Hoard

She should have gone to Dragonvale.

Cora’s week in Spiders Gorge had been productive; all her preparations there were laid, and should be undetectable to any passing adventurers. Nor had she taken so much as a scratch, being more than capable of handling colossus spiders. Even better, her shadowy ally had brought back some juicy intelligence from Dragonvale, surely enough to enhance her position here.

But…something had happened, something beyond what it had reported. The shadow was always so irritatingly cheerful, ironically a real ray of sunshine. Whatever had transpired in Dragonvale had it tense, now—notably less upbeat, verging on annoyed. When Cora had asked, though, the mask had slammed back down, and it was all jokes and compliments as usual from then on. Jokes, compliments, and deft deflections of any inquiry about itself.

Any Verdi could have interpreted that, let alone one like Cora d’Acron who walked in the halls of power: whatever had happened with the dragons had rattled the creature so badly it had forgotten to even maintain its facade until she reminded it.

It wasn’t as if she’d ever been daft enough to trust the thing, but their mutual self-interest had made her judge it a serviceable asset for the time being. Now it was keeping things from her, and not trying hard enough to hide it. That could mean it had suffered some kind of defeat…or that it was close to discarding or turning on her and no longer needed to care what she thought.

Pondering rapidly as she stalked through the corridors of the palace, Cora concluded that she was going to have to be more careful with regard to the shadow, and begin looking into replacement allies, or at least a means of ridding herself of it. She wasn’t certain it was a rogue god, but that remained her leading hypothesis, and given the news it had brought her from Dragonvale…

Well. There might be options.

She arrived at the door and knocked, marshaling her expression and posture. Time to perform.

“Enter.”

Cora slipped inside, closed the door behind herself, and bowed. “Your Majesty. Your Highness. M. Clarent.”

“It is a relief to have you back safe and hale, Cora,” said Queen Henrietta.

“As I promised your Majesty, I operated with an abundance of caution. In this case that meant only gathering information by remote methods, both magical and mundane, which I regret means I have only gleaned a few broad facts. Obtaining nuance would have risked drawing the attention of the dragons, particularly Emeralaphine.”

“Good,” Princess-Consort Etienne stated emphatically. “Vague intelligence is far preferable to no intelligence, a dead mage, and provoked dragons.”

Cora nodded. “I will start with the most important facts and then provide what detail I am able. To begin with, Princess Perseverance is alive.”

Henrietta, normally composed though she was, emitted a sharp sigh, slumping momentarily in her seat before recovering her poise and posture. Etienne gripped her hand, which the Queen uncharacteristically reciprocated.

“Atraximos the Dread,” Cora continued quietly before they could interject, “is not.”

At this, both royals went as still as gargoyles. Clarent leaned slowly forward in his own chair, his always-intent stare sharpening to the point she could very nearly feel its pressure physically.

“Do forgive the banality of it, Cora, but I simply must ask,” he said softly. “You are certain?”

“Of these facts and regrettably few others, yes. This explains, at least, why the dragons have been acting out of character. I still don’t understand what they want with the Princess, but at least I grasp now why this sudden change in their habits. We have not been liberated, your Majesty. Atraximos didn’t just perish, he was replaced; they are…under new management.”

“Of course,” Etienne murmured. “That’s how their families work. I didn’t believe there were any dragons currently alive who were a match for that old monster. The closest to it were undoubtedly his own consorts.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, your Highness,” Cora said, not having to feign her grimace. “This is… Well, let me start here: are you aware of the process, the mechanics by which gods and magic are formed?”

Clarent straightened up further, permitting dismay to show on his face. The Queen and her wife exchanged a blank look.

“I learned the broad strokes of cosmology as a girl,” Henrietta answered. “I rather doubt my understanding is as detailed as yours, Cora.”

“It’s still greater than mine,” Etienne admitted. “I’ll have to ask you for the beginner’s explanation.”

“Of course,” Cora said, nodding. “I’ll make it as succinct as I can, but before getting into it… The upshot for us at the moment is that we have one window of indeterminate length in which it may be possible to rescue the Princess and liberate the Evervales entire from the tyranny of dragons. Once that window closes…we may find ourselves wishing to have Atraximos back.”

