Then, they emerged from the woods, and headed straight up the garden lane to the palace.
The exterior of the palace glowed in the brilliance of dozens of huge bowl fires, and the windows shone from within like living gold. The designs of fishes and waves appeared to weave and swim in the swaying light, as if the walls of the palace itself were alive.
The carriage made its way up the lane, and was soon joined by four others, equally splendid. Galahad rode close to Meira’s carriage, keeping an eye on the other horses and drivers. Soon, the carriages drew up in the yard before the main gate, and halted. Galahad dismounted, and allowed a stable boy to take Thondorfax this time. Then, he moved to Meira’s carriage and waited for the footman to open the door and extend the steps before he moved close and held out his gloved hand.
Meira looked slightly pale—but she suddenly smiled and let out a short sigh when she saw him. She stretched out her hand and grasped his, a little too tightly, stood up, and climbed carefully down the steps. The smile fell from her face, and she fixated on the ground.
“Are you well?” Galahad asked, keeping hold of her hand.
Her jaw tightened, and she nodded, but then she closed her eyes.
“Come. Have courage,” he urged quietly, looping her arm beneath his and then covering her hand with his. “I won’t be far.”
She looked up at him and swallowed.
“Come,” he said again, and drew her forward. They maneuvered around another coach, and came up beside it just as a good-looking young man with shoulder-length brown hair, a short beard, and laughing brown eyes hopped out of it, wearing fine green livery with a family crest on his chest, and a beautiful emerald cape. He turned and extended a hand, and a girl took his hand—she had the same brown hair and laughing eyes, and wore green also. As soon as she had climbed down, the young man caught sight of Galahad and Meira, and beamed at them.
“Good evening!” he said brightly. “I don’t believe I know either of you—I’m Sir Gawain, a knight in the prince’s household. And this is my sister, Lady Hollis.”
Galahad reluctantly took his hand from Meira’s, and held it out to Sir Gawain. Gawain shook it heartily, and then Lady Hollis extended her hand, and Galahad grasped it for a moment also.
“I am Galahad Stormcrane,” Galahad replied. “This is Meira, a fellow Curse-Breaker from Maith.”
“Curse-Breakers!” Lady Hollis exclaimed.
“We’d heard something of your coming from the prince,” Gawain remarked. “Is there trouble?”
“At the moment, we’re just enjoying the prince’s hospitality,” Galahad replied.
Gawain smiled, then caught sight of something past Galahad and Meira.
“Ah! Here comes another one,” he said, and beckoned. Another young man came round Meira—and his eyes lingered on her. He was strikingly-handsome, had the tanned skin of someone from the south, with curly black hair, warm brown eyes, and a quiet expression. He wore a red livery, with a different family crest.
“This is Sir Tristan,” Gawain introduced. “Tristan, this is Galahad Stormcrane and Lady Meira. Curse-Breakers from Maith.”
“I have heard of Stormcrane,” Tristan said, his smooth voice bearing a fluid and elegant accent that marked him to be from the south-west port towns. He nodded, and extended his hand. “The pleasure is mine.”
“Thank you,” Galahad shook his hand. “This is Meira.”
Sir Tristan turned to Meira, and gave her a very warm glance. She smiled in reply and held out her left hand. Sir Tristan took it, gently, and kissed it.
“Sir Gawain, are you not going inside?” came another voice—and another striking, dark-haired man rounded a carriage. He wore sky-blue, with a dark blue cape, was slightly older than the others, and had piercing blue eyes and Romanesque features.
“Yes, of course we are!” Gawain replied to him. “We were just making new acquaintances.”
“And who might that be?” Though he spoke perfect Edeltung, this man had a much stronger accent—a glottal yet flowery and delicate mother-tongue that placed him from the western side of the Drachenrucken mountains.
“This is Galahad Stormcrane and Lady Meira, Curse-Breakers from Maith,” Tristan said quietly, finally releasing Meira’s hand.
“Oh! Tis a marvelous honor,” the newcomer said, grasping Galahad’s hand and pressing his forehead to it. “I am Lancelot du Lac, and I am your servant.”
