Theft of Dragons (Princes of Naverstrom)

by John Forrester

  "Boy!" the Bishop barked, and caused Tael to jump in attention, nearly knocking over the girl. "Come here and clean my toenails. They're a mess." Was he talking to him?

  From the side room a small boy of ten ran over with a box clutched in his hands, and Tael exhaled, allowing himself to relax again. The girl rolled her eyes and smirked, bending down to unlace his leather hunting pants. She winked at him and reached around to pull the front curtain closed, then turned back and cinched his pants off, her fingers teasing his stomach. This is crazy! Tael thought, hearing the Bishop's complaints as the other woman scrubbed away at the man.

  Tael gave the now beaming girl a helpless look, and gulped as she pulled down her linen top, revealing generous breasts that lolled around as she scrubbed away at his stomach with a soapy sponge, while her other hand slid sneakily down to clean his cock.

  "Refrain from speaking at dinner," the Bishop shouted, and startled Tael from a dream of doing more with this girl than just stare at her bouncy breasts. "There will be powerful people there tonight and you are expected to look refined and listen, but not engage any of the guests that are highly likely to come and talk with me tonight. Do I make myself clear?"

  "Yes, Your Excellency. I understand perfectly." Tael swallowed as the girl ran soapy fingers up to rub and pinch her nipples, and he couldn't help but enjoy the shiver that flashed across her face and caused her mouth to part. Were all the girls in the capital this bold? He was unable to stop his hands from stretching out and cupping her breasts.

  "Hurry up and finish your bath. I'm done here." Tael heard the Bishop complain to the maid a she tried to dress him, and decided it was time to slip into his own bath. The girl whispered in his ear, asking if he'd like company tonight, and quickly went to work scrubbing and soaping his skin, until soon all the layers of grime and dirt were washed away, leaving him finally clean after weeks of travel. When Tael failed to respond other than a shrug, the girl pouted, feigning disappointment.

  He stepped out of the now filthy bath, and the girl wet her lips as she toweled him dry. She tugged up her top, exhaled forcefully, and her big hips bounced angrily as she sauntered off. She was likely not the first sneaky slut that would cross his path in Trikar.

  The Bishop left the room, wearing the shimmering silver silk and gold robes of the Calathian Church, which indicated his position of esteem. On the dressing table were clean undergarments, a fresh pair of black pants, a white silk shirt, and black slippers, the cost of which were likely a small fortune. So not only is the man a Bishop, but he's also stupidly wealthy. Tael dressed swiftly and stalked off after the man.

  Downstairs he found Draven chatting with an old man dressed in a tweed suit who puffed thoughtfully on a curled pipe. As Tael was about to head towards the Bishop, Braithe took hold of his arm.

  "Good evening, young master Geldrin." The manservant held contempt firmly on his face. "The Bishop has instructed me to show you to your room. You will dine there in peace. Please follow me."

  Tael felt his neck flush in irritation at the slight, and allowed himself a scathing glance at the Bishop as Braithe led him down a hallway.

  The Bishop ignored him.

  Chapter Twelve

  SEBINE WINCED IN pain as Master Vhelan stabbed the inside of her upper thigh with a silver dagger. Blood dribbled down into a crystal vial and filled all the way up until she almost fainted. The Hakkadian sorcerer cast a quick spell and sealed the wound, leaving a faint ribbon-like scar. He studied her thigh, his expression curious and fearful.

  "The symbol of loyalty to our magical order." The old sorcerer ran the edge of the bloodstained blade along the mark, and Sebine felt revolted at its contact. She wanted to kill him for daring to touch her like that, but was confused by the look of reverence on his face.

  She yanked down her red dress and stood to go. "I am leaving now. I've had enough of this tonight." All she could think about was locking herself in her room and sleeping off this experience until it turned into a distant nightmare. This didn't happen—none of it—she couldn't have been so stupid as to let herself get caught in this sadistic trap. She balled up her fists and screamed through a clenched-jaw mouth.

  The Hakkadians backed away from her as if frightened of the latent potential of her rage.

