Drogoya: Book 3 Circles of Light series (60 page)

Voron had returned from
the Domain and was delighted to meet Senior Doochay. Kera was
listening in amazement while Doochay related the most scurrilous
gossip to a highly amused Nesh, when she realised the chatter in
the hall was gradually quieting. She noticed Ashta and three Snow
Dragons had come into the hall, reclining in Fenj’s favoured spot.
Their eyes were all whirring rapidly and they were focused on the
ramp.

Chakar and Jal appeared
first, Jal serious as befitted a Captain of Guards, Chakar with a
beaming smile. When they reached the bottom of the ramp they stood
to one side, looking back. And there stood Mim. Kera heard
Doochay’s intake of breath as she had her first sight of the Nagum
boy.

Gold scales glittered
on his chest, arms and face. He wore trousers and soft boots. A
long knife hung from his belt. On a gold chain hung an egg shaped
pendant, backed in red gold and its amber front pulsing with light.
He stepped forward, looking down at all in the hall. Kera squinted.
What did he have on his back – an old fashioned shield of some
kind? Two more steps forward and Ashta called aloud, rearing erect,
as did the Snow Dragons.

And then Mim gave his
sweet smile, holding himself straight and proud while the huge gold
feathered wings unfurled, newborn from his back. Effortlessly, he
lifted from the rock floor and with three beats of his magnificent
wings, he landed before his soul bond. Truly, a Dragon
Lord.

Thryssa and Kwanzi
remained in Talvo with Lashek and Pachela. The young student with
the silvered eyes woke much calmer the day following Thryssa’s
arrival. She adamantly insisted that she must stay in Talvo and
Thryssa felt she should remain with her.

Only small amounts of
rain had fallen here despite Zloy’s manipulation of the weather
systems, but it had been enough for the plants to grow even more
luxuriantly. Lashek had occupied himself with Lorak’s nursery bed –
weeding and tidying diligently. Thryssa managed to persuade Pachela
to join her in looking for more of the tiny flowering plants
beloved by Lorak, but the girl became anxious if they were out of
sight of Gremara’s ledge for too long.

Pajar mind spoke the
High Speaker at dawn and dusk, relaying information to her. He
reported that guards had accompanied representatives of Segra,
Parima and Kedara Circles into Fira, where they found a chaotic
situation indeed. They had been shocked at the numbers of dead
within Fira – and by the fact that the corpses had been left to lie
where they fell. Pajar estimated that the population of Fira was
reduced from two and a half thousand to less than seven hundred.
And many of those seven hundred were too shocked to know where to
start putting their lives back in order. He asked for volunteers to
help clear the bodies and try to restore some normality.

He felt proud, he told
Thryssa, that so many had instantly answered his request for
volunteers. People from all the other Circles had not hesitated or
shown reluctance to help. Water levels were down, still overly high
in places but no longer presenting any danger. Pajar had also
informed them of Discipline Senior Ryla’s death in Gaharn which
grieved Thryssa enormously. In the evening of that day, the three
who had known the ancient lady spoke of her to Pachela, remembering
her to help her journey Beyond.

Even Kwanzi had given
up trying to reach the minds of the two Dragons. One of them always
lay beneath Gremara’s ledge. Around them and around the bodies of
Gremara and Lorak was a form of shielding none of them had ever
encountered. Lula still slept on Fenj’s head, or against his
massive chest. She still pounced on his feet or his tail when he
moved. And she did speak with the Vagrantians. But she told them
absolutely nothing more than they could observe for
themselves.

On the ninth evening
since Zloy’s destruction, the four sat round their small fire. Fenj
had gone to hunt and Jeela lay watchful against the rock
face.

‘How long can this go
on I wonder?’ Thryssa mused, a question asked repeatedly by one or
other of them every evening.

Kwanzi poked at the
fire with a stick. ‘I have no idea what is happening, but the fact
that Fenj and Jeela are so calm, makes me think it is not a final
thing. Even Lula.’ He smiled at the tiny Kephi who sprawled, fast
asleep, across Lashek’s ample lap.

