“That sounds like something a queen would do, back in the good old days.”
“Actually, such a small offense would warrant a flogging at most. And stealing silverware? That’s something a scullery maid would do. How could a chambermaid manage it, when she’s strictly an upstairs maid?”
“How am I to know what goes upstairs and downstairs? I’m just a country gentleman.”
“A chambermaid takes care of bedrooms.”
“Ah,” I said, leaning back.
It seems Rosemary the Chambermaid had been very pretty and very young (only sixty-four.) What’s more, she had the sort of body you didn’t often see on elves—we’re talking dangerous curves. She was an orphan rumored to be part-halfling. She was certainly wild enough.
“She was willing, attractive, and had access to the king’s bedchamber,” Valandil said. “The fact that the queen sent her to the dungeons indicates something happened.”
“And what happened to her?” I asked, leaning forward.
“She was branded a thief and thrown out of the palace.”
I grimaced. “Branded on the face?”
“The queen was certainly mad about something. A stigma like that would bar Rosemary from any decent work. My guess is she became a camp follower, and when the royal army passed through Corinthe she stayed there as a prostitute. This was fifteen hundred years ago.”
“Sad story,” I said. “When does my family enter the picture?”
“That’s the interesting part. Your great-grandfather Dermethor brought home a baby at around the same time and acknowledged the infant as his son. His only son. I understand the wife wasn’t pleased.”
“Great-Grandma never warmed up to Grandpa Feanaro, but there wasn’t much she could do since he was her husband’s official heir. Hey, is that why he died at just nine hundred and twenty? Because he was a quarter halfling? And—hold it—does this make me part halfling?”
“Only one-sixteenth. It shouldn’t be a problem when you take the throne.”
“No wonder I hate elves,” I said. It was a beat before I realized—
“Damn, you’ve convinced me!”
Valandil stroked his mustache and smiled. “The evidence is persuasive. As the last of your line—your parents being dead—you are automatically the crown prince.”
“But what if I don’t want to be king?”
“What you want doesn’t matter! Finally, after almost a thousand wretched years, Brandish can once again be a kingdom. It doesn’t even matter that you’re descended from a half-breed whore—not if we mate you to a queen of the most exalted blood.”
“After a few generations, nobody will be able to tell the difference, eh?”
“Exactly. The point is to maintain continuity!” Valandil now paced excitedly about. “It won’t even be difficult to get you on the throne. I have powerful allies, and when you fulfill the prophecy our position will be rock-solid.”
“Wait, the prophecy?”
Everyone knew that weird old poem. It had supposedly come to the best seers of the age, who had all written it down in exactly the same way.
“You do mix with the other races, don’t you?” Valandil asked.
“I consider myself fairly cosmopolitan,” I said. “But I don’t have a silver hand, and I certainly don’t know any dragons.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
* * *
I should’ve run screaming, because it’s never a good sign when somebody starts waving around prophecies. The best you can hope for is that it’s some kind of swindle, which means you’re only going to lose your shirt. The worst you can hope for (because you’re some kind of masochist) is that it’s some kind of cult, which means you’re about to become their virgin sacrifice.
Prophecies are never simple. They’re always right, but you never understand them until they happen. Did you hear it properly? Is it in plain language, or is it in godawful verse? Can you try to prevent it, or will doing so actually fulfill the prophecy?
If the prophecy is about you, you’re screwed. It sucks being The Chosen One. Your life isn’t your own anymore.
“Any chance someone else fits the description? Maybe a long-lost sister or something?” I asked.
Valandil said nothing, only continued walking ahead of me. We were going deeper underground. I’d said something about dragons being extinct (nobody had seen one for a century) and he’d picked up the lantern and motioned me to follow.
I remembered what I’d said back in the alehouse, about the dragons having help dying out. “Master, are there no more dragons because of this prophecy?”
I thought quickly. It was possible that some of the same people who had supported the revolution had also reacted badly to the prophecy. They wouldn’t be eager to see another king overturning their hard-earned status quo, so they’d… Wipe out an entire race to invalidate a prophecy?
Mind you, a dragon was a fifty-foot-long armored death machine. It flew, it spewed fire, and it ate people. Not because it didn’t know better (it could talk!) but because it liked how we tasted.
A single dragon would be a tough objective for an army, let alone a few self-appointed dragon hunters. The great scaly beasts were very hard to kill, all the books agreed on that. Yet the books also agreed that they had somehow disappeared over the last few centuries. From a stable population of several thousand, down to a handful, and down to nothing.
Suddenly I knew what it felt like to have true enemies.
“Master, are you trying to get me killed?” I said, and then stumbled on a rock.
“Get up, boy,” Valandil said. He crouched and hauled me to my feet. Frail as he looked, my boots nearly left the floor—I remembered how strong earth mages could be.
“Don’t you understand?” he said. “I am trying to restore this kingdom as well as your birthright. Brandish needs a king, whether or not you like it.”
He put me down and picked up the lantern. “Anyway, if I’m right about this you’ll have the best bodyguard in the world.”
