by J M Sanford
“I don’t think he knows about the crown,” Amelia whispered to Bessie, as the prince continued to outline the plan for the day. “Do you think we ought to say something?”
Bessie scowled at her. “We do not share information freely with our enemies,” she hissed. “Keep your mouth shut.”
But any argument on that front was forestalled by the arrival of Commander Breaker, pocket watch in hand as he joined the small crowd of wedding guests. Bessie stood and stared at him, waiting for the accusations. But the Commander ignored her completely, speaking low into the pocket watch: brief, cryptic instructions to his men.
Prince Archalthus raised one finely arched eyebrow at the interruption to his speech, and continued at a higher volume, his honeyed voice strained with nerves. “The dancing will continue until midnight, at which point you will find carriages awaiting you for your return journey to the palace. And now I must leave in order to make some final preparations. I look forward to seeing you all again at noon.” He turned to go, but not before approaching Commander Breaker. “Is there a problem, Commander?” the prince growled.
The Commander shook his head, refusing to look up from his pocket watch. “Nothing to worry about, Master.”
“Then do not interrupt me when I am speaking, and remember my promise to you.”
As the prince stormed off, Bessie turned to Amelia, her eyes wide, disbelieving. “What?” she mouthed. The Red Commander couldn’t possibly have fought and vanquished the white dragon alone, and probably not even with the help of all the stone gentlemen and their horses, but he could have stolen the crown somehow.
Amelia gave a small shrug, constrained by her borrowed gown. The two stone gentlemen directed the wedding guests out to the front of the palace, where two fine gilded carriages stood in the drifting snow, each hitched to a pair of marbled horses. Behind them stood a third carriage decked out with red ribbons, and the white griffin in the traces, looking so pretty and so angry with a red silk ribbon tied in a bow around his neck. Amelia and Bessie were ushered into separate carriages before anything more could be said on the matter of the crown, but Amelia remembered what Bessie had said about the jewels, blacker than midnight, evidence of Bessie’s act of treason…
Something of a road had been beaten down by the regular passage back and forth of the golems who’d built the chapel, and the perfectly behaved stone horses walked along it with no need for reins or guidance. Nonetheless the ride was still so rough that between the rocking and swaying and the nerves, Amelia ended up feeling extremely queasy by the time the carriage drew to a halt. Her window framed a view of the new chapel, fashioned of ice just like the palace and sparkling in the noonday sun, set against a backdrop of the tumbled rocks of Ilgrevnia, so beautiful that just for a breath or two she forgot all about her sickness and her fear. High up on the gabled roof Sable crouched. He had his satchel around his neck as if he was going somewhere, and with the sunshine bright on his glossy blue-black feathers, he seemed a good omen.
The golem who’d driven their carriage lent Amelia his arm as she stepped down into the snow, and asked her how he might announce her correctly. She stammered her answer, as shy as she’d been on the first day that she’d set off on her journey away from home. She’d been to a wedding once before, but never a royal wedding, and she thought she must be more nervous than the bride herself. She had to content herself with the fact that Harold looked just as anxious, polishing the toes of his shoes on his calves while he juggled fire sprite and wedding gifts. Amelia smiled at him, but then her gaze fell upon the enormous cube of grey stone opposite the chapel, the familiar carving of the crowned woman with her long hair describing a tall arch of seamless stone on one face of the cube: a door that would open only to the rightful Queen of the Dragon Lands and her husband.
Meg joined them, clutching Tallulah’s quilted bag carefully under her arm as she stamped her feet, shivering in the cold. “Come on: if we’re going to do this, then for goodness’ sake let’s just get the pomp and ceremony over and done with so we can move on to the sherry and cake. Where’s the bride, anyway?” Feathery flakes of snow settled on the bright plumage of her hat as she looked around, but the largest carriage was nowhere to be seen. Probably Miss Hartwood could expect a gentler ride, so as to arrive at the altar without so much as one curl or jewel out of place.
The crow griffin watched curiously from his high perch as the wedding guests lined up in the porch, and the golem announced them as they entered: “Master Harold Butcher and Miss Amelia Lamb of Newtown.”
