The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri

  ‘No.’ Now Fianna spoke sharply. ‘I won’t allow it. I will not ascend to the Dragon Throne with blood on my hands.’ A hairy head was brushed under her fingers. She felt Alastair tall at her side, offering her support. She wondered how much he understood what was going on. Slowly, deliberately, she raised her hand, hating herself for wanting another’s help, for still feeling young and naive when speaking to her aunt. She was back in Secondus now.

  ‘A sovereign can’t be squeamish about a little blood.’ Sallah paused, then said reflectively, ‘Perhaps it would be better if I stepped back into the succession.’

  ‘You can’t.’ To her horror, Fianna found herself blurting the words. ‘You formally renounced your place to me.’

  ‘Because I thought you had the stomach to rule.’ Green eyes, a shade darker than Fianna’s own, regarded her calmly. ‘I may have been wrong.’

  ‘My lady,’ Pealla said quietly but firmly, ‘you have travelled long. My squire will see you to your chambers.’

  Sallah held Fianna’s gaze for another long minute. Then she rose, the metal end of her cane tapping loudly against the floor tiles. ‘Yes, call him. And then reason with my niece, since she seems so determined to throw a throne away.’

  Fianna took a deep breath once her aunt was gone. ‘She’s often like that,’ she explained to Pealla.

  The knight smiled. ‘Actually, she’s often worse. She’s been described as the royal even dragons would fear to meet.’

  Fianna glanced down at her boots, ashamed. Then she raised her head again, refusing to show her doubts. ‘I’ve faced a dragon.’

  ‘You’ve met one of the Family?’

  Pleased at the change in subject, Fianna nodded. She tugged the pouch free from her tunic, and removed the piece of unicorn horn. ‘He gave me this as a mark of his favour.’ The silver twists glittered, reflecting light against the tapestries lining the stone walls.

  Pealla’s eyes widened. To Fianna’s surprise, the older woman sank down onto one knee before her. ‘You are destined to rise to the Dragon Throne, Your Highness. That’s why one of the Family appeared to you.’

  Fianna hurriedly slid the horn away again. Raised with the stories of dragons speaking regularly with members of the royal family, she’d forgotten how much those not of royal blood revered the symbol of the Fourth Kingdom. ‘Maybe. I charge you not to reveal this to anyone else.’

  ‘I won’t reveal what you have told me to anyone,’ Pealla swore solemnly.

  ‘Good. You’re excused.’

  Pealla shut the door quietly behind her. Alastair once again nudged Fianna’s hand. This time, with no one else there to see, she dug her fingers into his wiry coat. Deian’s face suddenly came to her, browned by the sun, wise in the slow, easy ways of the Land. She had cried against his shoulder once, long ago, in what seemed like another lifetime. I am a woman now, she told herself. I need no one.

  <><><><><><>

  Marissa absently wiped milk from her son’s lips, taking care that nothing stained the rich red and gold silks swathing his small body. Yesterday, in the royal colours, he had been held aloft in the Throne room as nobles and knights heard her proclaim his name. ‘Laran,’ she said again now, reminding him.

  He drew back, fussing in the slippery clothes. A curled fist rubbed against the small badge of his house, dragon gold against red. It still startled her to see the badge undifferenced, the sign of the sovereign. Fianna had yesterday worn her usual barred badge as heir.

  She slipped her breast back under her shirt as her father knocked and called her name at the door. ‘Come in.’

  Her father carried his worries on his face, lines around his eyes and mouth. But his lips eased as he smiled at his grandson. At his wordless gesture Marissa let him take Laran into his broad, battle-scarred hands. He cradled the boy protectively against his chest. ‘Only a few minutes now,’ he said, keeping his voice low as Laran’s eyes closed.

  ‘I know.’ Marissa unnecessarily smoothed her skirts. She had chosen dark crimson for the regency ceremony, echoing the colours of her son’s house. ‘Can I trust Fianna?’ she asked her father, looking up at him beseechingly.

  The Duke carefully handed Laran back to her. Then, as he had when she had been a child and troubled by bad dreams, he stepped close and let her lean her head against him. ‘I’ve heard much said of Fianna, but no one has ever doubted her word. Once she has sworn to protect Laran, you’ll be able to trust her.’

