12. The Price of Power
Chapter Twelve
The Price of Power
The peace of flying could never be overstated.
On Lyara’s back, Aeson was free. Free from the world, free from the weight of expectation.
Free from his own mind. And there was no more beautiful time to fly than in the twilight.
That was when Lyara’s scales came alive.
Her scales were the night sky given breath, and in the twilight as the sun dipped into the horizon, Lyara looked as though she had stolen stars and painted them upon her body.
Her wings were constellations, streaked with glistening colour.
“This is where I was born to be,” Aeson whispered as he pressed himself to Lyara’s scales and let his mind drift into hers.
Before his father had died, Aeson remembered sitting out under the trees at night, his father pointing up at the sky.
His father had always loved the stars, not just for their beauty, but for their mystery and the stories they might hold.
How far away were they? How were they created? What would they look like up close?
One night, Aeson had posited that perhaps a Draleid could find the stars. Perhaps a dragon could fly so high and so far that they could learn the stories hidden away in the night sky. He would remember that night for as long as he lived.
“Well, perhaps you will know the answers yourself one day,” Dahlen Virandr had said. “And then you can tell me what stories their light holds.”
Aeson hadn’t responded. What could he have said? That children like him would never become Draleid? That a dream was only as good as the chance of it coming true? Either way, his father had always been good at knowing the workings of Aeson’s mind
Dahlen had clasped his hands on either side of Aeson’s head and looked into his eyes.
“There is nothing in this world that is beyond you, my son. There is not a star high enough to keep you from its reach. There are enough people in this world who will tell you everything you cannot be. You must never allow their voices to be anything more than noise in your ears.”
Dahlen had placed a hand over his son’s heart.
“In here,” Dahlen had said, “beats the heart of a hero. You have seen but ten summers, and already I see it in you. And it does not matter if you ride on the back of a dragon, or on a horse, or if you never do anything more than farm the land and raise a family. Because being a hero is not about the size of your deeds, but about the heart of them. And you, son, you were born with a rare thing – a heart that never quits. If you did nothing more with your life from this day until eternity, you would be the greatest thing I ever did.”
Aeson remembered the tears in his father’s eyes as he spoke.
Dahlen had wiped those tears with the back of his hand, squeezed Aeson’s shoulder, and picked up a small, flat stone.
He had walked towards the edge of the glittering lake and looked back.
“What do you say? Three tries, farthest skip gets the biggest cut for supper?”
His father had died only a year later from the simple, mundane act of falling from a horse. The greatest man he had ever known, gone in a blink, with no commotion, no grand moment… just gone.
There was nothing Aeson wouldn’t have given to show his father what he had become.
To show him that he had found the stars.
And to tell him that they were never far away after all.
That the stars themselves now carried him into the air and watched over him.
That his father had been right. That he had learned so many stories and seen so much.
All Aeson could wish at that moment was that if he ever had children of his own, he would be half the father his own had been, and hopefully for a greater count of years.
As the memories crossed his mind, Lyara wrapped her heart around his. She was his stars and his sky, and she would be there always. She had not known his father, or his mother, or his sisters – wherever they were – but they were her family.
A chill swept up Aeson’s spine when Lyara twisted her neck to the left and spotted a shape ripping across the horizon. As it drew closer, Lyara caught the smell of iron and sparking steel, saw the glittering of gold and green scales.
Willam and Thasthír.
“They’re stationed in Aerilon…” Aeson looked closer through Lyara’s eyes, scanning Thasthír’s body and finding no wounds, no marks of Veyak acid. No invasion then, no fighting. But they were moving fast, a dire urgency about them.
Without a word between them, Lyara folded her wings and dropped.
The wind snatched at Aeson like the hand of a god, but he pressed himself low and closed his eyes.
He did not need eyes of his own when Lyara’s were a thousand times sharper.
The dragon twisted and turned through the jutting towers and web-like walkways, never slowing, always shifting at the last moment.
There were few dragons in Epheria who could come close to matching Lyara’s grace. She was lightning given wings.
Lyara alighted in the yard on the eastern face of the keep and Aeson slid from her back, threads of Air softening his landing. He inclined his head to the Highguard who stood watch over the doorway that led into the keep.
