by Duncan Lay
Merren just shook her head.
‘I know you don’t have that time but I would still advise you to marry Martil,’ Milly said softly.
‘Why? Is it Aroaril’s wishes, or is it merely because you think it will ease the way for you to marry your Ralloran lover?’ Merren asked sharply.
Milly locked eyes with her.
‘I shall marry Kesbury regardless of what you do or what the people think. I shall do it because I want to, and because it is the right thing for us. I expect you to be at the ceremony and give your blessing.’
‘Do you know how that is going to look, politically?’ Merren gasped.
‘No. Nor do I care. It is up to us to lead, to do the right thing. The people may not like it but they will come to accept it.’
Merren smiled grimly. ‘Easy for you to say, when you have Aroaril’s power to wield!’
Milly leaned forwards. ‘Trust the people. They are changing. I have been given no guidance on this but I would advise you to do what your heart tells you is right.’
Merren had waved her away. Her heart already knew what it wanted. It was her head that needed convincing, and it had heard nothing it liked so far.
The news from the north, delivered via Tiera, who was organising the new Magicians’ Guild while Barrett returned from the fruitless attempt to capture Gello, was hardly better. The people had been delighted to hear they were safe and a night of celebrations had followed news of the great victory. But news the Derthals would be living in the northern forest—and that thousands of females and young were on their way now, while the remaining warriors were walking north to meet them—had been less well received. Apparently it had taken all of Gratt’s authority to calm things down—and even then, he had asked for every man who had travelled south to fight for the Queen to return north immediately, both to give the people a sense of security and to preserve order.
Conal had returned, after trying to speak to as many people as possible in the streets—but had found it a difficult task.
‘I cannot use soldiers or militia to talk to the people, because it may give a false result, and we cannot speak to anyone when there is a Ralloran or Derthal nearby, in case they are not honest—these conditions are impossible!’ he had complained.
She could see there was no easy answer. Nobody was going to come in and hand her a piece of parchment that said it was safe to marry Martil. It was down to her. A choice between head and heart.
‘Queen Merren?’
She looked up to see Havell still standing there, while she had been lost in thought. The decision had to be made now. There could be no waiting, for Aroaril knew when Martil would be back—and the baby was not going to go away. Norstalos could not have a Bastard King. She had to choose now. Everything inside her wanted to reject Sendric’s argument and embrace Martil. But, like a tree that bent but would not break, her training, the conditioning her father and her tutors had given her would not allow her to put herself before her country. She tried to push past it, tried to ignore what her father would have said. But she could not. She knew she simply could not find happiness that way. Especially after giving in once before and then seeing the result—thousands of weeping, terrified people facing death, families split apart because she had let them down. She could not risk it. She was a queen first, a woman second. It was a bitter truth to face but she told herself she had faced worse. A saga would not end like this. It would have a happy ending, a neat ending. But this was real life, she told herself.
She dismissed Havell and sent for Martil. She had to speak to him, face to face.
Martil had paced through the streets fruitlessly. People were happy to talk to him—at first. But when he said he was looking for people who had spoken to a guild scribe that morning, they became confused, and defensive. None seemed to know what he was talking about, and his obvious frustration, slipping towards anger, had them making excuses to get away.
‘I don’t think we’re going to find any,’ Karia told him.
‘So what does that mean? That people are scared of me, or that Sendric lied?’
Karia shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I am getting hungry.’
‘Well, if Sendric’s right, then everyone’s going to get hungry,’ Martil grunted, but he took her back to the palace anyway.
The guards on the gate waved them through—but Wilsen and Jaret intercepted them as they walked towards the kitchen.
‘Captain! The Queen wants to see you!’ Wilsen called.
‘Can it wait until we get something to eat?’
‘Perhaps we could take Karia for some food, while you see the Queen,’ Jaret suggested.
Neither would meet his eyes, which was hardly comforting.
‘I’ll see you soon.’ He kissed Karia on the head and strode towards the throne room. He clung to hope. Merren had looked into his eyes, told him she loved him. They had shared so much, experienced so much since he had helped rescue her from Gello. They were meant to be together, he was sure of it. He had never felt this way about another woman. Surely she would feel the same. The people would accept him—after all, he had the Dragon Sword. They must see him as a good man. They must!
The short walk to her office room seemed to take no time and forever. He hesitated at the door, squared his shoulders and strode in. It was empty but for Merren.
As soon as she saw him, her determination to put the country first wavered. A voice inside her told her to run to him. But she did not.
‘Sit down,’ she said.
Martil walked stiffly across the room, until he was beside her.
‘So you’ve decided to believe Sendric. You think marrying me is too big a risk and will put the country in danger,’ he stated, feeling dead inside and hoping against hope that she would deny it.
Merren surged to her feet.
‘Do you think it was that easy?’ she exclaimed.
Martil felt something inside him break. He wanted to grab Karia, find Havell and fly to Dragonara Isle, get as far away from here as possible. He wished with all his heart he had never come to Norstalos, never drawn the Dragon Sword, never fallen in love with a queen. He had actually begun to think that Aroaril, destiny, whatever was driving him, was finally rewarding him for all that he had done, all he had suffered. Peace was at hand, he had Karia, he had Merren, he would soon have another child. It was all within his grasp. And now it had been taken away. Martil had never been beaten before but he was beaten now. He tried to fight back but his heart was not in it.
