Dragons son, p.3
Dragon's Son, page 3
He was comfortable with me by evening, which for Sebastian as a child meant he talked my ears numb from sundown to bedtime. Lonely for Villian, I confess I sulked most of my first day, but by the second, I was better. Seeing I was bound to be Sebastian’s companion, I put aside my reticence and demanded at last that he stop talking, which he had recommenced to do the moment we met after breakfast. He obeyed, and I imagine you will be pleased to hear that I noticed I had offended him. I noticed, you see. I hear you are very polite. You will be less impressed to hear I did not apologize.
Yet I could not offend him for long. He obeyed my command and obliged me with moments of quiet, which gave me the chance to observe him in the manner I enjoyed. Trying to make out his type, I concluded over the succeeding days that he was happy in his banishment. He could not be unhappy, for his eyes had a light. Yet I think he bore his family a grudge for sending him away, for he never spoke of them. Weeks passed, and then months. I must not have been paying attention, but somewhere in there, we grew very close. We read together and played together. He talked, and I listened. I began to speak to him in a way that I had only ever spoken to Villian: openly and plainly. I found I was comfortable voicing my reflections to him, whereas with everyone else, I waited until an idea was fully formed and checked carefully for any mistakes. He became my brother, and I his. I hardly noticed that the years began to pass.
Amarea
The king kept his word. At the end of the month, and with a much better report from her tutors, Amarea was escorted by the king himself to the temples.
For all their lack of religious talk, the Beotians had not stinted on their deities’ houses. The temple square—a plaza surrounded by the monumental buildings—teemed with people, and the din was oppressive. King Pereas led Amarea to what he called the Pantheon, a beautiful temple fronted by a looming portico. The royal escort frightened away the crowds, providing the royal pair with ample space.
“Here are your gods,” King Pereas announced, moving his hand in a sweeping gesture. “Behold, Amarea. Here you will find all the important figures who deserve your worship. Come! Come, my child. Let me introduce you to them.”
Placing a hand behind Amarea’s shoulder, Pereas guided her forward slowly. Amarea kept her demeanor suitably reverent.
They stopped at the foot of the first colossus on the right-hand side.
“Here is the huntress, Diaga. The Lykaemaens call her Artemis. Our female warriors revere her.”
“You have female warriors?”
“Oh, yes!” King Pereas smiled. “Though few. It takes great strength to be a warrior, and women’s bodies are weak. But with training, they become strong.”
Amarea took in the sight of Diaga. She stood frozen in the act of combat, her head turned, her expression aggressive and concentrated, her bow bent and arrow knocked. She was dressed in a flowing chiton and outfitted with greaves and bracers. Her stone hair was windswept.
A female warrior. Amarea had never heard of such a thing.
“This god is known as Agoras,” King Pereas said. “He is a god of many things. Music, light, healing…but come, come over here and see this one, my child.” Ushering her along once more, Pereas brought Amarea to the feet of another goddess. The other worshipers backed away swiftly, whispering and bowing to the monarch who took no notice of them. Amarea glanced at the curious faces and then looked up at the Beotian deity.
“You should patronize the goddesses, Amarea,” the king said. “They have enough to do without us troubling them, but I imagine they could spare a moment for you. This is Minerva. Look at her, Amarea. Do you see what she’s holding?”
Minerva stood in regal stillness, clad like a queen. Amarea studied her, and then answered, “A book.”
“Yes. A book. She reads, Amarea. She is the goddess of wisdom. A woman, don’t you see?”
Amarea stared and said nothing.
“You could be like that goddess, Amarea. You could learn to read and to write. My son is eager for news of your progress. You mustn’t displease him. Pelizia would have taught you that such disobedience is a sin. Beotia teaches that willing ignorance is worse. Beotia is a cunning place, little princess. Your husband knows this. Did you know? He wasn’t always meant to be king.”
“Was he not?” Amarea looked at the king in surprise.
“No!” King Pereas smiled. “No, he was not. But he challenged the gods and beat them. He challenged the laws and surmounted them. Don’t you see, Amarea? The gods want you to challenge them. They want you to challenge everything. If you fail, they will kill you. If you win, they will bless you. If you do not try, Beotia will trample you. It is a dangerous game, Princess Amarea, but every Beotian is a player, and you are one of the most central. You will be queen, and Alexis will be king. He is a clever man, even at his tender age. He plays the game better than anyone. If you do not learn to play, you will expose him to peril, and if Alexis falls, your life will be ashes. Beotia’s glory will be dimmed. The gods will punish you for your insipid performance and your contempt of their challenge. They’ve challenged you, Amarea. Heed them!”
Amarea stared at Minerva. The goddess stared down at her with stony eyes.
A shiver ran down her spine.
“Be like Minerva, Amarea,” King Pereas murmured. “She is waiting to instruct you.”
Alexis
First Month, 10th day
It does not snow in Gardia. Home has prettier winters. I do not plan another year of campaigning. The borders are expanded and stable. My men have not seen their families in half a decade.
Perhaps it is time I see you.
