by GARY DARBY
On top of the short staff are gleaming crossed swords against a silver shield. No one says a word, which makes my thick, rasping breath even more noticeable.
She shakes her head as you would when ridding yourself of a troubling fly, and her eyes flick from the golden to Fotina and Alonya.
“Fotina.” She spits the name out as if she had bitten into one those big apples we saw and found it completely rotten and filled with worms.
She takes a deep, rasping breath. “And a child named Alonya.”
Gru brings the scepter up, her hand trembling with fury and points the gleaming rod at Fotina. “I thought you dead by now, Fotina.”
She shuffles over to Alonya and brings the pointed end of her scepter under Alonya’s chin. “Then again, if you had died, I might not have known about this one.”
She turns to Desma. “Idiot that you are,” she snarls low, “you had to march them straight through Dronopolis in broad daylight.”
Desma’s face turns an even brighter scarlet, and her eyes flash, but she stands mute in deference to the queen.
Gru motions to the captain of her guard. “Take these two to our exclusive accommodations reserved just for traitors, and make sure that they receive the appropriate amenities.”
An Amazo, whose helmet carries a double purple plume, draws her sword and waves ahead a dozen of her warriors. With drawn swords, they form two lines on each side of Fotina and Alonya.
The guard leader motions toward Warrior Hall. Before they move off, Fotina calmly says, “You won’t win, Gru, it is her time, and yours is over.”
The queen’s face turns dark, and she sucks in a breath. Enraged, she draws back her mace as if to strike Fotina, but stops. Instead, she croaks out, “Remove them from my sight, now!”
The leader pushes Alonya, and the young Amazo whirls as if she would fight back, but Fotina swiftly grabs her. “Not now,” I hear Fotina whisper, “you would just shed your blood for no reason.”
Alonya struggles for a moment more in Fotina’s arms while she stares at the captain’s sword point which plays just in front of her face. Then, she spins away and the two, flanked by six guards on each side, march away.
The queen watches them for a brief moment before she turns to us. Her gaze sweeps over our group before she stares hard at Golden Wind. I can’t see, but I have the feeling that the golden is returning her stare, neither blinking nor turning away from the queen’s imperious gaze.
“So it is true, daughter,” she murmurs. Her eyes never leave the golden, and they seem to gleam with a fiendish delight. “You’ve brought me the golden dragon.”
She peers at me. “And more, as you said.”
Her words throw a chill over my body as if she breathes ice into the air. I don’t know what my companions hear, but what I hear is cold malice mixed with smug satisfaction.
Then, Gru’s face changes expression to sinister exultation as if she’s captured a long-sought-after prize.
Flicking my eyes toward Desma, I’m surprised to see that her face doesn’t reflect her mother’s. Instead, I see anger, bewilderment, and confusion.
I have no idea of what the two spoke about in the great hall, but I can’t help but feel that Desma has come away from the audience with something approaching deep puzzlement.
But of what?
“Yes, my mother,” Desma replies in a low tone and motions to the rest of our company. “These are the ones that I spoke of.”
She hesitates before saying, “Krista tells me that they fought bravely with us at the Steps of Geb. As I said, if Fotina had not warned—”
The queen makes a slashing motion with her scepter. “I do not want to hear that name again, daughter. Is that understood?”
Desma draws in a breath, hesitates and then says, “Yes, my queen.”
She gestures toward Phigby, “This is the one who tended to my wounds, cured me of the Wilders’ poison, if not for—”
“Yes, yes,” the queen interrupts. “I’ve heard all that. He did what was necessary and if he hadn’t, his and his friends’ heads would be rolling about in the dirt with the ravens pecking at their flesh.”
With the two side by side, I can’t see any resemblance between them. Neither in face nor body. Desma has light skin, the queen’s is dark. Desma is tall while Gru is short, well, short by Golian standards. They speak differently, the way they hold themselves is different.
“I’ve seen enough,” the queen announces. “Bring them to the hall. Their beasts stay here. Double the guard.”
