Veil of the Dragon (Prophecy of the Evarun) (8 page)

Three men in rust-colored tunics waited at the base of the stairs, their shaven heads bowed. The two on either end carried staves shod at their tops with small iron crooks. Al-Thinneas bowed in return then turned to Chaelus. 

“They are the Tenders, servants to the flame and to the Mother who guides us. They’ll take Al-Aaron into the Mother’s care now.”

The center and eldest of the three stepped forward with his arms held open to receive Al-Aaron. The wells of the man’s eyes were as dark and as veiled as those of the forest prince who had guided Chaelus here. 

Chaelus hesitated. “I’ll stay with him.”

“The Younger’s risked much to bring you here.” Al-Thinneas looked out to the forest edge then leveled his stare back again. “If you seek to destroy the Dragon who stole your kingdom, know that his risk was for more than this.”

“Al-Aaron believes in prophecy.”

“No. His belief is in something deeper.” Al-Thinneas touched Chaelus’ arm. “Trust in the sacrifice he’s made.”

Al-Aaron shifted in Chaelus’ arms.
Hi
s eyes had closed again, his murmuring ceased. A deeper shade of pale passed over him.

The Tenders waited, watching, either unmoved or unconcerned.

Chaelus transferred Al-Aaron into the waiting arms of their leader. The Tenders bowed to him and ascended the stairs.

“The Younger?” Chaelus asked.

“It is a term of endearment and respect reserved for the youngest of our Order,” Al-Thinneas explained. “If only his youth offered freedom from the poison which claims him.”

Like his own youth, or that of Baelus, Chaelus thought, lost to the changes thrust upon them. “It does nothing.”

“You don’t think he belongs among us. That he’s a child and not a knight.”

Chaelus didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He ascended the broken stair. Pieces of stone, freed by his passage, plummeted into the depths beneath and to whatever answers lay hidden there.

“Wait,” Al-Thinneas called.

The stairway stopped at a small landing overlooking the open remains of what had once been a round hall. It looked like his own hall, the hall of his father, in the tower his father had been given as a Servian Lord. Only the sky existed above these ruins now and even the deeper forest held its branches short of the ancient walls, as if in respect of its hallowed ground. 

Staircases led down to the left and to the right, curving along the walls that remained, but the one on the right had already collapsed at its base. A large fire burned from a pit in the center of the hall. Al-Aaron lay still beside it. An old woman in robes knelt with him. Twelve stone seats ringed them like guardians. Behind her, the three Tenders stood respectfully distant. Torches, burning from sconces, added still more light, turning the night below into the semblance of day.

Even from where Chaelus stood distant the woman’s face was familiar, betrayed by the lines upon it, carved out of misery itself long ago. She had known his father and she had come to his father, less young but just as aged, while he, then a boy, hid behind the curtains and watched them; three visitors cloaked in black, Servian Knights with cloth-bound swords at their sides.

They had asked his father to honor a promise he had made to them, and to Chaelus’ mother, long before. His father, however, had refused them.

“I’ve seen her before.” 

“She’s our Mother,” Al-Thinneas replied. “Her name is Olivia and she’s the Matron of our order.”

“She grieves for him,” Chaelus said.

“Yes, for his suffering, but also for what he’s done.”

Amidst the few shadows that remained small groups of people gathered, women among them, and the men were only men by the thinnest of years.  Their hushed whispers carried across the night air. Along with their dress, the gathered Servian Knights betrayed the many lands of their origin. Their gossamer-bound swords hung openly at their sides and, one by one as they turned to watch him, their whispers ceased.

“No,” Chaelus said. “He’s a child who’s done nothing to deserve this. He raised me from my death, even as death claims his own, this Servian Order made up of women and children.”

Al-Thinneas turned away. “We once numbered in the thousands. Since our exile, we’ve fallen to several score. Now that the Hunting has returned again, we will number fewer still. It’s why we gather for the Synod, so that our fate can be decided.”

“Your fate is that soon there will be none of you left,” Chaelus said.

Al-Thinneas smiled. “I don’t think so. Our path is eternal, provided we pass on our Story, each one of us to the next.”

“Your Story?”

“Our Story - of our death, of how we were saved, and of who we came to be.”

Chaelus hung upon Al-Thinneas’ words, unsure.

Al-Thinneas’ smile broadened. “You’ll find that there are many different kinds of death.”

Chaelus remembered the strength of Al-Aaron’s voice as he called to him from beyond his tomb. To what end had Al-Aaron, a child, suffered to come here? Or, for that matter, Al-Mariam, who had only just held her blade against him, her oath to her Order lost beneath her fear of him?

“Whether it be of a man, woman or a child,” Chaelus murmured.

Al-Thinneas descended the stairs the way they had come. Chaelus hesitated, then followed. At the base of the steps a narrow path led away, around the foot of the mount. Beyond it, the way widened as they went. Between the great trees, the phantom pallor of pale and silent ruins floated in the night.

