Free Dragons Lost by Daniel Arenson Page B

singed with
dragonfire and coated with blood and ash.
    Good, she thought. Let them see that I'm a warrior, that I fight through fire and
blood for the Spirit.
    She passed through the
grand hall, under more archways, and through many other chambers. Each one was
more wondrous than the one before. Statues of gold, silver, and marble rose
everywhere, depicting ancient druids holding tillvine blossoms. Countless
gemstones gleamed upon the ceiling like stars. Precious metals coiled upon the
capitals of columns. She kept moving deeper and deeper into the Temple until no
more sunlight reached her, and only the lights of lamps guided her way.
    Finally, after what
seemed like miles, she reached the doors of the inner sanctum—the Holy of
Holies.
    She had to pause and
take another few deep breaths. All the splendor she had passed through—that had
been only the skin. The true heart of what the Cured Temple meant, the very
backbone of her faith, lay here beyond these oaken doors. And she knew that her
mother would be waiting here. Mother was always here these days, lingering,
growing older, praying . . . praying for the day they all awaited.
    Mercy tightened her
lips, opened the door, and entered the holy chamber.
    As glittering and
detailed as the outer chambers were, this place was simple, austere. While the
outer chambers were only a hundred years old, this place was thousands of years
old. Marble tiles formed the floor. Plain white bricks formed the round walls.
And there, in the center of the chamber, it rose.
    King's Column.
    It rose hundreds of
feet tall, passing through many stories, rising to the very top of the Temple.
Mercy had to crane her head back to see its distant capital. It was ancient, but
not a scratch marred it. The marble still seemed pure and smooth as if carved
and polished yesterday.
    Tears stung Mercy's
eyes, and she whispered under her breath—whispered the old words of this place.
    "As the leaves fall
upon our marble tiles, as the breeze rustles the birches beyond our column, as
the sun gilds the mountains above our halls—know, young child of the woods, you
are home. You are home. Req—"
    She bit down on that
last form. A forbidden word. A word she dared not utter, not even here.
    A figure, all in white,
stood before the column. A white robe and hood hid the figure, and a voice rose
from within the garment.
    "Yes. That was their
prayer. The prayer of the weredragons. Yet no more leaves fall here; the trees
have been cut down. No more sun gilds the mountains; our walls shield its
light. And no more children find their home here, and never more will the old
name of this place be uttered."
    Mercy nodded and lowered
her head. "The name will never be uttered."
    The figure turned
toward her, revealing the face of a woman. High Priestess Beatrix looked much
like her daughter. Her skin was pale, and only the first hints of wrinkles
tugged at her mouth and eyes. Her eyes were cold blue shards, calculating,
all-seeing. She pulled her hood back, revealing her head—half was shaven, and
the other half sported a white braid. A tillvine blossom formed of silver and
diamonds gleamed around her neck.
    "We have a new prayer
now, daughter." Beatrix raised her chin. "When all dragons fall, when all
illness is cured, when all evil is cast out, the column will shatter. When the
marble falls, the Spirit will descend. With every breath, with every heartbeat,
with every hurt I heal, I pray for the Falling."
    "I pray for the
Falling," Mercy whispered.
    Beatrix walked closer
to her. Mercy was a tall woman, but Beatrix stood taller. Even in her armor,
Mercy felt fragile by the High Priestess, a mere child. Her mother's eyes bored
into her, emotionless, shining blue.
    "I hear fear in your
voice," Beatrix said, "not the devotion the Spirit demands from his followers.
Why do you cower before me like a pup?"
    Mercy bared her teeth
and gripped the hilt of her sword for comfort. "There is a weredragon. A living
weredragon."
    The