Harold gave Amelia a puzzled look, and in return she flashed him a conspiratorial smile. Even if they ended up trapped in the new world forever, imprisoned as the new King’s first subjects, she wouldn’t risk the slightest chance of leading Archalthus back to Springhaven and their families there. Amelia had seen enough maps to know that there were plenty of Newtowns in the world. People had been building those things for hundreds of years.
A second golem took her teapot from her and placed it on a table close to the door. From the size of the table, Amelia thought the royal couple were being rather optimistic in the volume of gifts they expected to receive. She looked around the inside of the chapel, under the light filtering blue through the ice walls. Benches of ice – more seats than would be needed, surely – lined up either side of a grand wide aisle. Deep beds of white paper roses lay all around, the pristine blooms trailing up the pillars lining the aisle, and over the altar that glistened with new carvings, shapes that shifted subtly as you moved. The shining pipes of the organ that Amelia had disturbed not so long ago stood arrayed behind it, framing a window of ice that reflected the sunlight in subtle rainbow hues. Amelia sat down on one of the benches, cowed by the grandeur of the display. Bessie had reported that the golems had been building something, but this… She concentrated on the places where the ice chapel remained imperfect: the rough finish of the icy benches; the way the walls dripped where candle flames fluttered too close. The Red Side was not so perfect, she reminded herself. Not unassailable, yet.
“Sir Therreston of Greyfell, and his ward, Elizabeth Castle of Iletia,” the golem at the door announced. Then, “Miss Megan Spinner of Mind-Your-Own-Beeswax-on-the-Wold.”
Meg smiled dangerously below her feathery hat, and gave the room a little wave before joining Amelia and Harold. “It’s not every day you go to a wedding where you can expect everybody in the world to show up,” she said. “Still missing some, though.”
Amelia nodded, so nervous she could barely speak. ‘Everybody in the world’ included Regeltheus. There weren’t many of the stone gentlemen about, considering the importance of the occasion, and she didn’t like not knowing where they might be lurking. The Red Paladin stood in a corner, mountainous and inert, its steel core propped against its side. Ready for trouble.
“Sir Percival the Fifteenth of Wintergard,” the golem’s voice rang out. Soon he announced Bryn, the last of them to be ushered in.
Percival joined his companions. “Where is Archmage Morel?” he wondered aloud. “As I understand it, he should be officiating at this ceremony.”
Meg shook her head. “Something going on,” she said, keeping a smile plastered on her face. On the other side of the chapel, Commander Breaker was still paying close attention to his pocket watch, which drew his attention every couple of minutes. The two golems who’d been charged with looking after the wedding guests gave no clue as to their mood, no signs of excitement or agitation on their stony faces.
Then the golem at the door called out: “His Highness, the Red Prince Archalthus.”
Entering the chapel, the groom was almost entirely unaware of the guests as he took his seat in the front row. His anxiety, the worried lines that marred his good looks, might have been mistaken for any bridegroom’s nerves, if Amelia hadn’t known better. Physically present, the prince might as well have been a thousand miles away.
The outer doors were shut. They were shut in. Clouds drifted over the sun, turning the
bright chapel gloomy. Amelia’s breath came shallow and rapid, she clutched Harold’s hand and he squeezed back. A hush fell over the wedding guests; even Stupid in his cage sensed that he must be still and silent, and not spoil the occasion with silly noises or bouncing up and down. Greyfell and Bessie sat in the pew in front, stiff-backed and well-behaved, though Amelia would’ve liked to have seen Bessie’s face. She noticed Greyfell sat between Bessie and the end of the pew, though whether that was to protect Bessie or to protect others from her…
Without warning, a flock of paper birds burst from amongst the roses, trailing strings of tiny glass bells to form over the aisle an arch of trembling light and high pure singing, just as the first deep notes rolled forth from the organ, and Prince Archalthus leapt to his feet in surprise. Amelia’s heart had skipped a beat, as well: she gripped Harold’s hand even tighter. She caught a glimpse of the bride in her splendour waiting in the porch, blissfully unaware of anything wrong in the world, with two sombre red-coated golems to carry her train, and the griffin Scarlet close by her side. The red griffin attending her mistress picked nervously at details and folds of the wedding dress with her beak, but Rose wore a radiant smile, and clasped a bouquet of blood-red roses tightly in both hands. Amelia imagined the prince slipping the wedding ring onto Rose’s finger; all too vividly pictured the inevitable transfiguration as the new bride blossomed into a monster of fangs and horns and shining scales. “I tried to warn you,” Amelia whispered, so quietly that nobody heard it beneath the swelling music and the fluttering, fluting paper birds.
