A Hatchling for Springtide (Santaclaws Book 2)

by Marc Secchia

  The royal family sat upon those very couches, while the full contingent of the King’s Council stood in a somewhat sombre rank beside the fireplace – save for General Ja’axu, perusing a scroll in the far corner of the room. Despite that everyone knew what the meeting was about, there were several audible gasps from the Councillors and the Queen as they beheld the dragonet perched upon Keir’s shoulder.

  Protocol flew out of the window.

  “By Santazathiar’s claws, it is a Dragon!” Prince Garyan gasped.

  King Daryan grinned, “Och aye, what were ye expecting, son – a magical hound? Welcome, Commander and welcome, Keir. Do come in.”

  “And welcome, Dragon,” Zyran put in softly, but everyone heard him.

  In the royal family, it was easy to tell which sons took after which of their parents. Garyan, the eldest Prince, and Zyran, the fourth, had their father’s nut-brown hair, brown eyes, and craggy good looks. Prince Toryan, the second son and Faryan, the third, were slimmer and fair-haired in keeping with the maternal side of their heritage. Both wore their fair, curly hair as long as their shoulders, and like their mother, their eyes were the icy grey of Winterfall clouds, but held no hint of the purple hues those clouds often took on. Faryan was a skilled archer and a gifted poet, while Toryan was a serious-minded academic with an abiding interest in the magical arts.

  Keir secretly despised Toryan’s arrogance, while Faryan was often so dreamy-eyed with his poetic pursuits that he could barely scrape two sensible words together and insert them into an intelligible sentence. Why should one spare time on the affairs of mere mortals? If he began to declaim poetry, however, Keir imagined the very rocks perked up to take notice. Quite the marvel.

  The three elder Princes took after their mother in being accomplished at just about everything they turned their hands to. Somehow, Zyran had therefore always been overlooked, for who needed to care how accomplished a future ruler or decent a soldier the fourth Prince of the realm was? The royal tutors had not pushed him like the older brothers. With the father and older brothers away for seasons of war at a time and being spared little of his mother’s regard – his best friend had been more than open about his relationship on that score – Zyran had even been left to his own devices more frequently than was good for a lad. This was one reason they had become firm friends. Also, that explained how Keir had more than once earned himself lectures from both his parents on his responsibilities regarding keeping the prince of the realm out of … well, too much trouble.

  Completely out of trouble and Keir – were those two concepts even compatible?

  Just now, Toryan tugged on his pointed goatee and threw a significant glance at Councillor Safran, governor of the eastern mountains region of Amarinthe. “A Dragon?” he murmured. Keir read the calculation in his stormy eyes.

  “I understand the Dragon’s egg healed yer wife, Kalar?” Safran commented, as if prompted. “Any shards left over, perchance? Diligence demands we examine the evidence.”

  “Nae, now’t one wee scrap, Councillor,” Kalar responded. “She ate it all.”

  Councillor Farinshi cast Kalar a spiteful glare. “And are ye better too, Commander?”

  By some inflection of her words, she turned a polite question into a suggestion that she hoped worms would soon be feasting upon his entrails.

  The Councillor hailed from Yarando Town in the lowlands on the Certanshi battlefront. She had been trapped in the passes by the first, unexpectedly heavy Winterfall and barely escaped with her life.

  “Better every day, ma’am,” he replied equably, leading the way to a couch opposite the King.

  En route, the debonair Elven Councillor, Varanthyal, who was a renowned scientist, stepped forward to examine the hatchling through his wire-rimmed spectacles. Brushing back his long, silver hair, he puffed out a breath that caused the dragonet to shrink against the side of Keir’s neck. He automatically put up a hand to steady her.

  Did she not trust the Councillor?

  We welcome and bless the Dragon, in the name and by the honour of holy Santazathiar, he said in his customary husky tones, in formal High Elven. To the other Councillors, he said, “This is an ancient Elven blessing for the Dragonkind.”

  Kalar had always said he did not trust the man. He played the political game with great astuteness, and was a stickler for tradition.

