Starfinder

THE TREASURE

EXHAUSTED FROM HIS LONG FLIGHT to the cliffs, Merceron slept. While he slept, he dreamed…

He was back in Taurnoken. He stood on a ledge of a tall, grand tower, overlooking the city. Ganomyrn and his son Varsilius were with him. The two were laying bricks, building the tower higher and higher.

Merceron knew Ganomyrn was an architect, not a builder. In his whole long life he had never seen Ganomryn lay bricks. Yet there he was, working with his son and cursing the Skylords.

“We’ll build it as high as we want,” declared Ganomyrn. “We’ll build until we reach the moon!”

Merceron stood on the ledge, afraid to fall.

But I have wings, he told himself. Why am I afraid?

As so often happens in dreams, his mind gave Varsilius a push. The young dragon screamed as he plummeted from the ledge, falling down, down toward the earth.

Why doesn’t he fly? wondered Merceron. He looked at Ganomyrn.

“Help him!” said Merceron. “Fly down and save him!”

Ganomyrn watched calmly as his son disappeared into the abyss. He smiled at Merceron, then went back to work.

Startled, Merceron awoke. But it wasn’t his dream that roused him. An unmistakable scent had roused his sleeping brain.

He opened his eyes, lifted his head. In the corner of the cavern, she was waiting. He watched her, eager for her to come out of the shadows but afraid to frighten her away.

“Thurmwood said you wouldn’t come,” he whispered.

“I didn’t think you’d wake up,” said Dreojen softly.

Merceron hoped she was lying. “Will you come closer?”

Dreojen lingered in the shadows. Merceron put out his claw to make a fire. When the light struck his face, Dreojen grimaced.

“You’ve changed,” she said, and dared to move a little closer.

“Have I? I don’t think so. It’s only been fifty years.”

Dreojen spied Esme perched on a nearby rock. “She hasn’t changed,” she said. “Skylord magic. Horrible.”

Merceron was barely listening. Dreojen remained beautiful, her bronze scales shimmering, her feathered mane unfaded by time. He had always thought himself lucky to have such a magnificent mate. He pushed his spectacles against his face, struck stupid with adoration.

“What about the others?” he asked. “Have they changed their minds about helping me?”

Dreojen answered coolly, “Thurmwood wanted me to remind you there’s only an hour left until sundown.”

“Coward,” Merceron snorted. The flame in his hand crackled. He made it flare to see her better. Around her shoulders and wings was draped a velvet cape. A silver necklace sparkled at her neck—a gift he had given her long ago. “We are mates, still,” he said gently. “If there’s anything you can tell me, anything that will help me destroy the Starfinder…”

“Thurmwood wasn’t lying to you, Merceron,” said Dreojen. “After Taurnoken was abandoned, we all stopped trying to figure it out.”

“Ah, so that you could live here,” rumbled Merceron. “In a hole, instead of the city of our ancestors. Instead of fighting for what belongs to you.”

Dreojen turned away with chagrin. “Stop. I won’t have this argument again.”

“Thurmwood is a coward, Dreojen. He just ran off like the rest of them!”

“You mean like you?” said Dreojen.

“That was different,” sniffed Merceron. “I had the Starfinder. I had to leave.”

“And now you’re on the run again!” Dreojen chuckled mirthlessly. “I’m not heartless, Merceron. I came because I’m worried. Thurmwood told me the Redeemers are after you. They’ll find you this time.”

“Which is why I wasted my time coming here,” growled Merceron. “I was stupid enough to think you’d all forgiven me by now. You especially, Dreojen.” He turned from her and went to Lady Esme, coaxing the bird onto his shoulder. “Since you all want me gone, let me oblige.”

“Where, Merceron? Where can you go that the Skylords won’t find you?”

“I don’t know!”

“So you’ll just keep on running?”

Merceron slumped. “If you could at least tell me something about the airship…”

“Thurmwood says you think it’s Rendor.”

“He told me it’s near Pandera,” said Merceron. “The children are in Pandera, the ones who stole the Starfinder from him.”

Dreojen looked shocked. “You sent them to the centaurs?”

“Why shouldn’t I have?” said Merceron. “Jorian and his people are braver than any of your lot here. They’ll take care of the children until I can get there.”

