Page 54 of Enslaved

There must be some kernel of truth, however. For the gods did in fact bestow a great gift upon the High King. I see it portrayed in detail on the largest, grandest wall of all—the moment when all seven gods reached down from heaven to establish their holy fountain. From that day forth, the fae were blessed with extraordinarily long life. So long, we humans tend to think of them as immortal.

I linger longer than I should at this final image, drinking in the details of the story. It’s incredible. When I turn to look back along the huge passage I’ve just followed, at the panels of legend and myth depicted here, a deep longing opens inside of me. If only I might return here someday. Not in pursuit of some mystical waters, some forbidden blessing from the gods. No, simply to come with book and paper, to write down the story as I am able to understand it. To give it a chance to live again in the minds and hearts of readers.

Tears prick my eyes, spill over onto my cheeks. This is the kind of work I was born for. Not creating monsters. These gifts of mine were intended for greater purpose. Searching out and rediscovering old stories. Capturing them with ink and paper, bringing them back to life in exciting ways. Restoring the glory that once was lost, making it new.

But what’s the use of such dreams? I step back from the wall, dropping my gaze to my feet. It’s nothing but a fantasy. That sort of life could never be mine. It’s not a life I could share with Oscar, therefore . . .

I dash tears from my face and lift my gaze to that image on the wall once more. This time, rather than seeing the story portrayed, I look for the door the Prince told me was hidden within the image and spy it just where the crowned image of Illithorin stands with his arms outspread. A massive door, so big I fear I won’t be able to budge it. But when I put my hands to it and push, it swings open.

Thus I have my first view of the mythic Water of Life.

At first glance, my mind tries to tell me that one of the gods is here, come down from the high heavens into this realm under sand. But no, it is no living god. Instead it is a vast statue of white stone depicting a god-like being. Whether man or woman, I cannot tell; it hardly seems to matter, not for someone so far beyond such limitations. In one upraised hand, it holds a massive ewer from which spills a stream of light. Or water. Or both—I’m truly uncertain which. All I know is that it spills from the ewer into a broad circular pool lined in shimmering gold. The water brims over the edge of the pool and cascades down at least fifty gold steps into a second gold-lined pool, this one larger than the first. It stretches two hundred feet long and fifty feet wide, filling up the space. The light and the gold combine to generate a holy aura, driving back the shadows of that echoing chamber. It’s wonderful, beautiful, and somehow terrible all at once. I long to leap forward, to plunge headfirst into that lower pool, but simultaneously shrink away, condemned by my own unworthiness. It’s all I can do to muster the courage for a single step into that chamber.

That’s when I hear the unsettling sound of deep, deepbreathing.

I stop. My hand trembles, making the globe lantern waver. It’s far too small a light against the deeper shadows of that chamber. Especially not when there’s a dragon somewhere inside. A real, fire-breathing, scale-armored dragon. Somehow, up until this very moment, I’d blocked that idea from my mind. All my concentration was simply on making it this far. Now, it seems rather a pertinent consideration.

I gulp, the muscles in my throat tight. That unsettling sound and sensation of hissing sand falling from overhead creates a gentle susurration. With an effort, I find my voice. “Are you there, Guardian?” I call out softly.

“Yes.”

The next moment an unseen slithering mass smacks against my legs, knocking me clean off my feet. I’m not hurt. A little bruised maybe. But I lie as though paralyzed, unable to find the courage to pull myself together, to rise. My heart stops beating for what feels like an age, before leaping to my throat and pounding hard enough to choke me.

Something moves through the shadows just to my right. My gaze latches onto it, follows it. Follows those long, sinuous coils curving round and up and up until finally a hulking image of scales and wings and claws and teeth seems to manifest out of nowhere right before my eyes.

“Oasuroa,” I gasp. “Bringer of Death.”

“So you know who I am, do you?” One great, fiery eye blinks down at me. The slitted pupil dilates, focusing with far too much interest. “Very good.” The voice is hot as steam, underscored by the hiss of falling sand all around. “It’s always nice to have a little recognition from one’s snack.”

The dragon takes an earth-shaking step forward, crawling into the light from the fountain. It gleams against her crimson scales, her fire-blackened teeth, her enormous, cruel claws. She arches her neck, and a magnificent orange crest unfurls atop her head, making her seem even more impossibly large and dreadful. “Come, little mouse,” she says, smoke coiling from her flared nostrils. “You know my name; tell me yours in turn. I prefer to know the proper names of my meals, especially as they are so few and far between these days.”

