Veil of the Dragon (Prophecy of the Evarun) (27 page)

Pale stones pressed out of the hillside beneath him.
F
or passing moments
,
they still shimmered golden from the distant light of Al-Thinneas’ funeral pyre as its fire dimmed beyond the trees.

Born to us to die for us.

For only the Fallen may rise.

The words of prophecy tumbled from Chaelus’ lips.
Ye
t the prophecy hadn’t been for Al-Thinneas. And it was a prophecy that Al-Thinneas himself had not even believed in. Yet he had sacrificed himself for it. Or rather, he had sacrificed
himself
for those he loved who did believe. 

Many were the eyes of the Servian Knights that had stared at
Chaelus
through the pyre’s flames, particularly the narrow ones of Maedelous. Hoanar no longer stood with him. The warning of the Mother had
proved
right.

A
bove them all, here, the mo
u
nt of Col Durath, the forgotten watchtower, remained silent. It
was why he had come here, with the moon
-
cast shadow of the Gray Chair settled beside him,
he sat
upon the crumbling edge of its hall. 

Chaelus placed his right hand through his blouse, above the black scar where the Dragon had entered him. He reached with his other for one of the small stones he had collected beside him. The pain no longer troubled him
,
aside from the fact that it remained. His other wounds from his battle had healed but not this one, not the one that would always be. 

He winced as he cast the stone out into the night. Holding his breath, he waited. 

It was only the briefest of moments, the moment in between, but he
knew that
an eternity could be found within its intimate grasp. He had come to look forward to its solace. It had become a reminder to him of the greatness, still, of small things.

A chime struck out
into
the crisp air as the pebble cascaded across the ruins beneath him
;
like a spell, or some secret unleashed from a prison from long ago. A trapdoor sprung, or a knot
unloosed
.

So much had happened. So much had changed.

He reached for another stone. Cullin drew up like a whisper beside him. 

“So what does the Giver do now, now that the Dragon is dead?”

Chaelus withdrew his hand. “The Dragon isn’t dead.”

“And neither are you, though there are many who wished for it. And there are many who still do. So where will your path lay? Will you return from the dead to reclaim your throne?”

“I don’t think so. The Dragon will rise again in the east, now that its veil has been lifted. There it will feel safer, where its sleep has already spread throughout the Golden Halls of the Theocracy. I’ll follow it there. Baelus already sits upon the throne. It will be well tended by him, now that the Dragon’s whisper has passed from him.” 

Cullin placed his hand upon Chaelus’ shoulder. “Then I will not speak of your return. But understand he will learn of it soon. Word of it will spread. I will watch over your House, and your brother, until you return. As I’ve said, many are the eyes that have already fallen upon it.”

Chaelus clasped his hand over Cullin’s but he could not look at him. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. “As you have done already, my friend.”

The pad of feet sounded behind them. 

Beyond the silhouette of the Gray Chair, Al-Mariam stood with Michalas beside her. A
wide
cloak covered
them
both.

She pulled
her hair
away from her face as she stepped across the terrace, her eyes cast back towards her brother as she moved away from him, leaving the cloak to him. She wore a white gown that lit aglow in the moonlight. The soft scent of lavender flowed from her like the gentle promise of rain.

Michalas stared at
Chaelus
, his eyes, as always, more knowing than they should be.

Al-Mariam hesitated as she drew near. Her eyes shot to Cullin, and then back as she bowed her head. “Giver, may I speak with you?”

Chaelus stood, uncertain. “Don’t call me that.”

Cullin stared at him, and then back to Michalas. “I will leave you to your words.”

Al-Mariam waited, silent until Cullin’s footfalls echoed down the stairs.

She drew beside Chaelus and looked out into the night, just as he had. “There is great power in this place. Is that why you come here?”

“It’s a place that has always been,” Chaelus said. “This comforts me.”

Al-Mariam turned to him, her eyes unwavering. “I had taken Michalas for dead, but even before then, he was someone I never knew. He was someone I had chosen not to know.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew he was not my brother.”

For the first time since meeting her, Chaelus glimpsed the veil behind which she had hidden.

“My mother was a Servian Knight,” she said. “She’d returned with a baby after being sent on a task in the east by the Mother, somewhere near the lands of the Evarun. My mother spoke nothing of it. She raised the boy as her own. Then the Hunting came. That’s when Michalas was taken. Though I love him, I never really knew him. I don’t know how to say this, but he’s like you. He’s one of the Evarun.”

“I’m not like him,” Chaelus said. “Whatever power I hold, it isn’t mine. The power that your brother holds, it’s been his all along.”

“I was wrong about you. I dared not believe that the prophecies were true; I dared not believe who you were, or who you are to be. The Younger’s blind faith in you, it terrified me.”

“But he was wrong,” Chaelus said. “I’m not who he thought I was.”

“No,” Al-Mariam said. “You are more, because you know that you are less, and it is by your blood, and by the blood of my brother, that hope has now been returned to us all.” 

Chaelus turned away. The memory of the Giver’s glow upon the clear waters of the Shinnaras burned against him. The words of prophecy the Giver had spoken in the solitude of their passage lingered impossibly upon the edge of his breath. 

Born of cradle born of grave

Chosen from forgotten blood

Born for us to die for us

For only the fallen may rise.

Al-Mariam seized Chaelus’ hands. 

Chaelus drew away, awkward as Al-Mariam folded her own around them. 

“My brother speaks only of you,” she said. “Will you speak with him? Will you help him? Please?” 

Chaelus pulled his hands away and stepped back. He looked down into the broken slope of ruined promises below. Only silence answered him. “I don’t know that I can.”

Mariam grasped his hand again. She placed his fingers into the soft open palm of her own. The gentle scars there, of her own making, were fading. She moved his hand to rest just above her breast. He felt the soft tremor of her heart beneath her skin. 

Al-Mariam whispered. Her voice was choked. “Then at least know that though you may not want my heart, still it is yours.”

The veil behind Al-Mariam’s eyes drifted away.

Chaelus tried, but he could not turn away from their depths. 

“I will do what I can,” he said, his own voice now thickened. 

The thud of his feet sounded like the beating of an anvil, only matched by the pounding of his heart. Al-Mariam walked beside him but continued past, a gentle whisper in her step as she descended the stairs beyond.

Chaelus lowered himself to his knees before Michalas and looked up at him, the unbidden words of prophecy coming from his lips.

“One who was, but could not be.

One who could not be, but was.”

“Which one are you?” Chaelus asked.

“I don’t know what I am,” Michalas said, shaking his head. “I see Angels, but only now do I know their suffering.”

Chaelus withdrew before the child who would save him, the child through whom he was supposed to save others. The suffering Michalas spoke of stared back at him. It surprised him but it relieved him as well, for it was not so different from his own.

“I don’t know how to serve you,” he said. “Or anyone without you.”  

Chaelus stared at the tumbled litter of stones beneath them, down to the trail le
a
d
ing
amidst the tombs of the Forgotten, the tombs of the Evarun, to the tomb of his mother
.
A
nd
,
if what Al-Mariam said was true, to whatever truth
it
would hold
for them both. 

He
swallowed hard.

Then he held out his hand. 

“Walk with me
.
I’ll tell you my Story.”