Song of the Dragon Read online

  Drakis closed his eyes. So this is what peace feels like, he thought. Free from care or pain. Free from responsibilities. Free from your own past. He smiled and shifted slightly to relieve a muscle that was threatening to cramp in his lower back.

  He seriously considered whether it might be possible to remain in this one spot forever. He supposed that eventually he would need to find water and food and other such bothersome necessities of life, but for now the relief that he felt in this one place was acute. He had been in pain for so long that it was not until now—when he let it go—that he realized just how large a burden it had been to him.

  The hollow tones of the pipes continued to drift over him, carried from a distance on a gentle, sweet breeze.

  Five notes . . . Five notes . . .

  He wondered how he’d got here. He remembered finding Mala in the woods. He remembered following her into the glade, the rock fountain in the middle and drinking from it. His memories became more confused after that and it seemed like too much of an effort to remember. Then he remembered being in the terrible cell with Mala and . . .

  He shifted once more, frowning. He didn’t know how he got from that horrible cell to this place, but he knew that he didn’t care. For now, he thought, it is enough to just sit here, drink in the peace, rest, and listen to the sweet sounds of the . . .

  Nine notes . . . Seven notes . . .

  He sat upright suddenly, his eyes open.

  The song . . . that song.

  The distant pipes were playing the melody that had so often troubled his dreams and even his waking hours of late. He had tried so hard to push it from his thoughts for so long that he could scarcely mistake it now. It must be the dwarf, he thought. Jugar had been humming the tune around the Ninth Throne of the Dwarves when they first took him as a prize. It had to be him!

  The peaceful, languid tones suddenly annoyed Drakis. That damnable little beast! He would be the one to spoil this.

  Mala roused slowly, blinking as she awoke. “Drakis? What happened? Where are we?”

  Drakis pushed himself off the stone—the same stone they had sat upon in the roach cell, he realized, as his bare feet landed on a soft green material that blanketed the floor. His practiced eye glanced around him, searching for something that might be used as a weapon, but other than the large stone bier itself in the middle of the tall room and the small trees that seemed to be growing right out of the flooring, there was nothing that presented itself to him as useful in combat.

  He took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. This was not a battlefield; indeed, there was something about this place that was so far removed from everything he knew about life that he found himself increasingly anxious in the midst of absolute peace.

  “A land of peace and rest?” the young boy said. “Even if there were such a place, you won’t know what to do when you get there.”

  “What do you know about it?” his brother whispered gruffly beside him as they pushed the wheel of the mill with a dozen other slaves. “There is a land of peace and freedom . . .”

  “That’s not what Drakosta says.” I’m twelve, Drakis thought as he heard his young self speak. That young boy was me. Drakosta was still alive then and would not be beaten to death by Timuran for two years yet. “He says that it’s all a story someone made up.”

  “Well that’s not what Mom says,” Polis answered back, sweat pouring from his forehead. “It’s north—in Vestasia maybe—beyond a sea of water and even a sea of sand. That’s where we’re going, Drak . . . you and me together. No one will ever make us work again. You wait and see.”

  I had a brother, Polis. Which brother was that? And was that our mother who told those tales or was it someone we only thought was our mother because the elves always tried to make us believe we were in families even when our parents were dead, when several sets of parents were dead and our memories of each were successive lies . . .

  “Drakis! What is it?”

  Drakis shook himself back into the present. Mala stood in front of him. The soft tune continued to play.

  “Come on,” he said as he turned toward the tall arched doors of translucent glass and pushed them open with a violent shove.

  The room beyond was a small, circular garden enclosed by a glass dome overhead. A fountain murmured in the center of the garden, whose appearance mildly shocked Drakis as it was identical to the one he remembered being in the glade just before his thoughts faded.

  “This is it,” Drakis said. “This is where you brought me when you found me in the Hyperian Woods.”

  Mala cocked her head, her eyes narrowing above her cheekbones. “What are you talking about? I couldn’t find you in the woods . . .”

