by Meg Cowley
“Sire,” the man said. He sunk into a bow and turned away. “Please follow me.”
That he was not in chains reassured Soren. He still felt trepidation as the door’s shadow engulfed him. Blinded by the transition from bright sunlight to gloom he paused. Aas his eyes became accustomed he was loathe to hurry after the strong man, who set a quick pace.
He marvelled as he passed through the high doorway of carved stone, into a room with white, plastered, vaulted ceilings and intricate windows with patterns and coloured glass, into a smaller chamber, then a corridor and then a small cloister, with a covered walkway around its perimeter. It had none of the gilded grandeur of Pandora’s castle or cathedral, but emanating from it was a different beauty. The stones were carved, some quite intricately; as Soren peered closer, he saw where they had weathered away, worn smooth by a thousand years of rain and wind.
Disorientated, Soren tried to find his bearings but the neat masonry of the colonnade rose too high to see over. It was only once he focused on the peaceful cloister that he realised his silent companion had entered the smoothly turfed space and was watching him so intently he was almost glaring. Soren swallowed self-consciously as the man beckoned.
The small figure sitting bowed in its centre raised his head as they approached and rose to his feet. He was the most wizened man that Soren had ever seen, with a beard so long it tucked into his belt, yet not a hair on his head.
He presented himself to Soren with a deep bow, which the prince returned and the old man’s lively blue eyes appraised him. The monk who had guided him bowed until his head touched the ground.
“Thank you, Hador,” the old man murmured. Hador rose to his feet without a word and left them.
“Your Royal Highness, it is an honour that you join us and yet a sadness that you do so now.” The old man spoke with a voice much stronger and richer than Soren had expected. “I am most sorry to hear of your losses. We support your cause and place ourselves and our resources at your disposal. We hope that we may aid you in your fight for justice for yourself and for Caledan.”
“My thanks, Abbot,” Soren replied. He bowed again, knowing now that the man before him was whom he sought. He wanted to say more, but could not.
The abbot smiled and beckoned him closer. They strolled around the cloister as Soren explained the past week’s events at the abbot’s bidding in as much detail as he could bear. At several points he halted, closing his eyes and breathing slow and deep to suppress the emotions that rose with recalling what had passed. At no point did the old man interrupt him. He waited each time Soren paused, a vision of calm, until the young man had finished.
“I thank you for telling me your tale. I imagine it is a difficult thing for you to discuss,” the abbot said.
Soren tried his best to meet the abbot’s gaze but the old man’s eyes were unnervingly piercing.
“We must hope that Edmund has reached Arlyn safely. You may already have noticed our visitors,” the abbot’s tone remained light, although Soren caught the sarcasm, “who Zaki has sent to retrieve the crown. Alas though, we no longer have what you seek. The crown of the dragon kings is gone.” He raised a hand to quiet Soren, who exclaimed at his words. “All in good time. Come inside for a meal and I will explain what has passed here in the last week.”
Soren acquiesced and followed the abbot to a large dining hall. Long, wooden trestle tables lay out across the high room, which was flooded by light filtering through the lead paned windows. Monks – the abbot’s brown-robed brothers – wandered in and out to eat and then depart, some in silence and others talking in low voices that created an echoing murmur. All stopped to bow their head to the abbot and some paused just a little longer to stare at Soren, who stared back, intrigued.
The abbot requested a meal from the kitchen and soon a steaming plate of gravy-covered meat, vegetables and dumplings was in front of the prince, reigniting his appetite. He ate – as politely and slowly as he could – whilst the abbot spoke.
“On the eve of your mother’s passing,” the abbot said, “I dreamt that a great shadow fell over the land. A monstrous blue dragon flew down from the sky. I knew what the omen of his arrival was. His name is Brithilca and he is the guardian of Caledan.”
Soren paused. His fork hovered in the air. He had not heard the name of Brithilca since his childhood but remembered how avidly he had followed the legend of the dragon guardian and gazed up at the throne of the dragon kings.