She raises her voice so loudly, I’m sure that it carries clear across the wide plaza. “They are not to leave. Kill them if they try.”
With that, she whirls away and marches back up the stairs. Her personal guard does a precise about-face and once again pace in perfect unison with the queen.
Desma remains behind gesturing toward Helmar. “Your wounded one can stay here, and one other to tend him and to ensure that the dragons remain as they are.”
Her eyes flick to the golden. “If you have any ideas of flying your dragons out of here, I suggest you stop thinking about it.
“Not only are you surrounded by these guards, but the city guard has been notified, and their best archers are already posted around the square. They’ll bring you down before you’ve gotten off the ground.”
“I’ll stay,” I offer. “It’d be best for the others to go.”
“No,” Desma commands. “You and the Anarsi will attend the queen.”
Her voice leaves me cold, uneasy. Why would the queen want to see both Scamper and me? I bring my hand up to my tunic pocket and lightly touch the gemstone.
Does she know? If she does, why would she want Scamper there with me? I glance over at Phigby, and he barely shakes his head. I drop my hand and whistle for Scamper. He comes bounding off the golden and lands in my arms.
Desma points at Amil. “You will stay. Now come, you do not want to keep my mother waiting and remember well what I said about falsehoods. One such lie and you most likely will die on the spot.”
We troop up the grand stairway, and though Desma is obviously still weak from the poison’s effects and limps on her wounded leg, she moves swiftly as if having the queen wait, even for her daughter, is something she doesn’t want to face.
Two Amazos, wearing the purple that mark them as the Queen’s Own, hold the great oaken doors open to give us passage into the marble edifice.
We hurry through and once inside, I’m a bit surprised to find that the interior is a much darker than I supposed. The ceiling is so high that I half-expect to see clouds streaming along.
Though Cara whispers, her voice seems to carry through the air, “We could put a hundred birthing barns in here plus the high meadows.”
“And we’re only seeing a portion,” Phigby points out. “From what I gathered, the other part contains the royal residence.”
On each side stand stone warrior figures, somewhat smaller than those outside, which hold aloft torches that burn low and provide a dim light for the interior.
Ceiling and walls are the same white marble as the exterior, but the side walls are cut into wide panels, each having an exquisite carving. All seem to be of fierce battles, some of Golian fighting Golian with sword and shield, and others of Golian warriors firing arrows at what can only be Wilders riding dragons.
I almost stop walking when I realize that several are of Golians just fighting dragons and sincerely hope that those scenes are from the far past and not from recent times.
The floor is a glossy black. Its sheen is so striking that I can almost see myself as if I were gazing into an ebony mirror. As on the steps, I have a hard time keeping up with Desma, even though she takes shorter strides than usual.
Fortunately, Scamper is behaving himself, which makes carrying him much easier. In fact, the little tub seems considerably subdued by his surroundings and instead of raising his head to sniff the wind currents, as he normally would, he seems quite content to ride in my arm
s.
Seeing that we four Drachs are not speaking and are treading quite close together makes me think that we’re like Scamper, awestruck and a bit overwhelmed; perhaps even fearful. Well, at least I am.
We stride toward a wall that cuts across the vast hall. High on the partition that runs from floor to ceiling are more carvings, but these seem to be of singular Golians in various lifelike poses.
Phigby gestures and murmurs, “Those appear to represent past queens.”
I nod in answer as I let my eyes sweep from one depiction to another. Each carving peers down the hall as if their gaze were on eternity itself, a symbol perhaps that they intended for their realm, or their lineage, to last forever.
Just to our front and centered exactly halfway between the side walls is a raised, half-moon-shaped marble dais on which rests a large, wooden throne. Elegant, sweeping drapes of a dark purple color rise above and behind the throne.
The curtain’s top and bottom are embroidered in a tinted bright silver. On the center drape, behind the throne, are two crossed swords over a silver shield. The side drapes that go all the way to the walls show Amazo warriors with bows notched and aimed skyward.
