The Risen Queen

by Duncan Lay

  ‘Bigger how?’ Merren asked.

  ‘You saw how there were two groups in the chamber?’

  ‘I assumed the larger one was for us, the smaller for the Berellians.’

  Alban shook his head grimly. ‘The larger group is for joining the Berellians and taking back their ancestral lands, while gaining revenge for centuries of persecution. The smaller group is for killing both groups and refusing to have anything to do with the wars of the Friny.’

  Stunned silence greeted his words.

  ‘So none of the chiefs are interested in what we have to say?’ Merren asked finally.

  Alban shrugged. ‘You have to see it from their point of view. They have been massacred and driven from their lands, called goblins and made to live in this bleak place. Now we want their warriors to die for us. Would you want to help?’

  ‘Then why is the High Chief not trying to have us killed? Why did he agree to meet me?’ Merren asked.

  ‘He is the one person who does want to hear what you say. The safety of his people rests with him. He will not make a rash decision. And the death of Rath, as well as his clever attempt to trick you, will work in our favour. As does the presence of the dragon.’ Alban gestured out of the window, where a crowd of excited Derthals was keeping a careful distance from Argurium.

  ‘So what are we going to do about the Berellians? That is the man who killed Wime, and Forde—and others!’ Merren hissed.

  ‘I’ll challenge him,’ Martil promised. ‘No doubt he’s the Berellian King’s Champion—but I’ve already killed one of those. With the Dragon Sword, he won’t be around long.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Merren warned him gently. ‘He seemed fond of using throwing knives and darts.’

  Martil just smiled grimly. ‘If he was the one who killed Wime, I’ll look forward to it,’ he growled.

  Martil found himself reading to Karia to make the time pass. The church was devoid of anything much, and Alban suggested they stay inside, just in case some of the Derthals ostensibly looking at Argurium happened to be agents of the Berellians, or followers of Rath, looking for revenge.

  Merren wanted to get a chance to talk to Martil, to try and explain what she had been thinking back at the Derthal village, but Karia showed no inclination to leave him alone. Merren told herself she had to learn from that mistake; she knew she would. But it still burned. She had thought she had put aside her father’s teaching, but it had been his philosophy of the end justifying the means that saw her place the lives of Derthal families above Norstaline families. Yes, she had an enormous responsibility on her shoulders, yes, she was under incredible pressure—and yes, she was also pregnant. But she could not use those as excuses. Curiously it made her understand Martil better, see how Bellic could have occurred. The only consolation she had was thinking how she could turn it to their advantage, to win over the Derthals. She would have liked a chance to speak to Havell, about how the Elfaran could help them, but he was waiting outside with Argurium, keeping the curious at a safe distance.

  She breathed deeply, trying to calm her mind. She tried to think about what she could say to High Chief Sacrax, to persuade him to help her people, but all that came to mind was how the Derthals had been killed and driven out, all for a lie. The Norstalines had discovered the passes that gave access to the north, then found huge forests, rich farmland and both gold and silver in the northern mountains. It had seemed like a paradise, except for the strange tribe of creatures already living in the area. Then King Riel had announced these ‘goblins’ had tried to kill a dragon, making them fair game for anyone who wanted land, gold and silver. History said that the Dragon Sword had united the people—and certainly it could have that effect—but how much was also down to all the gold and silver that flowed to the Crown? In one stroke, King Riel had new lands to promise to his faithful supporters, as well as money aplenty to buy soldiers and swords.

  She forced that out of her mind and talked to Barrett about getting themselves more time. Creating a storm out to sea should slow down the Tenoch advance—and thus everyone else, as well. Barrett agreed with alacrity and began work immediately, which was what she wanted, but it just left her free to think. She wondered how Sendric and Conal were coping in her absence. Looming large was the knowledge Martil had to travel to Dragonara Isle and help the dragons in their rebirth. No matter how often Havell told them it was a simple, easy duty, she could not help but wonder why now. What else was in store for them?

  More waiting, it seemed. The afternoon dragged on and on, and night was falling with still no sign of anything happening. Even the crowd of Derthals looking at Argurium had dwindled to a few hardy souls. Alban, who had spent the day talking with Quiller and Havell, served them a thin stew of venison, washed down with water.

  ‘There is little fresh food here. The Derthals are gatherers rather than growers. Obviously I have a little vegetable patch but the growing season is short,’ Alban said apologetically.

  After the dinner, Jaret and Wilsen were instructed to keep watch, while Alban helped everyone make up crude beds on the pews; his own bed was given up for Merren. The pews were wide enough and long enough to sleep on, although they were hardly comfortable.

  Conal looked at the scroll in his hand and managed to restrain a smile—but only just.

  ‘I think we have finally found the key to getting the people moving,’ Sendric agreed. ‘It was a brilliant idea, my friend.’

  ‘It wasn’t bad, even if I say so myself,’ Conal grinned.

  With so many of the people disbelieving the threat now massing over the borders, and not wanting to leave their homes and possessions behind, Conal tried a different approach. His solution had come from one problem of the evacuation: People could carry only so much food. Food was going to be critical, both in ensuring the evacuation and that the people could survive a winter in the north of the country. Getting enough food into the north to feed the entire country was a massive task in itself. But Conal had decided one problem could solve the other.

  Shopkeepers were ordered to close their doors and head north; all available food was to be loaded onto wagons and brought to the capital. Those villages and towns that refused to leave would find that their food was running short anyway—and if they wanted to feed themselves and their children, they needed to follow the food north.

  ‘But is it going to be enough? There are many who remain,’ Sendric said, throwing a serious note back into their conversation. ‘Those in the west with the money have laid in supplies enough for a siege, while some of the farming villages have stores enough to last longer.’

  ‘I agree. Two of the worst are villages closest to the Berellian border.’ Conal sighed. ‘But we cannot do any more. We will collect as much food as we can. Now comes the time for hard decisions—who we can save, who is worth saving. But we have done what the Queen asked.’

  Sendric nodded. ‘Indeed. Now it is up to her to save those who do make it north,’ he said simply.

  Martil, then Barrett, took over watches through the night—but nothing happened.

  ‘But who would attack a dragon?’ Karia pointed out the next morning to a yawning Martil. ‘Can I go out and speak to her?’

  But, predictably, Karia’s confidence fled and she wanted to hide behind Martil’s leg once they were up close.

  ‘It is all right, child. Come out. I feel your magic. I know you have questions.’

  ‘What is it like on Dragonara Isle?’ Karia asked eagerly.

  ‘It is a beautiful island, with plants and animals living in harmony. I love to soak in its warm sea and lie on its golden sands. But I rarely have time for that. We just sleep and eat on the island; usually we are out, travelling the world, making sure the magic is flowing and is always protected.’

  ‘So what is your house like?’

  Argurium laughed—a gentle, almost musical sound. ‘It is not a house; it is a hall, a huge hall, made from rock and living trees. Inside, both we and the Elfarans can rest, so it is almost
like two halls in one. There are passages and rooms for dragons, and passages and rooms for Elfarans. They intertwine and cross over, so that one creature may visit all other parts of the hall.’

  ‘I would love to see that!’ Karia cried.

  ‘And you will, one day. When the Dragon Sword wielder comes to us, you may come with him.’

  ‘So can you tell us any more about the duty I have?’ Martil thought he might as well ask.

  Argurium smiled and stretched. ‘Only what you have heard. It is not a hard task, or a dangerous task. Compared with what you have faced, and what you will face, it is easy. The only requirement is that you have to be there at the right moment—and that will not be a concern.’

  ‘And what of the Dragon Sword? Can you tell me more of that?’

  ‘Yes. But we do not have time to talk of it now.’

  Karia, bored with talk of duties and tasks, took over the conversation, steering it back to topics she was far more interested in, such as whether there were any fairies on the island.

