A Hatchling for Springtide (Santaclaws Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  Keir shrugged. “I guess I have to trust the Mother Tree, aye? Some things are bigger than we are. As this little one will one day very likely be. Those Dragons in the tales are huge!”

  Yet he did not mean physical size.

  The image that consumed his imagination was the hand – or was that the paw – of fate.

  Why would the last descendant of Santazathiar come to him, and to his family, as a Dragonmas gift, if not for some purpose greater than he could envision? She was a healer. Pure lightning. A living diamond born amidst storm of the darkest amaranthine hues, from which the mountains derived their name – oddly. Why a deep reddish purple? What did that colour reference?

  Why had the Mother Tree been involved? Could she have stolen the egg from the storm? What manner of power had been abroad that night – or, might have been abroad in the mountains for weeks before, terrifying those Crag Wyverns and Snow Ogres into abject cowering in caverns?

  The animals must have known.

  Keir rubbed his arms. “Ye sure ken how to scare yer friends. Thanks, Zyran.”

  “Better scared and alive, than fearlessly dead.”

  “Zyran!”

  Keee-irr? The hatchling poured onto his lap, pressing herself against his chest. Her extraordinary gaze captured his effortlessly, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone.

  Together. With her.

  * * * *

  He experienced moments of sublime beauty, such as when he communed with the dragonet and nothing else in the world mattered. When he knew without a shadow of a doubt in his mind that everything would be alright, because they were meant to be.

  Two creatures could hardly be more different, yet they shared a quality of relationship for which he could barely scrape together words to describe.

  A link.

  A way of being.

  Purpose that transcended perception.

  At other moments, he could only laugh and shake his head in disbelief. What a barrel of mischief! Prankster on paws!

  This morning, he had come inside from chopping firewood to find the hatchling absent from her usual snoozing patch beside the hearth. Suspiciously absent. A few minutes’ search led him to his temporary bedroom, where he discovered she of the spellbinding eyes had built herself a nest behind one of the storage chests, using the meticulously shredded scraps of his bedding.

  She looked so chuffed with herself!

  How could he scold her, when she peeked at him out of the pile with an impish quirk of her lips, and purred as if to say, ‘Look at what I built. Aren’t I clever?’

  He peered closer. “What’s that on yer nose – oh. Half of my blue underwear, eh?”

  The dragonet sneezed delicately.

  “Couldn’t agree more. I wouldn’t want to get too close to those either.”

  Then, Keir checked what clothing he did have left. Purse the lips, puff out the cheeks. How would he explain this to his parents? First father’s boots, now a goodly portion of his clothing. This dragonet was proving expensive to maintain, both for the food she constantly consumed and the clothing she was now eating or destroying. Aye, plus he should add bedding to the list. They had none to spare, and his mattress now had three holes clawed right through it.

  Kittens were rainbows and sweetness in comparison.

  They also had the added benefit of not talking back. Not talking at all! When she chirruped his name in two careful syllables, ‘Keee-irr,’ it just … did things to him. Sappy, silly, emotional things. His mother regularly looked at him in that way where her mauve eyes grew slightly misty in the corners, as if she thought her son was in love!

  He was categorically not in love with a blazing reptile. No. This was nothing more than fondness, the regard of an owner for a pet – aye, keep the stinking lies coming, Kestrelfoot!

  A wee dram o’ truth? She was a gift beyond price or imagination, a creature of fire and magic, light and lightning, and every moment she lived, breathed and fomented mischief, somewhere and somehow, reality was laughing so uproariously it must surely be shaking the very stars in their beds of velveteen sable. Magic incarnate! Her sleek, lustrous beauty was the stuff of a balladeer’s ecstasy, a poet’s muse, a magician’s subtlest canto, an artist’s finest brush stroke …

  Ugh. Whatever he had, he had it bad.

  Still, how exactly was he supposed to regain a firm grip on normalcy when he was losing sleep over that rascal of the wriggly tail, which was all he could see beneath the blankets now?

  Answer that conundrum, Keir!

  Chapter 4: Royal Presentation

  17th of Janus Month

  GIVEN AS SOME PEOPLE had been part of the general furniture around the royal castle of Amarinthe since they could remember, Keir ought not to be so gnawed up with nerves about being invited to a private audience with the King and Queen. Especially since the King had first met him when he was but hours old, and his present to the Queen upon first being passed to her for a cuddle, had rather infamously been to deposit a splodge of tarry meconium from an ill-fitting infant diaper right down the front of her pristine white ball gown.