  Again, Keir was aware of a sense of calculation, as if everything in the man were mapping out how exactly a Dragon might prove advantageous to the fortunes of the Kingdom. Varanthyal was faultlessly loyal, as best everyone knew, but his father had passed the withering comment that he also did not know anyone who liked the man, not even his own family.

  Harsh. Too harsh? Now, he was not so certain.

  As he and his father sat down, General Ja’axu approached from behind and greeted them. Keir was surprised and gratified when a purr vibrated against his neck, and the dragonet poured willingly into those huge hands. Dwarfed, of course. But she acted perfectly content, licking the quarter Giantess’ fingers and then becoming interested in the contents of her belt pouch. She nosed at it and then pawed at the buckle. Chuckling as if she knew that would happen, the General fished out a piece of dried Yak meat and fed it to the dragonet. She ate meticulously, but hungrily. Always hungry.

  Meantime, the King invited Keir to tell the tale of how he had found the egg and the dragonet’s birth, and so he offered up an abridged version of his tale – having been warned via his father, that King Daryan would very much prefer the matter of finding treasure in the mountains kept under wraps for the time being. Toryan and Safran exchanged significant glances at the mention of her possible healing powers, while Farinshi demanded to know how soon she could decimate the Certanshi troops with her fiery breath. Daryan quelled them with a demand that Keir be allowed to finish. Concluding upon the note of the Christmas miracle, he then added a humorous anecdote about her chewing up his father’s boots in an attempt to defuse the tension in the room, but it earned only a couple of half-hearted chuckles.

  Of course, a Dragon’s birth was of crucial strategic importance to Amarinthe, as Farinshi muttered now. He understood that. What he did not understand, were the darker undercurrents swirling in the room, which the dragonet responded to with her usual sensitivity. She returned to him now, crouching in his lap, her scales gleaming with the electric charge swelling inside of her body. He laid a hand upon her back and tried to project a sense of reassurance and safety. Good people ran this kingdom. They would look after her – he hoped.

  At last, King Daryan sat back and said, “A Dragonmas blessing indeed, Keirthynal. Ye have twice this Winterfall served the Kingdom of Amarinthe beyond expectation, and for this, we are all grateful.”

  Something in his tone suggested his audience had better be, too.

  Queen Myriali led the chorus of agreement. She added, “Indeed, Keirthynal, ye have in every way exceeded our expectations in service of our Kingdom. Varanthyal, Safran – in yer professional opinions, hold ye this is indeed a Dragon, and there cannae be any mistaking its nature?”

  “The signature of her magic is unmistakably draconic in its nature,” Varanthyal said, giving his every word a tedious weight. “I am too young, of course, at sixty-two anna of age, to have lived in the era of the Guardian Riders of yore, but this is indeed a type of magic I have only ever read about in the lore scrolls of the Elvenkind. What is also evident is her very close attachment to young Keirthynal, here –”

  “We should examine the animal more closely,” Safran interrupted, with a scowl creasing his patrician features. “Perhaps it has other powers the lad has now’t yet identified. Powers that could serve the Kingdom mightily in these fraught times.”

  Animal? He bristled, but held his tongue.

  Toryan said, “After all, what experience does he have in raising and training a Dragon?”

  “Och aye, it’s certainly far smaller than I expected. Has it been fed sufficiently?” the Queen inquired.

  Keir sp
luttered, “She eats everything, even boots! And she’s up five times a night –”

  Jarm, the King’s Provisioner, who had declined to speak up to this point, cleared his throat and said, “Indeed, the stores stand ready to help in any way we can, Majesty. We have been supplying additional Damask Yak meat to the family, in the light of their limited means –”

  “Exactly the drift of my snows,” Toryan inserted smoothly, smiling with the air of a wolf licking its chops. “Being asked to raise a voracious young Dragon would be a terrible burden to any family, let alone one which has suffered as greatly as the Commander’s has over these last anna. We cannae lose sight of how indebted we are to ye, sir. I, for one, could now’t in clear conscience stand to see ye further burdened in this difficult time of Winterfall, over the matter of raising and training a Dragon. Surely, we all see how this must become a matter for the Crown, isn’t that so, mother?”

