The Dragon Queen (Lamb & Castle Book 3)

by J M Sanford

  She thought of distracting herself by practicing some magic. Here in the ice world, Meg’s tea-warming spell came in more handy than Amelia could have imagined, and was a harmless enough way to learn the fickle ways of the new world’s magic, but there were only so many times you could reheat the same cup of tea. She’d cautiously attempted applying the same spell to her blankets one evening, easing warmth into the woollen fibres. They’d been taking it rather well, right up until the point where they’d started smoking, and she’d had to stop in a hurry.

  A pair of brown-haired golems interrupted Amelia’s thoughts when they came in and whisked away dirty plates and teacups with mechanical efficiency. She thought they were the same two golems who took her clothes for washing, and brought them back neatly pressed. Much to Amelia’s embarrassment, the golems dealt with her chamberpot, too, something that had always been Amelia’s own business back home. At first she’d fought them over that (red-faced and feeling ridiculous that she had to pick this as her battle) but, “Let them do it, if they want to,” Meg had said. “You’d have had to live with it if you’d won the contest.”

  Amelia sat down with her chin in her hands and watched the golems resentfully as they went about their chores. Today they were dusting imaginary cobwebs from the corners of the parlour – as if there were any real spiders here! They were all mechanical. More likely the golems were keeping an extra close eye on the remaining guests, now returned to the confines of the guest chambers, declared safe by the conscientious gentlemen.

  The one closest to Amelia stopped dusting and straightened up, just a fraction of a second before the clock struck five. “His Highness anticipates the pleasure of your company in the dining hall in precisely one hour,” he told her. Feather duster still in hand, he went off in search of the other guests to relay the same message.

  Feeling spiteful, Amelia charged ahead of him, throwing open the door to the bedroom where Meg was napping. “Dinner in an hour!” she shouted ahead of the golem, who made his own pronouncement just as if Amelia wasn’t there.

  Meg ignored him and stared at her daughter muzzily, groping for her spectacles on the nightstand. “You’re keen, aren’t you?”

  Amelia shrugged. Barricaded indoors against the cold, unable to practice much magic, deprived of friendly company after her foolish confession… she’d found that mealtimes were increasingly the only thing to measure out the monotonous passing days. Trying not to think of poor Harold out there in the elements, she’d picked out what she judged to be her most suitable dress for the evening meal and changed into it hours ahead of time. She’d brushed and re-braided her hair three times since lunch, sitting at the dressing table and listlessly trying out different styles. Was this what it would mean to be a royal? Not even that: any class of noblewoman would have a servant to attend to her hair.

  Finally, Amelia wandered down to the dining hall some time ahead of six o’clock. At the dining table, a creature of stone huge as a hill crouched, unmoving. It didn’t even flinch at Amelia’s yelp of surprise, nor turn its gargantuan head to look at her. One of the golems was busy attaching the creature’s arms to its massively broad shoulders: in pieces must have been the only way they could get it through the door. It had a hole thicker than a man’s arm bored through its chest. No wonder it didn’t move or speak. Creeping around to get a better look at it, Amelia found another of the stone gentlemen standing patiently behind the monster, a yard long metal cylinder in his indefatigable grip. A starlight glowed at the end of the cylinder. A golem’s heartlight, but this golem was bigger than any she’d seen before.

  “What is that thing?” Amelia asked, shriller and ruder than she meant to be. She hated herself for how much like Rose she’d sounded.

  “That is the Red Paladin,” said the gentleman holding the metal cylinder.

  Amelia glanced between the monstrous hill of a beast taking up three seating places by itself, and the chair beside it reserved for the Red Queen. “Well that’s hardly fair, is it?” she said. “I only got a normal boy. Why does she get to have a great big thing like that looking after her?”

  The question must have been beyond the golem’s ability to answer, though, because he stood silent.