‘So you don’t trust the people. Don’t think they can change.’
‘Yes, they can change—over time. Time that we don’t have!’ She moved into the speech she had rehearsed. The politician in her could see the sense in it, but her heart was not in it. ‘You have to leave tomorrow and won’t be back for perhaps months, and our son will never be accepted if he is not born within a marriage. I have to be married now, or there will forever be questions about his birth! I don’t want to do this! If I could choose, you know I would choose you. But I don’t have a choice. I cannot wait for the people to realise how wrong they are. If I marry you, on top of everything else the country has suffered, it will fall apart! You have seen the figures from Sendric…’
‘Sendric! He has tricked you—I know it!’ Martil declared. ‘I cannot find a single person who spoke to a guild scribe this morning.’
‘Of course not. They are hardly going to admit to you, of all people, something like that, are they?’ she pointed out. ‘How could it be a trick? I have seen the interviews from the scribes. I agree he has done this to stop our marriage. But he believes it to be the best thing for the country and I cannot disagree with that…’
‘Well, I can!’ Martil spat. ‘Doesn’t our child, our son, mean anything? How can questions about his parentage be worse than him never knowing his real father?’
‘He will know his father. You will still be my Champion.’
‘So you are saying we shall be married in deed, if not in name?�
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‘That was not what I said. I promised I would not humiliate Sendric. But he is an older man. When he is gone, perhaps then we can be together…’
‘And that’s supposed to make me feel better?’
‘That was not what I said,’ she hissed. ‘Don’t think this is easy for me! You are not the only one hurting here!’
‘Then ignore Sendric. Ignore his stupid reports. I have the Dragon Sword—the people will see that I am a worthy Prince Consort. Just give me a chance!’
He stared into her eyes, willing her to agree.
But she shook her head, tears spilling from her eyes.
‘I am sorry,’ she whispered.
He could feel his eyes threatening to betray him, as well. But he would not let them. He had to have some sort of victory here, even if it was a hollow one, over himself.
‘I am going to Dragonara Isle now, with Karia. Don’t expect to see me again,’ he said stiffly.
‘And where will you go?’
‘High Chief Sacrax has made me a member of his tribe. I shall live up in the northern forest—buy a farm close to the Derthals that one of your stinking Norstalines wants to sell because they don’t want to live near the people who saved their worthless lives,’ he said bitterly.
‘Don’t be foolish! You both have a place here, at the palace. And you have duties here,’ she fired back.
‘I ask you to release me from my oaths to you,’ he said coldly.
She slapped him then. It stung rather than hurt but he gazed at her in shock.
‘Damn you! You act as if this is all about yourself. You knew what you were getting yourself into. You knew who I married would be a matter of politics, of statecraft! I was never going to be able to marry for love. Now you act as if I have betrayed you! I did not choose any of this. So don’t you think you are the wronged one here. I am as much a victim as you!’ she yelled at him. ‘How do you think I feel?’
Martil could not find the words to answer her. He did not have them and, if he did, they would never have got past the lump in his throat.
Instead he leaned forwards and kissed her, shocking her as much as she had surprised him with a slap.
‘Farewell, my Queen,’ he managed to say, before turning and striding away. ‘I shall always love you.’
Merren wanted to run after him, grab him, tell him it was all a mistake. But she did not. Although when the door shut behind him, she collapsed into a chair and cried as she never had before.
She wished Gello had been able to draw the Dragon Sword, all those years ago.
Martil thought about going in search of Sendric. For a wild moment, he even thought about killing the old noble. Then sense reasserted itself. No, the best thing was to get away from the scene of defeat.
In moments he was down at the kitchen, where Karia was being entertained by Jaret, Wilsen and a couple of serving girls.
‘We are leaving! Now!’ he cried.
Karia looked up. ‘What is it?’
He could not answer her, not in front of other people.
‘Upstairs! We pack now! Jaret! Wilsen! Find that bloody Elfaran and tell him to get the dragon ready. If they are not waiting by the time I get outside the palace, I shall hold you two responsible! Move!’
They moved.
Karia caught up with him and grabbed his hand as he strode back through the palace.
‘Dad! What is it?’ she cried, then saw that he was not looking at her because the tears were running down his cheeks.
‘Is it Merren?’
He could only nod.
‘She’s not going to marry you or look after me, is she?’
Again, he could only shake his head; his voice was gone.
She ducked under his arm and hugged him tight around the waist.
‘You still have me. I’ll look after you,’ she told him.
All he could do was pat her shoulder, and try to smile at her.
‘We’ve both lost someone we love. But while we have each other, we’ll be fine,’ she told him.
Now he had to stop and hug her close, dropping to his knees. The damned tears did not want to stop but she was there to hold him.
‘We’ll always be together,’ she promised.
They were all there to see him off, to wave farewell to both him and Karia. All of them—except the one that really mattered.
