They had been together as far back as her memory could conceive, since her father had set the great green dragon as guard over the tiny infant when her mother had died. Tashroth was protector, counselor, confidante, playmate, steed, and friend to the young heir to the house of Rey. Their unusual bond was the stuff of legend in field and village. More than one hopeful suitor had been frightened off by the piercing regard of a dragon eye, or the proximity of a giant clawed foot. Tashroth himself was of an ancient and noble lineage. Among his own kind he might have been a great leader, even a king. But he had preferred a life among men, and was devoted to Rel, his beloved charge.
She thought of him now: magnificent, tall, graceful, vast wings folded neatly, or stretched in flight, his pine-green scales shimmering and shifting with opalescent lights. And from his huge, luminous eyes shone his spirit, his extraordinary compassion, and age-old wisdom. In moments of extreme anger or ecstasy, a dragon’s eyes could flash like twin torches. But all she ever saw in his regard was unconditional love and understanding, with perhaps a trace of pride.
Tash would be off now hunting, or sunning himself by the river. He never felt comfortable for long hemmed in by the palace walls, and she never felt quite herself while he was out of sight. And the recent days and weeks of scant time together probably contributed to her impatient mood as she crossed the courtyard now, where a hundred waiting petitioners would be calling out for her attention, tugging at her sleeves, wanting a piece of her. She felt for them all, she really did. Some of them had been waiting for days, and had legitimate issues and complaints she would have to deal with at some point. But she was only one person carrying a disproportionate load, and these were perilous times. Things had to be prioritized, or nothing would ever get done. If they only knew how much she longed just to climb up on Tashroth’s back and disappear into the mountains. But a Rey must shoulder his or her responsibilities, and always put the good of the kingdom first. She had been drilled in this principle since she took her very first steps.
To complete the ultra-delightful character of this particular day, the appointment she was rushing now to keep was with Lord Drogue, probably her least favorite noble in the entire catalogue. Oh, he was always polite enough to her, almost drippingly so. But there was something slimy about the man that she just did not like. Well, she had been expecting him to demand a hearing for a while now. Might as well get it over with.
“Yes, Steward, I’ll get to it as soon as I can. Send me your recommendations…”
“Lady Rey, the ambassadors from the Lake Regions beg your ear…”
“Thank you…they are already on my calendar for tomorrow…”
“My lady, I beg a moment of your time…”
“My lady, we simply must go over the budget…”
“…the menu…”
“…the Harbormaster needs…”
She had learned not to even check her stride as she fielded the barrage of requests and demands. Never make eye contact and never slow down – she had learned from bitter experience that each of these well-meaning petitioners would happily take an hour or two of her already over-programmed day to address their own peculiar issues, if given half the chance. However did the king and queen cope, it always seemed with such grace and generosity? Ah, but there had been two of them, and the realm had been at peace, humming along without much disruption. Things were very different now. It had been barely three months since both the beloved king and his bride had been drowned during a terrible storm at sea, on their way to visit a neighboring kingdom. The entire nation was still in shock. This king, and his father before him, had kept peace and prosperity, justice and opportunity alive for two generations, and almost no one could remember the shadows of want and war that touched earlier times. King Darian and Darian II were revered by all, and it would have been natural to assume many more years of good governance from the latter, as he had not yet reached his fortieth birthday when tragedy struck. To make matters worse, his lovely queen, warm and gracious to all her subjects, had long failed to produce an heir, until only recently. Four-year-old Darian III, the delightful, precocious apple of his parents’ eye, was now an orphan, bereft, confused, and the responsibility of Jorelial Rey.
