Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  “If the demons don’t eat us first, m’lady,” said the tearful servant.

  Thus it was that when Axe-Face made Evelina the offer, Evelina jumped on it with both feet.

  “The ladies-in-waiting are being sent home under guard,” the woman told her. “Her Majesty has most graciously offered to dispatch you to a place of safety, as well.”

  “Under guard?” Evelina asked eagerly, thinking of several of the handsome young knights she’d seen around the castle.

  “Of course,” said Axe-Face coldly. After all, Evelina might be carrying the king’s grandchild.

  Evelina was ecstatic. Not only would she escape the drudgery and dullness of her life in the castle, she would be furnished with male companionship for the journey. She didn’t care where she was going, and she was packing for the trip when the serving girl shed new light on the matter.

  “So you’re leaving us, are you, m’lady?” the serving girl said, plunking down Evelina’s food-laden tray. “I can’t say that I blame you. I’m to leave, as well. They’re paring down the serving staff to the bare bone, so Cook says. Cook volunteered to stay. She’s ever so brave. The Queen had tears in her eyes when she thanked her. Cook says she’s going to see to it them demons don’t make a mess of her kitchen.”

  Evelina, flinging clothes into a bag, scarcely listened.

  “Prince Marcus is coming home and it seems he isn’t mad at all. He turned out to be a hero, though he’s bad hurt, we hear. The Lady Izabelle is going to stay on to nurse him. I call that romantic, don’t you?”

  Evelina halted and turned around, silken chemise in hand.

  “Prince Marcus is returning to the castle?”

  “Yes, m’lady. I thought you knew.”

  “The Lady Izabelle is staying here with him? Is that what you said?”

  “Yes, m’lady. The Queen wanted to send her away with the others, but the lady said that she had agreed to be his wife and that this, in her eyes, was the same as wedding vows. She wasn’t going to desert him in time of danger.”

  “The prince is a hero, you say? Not mad?”

  “No, m’lady, not a bit of it! He led the knights against them terrible demons himself. Men fell all around him, and he rode on and slew a lot with his bare hands and then he fell and all the knights rushed to his rescue and he managed to escape, though he’s grievous hurt, or so I hear. Cook’s fixin’ her special healing broth for him right now.”

  Evelina began to take her clothes out of the leather bag. “Then I’m not leaving either.”

  “Oh, my lady. How brave!” The serving girl gasped.

  “How could I?” Evelina asked, her voice soft. “If my prince is ill, he might call out for me, and then the Queen would have to let us be together. She wouldn’t be so cruel as to keep us apart!”

  “I suppose that’s true, my lady,” said the serving girl, though she sounded skeptical. “But won’t you be afraid?”

  “Not with my prince at my side,” proclaimed Evelina. “ ‘If I must die, at least let it be in his arms.’ “ She’d sung that line many a time in taverns. It never failed to set all the drunks to sobbing into their ale.

  The ladies-in-waiting and most of the serving staff departed, Axe-Face among them, to Evelina’s joy. Her Majesty had not been at all pleased to hear Evelina’s refusal to leave and was going to order her away even if it meant tying her to a horse. Before that could happen, however, the king and his knights and soldiers and Marcus arrived at the castle, turning everything upside down. King and Queen had far more urgent matters on their minds than Evelina.

  She was on her own, free to do as she pleased. Overlooked in the turmoil, Evelina was forgotten.

  She recalled one of her dear, departed Papa’s maxims. “Wars are for fools who want to be heroes. The sensible man will have nothing to do with them. At the first sound of the trumpet, look to yourself.”

  Considering this sound advice, Evelina began to make plans.

  38

  KING EDWARD AND HIS FORCES SAW NO SIGN OF THE DRAGON ARMY on the road from Aston Castle to Ramsgate. Marcus could not find them, and Draconas remained unable to locate them. City and castle braced for an assault. A week passed and none came. No army laid siege to the walls. No enemy appeared at the gates.