Hamad Malkizak was middle-aged, more than merely portly, and highly prized his beauty sleep; on a purely physical level, scurrying through the deep corridors of the Royal Archives’ restricted sections after being roused in the middle of the night did not at all agree with him.

But it was none other than the Lord Regent himself who had roused him, and remained grimly tight-lipped as they journeyed deeper into the vaults. Not that this wasn’t ominous, but fear and discomfort both receded into the background of Hamad’s awareness even as he puffed for breath to keep up with his liege’s pace. More than those, he felt excitement. He had always loved intrigue.

These days, that love was…tarnished. Some of his recent entanglements had left a very bad taste in his mouth. But that was that, and this was this, and Hamad had not risen to become the Lord Scribe of the world’s greatest empire by shying away from a spot of clandestine excitement.

The Lord Regent led him to a particular door Hamad recognized. He recognized every door, of course; he knew his Archives as well as his own bedroom. This one contained documents and records pertaining to high-ranking government officials, and should have been guarded.

What struck him was not the lack of the normal guards, but that they had been replaced by Commander Safira Mafnat, leader of the Imperial Dragonlancers. She greeted him with only a grave stare to match the Lord Regent’s, and unlocked the door.

This could only mean… Hamad could scarcely credit the idea, but what else could it mean?

Commander Mafnat held the door for them, then followed the two men inside, finally locking it behind them. And there, up ahead, through an open archway past the short entrance corridor…

The room was brilliantly lit by some sort of floating ball of magic, rather than the usual oil lamps. And there, sitting at a desk piled with papers in the center of the chamber with her back to the door…she was.

He’d never seen her in person, of course; never imagined that he one day might. He had certainly never hoped to, as her absence signified that all was well. She returned to guide her Empire in times of trouble, and otherwise deemed it important that mortals attend to mortal affairs and not become too dependent upon their nigh-omnipotent sovereign.

But there could be no mistake. Her horns arched backward over her riot of tight black curls, interlaced with threads of glistening gold. The golden edges of her ebon scales glittered in the light as she slowly dragged her tail back and forth, tracing patterns in the dust.

It was an odd thing upon which to fixate, but the Lord Scribe felt a pang at that dust. There was always dust in the restricted sections of the Archives, despite his best efforts. As soon as cleaning staff were trained and vetted and granted security credentials to even be in here…well, having those credentials qualified them for much better-paying work. The Imperial spymaster was forever poaching his cleaners, having ample use of his own for servants with a proven skill at secrecy. It was just one of the annoyances with which Hamad had learned to live, but now… Now the Empress was in his Archives, and her tail was getting dusty.

Mortifying.

In silence, the Lord Regent stepped forward and knelt in the center of the floor. As protocol dictated, the Lord Scribe and Dragonlancer Commander placed themselves to either side of him and one pace behind, also sinking to one knee.

Only then did she speak.

“’It is one thing to observe that the differences within any ethnic group far exceed those between any two,’” she recited, holding up the sheet of yellowing, faded paper from which she was reading aloud. “’Any scholar might so observe, or attempt to deny, and many have done both. It is another to have leveraged the resources of a nation to study this phenomenon, to document these findings and extrapolate useful policies for the state from them. Thus, even despite her own stated discomfort with excessive adulation, I deem it not presumptuous nor reckless as some have claimed to summarily grant Izayaroa greater credibility when her arguments are challenged. It does not discredit Phenamori of Fallaxos to note that for all his insightful observation and adroit arguments, she has done the work whereas he has not. Phenamori himself has noted that no argument trumps material evidence, hence the consideration I am willing to grant him. Other critics of Izayaroa’s writings decline to concede even that point, and thus I summarily dismiss them as irrational. Let them carry out real experiments and document the results, or still their wagging tongues in the presence of those who have.’”

Hamad had to force himself to breathe evenly. She’d dug that up, somehow? Of all things, that was one of his own essays—from his university days, written when he was a teenager.

Whatever her purpose, then, she was here for him, specifically. He could not decide whether to be terrified or hopeful, and so decided to be both and to keep them equally suppressed beneath his outward composure.