We continued down the tunnel. Dammit, how do I get myself into these situations? The passage widened into another chamber. It was a huge space, but the thing it contained was nearly as large. The massive shape crouched in the darkness until my master raised his lantern.
“Behold,” he said, and I beheld a dragon.
Chapter 4
Findecano Elanesse, Lord Governor of Drystone, could do nothing as the soldiers attacked his daughter.
There were four of them. Each was fully-armored and carried his weapon of choice. There was a saber, a longsword, and two spears. Against this Meerwen fought barehanded, and all the boiled leather couldn’t hide the fact that she looked small and frail.
Findecano gritted his teeth—the urge to throw a fireball was overpowering.
Being soldiers, they tried to surround her, but she kept backing away. They tried to move with her, but then she kicked the nearest man in the leg and he fell. She jumped over him, punched him in the head, and jumped away. The other spearman went in, short jabs going for her head and neck, but she dodged and ducked until she got a hand on the spear. Then she swung her other arm and snapped the spear.
“Ha!”
The two swordsmen were old friends: the longsworder went high and the saberman went low. She stood and let them rain blows on her arms and shoulders, trusting in her leathers and her spell-hardened skin. Steel flashed and rang, but she held her ground.
She saw an opening—she darted forward and laid a fist on the saberman’s cheek, then an uppercut to his midsection and chin. He fell with a dent in his breastplate.
The longsworder slashed at her face, forcing her to retreat. The second spearman joined him with their comrade’s spear and they cut and sliced the air. Meerwen kicked at the longsworder and grabbed the spear in one hand. She pulled the spear, burying the head in the dirt, then caught the spearman and threw him at the longsword. The first spearman came up from behind and wrapped her in a bear hug. “We’ve got her now!�
��
The other two rushed her, and only a flurry of kicks kept them back. Meerwen jerked her head back, smashing into the grappler’s face. She stomped on his toes, sank down, elbowed him in the gut, and threw him to the ground. Then she spun and kicked him in the ribs.
She snarled, and when the two swordsmen came at her she grabbed the longsword and started punching the wielder, punching and punching until he fell. A kick to the head and he was out.
It was just her and the saberman now, and they both pulled out the flashy stuff. For long seconds it was punch and counter punch, slash and spinning slash. The saberman danced and whirled his sword arm in deadly arcs. She kept her hands in contact with the steel, brushing the blade with her gloves. He cut low and she jumped, he cut low again and she lifted one foot and rammed it into his crotch. She stepped close, twisted the saber from his hands, and head-butted him into unconsciousness.
The audience erupted into applause.
“Meerwen Elanesse wins!” said the Master of Ceremonies. “She has proven her mettle in honest battle!”
The leaders of the royal guard looked uneasy—women in the army were almost unheard of. So Findecano clapped and said, “My generals, is she not worthy of a commission?”
Under his gaze they could only nod.
Unaware of this, Meerwen beamed and bowed to the crowd as the medics rushed onto the field. Her leather armor was cracked, but she waved them aside.
* * *
“Well done, my daughter,” Findecano said. “I see your time in the convent has been usefully spent.”
“I’m glad to hear that, my father,” Meerwen said as she walked up to the VIP stand. “Especially since you were against it in the first place.”
“Those were some of the best fighters in the army. They were sons of soldiers, and grandsons of soldiers. I would not have thought it possible for a single person to defeat them, let alone barehanded and using human techniques.”
“The humans have much to teach us, father. As do the other races.”
“Everything they know, they learned from us. What can such people invent when their lives are so undisciplined?”
“The Fighting Nuns have plenty of discipline.”
“For members of that oversexed race to take vows of chastity—let’s just say they don’t represent all of humanity. “
“But—”
“Enough. If we are to argue, let it be in private. Take my hand, my dear.”
She took it, and they teleported home.
It was obvious to anyone that the Elanesse house was one of the oldest and finest mansions in the city. You only had to look at its seamless marble floors, its gold-inlaid walls, and, above all, its expansive floor plan. The servants always teleported to get from the kitchens to the dining hall, otherwise the food would get cold. Like many of the houses in the Palace Quarter it was built to the same plan as the king’s residence, only slightly smaller.
There were other mansions as fine, but none as simply decorated as the Elanesse house. Findecano was not one for fine paintings, century-old tapestries, or eggshell-thin vases, though he could certainly afford them. Every stick of furniture was stark and useful—there wasn’t a single conversation piece in the house.
You got the impression that he was an indifferent homeowner, until you realized that a complete lack of something was a statement on its own.
“I hope tonight’s wine will be acceptable,” Meerwen said, walking toward the house. “Elrond assured me it was one of his best vintages.”
“I’m sure it is,” he said. He caught up and took her arm. “Before we go in, would you walk with me?”
Meerwen frowned. “Is something wrong?”
“I merely wish for us to talk before I once again put on my public face. You know how these dinners are.”
“I never understood why you’d have dinner guests who’d be happy to cut your throat.”
“Politics, my dear. It makes for strange tablemates.”
He was a grizzled old elf, past the point when his long-lived race finally looking young. His face was lined and wrinkled, and age had filled out his frame. Yet there was strength in his limbs and quickness in his wits. He remained in his prime.
