The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri

  On the eighth night a high crackling woke the Prancer. He blinked sleep from his eyes and poked his head outside his tent. The lights were swirling past the King’s body, silhouetting him against the silken sides. The greens and reds seemed sluggish, and the King’s voice was low and pleading. As the Prancer watched, the glow ebbed, then died, leaving the man to growl curses.

  The pace was increased the next morning, Anton sullen on his mare, cradling something protectively against his chest. The Prancer sighed to himself, and gave up all attempts at holding a conversation with the taciturn King.

  ‘’T’will be better, once we reach Primus,’ Gregson told him that evening. He had taken up the quite agreeable habit of bringing ale and conversation to the Prancer’s tent every night. ‘The King is different there. He is very much a part of the city, and its castle.’

  ‘How far are we from the city now?’

  ‘Five more days, at this march.’ The Champion lifted his tankard, and drank with gusto. ‘I for one will not be pleased to return. Drink well, my lord. City ale is a pale exchange for the thick brew of these country towns.’

  Only normal candlelight flickered against the walls of the King’s tent as Gregson took his merry leave. The wrongness had lifted. The Prancer took deep, easy breaths, pleased. Not until now had he realised that the King’s strange power had affected him, tightening his ribs painfully against his lungs and making his heart beat slowly.

  The towns grew larger as they neared the capital city, the people more prosperous. Instead of cows or sheep, horses grazed in fields, and brightly dressed nobles bowed to the King as they rode past. The Prancer gazed with interest at the wares on display outside shops, storing up the images to quiz Gregson at night. Being a human was more complicated than he had realised. They needed to acquire such things as clothes, shelter, food, none of which was given to them by right. Humans traded produce with one another, one giving from her fields to gain that produced by another’s loom. Gregson tried to explain the concept of money, laying flat circles of stamped metal across his palm, but the Prancer found the idea difficult to accept. From what he could determine, the metal pieces only held value if everyone agreed they held value. What if someone refused to trade edible grain for inedible gold?

  The city began to take form on the horizon, the tall gates of stone gleaming in the sun. The Prancer had to force his hooves to keep pace as they drew nearer. His shortness of breath was returning, along with the mild headache which he had associated with the King’s power. At first he thought that Primus itself was the source of his unease, but as the buildings began to detach themselves from the mist of distance he knew that there was something at the city’s heart which oppressed him. The knights and their horses seemed unaffected, and although he couldn’t stop his tail from snapping in protest, he otherwise hid his discomfort. He must go into Primus, and he must speak with the city’s mages.

  As Gregson had predicted, they found themselves outside Primus on the thirteenth day of their journey. As they drew near, the King finally spoke to him. ‘Ride ahead with me. I’ll activate the Sign.’

  ‘Sign?’ the Prancer repeated. Then he kicked himself into a trot to keep up with the King’s mount. The rest of the group kept to their more sedate pace, leaving the Prancer to wonder if the King were carrying out a well known ritual.

  Intent on following the King, the Prancer at first didn’t notice the structure until he sensed the cold metal cutting cruelly into the Land. He dug his hooves into the soil and flung his head back. What looked like two trees, but straight and tall, rose from the ground. At their tops, high above their heads, a slab of material was suspended in the air. Symbols flowed silver across the blue. He felt dwarfed by the size of it.

  The King called out, ‘In the name of the King!’

  The Prancer snorted in alarm as the slab suddenly glowed. Light swirled across the symbols, and then a high-pitched human voice sang out, ‘Welcome to Primus, welcome to Primus, where all your dreams can come true! Welcome to Primus, welcome to Primus, a kingdom made just for you!’

  ‘I repaired it,’ Anton said. For the first time there was animation in his voice. ‘Took me much research, but I repaired it.’

  ‘What is it for?’ the Prancer asked. The voice was singing again, and the sound was making his ears hurt.

  Anton said nothing. He rode between the metal shafts, and the voice stopped. Then, his face falling back into his usual sullenness, he led them up to the city walls.

  The gates were shut, which surprised the Prancer. From Gregson’s tales he had expected them to be open, allowing streams of travellers and merchants to enter and leave the city. A guard bright in the King’s colours of blue and silver shouted down from his post. ‘Who stands before the gates of Primus?’

