Theft of Dragons (Princes of Naverstrom)

by John Forrester

  The King studied Sebine for a moment, then looked at Prince Jaraz, suspicion in his eyes. "But the Prince failed to resist his lust for you. I heard the words from his own mouth. It is the duty of every royal to respect another's family and property."

  Property? That's all I am to the King? Chattel to be sold and bartered with? Sebine fumed and in that instant was almost unable to stop the urge to cast the blood-boiling spell on Braxion. The King must have read her furious expression because he softened his tone.

  "In addition, when I ordered the Prince to surrender himself, his sister interfered."

  The Prince was about to speak but Sebine silenced him with her raised hand. "Personal protection when bodily harm is threatened is allowed by the laws of our Kingdom, Father. The Ninth Canon of Valance states this clearly, especially in regards to visiting royals."

  This point caused a reddening along the King's neck, a reaction similar to the times Sebine had seen him make blunders at court. A wave of uncertainty flashed over his face for a moment, then he cleared his throat and pointed his sword at the Prince. "I will not allow disrespect towards me during visits to my Kingdom. You and your party will make haste—"

  Blackness flooded the ballroom and hundreds of small explosions like the crackling of fireworks rang out. Voices Sebine recognized as Hakkadians sorcerers chanted their spells. The only remaining light—the incandescent, crystalline shield surrounding the Prince and his friends—quivered and faltered under the barrage of black bursts, globs of some substance sticking along the surface—demonic mouths sucking and biting at the shield of light. Gods! What spell are they casting? Sebine had never heard those words spoken by the Hakkadians, and she spun around, trying to spot the diminutive sorcerers.

  Screams and shouts were silenced by a spell until there was no sound and no light other than the fading shield that illuminated Princess Marei's struggling, sweating face. Sebine pushed her way through the soldiers and stepped in front of the Princess, trying to protect her. Sickening orbs of blackness rushed around her, wiggling, writhing wraiths bent on devouring the shield. She tried to speak but found her voice unable to break through the gloom caused by the Hakkadians. Why are they still attacking? With her raised hand towards the origin of the Hakkadians, the casting ceased, light gradually returned to the room, but no sorcerers remained.

  Princess Marei collapsed to the ground, the shield falling with her.

  Chapter Nine

  TAEL WOKE THE next morning to the sound of water lapping against the hull of the ship. Faint light filtered in through sparse trees drooping lazily over the river. They had traveled a great deal in the night, farther than he had expected. Perhaps the boatswain felt a fire in his belly to get as far away from the troubles in the north as possible. He glanced around and caught the calm eyes of the Bishop, who bowed his head in response and mouthed a morning prayer.

  With a wink he withdrew a wooden tube from a leather carrying case, and proceeded to unfasten the tube's cap. Inside was a finely crafted fishing pole, which he assembled with deft, expert precision. He threaded the silk lines with meticulous attention to detail, sat back, and admired his work. Next he retrieved a small box filled with various shiny lures and handcrafted flies, the variety and ingenuity of which caused Tael to gape in amazement.

  "Did you make all those yourself?"

  The Bishop looked up and furrowed his brow in puzzlement. "Isn't that the only way? Fishermen have secrets and don't make good merchants. They prefer the open air, the water of rivers and lakes, and the feel of a good haul after landing a bite." He aimed his rod at the river where hundreds of rippling circles were scattered across the dark surface. The fish were definitely biting. "Our breakfast beckons us."

  The priest narrowed his eyes to stare at the moths darting along the water, and reached in the box and selected a grey-and-white fly. With a quick flick of his fingers he tied the fly to the silk line and nodded in satisfaction.

  "I hope you're hungry...we'll snag a nice fat fish." Bishop Draven led Tael to the back of the boat where he leaned over the edge and cast the fly at a cluster of jumping fish. "Won't take long now. When they are hungry like this they really go out of their way to chase after the fly."

  As if to prove his point, he snagged the fly back a few times and soon enough several fish jumped eagerly after the bait. A larger shadow slithered under the surface in a steady speed, scattering the school of smaller fish. Tael noticed the rod bend down under the weight of the catch, and the fish darted around wildly in the river, sending a wave of delight over the Bishop's face.