Beyond the balding stone at the base of a hillock, they stopped before a small dome of the same pale stone, its surface broken by a single door, and its mass half buried beneath the ground. One of the ancient trees rose through and behind it, its branches reaching high towards the canopy above them. Moonlight settled around them in subtle patches.

“I
’ll
leave you here,” Al
-T
hinneas said. “Think no more of this day.  Let rest be your portion, and pray for the Younger as well. We
’ll
call for you when he awakens.  The Synod will meet on the morrow. We know why you’re here. You may bring your claim for help then. I’m sure they’ll have many questions for you as well.”

From beyond the doorway, the smell of incense and fresh rushes beckoned Chaelus. A small fire illuminated the interior with a faint light. The mass of the living tree pressed in between the stones, having split them apart over time until it had become
,
at last, a part of the
dwelling itself.
A wide stone pallet stacked with woven blankets and furs lined the wall of the place, broken once by the girth of the tree. Fresh grasses had only recently been laid, and at the foot of the pallet, painted earthen jars and baskets overflowed with dried fruits and bread. So far, in this life at least, he had
n’t
seen such comforts.

Chaelus dropped to his knees, attacking one of the small, round loafs. He ate with wariness though, eyeing the door as he added handfuls of dried fruit to his meal. Its meat dripped from his hands and clung upon the beard on his face.

Sharp whispers sounded beyond the door, between Al-Thinneas and another. Then silence. The booted feet of two men came to rest outside. Guards to protect, but who and from whom? He remembered the gossamer-bound blade the woman had held against him, even as he’d returned to them one of their own.

Al-Aaron’s wound was shallow but grievous for the black taint it held, not so different from Baelus, his innocent blood let out upon the snow. No child should be present upon the field of war. It was what Chaelus had told his father, and what he had stood against him for. Such a thin thread that, once unbound, had sealed his fate.

Chaelus thought of the Mother, Olivia, who herself had once tried to save him from his father. Perhaps she could dispel Al-Aaron’s shadow. Then, perhaps together, Al-Aaron and the Mother would give him the answers he needed.

Or he would find his own.

Chaelus sank back against the pallet as sleep summoned him with the strength of something denied.

Chapter Eight

Promise

The Mother’s hands were small within her own, smaller than they’d ever been. Her eyes looked more tired as they stared past her, past the dying fire and into the ebbing night. 

Al-Mariam looked uneasily at the binding of her own hand as the Mother stood, her grip tight upon her. 

As they stepped away from the fire, the soft scuttle of sandaled feet on stone descended behind them. The whisperers, the other Servian Knights, had already left to recount and debate the truth of what they’d heard and what they’d seen until only the Mother and Al-Mariam remained.

She glanced back at the three Tenders.

They had just arrived, adding wood and stoking the fire with the attention deserved of sacred things, the sacred flame that burns until the twelve watchtowers are lit once more. 

Prophecy, and those who serve it.

“The flesh of the Younger will mend,” the Mother said. Her voice was weary. “But his wound is deeper than flesh. Tell me, Al-Mariam, what would you have done to the barbarian?” 

Al-Mariam held breathless as the weight of her own guilt pressed down, the guilt of one who only claimed to serve. “I only threatened him, a feint. He dared bring his blade unbound before us.”

“No,” the Mother said. 

Al-Mariam struggled back against the single word as it hammered through her. “I would never have broken my oath.”

“To think is to do,” the Mother pressed. “To pretend is to have already done. Your words reveal your heart, child. So they reveal your actions. I’d thought more of you than this. It’s not what you promised me when I agreed to let you join the Order.” 

Al-Mariam waited as the Mother stopped at the edge of the narrow staircase leading down to her chamber. 

The Mother still looked away. “I had hoped the sin of the Younger would remain his alone. But perhaps the sin was not his, but rather one to be shared by all of us.”

“What do you mean?”

The Mother grunted under her breath. “Go now. Return to your tasks. Think about what you’ve done. We will speak of it again after the Synod has passed.”

Al-Mariam released her grip as the Mother pulled away from her and descended the stair. Al-Mariam’s hand trembled, as did her thoughts. 

No. She had already given up too much to have been so foolish. Or had she been?  She had been forced to pretend many things to find herself here. At first she had pretended simply to survive. Then later she had done so to gain the trust of those who served her purpose. Each time, it had always been to get back what she’d lost, a cold choice, made because she had nothing left to lose; but not this time. 

This time she had thoughtlessly risked all of it because she did have something to lose, something she had never sought to gain. She had found hope here.

The empty hall fell away as she spun to the smaller staircase that led to her chamber.

No, no, no, no, no!

Al-Mariam slammed her fist into her thigh. The pain shot through her. Her breath held captured within her throat but her grief still pursued her.

Then they came, unexpected, unbidden. Tears, horrible, horrible weak tears overcame her. Her shoulders, shoulders that had always carried more than this, trembled. Al-Mariam slumped down to the floor of her cell. Her strength fled, finally unbound. She fumbled her hand to the open door and pulled it to.

