by N M Zoltack
As she worked, her thoughts turned to the one potion she had created for Dudley but that she had given to Edmund instead. Had he ever taken it? She thought not as there were plenty of times when the knight did not seem happy at all. Why had he refused the potion that would grant him his heart’s desire? And now, the potion might not work at all because he could very well wish for his brother to have not perished.
Once she ran out of vials to fill with potions, Tatum opened the door. The page immediately straighten from his slouched position leaning across the opposite wall.
“Milady, what is it you require?” he asked eagerly.
“More vials,” she murmured. “Bring them to my door.”
“You are going somewhere?” he asked, tilting his head to the side.
“Indeed.”
“The vials will be here before you return.” And he dashed away.
Oh, to have the energy of youths! Not that Tatum was old. She was ten-and-eight years old, which made her a year younger than the queen but a year older than Dudley had been. How cruel was the world that she should have outlived her husband and before he could see their child, before he could cradle their babe in his arms, before he could be a father.
Burying her sorrow deep into her heart, Tatum nodded and forced a smile to those she passed in the halls. Given her status as an alchemist, she had been given a room on the same floor as the healing hall, the floor above the one in which the queen lived. Tatum headed down to that floor and knocked on the queen’s bedchamber door.
The door opened, and a maid greeted her.
“My Queen, Tatum is here to see you.”
“Come on in,” Rosalynne called.
Tatum entered and curtseyed.
“How are you this fine morning?” Rosalynne asked with a wry smile. Outside her glass window, rain pounded against the windowsill. The day was as dreary as Tatum felt.
“I have news to share with you, perhaps news I should have a few days ago, when I first noticed this, but I have been busy. I should have made time for this, however, and for that, I apologize.”
Rosalynne waved her hand. “Amee, will you go and fetch us some tea and fruit?”
“Of course, My Queen.” Amee curtseyed and departed from the room.
Tatum waited until the door was shut to start. “My Queen—”
“Please, sit, and when we are alone, you may address me as Rosalynne.”
Tatum smiled wanly as she crossed over to the queen’s vanity and sat in the chair there, facing the queen. “I have seen two different women who have been able to heal others.”
Rosalynne said nothing.
“With magic,” Tatum breathed. “Not with a potion. Not with medicine or knowledge of the body. With magic. Their hands glowed, and they saved lives.”
“Which women are these?”
“One was a peasant woman. She healed her husband almost through sheer desperation. The other is one of the healers here in the castle.” Tatum slanted her head. “You do not seem surprised by this.”
“This is not the first time I have heard of magic. It seems that the dragons might not hate all humans after all but have gifted some humans with magic. If you could, would you give me the name of the healer? Do you know the name of the peasant woman?”
“Isabel Faure is the healer in the castle. I only know the peasant woman’s first name. Agatha. Her husband’s name is Killian.”
“Thank you for telling me this, Tatum. Do not fret that you delayed some. I have been very busy, and you have been likewise.” Rosalynne hesitated. “Does it ever feel as if you are going about in a circle with nothing ever changing, yet the sun rises and sets and time is wasting away?”
“Very much so,” Tatum agreed.
Rosalynne eyed Tatum’s belly. “It must be so very precious and wonderful to know you are creating life.”
Tatum’s hand rested on her belly. “It would be, yes.”
The queen subtly lifted her eyebrows but did not press for details, which Tatum appreciated.
“I am feeling a bit unwell,” Tatum murmured. “I think I might rest some before I return to work.”
“Do not strain yourself too hard,” the queen said. “If you need to see Isabel—”
“I will be fine,” Tatum assured her. “I will manage.”
“Managing is not nearly sufficient,” Rosalynne argued.
“No, but we are at war, and until peace is had…”
“You do too much,” the queen said softly. “Please, take care of yourself.”
Tatum could barely smile. The queen herself looked as worn as Tatum felt.
The alchemist left the queen’s room, realizing only after she entered her room that she had forgotten to curtsey, but she did not think the queen would take that as a slight. At least, she hoped the queen wouldn’t.
Within mere moments of lying down, Tatum was asleep. As before, she dreamed of Dudley.
“Where is my son?” he asked, his voice booming, louder than it had been when he had lived, even louder than when he had shouted at her or anyone else.
“I don’t know,” Tatum said, confused, her hands on her flat stomach. “i…”
“Where is my son?” Dudley roared. “I’m only here for my son!”
“What about me?” Tatum cried. “Don’t you care about me?”
“You?” Dudley retorted. “You’re worthless, good for nothing at all! Where is my son?”
With a gasp, Tatum woke to terrible stomach pains. She sat up with a groan and realized that her legs were wet. She drew back the blanket to see blood, and her heart sank as a wail ripped through her.
Dudley had come for their son.
And Dudley had taken their son with him.
