by Chrys Cymri
Only child for now. She closed her eyes, letting hot water run down her hair, pound against the stiff muscles of her back. I know he’s old, but Marissa isn’t. And she’ll be Queen, and she’ll be able to tell me what to do. If she wants me in the castle, away from the stables, she’ll have the right. She could even make me one of her ladies-in-waiting.
The thought made Fianna use one of Ern’s favourite oaths. The words sounded grandly horrible, echoing against the tiled shower room. Fianna scrubbed herself furiously. She was never going to serve Marissa. No matter what, she was going to be far from here before that woman tried to give her any orders.
In the dressing room she automatically reached for silks. Then, her lips thinning, she instead lifted out woollen trousers and a cotton jerkin, both in the dull colours of a stable hand. In the armoury she chose a dagger and a sword short enough for her reach. Using the servants’ passageways to climb to her rooms, she packed a few items into a pair of saddlebags. She saddled her favourite mare, then leaned against her for a moment, fighting for control of her emotions. Then she left her mount in the stall, the mare chewing impatiently at her bit.
The engagement dinner had already begun, the nobles present at the castle seated around the table to toast the couple. The conversation stilled as Fianna appeared at the door, her hand flexing above the hilt of her sword.
‘Fianna.’ Her father rose from his seat, his calm, commanding voice a rebuke. ‘You will apologise to Lady Marissa for this entrance.’
So, he wasn’t even going to try to explain. Already he was taking the side of his new consort. ‘Your lady she might be,’ Fianna said angrily, ‘and your Queen, but she will never be either to me.’
Marissa started from her seat, speaking quietly to Stannard. He brushed her words away. ‘That sounds near to a challenge, my daughter.’
For a moment neither of them moved. Then Fianna looked at his wide shoulders, his height, and the equally tall man waiting behind his chair as King’s Champion. ‘I do not challenge you, Father,’ she said finally, lowering her hand. Turning on her heel, she strode from the room and the castle.
A guard fell in behind her as she rode the mare through the gates. Fianna set her mount into a trot, soon losing the guard as the streets twisted and changed behind her. Pausing only to buy some food from a street stall, she hurried from the city.
The night was clear, the roads lit blue and green by the double moons, and Fianna enjoyed the feel of the fresh air on her face as she chewed a meat roll. She knew exactly where to go. Her aunt lived in a small town near the kingdom’s borders. Several years ago, Fianna had visited her, and she remembered the landmarks back to Lundern. The Lady Sallah would take her in while Fianna decided about her future. Her heart light, Fianna pressed the mare into a rocking canter, and let the miles slide past under her mount’s hooves.
<><><><><><>
A storm blew over a few days later. Fianna cursed the lack of foresight which had made her neglect to pack a rain cloak. Her food supplies dwindled, and her stomach grumbled with hunger. She kept the mare plodding on under the grey skies. Finally, five days later, she rode into Lundern, the streets all but deserted in the late evening.
Her aunt’s mansion was set apart from the rest of the town. Fianna passed the grand entry porch to go on to the stables, a lifetime’s training reminding her that the needs of her horse came first. A stable hand rose from a hay bale as she opened the doors. ‘And who be ye?’
‘Fianna, Princess of the Fourth Kingdom and niece to the Lady Sallah.’ Fianna dismounted and, when the man showed no signs of assisting her, led the mare herself into a stall. ‘Would you send word that I have arrived?’
‘Be she expecting ye?’
‘No.’ Fianna placed water and hay into the stall, and removed bridle and saddle as the mare began to feed. At least the small stables were well organised. She easily found cloths and blankets. Rubbing the mare dry, she draped a blanket over the horse, then grabbed the saddlebags.
‘Go to the house,’ the stable hand told her when he returned. ‘Ye will wait the lady’s pleasure in her hall.’
Fianna nodded curtly. Already wet through, she walked unhurriedly to the house, ignoring the rain slicking her hair. A servant opened the door for her, then left her standing in the hallway. Fianna watched water drip from her clothes onto the black tiles, wondering if the servant had got lost looking for her aunt.