  Not that private audiences were terribly private, his father pointed out irascibly, earning an askance mountain cobra’s glance from his wife. Duly noted, Kalar busied himself checking his walking stick for defects.

  Parents. Comical.

  Then there was a palaver over how the hatchling would reach the castle. Keir wanted to carry her in his arms or preferably, upon his shoulder, as if he were a skilled and knowledgeable Dragon handler. With all of his three weeks’ experience. Indeed. But at the first gasp of frigid morning air outside the front door, his pernickety prize decided the weather was not to her liking, thank you very much. She kicked up such a fuss that in the end he snuggled her inside his snow jacket, giving him an improbably rounded potbelly.

  Keir eyed her balefully, glowing there in the semidarkness. You’re like your own log fire. What’s the problem with a touch of cold?

  Keee-irr?

  No. The demure look just isn’t working on me this time. I know what you’re like.

  Krrrr-krrrr? she tried her other noise.

  Nor that, missy. I am not the local pack pony. Neither am I your – alright, go to sleep then. See if I care.

  Acting? Or genuinely tired? He was constantly startled at how she could fall asleep at the first flutter of a snowflake, only to be fizzing around the house at her rambunctious best less than a minute later.

  “Come on, young man. Royals are now’t to be kept waiting,” his father huffed.

  “Dad, are ye sure ye can –”

  Kalar boxed his shoulder, and not gently either. “Alright?”

  Adults found words to be superfluous in certain situations. This was one such occasion. Keir knew his part was to act relaxed and not at all concerned about his father’s newly-healed but still imperfect and rickety legs walking him through icy streets up to the castle, without mishap. “Proud old geezer,” he muttered beneath his breath, and promptly collected another clout. “Dad! What was that for?”

  “For whatever I dinnae quite hear ye mutter there. For the love of Santaclaws, lad! By this time, the Certanshi would have dragged ye a mile out of camp and be debating how best to spice and roast yer innards! Stop yer dallying and do up yer jacket. Walk!”

  The hatchling drowsily bared her fangs at him. Most of her first month, and he reckoned her awake time could not top three hours a day, total. This diamond mischief could sleep for the kingdom, and she did, too.

  “And I’ll have none of yer lip, young lady!”

  “Right,” Keir agreed, doing up the double layer of toggles. Cheeky! Compared to Human infants, the rate at which this creature was learning to interact with her world was astounding.

  Now his father was giving him the ‘taking care of a hatchling has been an excellent learning experience for ye, young man’ look. Honestly! Throw in a whole non-verbal lecture too? Parents must go to the school of the significantly tilted eyebrow and attend drama cla
sses to learn exactly how to make that sidelong look that could sting like a jungle wasp. Brutes, those wasps. He remembered them being the size of his hand, but he had been much smaller back then.

  As they strolled up the cobbled, snowbound street toward the castle that stood above the town, they had to weave to avoid snowbanks that had escaped the busy shovels. Nobody had the time, or frankly the energy, to shift much of the sheer volume of snowfall this Winterfall had brought to the mountains. In many places the snow stood above the eaves, and even climbed the heavy timber-frame rooftops. The local witticism was that more snow provided extra insulation.

  True enough, scientifically speaking.

  Kalar the Axe was no small man, nor did he lack for a touch of pride. Keir wondered how it was that a man might remain true to himself and his convictions, but not cross over into arrogance or egotism. Many of the men and women who had served under his command openly professed admiration, even love for him. Just now, Samar the Baker poked his head out of his shop doorway to cry fondly, ‘Kalar! Good to see those pins under ye, my friend!’ How did that not make a head swell fit to brush the clouds with self-importance? He just squared up his broad shoulders and, laughing, inquired after Samar’s family each by name and jibed about the quality of his wares without rancour – yet here was a man who had flouted all convention to pursue the hand of an Elfmaiden of the Northern jungles to wife. That must have caused a right old scandal back in the day.

  He should ask after that story.

  Not that his Dad was perfect, but somehow his imperfections made him the more loveable. Life had roughed him up and scarred him something awful, yet still he carried himself with that same air of determination. Folk knew him for a man of purpose and integrity, one who could not be turned and who would speak his mind on a matter. Perhaps that was what his detractors held against him.