‘How can it not be
final? You’ve seen how burnt Gremara was. Perhaps Lorak is in some
kind of coma – it happens in some cases of illness, particularly in
older people,’ objected Pachela.

‘There just isn’t a
sense of finality here. More than that I cannot
explain.’

They woke the next
morning simultaneously and sat yawning.

‘Just look at that
sunrise,’ Lashek murmured.

They watched as a flare
of pink quivered along Talvo’s rim, the sky above slowly flushing a
darker pink smudged with a buttery gold. Fenj suddenly rattled his
wings against his body and the four Vagrantians turned to look at
him. He was standing, staring up at the ledge, his black scales
gleaming in the early light.

‘Dear stars,’ breathed
Lashek.

Something moved on the
ledge, stilled, then moved again. Thryssa got to her feet, Pachela
clinging to her. Kwanzi moved forward, stopping at once when Fenj’s
wing stretched warningly to bar him from coming closer. The light
grew in the eastern sky and they saw Lorak struggling to push
himself to his hands and knees.

Several times he nearly
succeeded only to slump forward again.

‘For the love of the
stars, and the love I know you hold for Lorak, let one of us help
him,’ Kwanzi pleaded.

Lula, sitting between
Fenj and Jeela looked over her shoulder, blue eyes shining. ‘He
must do this alone.’

They could only watch
therefore as the pink glow faded from the early sky and the blue
deepened above Talvo, and Lorak struggled on. The sun was overhead
when he made it to his knees, sitting upright on his heels. His
head was bowed with weariness and he remained thus for some
moments. Then he stirred again, fumbling in his old coat and they
saw him withdraw his pruning knife.

Shuffling round on his
knees, his back to the watchers, he raised his hand. Light flashed
off the blade as it plunged down into the husk that had been
Gremara. The four Vagrantians gasped. Lorak somehow hauled himself
to his feet, standing astride the blackened figure of the Silver
One. He bent, working his knife down, shuffling backwards until her
reached the end of her body. His breath came in gasps and he seemed
to be muttering. He staggered back to what had been Gremara’s head
and fell to his knees again.

Now he put his knife
tip in the slit he’d made, working it back and forth. Pachela and
Kwanzi both flinched when the black shell split with a sharp crack.
It gaped open now about a handspan and Lorak rested. He
straightened his shoulders and began wrenching the two halves
apart, working up and down the whole length until the gap was
perhaps eight handspans wide. Only then did Lorak turn to look down
from the ledge.

His face was tired,
more lined than before if that was possible, but he gave the
familiar gap toothed smile, above which his now silver eyes
glittered. ‘Well then Lady Thryssa,’ he croaked. ‘Welcome the Lady
Gremara.’

He reached down and
another hand reached up out of the black casing to grip his. He
tugged gently and a silver scaled arm and shoulder came clear. Fenj
and Jeela reared erect trumpeting greeting when, with Lorak’s
assistance a naked silver scaled, silver eyed girl stepped clear of
her cocoon.

A tight cap of silver
hair curled close round her face. She swayed, clinging to Lorak’s
arm, her talons clear against his dark coat. Still holding on to
him she looked at Fenj, Jeela and the four Vagrantians. Smiling,
she moved away from Lorak and a great fan of feathered wings flared
around her – silver wings tipped with gold. And Gremara glided from
the ledge to land before Thryssa.

A man sat on a broad
window sill, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. The breeze
blowing in carried a multitude of scents from the walled garden
below, the orchards beyond, all underlined by the sharp tang of the
sea. The man was of average height and build, looking fit and
healthy although his white hair suggested considerable age. One
hand rested on the white stone framing the window, the other held
two small pebbles. His fingers caressed the pebbles, turning them
constantly in his palm while he gazed over the ocean which
stretched leagues to the horizon.