  ‘I know. She just seems so changed.’

  ‘Sallah’s doing.’ Latham shrugged. ‘But she’s still her father’s daughter, at heart. She won’t harm her brother.’

  Marissa closed her eyes, taking comfort in her father’s conviction. ‘I only wish I could have something more than her pledge.’

  ‘Perhaps you can.’ The strange hesitancy in his voice made her straighten, opening her eyes to study him. ‘There is something I can do.’

  Sensing the inner struggle going on within him, Marissa said quietly, ‘Not if you must break your own vows, Father.’

  ‘Oh, no vows. Not as such.’ He moved away, raising a hand to shield his eyes as he looked out the window at the bright sun outside. ‘An understanding. What do you know about the Summoning Ring?’

  Marissa frowned at the sudden question. ‘Only that it’s a thing of magic. Stan wore a part of it.’

  ‘The Ring is in three parts.’

  ‘Yes.’ Marissa nodded, suddenly remembering. ‘Fianna wears the centre.’

  ‘The heart is worn by the heir. She will also take the second section, holding it as Regent until Laran is of age.’ Her father turned. ‘Have you ever wondered where the third part is?’

  ‘I thought it was lost, long ago.’

  ‘That’s what the royal house believes. They’ve only ever known the ruby and the one hand.’ He smiled suddenly. With one quick movement, he drew a pouch from under his shirt and tumbled something glittering across his palm. ‘The second hand.’

  Marissa rose, carefully balancing Laran against her shoulder. The ring shone against her father’s skin, the golden hand outstretched. The two hands together, she realised, would surround the heart-shaped ruby which Fianna wore. ‘How long have you had it?’

  ‘Our house has always possessed this.’ He touched the ring reverently. ‘Once the three parts are together, even dragons can be summoned by the wearer and commanded to do his will. So every sovereign has sought the third piece. Our family was entrusted to protect the kingdom from such power, until the day it might be needed.’ He returned the ring to the pouch, drew the strings shut. Then he lifted it over his head, slipping the cord around Marissa’s neck instead. ‘That’s your ultimate protection against Fianna. You now have your bargaining counter for Laran’s life.’

  Marissa stared down at the leather sack, tingling with mage magic. Then she raised her head. ‘I will guard it well.’

  ‘And when he’s of age,’ her father’s forefinger brushed Laran’s cheek, ‘you must pass it to your sister or her eldest.’

  Marissa nodded, aware of the risks. ‘I won’t give even my son the third part.’

  ‘Good.’ The Duke accepted Laran as she slipped the pouch under her shirt, adjusting the cords to hide the small bulge between her breasts. ‘It’s almost time to begin the ceremony.’

  ‘Almost.’ She took Laran, and laid the sleeping baby into his crib. ‘Let him rest a few minutes. Let him be mine for a little while longer, before he comes to belong to a kingdom.’

  <><><><><><>

  Heir to the Dragon Throne.

  Fianna touched the badge sewn onto her tunic. The all too familiar golden bar across the top, cutting across the dragon’s lifted wings. She had grown up wearing the differenced mark of the heir, expecting one day to become Queen and wear the full emblem in her own right. Now, she would only be Regent, ruling behind the name of a boy until he attained his maturity. And one day, he would have an heir of his own body.

  No help for it, she told herself firmly. There ar
e some prices I will not pay to be Queen.

  She straightened, studied herself in the full-length mirror. Blood red tunic over a golden undershirt, long sleeves billowing from shoulder to wrist. Red trousers, tucked into black boots. She ran a hand through her hair, tumbling it bright red across shoulders. The state sword rested on a chair nearby. She would have to swear her oath on the bare blade, as well on the state crown, while the babe also touched both, confirming him as King even as she was confirmed as his Regent. He would then be pledged to the kingdom, Fianna responding on his behalf, until his eighth year when he would be crowned in his own right. And when he was sixteen, her duties would be finished.

  Unless he is accustomed to always listening to me. Fianna lifted the heavy sword, buckling it high around her waist. I’ll have to watch his mother, she will have a position of natural influence.