Galahad considered him closely.
“I have heard of you, Sir Lancelot,” he said. “You killed the Fire Hoarder in Dragan Fells.”
“The honor is mine, to be remembered by you,” Sir Lancelot answered solemnly, straightening up. “But nothing compares with your feats amongst the dwarves of Silbernreich and the dragons of Gormland.”
“Dragons? Truly?” Lady Hollis said, turning wide eyes on Galahad.
“Are any of you coming in?” The laughing call echoed through the inner yard, and they all turned to see Prince James striding toward them through the open double doors. He wore splendid dark blue trimmed and embroidered with silver, and he spread his hands out to the sides.
“Your Highness,” Lancelot bowed, as did Tristan and Gawain. Lady Hollis curtsied. And, when Galahad sense Meira bending a knee in her own graceful curtsey, Galahad inclined his head.
“Thank you so much for coming,” Prince James said, and immediately glanced back and forth between Lady Hollis and Meira. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” Gawain cleared his throat and straightened his collar. “I fussed over myself all afternoon.”
“Shut up,” Tristan smirked, jabbing him—and Prince James laughed out loud.
“Yes, I can certainly tell that you tried, Tristan,” he remarked. “Do come in, all of you!”
The prince led the way into the lavish dining hall. The floors were white and silver alternating square tiles, tall archways covered in silver florals marched up either side, and crystal chandeliers hung from a ceiling painted to look like the night sky. The chandeliers blazed, refracting their light in rainbows, and lamps ensconced upon the pillars twinkled brightly. A long table stood in the center of the room, lined with silver chairs. A white tablecloth covered the banquet table, and dark red roses had been spilled down its length, interrupted by silver candlesticks and place settings.
Twenty other courtiers milled about, lavishly dressed in vibrant summer colors and glittering with jewels. The women wore headdresses and sparkling veils, the men wore sweeping capes and bold ornamentation upon their chests. Galahad felt Meira squeeze his arm hard.
The prince led them into the room, around the perimeter, glancing back and grinning at Lady Hollis and Meira, as if to catch their reactions. Galahad looked down at Meira, to see her marveling up at the splendid ceiling—but she still looked pale. The prince strode to the head of the table, where a majestic chair waited, and stood behind it.
“Please, Galahad,” the prince said. “Sit at my left, and Lady Meira, sit at my right.”
Galahad nodded, and immediately let go of her to draw out her chair for her. She took a deep breath, then came round and stood in front of the table. He set the chair against the back of her knees—
She started to sit down.
Galahad caught her elbow, and leaned in close to her ear.
“Wait for the prince,” he whispered.
Her face turned scarlet. She nodded stiffly, and slowly straightened back up. The prince made no notice, for he was waving to the other men. Galahad stepped behind the prince and approached the chair at the left of the throne.
Seeing the prince take his place, the other courtiers drew close to the table and stood behind their chairs. Sir Tristan came up to Meira’s right, and gave her a careful smile, which she returned, just as cautiously. Sir Lancelot took a place beside Galahad, and Lady Hollis stood beside him. Sir Gawain picked the chair beside Tristan, across from his sister.
Prince James raised his hand, and the court fell silent.
“Thank you all for
coming,” he said. “I am honored and blessed by your presence, and I hope you have a delightful evening here amongst your friends and your family.” And he sat down. Then the ladies sat down in their chairs, and the men adjusted them. Meira, still blushing, sat down too, and Sir Tristan helped scoot her chair up a bit. Lancelot seamlessly helped Lady Hollis. Then, the rest of the men took their seats.
Meira stared at her empty plate. Galahad’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything—just took off his gloves and laid them by his wine glass.
The next moment, doors opened in the side passages, and dozens of servants emerged, bearing covered platters and bottles of wine. In no time at all, steaming, heaping plates of sauce-drowned pork, beef, fish; sugared baked apples, roasted vegetables and crisp salads covered the table, and dark wines splashed into the Spegel glass flutes. Delicious scents flooded the room, as did the dull roar of pleased conversation.