Delicately, Scarlet dropped the frost-rimed veil over Rose’s face.
The bride took a deep breath and squared her elegant shoulders, the diamonds of her dress shining as if all the stars in the night sky had been gathered in one place just for her. She glowed white against the gathering thunderclouds beyond the chapel doors…
And then the outer doors burst open and Archmage Morel barged past, shuffling hurriedly inside with snow speckling his red robes, his hair and beard wet and bedraggled. He stood in the aisle, his staff just barely propping him up, and his gaze flickered wildly around the chapel as if he’d forgotten all about the wedding. He gestured feebly for Prince Archalthus, and shouted something, but his weak voice was no match for the low sonorous music of the enchanted organ, or the sweet chirping of the countless paper birds still jingling their tiny bells. Archalthus strode swiftly towards the mage, one hand to his ear, bidding him repeat himself. As the Archmage spoke, his agitation plainly written in every line of his face, Bessie was all but climbing over the pews, her gaze riveted on the two men. “Oh, no,” she said. “No, no, no.”
“What is it?” Amelia asked.
Bessie shook her head. “We’re sitting ducks here,” she muttered to herself. “Need Sharvesh. Get off the ground, that’s our best hope.” She vaulted over the back of the pew, scrambling towards where Bryn sat, frozen with fear, because he was not only closer to the porch, but with his great sail-like ears must have heard every word that Morel had said.
The Archmage swept the flat of his palm down towards the floor in one shaky gesture, and the enchanted musicians faltered into lifelessness. “– spiralling inwards!” they all heard him cry. “Erratic, impossible to predict, no idea where it might strike, or when… Total extermination could come at any hour!”
Only a chirp or two disturbed the silence that followed, as a handful of the paper birds soldiered on heedless of the news.
“The sun,” Bessie whispered. She’d returned to her companions, dragging Bryn along. “He made a mistake when he was setting the sun back on track.” Like billiards, the Archmage had said at the time, but his aim hadn’t been as good as it must have been when he’d been a young man.
“Impossible,” said Archalthus, setting his handsome jaw in princely defiance of the news.
“Don’t you understand?” said Morel, “I came to save you.” The old man reached into one of his many pockets, then stumbled and would have crashed to the floor if one of the golems hadn’t rushed forward to catch him. The snow globe bounced out of the folds of his robes and rolled down the aisle. One of the golems picked it up and gave it pride of place on the table of wedding gifts.
“You will go and fix the sun again,” said the prince, “however you did it before.”
“I can’t! I daren’t! We must take the Device to the Orb of Helemneum…” Morel reached for the snow globe feebly, but didn’t even have the strength to stand unaided. Stone hands held him gently.
A muscle twitched in the prince’s jaw. “You will fix the sun,” the prince repeated. “But first you will conduct the wedding.”
And at that the old man collapsed into tears, hanging like a scarecrow from the strong arms of the golems.
“We have Sharvesh,” Bessie whispered, as charged with energy as a cat ready to spring, and her target was the gift table with the snow globe. “Bryn’s afraid of her running out of steam before we get to the Orb, but if we get that far by ourselves then she could get us all safely through to the old world. Probably.”
Probably. And first they’d need the snow globe, for the Orb was no use without it. Amelia’s vision swam as if she was perched high on top of the towering stack of the odds piled against them.
