Sea Dragon Heir

by Constantine, Storm

  THE FAMILIES HAD GATHERED in a room on the second floor which overlooked the sea. Fragrant logs spat amid flames in the hearth, and steaming flagons of mulled wine stood on trivets before them. Most of the castle staff were present, allowed the privilege of a cup of wine with their employers. This usually occurred only at the major seasonal festivals. The Leckerys were all there, including Saska’s sister and senior members of their own staff. Khaster’s younger sisters and his brother, Merlan, dominated the company with their high-pitched laughter. Nobody chastised them for their raucous games. Thomist stood awkward yet jovial at Everna’s side, clearly unsure how to behave in front of Valraven. And there he was, standing with his back to the door, instantly recognizable; not just for his presence, but for the fact that Ellony was attached to him like ivy. Her pale face was pink along the cheekbones. The light in her eyes quivered and flickered like the flames in the hearth. Ellony noticed Pharinet and Khaster before anyone else did. Pharinet saw a fleeting expression of complete awareness cross her friend’s face, then Ellony disengaged herself from Val and said, “Here they are.” Valraven turned round. Pharinet felt sick. His gaze met hers as if their eyes were joined by a cord. The room seemed to go still, people to freeze. A second passed, another. Then Pharinet stepped forward and kissed her brother lightly on the cheek. The tension in the room was released. “Val, welcome home.” She hooked an arm through one of Ellony’s elbows. “Well, here they are, our men the wanderers, safe and sound.” Ellony gave her a shrewd glance. The fire in her eyes had dampened a little. “You’ve been out grubbing on the beach again, haven’t you. Really, Pharry, I believe you’d have forgotten to come home if Khas hadn’t ridden out for you.” Pharinet managed a laugh. “I was just on my way back, actually. You know what I’m like. I forget about time.” She glanced again at her brother. He was looking at his betrothed, and trying to smile, but Pharinet could perceive a bitterness beneath it. Like Khaster, his face had aged. He seemed harder somehow, held in. Perhaps it was because of the flame that danced between them. Thomist held up his wine cup. “Replenish your drinks, everybody. We must propose another toast.” From the glow in everyone’s cheeks, Pharinet guessed a lot of toasting had been going on already. She accepted a warm cup from a maidservant. The liquid within it was dark and cloudy. She could not perceive its color. How could she drink from it and wish her brother well? The fervor of the family and their guests was a tide that caught Pharinet up in its swell. It carried her to the dining hall, and after a meal, it swept her back to the family salon, where more wine flagons appeared from the kitchens, puffing steam like breath. She found she could smile and converse merrily, almost as if she had borrowed a ghost to talk for her and installed it in her body, where she could watch it from the inside. Occasionally, she caught Valraven looking at her, his gaze speculative. He seemed like a stranger. Only months before, they had been close, yet now they watched one another as if over a vast distance, like wary animals. Ellony was unbearable in her fawning delight at having Valraven beside her. She giggled and pulled faces, encouraged by her mother, who looked on with radiant pride. Saska had her youngest child in her arms: Foylen, a boy. Pharinet was not blind to the way Ellony gazed upon this robust baby: she was thinking of the children that she would have herself. Everna made regular sentimental sounds, her hands clasped beneath her chin. Everyone was happy, their mood underscored by a sense of stalwart courage, for they knew Khaster and Valraven would not be home for long. Pharinet felt like a black, wizened thing amid this joyful company. Khaster, sitting beside her, whispered at one point, “I should not have told you what I did. Please don’t dwell on it.” Pharinet raised a hand in a dismissive gesture. “It’s not that. I just can’t put out of my mind the fact that you and Val will soon be gone again.” “It’ll get easier,” Khaster said. “Once we’re out of training, we should get more leave.” “It will never get easier,” Pharinet said, and lightly pressed one of Khaster’s wrists with her fingers. “But it’ll be harder for you than for us, I’m sure.” She smiled tightly. The celebrations continued well into the night. There was no question of the Leckerys returning home. “Let me share your bed, Pharry,” said Ellony. “Mine?” asked Pharinet archly. Ellony shrieked with laughter. “Pharry, what are you suggesting? Don’t be so wicked!” Pharinet sighed. Fortunately, whatever hours of girlish discussion Ellony had planned, they were curtailed by the fact that she fell asleep as soon as she crawled into bed. Wine made her snore. Pharinet stood brushing her hair at the end of the bed, watching her friend twitch and turn beneath the covers. She felt immensely tall and remote, as if she was a goddess temporarily sent to earth to observe the antics of humans.

