagging pain. He glanced in a mirror in the hall: yes, there were the angry red welts again.
He took the long stair up to the top of the central tower, seeking the clarity of mind that came with the dragon’s form. He felt a lift of the heart as he put off his humanity and all the frailties connected with it and raised his wings to the wind. He was a master of the elements now, equally at home in earth, air, or water. Out over the city he flew, watching its inhabitants look up and point and scatter. Then on over the river and the fields. Several goats and their herdsman fled before him, the man as panicked as his beasts. Mandrake could now feel pity for all the little human creatures below. Human weakness he could easily set aside, it was for him only a temporary inconvenience; no such escape was possible for them.
Once in draconic shape his troubles, as always, ceased to seem so overwhelming. His feelings for Ailia faded—he could view her, now, as a small and frail creature who was of no importance to him, save for the potential threat she still presented.
Why, after all, should it be so hard to kill her?
THE AIR WAS HOT AND HEAVY, and Ailia’s skin was filmed with perspiration. She went restlessly to the main window of her chamber and looked out. Day was breaking: the clouds were stained a lurid sulphur-yellow on their undersides, and the air was yellow, too. It was as if light and air had congealed together into some thick resin, encasing every leaf and twig in the garden below and holding it motionless. Ailia leaned against the pane. She felt as stiff and exhausted as though she had been running. All was still: no creature stirred or made a sound. It was a prestorm stillness, breathless, charged, fraught with tension. This was no ordinary storm: the local climate reflected Mandrake’s mood. If this stress in the atmosphere were any indication of how he was feeling, everyone must tread carefully, even herself.
Something suddenly showed through the steam clouds suspended above—something that swept through them, circling the four-horned tower that stood in its wreathing mists dark and solitary as an island in a stormy sea. It was a red dragon with a russet mane, looking no larger than a bat beside the great thrusting pinnacles. It was Mandrake—she was sure of it. Ailia drew back from the window, suddenly afraid of this Loänan, this other Mandrake, even as she loved him. Why had he taken his dragon shape? As she watched he swept upward, vanishing into the low-hanging sulphurous clouds.
She remembered the repugnance in his eyes as he looked at her: it was too much to bear. She sobbed, pulling off the various pieces of jewelry he had given her. She was unworthy of it, unworthy of his love. And this accursed sapphire ring, cause of all the trouble—she cast it to the floor. It would have been better had she stayed in that empty life on Arainia, imprisoned in her palace, despising herself for letting the people believe she was divine. But there was no going back, either. She could not live without her prince.
As she paced about, weeping quietly, her eyes fell on the silver dagger resting on her night table.
Her Thorn. Someone had given it to her, long ago—not Mandrake, but another. She had forgotten who it was. No matter. Its sharp blade, she saw now, offered the only possible escape. Syndra was right. To live without Mandrake’s love was impossible. Far better not to live at all. She took the weapon from the table and weighed it in her hand.
A humble scratching noise at the door, rather like that made by a dog, caught her attention. “Who is it?” she snapped.
“It’s we—Twidjik.”
Irritated, she opened the door. The amphisbaena sidled through, his front head drooping on its long neck, his hind head nervously scanning the hall behind him. But he had seen the dagger in her hand, its point still aimed at her own breast. That, and the tears streaking her face, told him all. He stretched out his foreneck and interposed his front head between her bosom and the blade. “No—no, lady! Mustn’t hurt yourself!”
“Don’t interfere!” She pushed his head away.
“Please, mistress. The Loänei said we might serve you. And the prince gave us message, to tell you to come to him.”
“Message—for me?” Her heart lifted, but she could still not quite believe it. Mandrake hated her, would always hate her. She could still see the disgust in his eyes. “Why did not he summon me in my mind?” she asked.
“He not want Lady Syndra and other sorcerers overhearing. He want you to come see him alone, in secret cave at heart of hill.”
“In his lair? When?” she asked breathlessly.
“Now—this minute. Bring lamp, and come!”
Odd: she had just seen the red dragon flying through the skies moments ago. But perhaps that was but a ruse, to throw Syndra and the others off. He would come back disguised in another form, and enter the cave, and they would be together once mo
re. She hugged Twidjik, squeezing a startled breath from both his heads. “Oh! I’m so glad, Twidjik, so glad! He doesn’t hate me after all then—he doesn’t! He would have me come to him—a secret tryst. And no one else shall know!”
