Wings of Light Special Edition

by Lloyd Baron

  She opens the door to the main hall and peeks out. Her mother’s voice drifts from the upper floor but is muffled, identifying her location as somewhere near the study. She lowers her head and runs from the doorway, pushing out into the dawn sun. She hurries into the stables and quickly changes out of the palace livery, donning a pale yellow blouse and cloak with a fur-lined hood and a dark green divided skirt for riding. As she is pulling on her gloves, green to match her skirts, Bri Ceeper, the stable master, enters and stutters over seeing her. He is a horse lover through and through and does not hold back on letting his feelings known. Many times he has raised his voice in anger to her mother, shouting at her for pushing her horse too hard or for bringing it back with small cuts. He is one of four people who can get away with speaking to the Queen in such a way. The others are Master Cubbit, Zelosanther Bernhalt, the Supreme Chancellor of the Houses of Atlantia, and her bodyguard, Gareth Zian.

  He glares at her, shaking his head. “Yet again you come sneaking down here to my stables!” He lets the anger go and opens his arms. “Happy birthday, Princess,” he says smiling. She runs and flings herself into his arms.

  He pats her head and strokes her hair. He finally pushes her away with a small chuckle. She beams up at him. He is in his late sixties and stooped from leading a hard life. His remaining hair is snowy white and his teeth are mostly missing. His back is bent most days and his face is a mass of lines and sagging skin. He had once been rotund, but sickness has stripped him of his weight and never returned it. As far as she can remember he has been here in this stable. He is a soft and loving man, the complete opposite of Master Cubbit. But these days she is surprised to see him here. He is ill so often.

  “I had a feeling you might come down here,” he says with a slight cough. “You have not missed a morning ride on your birthday since your dear father left us. So I just had to be here to see you.” He returns her smile.

  She suddenly feels sad and guilty. This poor old man has dragged himself out of his bed to bring her a horse when he should really be resting. She puts the palm of her hand to his cheek and sighs. “What are we going to do with you?” She drops her arm and takes a few steps away, tears threatening to fall.

  “Your mother has invited me to the party tonight. She said you would enjoy having faces in the crowed you recognized and corners you could slip into for jokes and pleasant company.” He barks a laugh. “She called them ‘vultures’.” Narinda covers her mouth at the insult to her guests but cannot help the laughter bubbling out.

  “Oh mother,” she says through giggles. “’Vultures’.”

  Bri's chuckles break into another body-shaking cough and he doubles over, putting his hands on his knees. Narinda rubs his back, concerned for her elderly friend. “I’m fine, I’m fine,” he grunts waving her off. “No need to fuss over an old man.” He straightens up and wipes his mouth, embarrassment etched into his expression. She decides to divert his attention and pretends not to have noticed the small amount of blood that she had seen on his lips. He would not be with them for much longer. It was a sad truth, and she was determined to make the most of the time she has with him.

  The horses whine as she enters the paddock. Being Bri's personal stable, there are breeds of horses here that would not normally be found in public stables. He has three Bankir horses, a semi-feral breed that is wild and hard to ride because they are easily panicked and aggressive. However, Marabel, Mathius and Dirn are extremely friendly and make a move towards her as she enters. Bri clicks his tongue and the three horses stop. Narinda cannot tell the three apart. They all look the same, but Bri can observe more about the horses than anyone else and can tell them apart with his back turned. They are all about fourteen hands tall and are a dark brown in color.Marabel makes to move closer, but a sharp barked order from Bri sets it cantering away to the far side of the paddock. “That one sometimes thinks he is above the others. It’s a worry.” He walks away shaking his head. The other two horses stay where they are but still follow them with their heads. Narinda smiles to herself. They are like his children. He found them in the wild when they were only foals and raised them. They have been a handful, but her mother’s love for Bri lead her to allow them to stay. Now they are as much a part of the stables as any of the other horses. The Queen has even ridden Dirn out in the plains and had little trouble controlling him. Although only Bri is capable of riding Marabel and Mathius.