Rel had inherited that position from her father, Gareth Rey, a wise and wonderful man who had also been taken from them a little over a year ago, after a brief but devastating illness. For centuries, the Rey family had been powerful counselors and advisors to kings, and had shouldered the responsibility of keeping monarch after monarch safe, honest, and ethically on track. Jorelial’s forebears were intelligent, fair-minded masters of diplomacy: courageous in battle, creative in peacetime, and content to be support to the Crown, rather than being ambitious of its privilege. It was a lineage of pride and pressure, and Gareth had been the priceless jewel in his family’s crest. Jorelial missed her father so on days like today, both because she knew he would have been much better equipped to handle all of the chaos of recent events, and because he was her father, whom she adored. Not having produced a male child who would inherit the Rey tradition and legacy, Gareth had reared Jorelial with equanimity as his successor. He taught her history and statecraft, made sure she was capable in the physical arts and sciences, and shaped her to understand the twists and turns inherent in human behavior. He always insisted she strive for excellence in every discipline she set her hand to. Gareth recognized in his eldest daughter the qualities of a true leader, but it was certain he had thought there would be plenty of time to develop and nurture those qualities.
He had been wrong, and with the passing of the crown to an infant, young Jorelial had found herself not only an advisor to kings, but the default government herself. So far, it was a temporary arrangement. Someone had had to step in and organize a state funeral, arrange care for a royal infant, comfort a grieving nation, and insure that all the many details of bureaucracy would continue running smoothly. Anyone else even remotely fit for the job was either too ancient, too compartmentalized, or too partisan. There was a council body in place to debate decisions of importance and tend to the myriad details of running a kingdom. It consisted of several aged ministers – well-meaning, but more concerned with their departmental details than the bigger picture – and regional representatives, who could not all be trusted not to have personal designs on an unstable throne. It made sense for a Rey, even a young Rey, of a family time-honored for wise counsel and even-handedness, to preside over the whole mess for the moment.
Very soon, the expanded gathering of council members and regional representatives would convene formally to anoint Darian III as legitimate heir to the throne. At that time, they would also elect a permanent regent who would rule in his stead, with the ministers’ help, until he reached his majority. This regent would not only be acting government for the entire kingdom, but would be largely responsible for the proper education and training of the young king, as he grew into his inheritance. Jorelial Rey considered the regent’s position to be about as attractive as a prison sentence, and dreaded the idea that she might be considered for the long-term. But her father had raised her to believe in the worth of duty and destiny, twin charioteers of the noble life, and she would give her best to whatever they brought her. A great comfort and help to her in these weighty matters was Tashroth. In his long experience, deep wisdom, and objectivity, she often found reliable guidance when the humans around failed her. Tashroth knew how to lead her to her best thought without telling her what to do. If it had not been for his magnificent presence in her life, Jorelial Rey would have felt unprepared to handle all that had fallen to her.
“Lady Rey, the blueprints for the memorial…”
“Rel! Rel, wait. Wait a minute. Wait up…”
There it was – the one voice in the crowd that she could never ignore: Delphine. Jorelial Rey stopped in mid-stride, shook her head, smiled, and turned to greet her little sister.
“Rel, where have you been?
I’ve been trying to steal a moment with you for days, and I always seem to just miss you, or catch you running by.”
“So sorry, Delphine. You can’t imagine what it has been like these last few days. I barely get to eat or sleep. You know I’d have come to find you if I could have…”
“I know, Rel. I feel for you, and I don’t want to add to your burdens, but this is important.”
Jorelial looked at the earnest green eyes, the porcelain skin framed by long rivulets of hair the color of flame, and her heart melted as always.
“Sorry. What can I do for you, Sweet Pea?” she said, using her old pet name for her sister.
Delphine glanced around in horror and embarrassment, “Shhh! Please don’t call me that here, in front of everyone. Can we step over behind those columns for a bit, out of the way?”
Jorelial let herself be led aside to a quiet corner, suddenly not caring if she was late for Lord Drogue’s audience. Delphine hesitated and turned pink in a way that always made Rel laugh. “Well, what is it? Out with it. You’re making me fall off schedule.” She chuckled, feeling lighter just to be in Delphine’s presence.
“I’m sorry, Rel, but it’s just that I need to ask you…beg you… if you could just find a few minutes today to see Mark. He’s been waiting for days and days. He even got himself on a list, but he keeps getting bumped by more impressive dignitaries. At this rate, he’s afraid he’ll never get in to see you.”