  The Prancer noted that all eyes, gleaming with anticipation, had gone to the King. Anton shrugged himself upright, straightening in the saddle. In almost reluctant recognition of his rank, he had this morning fastened a blue cloak around his shoulders, and placed a gold circlet around his head. Both added a regality missing from his dull tone as he answered, ‘Anton Unicornus, King of the Third Kingdom, stands before Primus and demands entry.’

  ‘And what is the surety you offer?’

  ‘Beside me stands the Lord Unicorn, ward and protector of my house and all of the Third Kingdom.’

  ‘All hail to King Anton!’ shouted the guard. ‘All hail to Lord Unicorn!’

  The Prancer’s ears flicked as he heard answers from within, muffled by wood and stone. Then the high gates swung open, pulling back to reveal a cobbled road stretching into the city. The knights drew to one side, forming an honour guard as Anton rode past the walls, the Prancer at his side.

  The Prancer snorted as he saw the men and women lining the streets. The welcome from the towns they had passed was nothing compared to this. Three bodies thick they stood, and even more perched on rooftops and balconies. Banners of blue and silver waved in the breeze, the prancing unicorn bright in the sun. Children yelled from their parents’ shoulders, and flowers were thrown across the road, splashing colour across the grey stone.

  The Prancer paused a moment, taken aback by the happiness in the human faces, the eagerness of each to shout louder praises than her neighbour. It’s not for me, he found himself thinking. It’s for who I represent, the People of the Trees. For this march, he was not the Prancer. He was Lord Unicorn.

  Suddenly glad that he’d washed the mud from his legs that morning, the Prancer arched his neck and stepped forward at the King’s side. His hooves rang against the hard cobbles, his tail lashing as he balanced against the uneven footing. Excited voices shouted out his title, the King’s name. Several humans tried to surge from their places, but knights moved tall warhorses between onlookers and parade.

  A child ducked underneath one horse, then stumbled across the stoned path. Knights shouted, a man yelled a warning. The Prancer stopped as the girl slid to a halt several feet away, almost losing her balance. Her legs spread awkwardly, her hands braced against the ground. She reminded him of a young filly, still learning to walk without the support of her mother’s shoulder.

  Gregson started from Anton’s side, sword clanking from its scabbard. The Prancer snorted a command at the Champion’s mount. The black gelding eyed him for a moment then, ignoring his rider’s spurs, backed away. The Prancer strode forward. He had been raised to ceremony, the elegant performance of roles. Aware of the sun flashing from silver hooves and horn, the elegant set of his neck, the tail lifted to whisk against his hindquarters, he knew that he had become the majestic Lord Unicorn the citizens of Primus expected to see. The girl’s eyes were wide as he brought his head level with hers. ‘What are you called, my lady?’

  At his first word, the crowd stilled. They had always heard that unicorns had the gift of speech. Now it was being proved before them. The girl raised a hand, shyly touched his nose. ‘Dierdre,’ she said softly.

  ‘Lady Dierdre,’ the Prancer said quiet
ly. ‘Should you not be with your elders?’

  ‘Yes, but--’ She twisted something in her hands. ‘I have a present for you.’

  ‘I am honoured,’ the Prancer responded gravely. ‘Please show me.’

  Dierdre carefully opened her palms. A blue ribbon was stretched around several fingers. ‘My pony wears one like this. I thought...’

  ‘I shall wear it with pride.’ The Prancer lowered his head, brushing the stones with his chin. The girl reached up and pulled at the mane behind his ears. The Prancer forced himself to keep still as she yanked at the hair, weaving the ribbon through the long white strands.

  The Prancer straightened. ‘Now, my lady, return to your parents.’

  A low roar started as the girl skipped back to her family. The Prancer lifted his head in surprise as the sound erupted, was joined with clapping and cheers. He had pleased these people, he suddenly realised. Already the story was travelling quickly up the road to those who had not heard what had taken place. He took a quick moment to polish his horn against his flank, deciding that he had done well.

