Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (40 page)

Fiona pulled free. “Esme, I have to! I promised I’d fight with them. I can’t just run away.”

“The battle is done,” said Esme. “You will stay here. Stay safe.” Her eyes fixed on Fiona, determined. “I will protect you.”

With a sigh Fiona collapsed back into the flowers. If she tried to flee, she was sure Esme would just scoop her up again.

“Moth’s out there too, you know,” she said. “Why don’t you go and find him?”

“Moth is safe.”

“How do you know?”

“He is special to Artaios. He will not be harmed.”

Puzzled, Fiona tried to locate Moth on the field, but they were too far away to see much of anything. Up in the sky she saw the
Avatar
, but no dragonfly, and wondered if Moth and Skyhigh were dead.

“What will happen now?” she asked. “What will you do, Esme?”

The lady lowered her chin to her knees. “I do not know.”

“Can’t you go back to the other Skylords?”

“I am an outcast now. Artaios proclaimed me so.”

“Then you can stay here, with the centaurs,” said Fiona. “I’m sure they’ll take you, just like they did me. You’ll be a hero, Esme.”

“Hero?” Esme’s expression darkened. “I am a traitor, child. If I am ever remembered for anything, it will be that.”

BY THE TIME MOTH AND SKYHIGH had trudged back to the battlefield, the fighting was done. The dragons had chased off the two remaining ogilorns with the help of the
Avatar
, and Artaios’ leaderless army scattered like birds after a gunshot. Moth stopped at the edge of the field, horror-stricken by the sight. Centaurs and Skylords lay dead atop each other, frozen in combat, their bent limbs intertwined. Redeemers and fairies lay among them, wings twitching as they tried to reach the sky. Lost feathers tumbled across the grass.

Overhead, he watched the Skylords flocking back to Mount Oronor. The dragons broke off from the ogilorns. The trio circled high above the battlefield but did not descend.

“Why don’t they come down?” Moth wondered.

Skyhigh watched them with a shrug. “Dragons and centaurs don’t like each other much,” he said. He gestured out toward the middle of the field. “Look.”

Amid the carnage stood Jorian. He too stared up at the dragons. But he did not wave at them or call to them or blow his horn in thanks, and that baffled Moth. Jorian merely watched them, looking bemused. Finally, the dragons made one more circuit over the valley, then headed off the way they’d come.

“Oh . . .”

Moth felt himself deflate. He wanted to cry out to them, to beg them to come back.

“We should help,” said Skyhigh. He gazed exhaustedly at the bloody field. Moth straightened, determined not to be sick. He was a man now, surely. Facing so much misery, there was no way he could ever be a kid again.

 

Throughout the day Moth worked with the centaurs, bringing water to the thirsty and dragging the wounded away from the dead. Moth went where Jorian directed him, even offering aid to the Redeemers and fairies, all of whom rejected him. Those that could manage it pulled themselves from the field, beginning the long walk home to the Skylords, while others simply closed their eyes and died. Their sick devotion frightened Moth, because he knew the Skylords had abandoned them.

The
Avatar
limped back toward the village and did not return. As for Fiona, there were rumors that Lady Esme had returned, and that she had taken Fiona to safety. Moth worried about her but did not stop working, determined to remain on the field. He worked through the afternoon without a break, then into nightfall. Then, when he could barely stand any longer, he went to Jorian again. The Chieftain stood at the edge of the field. Moonlight blanketed the numerous dead.

“What else?” asked Moth as he slumped toward Jorian. His eyes were heavy, his back aching.

Jorian studied him. His stern face nodded. “On to me.”

“Huh?”

“We’re going,” said Jorian. “You have done a centaur’s work today, boy.”

He reached down his hand. Reluctantly, Moth took it and let Jorian pull him onto his back. As the Chieftain headed back toward the village, the rocking of his gait lulled Moth to sleep.

 

It might have been an hour or two or a day or two—Moth couldn’t say how long he’d slept. He awoke with the kind of heaviness that comes after being very ill, or very, very tired. He remembered riding on Jorian’s back. He remembered the battlefield and dreaming about all the dead. He dreamed about Artaios, too, but when he opened his eyes, the dream disappeared.

He was in a bed of straw and realized at once it was Jorian’s house. A wave of ease washed over him. He made a contented mewing sound. Fiona appeared from a corner of the room.

