The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1 (3 page)

CHAPTER 3

“Y
OU DO NOT WANT to be late to this Council meeting, Your Grace,” Fred, King Darville’s bodyguard, said as he poked his head into the royal office.

“Yes, yes. A moment more. I need to dispatch this letter . . .” Darville signed the document with a flourish, folded it, and lifted a candle to drip wax for a seal.

“Your Grace, the twelve lords of the Council of Provinces gathered half an hour ago,” Fred reminded him.

Darville sighed as he pressed the great seal into the puddle of wax. “Fine, fine. Will you take this to the courier waiting by the river gate?” He held the paper out to his longtime friend. Fred had been with him for almost twenty years. Since before his marriage. They’d fought rebelling lords, rogue magicians, and invading armies together. They had few secrets.

“Her Majesty Queen Miranda of SeLennica?” Fred raised his eyebrows. “Shouldn’t this go to her ambassador?”

“Not this time.” Darville didn’t want to explain. The entire court would know soon enough that Coronnan’s neighboring queen had asked his advice and negotiation in a betrothal between her daughter, the Princess Jaranda, and the heir to the crown of Rossemeyer—Darville’s nephew by marriage.

There were only a few royal children in the newest generation who could be used as pawns in the ever-changing game of alliances and trade agreements. Many of them were too closely related by blood to marry and beget children together.

“I’ll see you safely in the Council Chamber, then I will deliver this,” Fred said. He turned the letter over and over, examining the seal for imperfections.

“No need. I’m safe enough in my own palace.” Darville gulped the last of the beta arrack in his cup. Dregs of the barrel. He nearly spat it out, but the alcohol warmed his gut nicely. He could face the lords now . . . maybe one more cup. He reached for the decanter and found it empty.

Oh, well. He’d manage.

“The Council Chamber is on the way to the river gate.”

Darville grabbed the magic-imbued glass Dragon Crown from its mount beside his desk. The Coraurlia, forged by dragon fire, designed by master magicians, twinkled in the light filtering through arrow-slit windows, sending many-hued swirls twining throughout the glass. He frowned at the heavy symbol of his authority. His head ached just thinking about placing it on his brow. He hadn’t had enough to drink to dull that pain.

Fred frowned at the empty cup as deeply as Darville frowned at the crown.

He lifted it into place and felt a slight jolt of energy flow through the top of his head to the back of his eyes, a not-so-subtle reminder of the protection against magical attack that the crown gave him.

Then he buckled on his dress sword and hastened out the door, Fred close upon his heels.

A broad stone staircase led downward from the center of the landing outside his door. A narrower set of steps continued upward to the family apartments along the far wall.

The angle of the sun peeking through the narrow, eye-height windows told him that noon approached, rapidly. He was more than late. In nearly twenty years of ruling Coronnan, Darville had never missed a Council meeting. Today, if he was lucky, the twelve lords would still be there, waiting for him.

He stepped lightly down the middle of the worn staircase, not bothering with the railing on either side. Almost running, he felt as if he flew a-dragonback, the wind of his passage tugging at his queue beneath the crown.

“Your Grace, slow down,” Fred panted, several steps behind the king. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“We’re the same age!” Darville called back, not slowing in the least.

“My point exactly.”

Darville’s light indoor shoes hit each new step firmly. Five steps, ten more to go. Six, seven . . .

His soft-soled shoe hit something slimy and slid forward. Darville flailed for balance, throwing himself sideways to grab at the banister. His other foot lost its grip.

No traction. No heft to his shoes to break through the slime.

Years of training in the arts of war had kept him fit, with an unusually acute sense of balance. He twisted so that his left knee took the brunt of his fall.

The slime on the step was deep. His long legs spread in an ungainly split, throwing his balance backward.

His head hit the step above him with an audible crack.

Pain shot from his nape, straight through to his eyes.

The Coraurlia bounced down the remaining steps, thumping loudly in the sudden stillness.

Blindingly white stars flashed before his eyes as darkness crowded him from the sides.

“Your Grace!” Fred crouched beside him, cradling his throbbing head in callused hands.

“I’ll live,” the king grunted. He rubbed the sore spot on the back of his head. A lump rose rapidly beneath his fingers.

“Um, Fred, don’t tell the queen.”

“Not worth my hide to
not
tell her. She’ll find out, she always does, and then rip us both to shreds with her tongue.” Already he examined the stairs with both eyes and fingers.

“I’ll tell her, so she’ll leave you alone. Later.”