“Sir Galahad,” Lady Hollis spoke up. “You mentioned dragons. Could you tell me, please, what Sir Lancelot meant?”
“Dragons?” Prince James said, as the servants served him his meat and vegetables, and another poured the wine.
“I’m afraid you’ve knighted me prematurely, Lady Hollis,” Galahad replied, sitting back so the servant could ladle his food.
“Surely not,” Lancelot scoffed. “You have not been knighted?”
“Curse-Breakers bear that title alone,” Galahad answered. “I suppose it’s the same as being a knight of all the realms.”
“Mm,” Lancelot nodded thoughtfully.
“But dragons, Galahad,” the prince prompted. “Do tell us.”
Galahad paused, realizing that the knights and the prince were all fixed on him instead of Meira…
He cleared his throat.
“Truly, it’s nothing.”
“Do not let him say so,” Lancelot cut in. “Minstrels will be singing songs of his victory for a thousand years.”
Gwain, Tristan and the Prince all watched him raptly. Galahad cleared his throat and shifted in his chair.
“It was several years ago,” he said, spreading his napkin on his lap. “I was sent to Deargland because they called for a Curse-Breaker to free their queen from her barrenness curse…but when I arrived, they told me they wanted me to make a curse to strike down the dragon king of Gormland.”
Meira lifted her eyes and found his, her brow immediately furrowing.
“You surely cannot make a curse,” Sir Tristan frowned at him.
“I could, and can,” Galahad corrected. “I have enough experience with them. But that would break every oath I’ve ever taken.”
“What did you do?” Lady Hollis asked.
“I was imprisoned, and they made plans to execute me.”
“I thought killing a Curse-Breaker was against every law in Edel,” Prince James remarked.
“It is,” Galahad answered him, looking at him sideways. “But have you ever attempted to persuade a blaze of fifty full-grown dragons?”
Prince James laughed.
“No, I haven’t had the pleasure.”
“So…what did you do?” Gawain prompted. Galahad took a breath.
“I managed to escape and cross the border into Gormland,” he answered. “I found the king of the Gormland dragons, who is much older and wiser than the king of Deargland. He didn’t know that the king of Deargland was planning to attack his kingdom. I helped him rally his children who were sleeping in the mountains and in the caves on the coast. And when Deargland struck, Gormland was fully prepared, and much stronger. We drove them back, and killed half their family.”
“You flew to battle with them, then?” Tristan asked. Galahad nodded.
“On a dragon?” Lady Hollis cried.
“Yes.”
“Is that where you got this fantastic scar?” Gawain grinned, pointing to his own face.
“Oh, yes, it is a completely lovely scar,” Lady Hollis gushed—and all the men chuckled. Galahad glanced across at Meira—who lowered her head and gave him the smallest of hidden smiles.
“No…” Galahad said, looking down. “This one on my face came from King Dvellin of Emoth in Silbernreich.”
“Those ruddy dwarves,” Gawain muttered, rolling up his right sleeve. “I was passing through the woods at the edge of Silbernreich three years ago—didn’t know I’d passed into dwarvish territory—and a dwarf scoundrel challenged me and nearly hacked my arm off. See?”
Galahad straightened up so he could see properly—a deep, wide mark scarred Gawain’s wrist.
“Hm. You should have asked him to tea instead—I’m sure he would have been reasonable,” Galahad said flatly.
The prince nearly spat out his wine—and the other knights burst out laughing. The edge of Galahad’s mouth twitched up, and Meira’s hidden smile grew.
“Lady Meira, you are being quiet,” Lancelot said, leaning forward to catch her eye. “We do not mean to exclude you with all our talk of battles and dragons.”
She sat up straight, and quickly shook her head.
“I’m afraid she’s mute, lads,” Prince James answered, turning to look at Meira—and his expression softened. “A run-in with a witch, I believe.”
The mirth around the table died, and all the men and Lady Hollis regarded her with sudden attention. Galahad simply watched her.