The impression that the embroidered artwork leaves with me is that the one who sits on the throne is skilled in the practice of war.
On the royal chair sits Queen Gru. I had imagined a grand and imposing throne, perhaps covered with gold sheeting and adorned with sparkling jewels of all shapes and colors. Instead, hers appears simple, not much more than an oversized chair.
I also expected her to be wearing a golden crown with inlaid gems. Instead, her head is bare as if she needs no tiara to denote her royal personage, her bearing and presence all that’s needed.
As we come closer, my eyes grow wide when I get a real look at her seat of power. It’s a beautifully carved and elegant chair made from Dragon Heartwood.
The burnished brown color streaked with gold is unmistakable and glows with a soft gleam, yet I can feel the wood’s power. Even more surprising, it seems to be made of one solid piece as if carved whole from the tree’s heart, without joint or grooving.
I marvel at such workmanship and wonder who the artisans are that can exquisitely sculpt such a chair from Dragon Heartwood.
To each side of the dais, in perfect ranks stand the queen’s palace guards. Desma stops a few paces from the platform and gives a small head bow. “My queen, as you commanded.”
Desma turns as if to introduce us individually but before she can, the queen imperiously commands, “Hold, daughter.” Gru rises from her throne and comes to stand at the dais’s edge.
She points directly at me. “Is he the one you named Hooper?”
Desma bows her head in answer. “Yes, my queen.”
Gru waves me forward in a commanding tone. “Come here, boy.”
I hesitate, but Phigby gives me a nudge with his elbow, and I lurch forward. I set Scamper down, and he immediately scoots behind me and cowers.
Desma reaches out with one of her great hands and pushes me down on one knee. “Commoners and foreigners kneel when they approach the throne,” she growls.
“I’m sorry,” I grimace from the sudden pain of kneeling. “I didn’t know.”
I keep my eyes and face directed at the queen, and I’m sure it’s obvious that I’m in pain. I can’t help but notice that the deeper I frown from the ache in my leg, the more self-satisfied the queen’s expression becomes, as if she’s glad that I hurt.
Gru leaves me in the painful, awkward position for so long that sweat breaks out on my forehead. I don’t know why, but after several glances at her mother, Desma mutters, “Mother, he’s paid homage enough.”
The queen flicks a dark look at Desma before she gestures at me with one hand. “Rise.”
I pick Scamper up as the queen leans down to peer intently at him. For once, Scamper seems as cowed as I am and pushes himself deeper into the crook of my arm.
The queen’s dark brown eyes narrow and there is no warmth in her stare. “How is it that a Drach came by a little one?”
I wet my lips and recount how Scamper and I came to be. “So . . .” the queen lets out slowly, “you say you found him and after that cared for him? Protected the little one from the drogs?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” I answer before swallowing and saying, “he’s my friend, I’m his friend.”
“Your friend,” she snorts as if she finds my statement amusing.
She bends a little closer to Scamper. “Would you like some sweetmeats? Perhaps some honeyed biscuits and juice-filled fruits?”
At the mention of food, Scamper sits straight up. Eeeeetttt?
Queen Gru’s laugh has no mirth as she straightens. “Yes, I promise you a full belly, little Anarsi, as befitting your station as a Hellige Kriger—A Holy Warrior.”
To Scamper, of course, the promise of a full belly is bliss itself, but I have an uneasy feeling about the way she spoke. Scamper, a Holy Warrior?
She turns from Scamper and her eyes now show amusement. “Desma,” she begins in a slow, hollow voice, “tells me that you and you alone can ride the golden dragon that you call Golden Wind.”
I swallow hard several times as my throat and lips seem as dry as if I had been standing in the middle of a desert without water for three days. Licking dry lips, I mutter, “Golden Wind has allowed me to ride her, yes, and as far as I know I have been the only one, so far, Your Majesty.”
She nods to herself slowly as if I have answered some unspoken question. Her sharp eyes never leave me. There’s a coldness in them and something akin to a calculating appraisal as if she weighs and balances two measures in her mind.