Fred raised his eyebrows at that. Or was he questioning something he’d found on the stairs. He lifted his fingertips to his nose. “Stale fruit. Amazon oil. Careless of a servant to spill some and not clean it up properly.”

“Palace servants are too well trained to leave a spill. All of them have been with my family for generations.” The king sat up gingerly, noting that his ribs felt bruised but not broken. He kicked his knee straight, banishing the worst of the kink. He spotted the slick tread beside his right shoulder quite easily from this perspective.

If he hadn’t been in such a damned hurry . . .

“Was someone counting on you running down these stairs, not watching where you put your big feet?” Fred asked with the familiarity of someone who’d served his king for a very long time.

“I think we need to find that out. Looks to me like the spill is even all across the stair, not an unintended slop from a serving tray. And who would be carrying Amazon oil into the family wing? It’s edible but not very tasty. We use it for keeping our swords rust-free, not dressing fresh greens.” He rubbed his brow, trying to hide the trembling in his hands and the fear he knew must show through his eyes.

“Other uses for it, Your Grace. But not many in this part of the palace that is dominated by your wife and daughters.” Fred sounded as shaky as Darville felt.

“Investigate, Fred. You’re good at that. We need to know who plays dangerous games that could easily mean my broken neck. I’ve got to get to the meeting.” Slowly, he eased upward, using the banister to hold him. He glared at the dangerous tread wondering, figuring the timing, after servants came up and down, before his wife and daughters came down for the day. Still thinking, still wondering who had the knowledge of when to stage this “accident,” he stretched cautiously, assessing a wealth of bruises.

By the time Darville and Fred stood beside each other at the bottom, the king knew he could move without betraying injury. He glared down at the Coraurlia where it had landed a-tilt against the bottom stair.

Fred bent to pick it up. Darville stayed his action with a hand on his arm. “It will burn anyone not blessed by the dragons to wear the damn thing.” Fred should know that.

Fred nodded. “Your Grace, I merely though to save you the discomfort of bending over.” His face flushed.

“Thank you, my friend. But this is something only I can do.” Leaning heavily on Fred’s shoulder, Darville bent his knees to retrieve his crown, careful not to dip his head. He felt as if it might fall off.
Stargods!
He needed a drink.

Then he stood staring at the crown in his hands. He thought about the growing knot on the back of his head. “Um . . . maybe I’ll just carry it today.”

“Are you certain, Your Grace? The symbolism . . .”

“The symbolism be damned. My head hurts. And . . . and I think someone just tried to kill me.”

CHAPTER 4

P
RINCESS ROSSELINDA DE DRACONIS slipped into her place between her two ladies-in-waiting (last month they’d been girls, now promoted to adulthood because of a royal birthday) in the dark alcove behind the Council Chamber. “Am I late?” she whispered to Miri and Chastet.

“Yes. But so is the king,” Miri giggled softly, eye pressed to the tiny peephole.

“Listen,” Chastet ordered.

All three girls grew silent, straining their ears toward the thin wooden wall between them and the very private chamber on the other side.

“Your Grace, we of the Council of Provinces insist that your oldest daughter marry without delay and beget a son and heir to the kingdom,” Lord Andrall said in his weary voice. “Unlike the dragons who grace you, you are
not
immortal.”

Rosselinda, Princess Royale of Coronnan choked on her quick inhale.

“Easy, Highness.” Lady Miri, daughter to Lord Bennallt of the incredibly wealthy port city of Baria, pounded Linda’s back with enthusiasm.

“Hush, they’ll hear us,” Lady Chastet admonished them both as she pressed her ear closer to the secret panel. Her father, Floodhenst, held the western province of Fleece, large and open and home to more sheep than people.

“How did my P’pa take that?” Linda asked, trying to peer over Miri’s shoulder and through the tiny spyhole. All she caught was a pinprick of colored light from the sun glowing through the stained-glass windows of the chamber. So much lovely and precious glass wasted on dusty old men who had nothing better to do than sit around and argue.

“My lords, do I need to remind you that Princess Rosselinda is only fourteen,” King Darville ground through his teeth.

Old enough to have ladies-in-waiting and to put up my hair with jeweled combs,
Linda thought.
But marriage?

Yuck. All the boys she knew at court were pimple-faced, smelly creatures who thought only about their steeds and arms practice. She could outride and trounce most of them quite soundly in sword practice. The older courtiers were just that. Old. Almost as dusty as their even-older fathers who pushed for a marriage.

Ah, that was it: each of the nobles wanted his own son to become Linda’s husband so he could rule through her.

But P’pa was still young and healthy, hardly a gray hair peeked through his blond queue. He’d rule a long time before he passed the Dragon Crown to an heir.

