Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (29 page)

“Whoa!” said Skyhigh, stepping between them. “Merceron, where is Moth? Do you know?”

“The Palace of the Moon,” said Merceron. “Most likely.”

“Great,” grumbled Rendor.

“Palace of the Moon?” Commander Donnar looked at each of them. “What’s that?”

“The city of the Skylords.” Merceron glowered at Rendor. “All these men and you couldn’t even keep a boy safe. And look at your ship!”

“Stop!” cried Skyhigh. “Merceron, why would they take Moth there?”

“It’s obvious,” said Rendor. “They want the Starfinder and they think we’ll trade for it.” He looked expectantly at Merceron. “Well? Do you have it?”

Merceron had almost changed his mind. He’d flown all this way, flown to the very edge of exhaustion, just to face this inscrutable man. He reached into his pocket. He thought about Moth. He thought about Elaniel, his long-dead son. Then he pulled out the Starfinder.

“You want this?” enticed Merceron, holding the Starfinder just beyond Rendor’s reach.

Rendor smirked. “You know I do. And you know why.”

“Here, then.” Merceron placed the Starfinder into Rendor’s hands. Donnar and Skyhigh Coralin leaned in to see it.

“That’s it?” remarked Skyhigh. “It doesn’t look like much. And it sure doesn’t look worth all this trouble.”

“That’s because you have no idea what the Starfinder can do,” said Rendor. “Anyone who masters the Starfinder masters all the creatures of this realm.” He looked up with a wink. “Isn’t that right, Merceron?”

“Is that what you told Moth?” Merceron asked.

“I told him the truth, which is more than you or Leroux ever did. Now tell me—Why did you come here, Merceron? If not for Moth and Fiona, why?”

“Because I am defeated,” admitted Merceron. “Because I’m trapped and have nowhere else to turn. The Skylords know I have the Starfinder. They won’t rest until they find me.”

“And kill you,” Rendor pointed out. “So you’re giving it to me?”

“Yes,” nodded Merceron. “
If
you agree to take it back across the Reach. The Starfinder can’t be destroyed, and the dragons won’t help me hide it. You’re the only one who can get it out of here, Rendor. You must take it back to your own world before the Skylords come for you.”

“Take it back?” cried Donnar. “To Calio?”

“The Skylords won’t follow you through the Reach,” said Merceron. “At least not yet, not until they’re ready to fight you for it.” He looked intently at Rendor, who was vexingly silent. “I see you thinking, Rendor. Stop it. No schemes this time. Promise me you’ll take the Starfinder away from here.”

Rendor turned toward his damaged airship. “It’ll take time to get underway again,” he said, troubled. “Tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“Be as quick as you can,” Merceron insisted. “Redeemers are already gathering to stop you from leaving. Soon there will be Skylords too.”

Skyhigh nodded gravely. “I’ve seen some Redeemers out on my patrol. Mostly in the south.”

“Blocking the way home,” said Donnar.

Rendor asked, “What about Fiona? If she’s alive . . .”

“There’s no time for you to get her,” said Merceron. “If she is alive I’ll find her. I’ll get her back across the Reach, but for now she’ll be safe with the centaurs. The Skylords won’t bother her there.”

“And Moth?” asked Skyhigh. “We can’t just leave him with the Skylords.”

Merceron smiled at the young pilot. “I’m glad to hear you say that, because we’re not going to leave him. We’re going after him. You, me, and Esme.”

Skyhigh didn’t hesitate. “Tell me how.”

“That contraption of yours,” said Merceron, pointing at the dragonfly. “How fast can it go?”

“Fast enough,” said Rendor. “I designed it, after all.”

“You designed it? And it actually flies?”

“Probably faster than you, you winged frog.”

“Even so, it’s a long way to the Palace of the Moon. Can she make a three-day flight?”

“Of course not. Maybe four days at worst. If you fly carefully and carry extra tanks. And glide a lot.”

Merceron groaned. “Then I’ll have to carry it there myself. You too, Skyknight.”

“Why?” asked Skyhigh eagerly. “What’s your plan?”

“I will tell you,” said Merceron. “But first . . .” He rocked back on his hind legs. “I want to hear you swear it, Rendor. Swear to me that you’ll take the Starfinder home with you. And I don’t want a politician’s promise. Swear it to me as an Eldrin Knight.”

