Dragons Unremembered

by David A Wimsett

  Ryckair sat on a bench next to a fountain and imagined taking Mirjel in his arms and walking with her through the paths that wound about the trees and flowers gathered from all regions of Carandir. He knew the dream would remain a fantasy unless he became king.

  Mirjel arrived, led by Lady Zedo. Behind them came Lek, Mirjel’s lady-in-waiting, and a young girl Ryckair remembered as one of Mirjel’s cousins, though he did not recall her name. The girl sang a little song to herself as she skipped along.

  Two, three, four, five,

  Keep the marching men alive,

  Seven, nine, twelve, fifty,

  Keep the Oola from the city;

  Left, center, right, down,

  Never let them find the town,

  Over the bridge and under the tower,

  There to find the morning flower.

  Ryckair had not heard the old nursery rhyme in years. He remembered one of the palace cooks telling Craya and him that the Oola would get them if they didn’t stay out of the kitchen.

  He rose and bowed. The ladies curtsied and took their seats, the aunt next to Ryckair, followed by the young cousin, Lek and finally Mirjel at the end of the bench.

  Lady Zedo said, “Good day, your Highness.”

  “Good day my lady. How fair you?”

  “As well as can be expected, with the maladies of age. Oh to be young again.”

  Ryckair purposefully averted his eyes to the ground. “And the Lady Mirjel?”

  “How kind of you to inquire, my prince. She is well.”

  He looked up. and for an instant, caught Mirjel’s gaze. The aunt sat forward and blocked his view. “Does my prince have one of his wonderful sonnets for the lady today?”

  Ryckair drew a slip of paper from a satchel. Lady Zedo snatched it from his hand. “May I see this first? Oh my. Oh dear. My prince. If it were not for my station I might remark that this poem is most unseemly. I am afraid that the delicate modesty of the lady does not allow such.” She placed the paper in the folds of her dress. “Have you something more suitable?”

  Ryckair handed another slip of paper to the aunt. The matriarch smiled and nodded her head. “Yes. I like this very much. Do you care to hear our prince recite, my lady?”

  Mirjel nodded her head.

  Lady Zedo handed the paper back to Ryckair. He cleared his throat.

  Flowers bright among the haze,

  Sit within the field and flood,

  And everywhere the cattle graze,

  As pastorally they chew their cud.

  It was the most absurd thing he had ever penned. He wrote it as a parody of poems popular among groups who took on names such as The Poetry Society of Meth or Literary Endeavors. He read some of these satires to Orane, who insisted the other Kyar hear them as well. They had all laughed. There was no laughter in Ryckair now.

  When he finished reading, Lady Zedo closed her eyes and held her hands together as though making the sign on the covenant. “Oh yes, Highness, so much more suitable. Poems should be symbolic, not blatantly vulgar. Do you not agree Lady Mirjel?”

  Mirjel barely heard her aunt as she pictured herself running into Ryckair’s arms. This was Meth, she told herself. Lovers met openly here. Soon, she would be queen. The oppressive morals of her own people need not stifle her.

  Her heart pounded as she pressed her hands against the bench. Her aunt turned and glared with a smothering frown. Mirjel remembered the family ruined when courting lovers dared to exchange notes directly and the couple in Desan stoned to death after being found alone together.

  By Carandir law she had reached an age where she was entitled to own property, enter into a contract or marry whomever she chose without her parents’ consent. She certainly did not need a chaperone.

  Then, she thought of her father and his position in court, both in Meth and Rascalla. She slowly brought her hands to her lap and smoothed the fabric of her dress as she was want to do when nervous.

  Ryckair rolled the parchment into a tube and handed it to the aunt. “Allow me to make you a present of this, madam.”

  Lady Zedo accepted the gift. “Thank you, Highness. Shall we now take kan?”

  Servants brought kan and Lady Zedo gossiped about various people in court. All the while, Ryckair stretched to catch a glimpse of Mirjel.

  Servants collected the cups. Lady Zedo dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “And now, it is time for the young couple to spend some time alone. Shall we adjourn ladies?”

