The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri

  The doors were opened from within, slowly revealing the row upon row of humans, the King waiting on his throne at the end of the long chamber. As the last drum beat echoed into the corridor, the Prancer swept his tail back and strode into the room.

  Only the sound of silver hooves clicking against hard tiles broke into the silence as he passed the honour guard at the doors. Then in one movement all the nobles crowding the long seats rose to their feet, heads turned in his direction. The Prancer hesitated a moment. He had never seen so many humans in one place. Then he strode forward, the men and women kneeling as he passed, bending their heads in homage.

  Anton was the last to rise, his eyes glassy and distant. The Prancer was reminded of a feeling he’d often had while travelling with the King to Primus. The man might be physically present, as was demanded by his position, but his mind and attention were elsewhere. It was a strange separation of body and spirit which the Prancer could never imagine a unicorn being able to perform. Perhaps it was a magic peculiar to humans.

  The throne was raised several feet above the floor, on a dais reached by several steps. As the Prancer halted before the first step, the King slowly, almost reluctantly, lowered himself onto one knee. A crown of silver unicorns and gold leaves glittered in a shaft of sunlight as he bent his head.

  Lorin had reminded the Prancer that, as the ranking personage in the room, it was his privilege and responsibility to speak first. Recalling easily the words of the human’s ceremony, he said, ‘The First Kingdom greets the Third Kingdom, and bids welcome to he who is Keeper of the Throne in our name.’

  ‘The Third Kingdom pledges allegiance to the First Kingdom. All honour to the Lords Unicorn and the one who visits us in the Dancer’s name.’ The King raised his head slightly, a flash of anger in his pale eyes belying his courteous tone.

  The Prancer put aside his confusion to ponder over later. As any unicorn knew, a ceremony must always continue, even if words were missed or steps left untaken. ‘In the name of the Herd Stallion, my sire, Lord the Dancer, I present the banner of the Lords Unicorn. We would be honoured to see it again in our Second Kingdom.’

  ‘We are honoured by the gift, and the protection it represents.’ The Prancer’s ears twitched in protest at the contrast between polite words and dry tone. ‘We are pleased to recognise its place in our throne room and our kingdom.’

  Two knights rose from their places and came forward to lift the banner from the Prancer’s back. He successfully ignored the urge to scratch the hide suddenly left cooling and itchy by the removal. Behind the kneeling King, the human’s banner was lowered, two cords unwound to let the unicorn symbol slide down the wall. The encircled unicorn was raised in its stead. A sigh went through the chamber. The Prancer felt himself relax at the smiles on many faces, obviously pleased to have a unicorn in their midst.

  The banner fluttered against the stone wall, then stilled. The knights wrapped the cords around silver hooks and returned to their places. The King took a deep breath, loud in the still room. Then he resolutely raised hands clenched together, holding them up to the Prancer in the age-old symbol of fealty. ‘I, Anton, by birth King of the Third Kingdom and Keeper of the Unicorn Throne, vow to protect and to serve the unicorn. You will always have hay even into winter, and shelter against the worst storm. Your enemies are our enemies, and we shall do everything as you command. All hail to the unicorn.’

  The cheer exploded from the several hundred throats in the chamber. ‘All hail to the unicorn! All hail to the unicorn!’ Nobles and knights were back on their feet now, laughing as they clapped each other’s backs and shouted at the Prancer. ‘All hail to the unicorn!’

  One man stayed on one knee, and the face he raised to the Prancer was dark with anger. The Prancer gazed at the King, wondering once again why the man didn’t share his court’s pleasure. Could the death of his mother be the cause, as Gregson had suggested? Or was it something else?

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  The Prancer gratefully stepped out onto the grass. The giving surface of soil eased the ache in his legs, tense after several hours of standing on stone and tile. Lorin had neglected to mention that, after the presentation of the banner and the welcome to the court, he would be expected to attend a reception afterwards with the highest nobles in the Third Kingdom.

  Lorin had suggested that the ribbon given to him by Dierdre should be worn, woven high in his mane. To his surprise, the tale of the giving of that gift had already spread through the court. It seemed to make people comfortable in his presence, more willing to come to him and stumble over traditional words of greeting.