Legend said that Brithilca’s body rested deep below the citadel, but others spoke of how the dragon throne was the petrified remains of Brithilca himself, twisted around the royal seat. Indeed, the dragon consisted of a material completely unknown to man; neither stone nor metal of any known kind, yet having properties of both – and magical ones beside.
Although Soren had not witnessed these abilities with his own eyes, he had read every existing account. For instance, it was known that when the ruler of Caledan died, the petrified dragon moved to envelop the throne in a protective shield under its wings. When the new monarch was presented to the throne, the dragon could choose whether to accept them as a worthy leader. If it deemed the human worthy, the dragon opened its wings to allow them to seat the throne and receive the crown of the dragon kings upon their head.
However, if the candidate was deemed unworthy – as had happened three times in the throne’s history – the throne remained out of reach under the sweeping, impenetrable cloak of the dragon’s wings. This was considered to be a poor omen and in all three occurrences the subsequent reigns were short and unhappy.
On one of these occasions, the unlucky soul had insisted upon being crowned without Brithilca’s blessing. Baran the Unfortunate’s reign was the shortest on record, lasting merely a few minutes, as he tried to force the wings apart with various tools and implements. The dragon did indeed move, but only to roar in his face and bathe him with dragon fire, a talent previously unknown in its repertoire of abilities.
People journeyed from far and wide to see the fabled dragon throne and hope to see it move or twitch, however they were rarely rewarded as Soren knew from experience. He had himself spent countless hours sitting before the immobile form. “Brithilca is very good at sitting still,” his amused mother had told him. Soren did not have time to dwell on memories, for the abbot continued to speak.
“It is the greatest secret in the country that we were and remain allied with the dragons and Eldarkind. Not many people even know of their existence, but you will have learnt of them in your history studies. In the great wars millennia ago, a pact was created between dragons, man and Eldarkind to create a lasting peace and guardianship for the wellbeing of the world. You know of this, yes?”
Soren nodded, and the abbot proceeded.
“The spirit of Brithilca has guarded the royal family and by extension the wellbeing of the kingdom ever since. In times of need, he is somehow able to warn of peril, signifying that once more the three races must be united to face whatever threat is looming, or risk the undoing of the pact, which would have devastating consequences for all.
“In my dreams Brithilca spoke to me of an impending doom on the land. He did not say what it might be, only that if not righted, terror and war would consume the world. He took the crown you seek, though I know not where, and flew away into the rising sun. When I awoke the following morning, I could not believe my eyes. The crown had truly disappeared, as if the dragon had strayed from my dreams to reality.”
Soren sat in wonder, food forgotten at the thought of Brithilca being very real. As a child he wished fervently that dragons were real, had even dreamt of his own dragon. They would go adventuring together, saving townships and slaying evil villains and he would be proclaimed the best prince that had ever lived in Caledan. Chilled, stiff and with a numb bottom from the hard floor of the throne room, he had often daydreamed that the dragon would come to life and whisk him away on wings. He almost smiled with nostalgia at the naivety of his childish wishes.
&n
bsp; “Will Zaki know this?” Soren said.
“Of my dream? Certainly not. I have shared this with just yourself and Hador. However, I am certain he will know of all else we have spoken of.”
Soren considered the abbots words and his own knowledge. “Then he will come here seeking it. What of the throne itself? Will it accept him with or without the crown?”
“I have received word that the great dragon has not yet relinquished the throne, however that news is two days old and may not reflect the results of the coronation, if it has happened yet,” the abbot said. Soren raised his eyebrows, the question obvious upon his face. The abbot explained what had passed in Pandora since Soren’s flight. Anger stirred again in Soren’s belly as he realised the extent and detail of his uncle’s scheming, but the abbot’s news gave him hope that his sister – having been retired from the succession – still lived.
“I do not think the throne will accept him,” the abbot continued. “Not after the sins he has committed. Instead, as the one other candidate at present, I think you are meant to seek the crown and prove your worth as the rightful ruler of Caledan.”