The dragon Empress set down the old essay and turned on her bench, not standing, but placing herself in profile, so as to look at them. No—at him. Once more, he had to remind himself to breathe evenly. The statues and carvings and portraits were one thing, but by the countless heavens she was ridiculously beautiful in person.

“It’s rather…wordy, don’t you think?” Izayaroa commented lightly.

“I’m afraid so, your Excellency,” Hamad replied, pleased to find his voice controlled and pleasant. “I assure you, my writing style has tightened up considerably in the intervening years.”

“Yes, I have read a number of your subsequent reports. Regardless of its…shortcomings, however, I think this one is my favorite, despite my general aversion to being fawned over. I know what student essays are like: padded, waffling, full of self-importance and often more concerned with spilling enough bullshit to meet a wordcount than communicating effectively. This…is some of those things, to be sure. But it is also, I would say…fervent. Even passionate.”

“I hope you will forgive me for saying it, your Excellency, but I have always been…a fan. I mean intellectually, all patriotism aside. I…fear to say more, lest I begin to gush. I know you don’t care to listen to that.”

One corner of her exquisitely sculpted lips quirked sideways in the faintest suggestion of a smile, and he felt hope begin to overbalance terror in that inner struggle. Then ruthlessly brought them both back into line, well aware that such a tiny sign meant nothing.

“Let me pose you a hypothetical,” said the Empress, once more delicately holding up his student essay in those beautiful, flesh-rending claws, her scales glittering in the magical light. “If you could stand before this young man on the day he wrote this essay, with all the wisdom of your subsequent years, what advice would you offer him?”

“None, your Excellency,” Hamad answered without hesitation.

She tilted her head infinitesimally to one side. “Oh?”

“That young man went on to attain some great successes, and committed many errors in the process. The successes were nice, but it was from the errors that he learned, and I value learning above all. He figured it out. Had he been offered shortcuts, I fear it would be a much greater fool before you today.”

“You show wisdom,” she observed, and though it was a compliment, her expression and tone were coolly neutral.

“Perhaps it is merely…hope,” Hamad said, lowering his eyes. “I…comfort myself with the idea that I will one day be wiser still, and look back on the man I am now as I currently do on the boy I was then. There are… There have been failures in which I am…struggling to find the lesson. To make it meaningful. I dearly hope everything has been toward a greater purpose.”

Izayaroa nodded once. She set the paper down again, then turned fully on the seat to face them. No, again—to face him. Never in his life had Hamad seen someone rotate on a bench without getting up and manage to look graceful in the process, but seeing her now, he couldn’t imagine her ever looking otherwise.

“Tell me,” the Empress commanded, “about Ar-Kaln Zelekhir.”

Ah. Terror it was, then.

In the frigid mountains in the far north of the continent, well beyond anything passing for civilization, a lone figure strode through waist-deep snow. She did not trudge—she strode, unencumbered by either the enormous weight of the snow, nor the gale-force arctic winds which perpetually whipped back her dust-colored hair and ragged black cloak. In one hand she carried a long, gnarled staff, but simply held it horizontally at her side rather than using it as a walking aid.

Abruptly she stopped, raising her head. Wind tore past her, driving the snow in gusts and sheets, but she held still as if listening.

Shaking her head, the lone walker adjusted course, striding toward the nearest peak. She was as unfazed by gravity as by wind and snow, simply walking up vertical surfaces when necessary rather than troubling to climb.

At the top, she stopped again, raising her head as though listening, or scenting the air. This was not the highest of the nearby peaks, but it gave her a sufficient vantage. Of course, the wind here should have been enough to pick her bodily up and hurl her away; she continued to ignore it as if physics itself were a trifling suggestion. Her clothing was more bound by mortal laws, the cloak of black rags streaming away from her neck like a banner to reveal the heavily rusted chain mail beneath.

After several long minutes of listening, suddenly, she smiled, and spoke to herself.

“Well, well. A new member of the family! Silly little shadow, when will you learn? It never goes your way. Ah, well. Family is family.”

Her voice was snatched away by the blast, would have been inaudible even to someone standing close enough to touch. No matter, she was only talking to herself anyway.

With a new spring in her step, she turned and set off in an entirely new direction. South by southeast, now. Though it would be a very long walk indeed, this was a course that would take her over mountains, lakes, and everything in between, straight to Dragonvale.