63
Prince Marcellus Gallus
The time had come. As much as Marcellus had attempted to delay things as subtly as he could, the hour had arrived for the attack on Atlan castle. They had left Vivian behind in her vine cage with a trio of guards. As much as he wished he could have saved the Rivera princess, he knew he could not undertake such a risk. As it was, his father hated him. It had been the intervention of the Fates, clearly, that had allowed his father to realize Marcellus had been in the right to have them abandon the town rather than attempt to learn the identity of the saboteur. In the end, the only words that had gotten through to the king had been Marcellus supposing that the Fates and the dragons might not take kindly to their punishing the person responsible, especially when Marcellus had lied and claimed he spotted a dragon flying overhead recently, who might be waiting for them to move on so they could strike the village and the guilty party.
Mentioning that the villagers were some of the people his father wished to rule over had not been reason enough for the king to spare them, which disgusted Marcellus, but then, everything his father did lately caused Marcellus great discomfort. His father had changed since he had declared himself king and not for the better. In fact, more times than not, Marcellus did not recognize his father at all.
What must his mother think about this? Marcellus could only wonder, but he dared not mention that to his father for fear Marcellus would be struck down for the statement.
Thankfully, precious few had drunken the contaminated water, and they were the ones to stay behind with Vivian. The others marched along to the castle.
Fleetingly, Marcellus thought of Aldus Perez. Seeing the man had come as a great shock. Why would he come all of that way out to deliver the prince a missive? And the sigil might have been his own.
That night, Marcellus had thought about burning it unread, but he read it first before burning it. He hadn’t said a word about its contents to anyone, but he had no reason to think about aligning himself with such a man. Marcellus knew exactly what kind of a man Aldus was, although Marcellus did have to consider the man braver than he would’ve thought. For him to venture to see Marcellus himself meant the man had a stronger backbone than Marcellus would’ve anticipated. He would have to keep an eye on the man who se
emed to have deem himself an advisor to one and all. Would he have written a different letter had he known King Antonius had come to these shores? Of that, Marcellus had no doubt. Aldus would have entreated the king instead of the prince. He had no true loyalty to anyone but himself.
Along their route, they came across a strange man, who had been asleep but roused the moment he spotted their colors, leaping to his feet and sputtering sounds more than words.
“Vincanans! I have a missive…” He patted at his belt, paused, and then began to tug at his tunic as if that would make this mysterious missive appear.
“Who are you?” Marcellus demanded. “What do you want of us? Who gave you the missive?”
His father brandished his sword and sliced the man’s chest down to his hips. The man dropped to his knees, sputtering still as he bled out.
“Who he was does not matter. He had no missive. Perhaps he was deranged. Do not suffer fools, boy, or else you are a fool as well.”
Marcellus flared his nostrils and neglected to acknowledge the insult.
The king did not bother to sheath his sword but held it up high. “This will be the first of many to fall before the might of my blade before the morning dawns!”
The Vincanans knew better than to cheer, and they fell into lines behind the three leaders, not bothering to maneuver around the body.
As they rode, Marcellus reflected on the missive. Was his father correct in that the man had dreamed up a missive? Or had there truly been a missive at one time? What had happened to it if that had been the case? Who could have sent it? Rosalynne, most likely, but why would she bother to send one when she had sent Vivian?
Or had Vivian come without her sister’s knowledge? No, Rosalynne must know about the betrothal, although this attack would certainly strain matters on that front.
Not that Marcellus planned on engaging in battle.
What would Rosalynne risk sending and by a handwritten note via a messenger, and an incompetent messenger as that man had been? Perhaps the missive had been from another, although for the life of him, Marcellus could not think of anyone else who would do such a thing.
Perhaps it had been a ruse for the man all along, and someone had sent him to his death.
Marcellus shook his head to clear his thoughts. To be so distracted when they were heading into battle would be foolhardy.
The king had opted against a siege after all. No, the plan was to force their way through the open gates and straight on into the keep where they were to find the queen and slaughter her.
They only had few horses, so naturally, the king, the prince, and the commander had ones. The rest marched on foot. The cover of darkness of the night aided our approach, and the Fates were kind, as if they had sanctioned the attack. The moon was covered, most of the stars too, the entire world about them black as ink.
As such, the guards did not notice them until the Vincanans had already breached the castle wall. They had their doors opened wide to allow refugees in, clearly not thinking the Vincanans would strike.
The limited number of guards outside were easy enough to dispatch. Already, guards and knights were fleeing the keep to halt them, but the king rode forward, knocking some of the guards aside, and he entered the keep still on his horse.
Marcellus jumped down from his and entered the keep on foot. He did not even draw his sword. No, he had a different mission in mind.
He sought to locate Rosalynne.
Yes, he still wished for peace above all else, even if it meant his father would wish to face Marcellus in battle.
Knights and guards scurried about as if they were wasps or bees rudely disturbed from their nests. Marcellus ducked and jerked back to avoid slashes and shoved knights aside, pushing them into each other to create confusion and space enough for him to dart around them.
His father had asked Marcellus for details concerning the castle layout including where precisely the queen’s bedchambers were as Marcellus had lived in the castle a short amount of time while he had been entertained along with Rufus until his best friend’s untimely death.
