by Chrys Cymri
‘Your level of responsibility, your power.’ Lionth waved a hand. ‘The Dancer and the Painter are lead stallion and mare of a herd, are they not? The King is our lead stallion. What’s your position in the herd?’
The question he had often asked himself. Dancer and Painter, both and neither. ‘My sire is the current Dancer.’
‘And your dam?’
‘She is long dead, and I have never heard her name.’
‘Well, lad, as his son and his emissary, you are equal to the King.’
‘Of course,’ the Prancer said. ‘He holds his throne by the permission of the People of the Trees. The unicorns gave it to his forebears.’
‘So it is said.’ Lionth finished his drink. ‘But if I were you, I would not oft remind him of that.’
Grabbing his empty tankard, the man strode up to the bar, leaving the Prancer to puzzle over his warning.
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Smallholders sent children running into the town to announce the approach of the King. The Prancer stepped out from the inn to their excited voices, the adults hurrying in from fields only a little more calm than the young ones. The Headwoman stood near, the cloak of her rank hovering inches above the wet ground. The Prancer dipped his head, acknowledging her, before taking his position in the centre of the road.
Several dozen mounted humans approached, clothes clean and armour bright despite the mud flecked up the legs and bellies of their horses. Faint sunlight gleamed on rich silks of many colours, but predominately blue and silver. Blue for truth, the Prancer reminded himself, silver for the horn, both symbolising the unicorn.
The group rode past the outlying buildings, paying little attention to those watching beside the road. With a jangle of mail and harness they reined the horses to a halt. The six knights at the fore parted, kneeing their mounts sideways. Past the honour guard rode two men, one carrying a silver fringed banner, the shape of a prancing unicorn silver on the blue.
The Prancer straightened as the pair halted before him. The bald man without the banner, wearing only silks and looking small and bare beside his armoured knights, that must be the King.
Before he could speak, the King said, almost irritably, ‘I have come.’
The Prancer drew back slightly. Didn’t the man know the Meeting Ceremony? The unicorn should speak first, as representative of the greater kingdom. It might be best to pretend that nothing had been said. ‘From the First Kingdom to the Third, the Herd Stallion gives his greetings. I stand in his stead, he who is also Dancer to the People of the Trees. What are you called, he who currently fills the throne as Keeper of the Unicorns?’
The man’s hands tightened on the reins. As he waited for the appropriate response, the Prancer noted that the King had none of the easy, natural posture in the saddle shown by his mounted knights. It was hard to tell who was more uncomfortable, him or the old mare he rode.
The banner carrier spoke. ‘Anton, King and ruler of the Third Kingdom, bids you welcome, Lord Unicorn. He asks for the honour of the name carried by the Herd Stallion’s emissary.’
This human knew the ritual. ‘I am called the Prancer.’
‘All greetings and honour to you, Lord the Prancer.’ The banner carrier bowed in his saddle. ‘The King has been wearied by the long journey to pay his respects to you, and begs pardon that I, his Champion, address you in his stead.’
A brief flash in the King’s pale eyes made a lie out of his Champion’s statement. The Prancer bent his head to rub his horn thoughtfully against his flank. He had hoped that at least this meeting would be predictable. Why did humans have to make things so difficult? ‘All greetings and honour to you, noble Champion.’
The burly man nodded. ‘The King asks what is requested of him, his throne, and his kingdom.’
The Prancer kept his eyes on Anton. ‘I will speak some of it on the return to Primus.’
The King swallowed, his throat muscles moving spasmodically. ‘I would not trouble you to ride the long road to our capital,’ he said quietly. ‘Perhaps we can assist you here. Then you will be able to return to your herd.’
The Prancer pawed the ground with a hoof. ‘My journey will take me past Primus. I will not return to the herd for several seasons.’
‘Then we welcome you to accompany us to the capital city,’ the Champion said, almost too quickly, glancing at his King. ‘Wish you to leave with us now?’
The Prancer lowered and raised his head in his equivalent of a human nod. ‘I give my thanks to the people who have provided shelter and drink for a unicorn during the last--’ he hesitated, recalling the human terms, ‘four weeks.’
