by Alison Baird
In the cruelest of ironies, it was he who had taught her to take that form.
She was now adept at shape-shifting, a difficult skill. Her Loänan powers were emerging. Before long she would command the weather and move from world to world at will. And these were but the first, eager graspings at a power that would, if unchecked, one day seek to hold all the Celestial Empire in its sway. But the Morugei, goblins especially, would never accept Ailia’s rule. The memory of Valdur’s commandments was too strong in them still. What was needed was another ruler, who could control the Morugei and yet also prevent the Loänan and other races from warring with them—a ruler who would inspire fear on both sides. Only he could do so—and only then would there be true peace in Talmirennia. So he told himself, as he reposed in the depths of the warm dark pool within his inner sanctum, and while he mused on the future he gave no more thought to what might be happening in the worlds beyond.
JOMAR STOOD ON THE BATTLEMENT of the fortress of Yanuvan, looking out on the great plaza beneath. It was crowded as always, but the crowds were more orderly than they had been in earlier days. And the Mohara and other peoples of the world of Mera now mingled with the native Zimbourans, a thing that would have been unheard of during Khalazar’s reign. All slaves had been freed after the tyrant’s fall; even the lions and tigers and other beasts in the royal arena had been released into the wild. The drought was ended; the rains had been steady and constant and the crops flourished. All the old prophecies of this land seemed to have come true in the wake of Ailia’s arrival.
The Princess had come to Zimboura months before, and had spent many days sitting alone in the ruins of Valdur’s temple. It was a grim place. The sacrificial shaft beneath its inner sanctum was no man-made delving, but a natural chasm in the earth, deep beyond reckoning: if one dropped a stone into its dark depths, no sound of it striking bottom could be heard. The Moharas in ancient days had feared and shunned this abyss, saying it was the entrance to a shadowy netherworld from which evil spirits might emerge. The Zimbourans, arriving centuries later, had made it the center of their worship and cast slain sacrifices into its gaping mouth; in later centuries they had built their temple over it. But it had claimed its final victim. The crowd in their fury had slain Farola, the priest who murdered Damion Athariel, and thrown the old man’s body into the temple shaft. They would have done the same with the captive high priest Berengazi and all the clerics of Valdur, down to the half-wit acolyte who had served at Farola’s side, had Ailia not intervened. They believed Farola’s testimony, however, that Damion’s body had not been cast into that dark hole: that the young priest had instead been transformed in the moment of sacrifice, and become a being of light who ascended to the heavens. Many claimed to have had visions of him at the site, now sacred to him rather than to Valdur.
Ailia had waited patiently in that terrible sanctuary for a vision of her own. Then she had lost faith that Damion lived still, and her intense grief in combination with her sorcerous powers had affected the very atmosphere, causing rain to fall. The water had seeped into the sands, finding there the husks of dormant seeds awaiting the end of the drought, and the desert had bloomed as it had in days of old, with greenery and flowers of many hues: so the old Mohara story of the sky-goddess and her consort had been fulfilled. As Nayah had wept for the fallen earth-god Akkar, taken from her down into the nether realm, so Ailia had mourned for Damion, and with the same result. Power had descended from the sky and breathed life back into the land.
Ailia had afterward met and talked with Wakunga the Mohara shaman, before departing from Zimboura in secret, by night. Wakunga could not say where she had gone. “I said only that she could not simply wait for Damion to appear, but must seek for him as the goddess sought her consort. She would know the place,” he explained.
Jomar’s response to this had been a colorful profanity, but there was no help for it: in the Princess’s absence he had been forced to take the reins of power in Zimboura, as a temporary measure. He had yet to sit upon the throne itself: the jeweled and gilded Sun Throne, that Valdur’s worshippers had set up centuries ago as a rival to the Tryna Lia’s Moon Throne in Arainia. Khalazar and his predecessors had imagined themselves conquering the Princess even as the sun outshines the moon in the sky. Jomar regarded the great golden chair as the symbol of everything he detested: tyranny, privilege, and overweening pride. But he had accepted the onerous mantle of responsibility for his native realm.
