Veil of the Dragon (Prophecy of the Evarun) (13 page)

Chapter Twelve

Blood and Prophecy

In solemn splendor, the Servian Knights lined up along either side of the narrow path, their heads bowed over the pommels of their upraised swords.

White robes covered their chain mail coats, the symbol of the prostrate cross struck red upon their chests. Around them, the last remaining leaves fell like solemn motes in the dawn light filtering down between their Gossamer Blades, the glimmer of their steel mute beneath the fabric which held them.

The Servian Knights recited prayers in the tongue of the Evarun, the words and the notes of their voices resounded with hope and mourning. 

The Mother, in black robes with her deep cowl drawn across her eyes, waited at the line’s end. Maedelous stood opposite her, his legion lorica ill-fitting and worn and from an age already passed. The Gossamer Blades of both hung at their waists.

Chaelus waited as the Servian Knights who were to lead him passed by; not two, but four of them.

Al-Thinneas bowed his head. “The Happas Servius will take us north to Magedos and your purpose there. We’ll make for Hallas Barren, the northern gate, by day’s end. The way isn’t hard, but there our rest will end. Beyond it the broken wilds of the Abadain hold sway.”

Al-Aaron drew up close behind Al-Thinneas, permitted, somehow, by the Mother to come. Much of Al-Aaron’s pallor had withdrawn with the night’s passing. It was as if his belief in the Nephelium alone had healed him. Yet beneath his unexpected vigor, Chaelus knew that the Dragon’s shadow still burgeoned inside Al-Aaron, just as it had in him, unseen and unknown. He could only hope that the boy who had raised him from the cenotaph’s dark well remembered this too.

Chaelus seized Al-Aaron’s shoulder. “The Dragon’s poison still claims you.”

Al-Aaron pulled away. Though his pallor had diminished, he was still weak and his eyes had lost much of their glimmer. Only the sternness, that was never intended for a child, remained. 

“Why do you do this?” Chaelus asked.

“Because I promised to,” Al-Aaron murmured.

The woman named Al-Mariam followed Chaelus, but not the cause he served.  Chaelus watched her keep her stare away from him. He waited as the scent of her lavender passed. For whatever reason, the Mother had sent her to come as well, and Al-Mariam’s quest, for now at least, was hers alone. Just so long as her blade remained that way as well.

Al-Hoanar, the Goarnni, was last among the four. His blade – a spigot, one of the gladatorial weapons of his people – hung upon his armless side. Gossamer bound the spigot’s thick stabbing blade but did little to hide the not so subtle promise of the hand’s breadth spike protruding from the back of its hilt.

Al-Hoanar slowed as he passed and murmured, his voice muffled by his thick braided beard. “The wards which protect this place only guard against the darkness we bring. They do nothing against the darkness we take with us.”

The shadows of the upraised swords danced over Chaelus as he followed the four Servian Knights. At the procession’s end, the light touch of the Mother’s hand rested upon him. “Be still,” she whispered. “Be wary.”

The piercing stare of Maedelous, and all the whispers it brought, along with the unexpected warning of Al-Hoanar and the Mother, pursued Chaelus as he passed.

Still sunlight undressed the shadow of the white road beyond them, beyond the Garden of Rua. Gray rock slopes ascended alongside it into the still dark shadows of the forest.

Few words passed amongst Chaelus and his new companions as the forest of Sanseveria diminished into a thin cloak that struggled over the rocky hills and falls of the hillocks of the Abadain.

Few thoughts passed through Chaelus. Even the normal wariness that kept a man alive spoke nothing to him. Perhaps some of the peace of the Garden remained, or perhaps just a veil.

The shadows of the day shortened, then grew.

Twinned ivory stone columns welcomed the evening’s call in the shape of languid trees, rising from either side of the Happas Servius as it climbed a hilltop. The columns’ sinuous arms reached across from one to the other, forming an arch above the path. 

The full moon rose. The rusting light of the sun passed to mark the lapsing of the day. Soft gray shadows reached away from the stones and scattered bones that lay across the open courtyard beyond.

Chaelus let his hand fall to Sundengal’s hilt. His fingers tightened over it as the dying sun gasped upon the dead faces there. 

Beyond the arches, Al-Thinneas set his pack beneath a broken wall. “Here’s where hope fled.”

Al-Hoanar grunted as he settled next to Al-Thinneas. “It’s where they fled.”

In silence, Al-Aaron continued past. Al-Mariam did as well, disappearing into the shadow of the trees beneath the ruin.

“The Evarun and the Gorondians were once a single race,” Al-Thinneas said.  “It’s said they were born from a time before even the Dragon itself. But their hearts weren’t the same, and it was from their hearts that the Dragon came. The Evarun wept as they watched the Gorondians fall, seduced by themselves, seduced by the Dragon’s call. The Evarun wept for them, but they wouldn’t share their end. Confident in their piety, the Evarun retreated to a place where they believed the Dragon’s shadow couldn’t find them.”

