by Chrys Cymri
It didn’t help that the past kept stealing back over her thoughts. Five years ago, after the initial confusion to find the heir to the Dragon Throne dressed plainly and in their midst, the knights, squires and pages of the castle troops had come to accept her as one of them, even ordering her to clean out stables and accept bruises from the wooden swords in the practice yard. The past four years had dropped away from her when she smelled the mixture of horse sweat and straw from the stables, seen hair cropped short for wearing under helms, and heard the distinctive clink of chain mail.
But she was no longer one of them. The King was dead. She was now potentially their next sovereign. Instead of easy familiarity and commands, she was given titles and respect. She had also grown, away from them, in more ways than one. Her aunt had taught her many truths about life that her father had never shared with her, and she felt the wiser for such knowledge. She was also on a level with the shorter of the knights, and would probably gain a few more inches yet. Four years, she thought again. I never thought it would be so long.
‘Beware when a liege lord takes his own counsel,’ a low voice said dryly. Fianna looked up and found a woman standing in the doorway, sword at her side and a leather helmet on her head. ‘Your Highness.’
The woman pulled off the helmet, revealing bright hair, so blonde that it was almost white. Fianna rose, jamming the ring further onto her finger. ‘Lady Pealla. I was unaware that you had returned to Secondus.’
Pealla placed helmet then gloves onto the wood. Fianna lowered herself back into her chair, and the older woman took a seat at the other end of the table. ‘Three years ago. My first born was mature enough to be trusted with a Duchy. He governs in my absence.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Secondus has always been my true home. It wasn’t by choice that I became Duchess of Kaliburn. My place in the royal guards was all I ever wanted.’
Fianna nodded, remembering. The third born to the Duke, behind two sons, she had entered the service of the King, always an honourable position for a second or third born child of a noble family. But a boating accident had killed both brothers and their two children in one stormy evening, forcing her to leave her commission and return to govern the lands left to her. All this had happened long before Fianna was old enough to have known her as a knight, of course, but she had seen the Duchess Pealla at court, her equally light-haired older son and heir at her side. ‘Have you been riding long?’ she asked, noting the matted hair, the dusty riding leathers.
‘Only round about the city.’ Pealla winced. ‘The roads changed twice as I tried to return to the castle. Excuse me, Your Highness.’ She stood again to loosen her sword belt.
Fianna glimpsed four bands of gold running through the red leather. ‘My apologies, Colonel. I didn’t realise you were the General’s second-in-command.’
Pealla placed belt and sword onto the table, and then relaxed into her chair. ‘Might have been General, had I not been called back to Kaliburn,’ she said easily. ‘But methinks Jerome would still have been Champion.’
Fianna glanced down at the ring slipping around her forefinger. ‘He is no longer. He returned this to me earlier today.’
‘He was very close to your father.’
‘Perhaps.’ Fianna forced herself to shrug, lean back in her chair. ‘I will need a Champion myself.’
Pealla studied her thoughtfully, blue eyes bright in a tanned face. ‘May I offer advice to the Princess?’
‘I’ve gained hours of wisdom since this morning,’ Fianna mused. ‘I’m learning to welcome advice.’
‘Choose a man.’ Pealla slid a thumb down the plain hilt of her sword. ‘The challenger chooses the weapons, not the Champion. And there are some weapons few women can wield.’
Fianna took a deep breath. ‘You expect me to be challenged, Colonel Pealla?’
‘Yes,’ Pealla answered simply. ‘As soon the crown is at your hand, you will be challenged.’
‘I might not be crowned.’ Fianna rose and walked over to a pitcher of ale. She poured two tankards full, then handed one to Pealla before returning to her seat. ‘Marissa might give birth to a boy.’
‘And that would stop your coronation?’
Fianna wondered how many times she would have to explain herself. ‘Yes. I will have no royal blood spilled in this castle.’