  “This,” Drakis said, stepping up to the fountain. “When we first entered the Hyperian Woods, we all got separated. You found me and brought me back to this fountain . . . it was in a glade then . . .”

  “What glade, Drakis?” Mala asked. “I never found you . . . that dwarf of yours found me.”

  “Oh, that dwarf,” Drakis growled and gritted his teeth. Drakis turned around, shouting up into the dome. “Jugar, you monstrous little snake! As soon as I find you playing those damned pipes I’m going to take them, break them and one by one insert them into your . . .”

  “Silence, Master Drakis,” came the imperious voice behind him. “These are my halls, and you will respect my home.”

  Drakis turned, his tirade cut short.

  The Lyric stood before him, her narrow face uplifted in regal scorn. She still wore the same dress, now tattered to rags, that she had from the beginning of their ordeal, but now on the sparse and stubby golden hair sprouting from her head she wore a circlet fashioned of woven twigs. “You need not concern yourself with Jugar. He is with us, and his dwarven ways shall not trouble you while you are in my realm.”

  The Lyric gestured behind her, and a wide, familiar, and now troubled face came into view at about the level of her waist.

  “Good friends are always well met in strange circumstances,” Jugar said quietly, his mouth shaking beneath troubled eyes as he spoke. “You’re a mighty man, Drakis, to live within the boundaries of the Murialis Woods.”

  The Lyric turned to face Drakis once more, her face raised in defiance. “You stand within the Eternal Halls—my forest palace where you are, for now, my guests. But you may find what the dwarf, it seems, has lost the words to tell you: that it is far easier to enter the Eternal Halls than it is to leave them.”

  Drakis stared at the Lyric for a moment, then held up his hand. “Wait. Do you hear it?”

  “Hear what?” Mala asked.

  “Listen!”

  In the immediate stillness, the tones of a set of pipes drifted through the garden.

  Drakis stared down at the dwarf, who was trying to keep his oversized robe closed around him. Jugar shrugged, shaking his head in denial.

  “If it isn’t the dwarf, where is that music coming from?” Drakis asked.

  “From your destiny, Drakis,” the Lyric said. “Shall we find it together?”

  The lithe woman walked with long, measured steps toward one of the arched doors. With elegant grace, she pulled the doors open and stepped into the enormous hall beyond.

  Drakis took Mala’s hand and pulled her along as he followed the Lyric with Jugar keeping so close behind that he stepped on Drakis’ heel several times before the human’s angry looks forced him farther away.

  The hall was a magnificent space with galleries on both sides. Here the floor was polished stone, cool to their bare feet as they walked across its even and measured tiles. It was over a hundred feet in length, dizzying in size, and, to Drakis’ mind, brain-numbing in its impracticality. It was opulent, glorious, and magnificent all at once and yet seemed to serve no purpose whatsoever. There were no audience chairs here for an assemblage nor artwork for display, nor did it appear to have anything to do with combat or training or any other function that Drakis could imagine.

  They followed t
he Lyric through the enormous arch at the far end of the hall into a magnificent garden. In its center stood a raised dais platform with a wide, grand throne. The back of the throne fanned up and over the seat with sheltering branches and golden leaves. Three figures stood before the throne and were at once recognized by Drakis: Ethis the chimerian and both manticores, Belag and RuuKag.

  It was the fourth figure seated on the throne that caught Drakis’ attention, for she was the one who was playing the pipes. She was an enormous human-appearing woman who, Drakis judged, would be fully eight feet tall when standing. She wore a robe of deep turquoise in color though the exact shade seemed to shift as she swayed with the rhythm of her song. She was a strange woman, to Drakis’ eye; her hips were disproportionately wide, and she appeared heavy even for her height. Her breasts were enormous and seemed barely kept in check by the closed robe. She had a wide, fleshy face that tried unsuccessfully to obscure two brightly twinkling eyes. Her mouse-brown hair fell in wavy strands down as far as where her waist should have been.

  She looked up at once as they approached, her panpipes dropping from the warm smile of her supple lips.