One of the knights detached herself from the waiting riders. She gave the Prancer a nod, then rode over to the innkeeper. Satisfied that his debts were being settled, the Prancer glanced back at the King. ‘Lead on.’
The King started back through his retainers, the Prancer taking his place at the man’s side. The townspeople and smallholders waved as they strode out of the town, and he flicked his ears in reply. They had been welcoming to him, and he hoped the citizens of Primus would be equally as friendly. And perhaps among them he would find the red haired woman of his vision.
CHAPTER FIVE
The warhorse made easy progress despite his double burden, carrying them with steady strides away from the woods and fields around the town of Lundern. And away from a young man, his boots sunk deep into the Land he loved. Fianna found herself twisting the bracelet, the golden weight new to her wrist. Dragons only knew how such a thing had come into his family. Now she wore it herself, a reminder of his proposal.
I should have given it back to him the moment Arwan appeared, she thought. For one moment all possibilities had narrowed. Then the banner and the knight’s announcement, and her lifetime’s goal was suddenly open before her again. The Dragon Throne might yet be hers. So why did she suddenly recall other summer days, a quiet boy listening to all that she did, and didn’t say?
Because this is new to me, she decided. She deliberately lowered her hand to pat the grey rump behind her. It’s only a hope-promise. I can return it at any time, without explanation or lack of honour. ‘I’ve not seen Arundel since he was still a colt.’
Arwan’s laugh was carried back in the breeze. ‘It was always said of you, my lady, that knights you might not remember, but a horse you never fail to name.’
Fianna gave his steel-encased back a tight lipped smile. ‘The stables and the kennels were always my refuge, Arwan. You have good reason to know that.’
‘Aye.’ His grim answer told her that he remembered well the reasons for her long hours away from the main bustle of court. ‘You are not forgotten, my lady, by the men and women at arms who were befriended by a young princess.’
‘A princess, maybe.’ Her hands tightened on the smooth mail. ‘But, as their queen?’
‘You are the only child of the King,’ he answered, unperturbed. ‘And methinks our knights would welcome following you into battle.’
‘But it’s not up to either knights or nobles.’ She once again cursed the laws of the Fourth Kingdom, recalling her aunt’s long lament. A woman could be knight or merchant or farmer, but she could not sit on the Dragon Throne, not so long as a male heir was available. ‘And what of my step-mother’s child?’
‘The babe is yet unborn.’
‘It could be a boy.’
Without any noticeable difference in the calm, cultured voice, Arwan said, ‘Many babes die in birth. Or soon thereafter.’
For a moment Fianna blinked, not understanding. Then comprehension came swift and, for one horrible moment, she could have acceded to the suggestion. ‘No, Arwan,’ she said unsteadily. ‘I would do many things for the throne, but not that. Not to kill a child.’
‘Methinks the Lady Sallah would have no such hesitation.’
‘Then be glad I’m not her.’ Fianna shivered despite herself. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to doubt that her aunt was capable of giving such an order. ‘No on
e will suggest that course to her. You hear me, Sir Arwan?’
‘I hear you, my lady.’
Soon afterwards they reached a small thicket, a stream running nearby. Fianna swung to the ground, stiff from sitting on the hard cantle of Arwan’s saddle. To her relief, a black mare raised a head from the water at their approach. ‘Well thought,’ Fianna told Arwan appreciatively. ‘I feared we would be riding double all the way to Secondus.’
Arwan laughed. He tethered his horse to a tree, and drew off his steel helm. The dark curls springing free were dusted with grey, a shade Fianna did not remember from the last time they had met, several years ago. ‘I brought more than a steed, my lady. Look into the bags behind her saddle.’
Fianna obeyed, finding inside new tunics and trousers. As Arwan politely turned his back, she traded the plain clothes she had worn for over four years for the silk of noble birth. The colours were mingled greens, blues, and reds, not the colours of her house. She frowned as she rolled up the cloak and attached it to the back of saddle.