“Where is it?” Soren asked, distracted.
To his surprise, the abbot chortled. “Well if it were that simple to find, where would be the challenge!” His eyes twinkled with sudden merriment. Soren fell quiet and did not respond. The abbot’s humorous expression faded as he saw the young man’s change of mood. “Kingship – it is not meant to be an easy thing,” he said gently.
Soren raised his hands wide in admission of his indecision and a sudden thought struck him. “You said that we were and remain allied with the Eldarkind... and the dragons,” he said. “Dragons still exist? Truly?” The abbot nodded and Soren’s mouth fell open.
The abbot filled the silence. “I think you know as well as I do that with the events of the past week, not all of the royal blood line can be trusted with such knowledge. The royals know more than most about the dragons, it is true, however only the abbot of this monastery and the ruling monarch knows everything we have to know about the dragons, the Eldarkind, the treaty, and all its implications.
“As you know, all rulers have to prove their worth before lifting the crown onto their heads. Only then can they be known to be fit for the sharing of this knowledge. Had you been crowned king in your own way, you would have found this out like your mother before you, and her father before her, and so on. As abbots and even as monks, we swear complete fealty to the crown, but as an abbot, we show responsibility and commitment above others and so we are trusted with this knowledge.”
“Does Zaki know this?” Soren interrupted with sudden concern.
“There is no reason that he should know of this,” replied the abbot. “I tell you this now, because of the three direct heirs of the bloodline, you are the one worthy of carrying on the crown. Zaki has proved his great failings as a ruler, need I say more. Of Irumae, we do not know, forgive me for saying this. Thus, that leaves you – your mother’s heir. I should not be telling you any of this, yet I believe it is the only option, if Zaki is not to get his hands on the crown, that you be best equipped with all the information we have. You have proved with your determination thus far that you are meant for something higher in this battle.”
“What of my sister?” Soren said, dragons momentarily forgotten. “How can I help her? I’m sure she is still alive and I cannot leave her to Zaki’s mercy!”
However, the abbot shook his head. “I can imagine how hard this is to hear from me, but Caledan must take priority before your sister. I know your heart tells you to go and and save her, yet I believe for her sake, we must look to help from another direction. You need to concern yourself with the rescue of the crown and feel no guilt or shame in that decision. What will be, will be and if she is meant to be saved, help will come to her by another means. My contacts within Pandora already search for her with all means available to them.”
“I can’t leave her,” whispered the prince. His eyes filled with tears as he scowled at the hopelessness of the situation. “I know how important this is, but I can’t leave her, she is all I have left.”
“You have us all, Soren. Might I suggest that whilst you concern yourself with the crown, we will continue trying to locate Irumae and to liberate her if possible. Our men will be arming themselves for war; as you can see they have already begun. We may be calm in times of peace and take up the sickle and the hoe but in times of war hell hath no fury like our warriors. They are trained in a thousand different ways of killing and are the most skilled of their kind in the land. I can spare some more men to search for your sister, but I cannot send too many for fear of arousing suspicion.”
“Please”, asked the prince, filling that one word with hope and desperation.
“I will see that it is done,” the old man replied. “Now, although I feel most rude, as you are our esteemed guest, I am afraid we do not have much time and rather than offer you a bath and relaxation, I must call a council of the elders. I would appreciate your attendance as there is must to discuss and decide.
“Zaki himself may not leave the capital until tomorrow, or, to be correct, tonight at the stroke of midnight, but I am sure when that moment strikes he will ride hard for here. He has already sent forces to tighten as a vice about us. They grow daily. He seeks to take the crown with no resistance or delay, to be sure. He will not be long. We have no time to dally.”
~
The council lasted nearly all day and the sun was low in the sky when the meeting concluded. Soren was used to attending councils but never ones so filled with talk of war. It unnerved him. For all his life, Caledan had been a safe and peaceful place, and yet now there was much talk of death and the sacrifices that must be made. He shivered, worried.