  People can remain in a high state of tension and excitement for only so long. When the threat that they’d been promised did not materialize, those who had fled returned to their homes, reopened their shops, and grumbled about how much money they’d lost. Smart young apprentices now scoffed at the tales of demon warriors. Only a week ago, they’d been shaking beneath the bed covers or on their knees in church.

  Edward wasn’t scoffing. His tension did not diminish, nor did that of his commanders or the soldiers who had seen with their own eyes the terror of the enemy.

  “They’re letting us stew in our juices, sire,” said Gunderson. “They’re not through with us yet.”

  Far from relaxing his vigilance, Edward redoubled the guards on the walls and drilled the gunners on a daily basis.

  The peaceful interlude gave Marcus a chance to rest from a journey that, despite Draconas’s healing touch, had been difficult. The dragon-magic had mended the broken bones enough so that it no longer felt like someone was stabbing him every time he drew a breath. But he was still sore, and the rattling and bouncing of the wagon over the rough roads added to his discomfort. He endured the pain without complaint, afraid that his father might stop if he said anything—and at this point, Marcus’s mental distress was far worse than his physical.

  He was not much better when he reached home, for he could find no relief in sleep. The dragon’s voice boomed loudly through his dreams as the dragon’s eyes searched for him and the dragon’s claws tried to dig him out. He would wake, soaked in sweat and breathing hard, and the voice would die away, only to be replaced by whispers that dogged his waking hours.

  Sometimes Marcus would hear from Draconas, but the dragon had always the same news to report, “I cannot find them.”

  Perhaps due to the rigors of the journey or his anxiety, a few days after arriving home, Marcus was afflicted with a mild fever. Despite his insistence that he was “not so bad,” he was pale and had no appetite. His terrified mother, remembering how close she had come to losing him, bundled him off to bed and summoned the royal physicians.

  They eased Ermintrude’s fears by basically agreeing with Marcus’s own assessment that he was “not so bad.” They recommended several days’ complete rest. Nothing was to be said to upset him or fret him. Ermintrude immediately banned all visits from Edward and Gunderson and provided her son with more pleasant company in the form of the Lady Izabelle. Ermintrude hoped that nursing the young man from injuries suffered in a heroic action would cause love to bloom in the lady’s heart. And how could Marcus, in his weakened state, resist those warm, doe eyes and gentle demeanor?

  Marcus lodged an appeal with his father. Sickness was well known to be a woman’s province, and Edward was not inclined to argue with his wife anyway, for he was also concerned over Marcus’s health. The king abandoned his son to a soft and perfumed captivity, though Edward did what he could to help lift the prisoner’s spirits by urging Marcus to regain his strength and quickly at that, for he might soon be needed.

  Marcus swallowed the medicines and drank the broth and lay in his bed listening to the Lady Izabelle read to him or play the harp and sing. He was impressed, as his mother meant him to be, with the lady’s courage in choosing to remain in the castle. He was touched by her obvious admiration for him, and he found that looking at her was far more agreeable than staring out the window at the soldiers manning the castle walls. He found, too, that her voice, which was sweet and melodic, was the only voice that could drown out that of the dragon.

  He thought he might be falling in love with her.

  He remembered the moment. He’d been in his little room, eavesdropping on the dreams of the dragons, hoping to stumble upon information that might help save his
people, when he felt a hand touch his hand.

  He opened his eyes to find Izabelle by his side.

  Her eyes are beautiful, he thought. Pale gray iris surrounded by a darker gray circle. He could look into those eyes forever. The voice of the dragon faded away, and he heard only her voice, saw only her eyes.

  After that, perhaps it was his illness or perhaps it was love, but Marcus couldn’t seem to think clearly whenever the Lady Izabelle was near. When she wasn’t, his thoughts turned to her and away from everything else. He spent less and less time in the little room.

  On the seventh day after his return, Marcus was lying in his bed, his gaze resting as it always did on the lady. Izabelle finished the book she had been reading to him and laid it on the small table at her side.