  His Human had improved considerably from use in the first town he had entered. But the Teacher had never warned him that humans could mumble so much, or break multiple rules of correct grammar, particularly when it came to subjunctives. Some conversations had been nearly impossible to follow, reducing the Prancer to giving his approximation of a human nod at what he hoped were the appropriate points.

  The Prancer lowered his head and halfheartedly pulled at a few flowers. He was still too keyed up to eat. And his back itched, the hairs stiff where he had sweated under the banner. He studied the grass, longing for a long roll to loosen the matts. But the fresh stalks would stain his coat, so he paced over to the wall and rubbed his sides against the warm stone instead.

  A breeze brought Lorin’s light scent to him before she spoke. ‘May I enter, lord?’

  The Prancer opened his eyes. ‘Welcome, Lorin.’ He moved away from the wall, twitching the still uncomfortable skin. Now. He had to ask now, before she told him he had to attend another ceremony or lead another march through the city. ‘I’ve been taught that humans don’t like direct questions.’

  Lorin slid long hands into the wide sleeves of her robe. ‘That often depends upon the question, lord.’

  The Prancer snorted. Why did humans have to be so complicated? ‘The King appears to be angry with me. Would you be able to tell me why?’

  ‘While you are here, you remind him who has dominion over the kingdom,’ Lorin replied calmly, easily. ‘The unicorn rules over the human.’

  The Prancer found himself nodding. ‘So it has always been.’

  ‘Not all sovereigns enjoy being reminded of that truth.’ She shrugged, dismissing the matter. ‘You didn’t come to the city for that reason.’

  ‘No.’ Time to risk being direct for a second time. ‘I came to speak to the mages.’

  ‘Indeed.’ She straightened. ‘The College lies not far from here. What do you seek from the mages?’

  ‘Knowledge.’ Speak to as many of them as possible, his sire had said. ‘Will you lead me to the College?’

  ‘Gladly will I take you there, lord.’ Lorin smiled. ‘But no one has the right of automatic entry through the gates. King or commoner, mouse or unicorn, you will have to step into the entryway and be tested. If my lord does not wish to put himself to the test, I could request any mage you desire to attend you here.’

  The Prancer sensed something, the bitter twinge of a half-truth. ‘But only if the mage is willing to come.’

  Lorin bowed. ‘If you pass through the gates, you may ask anything of us. That is the law.’

  The Prancer twisted his head, quickly polished his horn. ‘Take me to the gates.’

  ‘Now, my lord?’

  The Prancer glanced up at the blue sky, the sun several hours past its zenith. ‘Is this not a correct time?’

  ‘All times are correct to the College.’

  ‘Then now.’

  The guards at the castle entrance saluted as the Prancer approached, fist brought to heart. Then they hurried to draw back the wooden gates, panting and cursing as the old hinges creaked back slowly, reluctantly. The Prancer stepped out first, then waited for Lorin to join him.

  The numbers of people on the streets increased as the castle walls receded behind them. Men and women bowed as the Prancer passed, their children stepping back shyly. The Prancer sighed. This deference was becomi
ng tiresome, directed more at what than who he was. And nowhere had he found the woman with the long red hair.

  The streets narrowed, the houses became smaller, more weather-beaten. The Prancer noted with interest more wood between the stone, ancient plants twisting green growth along sagging chimneys. The cobbles were smoothed with centuries of boots and hooves. An old woman, resting comfortably in a chair outside her doorway, merely nodded and smiled as the Prancer passed. He arched his neck in answer.

  The street opened out abruptly into a plaza. The Prancer halted between the last two buildings, tail lashing his legs as he felt something brooding along the cobbles, twisting through the tall trees. A dozen paces ahead was a flower-strewn lawn, shadowed by ancient oaks. Sheltered behind the wide branches was the source of the Prancer’s alarm, a low-lying structure of rough-cut stones and thick glass.

  ‘Many don’t feel it.’ Lorin’s voice, quiet at his side, brought the Prancer out of his trance. ‘If you hadn’t, there would be no point to taking you any further.’