He was hailed as a hero of the Great Revolt, and accepted by both races since he was of mixed Moharan and Zimbouran blood. And so far all had gone smoothly. Zimboura was recovering from her wounds, and Queen Marjana reported that all was well in her realm of Shurkana also, now that she was free to reclaim its Lotus Throne. But in the north Khalazar’s remaining supporters had changed their allegiance to the new Avatar, Mandrake. They had an army of their own and command of the Zimbouran Armada, which still roamed the seas beyond Jomar’s reach. And there were the comets too, the latest of the bombardments caused by Azarah’s disruption of the ice-cloud far out in the void. Comets were viewed by all the peoples of Mera as sinister portents, a belief no doubt stemming from old memories of the first Disaster. Nothing Jomar could say would assuage the people’s growing dread of these “signs” in the heavens. He knew that their apprehension, though fueled by superstition, was founded in fact.
Jomar felt very alone. Damion was lost; Taleera, Ailia’s T’kiri guardian, had returned to her own distant world, Kirah-kyah, to consult with the elders of her race; and the dragon Auron, along with the other Loänan, fought another battle far beyond the sky. Lorelyn, growing restless at her lack of any useful role here, had finally chosen to join the Loänan. “You’re needed here, Jo,” she had told him, her blue eyes looking earnestly into his. “And so is Ailia. But I’m not.”
I need you, he had wanted to say. But as always he had not managed to get the words out; and she had departed, soaring away through the heavens on a dragon’s back.
He left the battlement and went back down the stone staircase to his private receiving room. Kiran Jariss was there with Yehosi the chief eunuch. The latter bowed low, but Kiran greeted Jomar with a lazy wave of the hand. “Hail, son of Jemosa, King of Zimboura!”
“I’m not your king,” growled Jomar, throwing himself down on a divan. “How many times must I say that? The people can go choose themselves a ruler.”
“The people choose you. They want you to take the throne, Jomar.”
“I don’t want it. Help yourself to some wine.” He spoke the last words dryly: Kiran was already finishing the flagon on the table. But Jomar was grateful for the young Zimbouran’s irreverence. It made a welcome change from the awe and obsequious veneration he received from everyone else in the castle. And Kiran had played an important role of his own in the overthrow of Khalazar, at considerable danger to himself. It was he who had sought out Jomar and Lorelyn and their fellow rebels in the desert, had spied for them, and in the last days of Khalazar’s reign had helped to stir the restive populace into open revolt against him. He had led the angry mobs to the arena where Jomar battled for his life, freeing him, and then accompanied him to the storming of Yanuvan.
“Since we’re on the topic of royalty, how is Jari doing?” Jomar went on, seeking to shift the subject away from the kingship.
Kiran had taken in the son of the tyrant when the boy’s mother fled back to her family in the country, leaving behind the child she feared as much as her royal husband. Since he had contrived Khalazar’s downfall, Kiran felt that he owed Jari a new home by way of compensation. “He is adjusting, shall we say,” the young Zimbouran replied, sipping his wine. “The truth is he saw very little of his father, and does not mourn him overmuch. Jari knows he must not mention to anyone that he is Khalazar’s child, and he has stopped putting on airs about it at home. My own children sit on him—quite literally—if he does.”
Yehosi, who had been patiently waiting his turn to speak, now stepped forward and
said, “If it please you, Zayim, an emissary from Maurainia has arrived in the city and requests a meeting with you.”
“It doesn’t please me. But tell him I’ll see him shortly,” Jomar answered.
Yehosi bowed again and turned as if to go, then paused. “The people are asking when Nayah will return to them, Zayim.”
“Her name is Ailia, not Nayah. She isn’t a goddess, and she never claimed she was. As to when she’s returning, tell them I don’t know.”
Yehosi shifted his weight, looking uneasy. “They will not believe me. They will say I have not truly spoken with you, that I am lying to them. You are her trusted prophet, they will say: you must know when she will come back.” Again he hesitated. “I am not young, my lord, and I have seen three kings fall from grace and power in this land. Khalazar was but the latest. The people here may worship a ruler one day, and hate him the next. I do not make threats, lord, I only wish to warn you. I would see you reign for many more years.”