  Queen Myriali murmured, “A true word, son.”

  Kalar said, “Keir has been –”

  Safran overrode him at once, crowing, “Magnificent! That’s the word I’d use. She is simply magnificent. But yer son’s a lad rising a mere fifteen anna, if I am now’t mistaken? As an asset critical to our national security, I’d advise the animal be turned over to those with more experience than an eager yet callow youth; those who are equipped and able to prepare the Dragon for a future role against the Certanshi. Her training must commence immediately.”

  “This will be the weapon of our victory!” Toryan crowed. “The jewel in the Amarinthian crown! Ah, to see the faces of those Certanshi rats when they face a fire-breathing Dragon in battle … she must be fierce! Brave! Unstoppable!”

  Keir clenched his fists, smelling the stench of a course of action which had been decided before the meeting even began. And where were the voices who might speak in his favour? The General? The King? Zyran? Or, perhaps the King’s purposes were more subtle, because he had already advised them to flee the Kingdom at the earliest possible opportunity. That must be why he was allowing the Councillors and his Queen – clearly, the instigator of this barrage – to speak their minds. What riled him most was how Toryan, in pretence of sympathy, had chosen to turn the tale of his family’s poverty against them.

  Below the belt, o Prince. Well below.

  Farinshi added, “With the right training, perhaps the Dragon could be ready to fly against the Certanshi after the thawing. That could change the course of –”

  “Ye’d throw an infant to the Certanshi?” his father growled, at the same time as Keir snorted, “That’s nae how it works, lady.”

  “Nae how what works, exactly?” Queen Myriali asked. Sitting very upright, with her hands folded in her lap, she exuded outward calm, but her tone clearly bridled at what she must see as intransigence. “Are ye saying yer best placed to judge the interests of the Kingdom of Amarinthe, lad, with all the vast wisdom of yer fourteen anna?”

  Pulse thundering in his ears, Keir stared across the room at the Queen. Take her away? His treasure? Unthinkable! Yet how could he express the depth of the bond that linked them, when he understood the magic so poorly himself?

  The hatchling shrank against his chest, bared her needle-sharp fangs and hissed sharply at the Queen.

  Myriali chuckled, “See? He has now’t the slightest control of the animal.”

  Ja’axu put in, “I believe the dragonet is declaring to whom she belongs, o Queen. From what I have seen of the hatchling, I personally would nae dare to try to separate them. They are already bonded. And should any try, I shall be first in line to wish them a fond farewell into the afterlife.”

  “Why, ye are positively grim today, Ja’axu,” Councillor Safran observed.

  “Our decision must stand,” Toryan said.

  Decision? This was how decisions were made in the Kingdom of Amarinthe?

  Keir willed his throat to work, but all he knew was wordless fear. How could the King allow this? What of his father’s voice?

  After an awkward pause where everyone waited for others to speak first, Prince Faryan whispered, “Grimly shalt the truth be spoken, never shall the bond be broken. I advise ye desist from this ill-chosen course, brother.”

  Toryan looked as startled as everyone else at this most unexpected voice of dissent. Keir could have hugged him, except that Faryan was not really the hugging sort. He was barely even the earthly sort. But when Zyran had the temerity to chuckle, that was when Toryan’s jaw clenched and a vein began to throb visibly at his left temple.

  The second Prince spat, “If this so-called bond is magical in nature, then it can also be subverted, is that now’t a truth well spoken, Varanthyal?” As the Elf began to nod, he added, “Besides, the mystical scrolls I have access to speak of many … varied uses, shall we say, for a Dragon’s powers and even parts –”

  “Parts?” Keir snapped, suddenly ablaze with fury. “Santazathiar’s oath!”