In the twilight dimness that the storm clouds had made of the day, Bessie pulled out one of her inexhaustible supply of spellpapers from some hiding place in her gown, and her eyes were wild as she held the green paper before Amelia’s face. “I’m going to use this. You need to use the cover and your invisibility to grab that snow globe and then –”
And then a deafening thunderous roar shook the ice chapel, and the window behind the altar shattered in a rain of ice shards. The cold wind howled in, snuffing out the candles, and Rose screamed, shrill and piercing. In the wreckage, wreathed in dancing snow, stood the white dragon.
32: THE IRON DRAGON
Nobody moved to fight or to flee.
“Well,” said Regeltheus, a broad smug smile curving across his draconic face as he scanned the assembly, “Where is the girl who will be my Queen?”
Bessie had disappeared from view, scrambling on her hands and knees to recover the spellpaper that had fluttered from her hands. Amelia bit her lip, gripping the back of the pew tightly, and stared up at the dragon. Her heart seemed to thud to a standstill as his eyes fell upon her… Then an instant later he turned to the doorway where Rose stood in her wedding dress, her griffin guardian still at her side.
“Aha,” said Regeltheus, “The most beautiful of the three maidens has been selected and prepared for me.”
“That is my bride!” screamed Archalthus. He stood between bride and dragon as if heedless of his smallness. “Leave this place before I slay another of my brothers!”
Smirking, the white dragon bowed his head to favour his brother with his attention. “I think not. All those years in that weak human form, and you still presume to call yourself a dragon?” He knocked the Red Prince to the floor as easily as he had Bessie. “I am everything a dragon ought to be; everything a king ought to be.” With ungentle claws the white dragon tore into his brother’s pockets until he found what he was looking for. He took the ring back just as easily as he’d said he would. “Now I have the Crown, the Ring, and I will take my bride.”
But all the while he’d been speaking, two of the stone gentlemen attending the wedding had hefted the steel column and slid it home into the Red Paladin’s chest. The mountainous creature came to life as if waking from years of deep sleep, but it shook off that ponderousness, and before Regeltheus could approach the petrified Miss Hartwood, her Paladin had put its great mass between them. The dragon snarled, spitting flames, to no effect on the stony giant, which only drew itself up larger than before, shielding its precious charge. The dragon surged to the left of the obstacle, but one massive hand struck his path, and the dragon coiled like an eel as he fought in vain to force himself past. His lashing tail struck the pillars that lined the aisle, chunks of i
ce raining from the ceiling. The dragon didn’t even notice them strike his armoured hide, while the guests dove for cover. The dragon hissed and snarled as he fought the immovable guardian, his ferocious claws raking stone only for the gouges to fill themselves up again. He clawed at the starlight in the giant’s chest, but that disappeared beneath a thick cover of stone. The Red Paladin’s hide only grew tougher with every blow, gnarled and strong, and before long Regeltheus had no choice but to retreat, dagger-teeth bared and blue eyes blazing as he glared at his indestructible foe. Even if he made it past the Red Paladin, there were four fearless golems ready to give their stars and souls in a final defence of the bride, though their efforts might do no more than delay the dragon and fuel his anger.
The ice chapel was silent but for the white dragon’s ragged panting in the cold air, as he coiled back and braced himself for the Red Paladin’s attack, and the helpless wedding guests watched from their hiding places. The Red Paladin only stood, made as it was to be a patient and gentle protector, and defended its charge. Presently, the dragon’s breathing became easier, and he remembered his silent audience… remembered Amelia, for he swung around at once to face her. She stood, clenching her fists in her skirts, ready to run, and met his calculating stare.
“You and I,” said Regeltheus, his voice low, “we are destined for one another.” In a flash like lightning the dragon vanished, and when the smoke cleared it was to reveal a fine tall figure of a man, dressed like his brother in silk and jewels. Closing the distance between himself and Amelia with the swift confident strides of a man who is certain of the answer he seeks, he knelt before her, the ring gleaming in his elegant hands. He was every inch as handsome as his brother, a sweep of silver-white hair framing his marble-sculpted features, skimming the perfect lines of his cheekbones and jaw. But it was his eyes, as endlessly blue and petrifying as the winter sky, that took Amelia’s breath away. “White Queen,” his voice carried throughout the high hall of the chapel, “marry me, and we will rule this world together.”