“Fine,” grumbled Rendor. “I give you my word as an Eldrin Knight, Merceron. I’ll get the Starfinder out of here.”

RENDOR SAT BACK AGAINST the nobbly trunk of a pine tree, far enough from the
Avatar
to be alone with his thoughts. Dusk was falling, and his men were still hard at work. After stripping everything imaginable out of Skyhigh’s dragonfly, Rendor had managed to cram it full of extra fuel, leaving barely enough room for Skyhigh and Esme to squeeze themselves inside. Merceron had spent the day getting much-needed sleep. He and Rendor hadn’t bothered speaking again, and that was fine with Rendor, because he had nothing to say, not even good-bye. He watched with the rest of them as Merceron lifted the dragonfly into the air, disappearing north as the sun slipped down the horizon. Then, wanting desperately to get away, Rendor wandered out of camp.

His pistol lay ready in his lap. The Starfinder remained aboard the
Avatar
under heavy guard. Riflemen stood lookout atop the airship, searching the sky. Rendor took a cigar from his breast pocket. He’d been craving one all day but only had a handful of them left. He snapped open his lighter, flamed the tip, and drew his first, pleasure-filled puff.

It was a long, dangerous way north to the Skylords. And Merceron was old. Rendor wondered at his chances, but he knew why the old beast was so willing to try. He’d already lost one boy.

Rendor stared at the mountains through the cigar smoke.

Minutes passed. The sun crept lower, nearly gone now. Rendor heard a noise behind him but didn’t bother reaching for his pistol.

“Governor?” Donnar appeared from behind the tree. “Bottling’s finished securing the tarp. He wants you to look it over, make sure of it.”

“Fine,” Rendor nodded. Patching the hole in the
Avatar
’s carriage had been harder than he’d guessed. He was glad the job was finally done. “Still working on the engines?”

“Port side’s still a little wobbly,” said Donnar. “No worries. One engine will get us home.”

“Home.” Rendor took another cigar from his pocket and offered it to Donnar. “Take a minute with me, Erich.”

Donnar, who never smoked, was immediately suspicious. “What are you doing out here, sir?”

Rendor tilted his chin at the mountains. “How high would you say they are?”

“Oh, no . . .”

“Can we make it over them?”

“Sir, we need to leave. We’ve got the Starfinder. Remember what Merceron said—there’s just no time.”

“Not much air up there. Cold too.”

“Impossible,” said Donnar. “With one engine?”

“One and a half,” Rendor reminded him. “We’ll strip her down, make her real light. Just like the dragonfly. We’ll over-pump the envelope.”

“Are you asking for my permission or my advice?”

“She’s my granddaughter, Erich.”

“Yes sir, but you gave the dragon your word.”

“I gave him the word of an Eldrin Knight. The Eldrin Knights are dead. Extinct. I don’t think anyone’s going to throw me in jail for that, do you?”

Donnar sighed as he considered the formidable mountains. “I think, sir, that I’d like that cigar now.”

TRUE TO ARTAIOS’ WORD, Moth had his run of the Skylords’ amazing palace. With Alisaundra as his chaperon, he explored the many towers and theaters, the galleries where the Skylords made art and the libraries where they sat in quiet contemplation. He marveled at their hallways filled with sculptures and the way the spires clung to the hillsides, seemingly defying gravity, and he watched as the Skylords—young and old—sprang from place to place the way birds do, without even thinking about the miracle of flight. He stared at the stars, spit over the edge of balconies, and lost himself in the gigantic murals that graced the palace walls. And for a while, he was contented.

Artaios let his servants see to every whim a human boy might have, giving Moth his own room with a peculiar round bed and sheets so soft Moth thought they’d been spun from magical silk. Strange, delicious foods were brought to him at mealtimes, carried on gleaming platters by eager young Skylords. Moth ate them all with abandon, seeing no real harm in making his captivity bearable. Fiona was alive, at least according to Artaios, and Moth knew he would see her again. He forced himself to believe it. They’d laugh and hug and tell each other how they’d managed to survive, and then they would go home again.

As for Alisaundra, she spent every waking moment with Moth, sometimes watching him from a distance but never quite leaving him alone. She rarely spoke, showed no interest in his predicament, and yet Moth could tell he fascinated her. He had seen a spark of humanity in the Redeemer that night in the prison tower, and again when she had saved him from Artaios. Instead of calling her a monster, Moth simply called her “Alis” now.