  A small, timid voice spoke from within the crowd of sorcerers. "You are one of us now, fragrant one. We are part of you, as you are a part of us. You have chanted our words and felt the flow of magic surge through you, as we all have. Don't let anger dwindle your power and shrink your potential. You wear the Ring of Galdora—the most powerful known ring of the ancient land of Drazal'tan. The elves have seen something very precious in you. Do not squander the gift...the gift from your true father."

  Her father? Did the Hakkadians know who her real father was? She scanned the flock of sorcerers for signs of who spoke, but found none. Had she heard the words in her mind?

  Master Vhelan studied her for a long, silent moment, his eyelids trembling as if he were having a vision. "I feel it necessary to teach you your next spell...the binding of illusive form to oneself. Are you prepared to learn the spell tonight?"

  They were purposefully goading her—they knew she wanted to learn spells of illusion. Anything to get her mind off the fact that she was a slave to Hakkadian demands. Could she even leave? Or would they force her to stay and learn the spell? In unison the sorcerers began chanting, tracing curved lines in the air with their small hands until after a time they changed forms into a tribe of lithe women wearing white, flowing robes. The transition was so gradual and natural that she found herself gawking in alarm and excitement at the beauty of the process of transformation.

  "How does it work?" she found herself stammering. "I mean how do you control who or what you'll change into?"

  Master Vhelan reverted back to his old form. "You don't change, per se—you stay the same shape, but to others you'll appear as someone or something else. You merely fix your mind on the image of the person—or even creature—you want to assume the illusion, and...well, it works like this." He chanted again and flourished his hands and soon transformed into a white horse. "Come and touch me. Find the man within the horse."

  Sebine felt silly as she came over and extended her hand towards the horse's neck. Almost instinctively the horse jerked its neck back and released a snort. Her hand vanished within the light illusion of the horse's head. She almost pulled her hand away from the unnatural fright she was feeling, but instead she reached down until she could feel the bald smoothness of the sorcerer's head.

  "Why do you not truly transform? Wouldn't that be more effective?" She withdrew her hand and laid it across her chest.

  "That would be another...more advanced spell." Vhelan smirked and changed into King Braxion. He let out a hideous chuckle at Sebine's horrified expression. "Don't you want to discover whether the magic is truly complete?" The sorcerer ran wrinkled fingers along the ugly face of the King.

  "How did you cast the spell without chanting or moving your fingers?" Sebine narrowed her eyes, trying to remember what Master Vhelan had done.

  "And that is yet another more advanced lesson." The sorcerer chuckled, and returned to his natural form, allowing a rare smile to cross his face. "So many interesting things to learn... And now that you are my apprentice, we will have to work very hard to master them quickly. There is no time to spare."

  No time? What did he mean by that? Sebine was about to speak when he interrupted her.

  "Now you must memorize the chanting and hand movements. You will work with one of our elders." He motioned to a frail-looking sorcerer with white, bushy eyebrows that curled at the edges. The man seemed ecstatic to be teaching Sebine. Another rare smile, she thought. It was unnerving to see Hakkadians smile. Was there something going on that she didn't know about?

  After practicing for almost an hour, she gained the ability to consistently create illusive forms over herself. On a few occasions—as a prank—she pictured the image of a praying m
antis and assumed the grotesque image of a girl mixed with an insect. It was incredibly odd to see her arms covered in scale. Master Vhelan had explained that when choosing the image of a creature or beast, it was best to choose one of a similar size to oneself.

  "You could choose to change shape to a fox," he had said, "but a bee or a beaver would yield bizarre results. And whatever form you do decide to take, be sure to practice it over and over again or you'll fail to maintain the illusion for any lengthy period of time."

  So she had repeated one form many times, fixing her memory on the image of Emitt Weylor, a young, brilliant historian that with his ruffled hair and curious eyes was in a way almost cute. He had the most rigid routines of any person she'd met, and provided an easy target for impersonation since he did most of his studies at night and always left the palace around two o'clock in the morning. Plenty of time for her to sneak out of the palace unseen.