My blood seems to have turned to water. But she can’t justeatme. Can she? No, surely not. She’s meant to judge my heart. She’s trying to intimidate me, that’s all. Trying to test my courage, my resolve. I must show her what I am made of.

With more difficulty than I like to admit, I pull myself to my feet. I can scarcely believe I’m truly standing before that dreadful, beautiful being. I’ve read a fair share of stories featuring dragons in my day. Never did I dream I would one day take part in such a tale.

“Glorious Guardian,” I begin tremulously. It’s a good start. Oasuroa flutters her crest, a pleased rumble in her chest. So the stories I read were true: dragons do love flattery. “Glorious Guardian,” I say again, “my name is Clara Darlington. I have traveled from afar to seek your—”

I break off as the dragon lets out a low, horrible moan. At first I don’t understand what I’m hearing. My mind tells me it must be another growl, that she is even now preparing to snap me up in her terrible jaws before I can speak another word.

Instead, she turns her great head to one side, revealing her other eye. Or rather, where her other eye used to be. Now there is nothing but a ruinous wound and a bejeweled sword hilt protruding from the socket.

As though suddenly forgetting my presence, Oasuroa paws at the sword, then lifts her head and lets out another piteous moan. The next moment, she’s scrambling into the pool itself, her large body mostly submerged. She half-lumbers, half-swims to the steps of the golden waterfall, which she climbs, limbs shaking, until she reaches the upper pool. There she sticks her head into the gleaming stream of water-light falling from the statue’s ewer before plunging her snout into the circular pool itself. Loud slurping echoes to the highest, unseen vaults of the chamber.

I watch mutely, mouth ajar. What should I do? Should I dart forward and try to steal a few drops of the precious water while the dragon’s back is turned? Would the magic of the fountain lose its blessing if taken in such a way? I reach into my satchel for the small waterskin tucked inside.

Before I can make another move, however, the dragon lifts her head, lets out a huge, blustering sigh, and turns, muzzle-dripping, to glare down at me from her one good eye. “Don’t even think about it, little mortal,” she growls. “Seriously, did you think you could pull one over on the last of the Ageless Othorion? Before the gods thought to form your kind from primordial ooze, I was already older than your tiny mind can fathom. So”—she slumps back down the steps, splashes through the lower pool, and, with a groan, heaves herself onto the cracked tile floor—“let’s have no more of this foolishness. Tell me why you think you’re pure enough to gain the gods’ blessed gift, and I’ll tell you why you’re wrong. Then we’ll make with the snacking, shall we?”

This last threat is spoken without any real menace, for the dragon’s head is slumped between her forefeet. She closes her one good eye, breathing laboriously.

I chew my lips. Then taking a single step toward her I say quietly, “What happened to you?” Hastily I add: “Great and Glorious One.”

Oasuroa’s nostrils flare, issuing a billow of thick black smoke. “What happened to me?” Her eye opens, a thin yellow slit. “That damned, fire-roasted Illithorin happened to me, that’s what. After his people had slain all mine, and mine had slain all his, and there were just the two of us left, I burnt him to a crisp, right in his armor. I thought he was done for, but when I drew near to make certain of it, he lifted one blackened arm and plunged this hideous stinger of his straight into my eye. With his last, rattling breath, he gasped out a death-curse: the most powerful curse there is. ‘Let this blade be an unending torment!’he declared.‘Never shall it be removed, not while my blood still runs blue in the lands of Eledria and beyond.’With that, he went and died before I could force him to take it back again.”

She rubs forlornly at her face with one huge, claw-tipped hand. No matter how she paws at the sword, it will not budge. Instead, a trickle of fresh lava-hot blood oozes down her cheek like flaming tears. She shakes her heavy head and utters a mighty sob. “Every so often, I drink of the fountain for relief. But it never lasts. Illithorin over-indulged on the gods’ gift, resulting in powers unmatched among his kindred. His curse is as strong today as it was when first he uttered it. Damn him to the deepest of the nine hells! May all my brothers and sisters find him there and give him another good roasting!”

With that, she looks at me. Expectantly. As though I’m meant to offer some comment.

I clear my throat and say the first thing that comes to mind: “You seem to have suffered a vast deal, Splendid One.”

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