Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (32 page)

Her grandfather took another step forward. “Fiona, you don’t need him anymore. I’ll take you home.”

“You can’t go home, human,” spat Jorian. “Haven’t you realized? The Skylords won’t let you. You’re trapped.”

“Then we’ll fight our way out,” sneered Rendor. “But I won’t leave without Fiona.”

“But I don’t have the Starfinder!” Fiona cried. “It’s gone! We gave it to Merceron!”

“I already have the Starfinder, Fiona! I have it!”

“You have it? What . . . ?”

Her grandfather spread out his hands. “I came here for
you
!”

Jorian moved up, gently shoved Fiona aside, and raised up his bow. His hand was already glowing when he picked out an arrow.

“I’m vowed to her,” he told Rendor. “That might not mean anything in the human world, but here it is gold.”

“Jorian, no!” cried Fiona. “You’ll kill him!”

She reached for him, pulling at his arm. Kyros shot forward and dragged her backward.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “Don’t shoot him!”

Determined, Jorian nocked his arrow and drew back on his bow string. The arrow changed to sparkling light amid a cacophony of rifle bolts. Rendor put up his hand to stay his soldiers.

“If you shoot me,” he told Jorian, “you’ll be dead the next second.”

Jorian aimed, ignoring Fiona’s frenzied pleas. “One more step, human.”

Fiona was crazed. She kicked at Kyros, even biting to break his grip, but the old centaur’s arms coiled around her like a python.

“Nessa, stop him!” Fiona pleaded.

Nessa didn’t move. Not a single centaur spoke to aid her. Astonished by their cruelty, Fiona cried out to her grandfather.

“Go back!” she hollered. “I’ll find my way home! I will, I promise!”

Her grandfather held his ground. Staring down the flaming arrow, he took that last, forbidden step.

And Jorian let his arrow fly.

Horrified, Fiona watched it race toward Rendor, watched as her grandfather didn’t flinch, then watched the arrow sail past his ear, up over his soldiers, and into the sky.

Fiona didn’t know what happened. She looked at Jorian, who lowered his bow.

“Let her go,” the Chieftain told Kyros.

Stunned, Fiona fell out of Kyros’ arms. Across the field her grandfather dropped to his knees. Soldiers rushed forward to help him. Jorian held up a hand to keep his own fighters back.

“A brave man,” said the Chieftain. “Like his granddaughter.”

Fiona wanted to slap him. “A test?” she asked, choked by tears. She looked angrily at Nessa. “Even you?”

Jorian bowed down to face her. “He trapped himself here for you,” he said, “but I needed to be certain. Go to him.”

Fiona looked at her grandfather—out of breath and sick-—on his knees in the grass. She hadn’t run to him in years, not since she was a little girl. Now, though, Fiona ran.

SKYHIGH PULLED HIS MESS KIT out from behind the seat of his dragonfly, hopefully opened its metal lid, then scowled with disappointment. His supplies had dwindled to a can of beans and two stale biscuits. Food in hand, he crawled out of his vessel and headed toward the cliff. After two full days of flying he was light-headed and famished, but his efforts were nothing compared to Merceron’s. Somehow, the old dragon had carried him and his fuel-laden dragonfly to the very edge of the world, to a place where only a gigantic canyon separated them from the palace of the Skylords. Overhead the sky continued to darken, forcing Skyhigh to hurry. Once the moon came out, Merceron claimed, the Skylords’ city would glow like fire.

Determined not to miss the show Skyhigh rushed toward the cliff, but paused as he emerged from the sheltering trees. At the very edge of the cliff lay Merceron, flat on his belly with Lady Esme on his head, his chin tucked upon his front claws. Together he and Esme stared longingly across the canyon. Behind the mountains the sun painted the sky a dazzling orange.

“Not much food left,” said Skyhigh as he approached. He sat down beside the dragon on the smooth outcropping of rock, showing him the contents of the mess kit. “We could hunt if you want. Are you hungry? You must be hungry.”

Merceron rolled a disinterested eye toward the biscuits and beans. “I don’t know how you eat that anyway.”

“You get used to it,” said Skyhigh. He fished a can opener out of the box and started working it around the rim of the can. Lady Esme spied the distant palace, entranced by the little specks flying around it—her fellow Skylords. “You’re sure it’s safe out here?” asked Skyhigh. “They might see us.”

