Eventually, Ilargo crossed the gap and entered between the cliffs of The Lifeless Isles. He banked left and right, high and low, to navigate the labyrinth of islands big and small. Here and there were signs of an ancient settlement where the Dragorn of Elandril’s time had carved their homes out of the stone. For a time, even Gideon had called this home.
Galanör tilted his body to see the old master further along Ilargo’s body. He was looking out at the platforms and balconies that extended from the cliffs, an air of melancholy about him. It wasn’t the happy return the elven ranger had once hoped for his friend.
Rising above the cliffs, Ilargo angled his body towards the largest of the islands, further south, before diving back into the channels below. Galanör knew exactly where the dragon was taking them and he recognised that particular cliff face when they came upon it. Halfway up, a wide cave had been carved out of the stone, large enough to accommodate most dragons. Ilargo came to a halt inside that cave, his claws scraping across the ground.
Gideon was the first to dismount, accustomed as he was to the contours of his companion’s body. He paused in front of Ilargo and took in the familiar sight. Galanör and Aenwyn climbed down and joined him, pausing themselves to run a hand along Ilargo’s jaw and thank him for bringing them so far.
“Is this what I think it is?” Aenwyn pondered, scrutinising the four pillars that held up the jagged ceiling. Beyond them lay a single chamber that housed a long table and a collection of high-back chairs, though it was all cast in gloom.
Gideon walked over to the nearest pillar and grasped one of the torches from its mount. He waved his hand over the head but nothing happened. He tried again and again, his third attempt producing a flicker of light but no flames. Aenwyn offered her help but found her own magic wanting when it came to the simple spell. Only Galanör possessed the power to bring light to the cave, his magic setting the end of the torch on fire. Turning to the rest of the cave and the chamber beyond, the elven ranger raised both of his hands and flipped them palm up. Half a dozen braziers and twice as many torches came to life with flickering flames, illuminating the ancient dwelling.
“For seven thousand years,” Gideon began, “since the time of The First Age, this was the council chamber of the Dragorn.” The old master crossed the cave and approached the head of the table, his dark eyes fixed on the chair at the other end. “Elandril, Valtyr, Aerilaya… The best of the Dragorn. They all sat in that chair. They all held back the darkness of their time.”
Galanör could see the guilt and shame Gideon was putting upon himself. “As did you,” he pointed out. “Twice. The Darkakin, the orcs; they all faced you in their pursuit of conquest. Now Reavers and necromancers threaten the realm and here you are again. You have placed yourself on the line between good and evil every time.”
Gideon was shaking his head. “If history has shown us anything, it is that standing up for the light isn’t enough. Every leader of the Dragorn gave their life to keep back the darkness, and to keep the order alive.”
“Then I would say it is a good thing you are not Dragorn,” Galanör replied softly, having no wish to see his friend die for the cause.
The old master eventually nodded, though whether he was agreeing or simply avoiding further discussion remained to be seen. On the other side of the table, Aenwyn’s attention had been captured by the stone murals that lined all three of the chamber’s walls, just as they had once enraptured Galanör.
“Amazing,” she commented, running her fingers over the carvings.
Her choice of words brought back an old memory for Galanör, bringing a smile to his face. “Adilandra said the same thing when she saw it for the first time. That is Valtyr,” he explained, looking at the depiction of an elf astride a dragon. “He fought—”
“Against the Darkakin in The Second Age,” Aenwyn finished. “Assisted by Lady Syla,” she added with a bashful smile. “I know my history, Galanör.”
“Then you know more than me,” the ranger replied with amusement. “I’m just repeating what Queen Adilandra told me.”
“If you think this is something,” Gideon said, making his way to the door on the right of the table, “wait until you see this.” His hand clasped the door handle, his touch enough to deactivate the wards he had placed over it before he left for Ayda.
Galanör watched Aenwyn closely, eager to see her expression when she laid eyes on the library of the Dragorn. Unlike the chamber outside, the library was instantly illuminated by a series of torches and an enormous hearth. Gideon led the way, taking to the steps first and descending to the lowest level. Galanör remained beside Aenwyn as she pressed up against the railing and absorbed her new surroundings. He enjoyed the awe and wonder that lived in her eyes as she looked up at the tiers of books and relics. Beneath them, in the open-plan ground floor, there were even more relics of the past, all encased in displays and cabinets.
“As a child,” Aenwyn revealed, “I dreamt many times what this library would look like. My mother described it as the heartbeat of history itself, though she was never as fortunate as me to actually see it. I want to explore every corner of it!”
Galanör laughed and his voice carried up to the highest tier. “I could have guessed.” Looking