  Conversation languished. The lady turned to her embroidery. The fabric on which she worked was secured in a large frame so that it was drawn taut, making it easier to ply the needle. The standing frame was placed in front of her and she leaned over it, assiduously taking minute stitches, frowning slightly as she concentrated on piercing the fabric with the needle, then drawing the colorful thread through the fabric. So still was the room that Marcus could hear the thread sigh as it slipped through the cloth.

  He watched Izabelle’s hands. Her skin was smooth and white. Rounded, rose-tinged fingernails adorned small fingers that skillfully plied the needle. Suddenly he had the fancy that the thread she was using came not from the spool, but was sliding out of his own mind. He watched, fascinated, to see her twist and spin the colors of his magic into silken thread and then stitch them into her work.

  “How do you do that?” he asked, half-laughing.

  Izabelle looked up. “It takes no great skill, Your Highness. The trick is to keep the stitches small and close together—”

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” he said. “How do you take the colors from my dreams and make them into silk?”

  Looking concerned, she laid down her work on the table and walked over to him. “I fear the fever has returned, Your Highness. I will send the servant to fetch your mother—”

  “No, don’t. I am fine, I assure you, my lady.” Marcus rested his hand on the lady’s and touched her skin, cool and smooth. “See?

  No sign of fever. Please, go back to your work. I’m just teasing you. What is it you are making?”

  “Teasing me?” she said, flushing and giving a little laugh. “I’m afraid I take everything much too seriously. As for what I am embroidering, it is a portrait, Your Highness. Are you certain you are feeling well? You look flushed. Perhaps I should see for myself if the fever has returned.”

  Izabelle rested her hand on his forehead. As she did so, a golden locket, attached to a golden chain, slipped out from around the lace at her throat and dangled above him.

  The locket swung gently back and forth; gold glinted in the sunlight. Marcus watched it, and he saw the dragon’s plan. He saw the dragon army marching upon the palace. He saw his father give the order to fire the cannons. He saw the dragon work her magic, saw magical fire race from the powder kegs to the cannons. He saw the horrendous blast that obliterated the cannons and the walls and blew up castle and city. He saw thousand perished in an instant, blown apart. The blast was of such magnitude that when the smoke and flame and debris and dust cleared, all that was left of the city of Ramsgate and the castle and the king and his people was a gigantic crater.

  He saw the dragon circle above the ruin to make certain that no one survived. Then she summoned her army, and, after that, every human kingdom faced with this awful threat heard the terrible history of the kingdom of Idylswylde and capitulated and, in time, nation after nation came under thrall to the dragons.

  Marcus saw it all and he tried to speak, to shout, to summon the servants to fetch his father, but the knowledge slid out of his mind as the thread slid off the spool, the colors of death and terror and destruction running through the lady’s delicate fingers and sighing into the cloth.

  Marcus lay back down among the pillows.

  I must be feverish, he thought. I must be imagining this.

  Lady Izabelle resumed her seat. Tucking the golden locket back into the lace at her throat, she picked up her work. Marcus watched the needle pierce the cloth, watched it draw the thread after it.

  “Whose portrait?” he asked.

  Reversing it, the lady showed it to him.

  “Yours, Your Highness,” she said with a gentle smile.

  A fortnight passed in peace and quiet for the people of Ramsgate. Some in the city were starting to say that the battle of Aston Castle, though first thought to be a defeat, had, in retrospect, been a resounding victory. The demon warriors had seen the power of God-fearing men and taken themselves back to the fiery regions from whence they’d sprung.

  In the castle, King Edward and his army were left to simmer in the pot until they were so thoroughly overcooked that the meat was falling off the bone. Everyone was worn out from the tension. Nerves and tempers were stretched taut.

  Marcus was up and about and seemed almost fully recovered, at least physically. Edward was concerned about his son’s mental state, however, for Marcus was lethargic, absent-minded, and given to daydreaming.

  Ermintrude wasn’t worried.

  “He’s falling in love, my dear,” she assured Edward.

  “Falling in love doesn’t mean a man’s brain turns to mush,” Edward said sharply.

  “Doesn’t it?” Ermintrude asked with the flash of a dimple.