  Adjourning consisted of Lady Zedo, Lek and the young cousin moving to a bench a little closer to the fountain and barely out of earshot. They sat there staring at the couple while Lady Zedo smiled placidly.

  Ryckair remained at one end of the bench, Mirjel at the other. Rascala drew its traditions from the orthodox culture of city states in the east like Au. There, courting couples were allowed a tenth of a span, called a tespan, to speak alone, though physical contact was forbidden.

  Ryckair held his body ridged. “Did Lek pass my letter to you yesterday?”

  “As faithfully as all your others. That was the poem you wanted to read, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded his head. “After your touch at the ball last week I thought I was going to die when we parted.”

  “Don’t speak of it, I pray. Oh Ilidel, what are we to do?”

  Since childhood Mirjel was prepared to marry the king, whoever that was. It was her duty. She had to be brave and do her duty, for her nation, for her people, for her family. Her father had told her this many times and she had tried to understand.

  “But Papa,” she had once said. “What if I don’t love him?”

  She remembered how her father would often make a silly face when answering one of her question, but at that time he had looked at her earnestly. “You are to be queen of Carandir, Mirjel. Queens have a higher purpose. A higher duty. You will understand this.”

  She blinked back tears now. All she could imagine was holding Ryckair in her arms. Having him so close yet out of reach hurt her more than anything she had known. A part of her thought it might be better never to see him again than to endure this. Then, she hated herself for the thought and hoped Ryckair had not guessed it.

  As if sensing some doubt, he said, “You are the love I have longed for, though I did not know it. If we were parted this instant, if mountains and oceans came between us, you would never leave my heart and I would always find you.”

  She nearly lost her composure. “What if Craya becomes king?”

  “It does not matter. I will not lose you.”

  She felt a shot of excitement mixed with fear. “What are you saying?”

  “We will both perform our duties and we will not be parted.”

  She knew that affairs were common where loveless marriages were arranged. Some were practiced openly, others in whispered secrecy. “We will surely be discovered.”

  “There are secrets in this palace that none but I know. Will you trust me in this?”

  She smoothed the fabric of her dress and saw her aunt at the edge of vision, then she said, “Yes.” Such a small word, she thought, yet with the power to change everything.

  The tespan ended. Lady Zedo collected Mirjel and left. Ryckair remained only a moment longer before returning to his quarters.

  He did not hear a soft chuckle come from a bush next to the bench, nor did he see Ackella step out from behind.

  A week later, Mirjel sat in her chambers reading a book while her aunt worked on a tapestry. A servant Mirjel had never seen before brought a tray with two mugs. He said, “Kan?” and handed a mug to Mirjel. Lady Zedo reached out and grabbed it. The servant tried to take it back and the aunt dropped the mug. The liquid contents spilled on the tapestry and the threads began to dissolve. The servant ran from the chambers.

  Dek studied the maps spread across the table of Yetig’s chart room. “I don’t like any of the choices. Can’t they just lead some troops to the Dragons’ Mound and back?”

  Yetig stood silently at the table. Etera sai
d, “Every heir has led troops in a campaign before taking the crown. It is traditional and practical. They need to feel what it is like to command in the real world.”

  Dek riffled through more maps. “Well, Karaken is out of the question. We can’t put them in that kind of danger.”

  Etera said, “Then it is settled. Prince Ryckair and Prince Craya will each command a company of troops and make certain the swampers are abiding by the treaty. They can escort a caravan and they will be perfectly safe.”

  “After having stood at that farmhouse how can you call the swamps safe?”

  “It has been over a year now and nothing has happened.”

  Dek looked to Yetig. “What say you, narech?”

  Yetig stepped up to the table. “You are correct, My Lord Regent. Karaken is far too dangerous. And, I do not consider the eastern lands to be perfectly safe, Regent Etera. Nowhere outside the palace is truly safe. Still, the treaty with the southern Sinkaraka settlements still holds and Colonel Herrik is a good commander. She is well aware of the situation.”

  Etera said, “It’s really the only choice. In less than four months the twins reach their twentieth year and one of them takes the crown. They need this training now.”

  The more Dek studied the maps the less he was convinced. “I don’t like it, Etera. Still, I don’t see any other choice. Narech Yetig, I hope you will be there with a sizable force in case there is trouble?”

  “Of course, My Lord Regent.”

  Craya stood outside his command tent and eyed the swamp around him. He pulled on his new beard that mirrored Yetig's. Ryckair had tried to grow a beard. No one had been able to see his soft blond whiskers from more than a pace away and he abandoned the effort. Craya took this as a sign of his own superiority.

  He ignored the gathering clouds overhead and surveyed his camp. Tents were erected on packed earth at the edge of the swamp. Sentries were posted, cooking pits cleared and latrines dug. It was an hour after sunset of a short day in late winter. Snow never touched the swamplands, yet a bitter wind blew off the ice covered Yadra Mountains to the west and cut across low, rolling hills covered with swaying stalks of winter grass, harsh and filled with burrs.

  He had searched for a way to use the information Ackella had brought him about Ryckair’s secret. Ackella had, as yet, been unable to discover it. Craya wasn’t worried. Ackella made certain Ryckair was watched every moment, even in his private chambers. The only place his brother was not observed was within the vaults of the Kyar. Craya saw no way Ryckair could be of any harm locked away with those books. The time for vengeance was nearly there.

  He would not simply take Mirjel away from Ryckair, he would possess her in body and soul. She would desire him, plead for him, submit herself utterly to him. He had practiced the art of seduction both in and out of court. Scandal would ruin many a family if Craya’s affairs were known.

  Mirjel’s seduction, however, was a challenge. He had to show himself a man and Ryckair boy. A military victory was the first step. He had never met a woman capable of resisting a display of power and glory.

  To Craya’s disappointment, they had not encountered a single Sinkarekan. On Ackella’s advice he had left most of his troops back at the caravan he was assigned to guard and marched a small host to the edge of the swamps with the hope of finding a raiding party.

  Light rain fell. Men stirred from sleep. A flash of light scratched a line overhead, followed by another crashing boom. Rain fell in hard, driving pelts. The men on guard pulled their cloaks tighter around their bodies. Those who were awakened from sleep rolled over in their tents and closed their eyes.

  A second flash of lightning arched across the sky. Ackella emerged from the command tent. He approached the prince and bowed low. “Highness. I trust that you are well this evening.”

  “Where are they, Ackella? Where are the swampers?”

  “I cannot say, Highness. Our scouts report no signs.”

  “Then have them sharpen their eyesight. There is a prize in that stinking quagmire and I mean to have it.”

  “As you command, Highness.” Ackella bowed again and poured black powder over the toes of Craya’s boots.

  The prince continued to pace. Another flash of light preceded a dull rumble that rolled through the camp. He looked to the east. On a ridge of low hills, silhouetted against the lightning, was a robed figure. In his left hand was a long knife. In his right he held a kneeling man by the hair. The robes billowed in the breeze as the standing figure pulled the victim’s head back, uttered some words that were caught in the wind, and drove the dagger into his victim’s chest.

  A piercing scream rang out across the camp. Tent flaps flew open as the prince’s men were ripped from sleep. The ground shook. A crack sounded and the earth split open beneath the feet of the army as women and men fell into the growing crevice.

  An officer near Craya slipped into the pit. He grabbed onto the root of a bush. A gigantic hand emerged, each finger the size a person. With a single sweeping movement the hand seized the officer and dragged him below. Craya turned and collided with someone. With a start, he realized it was Narech Yetig.

  Yetig took him by the arm. “This way, Highness. Quickly.” Craya followed him through the turmoil of dead and dying soldiers. Smoke rose from the crack in the earth, illuminated by a pulsating green glow. Ripped and twisted bodies lay all about. Blood soaked into the ground, making footing slippery.

