by Nathan Roden
“We should go now, or the minstrels may begin singing sooner than we would like.”
Boone climbed on Simon’s back and they took to the skies. Simon changed direction twice, in case they were followed. He felt strong from the meat in his belly, so he took a long route to their destination. He flew low over the sea for several minutes.
Simon felt movement on his back. He heard a scream. Boone had lost his grip. Boone fell and plunged deep into the dark water but rose quickly, crying out for help. Simon plucked him from the water and carried him to shore.
Simon stood aside. Boone shivered on his hands and knees. He coughed, over and over again. And then, he began to cry. Simon kept his distance and said nothing. He felt bad for his friend, who was finally experiencing the grief of his loss.
And then, Simon realized that Boone was not crying at all.
He was laughing.
“Have you gone mad?” Simon asked.
“I fell asleep!” Boone rolled over on his back.
“I fell asleep and nearly drowned! Promise me that you’ll not tell the minstrels this part of our story.”
“You are mad,” Simon said.
“Only my second dragon-ride, ever—and I’ve almost died. Being Captain of your Guard is proving to be most difficult.”
Boone stood up. He rubbed his arms and his teeth chattered.
“How much farther do we have to go?”
“Not far,” Simon said.
Simon spread his wings, pushed off, and flew straight up.
Simon flew to the treetops and sliced branches with his talons.
Boone stared into the sky.
“What are you doi—?”
He jumped out of the way as branches rained to the ground.
Simon landed. He pushed the branches into a pile and set them ablaze with a quick bark of fire.
“Well,” Boone said, “that skill has been of value today.”
Minutes later, Boone was dry and warm. They took off again.
Simon landed in a clearing. He and Boone pushed their way through the heavy brush to reach the cave. Both of them were exhausted. Boone collapsed into a pile of straw grass. Simon lay down on the floor and closed his eyes. He felt a sharp pain inside his mouth. He sat up and worked his tongue between his back teeth. Something fell from his mouth and landed at his feet.
A bone.
Simon kicked the bone away in disgust. He looked over at Boone, who was curled up on the grass, asleep. The scene reminded Simon of the first time he had seen Boone that way—ten years before. He sat and listened to Boone’s steady breathing. Simon’s thoughts wandered—back to the day that he narrowly escaped death.
And the day that he met his friend.
It was a bitter winter in Simon’s eighth year. The snows were heavy and there were very few hunting parties. For four straight months, Simon remained in the same cave. During each of his four days as a human boy, he did nothing but burrow into piles of dead leaves and shiver—and wonder if each day would be his last.
At eight years of age, Simon was not an accomplished hunter—even as a dragon. That winter, he continually failed to catch up with anything of substance. In the quiet of winter, and under a blanket of snow, the animals seemed to sense the dragon. On the best days, Simon made due with a few thin rabbits. More often, he settled for mice or crows. Weakness grew as his body began to feed upon itself.
Simon the dragon lay at the mouth of his cave, listening to the wind whistle through the trees. He longed to hear anything else, even the night cries of the wolves, but even the wolves were silent. Perhaps they slept in their cozy dens—fat and happy after dining on a meal that would not keep a dragon alive for a single day.
Simon floated in and out of consciousness. In his moments awake, he believed that he heard voices in the wind.
Die, the voices said.
Die. You were born to die. You were cursed to die. There is no being on earth that values your life. Your death—will be the cause of celebration.
Die, Simon of Morgenwraithe.
Close your eyes—
and die.
Simon tensed in response to these voices, or thoughts, or whatever they were. He tried to raise his head. He wanted desperately to stand. He knew that he could no longer fly. He had not been able to produce fire for days. His belly cramped and sent fiery pains through him that made him scream.
It was midday.
And he was going to die. He closed his eyes—and he waited.
Behind his eyelids, Simon relaxed. He believed that he had passed into the afterlife—a place of abundance and hope—where he would have another chance. He smelled the aroma of delicious meat—a welcoming feast.
A feast fit for a…
Simon sniffed. He opened one eye. His vision swam, but he could swear that he saw—
A young boy. A boy only a little older than he was.
And that boy carried a small deer. The deer was dead—with an arrow through its neck. The boy took a step toward Simon. And another step. He laid the deer in front of the dragon’s mouth and backed away.
Simon stretched his neck and moved his jaws, but he was weak. So weak.
The boy took out a knife. He cut a piece of meat and held it above Simon’s mouth. The dragon opened its jaws and the boy dropped the meat inside.
The dragon exhaled without moving its jaws. Tiny puffs of smoke blew from his nostrils. The boy cut the heart from the deer. He held it above Simon’s mouth and squeezed.
Simon swallowed. Moments later he began to chew.
He chewed, and he chewed, and he chewed.
The boy fed the dragon until the deer was gone. And then, the dragon slept.
When he woke, the boy was still there. He was sleeping, too.
Simon felt something against his body. He looked down and then he looked at the boy.
The boy had covered him with his coat.