The woman finally returned. ‘The Lady Sallah will see you now,’ she said formally. Fianna followed her to a large room, finding her aunt seated behind a massive table. The servant closed the door behind her as she left.
‘Aunt Sallah,’ Fianna said, starting to smile.
The old woman rose and came around the table. The flickering oil lamps brushed over the tightly bound grey hair, and brought no warmth to the blue eyes. Strong hands rested on a thick cane as she studied Fianna. The sternness in her gaze made Fianna swallow. ‘What would you have of me, girl?’
‘Shelter and sustenance, my lady.’ Fianna edged towards the warm fire, wondering why her aunt wasn’t offering her a blanket or a hot drink. ‘I have ridden a long way.’
Sallah rested back against the table. ‘And why is the heir to the Dragon Throne not in Secondus Castle?’
‘He who sits on the Throne has taken another woman to wife.’ Fianna caught a shift in the harsh lines of her aunt’s face, and knew that her description of her father had found her some approval. ‘I couldn’t stay.’
Sallah nodded. ‘You will have to work for your keep.’
After her initial start of surprise, Fianna raised her head proudly. ‘I’m skilled in stable and kennel.’
Her aunt smiled slightly. ‘I know of your skills with horse and hound. But I will teach you much more. You must be able to take the Throne when the King dies. Has he taught you aught about ruling?’
‘I’ve stood beside him while he’s made judgements,’ Fianna answered. ‘He’s taught me that a ruler must use both justice and mercy, and ask the opinion of others before deciding anything important.’
Sallah laughed. Fianna blushed at the mocking note. ‘Then I will teach you what he did not. A ruler answers to no one. All decisions are ultimately hers, despite whatever counsel she weakens herself by taking. Therefore, it is best that she depends on no one, needs no one. Only then is she strong.’
‘But I might not be Queen.’ Fianna found her face heating at the injustice. ‘Marissa might have a son.’
‘Only if Stannard can still sire a child.’ Sallah leaned forward. ‘That is the reason why he has decided to remarry, after all.’
Fianna blinked. ‘What is?’
‘Why, to have a son, of course.’
Yes, of course, Fianna thought. Sallah was right. Maybe this was why her father hadn’t liked to have his sister in the castle. She knew too much about him. ‘He’s betrayed both us,’ she said angrily. ‘My mother, and me. Weren’t we good enough?’
‘You’ll still rule.’ Firelight added a red tinge to her aunt’s eyes. ‘With me to assist you, we’ll ensure that you will one day be Queen. But you must agree to obey me, while you live under my roof and eat at my table. Do you understand?’
Fianna nodded. ‘I understand.’ Yes, she reflected bitterly, I understand a lot of things now.
‘Then take my offer of hospitality.’ Sallah smiled grimly. ‘Yes, you will need to learn to take whatever you can, Fianna. That is the way to power. Take what you need to get what you want. Including a Throne.’
A servant led her to a small room on the third level of the house. Fianna gratefully warmed herself in a bath, then changed into dry clothes. She stared out the window for awhile, physically tired, but her mind not letting her rest. In that direction lay Secondus, and beyond it, the Sacred Mountains of the dragons. For a moment, she wished that a dragon would come to carry her away, even as one did a King several centuries ago. That would make her father sorry, wouldn’t it? He’d leave Marissa and ride into the mountains, pleading for her safe return
. And the Family would demand that he put her onto the Throne...
Fianna turned away and crawled into her bed. Strangely enough, although she couldn’t remember the exact details of her dreams the next morning, they were not about dragons, but unicorns.
<><><><><><>
Read the rest of ‘The Dragon Throne’. Buy the book here:
In the UK, click on this link:
Amazon.co.uk
In the USA, click on this link:
Amazon.com
First Chapter ‘Dragons Can Only Rust’
The sun returned hazily to earth, drawing in its wake a shroud of clouds red and purple, tinged orange at the trailing edges. Gonard stepped closer to her, shifting his large body across the ledge until their wing-leathers rasped together. The last rays of sunlight glittered a rainbow across her eyes, and picked tiny points of light from her red scales. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the far away scent of pine trees. This was the best part of the day, when he could stand beside her as darkness came.