  "Ho, ho! Caught us a big river trout!" His words woke a few of their fellow travelers, and one girl of around eight peered sleepy-eyed at the frenzy frothing the water below. The fat, writhing fish was lifted out of the water, and its shiny skin caught the first soft rays of morning sunlight.

  Tael grabbed the fish and displayed it proudly to the gathered group around him. A pot-bellied man wearing a filthy apron waddled up and offered a cloth bag to receive the fish.

  "You catch, I'll cook. The gods do bless you, Bishop Draven... You're the finest fisherman around." And the plump man turned and waddled his way back towards the ship's scullery below deck.

  "Mind trying your hand at the catch, young lad?" The Bishop grinned at Tael and handed him the bamboo rod. Tael hesitated, remembering the last time he'd fished with his father. Feeling the weight of the rod made him wish he was once again casting lines into the water, with his father at his side. An old, painful ache clenched his side.

  The memory must have weighted heavily on his face, for the Bishop gazed at him with concerned eyes. "Is everything all right? It seems like a dark cloud has settled over your face."

  Tael sniffed and cast the fly into the river, unthinking where, just following his instinct. Within seconds, a silvery fish leapt into the air near the fly, and a swarm of shadows swirled below the surface. He yanked the fly back a foot or so, teasing the fish, and a good-sized one took after the bait. Soon he was hauling in a fish of his own, and the weight of it felt pleasing to his arms. The watching girl beamed a proud, pretty smile at him and for a moment it seemed as if the world was just exactly as it ought to be.

  "I can see you have an honest soul." The Bishop's melodious voice interrupted Tael's reverie. "Whatever troubles you may have experienced in the past can be purged and washed clean. You will find protection and peace in the Calathian Church."

  Even protection against the Black Heart assassins? Tael sighed, and dropped the wriggling fish into the cook's bag, realizing that the Calathian Church was probably the best place for him to seek shelter. If he could stand being in an organization he despised. It stood for everything his father and grandfather opposed. Joining the Order of the Calathian Knights would be like driving a knife into his grandfather's heart.

  "You are kind to show interest and potential in someone like me." Tael fixed worried eyes on the Bishop. "But I must respectfully decline your offer. I feel I am unworthy of such an illustrious Order. "

  The Bishop bowed his head in a gesture of polite retreat, and Tael went back to the fishing. But Bishop Draven's words haunted him as he scanned the water for signs of movement. I can see you have an honest soul...purged and washed clean...find protection. Tael was tired of running for so many years after his father's death. And perhaps by joining such an Order he could gain valuable information in seeking revenge against the King? Now there was an idea. What was the proverb his grandfather had taught him? Friends will always crowd your table, but ensure there is always room for enemies to stay as close to you as the blade at your side.

  Maybe he should seriously consider the Bishop's offer. There were many advantages of belonging to the Order. Wasn't it located close to the King's palace? Being near the King might offer him a chance for revenge...

  "Pardon my intrusion," Bishop Draven said, "but perhaps I have a possible suggestion that might ameliorate your feeling of unworthiness. I imagine a small test of initiation, done by Lord Ba
lgron himself, might allow him to properly evaluate you as a candidate for entrance into the Order. And there would be no commitment on your part during the testing. If you decided you still felt unsuited for the Order, you would be free to go. I even imagine Lord Balgron himself would grant you a writ of recommendation to the grand arena master—in case you decide a life as a gladiator is a better fit for you."

  Now that was an offer worth considering. A writ of recommendation would mean he'd likely gain entry into the elite gladiator training program, and he'd avoid facing countless fights against criminals intent on proving their innocence to the gods. Less bloodshed, less wounds, less time spent in recovery. He'd seen it himself in prior arena battles. His grandfather had taken him countless times when he was a boy, and even a few times while passing through the capitol. The grand arena was filled with throngs of bloodthirsty commoners hopeful of winning small fortunes on their favorite gladiator. The constant stream of challengers bent on displaying their combat skills and making a name for themselves, all hopeful of receiving a coveted spot as a named gladiator. In all the years Tael had only seen one challenger successfully gain the honored position.