Alastair had re-joined them as she changed, and he greeted the black mare. ‘A fine hound,’ Arwan said. ‘I had thought him to belong to the pig herder.’
Fianna smoothed the shorter outer tunic over the inner one. ‘It seems he’s decided to come with us.’
‘As a gift?’
The sharpness of his tone made Fianna snap, ‘And what if he is?’
Arwan risked a glance back. Seeing that she was fully dressed, he turned around. ‘If you are to be queen, you will need a knight of noble blood to sit beside the Dragon Throne.’
‘Yes, I know.’ She felt the bracelet slide beneath the long silk sleeve and changed the subject. ‘The hound is not full bred.’
‘I see that,’ Arwan said. ‘The best ones rarely are. He will protect you, my lady.’
Fianna nodded, flushing slightly that she had needed Arwan’s approval before accepting the dog. She unhooked the mare’s reins from a branch and mounted, suddenly restless. ‘Tell me, Arwan, why you didn’t bring with you the proper colours for my family and rank?’
He removed the banner from his saddle, carefully winding the bright silk around the mast before slipping it into a casing of leather. ‘We ride to Secondus quietly.’
‘Quietly?’ She raised her head, scowling. ‘I left quietly. I had different plans for my return.’
Arwan looked up at her, his blue eyes frank and fearless. ‘You are not yet Queen.’
‘Then why did you come for me?’
‘I came,’ he said calmly, ‘because the court is in chaos, and will turn to the first person of position and strength who appears to bring order.’
‘Then why not an entire file of knights, in the colours of my house?’ she demanded. ‘Why just you?’
Her hands tightened on the reins, and the mare snorted at the pressure. Arwan laid a calming hand on the black neck. ‘Because there are those at court who have other plans for the Throne. I came here without the knowledge of the General.’
Fianna looked out across the mingled greens of the land between her and the city. ‘So. It’s not a simple matter of riding in and attending a coronation.’
‘You have your support, my lady. But we must be cautious.’
‘All right,’ Fianna said with little grace. ‘I will play this game of politics.’
His teeth flashed bright in a quick smile. ‘As many kingdoms are lost and won by stratagems as by war.’ Then he sobered. ‘I haven’t said, my lady. I am sorry that your father, the King, is now dead. If you would like to take some moments to grieve for him—‘
‘My father died to me years ago,’ Fianna said boldly, but she felt her heart shudder at the words. ‘Time to continue our journey.’ And she forced away the ache which threatened to creep across her chest.
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The horses Arwan had chosen for his task were young and strong, and with a steady gait they brought their riders to the next town by twilight. They rode past the few shops, shuttered for the night, stopping outside the only inn. Fianna swung from the saddle, glad to be standing after the long ride. She stretched tension out of calf muscles as Arwan looped the reins of both horses through a tethering ring. He collected both sets of saddle bags before leading the way into the inn.
A few heads turned as they entered, Arwan’s riding boots loud against the wooden floor. Fianna followed him to the bar. As her aunt had taught her, she looked neither left nor right, her head lifted with the disdain of a high-ranking noble. ‘A night’s lodging for myself and the lady,’ Arwan told the innkeeper, ‘and a place in the stables for our mounts.’
The woman nodded. Her eyes glanced down at Alastair, who had padded in at Fianna’s heels. ‘And the hound?’
‘He stays with me,’ Fianna said curtly. ‘We three will also require a nightmeal.’
‘Go to your room, my lady,’ Arwan said. ‘I’ll bring the meal after I have seen to the horses.’
The mount came first, even before royalty. ‘I would eat here.’
‘My lady.’ He said the words quietly, but Fianna saw the warning in the blue eyes. Lady. Not by her royal title. She might be four years further grown now, and her hair short, but someone here might recognise her, should she stay too long. And anything said in an inn was soon knowledge throughout the kingdom. As much as she longed to sit at a table and sip an ale, drinking in the murmured conversations as well as slaking her thirst, she knew that Arwan was right.
She nodded, turned expectantly to the innkeeper. As Arwan ducked back outside, she followed the woman up the narrow stairs, and into a small but clean room.