But he did not feel his usual peace tonight. Some thing was not right... He twisted his head to meet her eyes, as the air was suddenly filled with the dusty scent of warning. ‘Vomer?’
She turned her wedge-shaped head away from him. ‘Gonard, the Master is going to unmake me tomorrow.’
Breath hissed between his teeth. His claws dug deep into the rock, his body stilling in horror. Only his tail moved, slamming painfully against the cliff before falling limply to his side. Vomer moved away from him, to stand alone on the ledge.
Without thinking, Gonard whirled, and dove into the Master’s cave. The slope down to the laboratory was almost vertical; his claws left deep marks in the rock as he ran-slid down its length. He swept his wings out and back, opening them to break his speed. The long folds brushed against the dark walls as he landed heavily on the polished floor.
‘Yes, Gonard?’
The Master’s sharp voice brought him to his feet. The man was bent over the long work table, fingers deep in some delicate object. A hand moved suddenly, first to flick an errant strand of brown-grey hair behind an ear, then to lift an instrument from the table. The bright thing growled, and Gonard averted his eyes from its bright beam.
‘There must be a reason for your sudden entrance.’ The Master did not look up as he spoke. ‘Tell me, or I shall dismiss you.’
‘Vomer--is she to be unmade tomorrow?’
The Master placed his glowing rod to one side. He finally raised his head. Gonard retreated a step. The bright, sourceless light which filled the cavern sparkled on the greying hairs. The black eyes bore into his. Gonard turned his own head aside, not daring to face such power. ‘Yes.’
The question came out before he could stop it. ‘Why?’ Then Gonard cringed.
But the Master’s answer was calm, unangered. ‘I need a dragon for a forthcoming Hunt. The Lord Citizen has demanded a green dragon, and she holds materials which I require. You know as well as I that I rarely maintain a spare creature for more than a few months. I’ve forgotten why I have allowed her to exist for so long.’ The deep voice dropped. ‘I have also forgotten why I’ve kept you.’
Gonard lowered his head, puzzled by the Master’s thoughtful tone. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably. One of his claws screeched against the floor, and he stopped. ‘Sorry,’ he rumbled.
‘You have never protested before when I’ve unmade a creature. Why now?’
Don’t you understand? Gonard wanted to ask. Don’t you see? She hasn’t Awakened yet. All her thoughts are slow thoughts, metal thoughts, bubbling up and bursting and leaving nothing behind. Nothing more. Gonard closed his eyes, words piling up in his throat. He had only recently Awakened himself. ‘We have been together for over two years--’
‘Which can mean nothing to you. You are no more than a dragon, created by my own hands and the tools at my command.’ The Master swept an arm at the many things of power which filled the cavern. ‘It is impossible for you to feel an attachment to any thing. Dragons can’t feel. Dragons can only rust.’
Gonard dipped his snout in agreement. The Master knew. He understood things better than a mere dragon. The man went back to his work, dismissing him. Gonard turned carefully, folding his wings onto his back as he limped to the comforting darkness of his burrow.
Vomer came to his side some time later. She lowered herself to her belly, tucking hindlegs underneath. Their eyes reflected the light stretching down the passageway from the laboratory, casting four bright ovals onto the rough walls. Gonard draped his good wing over her, ignoring the small pricks of pain as she shifted and her body spines dug into the leathery flaps.
Vomer closed her eyes. He felt her breathing still as she discontinued consciousness for the night. For a moment he envied her. Since his Awakening, sleep had become a dangerous realm, from which he might not safely emerge. Sleep gave the metal bubble thoughts a change to re-establish themselves, take over again. Perhaps it would have been better if he had never Awakened...
A shiver started at his nose and trembled its way down to his tail, slapping the flattened end against the ground. No. He could lose himself that way as well.
He was never far from losing himself. He must always guard his thoughts. To be unAwakened was to be nothing more than a complex body, organs thumping and bones clicking. To be Awake was so much more... Would Vomer ever have a chance to realise that?