Pealla laughed. Fianna, about to take a swallow of ale, put the tankard down hard onto the table, splashing brown liquid across the old wood. The laugh had been soft, mocking. ‘Aye, you were never determined to hold the Throne.’
‘I was raised to it,’ Fianna replied stiffly. ‘Should I want it enough to murder?’
‘Born to it, sworn to it,’ Pealla said in a taunting sing-song. ‘Yet you leave the court to spend four years in some small border village, breeding horses and stalking fields.’
Fianna felt her cheeks redden. ‘It was impossible to remain here.’
‘Oh, aye, difficult, dangerous, ill-advised. She who would lead knights and judge the laws of the Kingdom, unable to accept that her father might be happy with a woman who was not her mother.’
‘And I’ve had a teacher to impart knowledge my father withheld from me. The Lady Sallah has completed my education.’
Pealla shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t put a high value on her lessons.’
‘Watch your tongue, Colonel,’ Fianna said sharply.
‘Or else you will cut it from me?’ Pealla nonchalantly lifted her tankard and took a long swallow of ale. ‘I thought you’d gained some wisdom since this morning.’
Fianna scowled down at the table, her fingers playing on the part of her belt where a sword should rest. ‘I said I would listen to advice. You don’t seem to be offering any.’
‘I will offer you truth.’ Pealla leaned forward. ‘I like not a ruler who feels able to leave her place and her responsibilities on account of nothing more than simple jealousy. You were young. I’ll grant you that. But you’ll have much to accomplish before I ever forget your dereliction of your duties. You should have been here, learning statecraft from your father, continuing your education in the stables and practice yard. You should have been a squire by now, preparing for your knighting when you came of age. But, no, you have returned four years the poorer in experience.’
Biting down on her anger, Fianna asked coldly, ‘And who are you to speak to me thus?’
‘The second-in-command of the royal knights and armies,’ Pealla responded. ‘The one who will have to lead men and women into battle to die under the dragon banner, whether in your own name or as Regent.’
Fianna was about to retort, words tumbling through her mind. Alastair moved suddenly, thrusting a wet nose against her fist. She looked down into the dark eyes, almost sensing his warning. What do you know of it, dog? she thought at him. But she took a deep breath, calming herself as she reluctantly admitted that there was some truth to what Pealla had said. Which was why it had angered her so much. ‘Yes, Colonel. Jerome has decided to remain as General. Will you agree to remain in the service of the crown, in whosever name it comes to rest?’
Pealla once again touched the hilt of her sword, her face slowly relaxing into thoughtful lines. ‘You would have an outspoken knight in your service?’
‘A spoken truth accepted brings trust.’ She hadn’t recalled that saying of her father for years. A brief smile came to her lips as she realised that she had surprised the older woman. ‘I value honesty, as much as I do a strong sword arm and a sense of justice. And if I’m to quickly learn that which I’ve neglected by my absence, I’ll need honest counsellors.’
‘You are your father’s daughter,’ Pealla said gravely. ‘You carry the blood of dragons. And I like not the thought of a child on the Dragon Throne in anything more than name only. I know the difficulty of assuming governorship over a Duchy when not raised to it, and you have been given more teaching than any yet unborn. For these reasons, my sword is at your command.’
Fianna let a moment pass before nodding. ‘I would hope that, one day,
the sword will be carried for who, not what, I am, and you will swear yourself to my service.’
Pealla shrugged. ‘That’s up to you.’
‘And whoever finally takes seat on the Dragon Throne.’
The Colonel laced her fingers together, resting her chin on the knuckles. ‘Did you not know? Lady Marissa went into labour an hour ago.’
Fianna came to her feet. ‘Now? She’s not due for another month.’
‘Grief has brought her time on prematurely. It’s not unknown.’ Pealla looked up at her. ‘When do you intend to announce your return to Secondus?’
‘Not until the babe is born.’ Fianna felt her stomach turn over. Soon, perhaps within hours, she would know what path she must tread. ‘I must stay hidden until then.’