“They already know we’re here,” sighed Merceron.

“They do? Then why’d I bother hiding the dragonfly?”

Merceron shrugged. “I didn’t tell you to.”

Annoyed, Skyhigh pretended to turn his back. “Just for that you’re not getting any beans. So, if they know we’re here, why don’t they come for us?”

“Because they have patience,” snapped Merceron. “Every race has patience—except humans. Now would you mind shutting up?” He grumbled as he settled his long chin back onto his claws. “Fifty years, no flying. Then a boy comes along and suddenly I’m flying myself to exhaustion every day . . .”

“What are you muttering about?”

“Nothing. I’m tired. All right?”

Skyhigh offered him a biscuit. “Here . . .”

Merceron batted it away, right over the cliff.

“Hey! That was supper!”

“If you’re hungry, eat,” Merceron growled. “Please, put something in your mouth instead of your tongue.”

Skyhigh stuck his spoon into the beans, silent for a moment as he watched the sinking sun. The moon appeared in the cloudless sky, its silver light beginning to tinge the far-off palace. Skyhigh set aside his tin.

“Merceron, we have to talk.”

“Oh, no . . .”

“What’s our plan? You haven’t told me yet.”

“No?”

“Listen,” said Skyhigh crossly. “For two days you’ve done nothing but fly and keep quiet. I trusted you enough to come along, but the Skylords aren’t going to just hand Moth over to us. I want to know why I’m here. What exactly do you want me to do?”

Finally, Merceron lifted his head. “Trust?”

Skyhigh nodded. “Yeah. I trust you. But I can’t go further until you tell me your plan.”

“That’s not trust,” harrumphed Merceron, and went back to staring at the palace.

His demeanor puzzled Skyhigh. “Why are you doing this?” he asked. “Why are you going after Moth?”

“Why are you?” the dragon countered.

“Because he’s my friend. And I’ve known Moth a lot longer than you have, Merceron, so don’t tell me it’s because he’s your friend, too.” Skyhigh leaned back on his palms. “We’ve got all night, so you might as well start talking.”

Lady Esme walked down to the tip of Merceron’s nose. He snorted gently to move her back to his crown, then asked, “How much did Rendor tell you about me?”

“Not a lot,” said Skyhigh honestly. “Moth, either. He said you were a wizard.” An idea bubbled up. “Is that your plan to rescue Moth? Some sort of spell?”

“Only a human wouldn’t know how ridiculous that sounds.” Merceron closed his rheumy eyes. “Do you have children, Skyhigh?”

“Kids?” chortled Skyhigh. “No, thank heaven.”

“A woman, then? Someone special?”

Skyhigh grinned. “I’ve got a lot of special women, but I don’t think that’s what you mean. Why?”

“Because I have a story to tell,” said Merceron, “but I’m not sure you can understand it.”

“We Skyknights are pretty smart, Merceron. Give it a try.”

“All right, but remember you pushed me into this . . .”

“Go on.”

Merceron kept his eyes shut. “Once there was a young dragon named Elaniel . . .”

Skyhigh laughed. “Sounds like a bedtime story.”

“Are you going to listen?”

“Sorry.”

The dragon started again. “Elaniel was the pride and joy of his parents. His father was a prominent dragon, a leader of his race. All the other dragons believed in him and trusted him, and Elaniel worshiped his father.”

Skyhigh felt uncomfortable suddenly, not liking where the tale was heading. “Okay . . .”

“When the war with the Skylords started,” Merceron went on, “all the dragons had to decide whether or not to fight. Elaniel’s father wanted to fight, so Elaniel went with him. He thought nothing could happen to him. He trusted his father to protect him.” Merceron opened his eyes, his gaze empty. “He
trusted
.”

Skyhigh didn’t need Merceron to finish the story. “Elaniel. He was your son.”

“Yes,” said Merceron softly. He searched Skyhigh for understanding. “What do you think it feels like to lose a child, Skyhigh? Can you imagine that feeling? Can you comprehend it at all?”

The answer came to Skyhigh easily. “I think,” he said sadly, “that it’s a tragedy of unbearable proportions.”

The phrase made Merceron smile. “Unbearable proportions. You’re a poet, Skyknight! Maybe now you understand. Elaniel trusted me and died. Lady Esme trusted me and got turned into a bird for it. Our friend Moth is just one of many. But this time I can do something about it. I can save him.”