The boy had bruises on his arms and his neck. He had cuts around his eyes, and beneath them his face had patches of black and blue.
Simon tried to sit up. His talons scraped against the cave floor. The boy opened his eyes.
The boy and the dragon stared at each other.
“Thank you,” Simon said.
The boy screamed. He pushed himself backward until his back hit the wall.
“No! No! You can’t talk!”
“Of course, I can,” Simon said. “I can talk much better than I can hunt.”
“You’re him, aren’t you? The son of Bailin?”
“Do you know my father?” Simon asked.
The boy shook his head.
“Do you not…do you not know what became of the King?”
The boy lowered his voice.
“And…to the Queen?”
“They are dead,” Simon said.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said.
“What is your name?” Simon asked.
“Boone. Boone Blankenship.”
“You saved my life.”
“I could teach you how to hunt,” Boone said. “It is the one thing that my father taught me to do. I do the hunting, so that he can keep drinking.”
“What happened to your face—and your arms?” Simon asked.
Boone stared at the floor.
“He gets mean when he’s drunk. And he gets really mean when I don’t bring home meat before dark.”
“It is already dark,” Simon said. “And I ate your deer.”
“I’m not going home—I might not ever go home.”
“How old are you?” Simon asked.
“Eleven.”
“Do you have brothers or sisters?”
“I have an older brother—but he left.”
“Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. He left once and came back. But then he left again. Papa beat him pretty bad one night. After Papa passed out, my brother left and never came back.”
Simon picked up Boone’s ragged coat and held it out.
“I am much better, now. You
will need this.”
Boone put the coat on.
“Why did you come here?” Simon asked. “Are you such a fierce hunter that you have no fear of dragons?”
“I spend a lot of time in these woods. I’ve seen you—but I’ve yet to see any fire. I thought you might be sick. You looked hungry.”
“I was starving.”
“I will try to bag another deer after sunrise,” Boone said. “And then, I’ll have to get back.”
“Why are you helping me?” Simon asked.
Boone stared at the floor and shuffled his feet.
“You were just a little kid. How old are you?”
“Eight,” Simon said.
“I don’t think a little kid could do anything bad enough to deserve what happened to you,” Boone said.
“I could say the same for you, friend,” Simon said. “Do you—do you love your father?”
“I love my mother,” Boone said. “And that is all that matters.”
A wolf howl brought Simon’s thoughts back to the present. Boone rolled over and began snoring again.
I have only two friends in the world, Simon thought. The other one, I will likely never see again.
Simon crept to the corner of the cave. He picked up an old blanket and shook it to rid it of leaves and dust. He pulled it over Boone the best he could.
“Thank you,” Boone mumbled in his sleep. He pulled the blanket up to his neck and curled up like a baby.
Fifteen
Five Years Earlier
Word came to Castle Morgenwraithe that the eldest son of Viceroy Nicolas Lamont would be wed on the grounds of Castle Islemar. The Village of Islemar was a seaport, vital to the trade and defense of the entire kingdom. Merchant’s vessels sailed in and out of its harbors every day.
Islemar was home to Lord Lamont, who had sworn his loyalty to three generations of Morgenwraithe Kings.
Lamont was named steward of the village by King Vonedor, Bailin’s father. Lamont was a young man, at the time, and very popular among the people during difficult times. Vonedor looked to strengthen his place in the people’s eyes by making a King’s Decree that in the absence of a Morgenwraithe heir, the rule of the Kingdom would pass to Lamont and his heirs. The Kingdom drew much of its wealth from the merchant ship traffic at Islemar.
King Vonedor had two sons at the time of his decree. His first-born and heir, Bailin, was a strong and spirited boy. Vonedor had no fear that there would ever be a break in his bloodline.
Jaclyn Lamont smiled at the ladies, and at the shy young boy who hid behind them. Jaclyn held her father’s hand. She looked up at him and smiled. Lord Lamont did not look pleased at all.
“Lord Lamont,” one of the ladies dipped her head.
“Good day,” Lamont said. “Begging your pardon, but I was expecting Lord Sterling to be present at our introductions.”
“Begging your pardon, Viceroy,” the woman dipped her head even lower. “Lord Sterling developed quite a thirst on our long journey—he will join us very soon.”
The boy continued to hide behind one of the nursemaids. He sucked on his thumb.
“Very well,” Lamont said. “What is your name, madam?”
“I am Helga, Governess to the young King, my Lord.”
“May I present my daughter, Jaclyn,” Lamont said.
The Governess dipped her head once again.
“It is a great honor, My Lady,” she said. “And may I present, His Grace, King Lucien of Morgenwraithe.”
“What in the name of Vehallion’s ghost are you doing, Wench!”
Lord Sterling stomped across the floor, followed by a dozen members of the King’s Guard. They all carried large mugs of ale. Sterling threw his at the nursemaid behind the Governess.
“Out of my way!” he pushed the Governess aside.
“First Knight of the Guard!” Sterling called out.
A Knight stepped to his side.