“Oh, really?” Dreojen’s feathered mane bristled at his insult. “Before you go, there’s something you need to see.”

The caverns were larger than Merceron remembered. As Dreojen led him through the torch-lit catacombs, Merceron recalled the time fifty years ago when they had first discovered them together. Still, he was unprepared for Dreojen’s surprise as she made him close his eyes.

“Now?” he asked eagerly.

She took him a few more paces, then released him. “All right,” she said. “Open them.”

Merceron glanced around the chamber. Smoky candles glowed in iron holders in the rocks. A few rickety, dragon-sized chairs sat along the stone floor. A slant of waning sunlight struggled through a crack in the cavern, pointing like a finger to a wall stuffed full of…

“Books!”

Hundreds of them—maybe a thousand—lined the shelves dug from the rock. Merceron ran his claws over their spines, reciting their names. Books of poetry and history, tales once penned by mighty storytellers, ancient tomes and hand-stitched diaries—dog-eared and yellow, yet lovingly preserved.

“You rescued them,” said Merceron. “How?”

“Thurmwood,” Dreojen explained. “He’s the one that saved them.”

Merceron pulled a volume from the shelf. “Thurmwood? You’re joking.”

“When he knew we’d have to abandon Taurnoken, he took whatever books he could. He asked me to take him to a place where they’d be safe. Look at them, Merceron—these are the most precious books we had in our library.”

Merceron scanned the manuscripts. The very book in his hand had been penned by Jorjungen, a great dragon scholar.

“You may think Thurmwood is a coward,” said Dreojen. “But he’s risked his life to protect these books. The Skylords took everything else in the library. Burned them, probably. You’re looking at all that’s left of our history.”

“Thanks to Thurmwood,” sighed Merceron. He shelved the book. “I’ve been a fool.”

“A small one, perhaps.” For the first time, Dreojen smiled. “There’s something else you should know. After you left, the Skylords demanded we leave Taurnoken. All of us. But no one would help them find you, Merceron. Maybe you won’t believe this, but most of us understood why you had to leave… after what happened.”

Merceron steeled himself. “Do you still blame me for it?”

Dreojen moved to stand beside a chair. “I did,” she said, propping herself up. “For a very long time I blamed you.”

“And now?” Merceron searched her eyes. “What about now?”

“Elaniel wasn’t a child. I think of him as a child, but he was grown enough to know what he was doing.”

Merceron lowered his horned head. Why did parents always remember their offspring as children? Whenever he dreamed of Elaniel, it was always as a youngling, barely able to fly.

“Dreojen, you didn’t answer my question. I need to know—do you still blame me for what happened to him?”

Dreojen moved around the chair but would not look at him. “Sons follow their fathers. Elaniel followed you because he loved you.”

“And because our cause was just,” said Merceron. “Even you must see that now.”

“No one loves the Skylords,” said Dreojen. “But I still wonder why we sacrificed so much.” She studied his coat and bulging pockets. “The Starfinder?”

Merceron removed the Starfinder from his pocket. Its silvery surface gleamed in the candlelight. The object mesmerized Dreojen, but not because of its beauty. To her, the Starfinder was a symbol for everything she’d lost.

“The others won’t change their minds,” she said. “Whatever you do, you’ll have to do alone.”

“Is there a chance you’ll come with me?” asked Merceron hopefully. “It’s been so long.”

Dreojen’s golden eyes swelled. “This is my home now. This time, I’m not leaving.”

Merceron wanted to argue, but couldn’t. A wall remained between them. Brick by brick, the years since Elaniel’s death had made the wall strong. He realized Dreojen still hadn’t answered his question, then realized she didn’t have to. She would always blame him for his death, at least a little.

The sunlight through the crack began to fade. Night was coming fast. Night might bring Redeemers. Merceron summoned Esme to his shoulder again.

“It’s time,” he told his mate.

They embraced without a word. Merceron held Dreojen, wanting to tell her he’d return someday, but knowing he could never make such a promise. In his heart, he knew he’d never see Dreojen again.

Merceron and Esme emerged from the crevice into the last rays of sunlight. The tide had risen, splashing over Merceron’s clawed feet. Overhead the stars were emerging. Merceron fondly scratched Esme’s feathered neck. Things had gone from bad to worse. They were out of options.

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” he told Esme. “There’s only one person who can help us now.”