Free Veil of the Dragon (Prophecy of the Evarun) by Tom Barczak Page A

as they went. Between the great trees, the phantom pallor of pale and silent ruins floated in the night.
     
    Beyond the balding stone at the base of a hillock, they stopped before a small dome of the same pale stone, its surface broken by a single door, and its mass half buried beneath the ground. One of the ancient trees rose through and behind it, its branches reaching high towards the canopy above them. Moonlight settled around them in subtle patches.
     
    “I ’ll leave you here,” Al -T hinneas said. “Think no more of this day.  Let rest be your portion, and pray for the Younger as well. We ’ll call for you when he awakens.  The Synod will meet on the morrow. We know why you’re here. You may bring your claim for help then. I’m sure they’ll have many questions for you as well.”
     
    From beyond the doorway, the smell of incense and fresh rushes beckoned Chaelus. A small fire illuminated the interior with a faint light. The mass of the living tree pressed in between the stones, having split them apart over time until it had become , at last, a part of the dwelling itself. A wide stone pallet stacked with woven blankets and furs lined the wall of the place, broken once by the girth of the tree. Fresh grasses had only recently been laid, and at the foot of the pallet, painted earthen jars and baskets overflowed with dried fruits and bread. So far, in this life at least, he had n’t seen such comforts.
     
    Chaelus dropped to his knees, attacking one of the small, round loafs. He ate with wariness though, eyeing the door as he added handfuls of dried fruit to his meal. Its meat dripped from his hands and clung upon the beard on his face.
     
    Sharp whispers sounded beyond the door, between Al-Thinneas and another. Then silence. The booted feet of two men came to rest outside. Guards to protect, but who and from whom? He remembered the gossamer-bound blade the woman had held against him, even as he’d returned to them one of their own.
     
    Al-Aaron’s wound was shallow but grievous for the black taint it held, not so different from Baelus, his innocent blood let out upon the snow. No child should be present upon the field of war. It was what Chaelus had told his father, and what he had stood against him for. Such a thin thread that, once unbound, had sealed his fate.
     
    Chaelus thought of the Mother, Olivia, who herself had once tried to save him from his father. Perhaps she could dispel Al-Aaron’s shadow. Then, perhaps together, Al-Aaron and the Mother would give him the answers he needed.
     
    Or he would find his own.
     
    Chaelus sank back against the pallet as sleep summoned him with the strength of something denied.
     

Chapter Eight
     
    Promise
     
    The Mother’s hands were small within her own, smaller than they’d ever been. Her eyes looked more tired as they stared past her, past the dying fire and into the ebbing night. 
     
    Al-Mariam looked uneasily at the binding of her own hand as the Mother stood, her grip tight upon her. 
     
    As they stepped away from the fire, the soft scuttle of sandaled feet on stone descended behind them. The whisperers, the other Servian Knights, had already left to recount and debate the truth of what they’d heard and what they’d seen until only the Mother and Al-Mariam remained.
     
    She glanced back at the three Tenders.
     
    They had just arrived, adding wood and stoking the fire with the attention deserved of sacred things, the sacred flame that burns until the twelve watchtowers are lit once more. 
     
    Prophecy, and those who serve it.
     
    “The flesh of the Younger will mend,” the Mother said. Her voice was weary. “But his wound is deeper than flesh. Tell me, Al-Mariam, what would you have done to the barbarian?” 
     
    Al-Mariam held breathless as the weight of her own guilt pressed down, the guilt of one who only claimed to serve. “I only threatened him, a feint. He dared bring his blade unbound before us.”
     
    “No,” the