Unless . . .

Linda choked again.

“Let me see!” She pushed Miri aside, making Chastet take two steps back, and took possession of the spyhole. Now she could see the Council Chamber in its full glory.

Early spring sunlight glinted through the costly stained glass windows. Brilliant patches of red, green, gold, and blue sparkled against the polished black glass tabletop, making it look as if it glowed from within. All of the lords sat well back from the table, as if afraid the light might infect them with magic. Or draw them too close to their king. Their very angry king.

Linda knew from the set of his shoulders how stiffly he held himself. Rigid control. He’d drilled that into her often enough. A monarch
never
had the luxury of losing his, or her, temper.

But why couldn’t she see the Coraurlia above and the high back of his demi-throne? Sitting so straight and stiff, she should be able to see almost the entire circle of precious glass.

Ah, it sat on the table by his right hand. Unusual, but understandable. She’d lifted the crown once last year and knew it weighed more than a bolt of thick brocade.

The fact that he’d touched none of the beta arrack, a very strong liquor from her mother’s homeland, in the golden goblet by his right hand told her more. He would not allow the liquor to befuddle his brain or numb his reaction time in such a volatile situation.

Vacantly he rubbed the back of his head, disrupting his queue. Then he reached for the golden cup, hesitated, and withdrew his hand. Something more than a disturbing meeting was going on here.

All the other lords drank wine or ale to quench the thirst of loud arguments.

“I bet none of the lords would consider betrothals for their daughters at our age, let alone marriage and children,” Miri whispered. Her own father sat across the table from the king. His face flushed red, but not from the glass reflections.

“I will not consider a marriage for Rosselinda yet,” the king continued. Each word came out precise and clipped.

“Not even if we agreed to allow master magicians into the Council again as neutral advisers?” Lord Jemmarc of Saria, Lord Krej’s old province, asked. He’d inherited from the exiled cousin of the royal family because his blood connection was distant, without a trace of magic in his heritage. His light baritone cut through the background noise of formal brocade robes rustling with unease.

“Magic?” Linda mouthed to her companions. “Let magic return to Coronnan?” For with magic came dragons—the source of magic.

Her heart lightened at the thought. As Princess Royale she had a right to visit the dragons, if they became legal again.

“Just last month Jemmarc had a girl stoned to death because she
might
have inherited the
sight
from her grandmother,” Miri said so softly Linda had to strain to hear her. “I knew her. She brought eggs to our townhouse kitchen every morning.” She bit the insides of her cheeks to disguise her trembling chin.

Linda reached out and held her friend’s hand.

“As much as I wish magic and magicians to be restored to places of honor in Coronnan, I will not compromise when it concerns my daughters,” P’pa insisted, loud enough for M’ma to hear on the other side of the palace, up two stories with three courtyards between them.

Good. Linda didn’t want to think about marriage and babies and stuff. She wanted to have fun, enjoy being a princess with new gowns and hair jewels and freedom from her governess and the schoolroom.

“A betrothal perhaps?” offered Lord Laislac, the voice of reason and compromise. There was scandal in his past, Linda didn’t know what, only that he trod carefully and neutrally through Council meetings. His stiff brown braid never dared allow a single strand to escape containment.

Unlike the king, who shifted position just enough to show Linda that almost as much of his fine blond hair hung loose as remained restrained.

“If we could show the people a promise of a future king ’twould calm some of the unrest due to the out-of-cycle drought.” Laislac tapped his fingers against the table in an uneven rhythm that set Linda’s teeth on edge. “Saria is already too parched for spring planting, despite its constant sea breeze.”

Linda let that last slide past her consciousness. She had more immediate things to think about. A betrothal might be all right. She could flirt with her betrothed, maybe kiss him. But after a time, if she didn’t like him she’d find a way to get rid of him. M’ma knew lots of tricks for bringing people in and out of favor at court.

But what was that about unrest? She’d heard nothing. Maybe it was time for a trip to Market Isle to listen in on local gossip.

“The people be damned,” P’pa exploded. “’Tis you, the lords, who sit uneasily. We have stores if the crops should fail. We prepare for droughts in cycle or out of them.” He half rose from his demi-throne, the remains of his queue swinging wildly from the agitated movement, and pointed to each of the twelve men in turn. “Should I die without a male heir, each and every one of you has a claim to the throne. Do I need to remind you that the original covenant with the dragons and among the lords set up the Council with the king as first among equals? Each and every one of you would plunge us into civil war for the right to wear my heavy crown.
A magical glass crown that will burn to ashes anyone who tries to wear it without the dragons’ blessing.
”

Um . . . Linda had held the crown in both her hands and other than an odd tingling had felt no heat. Did that mean . . . ?