Marcellus had lied to his father, and thankfully, his father had paid Marcellus no mind the moment he entered the keep.
But the closer Marcellus became to the queen’s bedchambers, the more guards and knights he faced until the prince had no choice but to fight back lest he be killed.
This battle would be one for the ages, and Marcellus willed for it to be his last and not because he wished to fall during it.
Peace was needed desperately for the sake of Dragoona. Why did so many fail to see that simple truth?
64
Bjorn Ivano
It was just as Bjorn feared. The screams from floors below was warning enough, and the servants, maids, and commoners on the upper-most floor with Bjorn were all clinging to one another fearfully.
Bjorn unsheathed his sword. He had been given several sideway glances when the others noticed his sheath. His billowing cloak had helped to conceal its presence when he had bypassed the guards entering the keep, but now, he was grateful to have it, and he pushed his way through the crowd to reach the stairs, a most difficult task because everyone else was trying to move away from the stairs, so he felt very much like a fish swimming upstream would against the current.
“Stay back,” Bjorn cried. “If anyone comes up here, do whatever it is that they ask of you, and pray to the Fates that listening will be what saves your life.”
“What are you going to do?” a young boy asked solemnly. He could not be more than five, six at the most.
“He’s going to fight, can’t you see?” a girl maybe a year or two older than him said snidely. “You wish you had been made a knight, don’t you?”
“Knights are honorable,” Bjorn muttered.
“You wish to fight for us, don’t you?” the girl retorted in a know-it-all fashion that he suspected made the other children dislike her immensely. “That makes you honorable.”
“Mayhap for this very moment,” he grumbled with a grimace.
“May the Fates watch over you,” a young maid cried.
Bjorn snorted. The Fates did not care about him in the slightest, nor should they. He would pave his own way, carve his own life’s story, and if he should fall this day, it would be because he had died doing something honorable for once, and he would endeavor to die smiling, most likely thinking of Olympia. No, if his thoughts were of her, he would probably die with a curse on his lips, a curse on himself for having failed her.
Down the stairs he plunged, into darkness, taking precious seconds to extinguish the torches that lit the stairs up to the servants’ quarters. If any chose this route, he wished to make it almost impossible for them to see.
The fighting wasn’t on the next floor or even the floor beneath that one. Below that, Bjorn entered the fray, battling one Vincanan soldier after another. The cramped quarters in the hallway made sweeping arcs with the sword impossible, which was just as well. Bjorn greatly preferred jabs and thrusts, clanging high and then low and high again. He felled two of them with injuries instead of fatal blows. His hood constantly fell back, and he fought with one hand so that he could keep his hood in place. It would hardly do for him to be discovered in the middle of the battle.
“Who are you?” one of the Vincanan soldiers asked. “Why do you wish to conceal your face?”
“Don’t you know?” Bjorn asked coolly. “I am an agent of the Fate of Death. I do not reveal my face to the likes of you.”
He jabbed forward, but the Vincanan was quicker than most, blocked, and parried. Bjorn linked their swords, stepping close to the man, close enough that the man could see his face. Then, he yanked hard enough with his sword that it tugged the blade loose from the Vincanan’s hand. As it clattered to the ground, Bjorn stomped on the man’s foot. He lowered his head just enough that Bjorn could bring his sword up and then the hilt down onto the back of his opponent’s head hard enough to knock him unconscious.
Bjorn bent dow
n, shoved the Vincanan aside, and claimed the sword. Now doubly armed, Bjorn raced forward to find another opponent, then realized he neared the queen’s bedchambers, so he turned around and headed in another direction before hesitating.
This floor was swarming with Vincanans. Could he truly turn his back on Rosalynne? Even if he no longer wished for her to wear the crown upon her head, did that mean he wished for her to be dead?
But the soldiers and guards who were closest to her might very well recognize him.
A dilemma to be sure, and Bjorn muttered a curse to himself before racing toward her bedchambers. If the Fates were kind, which he suspected they were not, the queen would not be there. As he could not be certain, he would do whatever he must.
The guards and knights had swelling numbers by the bedchambers, and Bjorn added himself to their throng. They hardly gave him a second glance, and they fought as one against all those wearing an emblem of a red helmet with a spear and arrows on either side of it. The sigil of Vincana? Or perhaps their royal family, Gallus. Bjorn could not be certain, but he fought, and he fought hard, always aiming to disarm or to wound, not to kill, a fact that he might regret, but he wished himself to be a better man for Olympia’s sake. He would not kill unless he had no other choice, and he greatly hoped to always have another option.
Bjorn wished to be worthy of Olympia, but even more so than that, he wished to be a true champion, a noble man, one deserving of praise, gratitude, and above all, love.
65
Rase Ainsley
For so many days and nights now, Rase had struggled to find his sister, and he had failed. Finally, he realized there was only one place he had not checked yet.
The keep.
As he neared the castle, he realized there was a great commotion going on. The din of metal striking metal, the grunts and groans and wails of the dying, the stench of blood and sweat and loosed bowels all had Rase in a near panic.
