Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (33 page)

“Moth, don’t worry,” Skyhigh called. “We’ll get you out of here.”

“Out of here?” Moth looked at Merceron, realizing what was happening. “No! You can’t give up the Starfinder!”

Artaios laughed. “You see, Egg? I told you he would come for you. The one noble thing about dragons is that they keep their word.” He grinned at Merceron, pleased with himself. “But you don’t have the Starfinder, do you dragon?”

“Merceron?” queried Moth. “What’s he saying?”

“It’s true, Moth,” Merceron admitted. “I don’t have the Starfinder.”

A strange sound came from Korace, a wicked, cackling laugh. The creaky Skylord pulled himself up with his cane. “Rendor!”

At first Moth didn’t understand. His eyes bounced from Korace to Artaios, then to the sad-faced Merceron. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Merceron, tell me you didn’t!”

Merceron looked pleadingly at Moth. “You’ve seen what they are, boy, what they’re like. The Starfinder is safe now. Rendor’s taken it home.”

“Rendor is trapped!” laughed Korace. “Like you!”

“Dragon, you’ve doomed yourself,” added Artaios. “The humans are in Pandera. Rendor has the Starfinder, but he’s betrayed you. They
are
trapped.”

Merceron lost his arrogant air. The color left Skyhigh’s face. Even Lady Esme seemed to understand their peril. She drew back on Merceron’s shoulder, madly fluttering her wings.

“Esme,” called Korace. “You’re home now. Will you come to us?”

He held out his trembling hand, the very hand Moth suspected had transformed her in the first place. But Esme shunned it, klee-klee-kleeing angrily at Korace. Merceron smiled with a look of resignation.

“You don’t have the Starfinder yet,” he told the Skylords. “If it’s in Pandera, then it’s under Jorian’s protection.” He returned Korace’s wicked gaze. “Why don’t you go and get it?”

“Oh, we will,” promised Artaios. “The noose is already closing around Pandera. Rendor won’t escape it. But first . . .” He gestured toward Moth. “We have business.”

Moth fought his iron grip. “Don’t bargain for me, Merceron! Skyhigh . . .”

Skyhigh shook his head. “Moth, you’re coming with me. I have a dragonfly ready to fly us both home.”

“Us?” Moth looked at Merceron. “What about you? What about Esme?”

“Esme’s already home, Moth,” said Merceron. His old, reptilian eyes filled with softness. “This is as far as I go.”

“What’s that mean?” asked Moth desperately.

“They want me, Moth,” Merceron explained. “They want me almost as much as they want the Starfinder. That’s why you’re going home with Skyhigh. And Lady Esme’s staying here, where she belongs.” He glared at Korace. “That’s my bargain, Skylord. Let the boy go and free Esme from your spell. Do that and I’ll end our fight.”

“No!” Moth shrieked. He dashed for Merceron, but Artaios quickly snagged his collar. Moth clawed at Artaios, scratching at him before Alis jerked him back. “Let me go! Alis, please!”

“Hold him!” roared Artaios. He loomed over the struggling Moth, his face thunderous. “He gives himself for you, boy. A lowly human! Do not spit on his sacrifice by wailing.”

“Artaios, please! He’s old. He can’t harm you any more . . .”

“No, Moth,” Merceron rumbled. “No begging. Not for me.” He shuffled closer. “I
am
old. I’ve already lived a hundred human lifetimes. You haven’t even lived once.”

“But Merceron, they’ll kill you!”

Merceron lifted Esme onto his hand. “They will use me,” he said. “Blood for blood and life for life. I told you, Moth—I owe Esme for what she did. Let me do this for her . . .and for you.”

“Merceron . . .”

“Say good-bye to me, boy.”

Moth couldn’t stop his tears. “I
can’t
.”

“Go with Skyhigh,” Merceron insisted. “Don’t believe what these beasts say. You’re not trapped. Fight your way home!”

Moth wiped his running nose, trying to control himself. With Artaios and all the Skylords watching, he said, “We’ll fight them, Merceron. I swear we will!”

Skyhigh stepped toward the throne. “Let me take him. Let me fly him out of here.”

Korace waved him away as he sat back on his throne, much more interested in Merceron than another human. Artaios stooped down to face Moth, his wings enfolding them both like a blanket.

“You’ll be safe, Egg,” he said. His voice was surprisingly sad. “Alisaundra will take you both to the flying machine.” He turned to Skyhigh, adding, “Protect him, human. Take him through the Reach. If you don’t, you’ll face me in Pandera.”

Skyhigh smiled mockingly. “Then we’ll see each other again.”

He took Moth’s hand. Alisaundra bowed to her Masters, then urged Moth and Skyhigh out of the chamber. Moth lingered, unable to leave.

“Merceron,” he gasped. “I’m sorry . . .”

Skyhigh urged him toward the exit. “We have to go.”

“I’m sorry!” cried Moth.

Alis took his arm. “Hurry, hurry. . . .”

Merceron gave Moth one last wink. “I’m not afraid, Moth. Fiona’s trick, remember?”

For a second Moth paused, bewildered. Then he remembered, and with a touch of comfort, he nodded.

“Good-bye, Merceron,” he choked. “My friend.”

MOTH MOVED IN A FOG, following Alisaundra and Skyhigh to the place where the dragonfly waited, a huge platform jutting out from the cliff of Korace’s tower. True to Artaios’ word, no one had followed or tried to stop them. The platform was eerily quiet, as if all the Skylords in the city had gathered to watch Merceron’s death. The dragonfly stood poised at the edge, ready to take flight. Skyhigh hurried to the craft, running his hands over the wings, inspecting it with his critical eye.

“She looks okay,” he said, as though he’d expected some sort of sabotage. He popped the canopy and inspected the inside, too. Alisaundra waited, rocking impatiently on her clawed feet. Skyhigh was still talking, but Moth was a million miles away, his thoughts all on Merceron.

They’d left him to die. After Merceron had come all this way to save him, Moth had run away. He realized he was shaking. He hadn’t stopped crying, either. He wiped at his cheeks, unable to make sense of things.

“What did he mean?” he asked. “Blood for blood and all that. What did he mean?”

Alisaundra said, “A sacrifice. It takes life to work the changing magic.”

“What?” exclaimed Moth. “You mean someone died to change you into what you are?”

“I died,” said Alis. “But to change me back would take another life.”

“Merceron’s life, you mean,” said Moth. “For Esme. Skyhigh, did you know this?”

Skyhigh pushed him toward the dragonfly. “Moth, we don’t have time. Merceron made his choice. Hurry up. . . .”

“Wait.” Alisaundra spun Moth around. “I will come with you.”

“Alis?”

“I can help you,” said the Redeemer eagerly. “I know the way to Pandera. We can make it quickly.”

“Alis, why?” asked Moth. “You’re sworn to Artaios.”

“Because . . .” Alis searched for an answer. “You need me.”

“No way!” Skyhigh jumped in. “I don’t even have room for her!”

“Skyhigh, she’s right. She can help us,” said Moth.

“Are you crazy? She’s the one who kidnapped you! Now you want to take this thing with us?”

“She’s not a thing, she’s a person,” argued Moth. He looked at Alis, sure of himself. “She’s human.”

Skyhigh gave a miserable curse. “Fine,” he snapped, “but she needs to keep up with us. We’re going full throttle, and there’s no room in the dragonfly.”

“I can fly faster than your machine,” said Alis. “Have you forgotten?”

“Alis, you can come,” Moth decided. “But we can’t leave yet. Skyhigh, get the dragonfly going. Alis, come with me.”

Moth bolted from the platform, back toward the tower. Skyhigh called after him.

“Moth! Where you going?”

Moth shouted back, “Get in the air and wait for us! I’m going back for Comet!”

HIGH ABOVE MERCERON, the Skylords of the palace looked down from the ancient trees and galleries, waiting for his death. The young ones blinked in wonderment, while the veterans of the dragon wars watched, quietly satisfied. Merceron looked back silently at their luminous faces. The sun burned brightly in the sky, warming him. Weary, he succumbed to it.

At last, he would sleep.

He’d done everything right. He tried to remember some regrets, but he had none suddenly, and his clear conscience surprised him. True, Dreojen blamed him, but he no longer blamed himself. And though the Skylords might yet win the Starfinder, Merceron had at least saved Moth.

“Now it’s your turn,” he told Esme softly. He ran a finger lightly over her feathered back, hoping for one last glimpse of her the way she’d been. In his mind he’d held a picture of her all these years, the most beautiful Skylord he had ever seen. “Soon you’ll be whole again, my friend. You’ll forgive me for doing this.”

Esme’s eyes glowed with understanding.

“Dragon,” said Artaios. “You give your life for a Skylord. Be proud. Not every dragon is so noble.”

“I give my life for a friend,” said Merceron, “and not for any of your kind.”

Korace reached out from his throne, touching the sword at Artaios’ belt. As his fingers brushed the strange metal, the sword began to sing, its vibrations sending an odd light across the floor.

“If you have words, speak them,” Artaios told Merceron. He freed the sword from his belt “Be heard now. When I’m done, there will be nothing left of you.”

Merceron studied Artaios, then his wizened father, then the arena packed with beautiful, vengeful faces. Did he have words? Should he curse them?

“Just this, then,” said Merceron. He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “The sky belongs to everyone. It belongs to the dragons like it does to the clouds. It belongs to any race that can reach it. Even humans.”

Korace gave a hiss of contempt. The galleries filled with shouts.

“Clip their wings, but they’ll grow back!” Merceron went on. “And if you keep the sky from them—as you’ve kept it from my own race—they will destroy you for it!”

The hall erupted. Merceron basked in their anger. Artaios slowly raised his sword, his face joyless.

“No pain,” he promised. “Close your eyes.”

“No,” defied Merceron. “I want to see.”

With Esme in his upturned palm, he raised her above his head, remembering Fiona’s trick . . .

His fear vanished in an instant, replaced by a memory of Elaniel. Once, he had raised Elaniel over his head as well, when his son was just a wyrmling. The thought played like a dream in Merceron’s mind.

And Elaniel had flown.

 

Artaios touched the sword to Merceron’s belly. Along the blade danced the dragon’s life force.

 

A bird she had been, unable to speak with words or to think an entire, complex thought.

Small she had been, for nearly fifty years.

In her tiny, hollow bones, Esme felt the burning. A dazzling, blinding light engulfed her. She felt herself stretching skyward, felt Merceron collapsing. Her wings struggled madly for air. In a maelstrom of fire, an unseen force pulled her apart, raking her flesh. She was unable to fly, and the floor rose up to meet her. Instinctively she stretched her talons as she hit the ground.

Instead, her fingers scratched the stones. All around her swirled the mist, searing her skin. Weak, she lifted her head, about to scream. Her white wings draped her naked body. As the storm subsided, she remembered what she’d been.

And what she was again.

Next to her lay Merceron, lifeless on the floor. All around her stared her people. Esme trembled as she tried to push herself upright with her unused limbs. Her huge, snowy wings were moving with newborn life. She tried to speak but made no sound.

Artaios towered before her. She remembered him and his feeble father. The sword dangled in his hand. He bent to look at her, his eyes wide at what he’d done.

“Can you hear me?”

His voice was like an echo, gradually reaching her foggy mind.

“You’re home now,” he said. “You are welcome here,
if
you have learned from your punishment.”

Past him sat Korace on his silver throne, watching her, waiting for her answer. All that had happened in fifty years came flooding into Esme’s mind, giving her a bitter strength. With one mighty effort, she lifted herself.

“Speak,” Artaios commanded. “Has your penance made you wiser?”

Esme tilted her face toward the sun. Its kiss fortified her. She stretched her wings, letting the warmth caress her feathers.

“Esme,” Artaios warned, “if you leave here, you can never come back.”

Esme wasted none of her strength, not even to answer him. Confident, she leaped for the sky, letting her wings beat the air.

“You’ll be an outcast forever!” cried Artaios. “Forever, do you hear?”

Esme climbed ever higher, wrapped by the sun’s yellow arms. Below her, her people watched in silence. For fifty years she hadn’t spoken, her voice magically imprisoned. Now, in a great, exalting song, she released her unbound cry.

FIONA BENT LOW OVER HER grandfather’s toolbox, careful not to bang her head in the small control room. A bank of levers covered the nearest wall, webbed with wires and steam conduits. Metal struts hung low across the ceiling—the airship’s exposed, riveted skeleton. Fiona rummaged through the wooden box, shunting aside spools of string and discarded hardware.

“Is this it?” she asked, pulling out a small, box-headed wrench. She placed the wrench in Rendor’s hand, who knew it instantly by touch.

“That’s it,” he replied, and the wrench disappeared beneath the console. With only his legs and torso exposed, he began tightening the newly repaired speaking tube.