  “So you do come when called,” she said in a deep alto voice filled with the warmth of late spring.

  The Lyric stopped at the base of the dais, and Drakis, Mala and the dwarf stopped just behind her.

  The Lyric bowed deeply. When she spoke, her voice was suddenly high-pitched and had a nasal quality to it that Drakis had never heard before. “Queen Murialis! I am Felicia of the Mists . . . Princess of the Erebusia Isles. I have long traveled the paths of the sky and hidden my identity from common men, but I lay myself bare before you, my royal sister!”

  Drakis gaped at the Lyric. “You’re . . . who?”

  Murialis, Queen of the Nymphs and Dryads, nodded with a smile, then turned to Ethis. “Is this the Lyric you were telling me about?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Ethis replied.

  Murialis turned back to the Lyric. “My sister, you are most welcome here in the Eternal Halls. May you find respite from your weary road and surcease for a time from your adventures. You honor us with your trust.”

  “Thank you, Murialis,” the Lyric said imperiously. “Your kindness shall forever be remembered among my clan.”

  “Of course,” Murialis said with a slight smile. “As a princess, perhaps you might rest for a time while I give audience to your companions? I understand that you—Felicia—are constantly weary.”

  The Lyric considered that for a time. “That is true, Murialis. I shall rest here in your garden for a time.”

  “You have my leave,” Murialis replied.

  The Lyric turned and strode across the grasses of the garden and settled to the ground almost at once.

  Murialis turned to Ethis, laughter playing across her lips as she spoke. “She certainly takes her job seriously, doesn’t she? How do you think she did as an impression of me?”

  “She was but a shadow of your Imperial Presence, Your Majesty,” Ethis answered with a slight bow.

  “Flatterer! You must agree that even my shadow is so large that she can’t even fill that!” Murialis laughed heartily and then turned her eyes on Drakis. “So this is the one, eh? He answers to the song well enough, I’ll give you that.”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Ethis nodded. “His name is . . .”

  “Drakis, of course, I know . . . but then it would have to be, wouldn’t it?” Murialis nodded, her eyes fixed on the human male. “So, are we standing in the presence of destined greatness? Is this the one of whom it is said that he will return the glory of the human age?”

  Ethis began, “Your Majesty . . .”

  “Let him speak,” Murialis cut off Ethis’ words. She rose from her throne, towering over them all. Drakis looked up into the wide face and realized that Murialis was in no way weak or even benevolent. There was malice and anger behind her eyes, and her body held power and strength that might easily break even a manticore in two. “What say you, Drakis? This manticore tells me that you are the human of prophesied destiny who will free us all from the tyranny of Rhonas and bring back the glories of the past. Are you this avatar of the gods?”

  Drakis swallowed, the words forming with difficulty in his throat.

  Jugar spoke into the silence. “He is, Your Majesty I can personally assure you without hesitation . . .”

  “If I had wanted a lie, I would have asked you first, dwarf!” Murialis took a step closer toward Drakis. Clouds gathered with unnatural speed overhead. She towered over him as she spoke, her face pressing down close to his. “I am not some young wench who can be impressed by tales, human! Do you know why these are called the Eternal Halls? It is because there is no end to them. The halls, rooms, walls, floors, ceilings, furniture . . . everything . . . is constantly being built for me by the subjects of the forest. You cannot escape these halls because they never end . . . they are being renewed from moment to moment so that my palace surrounds me no matter where I go in my kingdom. You cannot find a way out because there is no way out until I decide there is! Your destiny is in my hands until I say otherwise, so tell me: Are you the prophesied one?”

  “I . . . perhaps.”

  “A dwarven answer if I ever heard one!” Murialis shrieked. Lightning cut across the sky, its thunder shaking the garden. “I’ll ask you once more, human! Are you . . .”

  “I DON’T KNOW,” Drakis yelled.

  Murialis straightened up.

  The sky began to brighten.

  “Oh, Felicia?” Murialis called brightly.

  “Yes, sister?” the Lyric said, sitting up at once on the grass nearby.