Chaelus knew the story well, having scribed it many times before. He stared, distracted by where Al-Aaron’s silhouette climbed alone to the ruins’ summit. 

“It’s not unlike the Servian Knights’ own lament,” he offered.

Al-Thinneas gave a quiet smile. “I have thought so myself, but have spoken little of it. Perhaps this is another reason why you’re here.”

Al-Hoanar stared at Chaelus. The Goarnni’s face was humorless, but nonetheless thoughtful. 

“The Gorondians wouldn’t let the Evarun go,” he said. “Amongst the dead here are the Evarun who stayed behind to fight them, so their own people could be free. That we don’t follow them is a lament all its own.”

Al-Aaron stood away from the rest of them, looking out across the growing gloom of the rugged hills, his pack thrown down to the stones beside him.

Chaelus approached him. 

“There’s much you haven’t told me,” he said.

“There’s much you don’t need to know,” Al-Aaron replied.

“I would decide that.”

“Would you?”

“I would know what I face.”

“I wonder,” Al-Aaron said. “Or would you turn away?  Would you, if you knew that you would die again before your task is complete, if you knew that you would never again sit upon your white tower’s throne?”

The voices of the Nephelium drifted through Chaelus like fallen snow. “I know that you lie to me now, just as you lied to me then. Why did you awaken me?”

“To help you fulfill your destiny.”

In Chaelus’ mind, snow fell and froze.  Whispering cracks spread out across its surface.  He trembled from the chill of it.

Al-Aaron turned away. His voice was just as cold. “There are many different kinds of death; death of self is the rarest of these. I believe that your death will be the greatest of them all.”

***

Al-Mariam pushed past scrub and branch, dropping her bundle at last where wood gave way to sky. 

Raising her face, she breathed in the cooling air, feeling its answer deep within her. Her limbs loosened, releasing their wear from the day’s march, her neck and fingers rolling free from the tensions her thoughts and feelings had forced upon her.

She breathed again, allowing the peace of the moment to settle within her.

Resting her hand upon Aela’s hilt, her fingers released in a single motion the binding which held the blade to its harness. The sudden weight of the sword felt good, powerful within her hands. Raising it up before her, Al-Mariam balanced her weight against it.

Moonlight illuminated the blade, the gossamer dressed faint against it, her face captured along with another’s within it.

Al-Mariam spun on her heel, her blade a flash that ended taut before her.

Chaelus stood unmoved well beyond Aela’s tip at the edge of the clearing, a mixed look of respect and amusement lurking in his dark eyes. “So you are a warrior after all.”

A portion of her calm returned but it was weighted by guilt. Her breathing resumed. She was afraid, yes, but as her heart quickened, that feeling was measurably replaced by another of which she couldn’t speak. 

Chaelus approached her, sadness replacing the amusement in his face. “Such a spirit cannot be contained.”

Al-Mariam’s feet shifted upon the stony ground, but she did not, or could not, she would not lower her blade.

Chaelus passed her. He sat down on the trunk of a tree and looked up to her. His eyes were weary, but searching. “You’re still new to this.  You’re new to the Servian Order.”

She dared not speak to him, yet she knew it was not a question.

Chaelus’ eyes didn’t waver. “There are indeed few enough of you left.”

“What do you want?” Al-Mariam asked.

“I would have my kingdom returned,” he answered. “To do so I must defeat the Dragon that stole it from me. To do this, I must depend upon you. To do this, I must know you. I would know who I can trust, after all I trusted are lost. Tell me, Al-Mariam, what is your Story?”

Al-Mariam’s chest tightened. The tremor of her hand passed down through the length of Aela’s blade. “Don’t mock me.”

She could do nothing beneath the measured heat of his continued stare. 

“How did you come to serve the Servian Order?” Chaelus asked. “What gain do you seek from them? What manner of death was it that summoned you, only to lose you again to this?”

What manner of death, Al-Mariam thought? No, death hadn’t chosen her. No cool embrace at the long end of suffering had come to greet her, as it had him. She would have welcomed it. Instead, she had been forced to suffer the long lonely wait that had come to pass. 

She smiled. “You’re a fool.”

Within the space of her gathered heartbeat, Chaelus stood. 

The sharp sound of drawn steel echoed through the clearing. Chaelus circled her, his unbound blade bright against the ebbing night. “If you won’t tell me, then at least show me how one fights with a blade who doesn’t wish to kill.”

Al-Mariam’s jaw tightened as her previous fear and anger returned. “I won’t.”

Chaelus’ sword danced confident within his hand. “If what your prophecy says of me is true, then it may be the last free choice I make. And that is something I won’t be denied.”