How could the Hunt claim Vomer? He gazed at her, his eyes following the long curve of her neck to her head, the long muzzle pillowed on her outstretched forelegs. A strange pain settled in his chest. He shifted his position on the floor, but the pain remained, puzzling in its lack of physical cause.
He finally dug his claws into the rough rock and pulled himself to his feet. The passageway was well lit with laboratory light. Head bent, he watched his feet carry him forward, their dark-blue nearly matching the dark rock, the crippled form of his left forefoot a suitable companion to the claw-scarred ground.
The sourceless light of the laboratory seemed brighter than ever, and he blinked as he left the passageway. Instruments driven by the Master’s power flashed and gleamed from their wall panels. A dull, steady throb filled the air. The sound made Gonard’s legs twitch uncomfortably, and he had to fight the sudden urge to curl into a tight ball around his head. The Master was creating the Hunt dragon’s brain.
The Master snapped one sharp, impatient word, and the power dissipated. He tore off his black eye-covering. Gonard cowered at his glare. ‘What are you doing here?’
Gonard stood still for a moment in the room of his creation. How many years had he lived? Nearly ten. Ten years--and Vomer had only had two. ‘Master, let me be the Hunt dragon.’
‘You?’ The man walked around the table, coming towards him in slow, powerful steps. He is not just a man, he is the Master, Gonard reminded himself, backing away. The Master’s head might only reach the height of a dragon’s first knee joint, but the power surrounding him made the man seem too large for even the cavern to contain comfortably. ‘Look at yourself. The Lord Citizen demands a perfect dragon. You were twisted from your making, and deformed you will always be. What would he say if I offered you to him? He would spit in my face. That is what he would do.’
The pain was hardening in Gonard’s chest. ‘Then use me to build the Hunt dragon.’
‘Gonard. Enough of this.’ The mocking tone cut through his protest. Gonard lowered his head until his snout touched the warm floor. ‘Listen to me, dragon. You are merely a creation, something brought to existence by my own hands. I can name every item I used to give you movement.’ Gonard glanced up. The Master’s eyes flashed blue-black, and Gonard’s nostrils flared as the heavy smell of angered power dusted them with fire. ‘Vomer is equally nothing more than one of my creations. You are both nothing more than extensions of myself. I can make or unmake you at will. Without me, you are nothing. On your own, all you can do is rust.’
‘Dragons can only rust,’ Gonard repeated.
<
br /> ‘And do you comprehend what that means?’
‘Without a Master, I will return to the nothing from which I came.’
‘Precisely.’ The Master’s stern expression suddenly softened. He leaned back against the table. ‘But you can be useful to your Master. You usually show great interest in my creating, and I have valued your contributions to my designs. Does this Hunt dragon not interest you?’
Gonard paused. The Master was right. In fact, it had been Gonard who had convinced him that a gryphon’s wings should spring from the shoulders, not from the back. He enjoyed the exploration of ancient, decaying texts for illustrations of long extinct beasts, suggesting that in the preliminary sketches the Master add a tooth here, remove a claw there. But the Hunt dragon--no, he could not enjoy that. ‘You don’t need much preparation, Master. You don’t have to do much more than alter the dragon drawings you already have. And I’m not allowed to help you design the interior of a creation.’
‘I will not force you,’ the Master said stiffly. ‘You are dismissed.’
Gonard turned, climbed slowly up the slope to the cool night outside. He stretched out long, golden wings. The right wing had slim, straight lines and a proud expanse of leathery skin. The left sagged, skin wrenched apart, twisted. The night breeze pulled at both. One wing billowed, the other swung loosely, like a collection of rags. He wondered what they were for. Sometimes, as now, when the wind blew against them, he almost knew.
His ears twitched at the scrape of claws upon rock. Vomer pulled herself onto the ledge. Gonard shifted to make room for her, surprised at her presence. She should not have returned to consciousness until the morning. ‘I tried to change the Master’s mind,’ he said, ‘but he wouldn’t listen to me.’
‘It is unimportant,’ she replied calmly. ‘I belong to the Master. He is entitled to do with me as he wishes. Dragons can only rust.’