  Amelia took her designated place at the table. Her companions filtered in, and the Red Side. Amelia watched, unimpressed, as the prince and his bride-to-be made their grand entrance. Miss Hartwood wore yet another beautiful dress, red and soft as new rose petals, with the tiara pinned in her hair. She rarely took it off now, except to sleep, and even then it would be close to her bedside. Curse Bessie for blowing her chance and making it that much harder for the rest of them.

  Amelia couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for the food as the serving plates arrived. For one thing, it would be venison again, a novelty that she’d enjoyed at first despite the circumstances, but now it was dressed up in increasingly desperate efforts to make something new of it. For another, there was always the bitter crackling aftertaste of food prepared with the aid of magic, even if nobody else besides Meg noticed it. Amelia prodded at the food piled in front of her, pushing it listlessly around her plate. She wanted to eat, knew her body needed the fuel, but since Harold had gone it was as if her throat closed up at the mere thought of it.

  Somewhere, distant but distinct, an iron gate banged. Amelia dropped her knife and fork. Harold? Had he and the others returned from their quest? At that thought, she pushed back her chair before remembering her manners. She settled instead for craning her neck to try to catch a glimpse out of the window: the returning riders, the flash of moonlight on the bright scales of the captured dragon, anything. She jumped at the light touch of Percival’s gauntleted hand on her arm, and realised Meg was watching her too. They weren’t the only ones. It would be dreadfully bad manners to abandon the table halfway through the meal, wouldn’t it? And she couldn’t afford to upset anyone any more than she already had.

  As she glanced in a panic all around the table, Meg caught her eye again. “What’s the matter, dear?”

  “I think they’re back. Should we…” She glanced at Prince Archalthus, then at Rose, both enjoying their venison and wine without a care for anything else in the world. The flutter of fear in Amelia’s stomach put an end to any remaining thought of eating. The returning hunting party would bring the dragon, a dangerous captive. Archmage Morel, dozing over his soup, would have to be woken so he could contain the beast. If Harold had injuries that needed tending to, where was Meg’s bag with her potions and salves?

  Interminably long minutes passed, measured by the slow tick of the large clock on the wall. The golem standing patiently in a corner, his job for the night to keep wine glasses full, took his silver pocket watch from his pocket and flipped it open. Amelia couldn’t hear a word of what was said, but the golem walked to Prince Archalthus and whispered something in his ear.

  “No,” said the prince, feeling no such need to whisper. “Send him here at once. We are all eagerly awaiting news of the hunt. Let there be no further delays.”

  Polite dinner table conversation died. The fire crackled, the clock ticked, while everybody held their breath, knives and forks idle in their hands, glasses untouched.

  Commander Breaker appeared in the doorway, bloodied and leaning heavily on the left shoulder of the white griffin, whose right shoulder had been opened to the bone, fur and feathers matted almost black. The Commander limped to his prince’s side, the ice-white spiralling horn of a dragon resting against his shoulder. He dropped it onto the table in front of Archalthus with a hollow thud, and if you have ever seen a cat drop a dead bird at somebody’s feet, you can imagine something of the horror with which the prince regarded this trophy. It was three feet long and streaked with blood.

  “We fought the dragon,” Breaker announced, triumphant despite his injuries. “We killed him.”

  Archalthus opened his mouth, but only a small choked noise came out. He couldn’t stop staring at the half-shattered horn, while the Commander told the tale o
f the white dragon’s final defeat: of the golems smashed forever on the rocks of a frozen waterfall; of the dragon entangled in snares launching itself from the edge and crashing onto the rock below; of the river that ran boiling red with dragon’s blood.

  “We were unable to recover the body. I need more men for that.”

  “What?” said Archalthus, distractedly. It was the first word he’d managed to say in quite some time.

  “Four were destroyed by the dragon, two lost in the river. If the water didn’t put out their starlights, they’ll be back here in no time.”