  Tap-tap went Kalar’s stick. Zzz-szz, snored the hatchling. Scrunch-crunch, his boots tramped upon the hard-packed azure snows.

  “Dad –”

  His father’s hand gripped his shoulder as their boots skidded a touch on a patch of glassy ice. “Chin high today, lad,” he said gruffly. “Och aye, remember how proud I am of ye. Every one of these mountain folk has ye to thank for a warm belly this Winterfall. I ken ’twas a wild idea, but sometimes those are best. There are times – and ye will ken by Santaclaws’ own wings when they be at hand – that the heart calls a particular way; a man cannae do ow’t to buck the flow.”

  Chuckling as if his thick mountains accent were a great joke, he added in Elven, And remember, you’re the one in that audience chamber holding a right Dragonmas miracle. Hear me?

  Thanks, Dad.

  Gaah. Was his nervousness that ruddy obvious?

  The castle had a small postern gate on the eastern wall, but many anna ago the way had fallen into disuse and the stone bridge over the deep fosse ditch was now regarded as hazardous. That had not stopped a certain unruly half Elf running across it for a princely bet, just last Winterfall. They tromped together across the great ironbound drawbridge, their boots ringing and thumping on the solid surface. A pair of young apprentice engineers were checking and greasing the chains under the Lore Eagle-like gaze of Yaranthynal, or Yara, a dapper Elf whose nose was like a crooked beak, badly broken in an engagement with the Certanshi wherein he had lost three fingers of his right hand.

  Greeting him cheerily, Kalar stepped off the solid wood drawbridge and into the low tunnel fronted by the downward-pointing spikes of the portcullis that led into the castle proper – into the outer courtyard, the open space between the substantial outer walls and the even thicker, more solid inner fortress. Effectively, this was the third ring of defence afforded by the castle, if one included the curtain wall and nine fortified corner towers that screened the upper part of Royal Amarinthe. And indeed, Keir’s alert gaze noted the eyes of half a dozen bowmen stationed upon the crenelated battlements observing the arrivals. Impressive. Even in relative peacetime, in the dead of Winterfall, King Daryan’s men maintained a good level of discipline.

  Huh. Keir chortled at himself. A smidgen of the Commander’s voice in his head, there?

  To his further surprise, the resonant squeal of a trump cut the morning air in salute, but his sidelong glance toward the inner barracks caught Imak the Herald teaching his nine anna-old son Harbak the notes upon the long, tubular brass trump that was used when greeting guests. Harbak’s fingers twitched slightly as if longing to wave a greeting, but he repeated the ringing blast, and then cried in his best voice:

  “Announcing Commander Kalar and his son, Keirthynal!”

  “Very good, Harbak,” Imak approved, his low tones nonetheless carrying to a half Elf’s sensitive hearing. “Dinnae ye rush the greeting. Allow the cadence of each syllable to enjoy its own limelight.”

  “Imak. Harbak,” Kalar called, and saluted them smartly. “Ye honour us.”

  “Just teaching my son the ropes, Commander,” Imak called back.

  “Huh. I wish they’d remember I’m the ex-Commander,” Kalar muttered. “Long memories around these parts.”

  He loved it.

  Interesting that Daryan had not filled the post in his command structure, Keir frowned to himself, but had instead broadened General Ja’axu’s responsibilities to encompass those entrusted to his father, before the …

  Accident? Incident? Tragedy?

  How did one describe a moment that changed one’s life forever? From that riving sliver of time arose a before and an after, as distinct as night and day. Consequences rolling forth like thunder over the peaks. Horror and grief and despair, now turned into a hope as yet too fragile even to acknowledge for fear that it should melt like snows in the time of thawing.

  It had always surprised Keir how the darmite stone of the inner keep – a softer layer beneath the hard granite exterior walls – maintained a good degree of interior heat. All of the stories had castles being cold, damp and draughty. This structure was anything but. Granted, the corridors were well insulated with plush rugs and many tapestries covering the walls, depicting the glories of the Kingdom of Amarinthe or famous battles against the Dwarven rebel armies under Fadagor the Crusher, but the gentle warmth upon his face was almost balmy. The points of his ears tingled as the blood flow returned. The heat enlivened the hatchling, too, for she fidgeted and made a proper nuisance of herself all the way to the antechamber adjacent to the King’s private reception room. Another family team awaited them here, the Royal Butler Jandon and his daughter Sarimi. She had been two anna ahead of Keir at school, and had lost nothing of her sunny disposition.

