Starfinder

INTO THE SUN

HIGH ABOVE MERCERON, the Skylords of the palace looked down from the ancient trees and galleries, waiting for his death. The young ones blinked in wonderment, while the veterans of the dragon wars watched, quietly satisfied. Merceron looked back silently at their luminous faces. The sun burned brightly in the sky, warming him. Weary, he succumbed to it.

At last, he would sleep.

He’d done everything right. He tried to remember some regrets, but he had none suddenly, and his clear conscience surprised him. True, Dreojen blamed him, but he no longer blamed himself. And though the Skylords might yet win the Starfinder, Merceron had at least saved Moth.

“Now it’s your turn,” he told Esme softly. He ran a finger lightly over her feathered back, hoping for one last glimpse of her the way she’d been. In his mind he’d held a picture of her all these years, the most beautiful Skylord he had ever seen. “Soon you’ll be whole again, my friend. You’ll forgive me for doing this.”

Esme’s eyes glowed with understanding.

“Dragon,” said Artaios. “You give your life for a Skylord. Be proud. Not every dragon is so noble.”

“I give my life for a friend,” said Merceron, “and not for any of your kind.”

Korace reached out from his throne, touching the sword at Artaios’ belt. As his fingers brushed the strange metal, the sword began to sing, its vibrations sending an odd light across the floor.

“If you have words, speak them,” Artaios told Merceron. He freed the sword from his belt “Be heard now. When I’m done, there will be nothing left of you.”

Merceron studied Artaios, then his wizened father, then the arena packed with beautiful, vengeful faces. Did he have words? Should he curse them?

“Just this, then,” said Merceron. He raised his voice so that all could hear him. “The sky belongs to everyone. It belongs to the dragons like it does to the clouds. It belongs to any race that can reach it. Even humans.”

Korace gave a hiss of contempt. The galleries filled with shouts.

“Clip their wings, but they’ll grow back!” Merceron went on. “And if you keep the sky from them—as you’ve kept it from my own race—they will destroy you for it!”

The hall erupted. Merceron basked in their anger. Artaios slowly raised his sword, his face joyless.

“No pain,” he promised. “Close your eyes.”

“No,” defied Merceron. “I want to see.”

With Esme in his upturned palm, he raised her above his head, remembering Fiona’s trick…

His fear vanished in an instant, replaced by a memory of Elaniel. Once, he had raised Elaniel over his head as well, when his son was just a wyrmling. The thought played like a dream in Merceron’s mind.

Fly Elaniel!

And Elaniel had flown.

Artaios touched the sword to Merceron’s belly. Along the blade danced the dragon’s life force.

A bird she had been, unable to speak with words or to think an entire, complex thought.

Small she had been, for nearly fifty years.

In her tiny, hollow bones, Esme felt the burning. A dazzling, blinding light engulfed her. She felt herself stretching skyward, felt Merceron collapsing. Her wings struggled madly for air. In a maelstrom of fire, an unseen force pulled her apart, raking her flesh. She was unable to fly, and the floor rose up to meet her. Instinctively she stretched her talons as she hit the ground.

Instead, her fingers scratched the stones. All around her swirled the mist, searing her skin. Weak, she lifted her head, about to scream. Her white wings draped her naked body. As the storm subsided, she remembered what she’d been.

And what she was again.

Next to her lay Merceron, lifeless on the floor. All around her stared her people. Esme trembled as she tried to push herself upright with her unused limbs. Her huge, snowy wings were moving with newborn life. She tried to speak but made no sound.

Artaios towered before her. She remembered him and his feeble father. The sword dangled in his hand. He bent to look at her, his eyes wide at what he’d done.

“Can you hear me?”

His voice was like an echo, gradually reaching her foggy mind.

“You’re home now,” he said. “You are welcome here, if you have learned from your punishment.”

Past him sat Korace on his silver throne, watching her, waiting for her answer. All that had happened in fifty years came flooding into Esme’s mind, giving her a bitter strength. With one mighty effort, she lifted herself.

“Speak,” Artaios commanded. “Has your penance made you wiser?”

Esme tilted her face toward the sun. Its kiss fortified her. She stretched her wings, letting the warmth caress her feathers.

“Esme,” Artaios warned, “if you leave here, you can never come back.”

Esme wasted none of her strength, not even to answer him. Confident, she leaped for the sky, letting her wings beat the air.

“You’ll be an outcast forever!” cried Artaios. “Forever, do you hear?”

Esme climbed ever higher, wrapped by the sun’s yellow arms. Below her, her people watched in silence. For fifty years she hadn’t spoken, her voice magically imprisoned. Now, in a great, exalting song, she released her unbound cry.