Finally, the time came for Moth to see Artaios again. He had been spying on a pair of beautiful Skylord girls, watching them from a balcony as they gossiped, when Alis put a hand on his shoulder.

“Do not stare,” she said.

Moth jumped at the intrusion. “I wasn’t!”

“You were listening. Come with me. The Master wants you.”

“Artaios?” asked Moth. “Why?”

Alis turned away. Curious, a little frightened, Moth followed her off the balcony, through the tower, and across a stone bridge. The Redeemer said nothing, not even bothering to acknowledge Moth as he peppered her with questions. The bridge led them to a colonnade of rounded archways, and then at last to a quiet building apart from all the others, a huge domed structure. As he walked with Alis through the open gate, Moth suspected another tribunal.

“What is this place?” he asked, his voice echoing in the stone corridor.

“Artaios is waiting for you,” replied Alis. She pointed forward. “There.”

Up ahead the hallway ended, spilling out into the enormous space beneath the dome. As Moth approached he saw Artaios standing in the center of the chamber, beneath a fretted roof of glass and gold. Sunlight poured down upon the Skylord like sparkling water. In his hand rested the golden reins of a cloud horse.

“Do you remember,” said Artaios, “that night when I found you? I told you I would teach you what it means to fly.”

Moth stepped forward, spellbound by the cloud horse. A twinkling mist shrouded the creature, lit by its flashing orange eyes. It clopped its insubstantial hooves when it noticed Moth, making no sound against the polished floor.

“What’s this for?” Moth asked, unable to take his eyes off the cloud horse. “It’s so small! Like a pony.”

“A young one,” explained Artaios. He reached into the mists and rubbed the creature’s nose. “Small like you, Egg.”

“But why?” asked Moth. “I don’t understand.”

Artaios replied, “Those machines your people make—you think that is how flying is done. They’re abominations. To fly you need wings . . . or a cloud horse. Now I will teach you, as I promised.”

“Artaios, I can’t fly a cloud horse. What if I fall?”

“This is where all Skylords train with the cloud horses.” Artaios pointed at the roof. “There’s nowhere for the creature to go.”

“Are you kidding? If I fall from up there I’ll kill myself!”

“Am I not here to catch you?” said Artaios crossly. “Come here now. The horse will obey me.”

Moth couldn’t help himself, drawn forward by the amazing creature, its mist gathering at his feet, its sweet effervescence tickling his nose. With a tug of the reins, Artaios guided the horse down for Moth.

“I’ve never even ridden a real horse,” Moth said. “What do I do?”

“Just climb on its back,” said Artaios. “He’ll keep steady for me.”

Wanting desperately to ride the thing, Moth managed to trust Artaios. He reached into the mists, finding a solidness he didn’t expect. When his fingers brushed the luminous skin, the cloud horse simply materialized.

“It knows what to do,” Artaios reassured him. “Go on.”

Moth struggled to lift himself over the creature’s back. Its flesh yielded magically beneath him. Moth held its white mane for balance, feeling electricity coursing through the snowy hair. As if it knew Moth was ready, the cloud horse rose up again, this time leaving the ground.

“What now?” Moth cried.

Artaios let go of the reins. “Now you fly.”

“Huh? No . . . !”

The horse headed steadily upward, its shifting mists turning a dazzling orange, its head and limbs almost invisible. Moth crouched to keep from falling, one hand gathering up the dangling reins. The polished floor dropped away. Beside him, Artaios was smiling, his powerful wings carrying him aloft.

“I’m gonna fall!” shouted Moth.

“You won’t.”

“But—”

“Calm yourself! Let the horse feel your will.”

The cloud horse turned gently, pirouetting ever higher. Moth at last took up the reins and settled tightly on its back. Slowly, he felt the creature respond.

“Ah, you are doing it!” said Artaios. “Now you are flying, Egg!”

“I thought you said only Skylords could fly these things!”

“It obeys you because I am here. If I were not . . .” Artaios suddenly laughed. “I do not know!”

Suddenly Moth wished there was no roof at all, that he and the cloud horse could rise up forever. He glanced over and saw Artaios beaming proudly. Moth felt himself smiling back at the Skylord, then caught a glimpse of Alis far below.