  Martil tried to stifle a yawn as Karia interrogated the dragon on every magical creature that had ever featured in a saga and which, according to Argurium, did not exist.

  When Wilsen told them breakfast was ready, Martil struggled to control the urge to hug the man.

  ‘She was very nice, but I don’t think she’s very clever, for a dragon,’ Karia said critically, as they walked back.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Martil asked.

  ‘She’s never seen a fairy! Or a gnome, or a dryad, or a sprite, or a talking rabbit! She mustn’t get out much. Everyone knows they all live on Dragonara Isle, come out at night and dance around together, have exciting adventures…And Argurium said she’d never even been to a fairy tea party!’ Karia shook her head, overcome with the thought of how deprived that poor dragon was.

  ‘Imagine that. A dragon who doesn’t know what a fairy is,’ Martil said with a straight face.

  They walked back into Alban’s church to find the priest’s supplies were not up to breakfast, and they were to eat the dried fruit and oatcakes they’d brought with them. After eating, Jaret and Wilsen went out to feed the horses.

  ‘Well, what should we do now? Do we just wait for Sacrax to decide what to do with us?’ Merren snapped, pacing up and down the church.

  ‘He will want to speak to you again, before making any decision. But he will want no more surprises—he will only speak to you when he has discovered the truth of your claims about Rath. After he has spoken to you, then he might call for me, then he will think some more before making his final decision. It might all take some time. May I suggest your majesty lie down and take it easy, in your condition?’

  ‘My condition? Being a woman? What nonsense is that?’ Merren snorted.

  ‘No, I meant with your majesty being pregnant,’ Alban protested gently. ‘Too much agitation and excitement is not good for a baby’s development. May I suggest you sit down and I’ll try to find you a glass of milk?’ His jaw dropped as he caught sight of Merren’s ashen stare, and the thunderstruck looks on everyone else’s face.

  ‘Was that a secret?’ he asked, rather lamely.

  Merren could feel every eye in the room on her and had to control the urge to hit the priest.

  ‘I think you are mistaken, Father,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘And you are also dangerously impertinent.’

  Alban recovered slowly. ‘Of course, your majesty. Please accept my humblest apologies. I have been among the Derthals too long. It must have clouded my vision.’

  ‘Good. Let us say no more about it,’ Merren said heavily.

  But as she turned, she could see by the look on Martil’s face this would not be an end to it.

  ‘So that is why you are marrying Sendric,’ he said slowly, looking at her in wonderment. The words seemed to have burned themselves into his brain, then sunk down into his chest, where they sat, like a lead weight. It made many things clear, but it also made them much worse.

  ‘That was why you changed!’ Barrett snarled at Martil. He had thought he had come to terms with Merren’s rejection, but to know she had rebuffed him for Martil…

  ‘This discussion is at an end!’ Merren’s voice cracked like a whip. ‘This is not the time or the place! And there will be nothing more said! We are here to save a country, not to get involved in fights between ourselves! If any person here does not do everything in their power to help me, then by Aroaril I will kill you myself! Norstalos needs us all, and I will not allow us to fail! Do you understand?’

  Silence greeted her words.

  She stalked over to Barrett. ‘Do I have your agreement?’ she glared at him.

  ‘Your majesty.’ Barrett bowed stiffly, but she was already in Martil’s face.

  ‘And you? I will hear nothing more from you?’

  ‘I need to talk to you, your majesty,’ Martil said stiffly. ‘Alone.’

  ‘I thought I made it clear this discussion was at an end,’ Merren hissed.

  ‘Not to me,’ Martil replied, then stared into her eyes. ‘You owe me this much, at least,’ he whispered. ‘For the village, if not for Pilleth.’

  Against her better judgement, Merren nodded jerkily, then stalked outside, Martil at her heels.

  ‘This is why you are marrying Sendric. And the child is mine,’ Martil stated flatly.

