Lord's Fall (Elder Races #5)(58)

Another woman, across from the first, said, “Then he saw your mate and unborn son.”

At the mention of Pia and the baby, a fiery red haze obscured Dragos’s sight. “Yes,” he said between his teeth. “And Gaeleval tried to take them like he took the others.”

Dead, he thought. You are dead.

Another male from down the hall said, “They would have been a worthy addition to his cause, their lights turned to new purpose and grand change.”

“Grand change,” he said.

Taliesin, the god of gods, was god of the Dance, of change. Dragos prowled down the hall, looking at the caged empty shells of the Elves’ bodies. Someone who stood by Calondir was weeping. Dragos quoted softly to himself, “‘Lord Death himself has forgotten that he is but a part of this fractured whole.’” He pivoted and stalked back to the High Lord. “Calondir, which of the Deus Machinae did Numenlaur possess in the war?”

“Taliesin’s,” Calondir said. He was pale, his expression drawn stark. “Camthalion of Numenlaur was the one who insisted we rid ourselves of the Machinae. We all agreed to the pact then Numenlaur closed itself off from the world.”

Threidyr, bound to the chair, whispered, “The guardian fulfilled his duty and barred the passage with a flaming sword so that none could enter. Thereafter he stood vigil at the gate for an age, until the time came to pass that this all must pass.”

“I think I’m hearing a little manifesto starting to creep back into the conversation again,” said Dragos. He looked at Calondir. “At a wild guess I would say Numenlaur did not live up to their part in the pact.”

Calondir said, “Camthalion was so persuasive and insistent, I always thought that of all of us, they would have been the ones to keep to their word.”

Dragos rubbed his mouth as he considered Gaeleval’s mouthpieces. It did not surprise him that Numenlaur might not have fulfilled their part in the pact. What was more surprising to him was the possibility that they might have held on to Taliesin’s Machine successfully for all of this time.

Holding on to an item that belonged to the god of change would have been a challenging task. How would Taliesin’s Power have affected the minds in Numenlaur over all these many centuries? What changes would it have caused physically? The longer it had been held in stasis, the more dangerous it would have become, and the more drastic would be the change it now induced.

“You know they’re going to starve if you don’t remove the beguilement,” Dragos said. “They’re shells right now, just mouthpieces. They won’t remember to eat.”

“Beast,” hissed one of the women in the cells. “For the first time in your existence, you are truly vulnerable. Be careful what you meddle in. Nothing shines forever.”

“Go home,” three of them said.

Then others picked it up until the whole group spoke in eerie unison.

Go home, go home.

This time when rage took Dragos over, nothing would hold him back. Nobody threatened Pia and the baby and lived to tell of it. Nobody. He looked at all the empty shells of people in the cells. “That’s it,” he said. “You’re done.”

He began to whisper, picking the echo of it up with his Power. It reverberated off the walls, the ceiling and the floor, slipped through the bars in the cells and soaked through the invisible bonds in each person’s mind.

Someone in a cell halfway down the hallway laughed sharply. A few others sobbed. At first Calondir, his healers and the guards looked confused, but when a woman began shrieking and throwing herself violently against the wall, a few raced forward to stop her from hurting herself.

“My lord, stop him!”

“No,” Calondir said. He told Dragos, “Break the beguilement.”

Throughout it all, the dragon whispered, whispered, whispered. Breathe on your own, he told them. Be who you were. Act, live. Separate.

He spoke of freedom and remembrance as he tugged at the threads of Power from Taliesin’s Machine. When he pulled out those threads, there was nothing left to sustain Gaeleval’s spell.

Half were unconscious when he finished, and he knew that three were dead. Their bodies would be more fuel for those who hated and resented him.

As far as he was concerned, he had learned what he had come to learn. He gestured to Miguel and turned to leave the Elves to their chaotic reactions. As he did so, a runner came down to the block, bearing more news.

The Wyr had arrived.

THIRTEEN

Pia had slipped into a half doze, slumped against the arm of the couch, when running footsteps in the hall roused her. She jerked upright to a sitting position. Someone shouted in the distance, and the psychos rose to their feet.

“Don’t tell me that’s more bad news,” she said, her voice blurred with sleep.

James strode to the window to look out. “It’s good news this time. Our peeps have arrived. They had to have pushed hard to get here so fast.”

She imagined they did push hard, as she could not personally recall ever hearing of Dragos himself summoning the Wyr to war. Granted, she was only in her twenties, but that was still a long enough period to cause people to take note.

She stood and moved to the window along with the others, and they all stared at the fantastic sight outside. A gryphon coasted in the air low over the river, wings outspread and steady as he headed for the torch-lit clearing. The golden feathers on his eagle’s neck and the tawny fur on his gigantic lion’s body were dark brown and deeply shadowed in the uncertain light. He carried three people on his broad, muscular back.