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, the Leckerys travelled back to Norgance and would not return until the wedding day. Leckery staff would remain in attendance at Caradore to help with the preparations. The castle felt alive, like an ant-hill full of ants. Pharinet found it unnerving, being used to echoing, empty rooms and comparative silence. Khaster embraced her warmly before he left. The next time she saw him would be in the Church of the Holy Fire. So close now; the end of one life, the beginning of another. Would she forget her useless passion for Valraven then? Everna wanted her to try on her wedding gown yet again, so that the seamstresses could make any final adjustments. Pharinet submitted to this passively. She caught Everna looking at her contemplatively on a couple of occasions, but she did not speak. Pharinet had learned how to freeze her sister’s questions and concern, so that Everna now knew the folly of trying to reach her. She no longer said things like. “Why aren’t you happy?” Now it was, “Try to be happy, Pharry.” Pharinet longed only for the comfort of the sea, the sigh and hiss of waves upon the sand, but there were so many things Everna wanted her to do. Presents had begun to arrive from neighboring estates, and also from further afield. Although the emperor’s family would not be represented at the marriage, he was sending a couple of court dignitaries instead. The best chambers were being refurbished for them. Already, crates of gifts had been delivered from Magrast. Their contents had been unpacked in one of the ground-floor rooms, from which the furniture had been removed. Pharinet managed to escape Everna’s gaze for a few minutes and went to examine the haul. The city gifts looked inappropriate for Caradore; overfussy ornaments and tapestries, elaborate decanters and glasses of crystal, golden figurines. They would suit Norgance better, with its dark cluttered chambers, but no doubt Ellony would love them. Because Khaster was regarded as less important than Valraven, he and his bride were not accorded such rich gifts, but Pharinet was pleased to discover she preferred what had been sent for them: a set of embroidered cushions, pewter goblets and such like. Pharinet wandered the labyrinth of gifts, many of which still stood stacked upon the floor or leant against the walls. Several paintings had been sent, and these were covered with linen. Curious, Pharinet went to examine them. She saw from their labels they were destined to remain at Caradore, but perhaps they would show scenes of Magrast. She pulled away the linen on the largest frame to see. For a moment, she was shocked and stepped back with a gasp. It was as if she’d uncovered a window, and someone was there on the other side looking in at her. She saw a pale, sardonic yet voluptuous male face, the mouth set in a smile that bordered on sneering. Thick yellow hair tumbled around his shoulders like the mane of a lion. He sat upon a golden throne, situated somewhat bizarrely in a tamed and ornamented garden, beneath an ancient oak. The painting was beautifully crafted, almost as if the subject could step from the canvas at any moment. Sunlight coming down through the branches of the tree glanced off his golden hair and illumined his eyes. Was it a portrait of the emperor Leonid as a young man? Pharinet took another step back, her head on one side. She was drawn to stare at the picture. There was something repellent about the face before her, yet also seductive. She heard movement behind her, then a low curse. Turning, she saw Valraven had come into the room, and was also looking at the picture. Pharinet forgot about the awkwardness that had shivered between them the previous evening. “Th
is is yours,” she said, pointing at the portrait. “Who is it?” “Prince Bayard,” Valraven said dryly. “He will have sent it to me himself.” “One of the emperor’s sons? How exciting. Is he now a friend of yours?” Valraven made a disparaging sound. “Bayard is not exactly the sort of person anyone could describe as a friend,” he said. “He exists in a universe populated solely by himself.” Pharinet looked back at the picture. “Well, he is the son of the emperor, so I expect he thinks himself unique. Is he the heir?” “No. He is a minor son. As you know, the emperor has many.” “No daughters?” “Only one. A child.” Pharinet shook her head, smiling. “I should know this. We really are so isolated out here.” Valraven shrugged. “Well, when has it ever been our business?” “Even so c” Valraven stepped forward and flicked the linen cover back over the painting. “I want nothing to remind me of Magrast for now.” He smiled at Pharinet. “I was hoping I’d find you here. Fancy a gallop along the cliffs?” Pharinet frowned. “Everna will not be pleased. She has a mountain of trivia for me to attend to.” “So what? Come on.” Valraven offered her his arm, and Pharinet could believe, for a short time, that the brother she had grown up with and loved had not changed at all. They walked to the stables, both remaining silent on the subject of the forthcoming weddings. “Khaster does not seem happy,” Pharinet said. “Is life hard at Magrast?” Valraven shrugged. “It is not the sort of life Khas would have chosen for himself. He wants to run his father’s estate, breed horses, grow corn. Empire building has no attraction for him.” “And does it for you?” “I shut myself off, do what I have to do.” Pharinet narrowed her eyes. “They treat you better than him, don’t they?” “Not really. Khaster makes his own life. He is like an old woman at times, full of tutting disapproval for everything.” “He told me some things about the empire that can only inspire disapproval—the incidents in Cos, for example.” Valraven laughed. “He told you that, did he? There are two sides to every story, Pharry, and each of those sides can argue that they are right.” Pharinet felt a worm of discomfort at Valraven’s words. Surely he did not condone what had happened? Could he have changed that much? Had the luxury and privileges of Magrast corrupted him? He was marked by Madragore at birth, she thought. Perhaps corruption is what happens to the Palindrake men. That could be our curse.