When Sebastian turned eleven, I realized with a shock that my own birthday was not far away. I was almost a year older than my friend, and my twelfth birthday loomed large. I became sick with worry and despair. I did not want to be a dragon. I did not want to be a beast.
I told no one of my approaching doom, knowing that death would be their remedy. Black dragons are wicked creatures. Evil flows through their veins and dictates their life. They glory in blood and treasure and cruelty. I shuddered at the thought of becoming one, and I craved an escape.
But what could I do?
In a bitter fashion, I congratulate myself that Sebastian never suspected my distress. He was, and is, very astute at discerning emotions, a trait of his I found immensely unnerving until I got used to it. Terrified that I would be killed, I employed all my skill to hide my anxiety, mimicking my routines and behaviors of happier times as best I could. I listened to the plans of my birthday celebration with horror in my heart but a smile on my face, careful to keep my forced smile hesitant, for I knew myself and remembered that I hated parties.
At length, the dreaded day dawned. I expected to awaken as a mass of scales and claws, but I awoke looking the same as ever and blessed the gods for it. I attended my celebration and tried to pay attention, all the while petrified I would turn without warning into a fire-breathing monstrosity. I was grateful when the party was over, but frightened to go to bed.
I think fate was playing with me.
The next morning, I awoke from a fitful sleep but as a human. Nothing had happened, and nothing happened throughout the entire course of the day. Again, following another restless night, I awoke to find myself unchanged.
I was baffled, but cautiously pleased. Perhaps I had made it clear to fate that I did not wish to be a dragon, and it had listened. It did make me think I should have a choice, for, after all, my mother may have been a dragon, but my father most certainly was not. Was it not fair, then, that I should pick which creature to be?
As my body displayed no signs of transforming, I resolved I would not be transforming at all. I was exultant. I smiled at everything. I walked with a surer step. Perhaps I was free.
The night that followed was one that I am loath to record.
It must have been well past midnight when the dream took me. There was heat like a roaring fire. It seared my flesh, burning me. I felt my skin blacken into ash. When I screamed, it was the roar of a monster, the roar of a dragon. I could fly, and my wings were as black as night. I flew into the air and the fire followed. I could not escape it. I roared again.
I was a dragon.
I could see the manor house below me. I knew I was still dreaming, but I knew also the transformation was happening. The freedom of flying thrilled me, but I recoiled from it.
I felt rather than saw what happened next. As I flew, I sensed above me a great door. Around me were fire and tumultuous winds, but the door stood aloof, just above the chaos and heat of the dragon spirit. I knew that if I reached it, I would have what I wished.
Reach it, my heart told me. Reach it and step through.
I reached for it with all my will.
I awoke in a cold sweat.
Human.
Part Two
Amarea
It was a tall, elegant figure that walked the palace hallways five years later. Arms banded in gold, hair coiled and plaited in the latest Beotian fashion, body clad in the finest raiment, Princess Amarea held her head high. Julia trailed her footsteps, always at hand to serve her mistress.
The guards did not hesitate to open the council room doors. Entering the chamber, Amarea was greeted by the sight that was by now familiar. King Pereas sat at the chamber’s head, and circling a sunken floor, the lords sat upon their cold, high-backed chairs.
All but the king rose when the princess entered. Amarea knew she was late, but what had Alexis told her?
“If you are late, you may apologize, but do not feel that it is necessary. You are the princess. The lords wait upon you and upon your pleasure. Behave as though you expect this. Keep your head high, and if you do apologize, do so in a manner that shows you are genuine but that you consider it a trifle and with a dismissive air. I say again: the lords wait upon you, and these subtle reminders help keep them in their place.”
Amarea restrained a smile and strode evenly to her chair.
There was an awkward silence.
“Continue, Lord Severus,” King Pereas said.
Amarea had been attending the council meetings for two and a half years now. Alexis, her husband, had requested it. A dais had been constructed outside the circle and a small throne placed upon it. Amarea had sat in on the meetings almost without fail, listening to the proceedings, hearing the king and nobles debate over the trials of their ever-expanding empire. Beotia was growing fast.
Alexis, Amarea thought with a muted smile.
She was still warm from the letter she had received from him yesterday. Words of wisdom, interspersed with words of passion, was the usual but breathtaking form in which most of his letters were composed, and yesterday’s had been no exception. Amarea was no fool, but she was a woman, and Alexis a cunning poet of love. His prolonged absence was maddening. When would he finally return home?
The council was talking about dragons again. Amarea forced herself to listen. Her brow was soon furrowed, and her hands gripped the armrests of her throne.
There had been another attack in the north. The king would be sending more dragon slayers.
If Alexis were here, the dragons would never dare leave their mountains.
Such a thought brought yesterday’s letter back to recollection. Amarea felt herself blush. There were, of course, times when Amarea tried to temper her ardor by remembering that Alexis had scarce seen her before. A trembling, twelve-year-old princess who hated Beotia’s very name had been his only glimpse. Though his words insisted he was besotted, Amarea had wondered often how such a thing could be. Somehow, Alexis had guessed her thoughts. Only a few months ago, he had written to address the problem.