  The Prancer took a deep breath. The overwhelming sense of a presence remained. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Come to the gates. There you will have your answer.’

  The Prancer obeyed, noting that Lorin’s deference had disappeared once they had stepped onto the plaza. Here, he sensed, rank meant little. Only the magic an individual could command mattered. He followed the woman across the grass, the grove of trees reminding him suddenly of his home forest, now many miles and weeks away. He wondered when he would see it again.

  Lorin led him around the side of the building. A high doorway was cut into the stone. As they approached, the Prancer could see that there were no panels of wood to close the entrance. ‘The gate is always open,’ Lorin said, answering the unasked question. ‘Those who are able to pass through are welcome. Those who cannot soon leave of their own accord.’ She stopped him several yards away. ‘I’ve been through many times, so I’ll go first. Once I have disappeared inside, you may follow.’

  She stepped into the darkness. The Prancer stamped a hindhoof as the shadow cut her immediately from sight. The sun was tracing light across the stone walls, broken into patterns by the oak leaves, but no light touched the gate. There was magic at work here, and he knew little about the summoning or control of such power.

  He took a deep breath, then walked forward. The fall of shadow across his back was almost a physical touch, and his skin twitched in response. Once his tail was in darkness, his nose hit a solid surface, and he halted. He stilled himself, forced breathing and heart to calm, and waited.

  The darkness swirled, formed into a pattern. The Prancer drew his head back in surprise as Storm appeared before him, eyes bright, flanks heaving as if from one of their mad gallops across the fields near the herd forest. ‘A name has been given to me. I will be called Ansel. Announce it. Give me my name.’

  ‘I can’t.’ Shadow hollowed Storm’s eyes, hid his hooves from view. ‘I’m not Dancer. I can’t name you.’

  Tears opened in the smooth skin, blood streaming down multiple wounds. ‘Then be Painter. Heal me.’

  ‘I’m not Painter.’ The Prancer backed away. He felt the outside sunlight warm his hindquarters, promising an exit from this place. ‘I’m not Dancer or Painter.’

  ‘Both and neither,’ Storm chanted. ‘Both and neither. What right have you to enter this domain, the place of the Land? You who are both and neither, and know not what you are.’

  Just behind him was grass and trees, the freedom of the open air. A few more steps back, and he would be away from those accusing eyes. Why should he try to pass through the gate? Surely mages would come to a unicorn, and he could receive them in the comfort of his garden.

  ‘Yes, be a coward,’ Storm taunted. ‘Just as you were before, leaving me to be killed by the dragon.’

  The Prancer paused. He took a deep breath, sampling the air. There was no scent other than his own in this place. ‘You are not Storm,’ he said firmly. ‘Storm would have known that I tried to distract the dragon.’

  ‘But you’re still a coward.’ The unicorn lengthened, grew. Suddenly his father towered over him, his black coat blending into the shadows. ‘Will you not name yourself, both and neither? Only he who knows himself has the right to pass through this gate.’

  The Prancer lowered his eyes. Whatever the source of that voice, it was right. Both and neither. Afraid to touch either the magic of Dancer or Painter, unable to determine which he might be able to control. He began to turn away.

  The whorl of root hanging against his chest rubbed along the fine hairs, tingling his skin. The Prancer halted. He found himself suddenly thinking back to his birth-tree. His afterbirth, which had brought the Prancer safe into the world, lay buried at the roots. Tree and unicorn had blended together over the years, and the roots stretched deep into the Land. A part of himself was part of the Land, and the Land was part of him.

  ‘My markings are unimportant,’ he said slowly, speaking in Human. ‘What I may or may not be is unimportant. By birth I am part of the Land. I am fed by her, watered by her, and I stride across her skin. One day I will rest in her bowels, alongside the one who went before me and awaits the day I will join him. I am part of the Land. I have as much right to enter as any other born to the Land.’

  The darkness twisted, faded away. The Prancer blinked, finding himself standing spread eagled beyond the gate. The sun-lit grass was visible through the entranceway, and light streamed across the stones on which his hooves rested. He wondered dizzily when he had stepped inside the building proper.