King Darville sat back so that the carvings on the throne blocked Linda’s view. She wished she could see his face, understand what he was thinking as well as what he said. She had to depend upon her interpretation of how his shoulders slumped slightly and he held his head forward. Right now that was a lot.

“Will any of you take a chance that you can win the throne before our enemies invade while we are vulnerable? Is the opportunity to sit on the Dragon Throne and wear the Dragon Crown worth losing the entire country to a foreign prince?”

“We’d have to go to the Big Continent to find an eligible
foreign
prince who isn’t related by blood to the princess,” Lord Andrall reminded them. “We trade with the continent, but we know little of them or their culture. We know only their ports. Our ambassadors rarely deal with kings and princes, only with generals and port officials. We don’t even know if they have any princes of marriageable age, or if he’d bring an invasion army with him.”

That idea boggled Linda’s mind. Coronnan had been at peace for as long as she knew. Her life centered on the minor conflicts of prestige at court. But P’pa had made her read accounts of battles and journals of drought years and such.

Some of the words came back to haunt her. “No food for three days now.”

“No rain in six moons. Livestock suffering terribly.”

“Bitter cold. Lost five toes to frostbite.”

“Sickness in the camp and the next three villages. Eight men died overnight of the fever.”

“Perhaps you’d rather sit beside the throne as regent for a young princess waiting to marry,” P’pa snarled. His anger drew Linda out of her haunted reverie. “Will one of you put aside your wife in order to marry Rosselinda? A child for dragons’ sake!”

The king spun his crown on the black glass table with one finger. The crown had been a gift from the dragons three hundred years ago as symbol of unity, compromise, and the covenant between human and dragonkind. “If any of you have the will to take the crown from me, there it is. Who among you has the courage to wear the crown that links your mind permanently to the nimbus of dragons? Who among you will face the wrath of the dragons if you kill me?” He thrust back his throne and stood straight and tall. He caught the gaze of each man in turn. They all looked away before he did.

Only when satisfied that no man dared challenge him—yet—he picked up the heavy Dragon Crown and tucked it under his arm. Briefly he turned toward the panels and draperies behind him and winked at Linda. Then he stalked out of the Council Chamber.

“Your Grace,” Lord Andrall said quietly. “As husband to your Aunt, I am privy to pieces of information the others have no knowledge of.”

The king stopped, without changing his posture. He did not turn around.

Linda leaned closer trying desperately to see what could make her father change his mind. About anything.

“You have a son,” Lord Andrall said quietly.

Instantly the men stilled. Silence sat heavily among them, like a living wall.

“A son? I have a brother? Why didn’t I know about this?” Linda asked no one in particular, not bothering to hush her tones. Her middle grew cold and her breaths grew heavy, short, painful.

“Your Grace?” Lord Laislac asked the unaskable.

“He told you that I have a son. The result of a youthful . . .” He fluttered his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

But Linda saw a softening in his shoulders.

“A youthful indiscretion,” P’pa continued. “My baseborn son has been raised in secret at the edge of the kingdom. I have acknowledged him to no one but his mother and her husband. He’s nearly eighteen now, on the verge of manhood.”

Linda groaned.
How could you, P’pa?

“There are ways to make such a child legitimate in the eyes of the law and the priests,” Lord Jemmarc said after a long moment. “I have gone through the rituals for my own son,” Lord Jemmarc looked at his hands.

“Will the queen agree to legitimize the boy?” Lord Laislac asked.

“My wife accepted Lucjemm without hesitation when she proved infertile,” Jemmarc said. “But the queen?”

Linda remembered Jemmarc’s scandal three years ago; various court factions rallied around him, while others sought to shun him in support of his wife. Lady Lucinda had accepted the boy into her household as an infant. The only mother he’d known. The formal acceptance of him as heir had to wait until he was old enough to accept it with his own oath, not his father’s.

What was the boy’s name?
Linda had danced with him two weeks ago at her Coming of Age party. She knew she must have matched blades with him, and a dozen others, in the arena, but his name eluded her, unimportant until now. She hadn’t registered what Jemmarc called him. The boy didn’t smell too bad, didn’t trip over his own feet. She vaguely remembered that he’d fought her to a draw in their last sword match. And he had a magnificent black gelding with a smooth gait and nimble intelligence.

“This requires much thought and consultation. I declare this meeting at an end.” P’pa exited quickly without turning to wink at Linda.