He tilted his head
suddenly, as if he’d heard someone call him. He got to his feet,
hurrying from the room, down a spiral stair of white stone. Several
doors stood open in the lower hall and he went through one to his
right, coming out on a plateau of short rough grass. Out of sight
of the house, a narrow path wound round the cliffside. He climbed
upwards, until he was far above his house. The breeze was stronger
here and he paused, again appearing to listen. Sea birds were
screaming high overhead when the man reached a niche worn in the
cliff. He sat, his back fitting snugly against the rock, his bare
feet stretched in front of him.

Bright blue eyes framed
in silver stared out again at the water, but he no longer saw that
view. His senses sank into the rock, expanded into the air, became
the breeze. He felt the grains of soil grating against each other
where a worm burrowed through; he was the leaves of a forest a
thousand leagues away. Namolos felt the touch of the other minds
and smiled. He moved on, sweeping across the great land mass where
his plans were creeping to their fruition.

He was constantly aware
of the darkness growing on the other side of the world, of the pain
of the burning trees and grasses, the horror of the people hiding
wherever they could find a secret place. He was also conscious of a
pale beacon of light glowing steadily in a remote northern corner
of Drogoya. He dared not approach closer yet for fear of alerting
Cho Petak too soon. It had been torment for Namolos to bide his
time. So many failed attempts to manipulate events in this land,
presently called Sapphrea, had come to nothing; but now, finally,
his protégées had proved strong enough.

He found he had reached
the city built by the newcomers, the Asatarians. He tightened his
focus and saw a tiny ancient woman nestled among quilts and
pillows, a young Kephi curled snoring on her lap. Namolos’s mind
brushed the gnarled and swollen hands which rested on the Kephi’s
back and slipped into the old woman’s dream.

‘Such a people we asked
to be Caretakers!’ he whispered. ‘Verily, we chose well my sweet
one.’

He dared not linger,
remembering his body growing chill on a high cliff leagues away. He
had told no one of his travelling and though it was unlikely anyone
on that path would dare try to rouse him, he had taken a risk. He
allowed himself no more dawdling but raced north where the
brilliance of the transformed Nagum boy drew him like a
magnet.

The Stronghold slept as
Namolos’s thought spun through its rock. He found the boy in his
room, asleep on his narrow bed. One wing was furled tidily against
his back, the other half extended, trailing to the
floor.

‘So much still to ask
of you precious child, but how well you have so far
succeeded!’

Namolos grew more
sharply aware of the dangerous cold his body was experiencing and
moved his mind instantly to the five conjoined craters in the south
east. He had watched that place so often through the millennia, his
heart bleeding for the growing insanity of the Silver One. When he
was notified of her successful battle to recover her mind, he had
wept, then caused a great feast of rejoicing to be celebrated
throughout the string of islands he had made his home.

She was waiting for
him, had somehow known he would visit her. She stood on the very
rim of Talvo Circle, her wings slightly extended, helping her
balance against a gusting wind.

‘Beloved! We are so
proud of you – I am so proud!’

‘I remember,’ Gremara
replied to his mind. ‘I remember it all and I am ready for whatever
comes next.’

He made a last effort
to increase his focus and saw her beautiful smile. She felt the
faintest impress of his lips against her forehead and heard his
words.

‘Soon we will be
reunited at last, most precious daughter.’ And he was
gone.

Namolos sat, his back
against the cliffs, his body shuddering with both cold and
exhilarated joy. He closed his eyes against the queasiness brought
on by a too extended, and unprepared for, travelling, and breathed
deeply. He would tell the others when they gathered for supper at
dusk, but first he would go to Star Dancer. She would know already
of course, but she would appreciate a visit from him. He stood up
and shook dust and pieces of grass from the long robe he wore – the
usual clothing of most islanders.

He retraced his steps
to the house and made his way first to his own quarters. He
stripped off his robe and showered quickly in the tiny bathroom,
the needles of hot water removing the last of the chill that had
permeated to his very bones. He towelled himself dry and went to
the tall cupboard opposite his bed. He hesitated, then pulled out a
dark blue shirt and matching trousers. He looked at the boots,
wriggled his bare toes and decided against footwear. The shirt bore
an insignia on the left breast: a circle of stars around a stylised
flower.