  ‘Yes,’ Merren admitted.

  ‘But why? Why could you not tell me?’ he implored.

  Merren did not know whether to laugh or cry. ‘Don’t you understand? I had no choice! The people barely accept me. The thought of a base-born Ralloran Butcher of Bellic as their Prince Consort, his son as their future King…You’ve seen the surveys, you know what people’s attitude to the Rallorans is! We’d be lucky if they didn’t rise up and demand Gello back again! They would never accept us, or him!’

  ‘Him?’ Martil seized upon that one word.

  Merren felt like hitting herself or, better, hitting him. ‘Yes, our son. The future King of Norstalos. But only if I do this my way.’

  ‘I know the people don’t like Rallorans, but marrying Sendric!’ Martil protested. ‘Haven’t you talked endlessly about how a person should be judged by what they do, not how they were born? Doesn’t this make that a lie? Can’t we just give the people a chance to accept us? I mean, if we manage to save them from the Berellians…’

  Merren held up her hand, and he trailed off.

  She found herself close to tears, something she put down to her condition, for surely it was the only reason to feel so emotional. ‘Don’t you think I’ve considered all this? If we were ordinary, it would not matter. But there is too much at stake here. So many people have already died to put me back on the throne—more still will die before that throne is safe. How can I risk all of that, put my own happiness above my people? I had to choose between you and my country. You knew which one I had to pick!’

  ‘But why did you have to lie to me?’ Martil cried.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk about lying! You were lying to me all through Pilleth! You wanted to sacrifice yourself and you refused to tell me!’ Merren growled back.

  ‘Well, maybe I should have died, then we wouldn’t need to have this conversation!’

  Merren turned away then, and Martil was instantly sorry, reaching out a hand to touch her shoulder, but she jerked away from him.

  ‘I don’t want you dead. Surely even someone as wooden-headed as you can see that,’ she said thickly.

  ‘Then…’

  ‘Then nothing. I must marry Sendric, give our son the chance to take up the Dragon Sword, and the throne. I have to put aside my personal feelings, I have a greater responsibility. Just as you did before Pilleth.’

  ‘But, afterwards…’

  She shook her head. ‘It cannot happen. I promised Sendric this would never come out, that he would not go down in history as a laughing stock. Besides, if it ever became known, then we would still have the same problem with the people. No, for all our sake
s, we cannot have a future. Any future. If you care anything for me, for this child, you will say nothing more.’

  Martil groaned and turned away.

  Merren stepped closer. ‘We can never speak of this again,’ she warned. ‘Too much is at stake. I want you to swear on Karia’s life that you will never mention it.’

  Martil tried to look anywhere but at her. She reached up and grabbed his face in her hands.

  ‘Swear it!’

  Jerkily, Martil nodded his head. It was the last thing he wanted to do, but what choice did he have?

  Merren took a moment to get herself back under control, then led the way back into the church—and into the middle of fresh arguments.

  ‘How dare you! After all the warnings I gave you! I told you something bad would happen!’ Barrett grabbed hold of Martil’s tunic the moment he stepped through the door. ‘I wish I had helped you die!’

  ‘Let go of me, or there’ll be someone else doing the dying here,’ Martil warned, wrenching himself free.

  ‘What’s going on!’ Karia screamed.

  Martil stepped away from Barrett and went down on one knee to her.

  ‘We’re just having a discussion. It’s nothing to worry about,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Is it true? Are you and Merren going to have a baby?’ she demanded.

  ‘Well…’ Martil remembered how she had been raised on a farm, by a father who had no qualms about displaying naked women in front of a small girl. What to say?

  ‘Are you going to leave me for the new baby?’ Karia asked, almost in tears.

  ‘No!’ Martil protested. ‘I would never do that!’

  ‘But that’s your real baby, I’m not yours really…’

  ‘That’s not right.’ Martil grabbed her in his arms. ‘There is no child I could want more than you! I swore I would look after you and I will never go back on that!’