  The King rode forward to join him. The Prancer wrinkled his muzzle at the heavy scent coming from the man, the lines crossing the still face. For some reason he had angered Anton. And he couldn’t understand why.

  <><><><><><>

  The road made several bends before the castle towered above them, the walls looming suddenly in their path. The crowds stilled as Anton spurred his horse forward, his face suddenly easing. The Prancer followed a few paces behind, his skin twitching involuntarily as the shadows from the high gates fell across his shoulders. The heavy wood was thumped shut once they were inside. The Prancer snorted softly to himself as he heard steel bolts clang into place.

  The King dismounted heavily. ‘Carlan? Carlan, where are you?’

  A stout man hurried forward, mopping his balding head. ‘Yes, Your Majesty?’

  ‘How go the works? Were more artifacts found?’

  The man slowly turned his head, meeting the Prancer’s gaze. ‘Sire, you have not introduced me to our honoured guest.’

  ‘What? Oh, yes.’ Anton turned. ‘Lord Unicorn the Prancer, this is my Castellan, Carlan.’

  ‘I will show you to your rooms, my lord,’ said the Castellan, sweeping the Prancer a low bow. ‘You must be fatigued and famished after your long journey.’

  The King’s eyes flashed, but he bit his lip, holding back his anger. The Prancer hesitated, then decided he might think better over a bowl of ale. ‘I will follow you, Master Castellan.’

  Anton strode away. The knights gave the Prancer quick bows, then led their horses across the castle yard to the stables. Tail flicking over his hindquarters, the Prancer matched strides with Carlan. His fetlocks were beginning to ache from walking on cobbles, and he hoped wherever he was to be housed would have a softer surface.

  The castle proper stretched over their heads, dun stone mellowed by the warmth of the slowly setting sun. Carlan led him past the entrance to the building, two thick panels still open after the King’s entry. The Prancer glimpsed tiled floors and a high ceiling with rafters. Then they were walking around into the dark shadow cast by the high walls close to the castle’s side.

  The Castellan halted beside a tall wooden door. He pulled an ornate, unicorn-headed key from his belt and slipped it into the lock. ‘Your chambers were prepared this morn, lord,’ he said. ‘I hope that they meet with your satisfaction.’

  The man pulled the door open and stood aside. The Prancer instinctively lowered his head as he entered, though the doorway was high enough for even a full grown unicorn. The entrance hall was carpeted, and human chairs and a table were set to the left. An archway led through to a larger room. The Prancer’s nostrils twitched to the sweet scent of fresh straw and he followed his nose. The stalks provided a welcome padding to the tiled floor, and he turned to study the wide room, noting the basin of water, the pile of fresh cut grass and a smaller stack of young vegetables against one wall.

  ‘Walk on, lord,’ urged the Castellan, standing in the entranceway. ‘Through the other side.’

  The Prancer obeyed, pushing his muzzle against a wooden gate. It swung open, creaking slightly on recently oiled hinges. Fresh air breezed into the room, bringing with it the aroma of grass and flowers. The Prancer stepped out onto a small garden, as large as the room he had just left, healthy grass interspersed with small flowers. Although in shadow now, he could imagine how welcoming this could be when the midday sun shone into the secluded area. The springy turf comforted his hooves.

  ‘We kept your quarters ready for you, my lord,’ the Castellan said quietly. ‘We knew that, one day, the unicorn would return to us.’

  The note of proud awe in his voice made the Prancer’s tail snap across his hindquarters. He bent his head and polished his horn against his flank. Finally straightening, he said awkwardly, ‘I’m pleased to visit Primus.’

  ‘Primus is honoured by your presence.’ Carlan moved to one side, allowing the speaker to smile at the Prancer. A tall woman, dressed in a robe of blue. A silver unicorn was stitched across the front, bending as she bowed. ‘May I present myself? I am Lorin, servant of the Unicorn.’

  ‘Servant?’ the Prancer repeated. ‘Do I need a servant?’

  Lorin smiled. ‘It’s a title, my lord. I’m a mage, and my subject of study has always been the unicorn.’

  ‘A mage.’ The Prancer’s ears perked at the word. ‘Then you know about magic.’