The queen then turns to the others behind me. “Professor Phineas Phigby, Alchemist, Book Master, maker of potions and medicines.”
One side of her mouth rises in a crooked, cold smile. “And more.”
Gru turns and gestures toward Master Boren. “Boren Dracon, Dragon Master of the late House of Lorell, and his lovely daughter Cara Dracon.”
She sniffs and juts her chin out toward Cara. “The one true warrior in this tiny company. Come forward child, I would have a better look at you.”
Cara comes to stand beside me and then kneels. “Your Majesty, compared to the warriors of this land, I would not lay claim to such a title, but I do thank you for the praise.”
The queen waves a dismissive hand. “Desma has told me that you fight well, for someone so small. You may rise.”
Gru’s narrow eyes flick over our company. “We do not receive many visitors here, as you might guess.”
Her face turns hard as she fixes stony eyes on Master Boren and Phigby. “In fact, the last time outsiders came to our capital, they brought blood and fury.”
She leans forward and in a cold, penetrating voice murmurs, “I cannot help but wonder, is this what you have brought to us this time as well? Entered my realm uninvited and unwanted?”
Gru straightens, but her intense gaze never leaves us. Her words aren’t shrill or harsh, yet they convey a sense that we are fighting a losing cause even before we have a chance to speak.
Perhaps Phigby feels the same for he steps forward with open hands and kneels. “Your Majesty, may I speak or have you made up your mind as to our fate and I would be wasting my time?”
The queen peers at him for a moment before gesturing limply with one hand. “Rise. You may speak, but know this, if you are going to invoke the promise made long ago by a dead queen, it will avail you nothing. That vow has no claim on me or my people today.”
Her lips turn up in a sneer. “That lineage was found wanting in duty, courage, and honor. It holds no place in this realm, nor will it ever, again.”
Cara and I trade disheartened glances. Before we can even make our case, Queen Gru has crushed our expectations that she would honor the pledge given to Lord Braveson.
Her cold eyes flick over us again. “Besides, why would I listen to someone who was aiding a treasonous traitor to the realm
? Your words are like the chaff that gets carried away in the wind and carry no weight with me.”
She straightens and disdainfully says, “The only question before me now is what to do with you? To behead each and be done with the lot of you would be the easy way.”
Gru brings a finger up to her thin lips and taps on them for a moment. “No . . .” she murmurs. “Better to wait, I may just find a useful purpose for you. Yes, a most useful and profitable purpose.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Desma’s face grow more troubled, perplexed by her mother’s pronouncement. Perhaps she was expecting an order to slay us all on the spot and is confused as to why the queen didn’t order it so.
She takes a step forward and speaks in a firm, determined voice. “Mother, this is not—”
“Hold your tongue, daughter,” the queen commands while jerking her hand up as if to physically stop Desma.
“You do not have Queen Sight, cannot see what I have seen, and know what I know. You would do well to remember that.”
For a moment, the tension between queen and princess is palpable and seems to fill the entire hall. I can hear Desma’s heavy breathing in response to her mother’s harsh stance and words.
My hand starts to edge toward my tunic and the dragon gem as I glance around the room, looking for a plant, stem, a living twig of any sort.
The queen, either anticipating my move or seeing my hand, speaks sharply, “Touch the jewel, Hooper, and you and your companions will die where you stand.”
Her shrill laugh fills the hall. “Oh yes, I know all about the jewel. You think just because we guard our borders jealously that we do not receive word from the outside world?”
Seeing my worried expression, the queen smirks in response. “Rest easy, Hooper, I have no intention of taking it from you. I’m quite familiar with what would happen afterward.”
She sniffs disdainfully, and her mouth turns down in a dark scowl. “Though why one as broken as you was given such a gift, is both preposterous and incomprehensible.
“No, you may retain your gem, Hooper, but through you, it will serve me and in so doing, will serve my realm.”