Beyond them was a small crowd as well, mostly Rallorans but also Norstalines he had trained—and saved—since he had arrived in the country. The other notable absentee was Count Sendric but he knew when to keep a politic distance, especially after his victory.
Even Barrett was there, ostensibly to say goodbye to Karia but Martil swore he had caught the wizard smiling to himself, more than once.
And while Karia was happy to go around to hug everyone, Martil stood beside Argurium, glowering at them all. He still shook hands with anyone who came near him, from Conal to Wilsen and Jaret, embraced the likes of Louise and Gia and patted the shoulder of the still-sick Rocus, who had dragged himself out of his bed to be there.
He could feel the anger and hurt within him, struggling to get out, but he would not let it show—in case she was watching. So he exchanged a few platitudes with those who wanted to talk to him, forced his face to remain a mask and wished he was elsewhere.
‘Come back to us, Captain,’ Conal said softly. ‘We need you.’
‘Tell that to Merren,’ Martil snorted.
‘Look around here, at all the people whose lives you have changed. Look at me. I was scum, worse than scum, when you walked into my inn. Now I have a life again, thanks to you…’
A life. Martil heard those words and his control cracked.
‘I have to go,’ he said roughly and turned to where Havell was chatting animatedly with Louise and Gia. ‘Hey, Elf! I thought we had to rush?’
‘Well, there’s no…’ Havell caught sight of Martil’s face and gulped. ‘You are right. We must go! Clear the area, please!’
Martil immediately grabbed Karia from where she was giggling with Archbishop Sadlier and clambered onto Argurium’s neck. There he sat, as Karia waved and the people below cheered him. It had happened again—he was running from a country where he should have been a hero. And all he could think was how much he wanted to get away. He did not look at the people below and around him as Argurium leaped into the air. Instead he gazed at the palace, until it swam before his eyes.
Merren watched the dragon circle the city once, before flying away, and felt as though her heart would break. It knew this was a terrible mistake and nothing, not even the most reasoned argument, could persuade it otherwise.
He was gone. Even if he did return, things would never be the same between them. She had made the choice, picking her country ahead of him and she could never go back. That knowledge burst upon her like a wave and she dropped to the floor. All the sense in the world could not change that.
She raced to the window as the dragon flew into the distance.
‘Come back! I was wrong! I am sorry!’ she screamed into the wind, but the dragon vanished into the distance and her eyes blurred too much.
‘What have I done?’ she whispered.
19
‘This is a healing Isle. You can see why my people chose to stay, and serve the dragons,’ Havell said, floating lazily in the water.
Martil had to agree with him. He had never swum before but, after some tuition from the grinning Havell, had managed to stay afloat, although Karia refused to go near him for all the splashing. The Elfarans had given them both strange, close fitting clothes to wear in the water; the cloth was oiled so that the water did not leave the garments soppy and sagging. Naturally, Karia had taken to swimming like everything else, gliding easily through the water ‘like a mermaid’, as Havell had put it. Martil had wished the Elfaran had not said that, for Karia then wanted to go looking for mermaids. Already disappointed not to find happy fairies and talking rabbits all over the island, her excitement at the thought of visiting
mermaids was only matched by her disappointment when Martil and Havell explained there were no such things, that they too were figments of a sagawriter’s imagination.
Martil ducked his head under the water. Swimming was not his favourite occupation but he enjoyed sitting here in the shallows, feeling the warm, saltwater wash over him. His half-healed wounds from the battle of Norstalos were much better. And he found he could forget about Merren, for a while, if he was making sand castles with Karia, looking through the rock pools with her or cooking a fish or crab fresh from the water on the beach with her.
He closed his eyes and thought back over the past few days.
Dragonara Isle had changed him, from its first impression. He had arrived feeling bitter and angry, wanting to get this over and done with as soon as possible, so he could hide himself away in the far north of Norstalos, try and forget all about Merren. Havell and Karia had let him travel in silence, although she had bombarded the Elfaran with endless questions about the Isle and where she might find talking animals. But Karia’s cries of excitement at seeing the Isle had stirred Martil from his sullen mood and he had gazed at the Isle as Argurium circled around it. Unlike Norstalos, which had been wet and cold, a warm sun shone on Dragonara, while impossibly white sandy beaches and clear blue water surrounded it.
‘The water and the weather are unique to this island, coming from the magic that resides here,’ Havell had explained. ‘Outside the island, it is winter on your continent; the sea is cold and rough and the wind howls. But here is an oasis of peace and calm. Do not try to explain it, just seek to enjoy it.’
Martil, his heart still raw, had said nothing.
There were no towns or villages, just the Dragon Hall. From above it looked incredible, resembling a giant dragon lying on its side. Martil could barely believe such a building was possible. It weaved in and out of trees and hills, as if it was part of the island, something living rather than a structure imposed on the land. Then, from the belly of the Dragon Hall, a score of other dragons had flown out into the air, soaring up and around Argurium, looping and circling in endless, dazzling patterns that made Karia cry out with delight. Even Martil could not hold back a gasp of amazement at the display.