  “Please take my friends through that door,” the Queen said with a smile as she pointed to an opening on her right. “You will find a banquet prepared in your honor.”

  “Your courts honor us!” the Lyric replied with a firm nod.

  “Yes, we do,” Murialis nodded. “Just leave me with Ethis and this Drakis fellow for a time. We have a few more things to discuss.”

  CHAPTER 29

  Unwelcome Guests

  “HE’S A LOT SHORTER than I expected for a god,” “Murialis purred dangerously. “I must say I’m disappointed in what you have brought me, Ethis.”

  “I regret having been a disappointment, Your Majesty,” Ethis responded at once.

  “You’re a chimerian of many words, my old friend, but I sincerely doubt that ‘regret’ is one of them.” Murialis took two steps down from the dais as she peered at Drakis, then threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, look at him, Ethis! Have you ever seen such delightful puzzlement?”

  “If I did, I do not recall it, Your Majesty,” Ethis said with ease, his blank face gazing back at Drakis while he folded two sets of arms in front of himself.

  “Ethis, what is going on?” Drakis said quietly to the chimerian. “Do you . . . you work for this woman?”

  “This woman?” Murialis hooted. She stood on the ground directly in front of Drakis, towering over him. Her low voice started with a soft lilt and turned slowly to a keen edge as she spoke. “My dear, frail little human, your kind is such a wonder. You all have egos ever so much larger than any evidence would support. The embodiment of nature stands before you—the very same patient force that pushes mountains up from plains, cuts valleys from stone, and will surely outlast every single construct wrought by the hand of your fleeting race—and you have the effrontery to call me ‘this woman’?”

  The ground of the garden suddenly softened beneath his feet. His feet plunged down into the earth, which had suddenly turned into a worm-riddled mud that refused to support his weight. The worms churned in the mire, pulling him downward. Drakis struggled to pull his feet out of the mess, but he was already up to his knees.

  “Ethis!” Drakis cried out. “Help! I can’t . . .”

  “Your most Glorious Majesty,” Ethis intervened, “he is, as you yourself have noted, only a human and as such carries with him the follies of his race.”

&n
bsp; “He should show better manners,” Murialis replied in tones devoid of compassion. “And know his place in the world.”

  “I should be delighted to instruct him on your behalf,” Ethis replied. “But in Your Majesty’s interest, may I point out that your august self only has a use for this human if he remains breathing.”

  Murialis considered for a moment and then nonchalantly raised her left hand. Two of the great ash trees that stood to either side of her throne bent over at once, their branches wrapping around Drakis’ torso and pulling him from the mire. Drakis cried out from the crushing pain and then fell awkwardly to the now surprisingly firm ground beneath him as the branches sprang away from him and the trees returned to their stately positions.

  “This is supposed to be the fulfillment of the Rhonas’ Doom?” Murialis sneered as she climbed once more to her throne and sat down.

  “So the dwarf says . . .”

  Murialis gave a dismissive laugh.

  “. . . And so the manticore believes,” Ethis continued. “He bears the name of prophecy, and the circumstances of his past fit the legend—or would with a little judicious revision. Your glorious self has proved that he answers to the Dragon Song.”

  “As one in any random dozen humans do,” Murialis mused. “Still, the possibilities are intriguing. You’ve questioned him . . . what does he think of this prophecy he is supposed to fulfill?”

  “Your Majesty, he is aware of . . .”

  “Questioned me?” Drakis interrupted but on seeing the look on the Queen’s face struggled to think of more appropriate forms of address. “Forgive me, Queen Murialis. I am . . . only a slave warrior . . . but this chimerian never questioned me on any ‘prophecy’ or anything like it.”

  “Oh, this is too entertaining,” Murialis’ voice purred as she leaned back into her throne. “Ethis, indulge me! Show this human your marvelous trick.”

  “Your Majesty knows that I serve at the behest of the Lady Chythal, Mistress of the High Council in Exile,” Ethis said, straightening slightly as he spoke, “It would be a betrayal of that trust if I were to reveal . . .”