Citadels of the Lost (34 page)

A dim flash of lightning pulsed through the open window.

The image came at him all at once, burning into his mind.

It might have been a family once. The bloated shapes were of different sizes and still roughly human in form. Dark liquid was pooled beneath them, reaching toward the door.

The stench was overwhelming.

Drakis' eyes slammed shut as he ducked back out the door. He stood for a few moments with his back pressed against the hut wall, his breath coming hard and fast. He could not get the smell out of his nostrils. He glanced at the foot of the doorway.

The dark liquid from the bodies was mixing in with the rain—coloring the ground around Ishander and the slope they had just climbed.

His gaze went to the openings of the other huts down the row.

Black fluid was spreading over the wet ground from each of the dark openings.

“Back to the boats!” Drakis shouted, his words all but swallowed up in the downpour. He pushed himself away from the hut wall toward Ishander, pulling the youth roughly to his feet and shoving him down the slope. “Back to the boats NOW! We're getting out of here!”

“What's wrong?” Ethis called, all of his arms extended at once.

Drakis fell on the slope, sliding for a time before he managed to get his feet under him again. “Plague—or worse—I don't know! They're all dead.”

Urulani grabbed Drakis' shoulder. “Dead? Who's dead?”

“
They
are,” Drakis motioned back to the huts. “All of them. We've got to get away from here while we can. Ethis, you drag our ‘guide' back onto our boat while I get . . . where's Mala?”

Urulani jerked her head toward the dark gray shape looming up through the rain past the huts. “She went with the Lyric toward that building. Something about someone needing their help.”

“Why would they . . . never mind,” Drakis said, the rainwater flying from his hair as he turned his head. “You and Ethis ready the boats. They can't have gone far. Ishander! You're with me. We'll bring them back.”

“Sooner is better, Drakis,” Ethis called out, but Drakis was already running, his form disappearing into the veil of the rain with their young guide at his heels.

D
RAKIS' FOOTFALLS SPLASHED across the sodden ground. The heavy, obscuring rain relinquished its shadows reluctantly, darker shapes against the gray flatness of the downpour. He stumbled over a body, losing his footing. The shape startled him, causing him to draw his blade from its scabbard at once.

“Drakoneti!” Ishander exclaimed. “I have never seen them this far north before.”

The creature lay facedown in the mud but the massive shoulders, scale-covered skin, and broken wings protruding from its back were unmistakable. The jagged, broken blade of its sword was still in its hand, half obscured by the mud. Drakis spun around in the downpour. More bodies lay motionless in the rain, some human but a good deal more drakoneti.

They were standing in the aftermath of a battle.

The rains lifted for a moment, revealing with reluctance more of the carnage around them. The ground was strewn with the dead, many of their carcasses badly bloated and disfigured.

Drakis shuddered.

Curling around the dark form of the tower was the monstrous, enormous shape of a dragon. The dread creature lay lifeless on its side, its neck twisted so that its maw gaped open toward the sky. Rainwater ran from the corner of its mouth, and its half-open eye was milky and lifeless. The body was still held fast to the ground by ropes and netting fixed to several of the many iron rings driven deep into stone and earth in the ground. The stench from the dead beast was overwhelming.

Mala stood by the dragon's head, rain matting down and darkening her auburn-colored hair. She was shivering despite the warmth of the rain, her hand resting on the dead dragon's horn.

Even through the rain, Drakis recognized the creature at once. It was the gray dragon that had nearly killed him in Ambeth . . . the dragon he knew as Abream, the companion of Pharis.

“Mala,” Drakis shouted. “We've got to leave here now!”

“She led me to him,” Mala said through her chattering teeth. “She knew he was ashamed . . .”

“Who?”

“The Lyric.”

“The Lyric! Where is she?” Drakis thought to call out the Lyric's name but realized that he did not know what to call her. “Mala, who is the Lyric supposed to be today?”

“She . . . she called herself Rishan, then went that way,” Mala said, pointing toward the base of the building shape before them. “She went in there.”