  “I don’t know what they’ll do when I’m gone,” he grumbles. “Dirn is not a problem. The stable hands all like him and it seems to be mutual. He trusts them and they take him out. Mathius is getting there. Another few months and he’ll be out there with his brother. It’s Marabel I worry about. He thinks too much of himself. He’ll not let anyone touch him. I don’t know what to do with him.”

  Narinda touches his shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze to reassure him. “He’ll be looked after. Mother would never let anything happen to him. You know that.” The old man nods, yet his shoulders remain hunched and the worry in his eyes does not lessen.

  Before reaching the back of the paddock they have to pass the milking stools. Five Bashkir Horses are hooked up to an air-powered pumping tube called a milshier. One of the stable hands sits on a wooden bench, turning a handle on the milshier. A set of bellows pumps air out of the milshier and the vacuum created draws the milk from the horses’ teats. The milk is sweeter than that of cows and has a longer life outside of the cold rooms. The milk from these five horses goes to the Palace only, the Queen desiring its use for herself and her staff. She paid Bri a handsome coin for the exclusive rights to his horse’s milk. Everyone knows that the elderly man would have given the Queen exclusive rights to the milk without the coin, but he knows the Queen would not have it any other way.

  The horses all look up as Bri passes. Narinda smiles at the unusual breed. They are small, wide of body and look bony. They have massive heads on a short fleshy neck. The wither is low, the back erect and broad, the croup nicely rounded, ribs long and well sprung, the chest broad and deep, and the legs are short and bony. They have a very thick and long mane and tail which they all flick with delight at seeing Bri.

  The old man straightens as he passes, his walk becoming steady once more. He loves these creatures. Kant, Noris and Bili are a rich chestnut, with Hazel, a roan, and Oaken, a mouse grey. They are not yet ready to ride but enjoy long walks through the streets and into the plains to graze. Unlike the Bankir they are extremely friendly and trustful. They love Bri and the stable hands but also have taken a shine to the Princess and her mother.

  Narinda catches up with Bri and strolls beside him as they enter her private paddock. Only four horses occupy the stools here. Two of them are her mother’s: Calum, a tall brown Mare and Hamshin, a sleek grey Gelding. Both horses stand proud and do not even whine or shift in the stools at their approach. Not so the other two. Brimstone, her bodyguard’s horse, stamps his feet and moves forwards to nuzzle her shoulder. She gently pats his neck as she passes on her way to Hurtle; however, the tall stallion is not satisfied with the light pat and cold shoulder. He pushes his nose into the small of her back and nudges her forwards. She stumbles, almost tumbling to the hay-strewn floor. She regains her balance and straightens. She rounds on the horse, approaching it with one hand on her hip and the other out in front, index finger wagging her disapproval. The horse stands tall and if she did not know better looked ashamed of himself.

  Brimstone is an Akhal-Teke: a breed of horse used mainly in the cavalry of the world armies or for racing across the plains of Atlant, Alan or B’ret or the deserts of Flambour. They have superb natural gaits and an air of superiority which makes them perfect for shows of strength and discipline. They are native to an arid, barren environment and have great stamina and courage. They have long, light heads with expressive eyes and relatively long ears and a long neck. Most commonly they are dun, like Brimstone, but they can be bay or even grey. They have short silky manes if they have a mane at all, and a short tail.
Brimstone's mane is no longer then her fingers. He has a narrow chest, long back and flat ribs. His legs are long and slender, revealing his tendons. He stands about fifteen hands, elegance made into an animal.

  Bri chuckles to himself before clicking his tongue and nodding his head back to the horse’s stall. Brimstone reluctantly moves away, head lowered. “He is usually so disciplined,” the old man says, his smile still on his face. “You bring out his playfulness. The only person who does.”

  “That is because she has no respect for all the hard work I have put into training him as a warhorse.”

