Realm of Dragons

Devin dressed and hurried to the kitchen of his family’s cottage home. He sat there, eating stew at the kitchen table with his mother and father. He mopped at it with a piece of hard bread, knowing that even though it was simple stuff, he would need it for the hard day of work to come in the House of Weapons. His mother was a small, birdlike woman, who looked so fragile next to him that it seemed as if she might break beneath the weight of the work she did every day, yet she never did.

His father was also shorter than him, but broad and muscled, and hard like teak. Each of his hands was like a hammer, and there were tattoos running along his forearms that hinted of other places, from the Southern Kingdom to the lands on the far side of the sea. There was even a small map there, showing both lands, but also the isle of Leveros and the continent of Sarras, so far across the sea.

“Why are you staring at my arms, boy?” his father asked, his voice rough. He wasn’t a man who had ever been good at showing affection. Even when Devin had gotten his position in the House, even when he’d shown himself able to make weapons as fine as the best masters, his father had done little more than nod.

Devin desperately wanted to tell him of his dream. But he knew better not to. His father would belittle him, launch into a jealous rage.

“Just a tattoo I haven’t seen,” Devin said. Ordinarily, his father wore longer sleeves, and Devin was rarely there long enough to look. “Why does this one have Sarras and Leveros on it? