Starlighter (5 page)

Jason leaped ahead and followed, staying the required three steps behind. After they hurried through the narrow corridor, they emerged in the rear of the vestibule, now much darker than before. Although shadows blackened the walls and floors, Prescott never slowed.

Staring into the darkness, Jason reached for the hilt of his sword. Something was wrong. It didn’t make sense that the governor would so carelessly stroll through an unlit chamber. Shouldn’t someone meet them with a lantern trimmed for evening? Why hadn’t the wall lanterns been lit?

As they passed by the parlor, something clicked near the wall on the opposite side. Someone was out there, hidden in the shadows. Jason quietly drew his sword. Ahead, a tall statue loomed near an intersection with a hallway.

Jason grabbed Prescott’s arm and pulled him against the statue’s cubic base. “Someone is hiding out there,” he whispered.

Even in the dimness, Prescott’s wide eyes were easy to see. “Impossible. Everyone should be at the invocation.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Jason eased away from Prescott. “Please stay here. I’ll check it out.”

“Very well.”

While Prescott ducked low behind the statue, Jason soft-stepped toward the middle of the chamber. Darker than ever now, the room seemed smaller, as if the walls were closing in. Adrian had taught him how to overcome tricks his mind might play. Focus on one sensory input at a time—first sight, then sound, then smell, then touch, and finally, that quiet voice inside, a warrior’s instinct that danger troubled the air around him. With that approach, competing channels of data wouldn’t be able to fool his mind. He would be ready for anything.

Shallow breathing entered his ears. The faint odor of human sweat drifted by. This attacker was nervous, not a professional. Soon he would take a deeper breath. That would be the sign of attack.

Jason stared into a void between two shadowy columns in the wall. The intruder had to be there. Every sensory input pointed in that direction.

Flexing his fingers around the hilt, Jason turned ninety degrees away from the void and waited. Better to let the attacker believe he had the advantage of surprise. When he learned otherwise, he would crumble like the rookie he likely was. Then, instead of killing him, Jason could take him prisoner and learn where this conspiracy led.

A hooded figure leaped from between the columns, swift and silent. Jason ducked, allowing the attacker’s swinging sword to sweep over his head. With a leg thrust, Jason tripped the man and sent him tumbling. The sword flew from his hand and slid across the marble floor.

Jason leaped up and ran to the sprawled body. He pressed his sword’s tip into the attacker’s hood and whisked it off. A wide-eyed, square-jawed young man gaped at him.

“Randall?”

Gasping, Randall stared at the sword. “Don’t kill me. I was just—“He clamped his mouth shut and closed his eyes. “Just don’t kill me!”

A cold chill ran across Jason’s skin.
The governor’s son. A loyalist. Too unskilled to be an assassin. A sacrificial lamb? Could there be another?

Turn!

Jason whipped around, his blade up. Another blade clanked against his, the speed like lightning and the force like a charging bull. Grunting under the weight, he crouched. The attacker flew overtop, but after a deft flip landed on his feet and charged again.

Still crouching, Jason lunged to the side. As the attacker’s sword swiped past his face, Jason thrust his own blade, but the nimble, hooded figure leaped over it just in time.

Jason jumped to his feet. The attacker spun toward him and pointed his sword, waiting silently.

Flexing his muscles, Jason stared at his opponent. He was good, very good. Shorter than average and lithe, his speed and agility were superb.

Jason stepped to the right to get a better look at his opponent. The dark attacker stepped to his own right at the same pace, making it look like the two swordsmen were orbiting a central point on the floor. Jason watched the attacker’s graceful movements. This man had been inside the tournament ring many times. His range was exactly the size of a battle circle. But that could be used against him.

Jason backed against the wall. If this attacker was familiar only with school training, he wouldn’t recognize this strategy. Without a passing lane behind Jason for his opponent’s escape, a lunge on the opponent’s part would be far more dangerous.

The hooded man stalked toward him but halted abruptly several steps away. In an oddly strained voice, he said, “Are you a coward? Come out and face me in a fair, head-to-head battle.”

“You talk about fair,” Jason said, pushing a tone of challenge into his voice. “You sent a scared puppy ahead of you and attacked me from behind. It seems that
you’re
the coward.”

“I see.” The attacker stripped off his hood. Long auburn locks fell out, and an angular female face appeared.

Jason gawked at her. “Marcelle?”

She smirked, and her normal voice flowed softly and sweetly. “You should teach your brother some of that bravado.”

Jason swung his head toward the statue. Prescott emerged from his hiding place, clapping his hands as he approached.

“All three of you performed with excellence!” Prescott said. “And Marcelle, you were right, as usual.”

Jason glanced between them. Both the governor and Marcelle carried triumphant expressions. Behind them, Randall rose to his feet, his head low.

Prescott laid a hand on Jason’s shoulder. “Merely a test, young man. Adrian recommended you, but, because you are so young and inexperienced, I wanted Marcelle to take his place at my side. Yet Marcelle assured me that you would be a fine bodyguard.”

Jason looked at Marcelle. Her smirk softened to a friendly smile, and she offered an approving nod.

“I suggested the test,” Prescott continued. “And you have passed brilliantly. Both Randall and Marcelle knew not to harm you, so there was no danger.”

Jason held back a rising growl.
Stay calm and polite.
“Not to question your idea, Governor, but I could have hurt your son.” He wanted to add that Marcelle was also vulnerable, but that might not have been true.

Prescott reached for Randall’s tunic and pulled the shoulder back, revealing a tough sheet of metal. “He was well-protected, and the suit made him heavier, which explains your easy victory over him. Marcelle, of course, required no such protection.

“We needed Randall to distract you in order to test your warrior’s sense and your reflexes. My son, of course, is just as qualified to be my bodyguard as you are, but since he is so dear to me, if he were captured by an enemy, he could be used to bend my will.”

Still clutching his sword tightly, Jason fumed inside. Randall was good, but they had already proven who would win in a battle of swords and wits.

“Fret not,” Marcelle said as she touched Jason’s arm, her voice again sweet. “Your skills have been approved. You will make a fine bodyguard for His Lordship.”

Jason relaxed his grip and nodded. A strained “Thank you” was all he could muster.

“Now,” Marcelle said, turning to Prescott, her smile a bit tighter, “you will adhere to your part of the bargain.”

“Of course. Of course.” Prescott reached into his tunic’s breast pocket and withdrew a set of keys on a
metal ring. After pulling a long brass key away, he handed it to her. “You will find what you are looking for in the weapons cache. After you secure it, you may keep the key. I have another. Do you know where the cache is?”

“I do.” Marcelle took the key and turned toward Jason, a look of sincerity bending her tawny brow as she whispered, “I meant no insult to your brother. I made this bargain to save his life.”

With that, she sheathed her sword and ran into the shadows.

Jason stared after her. What could she have meant by that? Asking Prescott might bring an answer, but she obviously wanted her comment to remain a secret.

Prescott stooped and picked up Marcelle’s hood. “The ceremony began long ago, but they will not be able to install Counselor Orion without me. Let us hurry now to the cathedral.”

“What do you want me to do?” Randall asked.

Prescott gave him the hood. “See to it that all traces of the battle here are wiped away, and then retire to your quarters. You may get something from the bakery first.”

“As you wish, Father.” Randall bowed. Then, after shooting an angry glare at Jason, he shuffled toward the battle area.

Prescott strode toward the statue. “Come!” he ordered, his tone becoming agitated. “The people will begin to stir if I am not there soon.”

Jason followed. He glanced back at Randall, who was now on hands and knees wiping the scuff marks with Marcelle’s hood, a mournful expression on his face. This was the first time he had seen Randall like this—humble
and hardworking. Although he had been born in the elite class, this posture gave him a nobler appearance somehow. He had always been a boastful sort during lessons, not mean-spirited or a bully, just overconfident and self-centered. Now he seemed…well…peasant-like.

As he slid his sword into its scabbard, Jason kept pace with the swift governor. New revelations swirled in his mind, especially Marcelle’s words about saving Adrian. This would be a long evening. Somehow he had to find out the truth, and maybe solving the strange puzzle from the Courier’s tube would provide the answers.

K
oren strained against a pair of ropes as she hauled a cart up a rocky hill. The slope’s steepness and the many rocks forced her to keep her eyes on the path, so she couldn’t monitor the honeycombs in the dilapidated four-wheeler. At least this cargo was sticky enough to keep it inside the cart. Last week, the olive oil sloshed back and forth, spilling a third of the load.

When she reached the top, she swiped her sleeve across her brow. Despite the relative coolness of winter and the twilight air, the hard work was enough to make anyone sweat. Even with her hair tied up in the back, her neck and collar were soaked.

She hiked up her skirt’s waistband and pulled the cart toward the grottoes. No dragon anywhere on Starlight would ever sweat, even if one did lift a claw to do anything more than point at her and complain. The scaly beasts had no pores in their armor. They were impervious, proving
the chants of the other slave girls as they played with spinners before bedtime.

A dragon can’t huggle.

A dragon can’t snuggle.

A dragon’s scales are hard and cold.

The dragons make us struggle.

Koren smiled. The words were silly, but the song made the younger kids laugh. They didn’t have much else to laugh about, especially during the other three quarters of the year when hot winds from the swamp brought mosquitoes and the diseases they carried. Only the very few kindlier dragons would put up with the frailties of the younger humans, giving them cooler tasks like fetching water from the forest stream. The grouchier dragons would send ill humans to the Separators. There they would be transferred to an Assignment in another grotto or to a human herd in the Traders’ cattle camp, where they would have to fend for themselves and fight for food among the dozens of other children.

Yes, the cattle children were the true paupers in the land. Earlier that day, after climbing to the top of the fence surrounding the camp, she had dropped a quarter of a loaf of nut bread to a small boy on the other side. The boy looked both ways, scooped up the bread, and tore it in half.

“Thank you,” he had whispered. Then, as he gobbled down one half, he ran to a little girl in the distance. When he reached her, he gave her the other half and pointed at Koren, still hanging on to the top of the fence.

Even now, the boy’s whispered voice continued to bathe her mind in sweet comfort.
Thank you.
Those simple words would be a soothing balm every time sad memories scratched a new wound in her soul.

When she passed under the arch of Arxad’s grotto, her home now for more than a year, she hurried to the back of the cart and pushed it from behind. She might already be late, and Arxad wouldn’t be happy if his sweetener wasn’t ready in time for his evening meal.

Now on the entry tunnel’s smoother terrain, familiar after such a long Assignment, she jogged quickly. Ahead, a lantern light illuminated the kitchen area. Madam Orley and the other girls had probably finished preparing and serving the meal. Madam had killed four sheep earlier in the day, and butchering them had been quite a chore for her and the girls. Now that the girls had left to take their exams, Madam Orley would be working alone, tired, as could be expected, and probably unwilling to listen to excuses about stinging bees.

Koren wheeled the cart to a stop next to a table with an oak surface and four granite legs. Madam stood on the other side, her hands flat on the table as she propped her stocky body. A weary smile dressed her face. She was obviously tired, but not cross.

Koren picked up a sticky comb the size of her hand and set it on the table. “Will this one be enough for Arxad? I can put the others in jars.”

Beneath the light of a lantern hanging from the high ceiling, Madam Orley looked at her, two circlets of gray hair hanging out of her white bandanna and dangling in front of her eyes. With every feature in her wrinkled
face sagging, she sighed. “It will be enough.” Her voice sounded as tired as she looked. “But you had better hurry. I served the lambs a moment ago, and he is waiting for the sauce to be sweetened. Then you can come back and store the other combs.”

Koren grabbed a metal pot hanging from one of many hooks that held cooking utensils on the stone wall and put the honeycomb inside. Kneeling, she inserted the pot into a shelf above the fireplace. With the spit for roasting the lambs still in the fireplace’s main compartment, the shelf they used for keeping food warm would have to do. There was no time to move the spit and then wash her hands. All she needed was to warm the comb a little bit.

When enough honey pooled, she pulled out the pot and marched farther into the tunnel. The dining area was in the next chamber. It, too, was well-lit, making it easy for Koren to follow the glow.

She paused near an opening to the right and peered inside. Unlike humans, who shared a community table, each dragon perched on his haunches in front of an individual stone pedestal, Arxad near the left side of the rectangular room, Fellina at the opposite wall on the right. Xenith, their female youngling, perched behind her table near the wall across from the entry door. The room was small compared to the main living quarters, allowing them to speak without shouting, but the cramped space made it difficult for a servant to maneuver around the tables while carrying heavy serving platters and filled goblets.

All three seemed to be in a good mood, each one tearing meat from various portions of the roasted lamb and slurping
macko berry wine. With their noisy chewing, their growling conversations were muffled, but Koren’s experienced ears picked up every word. They spoke in their own language, of course, but she and the other slaves had heard it so often, translating it wasn’t a problem.

“The Separators are promoting three humans,” Arxad said. “I will have to prepare them for the ceremony.”

Koren held her breath. They were talking about Promotions, a topic they always avoided when she was nearby. Maybe they would let some information slip. She had often dreamed of being one of the promoted humans. It was the only way out of the hotter regions.

Fellina stopped chewing. “Will these duties never end?”

“I will not be long.” Arxad looked at Xenith. “And you already know what I will say if you complain that you should be allowed to go. The book of the law forbids it. Someday you will be old enough to see what we do with promoted humans.”

Xenith crunched a bone and spoke loudly while grinding it. “Good. I hope Koren gets promoted someday. I think she is—”

“Quiet!” Fellina scolded. “A human is in the kitchen.”

The room fell silent. Koren counted to ten, hoping that was enough time for the dragons to believe she had not heard their conversation. Taking a breath, she marched in, gave the three dragons a quick bow, and hurried with the pot to Arxad’s table.

“You are late,” Arxad growled in the human tongue.

“Yes, I am.” Koren poured some of the honey into a bowl of herbs and drippings from the lamb. Using a spoon from the table, she mixed the concoction into a thick sauce.
“If you care to hear the reason for my tardiness, I will tell you.”

“I want to hear it,” Xenith said. “Koren’s stories are always amusing.”

Arxad gave Koren a nod. “Very well. Amuse us.”

“One moment.” Koren poured the sauce over the remainder of Arxad’s lamb, set the pot down on the floor, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I am ready.”

Giving the dragons a theatrical grimace as she turned slowly in place, she bent her body into a skulking pose, raised her hands as if ready to claw an enemy, and narrowed her eyes. The dragons loved a good show, so she would give them one. Maybe someday she could earn the elusive Promotion.

“The hives are filled with bees,” she said in a breathy, overly dramatic voice. “Since you are protected by your impenetrable scales, you dragons cannot fathom the torture we humans suffer when the needle-sharp barbs prick our skin. The sting is worse than a spear piercing a dragon’s underbelly. Venom courses through our bloodstreams. Our bodies swell like rotting cadavers. Our throats constrict, and we gasp for just a swallow of air.”

She wrapped her fingers around her throat. Sticking out her tongue and gagging, she staggered from one table to another. Finally, she collapsed in a heap and peeked at the dragons. Xenith gawked at her, mesmerized. After a few seconds, Koren spoke in a groaning lament. “Though we beg for death to come and end the torture, the dark predator stalks slowly, laughing at us as we strain to breathe. Then, just as we realize we want to live after all, he thrusts his jagged sword into our chests, deflating our lungs and the last gasping prayer for precious life.”

She rose to her feet and posed as she had at the beginning, again using a dramatic voice. “In order to avoid the stings, I wore a robe I constructed out of acorn caps. The hard surface made me feel like a powerful dragon—brave, strong, and invulnerable to the pesky bees. Armed with nothing but a sharp stick, I attacked the hive, and although the wicked bees swarmed around my body, buzzing and driving their stingers into my robe, I managed to pull out the finest honeycombs in the land, dripping with gooey, delicious honey.”

She lifted a finger and lowered her voice to a raspy whisper. “But, after I loaded the combs into my cart, a hundred squirrels attacked me.” Raising her hands, she ran around the area enclosed by the tables, acting out her story. “I fought them off, stripping each one from my acorn robe and throwing them into the river until I was finally rid of the furry rats.”

Koren halted in front of Xenith, panting. “I took off my robe and hurried back to my cart, but my escape had already delayed me too much. I knew I would be late, though I strained with all my might to run up the hill with a cart dragging me back.”

Her draconic mouth hanging open, Xenith turned to Arxad. “Father, she risked her life to get your honey. I could almost see the squirrels and the bees. Have you ever heard such a story of courage?”

Arxad chuckled. “No, I cannot say that I have. It was quite a tale indeed.”

The male dragon eyed Koren. His pulsing red pupils told her what she needed to know. Although he realized the story was really a tall tale, he was pleased.

“You may wash and retire to your quarters,” he said. “Your entertainment has earned an early rest.”

Koren smiled and bowed. “I trust that my service to you will continue to demonstrate the loyalty due you and your household.”

“You see,” Xenith said. “If any human deserves Promotion, Koren does.”

Arxad glared at her. “You speak that which you do not understand. The Separators know about Koren and her talents, so it is up to us to be silent and trust their judgment.” He glanced at Fellina briefly before turning to Koren with a kindly smile. “Go to your quarters now. Madam Orley will clean up in here.”

Koren bowed again and walked out of the room, her back straight and her head high. When she reached the tunnel and its concealing shadows, she leaned against the wall. Her heart thumped. Her legs trembled.
The Separators know about me!
Maybe Promotion was more than just a dream. Maybe she would finally be able to go to the mountain spas and the cooler climate.

Closing her eyes, she wrapped her arms around herself. There she could serve the King Dragon and be with the other promoted humans. The tasks were so much easier there, a few hours of food preparation and cleaning, and the rest of the day could be spent wandering in the hills, picking flowers, singing prayers, or just sitting in the green grass doing nothing at all.

Koren looked back toward the kitchen. At least that’s what Madam Orley and the other women always said. The men, of course, told different, though equally wonderful stories. They focused on the ease of lighter outdoor labors,
certainly easier than slaving with pickaxes in the deep pheterone mines. And they could enjoy hunting, fishing, and tending bountiful gardens. It was truly Paradise.

After taking a final peek into the dining chamber, Koren scooted toward her sleeping quarters. She passed through the enormous living room, empty now except for the thick mats the dragons used for resting and recreation. They would return here after dinner to talk and play their usual games, most involving quizzes and brain teasers. Once in a while Arxad would bounce with Xenith on the mats and wrestle with her, though such episodes had grown infrequent since she had, as the dragons put it, “come of age.”

When Koren reached the far end of the living room, she turned left into another corridor, barely illuminated by widely spaced lanterns. Its lower ceiling made it much harder for dragons to enter, which was a blessing. The girls could talk about the day and complain about their labors without worrying about an eavesdropper listening in. Madam Orley would often tell stories about their origins, starting with the humans’ version and telling how dragons kidnapped a group of families from an alien planet called Darksphere. Starlight had begun to lose pheterone, a gas in the air necessary for dragon survival, so one hundred years ago they sent an explorer dragon to Darksphere in search of an alternative place to live.

The new planet had even less pheterone in its atmosphere than did Starlight, but the dragon noticed how nimbly the creatures there used their hands and tools. He stole a group away and enslaved them, forcing them to procreate so they could grow in numbers and dig the deep mines that would release the gas from beneath Starlight’s crust and thereby replenish the atmosphere.

Ever since, humans have used picks and drills to dig deep holes in pheterone mines, and dragons have grown stronger because of the replenished atmosphere.

The dragon version of the legend, of course, differed in two details. Indeed, a dragon did go to Darksphere to search for a habitable planet, but he found that humans there were brutally treated by slave-driving mountain bears and often used as a food source. He rescued all he could carry on his back, and in exchange for their safety, humans have worked for dragon survival all these years. The labor was still forced and often torturous, but it was better than being eaten by bears.