“I have, of course, only seen you once. No doubt, you question my sincerity? Amarea, note what has been missing from my letters. Have I ever once praised your talents, talents I have never witnessed? Have I lauded your beauty, beauty I can scarce recall? An illusion is a dangerous thing. I will love you, Amarea, and no other. No false representation has been allowed to dominate my mind. Since I must picture you, I picture you in diverse attitudes, giving my heart to none, lest I love the wrong one. I crave the day when I shall see your face, learn your ways, watch your steps. Then, my darling, you will no more be a dream, but a woman, a treasure.”
Amarea had read the passage enough times, she knew it by heart.
The door opened. The manservant, Cornelius, appeared, accompanied by an unfamiliar person bearing a folded letter. Amarea had never seen a letter interrupt a meeting before. Both men scooted inside discreetly and waited for the king to notice them.
He soon did and beckoned.
The council room fell silent as the messenger hurried over.
“A message, Your Majesty, from your son, the prince,” the man announced.
Amarea leaned forward, heart pounding.
King Pereas broke the seal and unfolded the paper, eyes scanning the contents.
Amarea was on the edge of her seat.
He looked up. “The prince is coming home.”
Alexis
Clover Month, 15th day
It is a surreal feeling, knowing I’ll be back in Unimar next month.
Lord Turnus took good care of Sebastian and me. In his house, I was no longer one of several natural princes, but a human of worth and potential. He addressed us both as “Your Highness”, but did not dote upon us, allowing us to become what we are without forgetting who we were. He was the sort of man to whom obedience was not a shame, and I cared for him.
When I was fifteen, Lord Turnus died suddenly. Sebastian and I were separated. His family recalled him back to Eldenon, and I was returned to the palace of Unimar. Little explanation was given to either of us concerning this, and little explanation was given to explain Turnus’s death. I suspected at once that he had been murdered, and hold that suspicion to this day.
It was spring. Upon reaching the palace, I was greeted with a degree of ceremony that surprised me. I found my favor sought by strangers on every side. Lord Caius Antium became my new guardian, and he was a scheming man. He told me when we were alone that my brother had made himself into a hero. Almost immediately upon Villian’s reaching the empire’s frontier, news about him had begun rushing back and never ceased. I was astounded. It angered me that such news had never reached me, and I wondered why Lord Turnus had never told. Lord Antium explained that as Villian’s brother, the kingdom had high expectations of me, and he told me plainly that if I did not show genius, I would forever play second fiddle.
There was a time when I suspected strongly that Lord Antium was responsible for Turnus’s death, and even now, I suspect. It was evident that I was a figure Lord Antium craved to sponsor. He had seized custody of me when Lord Turnus died and knew the moment he had me precisely what he wanted to do with me.
I did not hesitate to make my own plans.
I balked viciously against anything Lord Antium prescribed that was against my liking. I embraced wholeheartedly anything he prescribed that I desired. I courted his favor and then surprised him when I revealed I truly did not care. I confused him. I manipulated him. I used him.
He embraced my character with pride. We learned to respect one another, to suspect and to trust one another. Through him, I learned the ways of the court and the tools of flattery and deception, and myself I hardened against them. By manipulating those around me, I learned to know when another was manipulating me. I tested people. I watched them.
And I stayed quiet.
As the weeks passed, I gave considerable attention to the reports of Villian, both the old and the new. I read them in order, one by one. I knew, of course, that my brother would be severely disappointed in me for choosing against our mother’s inheritance, but I did not regret my choice and was confident that my human abilities would be more than enough to suit Villian’s needs, whether he believed it or no. Stopping to look at myself, I found I held the absent Villian in diminished awe. I was, at that time, the same age as he when he’d left for the border, and, discovering no woeful lack in my capacities or intelligence, I perceived that his influence over me was due in majority to his being the elder brother and my childhood leader. He had used that to his advantage, for which no one can fault him, but the memory of him held little sway over me now.
Under Antium’s guardianship, I became acquainted with all the important members of the court and was not surprised to find that Princess Adana, my half-sister and the rightful heir to the Beotian throne, had not changed. She was as unfit as ever to rule, preferring gentle activities befitting a lady to the rigorous and often dangerous politics of the Beotian council. Antium brought me with him when he attended council, and each time I took the chance to examine the princess, watching as she sat white-faced in a corner with her eyes cast down. She was woefully underqualified, but she was also the heir. For Villian to claim the throne, she would have to be dealt with.
Yet there was another problem that gnawed at my mind, and that was Villian himself.
My brother was a peerless warrior, and the description of his victories as a general (for it was to that rank he had been elevated) made it clear that he was not without skill. Yet he was also without pity. As I read the reports and listened to those that came in, I recognized the troubling pattern of his growing violence. A warrior is violent by his very occupation, but Villian’s cruelty identified him as a tyrant. I read of the villages he had destroyed, of the adversaries he had humiliated and tortured, of the wanton carnage he roused his men to spread. Only I could know that this came because he was a dragon, for dragons, and most especially black dragons, delight in the shedding of human blood.
I wondered whether this merciless creature could be trusted.