  Poor odds, Tael thought, and looked up at Bishop Draven. "You are kind to me, Your Excellency. I thank the gods that our paths have crossed. After contemplating your offer, I humbly accept." He bowed his head to the Bishop. "You've made my burden lighter on this trip, knowing that I will have such a grand opportunity in Trikar. But do you really think I have a chance?"

  Bishop Draven coughed a mocking cough, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "From what I saw that night in Perinith, Lord Balgron would be a fool not to admit you into the Order. The real question is whether you're ready to commit to joining the Order of Calathian Knights. A question you would be wise to ponder over our long journey back to the capitol."

  Chapter Ten

  IN THE WEEKS following the night of the wedding feast, Sebine found herself feeling morose and despondent. She had met someone beautiful and witty, someone she was attracted to, and that attraction had almost cost Prince Jaraz his life. By now the Malathians were likely returned to their lands, their minds bent on war and revenge for the King's offense. Luckily Princess Marei had quickly recovered after her collapse, and the Prince and his entourage had soon fled the capitol without a word to Sebine. Not that she could blame him for leaving like that. Was she cursed with men? Both Dakar and Prince Jaraz were gone, leaving only the warmth of their brief encounters fading from her heart.

  Sebine closed her eyes, remembering how her body had felt at their touch. The warmth had certainly been far more than just from her heart... Eloise, her lady's maid, momentarily stopped braiding Sebine's hair. The Princess realized it was likely because she had unconsciously placed a hand between her legs. She clasped her hands in embarrassment and Eloise quickly continued working at weaving the intricate braid. Now the girl was sure to gossip and soon everyone in the palace would be whispering about Princess Sebine and her lustful daydreaming.

  When the braid was finished, Sebine dismissed the girl and ignored her protesting eyes as she left the room. The King had been demanding for days now that Sebine should join the family for breakfast, but she simply didn't feel like showing her face so early in the morning. I just can't stand the idea of seeing his hideous face, thought Sebine, maybe I should call him the Pig King like so many of his subjects do on the street.

  Lately she had spent countless hours wandering the streets of Trikar, with Yaez shadowing her every move. She was getting good at wearing disguises to blend in with the common folk: a wealthy merchant woman seeking wares, a jeweler's apprentice scanning for new designs, an old woman hobbling down the streets, and her favorite, a hooded, mysterious trader seeking tales of Yhalan and the Malathian Kingdom. The information she had gleaned by spending time outside the palace proved invaluable.

  One merchant seaman fresh from the south claimed he'd overheard Prince Jaraz and the Malathian party complaining of the injustice of King Braxion and of the corruption at court. He told Sebine that the Malathians talked of a trade war against the Kingdom of Valance, and the seaman mourned the loss of future trading spoils. When Sebine pressed the merchant for stories of the Malathian Kingdom, he agreed, asking only for another pint of honey mead. His eyes shiny and voice almost reverent, he told of white cities with curved, gold-plated spires that twisted up to kiss the clouds. Clean, expansive cities with lush gardens, ancient libraries, fragrant flower markets, incense-seeped temples with chanting red-robed priests, and of beautiful women that wore sheer veils covering curious eyes. The man blushed after Sebine grinned at his description of the Malathian city.

  Another time Sebine shared spirits with a pretty, vibrantly adorned girl from a caravan recently arrived from the eastern border. The girl had exotic, almond-shaped eyes with enviously-long eyelashes and told tales of strange and wild Yhalan, of wondrously spiced meats and curries, of seeing tall and slender elves with long, shiny hair, and of young, handsome men who gave her lavish gifts in simple honor of her beauty, expecting only a dance, a kiss, or in one special case, a moonlit walk amongst the crowd gathered for the autumn harvest festival. The girl's eyes gleamed devilishly as she refused to tell the rest of the tale, leaving Sebine with only her vivid imagination of what had transpired.

