I needed a string instrument, you see, that was more portable than a lap harp.
Once I was running through Doc’s lessons without any “resets,” and once Tyentso had grudgingly agreed that I had learned as much as I was probably going to learn from her given my own natural inclinations, only then did I go to Khaemezra for permission.
To my surprise, she agreed, announcing the whole thing “inevitable.”
So that just left the fun part.
We picked a bright sunny morning just after a Maevanos, when it would seem normal that most of the residents of Ynisthana were out of sight, presumably sleeping off the drinking and bedding of the night before. No drakes hunted in the jungle and no fishermen were out casting their nets, but those details were easy to overlook if you happened to be a giant, self-absorbed, narcissistic dragon.
I dressed myself in a pair of black kef and sandals, hair pulled back and tied with a length of white cloth I’d salvaged from an initiate robe. My gaesh was secured in a pocket. I wore the Stone of Shackles around my neck, shining like a piece of long-dead sky.
I wanted there to be no question that I was wearing the damn thing.
I left behind weapons. They would be useless anyway. The star tears of my gaesh made easy and effective talismans, sharpening my tenyé with protections from magic and fire—the latter a special spell Tyentso and I had worked out together. I was pretty sure they wouldn’t truly ward off the Old Man’s fury—I wasn’t that powerful—but I hoped the spells would buy me a few precious seconds just in case I found myself in the wrong position. The only objects I carried were my saymisso and bow, tucked under an arm.
I walked down to the beach, which was empty of all life. I couldn’t see the Old Man, but his island was there off the coast, along with his “rock garden” of trapped singers. I counted thirty-six of them, and felt my throat constrict.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered as I sat cross-legged on the beach and rested the spike of the saymisso in the sand. “I’m so sorry.”
I drew the bow across the strings.
I heard a roar. Seconds later, that monstrous shape flew in from a nearby island and spread his wings to blot out the sky. Sitting there and playing that instrument instead of fleeing was one of the hardest things I have ever done. Every instinct pushed me to run screaming. I played a lullaby, keeping the bow strings stiff with my hand while I pulled a long plaintive note and let it echo in the air. Hot winds scoured passed me, but I ignored that.
The dragon landed on his island and growled with a sound like an earthquake. He was still magnificent, terrifying, and profoundly wrong—a perversion of the natural order on a scale that was in its own way transcendent.
“Have you decided to die? To give yourself to me? To surrender?”
“No,” I told the dragon. “Not this time. I am curious about something. What was your price for betraying your mother? Was it jealousy? Your mother was chosen to be one of the Eight and you weren’t. Did you think you could manage things better than she did, or was your betrayal a misguided attempt to make her proud of her little boy?”
The Old Man spread his wings and hissed, “You are a fool.”
“I’ve been told. It’s probably even true. But a while back I snuck out while you weren’t looking and stopped by Kharas Gulgoth. Maybe you remember the place. Big city, kind of run-down, lots of magic, and a giant demon god sleeping in the center. Sound familiar?”
“So, you do remember.” He had that lethal menace in his voice, worse than his periods of insanity.
“No,” I admitted, “but I can read a book if I stare at it long enough. There were these drawings all over the place telling the same story again and again and again. It took me a little while, but I realized that the squiggly lines at the end weren’t rays of energy or a depiction of chaos—they were dragons.* Eight men and women who thought they could become gods became monsters instead.” I pointed a finger. “You were one of them, Sharanakal. You were human.”
“We only wanted to balance the inequity of power, knowing it was only a matter of time before the Eight Guardians became corrupted. Those idiots had chosen warriors, soldiers, healers—the carrion crows of the battlefield. People who blindly followed orders, people they could control, to give unto them power unrivaled.” The dragon stood, far too large for the island on which he perched. He rose upon his haunches and roared to the heavens, the thunder in his voice trembling the ocean and the rocks and bringing every bit of animal noise on the island to a complete halt. The dragon’s black serpentine head whipped back to stare at me with volcanic eyes.
“Sounds like you had good intentions. Sounds like it wasn’t really your fault.”
“No. It was your fault. YOU!” His head snapped forward, lunging toward me. “You. You were a na?ve trusting FOOL. How could you believe his lies?”
I had expected this response, anticipating it. That didn’t mean it was an easy thing to endure. “It was Relos Var’s fault,” I corrected, taking a deep breath to keep myself from running as that head dove for me.
He stopped very close—close enough that he had broken Khaemezra’s commands and trespassed onto the island proper, close enough that I felt my fire protections kick in to keep me from being scorched. I couldn’t look him in both eyes, but had to stare in one only, where I watched as the heart of a thousand fires raged.
“We, who were pure, thought our purity would bring resistance to evil. But this is foolishness, for the soldier understands that purity is impossible, that evil cannot be destroyed, only tempered and channeled. The soldier knows he is a tool, and will not suffer to be wielded by his enemies. We, in our arrogance, thought we were above such usage. Hubris!”
“Relos Var created the ritual,” I said. “Relos Var was the one who convinced you that they’d made a mistake when they chose eight other people to fight the demons instead of you. It should have been you from the start, right? You thought you’d become a god, but Relos Var turned you into a monster. You blame me, but he lied to me too. He used us both. You and I are alike. We’re both victims.”
That eye widened. “We’re not alike. You are far worse than my own cursed existence. You are Vol Karoth’s Cornerstone,* the shell left behind from that rivening, a great unending hunger that can never be filled, that will devour and devour as a star that collapses under its own weight eats without ever being sated. You are the only piece of his soul left, and when he wakes, he will reclaim you. Let me save you. In my garden, you will be spared that fate.”
I shuddered. I didn’t dare take too long to contemplate what he was saying. I might start screaming. “That’s kind of you, but I’m going to have to refuse your generous offer. But don’t think I’m not appreciative. In fact, I wrote a song for you. Would you like to hear me play it?”
The Old Man folded back his wings and regarded me for a long, slow, silent moment. I actually worried he might say no or fly away.