“But I must play to the mobs, and humor them? That is exactly why I won’t be your king.” Jomar cast a pointed glance at Kiran Jariss.
“Yehosi, you trouble yourself unnecessarily,” said Kiran, patting the eunuch on the shoulder. “I know what it is that you would say. But our Zayim is no tyrant, and will never do anything to turn the people against him. It is your own welfare that you fear for. You know Jomar is better than any ruler we have ever had, and that you will continue to enjoy peace and comfort within these walls so long as he stays in power. And he will, you’ll see! You shall live to a ripe old age under his reign.”
Yehosi bowed again. “You are most kind. Had I known more of this Zayim and his Tryna Lia, I would never have feared them. But I did not understand . . . You have heard how Ailia once appeared before our court in a phantom form, and spoke to Khalazar?”
“Yes, though I doubted the veracity of the report, since I was not there to see and hear for myself,” Kiran replied.
“I was not there either, master, but I was in an adjacent chamber. I could not see her, nor hear her properly: the screaming of the courtiers drowned out much of what she said, and I fled and hid myself under a table that was near at hand, and dared not stir until the commotion ceased. But I did hear her mention death and destruction—”
Jomar rubbed his temple and groaned. “She only meant that Khalazar would bring those things on his people and hers, if he started a war.”
“So I understand now. And so do most other Zimbourans. But some still labor under the false impression that she means us harm, and these have gone over to Prince Morlyn. I would not see more of them do so. Her speedy return would help to ensure that they do not.” One last time he bowed, lower than ever, the top of his bald head nearly touching the floor; and then he departed.
A great cry went up from the crowd outside, and Jomar rose and went back out onto the battlement. He glanced up, shielding his eyes against the sun, half-expecting to see one of the comets plunging down to the earth. Instead he saw a dragon, its scales gleaming golden as it descended toward the fortress. He relaxed. It was an Imperial dragon: these creatures were on the side of Ailia and the Emperor. This was no marauder, but a benevolent emissary. As Jomar stared, squinting against the sun, he saw it had a rider on its back, clad in armor that glinted silver. A Paladin.
With a rush of wind the great beast alighted atop the battlements. Jomar strode forward, his short cloak whipping in the wind, to greet the rider. The armored figure sprang lightly down, doffing its plumed helmet to reveal a mop of blond hair. His heart lifted. He ran forward and gave the Paladin a bear hug, armor and all.
“Lorelyn! It’s you! I wondered when you’d be back.”
She smiled back at him. “Oh, Jomar, it is good to see you too. We’ve been hearing such a lot of things about you. But what is all this about Ailia leaving Zimboura?”
“Come inside,” said Jomar, his smile vanishing again. “I’ll tell you all about it. Is he coming too?”—gesturing toward the shining bulk of the dragon.
“She,” Lorelyn corrected. “No, she says she must go back to the fighting. Thank you, Gallada.”
The golden dragon dipped its head, and then spread its shimmering wings again as Jomar led Lorelyn inside. The fierce-looking Mohara guards with spears in their hands snapped to attention as the pair passed along the corridors. Their dark faces blazed with pride: once they had been the slaves of Zimboura, and now the black-skinned people freely walked the halls of Yanuvan.
Jomar ushered Lorelyn into the receiving room. Seeing them, Kiran rose, grinning. “Hullo, Kiran!” said Lorelyn.
“It is good to see you again, Lady Lorelyn. I will leave the two of you alone now,” the Zimbouran added, in a knowing tone that made Jomar long to hit him.
“I think I will go take my armor off first, and have a bath,” Lorelyn said.
“I will show you to a guest room, then,” offered Kiran.
Sitting in a mahogany chair, his sandaled feet resting on the skin of a lion, Jomar waited for Lorelyn to return. At long last she reappeared, clad in a loose-flowing green gown, her short blond hair newly washed and soft. She was beautiful, he thought, though not in any dainty, traditional way, and she looked fresh as a flower, a tall green-stemmed lily with a golden head. It was odd that he, who feared nothing in the way of mortal danger or violence, could not quite bring himself to broach his growing love for this woman. She showed no sign of feeling the same for him, and Lorelyn would not hold with any conventional nonsense about “letting the man speak first”: she was open and honest with her emotions, always. To her they were fellow warriors, comrades in arms who had faced countless perils together, and she appeared content with their friendship. No doubt she would view a declaration of love—even supposing he could ever manage to find the right words—as an unwanted complication. If he wanted more from her, he would have to bide his time and hope she would learn to see him in a new light.