  Sudden anger gritted her teeth. Why? Why did her father have to remarry, father a second child? Why? She had been confirmed as heir in her eighth year, both publicly and also in the private ceremony with the castle knights. Now she should be preparing for her own coronation.

  A flash of gold brought her gaze to her left wrist. Deian’s hope-promise still rested against her tanned skin, complimenting the ruby ring on the third finger. How simple everything had seemed in his woods. For a moment, she had almost forgotten the duty and honour to which she had been raised. She would have been proud to be Queen of these people. As Regent, she would still serve them, and be honoured in that role. More so than as the wife of a pig herder. She quickly removed the bracelet, and added it to the unicorn horn in the pouch she wore under her shirt.

  Alastair pressed against her leg, as if picking up the direction of her thoughts. Fianna bent slightly to scratch under the long throat, wondering why part of her still wished that Deian were with her now. Ceremonies and oaths would matter little to him, she sensed. To him, she was simply Fianna, the girl who had spent many days near his woods.

  But Deian wasn’t here. She gave Alastair a final pat, then stood upright. ‘Time to go, hound,’ she told him. ‘Will you follow me as I give greetings to my brother and my King?’

  The dog’s tail thumped against her calves. Then he dropped into place at her side as she left her chambers, starting through the maze of tapestry lined hallways to the room of the infant and his mother.

  Jeremy joined her a few strides later. The squire grinned down at her, swinging an embroidered collar around his wrist. ‘Alastair’s slipped free again, Your Highness.’

  Fianna glared down at the hound, his grey neck bare. The long ears flicked as she said, ‘You would’ve thought a dog would be proud to bear the badge of service to the heir.’

  ‘He didn’t know you as a page,’ Jeremy said. ‘Maybe if he’d mucked out stables alongside you he’d be happy to wear the red and gold.’

  ‘Is that why you are?’ Fianna realised that there was a teasing note in her voice. ‘You’ll soon be a knight.’

  ‘Neither of us will be knighted for more than a year,’ he pointed out calmly. With his dark hair and brown eyes he took after his long dead father, but in manner he was very much like his mother, Colonel Pealla. ‘Until then, I’m honoured to act as your squire.’ He touched the golden dragon recently sewn onto his shirt. ‘Shall I attempt to refasten the collar?’

  Fianna shook her head. Alastair politely but firmly refused to allow anyone other than her to touch him. ‘I’ll attend to it later.’

  ‘As you wish, Your Highness.’ Jeremy looped the collar around his belt, then smoothly moved past her as they stopped outside the door to Marissa’s apartments. He knocked on the door, then announced, ‘Her Royal Highness the Princess Fianna.’

  Fianna could almost feel the surprise in the silence which followed. Then Marissa’s voice calmly invited them in.

  Jeremy took up a position just inside the door, but Alastair followed her into the middle of the chamber. Marissa was seated, her father at her elbow, Latham scowling at the unexpected visit. There were only two of them. Fianna halted. ‘Where’s the boy?’

  ‘Laran is resting,’ Marissa replied, with light emphasis on the name. ‘He has a long ceremony before him.’

  ‘I would like to see him alone.’ Fianna felt the strain in her throat, but was able to keep it from her voice.

  ‘As Regent to King?’ Marissa asked.

  ‘No.’ Fianna slowly and deliberately unbuckled the sword from her waist, then held it out to the woman. ‘As sister to brother.’

  Eyes widening in wonder, Marissa rose to accept the heavy burden. ‘Will you?’ she asked suddenly, her voice breaking free from her tight control. ‘Will you be a sister to him?’

  Not daring her own voice, Fianna nodded. Marissa stepped aside. Commanding Alastair to wait outside, Fianna walked to the far door, pushing it open into the bed chamber.

  A flash of movement snapped her head up. Fianna glanced around. Nothing stirred in the room, not even the curtains around the large bed, and she decided she must have imagined it.

  Laran was lying on his back, his mouth open, eyes closed. Fianna took a seat on the floor nearby. If only you were a girl, she found herself thinking at him. Then I could have a sister and still be Queen. While you sleep there quietly, a kingdom is slipping from my grasp.

