by Chrys Cymri
‘There were so many children,’ Raven said quietly. ‘Falling all around me. I could only catch two. Two out of so many.’
The tone in his voice was one I’d not heard before. Regret? Grief? ‘This isn’t the first time you’ve seen death.’
‘Not like this. Not when there was no need. Children. Falling from the sky.’ I heard him draw a deep breath through his nostrils. ‘Your body is bent in grief, but I smell no tears on your face.’
‘It’ll come later,’ I said. ‘Probably when I’m in bed and trying to sleep.’
He cocked his head, faint starlight sliding across his eyes. ‘Do you only cry when you’re alone?’
‘Mostly, yes.’
Raven put out his leg, and I climbed up to his neck. Only when I was in place did he say, ‘And so do I.’ Then he launched us away from the camp.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Sunday morning services were made bearable by several doses of coffee and ibuprofen. The Yes, Minister tone rang on my iPhone in the early afternoon. I made no attempt to answer and, afterwards, I blocked Sue’s number.
Peter contacted me later that evening. ‘Are you free Monday afternoon? Three o’clock? I’d like to come over.’
‘Yes, I’m free--’
‘See you then.’
When he appeared, just over twenty-four hours later, I poured us each a cup of tea and we went into my study. ‘Sue Harkness phoned me,’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Said you’re refusing to answer her calls? So she asked me to pass a message on to you. She said, “Tell Penny I’m sorry, things got out of hand. We’re sending aid to the vampire colony. Let me know if there’s anything else we can do.”’ His eyes flicked around the room, alighting on the Daleks, the Doctor Who calendar, anywhere but on me. ‘She was sorry that your third visit to the colony “included such a tragedy”. For some reason, she seemed to think I knew all about it.’
I carefully placed my mug down on the desk. ‘Peter, I was going--’
‘When I’d realised that you’d been going back, and deciding not to involve me, that was bad enough.’ Now his gaze had come to me, and I had to force myself to meet his eyes. ‘So I tried to work out what I’d say to you. Then I realised what I wanted to say wouldn’t be anything you’d want to hear. Because I’d like to say, “I can’t have the mother of my children risking herself in this way.” But you won’t be, will you? The mother of my children.’
‘Peter, I--’
‘Is it like Peter Capaldi’s first Doctor Who episode?’ Peter mused. ‘‘When Clara had to get used to the Doctor being so different? When she realised that the person she thought she knew was actually nothing like who she’d built her life around?’
‘But that’s not--’
‘Or maybe it’s more like the Unbound series from Big Finish,’ he continued. ‘David Warner’s Doctor, in that parallel universe, when you’re not sure he could be the same man as the Doctor we know. Makes you look again, and wonder how much of the person is who you wanted to see, rather than what was really there.’
‘You know me,’ I said, forcing my voice to remain steady. ‘I’ve never pretended to be anyone else.’
‘No, you just keep quiet, because that’s easier for you.’ Peter shook his head. ‘But, don’t worry, I understand now. It’s taken me a long time, but I finally understand. The life you have now, that’s the life you want to have. The freedom to go off on your own, without asking or worrying about anyone else. You don’t want anything to change that.’
‘You’ve got to do things in your job which can’t involve me. Dangerous things.’
‘Which is why one of us would have to keep ourselves safe,’ Peter said steadily. ‘It wouldn’t be fair for both of us to be risking our necks.’
I rubbed my sweating palms against my trouser legs. ‘Fair to whom?’
‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Peter grimaced, then put his tea down. ‘About having children. I know now. You can’t give me children.’
‘I don’t know if I can’t. I just know that I don’t want to.’
‘Same thing.’ His long sigh brought my gaze back to his tear-filled eyes. ‘You can’t. Maybe not physically, but emotionally, and it’s the same thing. You can’t be a mother.’
‘I’ve already been a mother,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t you understand? And now James is finally an adult, I don’t want to go back there again.’
‘I’ve been trying to think of a compromise,’ Peter continued. ‘I'm paid more than you, so it makes sense for me to be the one who goes out to work. But I’d offer to be the one who stays at home, if I thought that would make a difference. It doesn’t, does it?’
‘I don’t think…’ My mind scrambled desperately for the right words, the sentence that could turn the situation around. ‘It’s just because…’
Peter leaned forward, wrapping my fingers in his warm hands. ‘Penny. For once, please, just tell me what you think.’
I took a deep breath. ‘If you marry me, we will not have children. And don’t expect me to change my mind, because I won’t.’
He sat back, and my hands fell to my sides. ‘You won’t, because you can’t. Well, I can’t change my mind either. This is what I’ve always wanted, Penny. To be married, and to be a father. I can’t give that up.’
‘Then what do we do now?’ I asked, my voice breaking on the last word.
‘The only thing we can do.’ He rose to his feet, and so did I. ‘Penelope White, I love you. I always will. But, well, there is no compromise solution, is there?’
The silence was deafening. Peter was still standing in front of me, but I could feel the images of our future tearing up and scattering like confetti. ‘No.’ Somehow I managed to force the words out. ‘There isn’t.’