  “Peace, lad. As if I would ever condone such a vile and idiotic course of action!” The Prince pasted on an amused smile. “What use is a dead Dragon to Amarinthe? Honestly, ye are more naïve than even I imagined, if ye think such twisted things. Ye can see how ill-fitted this rebellious teenager is to the noble task he claims for his own, Councillors.”

  He could have kicked the lot of them straight into Drakabis Abyss as they nodded sagely like a line of puppets on a string, even Jarm.

  But that was the moment King Daryan sprang from his seat, and said in a deathly voice, “If one of ye so much as touches one single scale of that Dragon’s hide, so help ye, I will have ye tried and hung for treason!”

  Suddenly, he loomed in that room like the threat of Darkfall.

  Keir sat frozen, captivated by the King’s ferocious manner. His eyes blazed with a passion he had seldom seen in the man, and stilled every voice in his Council.

  At length, Daryan hissed, “I have never heard such a cartload of foolish and idle chatter from some who imagine they might speak a King’s mind for him. I seek the advice and wisdom of my Councillors and trusted family, aye, but ultimately I am he who wears the crown – is that now’t Santazathiar’s own truth?”

  Ouch. It was one of those moments when he frankly wished he could squirm away between a few floorboards, rather than face the thunder and lightning of emotions storming around him.

  When no-one spoke – they dared not – he added, “Here is my decision. Keir did now’t choose the Dragon – the Dragon chose him. Those powers out there, guided by Santazathiar’s own paw, chose him. My Commander is right. We dinnae throw infants into battle. We are Amarinthe, and by all that we hold sacred, we are people who try to choose the higher path nae matter the cost. Little paws grow into great ones. As yer sovereign, this is my charge to ye, Keirthynal – raise yer hatchling, and raise her well. Train her. Learn her every way. Any of the resources and sage wisdom of this crown, of my trusted Councillors and this Kingdom, are yers for the asking. This is the sworn word of yer King.”

  Raising his arm, he pointed at Kalar, and then at Keir. “Hear me well. Raising a Dragon is a high calling that takes a whole family, and I for one cannae think of any family in this Kingdom better suited to the task. Ye will serve me faithfully and well, will ye now’t?”

  His father’s throat had to be just as bone dry as his as they croaked in chorus, “Aye, my King.”

  Chapter 5: Scaly Trooper

  THE DAY AFTER THE fraught meeting with the royals, Keir woke in a ferocious tangle of blankets. Somehow, he had snarled himself up at the end of his temporary bed so nicely, he could easily imagine he had been fighting Ogres all night.

  The hatchling woke at the same instant. When he narrowed and then widened his eyes, she imitated his mannerism as if their eyelids worked as one creature. A slow smile stretched his lips. She made her quirky grin and brightened visibly. Ah, he was indeed ensconced in a blanket cavern. Odd. He was used to being one of the first up in the mornings, but by the sounds of his family and the town without, he must have woken
up late.

  Keee-irr? Her tail twitched playfully.

  Awake for once, my-diamond-heart? he inquired. Come on. Let’s go see what the day holds, shall we?

  Wriggling out, he wondered absently if she had not created a path into the cocoon in order to come wake him. She loved to sleep right up against him. Or on top. Anywhere, as long as it involved touch and was toasty warm, which had made his chest her favoured spot.

  After dressing and running his fingers once through his spiky white hair – call that good – he emerged from hibernation to be pounced upon by his family.

  “And here I was saying that she sleeps like a trooper,” his father snorted.

  “Huh?” said Keir.

  “Sleeps for king and country,” Shanryssill put in, singing over one of her herb pots.

  They laughed as if sharing a fond joke.

  “Huh?” he repeated.

  “Good morn to ye, layabout,” Ja’axu boomed. She sat within a blanket fort the twins must have built, Giant-sized, behind the couch. Only her massive boots showed. “Or is that, good afternoon?”

  “Afternoon? Huh?”

  Rhyl put in brightly, “I ken yer now’t a morning person, cousin, but do I take this to mean yer also nae afternoon person?”