  She leaned against the bed, closed her eyes. These rooms had been Marissa’s since before her marriage to the King. Fianna was beginning to understand why she had kept them, rather than move to grander chambers. Situated on the ground floor at the rear of the castle, away from the bustle of stables and the practice yard, little noise came in through the open window. The quiet started to relax her. Only the occasional chirp of a bird outside and her own breathing broke the silence.

  My own breathing. Fianna opened her eyes, disturbed by the thought. She leaned over the crib, looked down at the boy. The silks bunched up over his small chest were still. An icy finger of premonition moved through her stomach. With a trembling hand, she reached out and touched his open mouth. No breath brushed past the skin.

  She started to her feet. Only now did she see the bed pillow, flung across the floor, and the scruff marks of boot leather against the window frame. The strong locks of the window hung to one side, broken. ‘Duke Latham,’ she called, her voice trembling.

  His boot heels thumped loudly against the wooden floorboards. ‘Yes, my lady?’

  Fianna pointed wordlessly at the pillow, the window, the boy. The Duke took the situation in at a glance. Then he turned his head and bellowed, ‘Jeremy, call the castle healers, and hurry!’

  Marissa and Alastair tried to crowd through the door at the same moment, tripping over each other’s feet. ‘What’s wrong?’

  The Duke tried to push her back. ‘Don’t look, Marissa.’

  ‘Laran. What’s wrong with Laran?’ She shoved past her father, snatched the boy from his crib. ‘Why isn’t he breathing?’ She lowered her head, began to expel her own breath into Laran’s open mouth.

  ‘He forced open the locks,’ Latham said grimly, ‘found a pillow, and--he might still be in the bushes.’ He threw himself at the embrasure, pausing only to jerk his dagger from his boot before leaping outside.

  ‘You.’ Marissa looked up at Fianna, the beginnings of tears not hiding the gaze of pure hatred. ‘You’re to blame for this.’

  ‘I did nothing,’ she protested.

  ‘You might not have been the one to hold the pillow,’ Marissa said grimly, ‘but someone did this on your behalf. You’re guilty of his murder.’

  The sounds of a half-dozen pounding feet clattered against the floors. Fianna was pressed back by the healers and nobles who had heard her squire’s message. As desperate, futile attempts were made to revive the boy, Fianna bent her head, mourning the brother she might have known.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Prancer followed the two humans through the cloisters of the College. His hooves set up ringing echoes down the long length of stone corridor, contrasting with the humans’ almost silen
t steps. Sunlight varied with shade across his shoulders as arches alternated with pillars. Beyond was an inner garden, bushy trees planted with regularity against the supports, branches providing further shade.

  The sound of splashing water drew the Prancer’s attention to the far end of the enclosure. The fresh smell of the fountain pulled him away from the mages. He suddenly realised that the journey through the city, and the internal battle inside the gate, had given him a demanding thirst. Sunshine bathed his shoulders as he strode over the close-cropped grass, firm yet yielding under hooves weary from tiles and cobblestones. He halted before the fountain, lowering his horn to touch the water. Then he followed with his muzzle, taking several deep swallows.

  Only when he had finished did he raise his head, and step back to admire the craftsmanship. Water tumbled from a recess set below the stone carving of a unicorn, falling less than a foot to the basin. Stray drops wet his cheeks as he turned his head to study the two torches flicking flame in silver holders set on either side of the watery egress. The basin itself was made from fired earth.

  The elder mage had come up quietly while the Prancer drank. Now, softly, he said, ‘You honour us by drinking from the fountain of your name, Lord Unicorn. Tell me, of what does the Unicorn Fountain remind you?’

  ‘The four elements,’ the Prancer answered easily. ‘Water in the falling, fire in the burning, and earth in the holding.’

  ‘And air?’

  The Prancer swept his horn. ‘Air is all around us.’ Then he snorted in surprise, as a weight seemed to suddenly lift from his shoulders. His breaths came easier than they had in days. ‘Why do I feel unburdened?’

  ‘The castle is unable to touch any in here who have drunk from the fountain.’

  ‘Why didn’t he feel it earlier?’ Lorin asked Melkur.

  ‘He’s young.’ Melkur spoke without harshness. ‘For all that he is unicorn, and marked with both holy signs.’