  Sarimi had been born deaf-mute. At school, she had often been teased or bullied for being simple. That put her and Keir in much the same category – those seen as targets. But the teachers had discovered Sarimi possessed an exceptional knack for working with numbers, and so she nowadays assisted the King’s Provisioner, Jarm, with ensuring that the Kingdom’s finances generally behaved themselves and were well understood.

  Probably a lot less in the treasury nowadays, so less figures to corral like stubborn Damask Yaks in their stone-walled pens.

  Just now, she tapped Keir’s arm incredulously and signed, ‘What – what is it?’

  Wriggling out from the folds of his snow jacket, the hatchling sneezed and then took a most luxurious stretch, with that incredible limberness he had always assumed only felines could manage. Their spines were like rubbery gelatine. Hers was just the same. The lamplight caught her scales, reflecting back winks and rainbows of light.

  ‘This is my D-r-a-g-o-n,’ he signed a touch ineptly, and smiled self-consciously. ‘Sorry about the bad Sign. Is there a –’

  ‘Dragon,’ she replied, showing him a sign with her thumbs intertwined and her fingers imitating fluttering wings, with a swift forward swoop as if the Dragon pounced upon its prey.

  He imitated her gesture adeptly. ‘Dragon. Nice one, Sarimi. I like that.’

  ‘May I?’ She reached out a hand.

&n
bsp; The girl’s eyes were as wide as saucers as the hatchling delicately sniffed her fingers before evidently deciding she was a friend. She rubbed her muzzle against the trembling digits, and then arched her neck to demand a scratch.

  ‘She likes you,’ Keir signed.

  Blonde Sarimi made a complex sign that he had never seen before, before touching her forefinger and second finger to the hatchling’s forehead in an apparent blessing. ‘Santazathiar protect you,’ she added with a deft twirl of her free hand. Indeed. He was about to comment when Jandon said:

  “The Sign language symbol for the Dragonkind is ancient indeed, son.” Mimicking the gesture his daughter had taught him, he explained, “Essentially, it represents the flight Santazathiar made to save Humankind, and says, if I understand it rightly, ‘That same blood which was spilled for yer freedom shall still protect ye today.’ That’s –” he switched to Sign, ‘Is that correct, lass?’

  ‘Very formal and proper, father,’ she signed back humorously.

  “There’s the bell,” Jandon prompted. “The Councillors and the Royal Family are expecting ye. Hope ye blow their fancy socks off, son.”

  “Thanks, Sarimi. Catch you later,” he signed and spoke simultaneously.

  As if sensing the significance of the occasion, the hatchling took this opportunity to try to scramble up onto his right shoulder. Keir had to chuckle. No problems with this one knowing her own mind, and instinctively knowing how to play to an audience. As he boosted her up, she did not dig in with her talons – well, one small scrape was all, penetrating the cloth of his best purple plaid shirt. Plain but serviceable. She curled her tail about his neck until the point rested against his jugular vein, and chirped, Keee-irr?

  Alright, my beauty. You’ve met a few of these folk before. Let’s be on our best behaviour.

  You or her? his Dad teased, and then they passed through the double doors as they were swung open by a pair of footmen, and they strode into the chamber beyond.

  The rectangular chamber was appointed for comfort somewhat shy of real luxury. It served multiple functions – as a study for the King, with a triangular desk, sturdy chair and writing inks and parchments directly ahead of the entryway in the corner, as a relaxed reception area in the centre with five broad wing-backed couches covered in amaranthine tartan blankets and mauve scatter cushions, a library and a music room. A tall harp stood at the far end of the room, together with a stand that held a selection of wooden and metal flutes. Queen Myriali was an exceptional flautist and musician, and usually took charge of any musical events or celebrations in the Kingdom. The couches were arranged to bracket a substantial marble fireplace in the centre of the wall to one’s left from the entry door, while opposite, a bay window looked out over the inner courtyard of the castle. The window was manned by two liveried guards, a man-and-wife team who had known Keir since his first attempt at toddling along the couches.