  ‘Well done.’

  The Prancer carefully brought his legs together, flicked his tail hairs into place. Then he looked down at the small man standing beside Lorin. ‘I am the Prancer, son of the Dancer, Herd Stallion.’

  ‘I am Melkur, first mage of the mages of Primus.’ The man smiled suddenly, genuinely. ‘I’ve attended many a first entry, but never before by a unicorn. You are indeed welcome, Prancer.’

  They turned, obviously expecting him to follow. The clear, ringing sound of a hindhoof striking stone brought their eyes back to him. ‘I thought I saw my dead milk-brother in the gate.’

  Melkur and Lorin exchanged glances. ‘The gate pulls images from your memories,’ Melkur said slowly. ‘You were tested in your understanding of the Unicorn Magic. One versed in the Dragon Magic would listen to the surface images and turn back. Only one comfortable in the Unicorn Magic can pass through.’

  Still the Prancer hung back. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘He’s not a mage,’ Lorin reminded Melkur. She turned to the Prancer. ‘There are two schools of magic practised by the humans on the Land, each after the kingdom of their protectors. We practise the Unicorn Magic, the deeper magic. Our power depends upon our ability to see truly into the heart of things, to know their essences. It’s that knowledge which lies at the root of our magic, the knowledge of the Land.’

  The Prancer stared at her thoughtfully. ‘Then you must know that the magic of the Land is dying.’

  ‘Not the magic, unicorn,’ Melkur said grimly. The metal tip of his cane rang against the floor, adding emphasis to his words. ‘Not the magic. It is the Land herself which is dying.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Fianna sat in the mourning seat, her back aching against the stone rest. The crypt was cold, despite the hot day, and she allowed herself a quick shiver. She would rather be anywhere than this, waiting out of sight as a child who might usurp her claim to the Dragon Throne was born. But the knights expected a princess to follow tradition, and to pay her respects at her father’s final resting place. But I’ll not mourn, she thought fiercely. Not here, not anywhere else.

  She had already been here several hours, the metal gate closed and bolted behind her. As tradition demanded, her sword hung on a peg just inside the mourning chamber, alongside her boot dagger. Both had come from the armoury, old but serviceable until she could claim the weapons due a Queen. Or a Regent.

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nbsp; Fianna shifted on the uncomfortable seat, then snapped her fingers at Alastair. The hound opened his eyes, studied her for a long moment. Then he lurched to his feet and strode over to her, tail and ears held low. Fianna buried chilled fingers into the grey ruff around his neck. She frowned as she felt only skin beneath her forefingers. The dog had somehow removed the collar she’d picked out for him in the armoury. Granted, it had only been a plain leather one, but it would have done until she could grant him the royal red and gold.

  Alastair wandered away again. She watched him lie down, stretching his long muzzle out along his forelegs. Why had he come with her? she wondered. Like Deian’s hope-promise on her wrist, he was a reminder of a life she had now left. Both should be returned to the giver.

  The hound came with me of his own free will, she told herself. Or so would Deian say. And a gold bracelet is better with a member of the royal house than gathering dirt in a pig herder’s hut. Both are mine now.

  Even if a throne isn’t. She found her eyes drawn back to the oak coffin of her father, resting on a raised slab of stone. Her weapons might have been left at the crypt’s entrance, but her anger had come in with her. Why? she wanted to shout at him. Why did you have to remarry? Was it just to get a son? Wasn’t I good enough?

  She sighed, ran a hand through her hair. There was no use speaking aloud. Her father was dead, far past caring about heirs and wives. His first born would have to use her own abilities to gain what her birth had not given her, if the brat Marissa brought into the Land were a boy.

  Yes, she might have to plan quickly. No doubt Marissa would hope to be Regent, or appoint her own choice. Fianna would have to impress upon the court that the only suitable candidate was the King’s daughter, one who had been raised to the Throne. Even the dragon had recognised her. She touched the piece of unicorn horn, a comforting lump under her shirt. There was her proof.

  A heavy banging on the gate snapped her back to the present. Alastair rose as she did, standing beside her as she called, ‘Who’s there?’