Alastair immediately made himself at home on the narrow mattress, his tail thumping grey hairs across the faded cover. Fianna sat next to him. Ruffling the long ears, she said, ‘Good for you that I’m accustomed to hounds. I advise you not to try this on most noblewomen’s beds.’
Arwan appeared twenty minutes later. He placed the tray he carried onto the small table, then dropped the saddlebags in a corner. Closing the door carefully behind him, he began, ‘Now, my lady--’
‘My lady?’ she repeated, smiling.
‘I would not use your title, not here, and not yet.’
‘Furthermore, you have closed the door,’ she continued. ‘And I now a woman.’ She leaned closer to Alastair. ‘You’ll have to serve as chaperone, my dear dog.’
As she had hoped, Arwan relaxed at the banter. ‘My own room is on a different floor, so I’m pleased he’s with you.’
‘Come, Arwan, do you expect an attack on me?’ Fianna left the bed and poked through the cold meats and cheeses on the tray.
‘I wish I knew what to expect.’ The serious note in his voice made her turn. ‘Here. I prepared this last evening.’
He loosened his armour and pulled a sheet of paper free. Fianna accepted the parchment, unfolding it with one hand as she handed a piece of cheese to Alastair with the other. Names traced down in two columns, penned in Arwan’s neat hand. She recognised most of them. ‘And these are?’
‘On the left, those who I feel will support you. On the right, those who will oppose you.’
Fianna swallowed convulsively, suddenly no longer hungry. Oppose her. Letting the paper flutter to the bed, she strode to the high window, and stared out across the town. The setting sun bathed the white sides of the buildings with red. Blood, she thought, looking at the colour. Is that what my return will bring?
Alastair pushed his head beneath her hand. She dug fingers deep into his wiry fur, suddenly fiercely glad of his companionship. Animals had always proved more trustworthy than humans.
‘My lady?’
Arwan’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘Do you remember the day Marissa rode into court?’
‘Well, my lady,’ he said.
‘My father had finally been convinced that Secondus castle needed a new Castellan, sixteen months after my mother was no longer present in that role.’ Fianna leaned closer to the window, glad for the fresh air seeping past the rough
closure. ‘Marissa, daughter to the Duke of Cassern and well recommended from stewarding his lands until he remarried. She looked almost a princess herself, riding in dressed in silks and followed by her own knights.’
‘The Duke is second only to Keeper of the Dragon Throne.’
‘Did he and Marissa plan all along to ally their house to the throne?’
‘I believe Lady Marissa came only to be Castellan,’ Arwan answered quietly. ‘My lady, why do you think the King wed her?’
‘That’s obvious.’ She smiled tightly. ‘To produce a male heir.’
‘You think that to be the only reason?’
‘What other could there be?’ Fianna turned back, pointed at the paper on her bed. ‘On what basis did you prepare that list? That she gives birth to a son?’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘What would be my role if the brat is a boy?’
‘We have a second option. The child will need a Regent. If that is you, the kingdom will be yours in all but name for sixteen years.’
‘And when he reaches his majority?’
The blue eyes were hooded. ‘If.’
‘When he reaches his majority,’ Fianna repeated firmly. ‘What then?’
‘With the right upbringing,’ Arwan said, shrugging with a rattle of armour, ‘he would still look to you for guidance. You would still rule the kingdom, albeit in his name.’
And is that enough? Fianna wandered back to the tray of food, absently feeding Alastair from the cuts of meat as she momentarily considered Arwan’s suggestions. No, she could not condone the murder of a child, even if the Dragon Throne were the prize. Especially a child who would be her half-brother.
Brother. The thought brought an unexpected smile to her face. Acquaintances she’d had many, friends a few, but it would be welcome to have another of her own rank in the court. So if she removed the boy from the clutches of his greedy mother, there could be hope that they could be friends as well as blood relatives.
She realised suddenly that Arwan was watching Alastair chewing the meat, his face drawn with hunger. ‘Oh, do come and eat, Arwan,’ Fianna said, exasperated. ‘I don’t plan to feed my hounds better than my knights.’