Rel looked blank, “Mark. Mark… Mark the bard? Is that what this is about? Oh, Delphie, you are just too easy. I won’t be able to take you seriously at all if you let every pitiful young tradesman with an agenda persuade you to take his part.”
“But, Rel, that’s not…”
“I know you mean well, but I am dealing with matters of grave consequence here, and I can barely keep my head above water…”
“No, Rel, listen to me! It’s not what you think…” Delphine looked devastated.
“Look, if it makes you happier, dearest, you go and tell your little friend Mark that he is by all means hired for the coronation, and that we’ll go over the program closer in, OK?”
Tears formed in the corner of the younger girl’s eyes, and she stamped her foot. “Ooooh, Rel, you can be so infuriating! Of course I wouldn’t bother you with such trivia now. This is something of a …a more…personal nature…”
Rel looked puzzled, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Sister, where have you been for the last six months that you don’t know? He wants to…well, you know…he wants to ask you for my…my hand.”
“Your hand?”
Delphine near exploded in frustration, “To marry me, Rel. We need your permission to get married.”
As the meaning of these words found its way into Jorelial’s stunned brain, her eyes widened and her breath stopped. When she was finally able to form words, they sounded considerably like shouting. “Married! Get married? Where have I been indeed? What are you thinking? You’re only 16.”
“Seventeen, Rel, and lower your voice, please. I thought you knew – almost everyone else does. We’ve been seeing each other for a year. He would have asked sooner, but then everything happened and it seemed a bad time to bring it up. So we waited and waited, but, Rel, it’s never going to be a good time. Can’t you just talk to him?”
“Delphine, he’s older than you. And he’s a travelling minstrel. He doesn’t even have roots or a home. He’s not of noble birth – not that that should be the only criteria – but Father would never have approved.”
“Father isn’t here. You are, Rel, and you know me. I am not foolish and impulsive, am I?” Delphine’s face was red, but her lovely chin was lifted and her eyes stared into her sister’s unflinchingly. Jorelial found herself speechless, her sensible arguments beginning to evaporate beneath that gaze. She never could deny Delphine anything. But, then, it was true, the girl had never been flighty or fickle. She stared into her sister’s green eyes, trying to read their depths. The younger girl moved closer, and laid her flaming head on Jorelial’s shoulder, dropping her voice to an intimate whisper, “Rel, he’s a wonderful man – kind and smart and funny, and so very talented. And he has plans for us. You always liked him…”
“I hardly know him! Gods, Delphine, it’s not that I don’t trust your judgment, but you are still so young, and it’s been such a trying year for us all. Are you sure you know your own mind?”
“Rel, we know we belong together. We don’t want to wait forever. Who knows what challenges tomorrow might bring?”
Well, she had a point there. It was hard to imagine any future at this point that would be carefree and secure and predictable. Jorelial Rey felt herself softening. She grasped her sister by the shoulders and turned her so they were face to face once more, “You really love him that much, Sweet Pea?” The expression on Delphine’s face told her all she needed to know. She scratched her head. “Well, alright. I need time to think – it’s still a bit of a shock, you know – but I suppose I can talk to him. No guarantees, mind you, but I’ll see how he strikes me. To tell the truth, I could use a timely interruption to get rid of awful Lord Drogue. I’m late for him now. Hmmmm. Go and find Mark and tell him to come to the Hall of Audience in about half an hour. I will be most grateful for the interruption, and he may have his interview.”
Delphine jumped up and down in childlike glee, the smile on her face as pure and absolute as the sunlight slanting into the courtyard. She threw her arms around her sister and squeezed the air right out of her lungs. “Oh, thank you! Thank you, dearest. I knew I could count on you. You’ll love him as much as I do, you’ll see. Thank you, Rel.”