‘Most knights have been sent from the castle.’ Pealla picked up her sword, buckling the wide belt back around her waist. ‘Bad fortune to spill blood before a birth, even if only a scratch on the practice yard. So the armoury will be empty. We can obtain you a sword, until you have time for a blade to be made for your exact requirements.’
Fianna nodded, missing the weight she had often carried at her left hip. ‘And have you a suggestion following my arming?’
‘I know one place no one will be, not now.’ Pealla opened the door. ‘And it’s time you paid your respects to the King.’
Fianna watched her step outside, waiting behind for a moment. With a sudden burst of spite, she drew the dagger from her belt. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled the sharp blade across her left thumb, letting blood well up against the steel. Then she sheathed the knife and followed Pealla, Alastair at her heels.
CHAPTER SIX
Although the Prancer couldn’t say exactly what he’d expected the journey to Primus to be like, he did know that what he was experiencing now wasn’t it. Oh, the days were all right. Townspeople and landworkers lining the roads to cheer the King as he rode past, their cheers all the louder when they saw that a unicorn strode at his side, giving flesh to the silver image on the banner snapping above their heads.
But they never accepted any hospitality, from either the humble homesteads or the more regal mansions. Every night found them camped on a field, Anton separate and aloof in his large blue tent. Having assumed that their ranks would make them at least acquaintances, if not friends, the Prancer racked his brains as he grazed in the fading sunlight. Had he said anything to offend the human? Nothing came to mind.
Not that he could complain about his treatment. The tent erected for him was only a touch less grand than the King’s, the ground left uncovered at his request. Knights found excuse to call upon him, bringing ale, or fruit, eyes shining at being in his presence. Although the Prancer was often glad for some company, their awe was unnerving.
On the fifth night of their travels, the tent flap was swept aside by yet another caller. The last knight had just left, after recounting some unlikely tale about her mother being visited the night before her wedding by a unicorn stallion, who had prophesied that she would have two children and both would be in the King’s service. The Prancer had firmly but kindly told the woman that dragons were those able to ride the time streams, not unicorns. Now as a man stood in the entrance, the candle in his fist doing little more than light the silver unicorn device on his bright blue tunic, the Prancer bit back a sigh. ‘Good eve to you, sir knight.’
The candle was raised, lighting a large face, dark eyes. ‘Methinks the Lord Unicorn has said that oft enough these five days.’
The Prancer straightened, recognising the voice before the face. ‘King’s Champion. You are welcome.’
The burly man laughed, catching the slight stress on the pronoun. ‘Please excuse the knights, my lord. The unicorn is the source of our kingdom, the inspiration of our poets, and it’s the dream of every man and woman to one day meet one of your kind.’ He paused, then added in a more serious tone, ‘I’ll speak to their commander, if you would rather be left alone.’
‘No,’ the Prancer said almost involuntarily. He added, ‘I prefer to have company.’
‘I’ve brought more than that.’ The man swung a pack to the ground, and drew out a bowl, a metal cup, and a large leather flask. ‘Could I offer my lord some ale?’
The Prancer dipped his head. ‘Gladly, King’s Champion.’
The man chuckled as he unstopped the flask and poured them each a helping. ‘I do have a name, my lord. I am called Gregson.’
‘Gregson,’ the Prancer repeated. ‘Among unicorns, titles are often taken as names.’
The bowl was placed on a table, and Gregson lowered himself into a chair. The candle, lowered onto a stand, cast a small pool of light over his face and neck. ‘The Dancer, and the Painter.’
The Prancer froze. ‘What do you know about that?’
‘I once began to train as a mage.’ Gregson waved a hand. ‘The Inner Stillness was beyond my patience, so I took the King’s coin instead. But learning the way of swords and battle axes didn’t cause me to forget what I’d learned at a mage’s feet.’
‘What else did you learn?’ the Prancer asked, curious.
The man shrugged, his face falling into shadow as he gazed down into his cup. ‘The Dancer judges, the Painter heals. Not much more than that, my lord. Much of what was once known about your kind has disappeared from us.’
