Shadow of a Dark Queen (18 page)

“Time grows short. The heat tires me and I sleep more each day. Soon I shall enter the birth sleep and then shall I end this phase of existence.”

“Time grows short indeed. How much longer will we have your guidance?”

“Already the future grows clouded and dim to me. My daughter will not have the gift for the first twenty years of her life, so soon, for five years of my birth sleep and twenty years of my daughter's infancy, you will be as you were before I came to this world. There is more.”

“What?”

“Much of what I should see I cannot, which means only that my own future is involved; for to all creatures, even me, knowledge of their own future is denied.”

The Oracle of Aal was considered the oldest being in the universe, ancient when the Valheru rose to challenge the gods during the Chaos Wars. Thinking of that, Miranda turned to look at a dais behind the oracle. Willing a shift in her perception, the woman saw the stone flick into existence. A fey green in color, it pulsed with an inner light. She stared at its hypnotic rhythms for a moment, then said, “Are they stirring again?”

“They are always stirring,” said the oracle. “Now they move with more vigor. Somehow they still have influence with those outside who are receptive to their call.”

“They” were the Valheru, the ancient beings known as the Dragon Lords to most inhabitants of the world. Trapped by forces even beyond their own
ability to understand, they were bound in the stone by a mysterious agent. From the stone rose a golden sword with an ivory pommel. The woman named Miranda knew that a half century before, a great battle had raged in the city above, called Sethanon, and in this chamber a battle of equal proportion took place. The strange half-man, half-Valheru Tomas, inheritor of the mantle and power of Ashen-Shugar, the Ruler of the Eagles' Reaches, battled a creature of spirit in the form of his ancient kinsman Draken-Koren, the Lord of Tigers. At that time, Pug of Stardock, magician of two worlds, and Macros the Black, sorcerer nonpareil, battled to hold closed a tear between two universes, aided by two Tsurani Great Ones, magicians from the world of Kelewan. And the dragon, Ryath, battled a Dread Lord, a creature from an alien space-time, whose very touch drained life.

In the end, the Valheru had been trapped within the stone, the Dread Lord vanquished at the cost of Ryath's life, and all the forces supporting the false prophet Murmandamus vanquished. Not one soldier on either side, in the Kingdom or serving the moredhel chieftain, knew what the war had been about. No one among the highest-ranking chieftains of the Nations of the North—as the dark elves and goblins were called—knew that Murmandamus had been a Pantathian serpent priest magically transformed to resemble their legendary leader. Only the King's family and a few trusted friends knew of the Lifestone and the presence of the Oracle.

And now the primary defender of the Lifestone, the magic and physical entity of the oracle dragon, was dying.

“How will this change take place?” asked Miranda.

The dragon lifted her head and nodded slightly to the right, where six robed figures stood speaking softly to one another. “These, my husband servants, they are already making their transformation.”

The figures removed their hoods and Miranda could see faces that were little more than those of boys. The dragon continued, “When the heat began to rise, I made the call, and youths from around the area, those with a certain gift, answered. They wandered from their homes and came to Malac's Cross, to where the statue stands, and then I brought them here. Those that were lacking the true gifts needed were sent away, and thought only that they had been dreaming. Those who chose to stay were allowed to test, and those who failed were also sent away, with little memory of their time here. But these six are the first of the youths who have proven worthy to stand at my daughter's side.”

Six elderly men came to stand next to the six youths. “These, who are their teachers, will join with me to create that which will be my daughter, and when they are done, these bodies will die. Then will the remaining spirit and knowledge enter these six young men.” To another group on the other side of the hall the dragon motioned, and another six older men came forth. “I hope more of the young who have come to us prove worthy, for those who have no successor when it comes time to die . . . their knowledge is lost forever.”

Miranda said, “Only twelve of you?”

“Had Pug not fetched us from our dying world, there would be none of us. And should a thirteenth
worthy child come to us before the birthing, he, too, can become one with us. If a girl child comes, then another daughter, to serve with the first daughter. We may yet grow in number, we of the Aal.”

Miranda hid her impatience. She had other concerns at present. “Then you birth your daughter?”

“Then my spirit joins with the spirits of my husband servants and we meld entirely, all memory and feeling, all pain and joy, to one consciousness, and that is split again, and those boys will be our sons, and my daughter shall be formed.”

“The new Oracle?”

“She shall be.”

“And what body will she inhabit? I see no young girl here.”

“This dragon's body is magic; it is strong beyond any that the Oracle has used since our oldest memory. It shall be used again.'

“So this is why you will not be with us for twenty-five years?”

“Yes. She will be a child, even though she will have my powers eventually.”

Miranda sighed audibly. “At least she'll be a large enough girl to give anyone pause should they break in.” For a moment she considered. “Do you know where Pug is?”

The Oracle closed her eyes and considered. “He is absent from his island. I sense him out there”—she made a vague gesture with her head—“among the worlds.”

“Damn,” Miranda swore. “I think we will need him here before your daughter is strong enough to defend this hall.” She considered something in silence a while. “How long before you enter the final heat?”

“We join in less than a year, Miranda. Then I shall be gone, for with the re-forming, something is always lost. This is why we, who were old when the stars were new, why we remember little of our own beginning. But in that rebirth, more strength and knowledge come, and she who follows after me shall be eventually my equal, then at last my better.”

Miranda muttered, “If we live that long.”

“Dark tides are forming. They rise against distant shores but shall reach even here, eventually.”

“I must be gone. There is little time and much to be done. I fear a great many foolish choices have already been made and that we depend too much on auguries and portents.”

“You chose a strange audience for that argument,” answered the Oracle.

“That you've been useful is without question,” said the young woman. “But fate is not immutable, I believe. I think one can seize destiny if one is but willing to make the attempt.”