‘Then we need to let each other go.’ He raised my left hand to his mouth and gave it a kiss. His other hand smoothed the hair back from my face for the last time. He turned and, at first unsteadily, and then with increasing confidence, walked down the hallway.
The door shut softly behind him. ‘“Not with a bang, but a whimper,”’ I found myself whispering as I sank back down into my chair.
Well, there was plenty to do. I needed to send emails to the wedding venue and the photographer. Bishop Nigel would probably expect a phone call. Rosie should be told to clear the date in her diary. At some point I needed to find a way to speak to Peter’s parents. Or maybe a carefully prepared letter would do? Did I even have their address?
My eyes burned. My throat constricted. I knuckled my cheeks. No. I’d spent Saturday night crying, and Sunday evening hadn’t been much better. No more. Not now.
A movement outside caught my attention. I rose to my feet. Raven stood in the back garden, conversing with Clyde. Sun glittered across his elegant body, highlighting his iridescent scales and golden claws. His wings were still arched above his body, a breeze catching in the intricate folds.
My right hand reached up, and I twisted the engagement ring from my finger. I placed the small golden band on top of my computer screen. Then, with a deep breath, I walked through the kitchen and opened the back door. Raven’s head turned, and I found myself meeting his blue-green eyes.
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Penny White will return in ‘The Nest of Nessies’
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Chrys Cymri
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About the Author
Priest by day, writer at odd times of the day and night, I live with a small green parrot because the upkeep for a dragon is beyond my current budget. Plus I’m responsible for making good any flame damage to church property. I love ‘Doctor Who’, landscape photography, sin
gle malt whisky, and my job, in no particular order. When I’m not looking after a small parish church in the Midlands (England), I like to go on far flung adventures to places like Peru, New Zealand, and the Arctic.
Discover other titles by Chrys Cymri
Dragons Can Only Rust
Dragon Reforged
The Dragon Throne
The Unicorn Throne
The Judas Disciple
The Temptation of Dragons (Penny White 1)
The Cult of Unicorns (Penny White 2)
The Marriage of Gryphons (Penny White 3)
The Vengeance of Snails (Penny White 4)
Connect with Me:
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/chryscymri?fref=ts
My website: http://www.chryscymri.com
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/1076161.Chrys_Cymri
First Chapter of The Dragon Throne
Fianna dropped a final portion of straw on the stable floor. Resting a moment on her pitchfork, she wiped a grimy sleeve across her sweaty forehead. The smell of horse dung seemed to cling to her very skin, and she studied the stalls left between her and the main doors. Four more to muck out. Her muscles ached already. Taking a deep breath, she moved on.
‘My lady.’ Ern, the stablemaster, suddenly stepped in front of her.
Fianna straightened. She was tall for her eleven years, but still had to tip back her head to look him in the eye. ‘You’ve told me, in here, I’m Fianna.’
‘Not today, Your Highness.’ He gently but firmly removed the wooden handle from her grasp. ‘I haven’t forgotten the grief of fourteen months’ standing. Today is your mother’s death day.’
‘I didn’t forget,’ she told him bitterly. ‘Please let me work.’
‘You should be with the King--’
‘My father hardly ever knows when I’m gone.’ The words hung in the warm air. Fianna turned her head, regretting the outburst. A princess did not speak that way of the man who was her ruler as well as her sire.
‘Aye, lass, I know.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ern reach out, then drop his hand away before it could touch her. ‘It has been but a year. He might now change.’
And the dragons might come down from the Sacred Mountains and sit one of their own upon the Throne. Fianna winced at the saying. It had been one of her mother’s favourites. ‘You’re right. I’d better go.’
‘I’ll get Jeremy to finish here.’
Fianna nodded. She glanced at the last stall. ‘Tell him Midnight likes to sleep in the right corner. I always put extra straw there for him.’
‘Aye, my lady.’
The shower rooms were empty. Most of the pages were still at their duties, cleaning stalls, repairing tack, training the dogs, the multiple tasks which young nobility were expected to undertake in their earliest service to the King. Fianna stripped off her dusty clothes, dropped them into the communal barrel, and stepped into a hot jet of water. A child of the royal family, she had discovered when she had first come to the stables just under a year ago, was expected to keep to the lighter duties in the castle itself. Carrying messages, greeting visitors, serving the King.
Fianna slicked back her long hair. She liked the stables, the kennels. Animals were often better than people when you wanted to someone to talk to. Midnight was one of her favourites. The gelding always nuzzled her in greeting, and never minded if she left tears in his mane.
Once she’d rinsed, she had no excuse to delay any longer. Fianna reluctantly left the shower, grabbing a towel as she stepped into the next room. Heat rose from the floor, drying her skin as she scrubbed her scalp with the towel. As usual, it took longest to convince a brush to tame her mass of hair. She was convinced that a curry comb would work best, but she couldn't see Ern agreeing to let her use one for such a purpose. And the tell tale strands of red she’d leave behind would give her away.