  Amelia shivered at the thought of them wading through silt and dark water, slow but indefatigable even with waterlogged lungs, swords still in their hands to fight the dragon.

  The Commander glanced towards her. “The White Paladin was killed, too,” he added, like an afterthought.

  Amelia stared at him. If she’d ever imagined receiving this news, she might have thought she would scream, but – like Archalthus before – she couldn’t find the breath for more than the smallest of noises. It couldn’t be real. It just couldn’t. It must not be true… She felt the world tilt beneath her, dark and frightening. Meg lurched from her seat to steady her, barking “somebody fetch my bag!” and gripping Amelia’s hand so tight it hurt.

  Smooth glass was pressed to her lips, bitter medicine spreading across her tongue. She pushed it away and the turning world began to come back into focus, leaving cold horror in its wake.

  “My brother is dead?” she heard Archalthus say.

  “What?” Archmage Morel was stirring from his slumber. “What did he say?”

  “They found the dragon, Archmage,” Master Greyfell explained. “It has been vanquished.” With deference to Amelia, he lowered his voice to add softly, “at a terrible cost.”

  “Vanquished?”

  “Killed.”

  The Archmage surged to his feet. “You imbecile!” It took a moment for Amelia to realise his sudden ire wasn’t directed at Greyfell. “You wretched evil creature!” he shouted down the table.

  “Watch your mouth,” snarled the Commander, obviously taken aback by the Archmage’s outburst.

  “You were given strict instructions to return that dragon alive!” Archmage Morel’s staff shook violently as he pointed it at Commander Breaker, and the many jewels of his conjuring rings flashed in the candlelight. Diners along the table shrank back out of the way, but no spell burst forth.

  Breaker looked to Archalthus. “’Better to kill him’ you said, Master. Better to kill him than to take his wings.”

  “Archalthus?” Morel had turned uncertainly to the prince, who barely registered the casual use of his name.

  Indeed, the prince looked far less masterful and self-assured than he had before the news. “Commander Breaker was ordered to stop my brother from escaping at any cost, to bring him back here,” he said, quietly. “To bring him back alive, I ought to have said.” Anger showed in his white knuckles and the tightness of his jaw, but there was something else there, too.

  Morel’s staff clattered onto the table amongst the dishes as the Archmage sank back into his seat, covering his face with his hands, shaking and sobbing.

  “I can bring the body back here,” said Commander Breaker again, “I just need –”

  “Shut up!” shouted the prince. “Sit down! You’ve done more than enough.” He took a moment to compose himself. “Archmage, we have supplies to last for many months. Food, wood to burn, warm furs. A long winter will not find us unprepared.”

  “A long winter?” Morel trembled with fury. “None of you understand, do you? Without that dragon’s magic, the winter here will be eternal! Time itself may freeze to a halt!”

  “Let’s not forget who let the dragon out in the first place,” said Commander Breaker to the closest of the golems, who nodded in solemn agreement.

  Meg had paused in stroking Amelia’s hair. She spoke up. “What’s that about an eternal winter?”

  Archmage Morel confessed to it all then, mumbling much of it through his fingers as he buried his face in shame: the sun was spiralling out of control, abandoning them to the coldest imaginable death; he’d hoped to harness the white dragon’s magic to solve the problem; they were now doomed. The others listened in stunned silence, but hot on the heels of the confession came a fierce debate over what else could be done to rein in the escaping sun. Ideas ricocheted across the table, jumbling into each other. Almost everybody had plans to propose, but none of them were any good.

  “Could a flier bring the sun back?” asked Meg, and Amelia couldn’t help but stare at her – was she thinking of giving up Sharvesh to the cause? They’d only just got her back in one piece.

  The Archmage, now that his conscience was clear and he hadn’t been lynched for his failings, began to look shrewder again. “What manner of flier had you in mind, Madam?” he asked pointedly, with the quickest of glances towards Prince Archalthus, who might yet be ignorant of Sharvesh’s existence. “My griffins may be able to retrieve the stars from the sky, but the intense fires of the sun would burn them up even if they could grasp it.”