The Prancer lowered his muzzle into the ale, taking a moment to sample the brew. ‘We know very little about humans,’ he admitted, then came to a sudden decision. ‘I’m still young, for a unicorn. When I met the King, did I say something which upset him?’
Gregson sighed heavily. He emptied his cup, then refilled it, liquid swirling into dull metal. ‘The fault lies not with you, Lord Unicorn. He who is King does not like to leave his city. Nor does a journey by horseback improve his temper. Horsemanship has never been one of his talents.’
‘The rest of you seem to have no difficulties.’
‘Because we were raised to the saddle.’ Gregson shrugged. ‘The King is the younger of two brothers. It was thought that Prince Andrew would hold the Unicorn Throne, but he was toppled from his horse in a hunting accident two years into his reign. King Anton was until then a scholar, an--’ the heavy brows wrinkled in concentration, searching for the right word. ‘An archaeologist. He spent many an hour in the tunnels beneath the castle, discovering possessions left behind by the ancients.’
The Prancer dug a hoof into the springy grass. ‘Would he thank you to tell me this?’
‘You are the Lord Unicorn,’ Gregson said, sounding surprised. ‘You guard the one who sits on the Unicorn Throne. Would you rather not hear of your kinsman, my lord?’
‘Kinsman?’ the Prancer repeated, trying out the unfamiliar word.
‘Those related by blood. The blood of unicorns runs in the veins of the King.’
‘Then, is it common for kinsmen to keep apart from one another?’
‘No, it’s not.’ Gregson seemed suddenly hesitant. The Prancer forced himself to be patient, wondering why humans always took so long to come to a point. ‘The King keeps apart because--because you remind him of magic, my lord.’
The Prancer snorted. ‘I haven’t performed any magic.’
‘No, but a unicorn is a magical beast.’
‘No more than any other being.’ Gregson looked unconvinced, so the Prancer explained further, ‘Some members of the herd can perform magic, like the Dancer, or the Painter. But that doesn’t make all of us magical. No more than all humans are magical, simply because a few of you are mages.’
Gregson grunted. ‘Well put, my lord. Methinks you would be unable to convince the King, however. He has little love for mages.’
‘Why not?’
The man stared moodily into his ale, then rose to fill both the Prancer’s bowl and his own cup again. ‘I have heard it told oft enough, that I believe the tale true. It’s said that our King was close to his mother, a bond not unknown between a woman and her younger child. Four years ago she became ill, and no heal
er could determine a cure. Finally the mages were sent for, those who had healing gifts brought to her side. But they could do nothing, and she slipped from life. The King has not trusted magic since that day, and forbids any to be practised in his presence.’
The Prancer bent his head, polished his horn against a flank. ‘There are some diseases even a Painter cannot cure. The damage can already be too great, if she’s not called in good time.’
‘The King wouldn’t accept such an argument when he first heard it from the mages,’ the Champion warned. ‘I would advise you not to repeat to him now.’
A strange noise drew Gregson from the tent. The Prancer followed, nosing the flap over his back so he could stand in the entrance behind the man, staring at the King’s tent over Gregson’s shoulder. A green glow pulsated through the blue walls, and high chirping sounds made an eerie counter-rhythm. Angry exclamations in the King’s uneven voice were followed by a flash of red. Then the tent was dark and silent.
‘For a man who dislikes magic,’ Gregson said quietly, ‘it’s strange to me that he would attempt to master it.’
The Prancer stamped a hindhoof in negation. ‘That was not magic.’
‘Not magic?’ The man glanced back at him. ‘What else could it be?’
‘I don’t know.’ The Prancer took a deep breath, scenting something alien in the air. ‘But it was not magic.’
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He had thought his uneasiness came from the King’s coldness. But as they travelled through the kingdom, the Prancer slowly became aware that his discomfort came from something else carried in their company. He felt it most at night, as the whirring came from the King’s tent, the unnatural light waxing and waning.