  Master Vhelan came over and squinted at Sebine's hand flourishes, his face expression critical and cold. After she'd completed the illusion sequence several successful times of young historian Emitt, the sorcerer exhaled and nodded his head finally in approval.

  "We are done here for today. You may leave us and return to your room and rest." Sebine held back a scoff at the Hakkadian's words, thinking him a fool for daring to command her like a child. Who does he think he is? she fumed. Though another, more rational voice inside reminded her that he was probably one of the most powerful practitioners of magic in the world. Though what did she really know...she'd seen so little of the world.

  The sorcerers clustered together ceremoniously as Sebine strolled to the stairs. She glanced back, memorizing their serious, astute faces as they studied her departure. Even after she reached the top of the stairs, their eyes still held rigid, devout gazes. She felt a fright from those eyes that dissipated all the warmth and humanity she'd sensed practicing with them during their time together. They really aren't human...they lack any feeling at all, don't they? Perhaps the smiles and innocence the Hakkadians projected was merely yet another illusion. At their core were they just hollow forms empty of love and life? Or something vastly more malevolent...

  She told herself to remember to distrust them, to avoid being fooled by their illusions, and to keep them at a distance and never reveal too much of herself to them. The only thing she wanted from the Hakkadians was knowledge and power, and whatever she had given them was already far too high of a cost. One day, when she'd gained enough to deal with Master Vhelan, she would kill him. Slice his miserable little wrinkled neck and watch him die. With the same silver dagger he'd used to stab her thigh. And she'd be free of the blood threat he held over her head.

  Lunch was being served as Sebine arrived in a fluster at the dining chamber, the King frowning and her mother staring down at her empty plate. The scene was so morbid Sebine wished she never had come—but to do so would certainly invoke the wrath of the King.

  "Apologies for my lateness." Sebine slipped into her chair and forced a smile at the King's inspecting eyes.

  "Spending too much time reading those books of yours again?" King Braxion sighed, wagging his head in disappointment. "You should be spending time socializing and courting nobles. Or perhaps seeking refinement in dance or art or music. You have more in common with those damn scholars at the Arcanum than with other ladies of the court. It's no wonder so many potential suitors give up pursuing you."

  The Arcanum...he actually mentioned the Arcanum? Perhaps something had happened and the King's mind still lingered on the source of his irritation. And he was irritated and upset, much more so than in recent memory.

  "Actually I was visiting the kitchens," she lied. "Learning how to better understand how a great house is run."

  This pleased the King, as any mention of her involved in domestic activities brought a look of approval to his face. "Although not necessary for a princess, I do find it a useful part of your education. Are you partaking in the revelries tonight at the Festival?"

  The Queen lifted her head at the mention, and Sebine swore she saw a hint of mischievousness in her eyes. Usually the King left the palace on festivals, off on some mission or another. Perhaps just a poor excuse for his unpopularity at such events. Braxion always said he despised crowds and festivals, although he always encouraged Sebine to attend in the hopes of her finding a suitor to marry.

  "I am in fact most looking forward to the festival tonight." Sebine lifted a finger to her lips, pretending to remember something important. "Isn't Duke Selby attending the ball tonight? Do you think it wise for me to talk with him?"

  The King narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "The last time I suggested the Duke as an appropriate match you were most certainly not interested. What's changed?"

  Sebine considered for a moment, wanting to lead the King's mind in a direction away from being concerned. "I've heard the Duke is kind, and his children love him. This is important to me. I thought I could talk more to him and discover for myself what kind of a man he is and of the lands he rules."

  The King frowned. "Those are the most promising words you've ever said regarding a suitor." He leaned forward in his chair, the iron and gold medallion around his neck dangling. "You know you had me worried with all that business before...but it seems to me that you've snapped out of it. Your words relieve me. Perhaps I am free to attend to some important matters in the Kingdom's far reaches. After all, my dragons need to flap their wings and fly. Enough of being cooped up in this overcrowded, festering city..."