“Come.” The little creature ran for the door. “Quick, quick!”
She followed him down the stairs. The castle was silent, its inhabitants asleep or retreating from the heat in the comfort of their private chambers. The lower halls were empty. Twidjik led her to the door and the rough-hewn tunnel—down, down to the cave with its steaming pool. At its edge she paused, peering through the dense vapors for a sight of the crimson dragon. Nothing stirred in the dark water.
“Up other tunnel,” urged Twidjik. “Up, to entrance.”
She followed him, and still she saw no sign of Mandrake in any of his accustomed forms. Then as she approached the tunnel’s mouth there was a rush of wings, and a dragon alighted on the threshold, thrusting its great head inside the cavern. In the suns’ light its scales gleamed not red, but the color of gold. It looked like—
“No,” she said, stopping short.
Hello, Ailia, said Auron in her mind. With a flutter the firebird alighted beside him. In her beak she held a glass flask, filled with some pale green liquid.
Ailia rounded on Twidjik. “You!” she cried. “You deceived me! You’re on their side!”
“You must come with us now,” said Taleera. “Don’t be afraid, Ailia. We won’t harm you.”
“You think I would go anywhere with you?” Ailia cried. She strode up to them. “I hate you! Go! My prince will be here soon: if he finds you here it will be the end of you.”
“Mandrake can do nothing, nor can you,” Auron rumbled. “No sorcery will harm us. Look up! There, in the sky.”
He pulled back, to let her see. There was flash of golden wings high above the mounting steams—a cherub, stooping on them like a hawk. How could she ever have thought such a horrible, mutant monster beautiful? And then she saw in horror that the creature clutched in its beak a black lump of rock, a rock from which came a terrible roar. Cold iron! Of course, the cherubim were immune to its magic. In mere seconds she would be powerless, unless she acted swiftly.
Spinning around, she bent and caught hold of Twidjik’s leg and foreneck, and with one swing of her arms she hurled him out of the cave mouth, out over the sheer side of the volcano. His double scream faded as he dropped.
“Well?” she cried in triumph. “Will you save your spy, or not?”
Auron had no choice. He whirled and flung himself over the edge, going to the amphisbaena’s rescue. The cherub spread his wings to halt his dive and hovered high above, knowing that the iron would take the dragon’s power of flight from him. And as Taleera flapped to one side, still gripping the vial in her beak, Ailia sprang past her and launched herself into the abyss.
She had never before shape-shifted, never taken dragon form: but Mandrake had been thorough and patient in his tutelage. She felt her body expand, quintessence pouring into it out of the Ether to increase its size: saw the great red wings unfurl to either side of her. The wings seemed to know what to do: they lifted her up, up into the sky away from the cherub. The Loänan had caught the amphisbaena, as she had known he would, and had wasted even more time setting him down safely on the ground. He was now rising again, but he was too far behind her. She screamed a dragon scream of pride and defiance at him, and flew on.
And now at last the storm broke, its pent-up energies unleashed by her wrath, with a great flash and a roll of thunder. Out of the midst of the dark clouds she saw her beloved come flying to her, his flame-red wings spread wide. Coming to her aid. She winged her way toward him as fast as she could. But the winds surrounding her were wild and she did not know how to fly in such a turbulent atmosphere. She was buffeted and tossed from side to side like a falling leaf.
She beat her dragon wings wildly, flying on. But already she was weakening, and her wings and dragon body were dissolving, fading like mist in the sun . . . The cherub! He was pursuing her, gaining on her: she could hear in her mind the fearsome noise of the sky-iron. Ailia screamed, hearing this time her own woman’s voice. Her wings were gone, her magic banished. She was falling—falling . . .
“Catch her!” Auron cried, behind her.
And she was seized: Falaar’s claws closed upon her. The talons did not so much as scratch her, but cupped her gently like enfolding hands. The green face of Nemorah was no longer hurtling up to smash her life from her.
Ailia turned her head, saw the red dragon engaged in aerial combat with Auron. Taleera with the glass vial clenched in her beak was flying with all her might toward Falaar. Ailia wailed aloud in impotent fury and anguish. Her prince was in pain—she could not sense his suffering through the iron’s clamor, but she heard it in his cries that rose now above the thunder. She twisted in the cherub’s furred claws, but could not free herself. Oh my love, my love—how dare they hurt you! I will punish them for this—I will blast them from the sky! But she could do nothing.