  Narinda and Bri turn to the new arrival. The man stands with his arms folded across his chest, eyes narrowed at Narinda, head slightly shaking. He does not remove his eyes from the Princess as he calls to his horse. “Brimstone!” His tone is steel. “Extra training for you.” He whistles a single long note and the horse hurries out into the yard, cantering in circles. “Now, what may I ask is the Princess doing in the stables when she is meant to be at breakfast with her mother?”

  Narinda lowers her face to the stone floor. Like the horse, he has her well-trained.

  17

  THE QUEEN and the SCULLION

  Narmada Aft’s till Abenbeth, Queen of the Lands of Atlant, Steward of Hillsbough, grace of all the lands and mother to one very insolent teenager. She drops heavily into a high-backed wooden chair, groaning at the sharp pain which shoots across her backside. The chair wobbles and she has to grip the table to balance herself. She will wait another few minutes.

  At the moment the kitchen is empty, apart from the Queen. Sounds of chopping and the clang of pans drift to her from the upper kitchen where breakfast is being prepared for the Palace, but the lower kitchen is silent. She looks around her surroundings with a heavy heart; this had been one of her late husband’s favorite places to escape the demands of state business. The three of them would eat meals here as often as they did in the grand dining hall. Sometimes she wished he was still alive to help with things; mainly the nobles and high lords. His death had not been sudden though and her accession to Queen of Atlant was handled by him and welcomed by her subjects. She was known to be a kind Queen, fair in her judgments and laws, but also strong with a stubborn will and at times a quick temper. The room she sits in is small compared to the main kitchen where feasts are prepared, yet still much larger than a kitchen at an inn. The table where she sits can hold up to twenty. She looks down at the wood grain under her fingers and memories of her husband tracing a nail along them while he would wait for his food grips tightly around her heart. It was a cruel joke for Narinda to ask her to wait here if she knew it would be alone.

  A wave of anger skitters across her skin but is beaten down with amusement at the situation. The Queen of Atlant is sitting alone in the lower kitchen, dressed in a formal if somewhat casual gown as part of her daughter’s scam. She cannot help shaking her head to dispel the grin that won’t stop spreading across her face. The girl is willful and stubborn and selfish at times, but she has intelligence and bravery; both good qualities for a Queen. She excels in her lessons of history, knows much of the Prophecy of Ages, can sweet talk lords and ladies into doing almost anything for her, and she commands respect from those who work directly for her. It is the rest of it that she has trouble with. Palace staff are not her friends as much as she may think they are, and running about without protection is reckless and not something the future Queen of Atlant should be doing. Her responsibility is to her Queen and to the people of the realm. One day she will understand that. She hopes.

  A tirade of insults and angry mutters barges its way into her thoughts. Narmada rolls her eyes and begins tapping her fingernails on the table. Elmo scurries into the kitchen, a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other. He drops his burden into the corner with another curse. “You could lend me a hand, you dried up old crone,” he says in his usual brutal tone. “I’ve just had to clean up a load of shit that some stupid young bint spilt out of a chamber pot and by the smell of it; it came from some gluttonous whore.”

  Narmada cannot hide the smile from slipping onto her lips. She allows the man to curse a few more times before pushing back her chair. It scrapes across the slate floor with a screech and Elmo turns around, dirty fingers in his ears.

  “You silly old bag,” he begins. “Are you trying to deafen me with your...” He sees her for the first time and his words abruptly end. His mouth works but no sound comes out.

  Narmada shakes her head. “Wash your hands, they stink. I am appalled by your use of expletives in my presence, I have been called many things in my time but never have I been called a ‘silly old bag’ or—”

  “I didn’t know it to be you, my Queen!” he pleads, holding out his hands, palms up as he begins to lower himself to the stone floor. “I am so sorry. I—”

  “—Or,” she screams. The sound echoes off the cramped stone walls. “Or a dried up old crone.” The man’s face is a mask of complete horror and Narmada cannot continue making fun of him. She smiles a bitter smile and retakes her seat. “Your apology is accepted. I will take this no further. You will wash your hands and join me for breakfast.” If the man looked scared before he looks terrified now. He backs up a step his mouth hanging open. “Well man, get to it.”