Jorelial couldn’t help her own broad smile, even while trying to be firm. “Half an hour, then, and no guarantees.” That’s how Delphine was, she thought, as the younger girl danced back into the crowd: effervescent, persuasive, downright contagious. She shook her head, wondering how to handle this newest wrinkle, and started back toward the Hall of Audience at the other end of the courtyard.
Delphine had been the child of her father’s second marriage, strongly urged upon him by King Darian himself. Her mother had been the daughter of a foreign prince seeking beneficial alliances. She had been very beautiful, in an otherworldly sort of way, and Gareth had loved her well, despite the age difference. She might have loved him in her own way too, but she was always somewhat frail and shy, subject to bouts of depression or nervous anxiety. She was homesick most of the time, and seemed oddly unsuited to the social obligations that a wife of such an important courtier incurred. She never seemed to make any real friends at court, spending much of her time closeted alone in her chambers. Gareth had thought that being with child would give her a new sense of purpose and connection to him, and a new level of maturity. But the pregnancy was difficult. She was miserable and resentful of all it brought with it, and seemed horrified at the prospect of being responsible for raising a child. When Delphine was delivered in a long and troubled labor, the babe was taken to a wet-nurse for care, while her mother lay in bed for weeks, pale and listless, ostensibly recovering from the ordeal. One day she just disappeared, stolen away back to her homeland and family, leaving behind a suckling babe and a note with a single word on it: “Sorry.” Gareth was heartbroken, but not entirely surprised. He turned his affections on his baby daughter, who had inherited her mother’s translucent beauty, but not her frailty or temperament.
A doting father and a competent nanny made sure the child had all her basic needs met. But it was Jorelial, a full ten years older, who stepped into a mother’s role, having fallen in love with the tiny babe on first glimpsing the wide, innocent, green eyes. And now that there was only the two of them, Jorelial still felt the impulse to protect her younger sister as a tiger guards its young. She wanted Delphine to be happy, but it would be difficult learning to let go and allow the young woman to make her own choices – and her own mistakes
– in a world of so many dangers and false friends. Rel sighed to think she would not be able to protect her much longer. But that would not stop her from giving this ‘Mark’ a thorough grilling today.
Arriving at the Hall of Audience, she shifted her thoughts to immediate matters, as she came upon Lord Drogue already pacing the room. She decided that gracious diplomacy was her best approach.
“My sincere apologies for keeping you waiting, Lord Drogue. Vital affairs of state detained me. No disrespect was intended. My attention is now all yours. How may I serve you?”
Drogue stopped in mid-stride, turned to face her, bowed, and smiled. He was impeccably and expensively dressed all in black, which was not altogether inappropriate, as the official royal mourning period had only just ended. Jorelial recalled that black was Drogue’s usual preferred color in any case. He was well-groomed and somewhat too liberally scented, but nevertheless a respected man of wealth and property, keen intelligence, and perfect manners. Jorelial could not put her finger on exactly why she disliked him so. Descended from one of the oldest noble families in the realm, Drogue might be considered a handsome man. Tall and trim, with a regal bearing, his high cheekbones and chiseled features spoke of pedigree, and his black hair and mustache, black eyes under perfectly curved brows, and the pale skin of privilege attracted many a longing glance from the eligible maids of the kingdom. Was it her imagination, though, or did the elegant face lose its charm under closer scrutiny? Eyes a bit closer together than aesthetics might wish, and rimmed with dark circles; lines around the mouth, demarcating a haughty, sour expression rarely interrupted by true laughter; fingers that refused to be still, but always seemed to be grasping, roaming, reaching for more. Perhaps it was his remarkable lack of humor and warmth, or the uneasy feeling that he was never quite saying exactly what he really meant that put her on her guard. But none of those qualities were crimes, and she had no concrete reason to treat him rudely. Still, her father had taught her to heed her gut impressions, so it seemed prudent to be cautious, at least. Besides, Tashroth had no use for the man, and a dragon’s instincts should never be dismissed. Drogue addressed her, his voice cultured, and his words chosen with care.
The Last Wizard of Eneri Clare Page 6