  “Could a long enough rope lasso it?”

  The Archmage scoffed. “Oh, rope would fare better, would it? Women!”

  Meg refused to be discouraged: even if she couldn’t hope to come up with a solution by herself, she had an endless source of questions, both clever and foolish, and obviously hoped that something she said could spark some better idea in the mage’s brain. Amelia, though, couldn’t focus on any one of the proposed plans for more than a few seconds before the awful thought of what had happened to Harold stuck itself right in front of her mind’s eye…

  Prince Archalthus had risen from his seat and now approached Amelia. “Allow me to be the first to offer my condolences,” he said, his voice quiet and solemn. “I'm sure we are all deeply sorry for your loss, young lady.”

  “And… and for yours,” Amelia managed to say. The prince had lost a brother, albeit one he claimed not to care for.

  “I should have led the hunting party myself,” he said. “I should have been there. Today could have been so very different.”

  Amelia didn’t know what to say. Archalthus wasn’t so bad after all, was he? Looking at her now with sadness and gentleness, their history put aside. If she’d submitted to him months ago, handed over the crown when he’d first asked her back in Ilgrevnia, then she’d be married to him by now, and everything would be different.

  She offered up a prayer to any deity or powerful spirit, benevolent or otherwise, that might hear her in this lonely forsaken world. She offered a deal: I will do anything to see Harold safe and well again. I’d even marry a dragon, if that’s what it takes to bring Harold home safe, and I’ll never speak a word of complaint. Just send me a sign.

  22: BAD MAGIC AND BROKEN GLASS

  Two horses returned to the ice palace overnight, riderless. Amelia didn’t get dressed all morning, not unless throwing a fur coat over her nightdress counted. She drifted like a restless ghost between her bed and the guest parlour, hugging her fire sprite’s gilded cage, staring into space. The little sprite’s strength and the colour of his flames had gradually returned, but now he flickered a deep blue, crooning worriedly as his mistress barely noticed him. Bessie didn’t know what to do about it, either. No etiquette lessons could truly prepare for a situation like this, and words went right through Amelia, touching no part of her heart or mind.

  Bessie could only do that which she knew best. “Amelia?” She spoke softly, as if the girl was made of glass and might shatter explosively at the slightest careless touch. “Where did you hide the snow globe?”

  “Oh. That,” said Amelia, her voice flat. “It’s in the city somewhere. It’s no use though, I think I must have broken it. I’m not good enough with magic to, to fool around with things like that…”

  Bessie turned to the window, in the direction she knew the ruins to lie. Snow had been falling lightly but steadily overnight, and all
the world was raw and empty, blanketed in blinding white. She swore she could see for hundreds upon hundreds of miles, and all of it was white, boundless and desolate. The horizon was lost somewhere between the paleness of the sky and the snowbound earth. For all she could see in that direction, there might be nothing at all beyond the palace but icefields. The ruins of Ilgrevnia, invisible from here, would nonetheless spread over miles. “I’d like to find it anyway,” she said, to Meg rather than Amelia. “If I can. Any idea where in the city?” she pressed. Every word she said to Amelia felt like prodding at a new wound.

  “Um. Not that far from the Archmage’s workshop. I messed everything up, didn’t I?”

  Yes you did. But you’re more than paying for it now. “Look,” said Bessie to Meg, “I’m no use here. I’m going to find Archmage Morel and volunteer to search for the snow globe.”

  “Wait!” said Amelia, stopping her at the door. “Um… Can I come with you?”

  “Are you sure?”

  Amelia nodded. “Harold could still be out there somewhere, couldn’t he?” she said, searching Bessie’s face as if she could find the right answer there. “And if I have the snow globe, nobody can make me leave here without him. It’s the least I can do for him, from here.”