“I have missed these gardens,” Meerwen said. “I see that Mother is still into orchids.”
“She is,” he said. The house was famous for its gardens. “Her main ambition is to cultivate a new variety.” He looked at her. “Her other main ambition, that is, after ensuring her daughter’s future.”
Meerwen rolled her eyes. “Not this again, Daddy.”
He grinned. “I can’t stop being your father, can I? You know I’ve always wanted you to be happy.”
“Am I not fulfilling my dreams? Granted, they’re not what a young woman usually aspires to, but give me credit for originality.”
They walked down a path that took them past flowerbeds and ornamental fountains. The land rose and fell, and at every turn the path revealed new things. This time three statues depicted the moment just after King Galdor’s execution. There was the swordsman, his curved sword stuck in the chopping block. There was a younger Valandil, arms raised in anguish. Finally, there was the king, who in a bit of artistic license was standing and holding up his own head. It didn’t seem to bother King Galdor that he was one black horse away from becoming a stereotype.
“These statues always used to scare me,” Meerwen said. “I played everywhere but here.”
“I remember. It didn’t help that the cook used to tell you the statue of the king was the king, just petrified.”
“And that he would come back to life if little girls didn’t eat their vegetables.”
They laughed. “I miss that time,” Findecano said. “It seems only yesterday that you were a little girl who only wanted to read adventure stories and sneak off to the Halfling Theater.”
“I still read novels. Not much has changed.”
“Yes. You are still completely uninterested in marriage.”
“Daddy! I will marry when I’m ready. And when the right man presents himself.”
“They’re not exactly lining up, are they? Especially not after today’s trial of arms.”
She shrugged. “I’m advancing gender equality.”
“Yes, but what about your family? You are my only child, and it’s up to you to continue our House. To maintain continuity.”
“I never liked the men you brought home.”
“Why not? Nice boys, every one. What’s more, they had coats of arms that went back generations, and not just to their grandfather’s ennoblement. Do you know how many favors I burned just to give you a shot at a royal guard commission?”
“Am I hearing this from the elected Lord Governor? Is Drystone’s champion of the common elf telling me I should marry into the aristocracy?”
He coughed. “Kings are obsolete, it is true, but the Houses still hold power. It wouldn’t hurt if our blood had a bit of blue. After a few generations, nobody will be able to tell the difference.”
* * *
They walked on, past artful tableaus of rock and sand. “In any case, Father, you probably shouldn’t worry about never having in-laws.”
Findecano raised an eyebrow. “Indeed? You’ve met someone?”
“More like ran into someone.” She told him about the meeting in Elrond’s Commonwealth.
“So this Angrod is an apprentice who goes drinking when he should be running errands?”
“Come on, you know masters never run out of chores. Why, even at the convent we were always chopping wood and carrying water. When we weren’t printing postcards.”
“When I was an apprentice—and my own apprenticeship was especially long, since I studied under several masters—I never had time for frivolous things.”
“Tell that to Mother, since that’s when you met her.”
“I met him when?” someone said. They turned to see Tari Elanesse gliding toward them.
“My dear wife,” Findecano said, and bowed. �
��How are you this evening?”
“Hello, Mother,” Meerwen said, and curtsied.
“No need for formality,” said the lady of the house. She was slender even for an elf, and tall. She had golden skin and auburn hair but otherwise looked remarkably like her daughter. “What’s this about frivolous things?”
“It’s nothing, Mother,” Meerwen said, looking away.
“Meerwen has been telling me about a boy. And unlike the others, this one might have a chance.”
“Really? Who is this fine man and what House is he from?”
“His name is Angrod Veneanar and he’s a smartass,” Meerwen said.
“But a smartass with a coat of arms,” Findecano said. “And his chances look good—when has our daughter even noticed a boy?”
“It’s not like that!” Meerwen said, turning red.
“Well, maybe it should be,” Tari said. “You aren’t getting younger, you know. When can we meet him?”
“I’m only a hundred and two,” Meerwen said. “Plenty of time. And it’s not my place to pursue him. He knows my name and where to find me.”
Findecano was about to comment on how his daughter was challenging gender roles in the military, but not in romance, but thought better of it. “As a graduating apprentice he’ll probably show up at the Royal Ball.”
Meerwen’s eyes lit up when he mentioned the biggest social event in Drystone. Then she looked worried. “The Royal Ball? But I have nothing to wear!”
“Tomorrow your father will call in the best tailors in the city,” Tari said. “In the meantime, why not get dressed for dinner? You have just enough time if you go now.”
“I’ll do that,” Meerwen said. “Mother, Father. We will talk more later.”
Husband and wife watched as their child hurried into the house. Findecano smiled. “Young love.”
Tari looked to him with a frown. “This Angrod, isn’t he apprenticed to Valandil the Royalist?”
“Yes,” Findecano said. “By all reports Angrod is a nice boy, if a bit wild.”
“You’re still having his master followed?”
“Even when he teleports. He was never good at keeping secrets, or we wouldn’t have heard about his little project.”
Stone Dragon (The First Realm) Page 3