Beyond the drying room was the dressing area. Fianna opened the wooden door to her own wardrobe. Fortunately she had one set of court silks still unworn. They’d only been sewn for her a month ago, so they’d still fit. She slipped the trousers over clean undergarments, tucked the shirt into the waist before tightening the belt. Dark green and black. Not the royal colours, but the red badge was in its place above her left breast. A golden bar across the top, cutting across the golden wings of the dragon, marking her as heir to the Dragon Throne.
Fianna laced up her boots, then stared out the window. A wind was playing with remnants of snow, swirling white flakes across the cobblestones. The entrance to Secondus castle was several hundred feet away, and Fianna was tempted to use the underground passage from stables to pages’ quarters. She put the thought aside. It would not do for the King’s daughter to be seen entering the castle from the servants’ halls.
Gritting her teeth, she made her way across the courtyard to the main entrance. The chill stripped the last of the shower’s warmth from her body, and she was grateful for the mulled wine warming over a brazier just inside the thick doors. She ignored the guards’ respectful salutes as she dipped a mug into the spicy liquid.
‘Your Highness.’ Fianna was unable to stop the grimace at Bernard’s low voice. ‘Your sire will meet you in the Queen’s apartments.’
A Queen must be able to hide her emotions from public view. Her father’s advice helped her to swallow her dislike of the Court Recorder, assisted by a helping of mulled wine. ‘All right, I’m going.’
Fianna had occasionally heard guests to the castle complain at its size. Since she’d grown up in it, she couldn’t understand how they got lost down the rambling corridors, or wandered into the wrong wings. Her father knew it even better than she did. He had always won their games of hide and seek. Back in the days when they had played games together.
Her mother’s apartments were on the third level of the north wing. Fianna stopped outside the painted door, automatically checking her clothes, her hair. The seal had only been broken today. The edges of the plaster were rough. She laid a hand on the wood, then pushed it open.
The dust of a year’s neglect stirred at her entrance. Fianna shut the door behind her, then stood in the gloom, remembering other times. Her mother had never been strong, and had spent much of her time in her rooms. But they had been happy, the three of them. In the evenings, Fianna and her father had often come here for games and tales. A game board still stood by one grey window, the players ready. And a book rested on a bed-side table, next to the chair where her father had often sat, holding the hand of her mother as she laughed at his gentle teasing.
But last year the winter had been long and harsh. The winds which blew off the dragons’ Sacred Mountains seemed to find their way in through the thick stones of the castle itself. Despite the efforts of the best mages, her mother sank gradually from life. In one of her last, lucid moments, she had pressed into Fianna’s hand the gold and ruby Summoning Ring. Fianna raised a hand and touched the band where it rested against her neck, held fast on a chain of gold.
‘Take one last look.’ Her father’s soft voice startled Fianna. She glanced at him, but Stannard was studying the room. ‘Fourteen months have passed since I placed my seal on wet plaster outside this door. But the seasons turn on, and the year is soon over. This is the last time we will see this place as she left it. Tomorrow, all must change. Will you want these rooms?’
‘No!’ The violence of her response finally made him look at her. ‘Leave them like this.’
Her father sighed. He ran a hand through his short cropped hair, and for the first time she realised that the once red head was now chased through with grey. ‘The year of mourning is now past, Fia. These apartments must be opened again, and we must both dress in lighter colours. Life must go on.’
Fianna felt her hands bunch into small, useless fists. ‘I don’t want to forget her.’
‘No, you must not.’ Stannard shook his head. ‘Always remember how you felt, fourteen months ago, and again today. Anyone who dies leaves others behind to mo
urn. Remember that, when you are Queen, and have to order knights into battle. For every one that dies, more are left with dark clothing and empty rooms.’
‘We’re not at war,’ she said stubbornly, kicking at a pattern in the carpet.
‘Not at the moment. But one never knows what may come from the Third Kingdom.’ He walked over to the bed and retrieved the book. ‘You should have this. It always was your favourite.’
Fianna numbly accepted the volume, the cover dry and cracked. The emblem of the royal house was etched into the leather, the dragon’s long neck curved around the title. ‘Will I ever meet a dragon, Father?’
‘You might, at your coronation. The Family appeared at mine.’ He moved through the bedchamber, touching the game board, studying a portrait. His next words were soft, as if meant to be heard only by himself. ‘Yes, you are now my heir.’
‘But I already was,’ Fianna protested. ‘You said so.’
‘Only if no boy were born to your mother.’ He returned to her, touched her briefly on one shoulder. ‘That’s why your aunt wasn’t Queen, though she’s three years older than I am. In any other family, the firstborn inherits. But the Dragon Throne goes to a male, if one exists. Come, Fianna, your mother’s body must be put to the flames. Her spirit has now had time to leave her.’
Fianna allowed him to take her from the room. She kept the book with her as they descended into the catacombs beneath the castle, pressing the tome against her chest like a shield. With a calm, steady voice, her father spoke the final words over her mother’s casket, his torch spluttering in the damp. Then he dropped the flame onto the oak, and they turned away as the fire began at their backs.
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The rustle of papers and a heavy sigh made Fianna look up from where she sat by the fire, using the light to practice in her copybook. She absently rubbed an cramped hand as she watched her father move to add another log to the flames. ‘So, Fianna, what did you think of that last judgement today?’