  One conversation in particular worried the king. He had taken his son aside to speak to him in private. “Have you received any word from Draconas? If so, you’ve said nothing to me. Much as I dislike depending on him, he is our eyes and ears.”

  “Draconas . . .” Marcus repeated. His brow puckered. He seemed to be trying to place the man.

  “Draconas. You remember. The dragon?”

  “I’m sorry, Father.” Marcus faltered. “I don’t... I can’t. . .”

  The Lady Izabelle glided up to stand beside him. Marcus smiled.

  “No,” Marcus said mildly. “I haven’t heard anything of him in days. And now, if you will excuse me, Father, I promised the Lady Izabelle a game of draughts.”

  He and the lady sat at table by the fire.

  Evelina, meanwhile, was proceeding with her plans for regaining her prince.

  On his return, she’d managed to catch a glimpse of Marcus as they had carried him to his room. Evelina had been shocked at the sight and had known a twinge of fear. He was so pale and thin, he looked to be at death’s door, and what would that mean for her? Her spirits rallied, however, on considering that, if the prince did die, she would be the mother of the only son poor Marcus would ever father. Evelina decided that she could bear the news of his death with fortitude, and she was almost disappointed to hear that he was recovering.

  The serving girl who had been Evelina’s source for information had left the castle, but, now free to roam about, Evelina made friends with Cook, who kept Evelina informed. Cook brought Evelina the news that the Lady Izabelle had moved into the royal chambers lock, stock, and barrel, establishing herself as Marcus’s nurse and companion. Evelina seethed with jealousy.

  That day, she dared to try to pay the prince a visit and walked boldly into the royal quarters. Guards, posted outside the prince’s chambers, escorted her off. Evelina then tried to find a way to sneak into Marcus’s room in the middle of the night. Lady Izabelle might possess talents in lute-playing, but Evelina possessed talents of her own that she was certain the prince would find far more exciting. A night spent in bed with her would clinch the deal.

  Evelina eagerly questioned Cook about secret passages and hidden tunnels, such as she’d heard about in minstrels’ songs, which told of forbidden lovers sneaking through passages to meet each other in clandestine embrace. Unfortunately, the architect of this palace had been totally lacking in romance, for no secret passages existed, at least that Cook knew about, and she’d lived in t
he palace for twenty years.

  “Though,” Cook remarked thoughtfully, “I do remember that there was a wing in the palace that was sealed off and no one was allowed inside. Unsafe, we were told. Bits of the ceiling fell down on people’s heads or something like that.”

  “That’s no help,” said Evelina with a sigh.

  “I did hear that His Highness asked about you,” said Cook.

  “Did he?” Evelina was vastly pleased.

  “He heard that you came to see him, and he asked the Lady Izabelle to send for you and bring you in to him.”

  “He did?” Evelina’s heart beat fast. “His Highness sent for me? When was that? This morning?”

  “Oh, no. A few days ago,” said Cook.

  “But ... no one came to fetch me!” Evelina cried.

  “The Lady Izabelle never told you,” said Cook with a wink. “She promised His Highness she would, but she never did.”

  Cook liked to gossip and she liked to embellish her stories. She liked being made to feel important, and she liked Evelina. There was some truth to this story, but not much. Marcus had asked after Evelina, but it was his mother he had asked, not the Lady Izabelle. She knew nothing of Evelina—Queen Ermintrude had seen to that.

  Evelina believed the tale because she wanted to believe it and also because, if she’d been the Lady Izabelle, she would have done exactly the same thing herself.

  She concluded it was time for drastic measures.

  It was time to go shopping.

  Being Ramone’s daughter, Evelina had, from her first days in the palace, kept a watchful eye out for small and easily transportable valuables that could be tucked into a sleeve or dropped down one’s bosom or secreted in one’s purse. The hasty departure of the ladies-in-waiting provided a treasure trove for Evelina, who slipped into their abandoned rooms and helped herself to everything they had left behind. Since the women had packed in a state of panic, Evelina made a considerable haul, finding scattered pearls, bejeweled hair combs, silver hairbrushes, dropped rings, and a fine pair of small silver candlesticks.