  “Yes ma'am,” he says as he scurries out of the room backwards, bowing all the way and muttering apologize.

  The room falls silent again. She mulls over the morning’s events. She had been woken with news of a dragon attack to the north in Doeia. A letter had been sent with a full report of damage and lives lost. It was horrific. One hundred citizens had lost their lives to the dragon and its flames. The docks had been spared, but the town and market areas had been all but burned completely away. By some fluke of luck, the houses had not even been touched. Before she had even left her apartments she was scribbling notes to be carried by pigeon to lords and stonemasons and merchants loyal to her. Help would be needed for those affected. A visit would also have to be arranged. The Queen has a duty to her people as much as they do to her. Seeing her in the harbor offering them her personal support will lift spirits and help in the rebuilding of her country’s most important harbor.

  She pulls the letter from the breast of her gown and unfolds it; it makes no sense. A dragon so far to the west out of the mountains of Senteluneu is unheard of. The Dark Clan city of Galvalou sits at the base of the Walarz Peaks and has spells cast across it to prevent dragons from passing. It has never failed in the past, and she has had no word from them to indicate otherwise. Not only that, but the distance between the Dragon Mountains and Doeia is huge. It would have crossed over plains and cities and towns to reach it. They would have seen it here in Dalvistel. So why had they not? And why had it traveled all the way to the harbor? She rereads the scrawled letter to herself for the hundredth time.

  It had been sent by a man called Malti, a lord in the harbor. He details the damage and the loss of life. He comments on business lost as well as some that have merged to help rebuild—a time of forgiveness for past sins, he calls it. It is the mention of a group of young people, naming them and giving indication that they all helped in repairing and healing the town that gives her pause. A line of the Prophecy says “from fire the Queen will learn of them and the names they carry and of the deeds they have done.” Malti also mentions that they had left the day after the attack and headed east, towards Dalvistel. The letter had been sent by horse and not pigeon, due to the pigeon loft being destroyed in the fire; that would mean it would arrive only slightly ahead of these six individuals. She reads the names again, and a sick feeling fills the pit of her stomach. “Three D's,” she mutters to herself.

  Elmo re-enters the kitchen, his hair brushed to the side and his fingers scrubbed clean. He smiles at her, a nervous action, as he makes his way to the table. He bows deeply, almost knocking his head against the edge of the table. “Should I bring us some food and fruit juice? Water perhaps?” He wrings his hands nervously.

  “
No. Take a seat. You are my daughter for the morning,” she smiles at his confused face. “We were meant to dine together this morning, but I now believe it was a ploy for her to get me out of her way so she could go riding.” Elmo grins at her. All the servants know of the Princess’s trips outside; some even help her to escape sometimes. “So you will be her. The food is already prepared and will be here shortly.” She studies the man sitting opposite her. He has worked as the scullion for as long as she can remember. He has never complained to Master Cubbit about his work and even though he grumbles, he seems to be happy with his role in the Palace.

  “Do you like it here? In the lower kitchen?” She folds the paper back into her pocket. “I have never spoken to you personally but Master Cubbit speaks highly of you, and Narinda has told me stories.”

  “Oh. None bad I hope. I do have a coarse tongue in my head.”

  “Yes, as I heard,” she says with a slight smile. “Not that I approve of such language, but I understand its meaning.” She reaches over the table and pats his hand. “You never answered my question about your role here in the kitchen.”

  “Oh I love it. It is my life. My wife tells everyone she meets that her husband works in the Palace, and we were able to move into a house with the ten gold coins I receive each sun. Our lives are so full of riches and joy.” He beams at her, forgetting for the moment who she is.

  Narmada cannot help the broadest of smiles from crossing her face. He has so little compared to her but here he is bursting with pride. “How many suns have you worked in the kitchen?”

  “I cannot remember. When you took the throne I had been here for about seven. Yes, I think that is right.”