Porters and servants whipped about the keep’s twisting corridors like insects in a hive.
Every year there seemed to be more souls within the keep’s walls, more cooks and cleaners and porters.
Once, Aeson had made a point of learning all their faces and names, but he’d given up on that a long time ago.
When he finally reached the Archon’s study, two Highguard stood outside the doors, hands clasped at their back.
“The Archon is currently in audience, Draleid.” Valyna Tuvas, one of Alvira’s most trusted guards, bowed at the waist as Aeson approached.
Before Dylain could speak, the door swung open, and the Archon stepped out into the chamber, Willam and Chora Sarn at her back.
Aeson pressed his fist to his chest immediately, inclining his head.
Alvira Serris was a legend from coast to coast. Long before he had heard the Calling, Aeson had been raised on stories of her.
Eltoar Daethana may have ridden astride the Black Sun, and Farda Kyrana the Golden Spear, but it was Alvira Serris who had carried the injured from the Aonan Wood.
Alvira Serris who had stayed behind to extinguish the flames of Aeson’s village.
Alvira Serris who had stood against the horde of Ardanians with nothing but her soulkin and a village full of pitchforks and scythes.
He would die for Alvira Serris, for his Archon, because he knew without question that she would die for a person she had never met.
Alvira inclined her head to Aeson, then turned to Valyna. “Summon the council. Immediately. And call upon Eltoar. Tell them there is a matter of grave urgency.”
Valyna nodded, then set off through the door on the eastern edge of the chamber.
“Aeson. What can I do for you?”
“Lyara and I spotted Thasthír’s urgent approach. I thought it best we see if we could be of service, Archon.”
Alvira drew a long breath, then nodded, her eyes flitting from the pair to Aeson and back again. “You may come, Aeson. It will do you well to witness.”
“Yes, Archon.”
Behind Alvira, Chora Sarn smiled at Aeson, gently pressing her fist to her chest. The woman was a strict mentor, but she was fair and never had a day passed on which she had let him down.
In an instant, everything was moving. Alvira led the group through the corridors, out across the bridge, and into the great council chamber.
Aeson dropped to a knee the moment he crossed the threshold, the statues of the gods looking down upon him, the golden dome above glistening in the candlelight.
Willam and Chora carried on walking towards the centre of the atrium, but Alvira stopped. She looked over Aeson for a moment, then knelt beside him, her hand pressed to her chest.
The Archon gave him the slightest of nods, then bowed her head.
Every hair on Aeson’s body stood on end, and he felt a weight settle into his throat as he spoke.
“Varyn, watch over me, for I do not know where I walk. Heraya embrace me, for I do not know where I will stop. Elyara guide me, for I do not know the path. Achyron protect me, for I do not know the shadows. Neron still my heart, for I do not know my own depths. Hafaesir stay my hand, for I do not my strength. Enkara, do this, for I am yours.”
When Aeson was finished, Alvira whispered, “Well spoken, Draleid. In an ever-changing world, it can be easy to forget the gods.”
Alvira gave Aeson a fleeting smile, then rose, gesturing for him to follow her into the centre.
Aeson wanted to ask what was happening, but he held his tongue. The mere fact that the Archon had bid him join her was an honour he did not deserve.
It was Eltoar Daethana who arrived first, spied by Lyara, watching from the skies, as the Shadow of Death spread his wings wide over the bridge, and the First Sword dropped to the stone.
Just as Aeson had done, Eltoar lowered himself to one knee upon entering the chamber, whispering blessings before joining the others at the centre of the atrium.
He cast a curious glance at Aeson, then inclined his head.
The two had met on many occasions. Eltoar frequented the training yards and often aided Chora and the others in education in matters of the Spark.
In fact, he and Aeson had sparred on a number of occasions, though he had not been too pleased with several of the outcomes.
There were few whom Aeson respected more.
“What news?” Eltoar asked, looking to Alvira. He narrowed his gaze slightly at Willam. “Reports from the east? Aerilon?”
Alvira nodded, grasping Eltoar’s forearm in greeting. “They move.”
“Upon who? Yarrin? The Indalusians?”
“Orinhale.”
Even Aeson turned his head at that. Orinhale was hundreds of miles from Aerilon. He’d not heard even a whisper of animosity between the two kingdoms.