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Get these women out of my sight,” Lord Sterling said quietly.
“Yes, M—”
“And see that I never lay eyes upon them again,” Lord Sterling said into the knight’s ear. The knight nodded.
The King’s Guard took the three women by the arm and pulled them from the room.
Sterling knelt before Lucien. He yanked the boy’s thumb from his mouth. He spoke quietly into the boy’s ear.
“You have shamed me and you have shamed the Kingdom, Your Grace,” Sterling whispered without a hint of emotion.
“You will, from this day forward, act like a King, and not a frightened little girl. Or, I swear on my brother Bailin’s grave, I will cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat until you are dead. Do I make myself clear, Your Grace?”
The terrified ten-year-old boy nodded. His wide eyes brimmed with tears.
Lord Sterling stood and clicked his heels together.
“King Lucien, of Morgenwraithe—may I present the Lady Jaclyn Lamont, who by decree and good faith, and unity of purpose—shall become thy bride and Queen of the Sovereign Kingdom of Morgenwraithe upon the King’s thirteenth name day. Long live Queen Jaclyn!”
The King’s Guard clicked their heels and raised their swords. Lord Lamont and his attendants did the same.
They all looked to Lucien and repeated along with him—
“Long live Queen Jaclyn!”
Lucien was embarrassed and frightened by the realization that he had humiliated his uncle. Lucien knew that Lord Sterling was loyal to the throne of Morgenwraithe. But Lucien also knew that his uncle was vicious and cruel. Sterling had no fear and no conscience.
Lucien moved his hand to wipe the tears from his eyes, but when he saw the hateful stare of Lord Sterling he dropped his hand to his side. Lucien shuffled his feet and looked at Jaclyn. She smiled sweetly at him.
A flurry of conflicting emotions swept through Lucien’s mind. He wished that he and the pretty little girl could run outside and play. But he knew that he would never have another day of play for the rest of his life.
His confusion led to frustration and anger. The poisoned blood of his fathers brought about a change in Lucien that day. His eyes narrowed and his face grew stern.
On this day, Lord Sterling let Lucien know exactly where he stood.
He may be the King, but he would bleed—and die—like any other man.
Lucien stared at the little girl, who continued to smile sweetly at him.
He hated her for her smile. He hated her for being less miserable than he was.
Jaclyn was too young and too naive to realize that she had become the target of the hatred and fear that Lucien had nowhere else to place.
Jaclyn was startled awake that night. She had fallen asleep in strange quarters; in a high tower of her family’s castle. The lower levels of the castle were given over to the visiting King, and his family and Guard. Jaclyn walked to the door and down the short hallway. She peeked into the other room where her parents were sleeping. Her father snored loudly—the wedding party had lasted for many hours. Lord Sterling and the King’s Guard emptied glass after glass of wine and ale until Jaclyn was certain that they would all die.
She found herself wishing that they would.
Jaclyn went back to her room. She was about to climb back into bed when she heard a sound outside the window. She froze and strained to listen. The tower room stood high over the courtyard. The window was open, and there should be nothing on the ledges in the dead of night.
Please, do not let it be crows, Jaclyn thought.
She had heard the rumors—the whispers—when they thought she could not hear. Lord and Lady Lamont sheltered their daughter from the realities that lay outside of their peaceful village. But Jaclyn was forever curious, and she knew that there was more to life in the Kingdom than she was told. She became adept at eavesdropping on the conversations of the castle servants, and the knights and guards.
She heard about the horrors of the crows.
Jaclyn could
not believe her ears, the night she overheard two knights talking about what they had witnessed at Castle Morgenwraithe. Men who were thought to be enemies of the crown had their heads taken and mounted atop the castle walls—
For the crows.
Jaclyn huddled beneath a stairwell one evening. She listened as one knight told another that when a crow eats human flesh, it goes for the eyes first. Jaclyn covered her mouth but she could not stifle her cries. The knights were horrified that she had overheard them. They tried to calm her but she pushed them away and ran. She hid under her bed. She cried herself to sleep that night.
And on a similar night, there was something outside of Jaclyn’s bedroom window—waiting.
The seldom-used upper room contained only the bed and a wardrobe. A broom stood in one corner. Jaclyn picked it up. She crept toward the window.
“Please, go away!” she whispered aloud. She stopped at the window’s edge and raised the broom above her head. She peered around the edge of the window and found herself face-to-face—
with the dragon.
Jaclyn dropped the broom and screamed. She inhaled to scream a second time, but the sound caught in her throat when she heard the dragon speak.
“Please,” it said.
Jaclyn stared. Her jaw worked up and down but emitted no sound.
“Forgive me,” the dragon said. And then he pushed away from the ledge outside the window, spread his wings and disappeared into the night sky.
Lord and Lady Lamont ran into the room. Lord Lamont carried a torch in one hand and his sword in the other.
“Jaclyn!” he called out. “What is it, child?”
Jaclyn looked out the window and then turned to her father.
“I had a bad dream.”