Drakis could see a dim frame of light through the pelting rain—a passage of flickering warmth in the dead world around him. The edifice ahead of him towered upward, its top quickly disappearing into the gloom. He slipped slightly in the mud and then pushed on through the dead around him, towing Mala behind him as he rushed up the rain-slicked steps and into the open portal.

The short hallway was covered in ornate carvings, a delicate latticework arch over his head. It was broken in several places, the pieces remaining on the floor where they had fallen.

The hallway ended in a series of short steps leading down to the floor of a large circular room. The chamber was illuminated by fires burning in three big braziers of stone, each fixed atop a pillar carved in the shape of a dragon with their heads all facing the center of the room. Each had its head turned slightly to the left, exposing an eye socket that looked directly down on a dark and lifeless crystal nearly five feet across—a dead Aether Well!

Atop the crystal stood the Lyric, her wet hair glistening in the light, a long staff held across her body with both hands. She wore a thick robe of light tan trimmed in gold and silver, though the cloth itself was badly stained in places.

“Who did you say she was today?”

“Rishan,” Mala answered. “Keeper of the Past.”

“Keeper of . . . what?”

“The Past.”

“Rishan,” Drakis called out into the chamber in a voice that was remarkably calmer than he felt. He descended the staircase with Mala at his back. “We need to leave now. Be a nice Keeper and come with us now, yes?”

“I will not come!” the Lyric answered. “I am the Keeper of the Past and you are a stranger to our lore!”

“I don't suppose
you've
met this ‘Rishan' before,” Drakis muttered back toward Mala.

“Not yet,” Mala replied.

“Pellender!” The Lyric cried out, gazing toward the top of the stairs. “You have returned!”

Drakis turned to follow the Lyric's gaze.

Ishander stood at the top of the stairs, staring back at the Lyric, the color having drained from his face.

“We had become concerned for you, old friend,” the Lyric said with a broad smile, her voice lower than usual. “Did you find the Citadel of Light? Did you find the Key?”

“Well at least she recognizes you,” Drakis said to Ishander.

“No,” he replied. “She recognizes my
father.
”

“Your father?”

“My father was Pellender,” Ishander continued, warily descending the stairs. “This was the way he came to the Citadel of Light—he was a friend to the Fordrim.”

“And now you have returned to us,” the Lyric said joyfully. “All the Fordrim bid you welcome and offer you the hospitality of our clan. You shall want for nothing. We looked to the Koram Devnet, but we had begun to lose hope of seeing you again. It seems the knowledge that dragon gave you was accurate after all!”

“Dragon?” Ishander asked with sudden interest. “What knowledge did the dragon give?”

“Oh, what was its name,” the Lyric's smile faded slightly with thought. She stooped as she moved as though her back pained her. “Pharis . . . yes, I believe that was the name you told me.”

“Wait,” Drakis said, “Did you say ‘Pharis'?”

“Who are you of unnamed lands that I should speak to you?” The Lyric turned a suspicious eye on Drakis. “Pellender I know, but you are unnamed to me. Who are you to have come into my sanctuary?”

Drakis drew in a breath, trying to control his frustration. “I am Drakis . . . We all have to leave this . . .”

“DRAKIS!” The Lyric blurted out, her voice breaking, startling Mala and Ishander. The Lyric's large eyes keenly focused on the Impress Warrior, suddenly overflowing with tears. “Drakis! You've come at last! And, Pellender, you have
found
him! We've been waiting for you so long . . . so long . . .”

The Lyric dropped her staff and rushed forward. She reached up with surprising strength, grabbing Drakis by the rim of his leather breastplate and held on tight, her grip like an iron vise. Her eyes shimmered in the firelight. “Is the magic coming back? Did you find the key?”

Drakis pulled at the Lyric's hands, prying her fingers free of his tunic. “Let go of me!”

The Lyric released her grip so suddenly that Drakis fell backward, sprawling to sit against one of the dragon pillars in the room.