But it was good at least to have a friend with him again. He pushed a pitcher of citronade and a bowl of fruit toward her. “Here—you must be hungry.”
“I’m ravenous,” she replied cheerfully. “I’ve been watching the dragons turn the comets, and helping them when I could. There are beings from the other worlds joining us: I never saw so many strange-looking creatures in all my life! It’s like one of Ailia’s stories. Jomar, where is she? Is it some secret mission?”
“Ailia has run off,” said Jomar in a flat voice. “She’s been in a mood ever since we came here. I never saw her smile, not once. It’s because she couldn’t find . . .”
“Damion,” said Lorelyn softly. “Yes, she told me she had begun to wonder if she dreamed it all. About him being alive still.”
Jomar nodded, looking glum. “I wish he were—I’d give anything if Damion really had gotten away somehow . . .” A roughness entered his voice and he stared at the table’s inlaid top. “I miss him.”
Lorelyn too looked down, her pageboy hair falling about her face. Something in the mournful picture she made caused Jomar’s throat to constrict even further. He cleared it with an effort, and continued. “The people just fell all over her when she came. She came in style, after all: riding on a dragon. Kiran told me all about it. He says the people were too scared to go right up to her, because of Auron, but they filled the plaza and the noise was enough to deafen a man. To them, you know, she’s a sort of goddess.”
“I don’t think she liked that,” said Lorelyn. “She had enough of that sort of treatment in Arainia.”
“No, she didn’t like it—but there was nothing she could do about it. According to Wakunga, Damion gave his life to grant her that title, and she couldn’t let his sacrifice be for nothing. She told me so. But it ate away at her the whole time she was here. Finally she just ran off. Didn’t take the Star Stone with her, didn’t even tell me she was going—just left a message with Yehosi.” He drew a piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to her.
Lorelyn’s blue eyes widened as she read the n
ote scribbled on it.
Dear Jomar,
Please don’t be angry. I feel a great danger is coming and I must be ready for it. I have decided to go to Maurainia and look for Ana. I feel sure that she is still alive, though we have not heard from her, and there is much I wish to consult her about.
I promise I will return, and hope I will be stronger when I do.
Ailia
“How long has she been gone?” asked Lorelyn.
“Going on a couple of weeks now. The people are growing restless, wanting to know where their goddess is, especially now that the rebels in the north are getting noisy. They’re losing faith. We need Ailia, Lori.”
“It’s worse than you think,” she said. “I know how you feel, Jomar, but this country—this whole world—is only a little speck of dust in all of Talmirennia. There are worlds going to war up there in the sky, for all it looks so peaceful of nights. Their ambassadors have been telling us about it. The Loänan empire is divided and in the middle of its own war. Goblins and firedrakes have been raiding other planets. It’s all so enormous I can hardly hold it all inside my head. But there are as many stars out there as grains of sand in the desert, and they might all end up at war.”
“I can guess who’s at the bottom of it,” said Jomar, looking grim.
“Yes, it’s Mandrake. Or Prince Morlyn, or whatever you want to call him—he seems to have a different name for every world he’s been to. He’s been stirring up trouble all over the Empire, trying to carve out an empire of his own. He’s taking over world after world, they say, killing any Valei who try to resist him, and now he’s sending firedrakes to burn and kill on the Imperial worlds. Jomar, he must be stopped.”
“I’ll be glad to oblige,” he replied, fingering a jeweled dagger at his hip. “How would you like a necklace made of dragon-teeth?”
“Don’t be absurd!” Lorelyn burst out, rising to her feet. “You can’t kill him! None of us can—except for Ailia. We’ve got to find her! I don’t like this—her running off, I mean. It’s as though—as though she were running away—from him. Something happened to her when he held her in his castle. I’ve tried to get her to tell me, but she won’t talk about it. She has to defeat the Dragon Prince, or everything will keep on going wrong.”