“So believe those who oppose you,” said the Oracle. “This is the root of the problem.”

“Those are deluded fanatics, who live in a mad dream that has no basis in reality. They bring death and pain for no cause whatsoever.”

“True, but they share your sense of self-determination.”

“On that note,” Miranda said dryly, “I bid you farewell. Are you sufficiently protected here?”

“Our arts are sufficient for all but the most powerful.”

“Then I shall be gone. Will we meet again?”

“I do not know,” said the Oracle. “Too many possible endings appear to my mind, and none clearly marked as likely.”

“Then fare you well on your journey to immortality, and pray that we lesser beings live long enough to greet your daughter when she comes into her own.”

“You have my wishes for success,” said the dragon.

Then the young woman was gone, vanished from before their eyes with little more than a gust of wind filling the empty place where she had stood.

To the one most senior among her companions the dragon said with a chuckle, “She is much like her father, don't you think? That touch of the cynical in her nature could be the weak spot that undoes her. I hope fate is kind to her.”

The seniormost companion said, “Very much like her father.”

Winds swept the figure atop the hill, blowing her cloak and robes in billowing wings behind her. Smoke from distant fires stung her eyes as she beheld the carnage below. Riders were hunting down stragglers, raping and killing for sport. Using her arts, she studied in detail one scene after another. Men made like animals in the fury of battle now visited pain and destruction on helpless men, women, and children. She balled her fists in rage, but stayed her hand. Those who commanded the riders would descend upon her in an instant if she revealed her presence magically. While fear was not her companion, prudence was, and she understood her worth lay in being able to accomplish many things between now and the time of true battle. When that issue was decided, the fate of a world and more would hang in the balance, not the lives of these pitiful wretches.

Even at this distance, the cries of pain carried on the wind, and Miranda turned away from them as she moved down the hillside. For the time being she willed her heart to stone, for while she ached to help these few survivors, she knew that far more critical issues demanded her attention.

As she approached the scene of battle, she crouched low. Ducking behind low rocks, she waited as a company of drunken warriors wearing emerald armbands rode by, a screaming woman held across the neck of one man's horse. Miranda felt her face flush in rage. She willed herself to calmness; losing her head now would help no one.

Skirting the action, she came to a village in ruin. No building had been left standing—a solitary wall here, a charred doorframe there, but nothing that could be remotely called shelter. Acrid smoke stung Miranda's eyes as she searched for any signs of life.

Seeing none, she ventured deeper into the village, seeking any information that would prove useful. In the distance, she saw movement, and ducking behind a section of wall, she waited. Another company of horsemen rode by, less vigilant than they should have been, but not the drunken roisterers she had seen earlier. These were seasoned soldiers, Miranda calculated. These men were not mere mercenaries but those posted to the central companies of the invaders' forces. By being at this location, she now had a fair estimate of the invaders' rate of march. Cursing quietly, for it was faster than she had suspected, she moved away from the center of the village. She could will herself away at any time, but she was tired, and the effort to cloak her presence from her enemies was taking its toll. A little undisturbed rest in a quiet
place would be needed for her to leave this area and not let her enemy know she had observed.

Miranda ducked through a burned doorframe, between two still-standing sections of wall, and even her iron-willed composure cracked at the sight that greeted her. Gasping, she had to put her hand out and grip the doorjamb, for her knees went weak as the sight of dead children greeted her. Tiny bodies charred to blackness were piled in the center of the fire-gutted building. Miranda felt a low animal growl of pain and wrath building in her throat and bit it back as rage threatened to overwhelm her composure. She knew well that should any of the monsters who had visited this horror on the children blunder within her sight, she would destroy him without thought, without regard for the consequences to her or her mission.

Forcing herself to calm, she took two deep breaths and fought back tears of anguish. Babies with smashed heads were placed upon older children with charred arrows still protruding from them. At least, thought Miranda, the children had been killed before the building had been set alight. Bitterly she wondered if death from a blade or arrow was, in truth, kinder than dying in flames. Bidding peace to the souls of those tormented tiny bodies, she left the building.

She picked her way amid the rubble to the outskirts of the village farthest from where she had last seen the raiders. She peered around the corner of what had once been an inn and saw nothing. Dashing from the village across a rivulet running down from the hills, she made it to a copse of trees. There she almost died.

The woman was terrified and so her knife slash went wide, but Miranda still took a cut along her left forearm. Biting back a cry of pain, Miranda reached out and gripped the woman's wrist with her right hand. A quick twist and the woman was forced to release the blade.

Hissing in pain and anger, Miranda said softly, “Silence, fool! I'll not hurt you.” Then she saw the two cowering children behind the woman. “Or your babies.” Her tone softened a bit. She released the woman's wrist and inspected damage done to her arm. Miranda saw a shallow wound, and she closed her right hand over it.

“Who are you?” said the woman.

“I am called Miranda.”

The woman's eyes welled with tears and she said, “They . . . they're killing the children.”

Miranda closed her eyes a moment, then nodded. Women the raiders could use awhile along the line of march before they finally killed them, but children would be useless. Slavers following the main army might take them, but out here at the leading edge of battle, all little ones could do was inform enemies of what they had seen.

Gasping through the tears, the woman said, “They picked up the babies and swung them by the heels—”

Miranda said, “Enough,” but her tone, while firm, was also pained. “Enough,” she repeated softly, ignoring the wetness gathering in her own eyes. She had seen the tiny crushed skulls. “I know.”

Then she took account of who stood before her. The woman's eyes were wide with terror, but would be judged large under normal conditions. Her ears were upswept beneath blond locks and possessed no lobes.

Miranda glanced down at the children: they were twins. Miranda's own eyes widened in disbelief as she asked, “You are what they call ‘of the long-lived'?”