  After the display of power by the Hakkadians at the wedding feast, Sebine had purposefully kept away from them. She knew this ignoring them couldn't last as the power from the Ring of Galdora begged the knowledge of new spells. Even though the casting of the blood-boiling spell against the palace guards was gruesome, Sebine still enjoyed the control she had gained over the few spells she knew. If only I could learn spells of the illusionist, she thought, I could sneak out of the palace unseen by Yaez. And her movements would go unnoticed and unreported by the King. She might even flee the city and venture to Yhalan, or perhaps even to the Malathian Kingdom.

  Would the Hakkadians teach her the spells she yearned to possess? Or was it all a ruse on their part to exert even greater control over the King by winning the Princess to their side. What did the Hakkadians really want? She wished she could spend time at the Arcanum and discover their knowledge. If she could only meet the wizards...but she knew the King would forbid it. Likely even Yaez had been instructed to prevent her from entering the Arcanum. But if she gained the spell of self-illusion, she could transform herself and pass unrecognized by Yaez and the palace guards, freeing herself to seek counsel with the masters of the Arcanum. Deep in her heart she felt a strong sense of mistrust towards the Hakkadians, and believed that if the King was an enemy of the Arcanum, then she should be allied with them.

  She flung open the door to her balcony, and braced herself against the morning chill of early winter. Frost had not yet formed on the gardens below, but the city beyond seemed prepared to hibernate. There was a dull grey, lifeless fog smothering mansions and towers and government buildings whose heights dared challenge the holy spires of the Calathian Church. Wisps of smoke from breakfast fires dotted the landscape, and the smell of oppression hung thick in the air. The commoners were crushed from all the King's taxes; burdened by the heavy load of supporting the armies and the excessive lifestyles of the royals. Little was left for the lowborn, risking the very survival of the people that supported the Kingdom. She had seen it all.

  Everywhere Sebine looked in her roamings about the city she witnessed starvation and sorrow and senseless deaths. Guards beating merchants to a pulp for daring to allow their carts to break down in a busy thoroughfare. Packs of children as young as four years old—their faces gaunt and eyes desperate—scavenging the streets for scraps to feed their distended bellies. Families ripped apart as bands of armed men tore daughters and sons and wives away from husbands, their loved ones taken in slavery—leaving hopeless, lonely men to fester in their sadness and rage. Such was the City of Trikar, the environment King Braxion the Bold had created over the many years of his rule. He had encouraged vice and trampled on civility and equ
al justice. And upon discovering the true nature of life for the common people in the capitol, Sebine had learned to despise the King to a point of scintillating rage.

  She decided that today was the day to visit the depths of the palace where the Hakkadians nested. She rang a bell and called her lady's maid back into the room, and asked to be dressed, this time in a red silk gown that matched her determined mood. After eating a quick breakfast, she dashed down side stairs used by the servants, through hidden doors to the lower storerooms, and she tunneled down a corridor that led to the entrance of the Hakkadian lair. They had been given a massive, musty chamber, with an upper viewing area lined with leather-bound books and human-skinned tomes, and the viewing area was surrounded by a wrought-iron railing that looked down on the Hakkadian sorcerer's shaved-heads as they chanted and cast their spells in practice or purpose.

  Instead of her usual hiding in the shadows, observing the sorcerers, Sebine boldly strode to the spiral staircase and descended to face the hooded, bemused faces of the wrinkled, shriveled Hakkadians. One taller man—though far shorter than Sebine—shuffled forward and addressed her with studying, green eyes. The candlelight gleamed off his shiny head.

  "Welcome to our humble temple, Princess Sebine." As the man spoke she couldn't help but hear the sarcasm rich in his voice, and the intentional slight in not addressing her as "Your Royal Highness".

  He motioned her towards a long, darkly stained table, and offered her a hard, wooden chair. "We have no niceties down here fit for a princess, but then I imagine your coming here has little to do with being royalty. We are pleased to have you amongst us...instead of above, watching in secret. You will do us great honor in showing us what you have learned."