“Oh, how dreadful,” Lady Hollis whispered. Meira immediately ducked her head.
“No, don’t hide your face!” the prince objected—and reached out to touch her chin. She lifted her head and looked right back at him, and he smiled gently at her.
“If you cannot talk with your voice, you may talk with your eyes,” he said, slowly lowering his hand. “And we shall all strive to listen as best we can, shan’t we?”
“Oui,” said Sir Lancelot, in his native tongue. “Bien entendu.”
“Si,” Sir Tristan nodded, in his own tongue also. “Alegremente.”
Meira inclined her head to them, then returned to gaze at the prince, who looked back at her for a long moment, then picked up his wine glass.
“A toast,” he declared. “To the dragons, dwarves and shipwrecks that make our lives an adventure.”
Galahad took up his wine glass, as did the others at that end of the table. Meira did the same, but as Galahad watched, she didn’t take her brilliant eyes from the prince.
Galahad watched Scraw soar high into the night sky, then transform into a white light and shoot across the stars like a comet. Slowly, he drew back into the library and shut the window, then drew the curtain. Footsteps sounded from behind him, and he turned.
Meira, wearing her nightdress and a red dressing gown, her hair all undone and hanging in lustrous waves down to her waist, stepped into the library. Galahad blinked, then frowned at her.
“You shouldn’t come in dressed like that,” he said.
She suddenly stopped, pulling her arms in tight, confusion flashing across her eyes. Galahad heaved a sigh, lowered his head, then shook it.
“What I mean is,” he amended. “You should not wear nightclothes in the presence of a man who isn’t your husband.”
Her gaze went distant, and she backed up. Galahad bit the inside of his cheek.
“Meira,” he called.
She halted, but stared at the rug. He took a deep breath.
“You did well tonight,” he said. “The knights and the prince were pleased with you.”
Her gaze flicked to his for just an instant, but she didn’t smile. And she stared at the floor again. Galahad cast his own gaze down.
“Have you ever seen a dragon?” He waited a beat, then lifted only his eyes.
Her gaze risked meeting his again, then she shook her head, once.
“They’re the fiercest creatures you’ve ever seen,” he said quietly. “Tall and forbidding, and terrible. But once you learn the way they speak, and the way they listen, you find they’re some of the most beautiful people in Edel.”
Meira studied him, gripping her fingers together. G
alahad stood still for a moment, then reached into his breast pocket and drew out a flashing, tear-shaped dragon scale about two inches long. The sapphire tones within the scale swam like the sea and sky, and the edges sparkled like diamonds. Galahad stepped toward her, and held it out.
For a long while, she stared at it. Then, very gingerly, she reached up, and took it from him. She turned it over and over in her fingers, feeling the edges, considering the way the scale captured some light, and flashed other light off its refracted surface.
“Keep it,” Galahad murmured.
Her head came up and her eyes flashed. She pointed to herself. He just looked at her, then backed up and moved to the fire again.
“Goodnight,” he said, taking up the fire poker to jab the logs in the hearth. She hesitated there on the threshold for a few minutes, then turned and left him.
Chapter Nine
Clank!
Galahad opened his eyes and frowned.
Giggling issued up the stairwell.
Little Emblyn.
Galahad groaned and rubbed his eyes, then rolled onto his side and groggily lit the lamp on his bedside table. Then, he slapped his hand down on his silver pocket watch and lifted it, squinting at the time. It was just before dawn.
He put the watch back down, his hand wandering across his bare chest under the blankets, tracing the vertical scar that trailed down his right shoulder, his pectoral muscle, and down to the edge of his ribs. Wincing slightly, he massaged the muscle around the scar, trying to banish the ache that had greeted him every morning for five years now.
Finally, he let out a grunt, threw the covers off and got out of bed. He lit the lamps on the mantel, then poured water from the pitcher into the basin and had a brisk wash, and then he shaved his face—careful, as always of that jagged scar. He brushed his hair also, then put on his riding trousers and boots, fitted black shirt and black, collared waistcoat. He also slung on his belt, from which hung a work-a-day dirk.
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