  They ascended a hill next to the camp. A fresh breeze came cool and cleansing. Craya fell to his knees and folded his hands over his face as though to pull the memory from his eyes. “Oh, sweet Jorondel, Yetig. I’ve never imagined anything so hellish.” Craya looked up. With the exception for Yetig and four of his officers, the men now surrounding him wore red robes.

  Ackella ran into the circle and saluted Yetig while ignoring Craya. “Narech. He calls.”

  Craya got to his feet. “Ackella.”

  The blond headed officer slowly surveyed the prince as one might a disobedient child. Then, he turned back to Yetig and continued his report.

  Craya felt his cheeks burn. “Ackella. I rule here.”

  Ackella turned and spat on the ground before Craya. “You are not fit to rule pigs.”

  Yetig grabbed Ackella. “Enough. He is a prince of the realm and will be shown due respect.” He turned his attention to each of the assemblage, then looked to Craya. “If you will follow me, Highness.”

  “Yetig, what is this?”

  “Please Highness. Your questions will be answered in a moment.”

  Craya was certain he was dreaming. The green glow, the earth splitting, the hand and now Yetig a traitor. It was impossible. The narech was the most trusted officer in the Carandir army. Lord of Dragons, he thought. Yetig is the army.

  They walked to the top of the hill. A brazier filled with red glowing coals sent an oppressive smoke wafting slowly into the air. Behind the brazier was a small dais where Reshna sat on a throne. He was surrounded by a dozen Barasha priests. A brightly colored song bird from Karaken was perched in a metal cage next to them.

  Yetig approached the dais and knelt. “Lord Reshna, I bring you Craya, prince of Carandir.” He stood. “Your Highness, I present His Excellency Reshna, Lord High Priest of the servants of Baras.”

  Bile stirred in Craya’s gut. He summoned the courage to boldly step forward. “What is the meaning of this? I demand immediate release and safe passage to the nearest Carandir garrison.”

  Reshna said, “Prince Craya Avar, let it be known that we bring you here this night to offer you the crown of Carandir.”

  “How do you offer that which is not yours?”

  “You have always desired the crown, yet have feared it might not come to you. Through long years we have searched for a sorcery to defeat the spell cast on the dragon shaped key. We have succeeded.”

  Craya’s bluster evaporated. “What do you mean?”

  “When the next full moon rises, a Barasha priest will anoint your brothe
r with magical powder, recite a chant and kill him. Once this ceremony is performed you will be accepted by the key as the true and rightful heir, whether you were born first or not.”

  Craya had always thought he would take the crown. He was stronger, smarter and better. The idea that his brother might become king was absurd. He was convinced the choice had nothing to do with magic or dragons. The Council of Barons would decide the next monarch, not some ridiculous ritual, and he was certain they were going to choose him.

  But, what if they don’t? Most of the eastern houses, with their backwards religious fervor, favored his brother and his connections with the Kyar. This was especially true of Dek who, held great influence with many barons in the council, both eastern and western.

  If Ryckair died, there would be no need for a choice. Craya wanted revenge. Yet, to have his brother murdered? There was something very wrong with the offer and he had to know more. “Why make me king? Why not Ryckair? What is your price?”

  For an instant, Reshna’s controlled features changed to reveal a consuming lust. As quickly, the sorcerer’s composure returned. “We ask only that you allow me, of your own free will, to lift the dragon-crested crown from the crystal sphere and place it on your head.”

  Though Craya was unable to see any harm in this, he still didn’t like the sound of it. He felt Reshna was playing him for a fool and wondered what the Barasha priest really wanted. If Reshna thought to declare himself king in that instant the barons would never support him. “Do you actually expect me to let you touch the crown of Carandir? You ask too much.” Craya continued talking, hoping to draw out the Barasha’s plan.

  Reshna stared at the song bird. It gave an irritated chirp and ruffled its feathers. Its agitation increased. The prince slowed his tirade, then stopped altogether.

  The air grew stifling. The bird screeched and jumped about furiously. Reshna held his gaze. Yetig turned his head to the side. Craya stared. At last he forced words past his lips. “Stop. Leave it alone.”