“Finally! You know how long you’ve been sleeping? I wanted to wake you but they said not to.”

She was smiling, kneeling down beside him on the straw.

“You washed your face,” noticed Moth.

“Huh? Oh, yeah . . .” Fiona touched her face where Jorian had drawn the dragon. “Nessa washed yours off, too.”

Moth brushed his cheeks. He’d mostly forgotten his kestrel markings. “Esme?”

Fiona shook her head. “No.”

Moth sat up. “What happened?”

“She’s gone, Moth.” Fiona put her hand on his shoulder. “She didn’t speak to anyone, just me. She carried me to a hill away from the fighting. When it was over she took me back to the village. Then she flew away.”

“What?” Moth tried to make sense of it. “She’s gone? But she didn’t even see me! When did she go? How long?”

“Yesterday. You’ve been asleep since then.”

“I should have come back here!” Moth gasped. “If I hadn’t stayed on the field . . .”

“No,” said Fiona, shaking her head. “I told you—she just dropped me here and left. She said she knew you’d be safe. That didn’t make much sense to me, but . . .” She smiled at Moth. “Hey, we’re all still alive! My grandfather, Skyhigh . . . we made it, Moth.”

“Not everyone made it,” sighed Moth. He slipped back into the straw, despairing as he stared at the ceiling. He wondered how long it would take him to forget what he’d seen. “I can’t believe I missed Esme. Why? Why’d she just fly away?”

Fiona flicked a strand of hair out of her face. “I could tell she was sad about bringing the dragons here. She saw them killing other Skylords. I guess she blamed herself. She said she was an outcast now. A traitor.”

“But she saved us!”

“Yeah.” Fiona nodded. “She knows. I just don’t think it made her feel much better.”

Moth closed his eyes. “After all this. All we went through, and I didn’t even get a chance to see her.”

“Hey,” said Fiona. She gave him a sharp nudge. “Get up. There’s someone you should meet.”

THEY LEFT THE VILLAGE BEHIND, following a light glowing in the field and using the moon to guide them through the grass. Fiona held Moth’s hand, moving excitedly through the night but somehow managing to keep her surprise a secret. Moth peered far ahead, at a giant outline lit by firelight. His fingers tightened around Fiona’s.

The thing in the field looked like Merceron, but of course it wasn’t. It was certainly a dragon, though.

“But she left,” whispered Moth. “With the others. I saw them leave.”

“She came back, Moth,” said Fiona. “When you were sleeping. She came back to see you.”

“Me?” Moth stared at the silent, star-gazing dragon, suddenly afraid. “She knows about Merceron. She must.”

“Esme told her everything. Esme was the one who brought them here.”

“Maybe she blames me,” worried Moth. “For what happened to him. You think?”

“No . . .”

“Why’s she here, then? What’d she say?”

“She came and spoke to Jorian. She asked permission to stay here till you woke up.” Fiona took another step, waving for Moth to follow. “Don’t be afraid. I’m not, and you remember how I felt about dragons!”

But Moth wasn’t afraid for himself. Dreojen wouldn’t harm him. It was her expression he feared, the pain he knew he’d see in her eyes. He followed Fiona deeper into the field, leaving the village far behind until the noise from the centaurs died away completely, and only the sound of the wind and the crackling of Dreojen’s fire could be heard. They stopped several yards from the dragon, who barely stirred.

“Dreojen?” called Fiona. She gently nudged Moth forward. “This is Moth.”

The dragon finally looked away from the stars. Her horned head turned on her sinewy neck. A bit of flame sparkled in her mouth. Moth looked into her golden eyes, amazed by her. Her bronze scales shone like gemstones, reflecting the firelight, and a mane of colorful feathers flowed like water down her neck. A regal velvet cape blanketed her wings. She pulled at it with her claws to cover herself from the breeze. She lowered herself over Moth for a closer look, her expression curious.

“I was on my way home,” she said at last, “when I realized I had to see you. I had to know what you looked like so I could remember Merceron properly.”

Moth tilted up his face so she could get a good look at him. “I’m really just a kid,” he said awkwardly. “Nothing special. Merceron was special.” He had to swallow to keep from choking up. “He gave his life for me and Esme. I know that’s why you’re here . . .”