  ‘Aye, I know magic.’ She turned back to the door. ‘I bring a gift for the Lord Unicorn.’

  Lorin returned with a bowl and a jug. The Prancer sampled the new scent, then bobbed his head. ‘Ale.’

  ‘The King’s Champion told me you would welcome it.’ She emptied the jug into the bowl. The Castellan took the container, and stepped back. ‘In the name of the College of Mages,’ she said solemnly, ‘I welcome the return of the unicorn to our city.’ She sipped the brown liquid, then held the bowl out to the Prancer.

  The Prancer moved forward, lowered his head. The ale was lighter than those he had sampled with Gregson. He took a few mouthfuls, decided that the man had been right about the quality of the city’s ale, then lifted his muzzle free. ‘Thank you.’

  Lorin bowed again. ‘I’ve been sent to advise you, even as another from my College has been sent to advise the King. You’ll be presented to him tomorrow noon.’

  ‘Presented?’ The Prancer wrinkled his nose. ‘I’ve already met him.’

  ‘But not formally.’ She handed the Castellan the bowl, then turned back to the Prancer. ‘You have met as unicorn and man. Now you must meet as King and Lord. There will be specific words to say and oaths to renew, as set down between the First and Third Kingdom centuries ago.’

  The Prancer couldn’t stop a hindhoof striking the ground. ‘Why a ceremony?’

  ‘Why, for the same reason you use ceremonies in your greatest magics in the herd.’ Lorin touched the emblem on her robe. ‘Have you Danced or Painted the lines, lord?’

  ‘My sire is the Dancer,’ the Prancer answered reluctantly, noting her quick glances at the contradictory markings on his light coat. ‘The People are presently without a healer. We have no Painter.’

  The woman’s lively face stilled for a moment, paled. ‘But you carry both marks--’ She halted suddenly, as if coming to a decision. ‘Forgive me, lord, if I speak wrongly. My knowledge of your kind is book-learnt, and I would welcome any correction you would give. It was my understanding that the herd uses ritual for protection. The elemental forces summoned by the Dancer or the Painter must be controlled, or else they would harm those who called upon them. Such is the reason for the ceremony, and the drawing or the painting of the lines. Ritual contains and channels the power.’

  The Prancer had never viewed the herd ceremonies in that light before, but what the woman said made sense. He bobbed his head. ‘And the ceremony between unicorn and king?’

  ‘You both represent great powers, two kingdoms.�
� She smiled again. ‘Ceremony also serves as protection. Kingdoms must be kept in harmony. Protocol gives us the framework to keep our relations peaceful.’

  The Prancer pulled a mouthful of grass from the turf and chewed thoughtfully. The woman spoke wisely, and certainly knew more about human customs than he did. If this ceremony were so important to them, he would go through it. He swallowed, and said, ‘Tell me what I must do.’

  <><><><><><>

  The thick castle walls kept out most of the midday sun, though the Prancer thought he could feel a trickle of warmth settling into the stone at his side. His skin twitched, coat matting under the fancy silks Lorin had gently but firmly insisted that he must wear. A tasselled banner of blue and silver covered his back, ends nearly touching the floor, in what she had said were the colours of his house. A ring of silver surrounded the shape of the embroidered unicorn, differencing it from the King’s own mark. Which supposedly showed that he held the higher rank, unicorn over human. The dragon claw and the whorl of tree root had been restrung on cords of twisted silver and blue, both carefully handled in gloves by the human who had assisted Lorin.

  His tail and mane had been combed free of mud and tangles, and his hooves polished until now he could see the floor tiles reflected in the shiny surfaces. Although he knew that he looked magnificent, he wanted this ritual over so that he could attend to his real purpose in being in Primus. He needed to speak to the mages about the slow death of the Land’s magic. Then he could continue his journey to the Second Kingdom, and seek out the dragon which had killed his milk-brother.

  A sudden drum roll made him straighten. Although the sound had been muffled by the thick doors to the throne room, he still recognised the signal which Lorin had said would precede his entrance. He arched his neck, felt his mane slide past his skin, and flicked his head to nudge a wayward strand from his eyes. Then he tensed, ready.