The gatherings were currently a daily occurrence at the monastery, he was informed. Since the abbot’s dream and crown’s disappearance, the elders of the monastery, led by the abbot, had convened to update each other on the progress of their assigned areas. Soren’s arrival had caused a stir; nevertheless the day’s more mundane updates were overshadowed by the knowledge of what was to come and the council split with heavy hearts.
Hador’s face was the only one Soren recognised. Others were introduced in quick succession – Soren forgot most of their names. Although all present showed deference to Soren, it was clear they had no need of him to arrange their affairs. Although they consulted him politely, he knew the gestures were empty. If anything, he thought his inexperience painfully obvious and was relieved to listen.
The eventual plan was that the monastery would be garrisoned by the several hundred monks living there. All well trained, only numbers concerned the council. In the confusion of the uprising, none could estimate Zaki’s support; some argued a few thousand men, some argued tens of thousands. In either case, the monks were outnumbered and it was decided that Soren should be escorted to safety by a party trained to the highest level.
Soren felt furious. He wanted to stay and fight; more than most he had a reason to. He pictured Zaki’s face across the grounds, locking eyes as his uncle became aware of him, and charging for him. The clash and squelch of his sword rending armour and flesh. Zaki’s dead eyes glazed over. The sweetness of that revenge.
Soren understood the abbot’s wish not to endanger his life, however he still felt irritated by what seemed like their lack of faith in him. Breathing deeply, he tried to calm down, and started, realising he had begun to daydream. The abbot led him to his study where they could speak in private.
The abbot’s study suited him. Tall bookcases surrounded three of the walls, below the high vaulted ceiling that Soren had noticed in every single room, no matter how grand or small. Volumes crammed upon every bookcase: some of monstrous size, others delicate and all of the finest quality.
A huge wooden desk, covered with flowing carvings stood in the centre of the room, with a high backed matching wooden chair behind it, and a smaller chair to its side piled high with sheaves
of paper. There were books and similar bundles of paper on the floor next to the chair, resting on a rich rug that covered a simple stone flag floor. It somehow managed to be simultaneously grand and humble.
Dumping the papers on the floor, the abbot invited Soren to sit with a wave of his hand. Soren sat, as the abbot placed his elbows on the tables, hands together in a steeple in front of his face and casting a measured stare at the prince. After a long pause, Soren fidgeted, unsure what to say or whether to break the silence. The abbot stirred, and placed his hands clasped flat on the desk.
“I apologise,” said the abbot. “I was contemplating the best course of action. There are several options. We would do well to send envoys to the Eldarkind and the dragons each, but I suspect the dragons hold the crown and that is what you must follow. If it were not at stake, it would do you well to go to the Eldarkind. You are the highest envoy possible to send and it would be good for you to visit the home of your ancestors.
“Another time though I think, another time. Hopefully there will be time for this ‘another time’!” The abbot smiled at the prince, who smiled back uncertainly, caught off guard by the unexpected humour.
“We expect Sir Edmund two days from now at the earliest,” continued the abbot. “I believe he will not tarry at Arlyn. I shall send a scout to meet him en route tonight who can, if needed, lead him to your location.”
“I want to fight!” Soren said. The abbot held up a hand to silence him.
“With all due respect, you speak with the voice of the young. You cannot yet see paths that only become visible with the wisdom that age and experience brings. What if you fall in the battle? Caledan would be lost to Zaki. You have been well trained, but a stray arrow may slip between your armour, and in fact, any number of mishaps could befall you. It is of the utmost importance that you remain alive. Your existence may very well hold the key to the lives of Caledan’s population and of others around the world.
“If you were to die, it would change the course of history. Battle will come to you, but now is not your time to fight. Now is your time to follow a higher path. I do not think we can defeat Zaki, however if we can delay him and buy your freedom and success, then it is worth it. Please, trust to the wisdom of the council.”