The narrow blades of torchlight that remained cut across her and floated against the wall beside her. Shadows broke across them. Her breath caught again. Muffled voices, and the soft slip of booted feet passed outside. There were few who would pass here beneath the open council hall so near to the Mother’s chambers.

Al-Mariam shuddered as she breathed in, and tried to calm herself. She wiped at her tears, the cloth of her bandage coarse against her cheek.

No one should be here tonight. The other Servian Knights, those that had returned, did so heart-sore and wary. Their Order had been betrayed once again. The Hunting had returned. With so many lost, and with so much and so little to be said, there were no answers that could be found between them. By now, the simple comfort of their own safety here had seduced most of them to their rest. The only answers left for them would be found on the morrow from the Mother’s own lips. It would be a simple answer.

The whispers faded as their makers slipped away, whoever they were. Perhaps they had heard her, or perhaps they had thought better of their own need, whatever it was.

And what need was hers? She knew it before even her heart even answered. 

There had been no prophecy to shield her, not even in the eye of her mind, as the soldiers raped her. No prophet had come to guide her to solace as she wandered afterwards, wounded and alone. That night, Ras Dumas had taken the only things she had ever loved; her mother, her brother and herself.

Al-Mariam tugged at the bandage on her hand, pulling away the layers. Dried blood matted the gossamer close to the skin. 

The Mother was right. She had failed her, just as she had failed in her vows, the vows the Mother had said would save her, the vows Al-Mariam had made to the one person who had believed in her when everything else had been taken away from her.

No. There had been no thought before the blade passed to her hand, to let flow the blood of one of the fallen Servian Lords. The same blood that had destroyed her life had taken away the lives of all whom she had loved, as her shame bled its own course beneath that graying sky.

But what had the Mother asked her? Would she have used the Gossamer Blade against him? She had stood alone at the thin line of the abyss, but had stepped away. 

No, it was Al-Thinneas who had stopped her, just as the Mother had stopped her once before.

Yes, she would have, she would have taken the barbarian’s life had she been able, and once she had she would not even have known the loss.

Chaelus, Barbarian Lord of the House of Malius, once dead and then born again, with the mark of the Dragon upon him, son of Malius, one of the fallen Servian Lords. So it was that the Younger had brought him here, against the will of the Mother, to see that the Prophecy of Evarun would be fulfilled. 

The barbarian was both more and less than she had imagined, and if the Younger was right, the barbarian was everything she feared. 

There were others among the Servian Knights who feared the barbarian as well, those who already spoke of failure. It was not their failure but the failure of what their faith had asked of them, to defend but never shed the blood of man. The Servian Knights could not help but doubt, as they watched their own kind be killed, unable to defend themselves against the blades of the very people they sought to protect, as they alone still waited for the Giver to return. 

The fulfillment of the Prophecy would bring them little hope, for from the prophecy’s own lips, with its light would come an even greater shadow to an already darkened night.

Herald the Dragon’s return

As the Fallen they will rise.

To bring to fell the Shadowed Pale

When the Giver does return.

Suffering upon still more suffering. But it mattered nothing. Leave the Younger to his fervor and the others to their schemes. She would not be like them and never had been. If she had begun to believe that she was more than this, then that was her failure.  She never would be. She would never be pure. She would never be able to believe like they did. She only wanted back what she had lost. She only wanted to get her brother back.

That was the one thing from her depths that had summoned her against the barbarian. His being here threatened it all. Of everything she had worked so hard to gain, of everything she needed and had waited for the Mother to give to her, it was the Mother’s trust that she needed most. And because of the barbarian, because of what he had brought upon them, she had already lost it.

Al-Mariam looked down at her hand. A slight tremor still held it, but the wounds from her nails had already begun to close. Only small red marks remained. So much blood had come from such small wounds that would soon never show again.

She would wait. And when she met again with the Mother, she would bear whatever the Mother would have her bear. Trust, like a wound, heals.

She would watch. The barbarian son of the Fallen One would reveal his true blood to them all. And blood spilt is forever lost.

***

Chaelus opened his eyes to Al-Aaron’s hazy silhouette, half kneeling, half sitting in the sharp light of the open doorway, like a ghost.

And a ghost is what it was.

Chaelus rubbed at his eyes. A wary pulse bounded through him as he moved. The hilt of Sundengal pressed into his side, conspiring with the chainmail hauberk he still wore.

He was alone.

Chaelus stared at his hand in which Sundengal had shattered. The remembered touch of the spirit still lingered across his brow. The Dragon’s mark beneath it echoed with a listless burning. 

Chaelus sank back into the silence, the vague words of their prophecy echoing against it; musty words he had all too often scribed himself during his lingering exile amongst the tomes of Lossos. 

One who was but could not be

One who could not be but was.

One to teach and One to save

The mark of the Dragon upon him.

Born of cradle, born of grave

Chosen from forgotten blood.

Born for us to die for us

For only the fallen may rise.

One to prepare the way

Until the desert he will wait.