More dragons arrowed out of the clouds: Mandrake’s Loänan and the firedrakes from Ombar, come to help him and her.
Taleera shifted the phial from her bill to a claw. “Auron! Leave him!” she screamed. “We are at the portal’s threshold!”
The golden dragon broke away from the fight and sped toward them.
“Now!” cried the firebird. “The portal is near! Open up the dragon-way, and let us be gone!”
“No! Let me go!” Ailia shrieked, and she wept as she struggled in Falaar’s claws.
Then the roiling gray tumult of Nemorah’s sky vanished as they plunged together into the twisting tunnel of the Ether.
23
The Leavetaking
THE FLOWERS OF SUMMER bloomed all around Ailia as she sat in the gardens of Halmirion: hibiscus with blossoms the size of dinner plates, billows of pink and wine-purple bougainvillea, huge heavy-headed roses. Butterflies dipped and flickered among the flowers like airborne petals, their painted wings greater in span than those of their kin in Mera, while beyond hedges and rose bowers the plumes of fountains soared higher than any fountain of that distant world. It was the “golden hour”: the sun was setting slowly, its mellowed beams glancing through fountain spray and flower petals.
Mag’s antidote had done its work: Ailia’s mind was fully restored. But gray depression shrouded her thoughts as she sat alone in the pleasance. She had nearly brought disaster on them all, she reflected, with her mad flight to Nemorah. All the warnings of Mandrake’s deceit she had willfully ignored. She would have ended as his mindless thrall: worse, he would have used her powers to strike at those she loved best. And all this would have been her own doing. This much she was able to confess to her father and her guardians. She was filled with revulsion at the memory of what she had done while under the philter’s influence: her savage assault on Syndra, her betrayal of poor faithful Twidjik. The vile draught had not altered her character, but brought up from hidden depths its darker, bestial side: and she saw that darkness and was forced to acknowledge it, shamed and terrified. Is that what I am really like—deep down? she wondered in horror. And now that these evil concealed passions had been unleashed, could she ever hope to force them into hiding again—or would they always be near the surface now?
Her most dreadful secret she kept to herself.
She had been falling in love with Mandrake. That was the cruel irony: the prince, had he but known it, had not needed the philter to win her. Had he not enslaved her with it, she would soon have been willingly his.
Her mission had not been an utter failure, her father assured her gently. Most of the other races of the Celestial Empire had now taken Ailia’s side, so deeply impressed were they by her desperate effort, at extreme risk to her own person, to avert a war. That her attempt at diplomacy had been met with hostility and treachery had turned them against Mandrake and his allies. So something had after all been accomplished: but this was little comfort when a w
ar now seemed inevitable.
And it was not enough to assuage her guilt. I saw something in him—perhaps an echo of his father’s nobility, or perhaps it was something that was his own—a buried good. He wrote the poems of Blyssion—how could he write such words and not have some good in him? It was only a glimpse, but it made me want to help him. To her own ears these sounded like excuses. Perhaps it had been easier to make herself believe this than to do the harder thing and attack him—to destroy him. Did I just take the easy way, out of weakness? She had ignored the advice of Ana and warnings of her guardians, and gone rashly to try and bargain with her cunning foe. And this had all come of a false humility that was (she thought now, feeling wretched) in truth a masked arrogance. “I am not so important as they all believe” she had thought—yet in thinking this she had set her judgment above theirs. She had convinced herself she was unworthy of her position and her appointed task, and persuaded herself that she knew better than they. Had she only placed her whole trust in Auron and Taleera and Ana, she would never have gone to Nemorah.
She looked up, dull-eyed, as her father walked toward her through the garden. Tiron’s face was strangely pale and drawn. He came up to her and took her hand. “Ailia my dear, the Loänan have brought Jomar and Lorelyn back safe from Mera. They wish to speak with you,” he added in a low voice.
Only Jo and Lori? A spasm seized Ailia’s heart, but she could not move or speak. She watched as Jomar and Lorelyn came to her, walking slowly, their faces as haggard as her father’s. They stood looking at her in silence, and she looked back, saying nothing. There was no need for words. Nevertheless, Jomar cleared his throat and spoke. For the first time she heard his deep voice tremble.
“Ailia . . . Damion . . . he—”