Song of the Dragon

stillness at set distances between narrow, fluted pillars. Carefully shaped trees and plants adorned the octagonal space in hues of green, augmented with brilliant flowers in orange, blue, yellow, and crimson. The pillars drew his eyes up toward a glorious and intricate ceiling twenty feet above him. Clouds drifted past the intricate latticework formed between the arches high overhead.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear the soft echoes of musical pipes playing a gentle melody.

Mala was still at his side, though sleep had taken her at last, too. She leaned against him, quiet at last.

Drakis closed his eyes. So this is what peace feels like, he thought. Free from care or pain. Free from responsibilities. Free from your own past. He smiled and shifted slightly to relieve a muscle that was threatening to cramp in his lower back.

He seriously considered whether it might be possible to remain in this one spot forever. He supposed that eventually he would need to find water and food and other such bothersome necessities of life, but for now the relief that he felt in this one place was acute. He had been in pain for so long that it was not until now-when he let it go-that he realized just how large a burden it had been to him.

The hollow tones of the pipes continued to drift over him, carried from a distance on a gentle, sweet breeze.

Five notes. . Five notes. .

He wondered how he’d got here. He remembered finding Mala in the woods. He remembered following her into the glade, the rock fountain in the middle and drinking from it. His memories became more confused after that and it seemed like too much of an effort to remember. Then he remembered being in the terrible cell with Mala and. .

He shifted once more, frowning. He didn’t know how he got from that horrible cell to this place, but he knew that he didn’t care. For now, he thought, it is enough to just sit here, drink in the peace, rest, and listen to the sweet sounds of the. .

Nine notes. . Seven notes. .

He sat upright suddenly, his eyes open.

The song. . that song.

The distant pipes were playing the melody that had so often troubled his dreams and even his waking hours of late. He had tried so hard to push it from his thoughts for so long that he could scarcely mistake it now. It must be the dwarf, he thought. Jugar had been humming the tune around the Ninth Throne of the Dwarves when they first took him as a prize. It had to be him!

The peaceful, languid tones suddenly annoyed Drakis. That damnable little beast! He would be the one to spoil this.

Mala roused slowly, blinking as she awoke. “Drakis? What happened? Where are we?”

Drakis pushed himself off the stone-the same stone they had sat upon in the roach cell, he realized, as his bare feet landed on a soft green material that blanketed the floor. His practiced eye glanced around him, searching for something that might be used as a weapon, but other than the large stone bier itself in the middle of the tall room and the small trees that seemed to be growing right out of the flooring, there was nothing that presented itself to him as useful in combat.

He took in a deep breath and blew it out slowly. This was not a battlefield; indeed, there was something about this place that was so far removed from everything he knew about life that he found himself increasingly anxious in the midst of absolute peace.

“A land of peace and rest?” the young boy said. “Even if there were such a place, you won’t know what to do when you get there.”

“What do you know about it?” his brother whispered gruffly beside him as they pushed the wheel of the mill with a dozen other slaves. “There is a land of peace and freedom. .”

“That’s not what Drakosta says.” I’m twelve, Drakis thought as he heard his young self speak. That young boy was me. Drakosta was still alive then and would not be beaten to death by Timuran for two years yet. “He says that it’s all a story someone made up.”

“Well that’s not what Mom says,” Polis answered back, sweat pouring from his forehead. “It’s north-in Vestasia maybe-beyond a sea of water and even a sea of sand. That’s where we’re going, Drak. . you and me together. No one will ever make us work again. You wait and see.”

I had a brother, Polis. Which brother was that? And was that our mother who told those tales or was it someone we only thought was our mother because the elves always tried to make us believe we were in families even when our parents were dead, when several sets of parents were dead and our memories of each were successive lies. .

“Drakis! What is it?”

Drakis shook himself back into the present. Mala stood in front of him. The soft tune continued to play.

“Come on,” he said as he turned toward the tall arched doors of translucent glass and pushed them open with a violent shove.

The room beyond was a small, circular garden enclosed by a glass dome overhead. A fountain murmured in the center of the garden, whose appearance mildly shocked Drakis as it was identical to the one he remembered being in the glade just before his thoughts faded.

“This is it,” Drakis said. “This is where you brought me when you found me in the Hyperian Woods.”

Mala cocked her head, her eyes narrowing above her cheekbones. “What are you talking about? I couldn’t find you in the woods. .”

“This,” Drakis said, stepping up to the fountain. “When we first entered the Hyperian Woods, we all got separated. You found me and brought me back to this fountain. . it was in a glade then. .”

“What glade, Drakis?” Mala asked. “I never found you. . that dwarf of yours found me.”

“Oh, that dwarf,” Drakis growled and gritted his teeth. Drakis turned around, shouting up into the dome. “Jugar, you monstrous little snake! As soon as I find you playing those damned pipes I’m going to take them, break them and one by one insert them into your. .”

“Silence, Master Drakis,” came the imperious voice behind him. “These are my halls, and you will respect my home.”

Drakis turned, his tirade cut short.

The Lyric stood before him, her narrow face uplifted in regal scorn. She still wore the same dress, now tattered to rags, that she had from the beginning of their ordeal, but now on the sparse and stubby golden hair sprouting from her head she wore a circlet fashioned of woven twigs. “You need not concern yourself with Jugar. He is with us, and his dwarven ways shall not trouble you while you are in my realm.”

The Lyric gestured behind her, and a wide, familiar, and now troubled face came into view at about the level of her waist.

“Good friends are always well met in strange circumstances,” Jugar said quietly, his mouth shaking beneath troubled eyes as he spoke. “You’re a mighty man, Drakis, to live within the boundaries of the Murialis Woods.”

The Lyric turned to face Drakis once more, her face raised in defiance. “You stand within the Eternal Halls- my forest palace where you are, for now, my guests. But you may find what the dwarf, it seems, has lost the words to tell you: that it is far easier to enter the Eternal Halls than it is to leave them.”

Drakis stared at the Lyric for a moment, then held up his hand. “Wait. Do you hear it?”

“Hear what?” Mala asked.

“Listen!”

In the immediate stillness, the tones of a set of pipes drifted through the garden.

Drakis stared down at the dwarf, who was trying to keep his oversized robe closed around him. Jugar shrugged, shaking his head in denial.

“If it isn’t the dwarf, where is that music coming from?” Drakis asked.

“From your destiny, Drakis,” the Lyric said. “Shall we find it together?”

The lithe woman walked with long, measured steps toward one of the arched doors. With elegant grace, she pulled the doors open and stepped into the enormous hall beyond.

Drakis took Mala’s hand and pulled her along as he followed the Lyric with Jugar keeping so close behind that he stepped on Drakis’ heel several times before the human’s angry looks forced him farther away.

The hall was a magnificent space with galleries on both sides. Here the floor was polished stone, cool to