“I'm sorry! Please . . . forgive me, Drakis.” The Lyric staggered backward toward the Aether Well. “We've kept it all, Drakis! Just for you! Just for your return! And they said you were coming. We were going out to look for you.”

“Wait,” said Drakis, his eyes narrowing. “Who knew we were coming? How?”

“Lorekeeper Xandos,” the Lyric said, her eyes slowly losing focus as she spoke. “A dragon came to him . . . told him we were to look for your coming. We were to shelter you until the dragon returned. But another dragon came afterward with the drakoneti to stop us from finding you. The Lorekeeper told me to stay here. That I would be safe and . . . I . . . I am not well.”

The Lyric dropped down to her knees.

“What dragon?” Drakis asked, pushing himself forward and crouching next to the Lyric. “Was it the dragon outside?”

“I don't . . . perhaps,” the Lyric said, her face puzzled, her eyes fixed on a distance only she could see. “Maybe it was another dragon or maybe the first one came back. The dragons are not to be trusted. One offered us hope and another brought the drakoneti and attacked the village. The Lorekeeper told me to stay here, sealing me in the sanctuary. He said I would be safe—that I was to be the Keeper until he returned.”

“He never came back, did he?” Mala asked softly.

“No . . . I waited but no one came until you opened the seal,” the Lyric said to Mala. “But I didn't know you were Drakis. Forgive me, please.”

“Yes, you're forgiven,” Drakis said quickly, “but we have to leave this place. It . . . it isn't safe here.”

“I cannot leave,” the Lyric said simply. “I am the Keeper. I have to stay.”

“You have to . . . what is your name?” Drakis asked.

“I am Rishan,” The Lyric answered. “Last Keeper of the Book.”

Ishander turned his eyes abruptly on the Lyric. “Book? What book?”

“The Book of Memory,” the Lyric smiled. A thin trickle of blood ran down from the corner of her mouth. “The Book of the Before Time. I can go nowhere without the book.”

“My father once spoke of such a book,” Ishander licked his lips. “He said it spoke the secrets of the old ways and of magic.”

“Fine!” Drakis threw up his hands. “Anything to get out of here. Get the book and let's leave.”

“No,” the Lyric said shaking her head, her eyes focused once more but feverish. “I am the Keeper now! I keep the book for . . .”

“For Drakis,” Ishander said with a smile. “And now he is here. I think you do not know Drakis. You do not know the one of the prophecy!”

Mala groaned, shaking her head. “Don't, Ishander. She's sick. Please . . .”

“Everyone knows Drakis!” The Lyric snapped at the youth. “He came from the Citadel after the fall! He wandered out of the burning and the death and the ruin—the end of all glory—and told us the stories of its terrible betrayal and the elven demons' destruction of our nation!”

“So, this is Drakis, standing before you . . .

“Is this true?”

“He is Drakis,” the Lyric answered fervently.

“Stop it, Ishander,” Drakis said firmly. Only then did he notice the body lying in the shadows on the far side of the Aether Well. It was small and lithe, perhaps a boy or girl not yet fifteen. The stained cloth of the youth's belted tunic matched that of the robe the Lyric was wearing.

“You lie! Why do you think he is Drakis?” continued Ishander, ignoring Drakis.

“Because he said he would return!” The Lyric answered as though the answer itself was enough explanation. “That has been the task and . . . and promise of the Keepers for the generations of my father and my father's fathers before him. We were to keep the knowledge of Drakis and his return.”

“Show him,” Ishander chided. “Show him! Show him what you have kept for him!”

The Lyric turned, spun unsteadily in her place and then danced haltingly toward the stairs. She grabbed Drakis' hand, pulling him to his feet and dragging him toward the base of the nearest dragon statue. Her husky voice echoed into the vaulting space above the circular floor.

The rhythm of the chanting was familiar to him, but he had never heard it spoken aloud—only in his own mind.

The Lyric lifted up Drakis' hand and pressed it against the chiseled stones of the dragon's breast just over her head. The stone shifted slightly as he pressed against it.