Dreojen brought her head even lower. “Do you know why he did that?”

“No,” Moth answered honestly. “I don’t. He hardly even knew me.” He shrugged. “Like I said, I’m nothing special.”

Dreojen crinkled her heavy brow, as if she knew a secret. She almost decided to speak it, then stopped herself. Her red lips curved in a smile. “Merceron must have thought you were worth it.”

“The Skylords wanted the Starfinder,” Moth explained. “But Merceron wouldn’t give it to them. All he had was himself. Did Lady Esme tell you that?”

“Esme found us in our lair in the White Cliffs,” said Dreojen. “She told me that you were a special child, and she told me how Merceron died. If you’re afraid I am angry, do not be. I am more proud of my mate than I have ever been in my life. And dragons live a very long time!”

She laughed, and her ease made Moth laugh, too. Fiona came closer, and Dreojen looked up at the stars again. Moth finally realized she was looking at the constellation of Merceron.

“I forgot about the stars,” he confessed. Without the Starfinder to bring them to life, they were nothing special, either. “It doesn’t look like him.”

“It never did,” said Dreojen. “At least not to us. Just to the Skylords.”

“Who’ll replace him up there now?” asked Fiona. “In the Starfinder, I mean.”

Dreojen sighed contentedly. “No one. Not as long as your grandfather keeps the Starfinder away from here. The Skylords have no dominion without it.” She glanced down at Fiona. “He will take it home, won’t he?”

“As soon as the
Avatar
’s able to leave,” said Fiona. “Maybe a week or two. She took a real beating.”

“What about you?” Moth asked Dreojen. “Where will you go?”

“Back to the White Cliffs,” replied the dragon. “There’s a library there. It’s small, but it’s our job to protect it. Merceron never had the chance to tell you about it, Moth. It’s all left of our culture.”

Moth moved closer to her. “Dreojen, can you take me there?” he asked. “I’d love to see that, just for a little while. The
Avatar
won’t be ready to go for days. If you could take me there . . .”

“No,” said Dreojen gently. “You belong here with Jorian and the others. The centaurs will keep you safe until you’re ready to leave.” Her golden eyes filled with sympathy. “But . . . maybe someday.”

“Yeah,” agreed Moth. “I’ll be back. I know I will. I’m going to see you again, Dreojen. The other dragons too. Someday.”

THREE WEEKS AFTER THE WAR with the Skylords, the
Avatar
headed for home.

With the help of the centaurs, Fiona’s grandfather and his crew had patched the holes in the airship’s hull and constructed a new fabric covering for her bridge, one much sturdier than the tarp she’d been using. While Bottling worked to straighten the bent blades of her engines, Donnar and the others tested and retested the
Avatar
’s systems and made ready for her second trip over Pandera’s treacherous mountains.

Dreojen had left the valley the same night she introduced herself to Moth, and Lady Esme had never returned. Moth supposed she was in hiding from the other Skylords, much the same as Merceron had been for all those lonely years. He thought about Esme often during those weeks in Pandera, and now he thought of her again as the
Avatar
passed over the river from the sunken forest, the very river Raphael Ciroyan had used to ferry them to safety. Just like Esme, they had never seen Ciroyan again either.

“I bet he’s down there somewhere,” said Moth as he leaned out over the observation deck. The water of the river churned slowly below them, reminding him of their first happy days in this world.

“Who?” asked Fiona. Lost in her own thoughts, her eyes had hardly left the direction of Pandera.

“Raphael,” Moth whispered. “I bet he’s looking up at us right now.”

“I bet he’s getting a massage from some mermaid,” quipped Fiona. But she no longer seemed jealous. Her eyes shone with a pride that hadn’t been there when they’d left Calio, before she’d become Jorian’s “Little Queen.” The wind on the platform stirred her orange hair. Fiona let it blow across her face.

“Maybe we’ll see him again someday. Maybe one day he’ll come back to Calio.”

“I don’t think so, Moth,” said Fiona. “Too cold there for him. And too dangerous.”

Moth was about to speak when he noticed Fiona’s grandfather coming up behind them. The old man was digging into his frock coat for his pocket watch.

“Who are you talking about?” he asked, only half interested. He popped open the watch and studied its face. Moth and Fiona looked at each other with a secretive grin.