  "Surely you'll be able to stay for the festival?" The Queen genuinely looked concerned as she placed her hand on his arm and studied him with earnest eyes, but Sebine knew it was all a fake. Mother loved the festival and the freedom from the King, and the ornate masks that provided anonymity and the promise of vice.

  The King shook his head and shoved a leg of lamb against his wrinkled mouth. He chewed loudly and washed down the meat with a gulp of wine. "Urgent business...nasty business, really. Out west...looks like another incursion. I'll be bringing Brandeth, the boy needs more field experience. Seems those Malathian bastards are displeased with me. Hah! I can't imagine why."

  Sebine cast her eyes down at the mention, but quickly shrugged and forced a weak smile at the King. She ate another bite of buttered bread, not trusting her mouth to refrain from releasing a harsh retort.

  "I suppose I should be going then. I'll leave you two to prepare for the festival." Braxion fixed a threatening eye on the Queen. "And do be a dear and behave yourself. I tire of murdering your playthings."

  And with that the King rose and sauntered out of the room, whispering with a steward who nodded as he departed. Sebine felt a flush of anger at the King's proclamation, noticing Mother's dark mood had spoiled her appetite. With a heavy sigh, the Queen let her fork drop to the plate and she pinched her eyes shut as if trying to hold back tears.

  Stiff-backed servants were shooed away by Sebine's harsh flick of her wrist, and she made her way around the long, dining table and knelt down to hold her mother's hand.

  "I despise him...no, loathe him with all my heart." Sebine's voice was low, but filled with comforting malice. "Blessed is the man that slays our cruel King, and frees the land from the blight that is Braxion. That is the man I would marry. One strong enough to kill a King."

  But the Queen failed to respond to Sebine's words, and instead tears now flowed freely down her aging cheeks, cheeks that were once so soft and ruddy when Sebine was a child. Eyes that had beamed love and mischief—before the gloom had arrived—were now filled with sorrow and spite. Hands went to embrace her mother, but the Queen turned away, spurning the comfort.

  This is how my world falls apart, thought Sebine, the day Mother refuses my affection. She gathered herself up, turned and fled back to her room, determined that this night was the night she'd escape unnoticed from the palace—and maybe never return.

  Chapter Thirteen

  AFTER EATING A rather boring dinner of baked beans, a slab o
f ham, broiled potatoes, and mulled wine, Tael decided it was time to flee the confinement of his room at the Dour Bear Inn. He put on his black hooded cloak and pried open a window, sliding outside into the cool, night air. The roof angled towards the side of the inn, where he found a carriage waiting conveniently below.

  A spot of red illuminated the misty air where a coachman smoked a cigar, his eyes studying the departure of a gold-crown-festooned carriage. Tael summoned shadows around him—an ancient spell his grandfather had taught him—and jumped down onto the carriage and sneaked over to an alleyway that went in the direction of the docks.

  The once dutiful guards at the gate now smoked jaheesh, their drug-filled eyes dull in mindless humor. Tael slid effortlessly behind the men, stealing a bag of the herb sticks from a young, coughing soldier. Their laughter at the man faded into the haze surrounding the torchlight as Tael filtered his way down the dark street.

  In his mind he pictured the celebratory faces ahead at the Festival, heard the laughter, and could taste the sweet wine on the lips of beautiful girls. It would be his night tonight, and he wasn't about to let that old, arrogant Bishop ruin it. Why did he need him, anyway? Tael was inside the city and free to do whatever he wanted to do.

  The beggars now slept with sad faces, eyes closed and twitching—likely from hunger dreams induced from empty bellies laced with liquor. Ahead the canal came into view, the silky surface shimmering in the gaslight of lanterns mounted atop the many warehouses set along the water. Empty here, the buildings heard faint echoes of the screams and raucous laughter from the Festival in the distant quarter. Tael followed the sounds of merriment, intoxicated by the cacophony—for there were many voices and instruments that intermixed, and from this distance gave the impression of a muffled mysterious murmuring, invoking longing and delight into his heart.