“I believe you,” said Skyhigh. “But how?”

Merceron went back to gazing across the canyon. Skyhigh remained beside him, silent. It wasn’t the palace Merceron was watching, Skyhigh realized, but the dying sunset.

MOTH AND THE CLOUD HORSE spiraled up to the very top of the training chamber, the circle growing smaller and smaller with each revolution. Together they had performed the exercise a hundred times, so that now Moth could control the creature with only the smallest movements of his body. Above him, frets of sunlight poured down from the glass roof. Moth released the golden reins, reached up both hands, and touched the warm glass. Here in the Palace of the Moon, above even the clouds, the days were always perfect.

He pulled back his hands, took up the reins again, and slowly wheeled the cloud horse down again. Alisaundra sat with her back against the wall, her knees tucked up to her chest, watching curiously as Moth and the cloud horse glided to the ground. She had spent the morning watching him, no longer spying on him from the shadows or hiding when he called her. Now she was his constant companion. Moth wasn’t sure, but it looked like she’d even brushed her hair.

“You fly like me now!” she called to him. “Only not so well.”

“Soon,” Moth promised, and turned the creature up again in a flaring pirouette. “Once Artaios lets me outside with her, I’ll show you what she can do.”

Alis’ expression soured. “Do not ask him for favors,” she warned. “Remember?”

Moth remembered, but couldn’t help himself. The lure of the cloud horse was everything Artaios hoped it would be, and too much for Moth to resist. With so little to occupy his time, the cloud horse was the one bright spot in his captivity. He trained with the creature every day, spending hours in the glass-roofed chamber, sometimes with Artaios himself. While the Skylord plied Moth with questions—just as Alis had predicted—Moth learned what he could from Artaios, getting to know and love the cloud horse the way Skyknights loved their dragonflies. He had even given the creature a name—Comet, because of its long, glowing tail.

“Don’t tell him I’ve been riding without hands,” said Moth as he steered the cloud horse through the chamber. “I’m trusting you, okay?”

Alis raised a scaly eyebrow. “I cannot lie to my Master.”

“No, but do you have to tell him everything?” Moth brought the creature up alongside her. “Listen,” he whispered, “we’re friends now, right? That’s what friends do. They keep secrets for each other. If you want to be human again that’s part of it.”

Alis nodded. “I understand. I remember.”

Moth smiled, noting her hair again. “You look nice today.” He hesitated. “Pretty.”

Her scaly face seemed to blush. “I . . . am trying.” Her tone grew confessional. “I remember more things now. Family things. I will tell you later.”

“Yeah, better wait,” agreed Moth. Artaios always arrived for Moth’s lesson promptly, but today the Skylord was already late, and Moth knew he’d come soon. “You should stand up now, too.”

Alis took his suggestion, standing tall and instantly affecting a scowl. A second later, Artaios flew into the chamber, making even Comet jump.

“Egg!” bellowed Artaios as he hit the ground. “It’s time.”

 

Moth followed Artaios toward the Hall of Convocation. Confused, frightened, he walked behind the Skylord, followed closely by Alisaundra. Korace was already seated on his throne. Moth could see the decrepit ruler across the corridor. Around him, the galleries were crowded with Skylords.

“What’s this?” Moth asked, alarmed.

Artaios paused at the end of the corridor and peered into the arena.

“Egg,” he directed. “Look.”

Moth had to force himself forward. Part of him expected to see a gallows or a headsman. Artaios put an arm around his shoulder, coaxing him out into the arena. In the center of the hall stood Merceron, head held high, smoke curling from his nostrils. Lady Esme rested on his shoulder. Next to him stood Skyhigh, small but ramrod straight, his face defiant.

“Skyhigh!” Moth called. “Merceron!”

The two turned toward Moth without a word. Before Moth could go to them, Artaios grabbed his shoulder.

“Stay.”

“Artaios, let me go!”

“They’ve come to bargain for you, Egg,” said Artaios darkly. “Hold him,” he ordered Alisaundra, then strode out toward the throne. The crowd cheered at his appearance. Alis bent her lips to Moth’s ear.

“Careful,” she whispered. “Mind what you say.”

Atop his massive silver throne, Korace put out a trembling hand for his son. Artaios stooped to kiss it. Together they glared at Merceron. Slowly, the clamor subsided. Skyhigh gave Moth a reassuring nod as Alisaundra led him out.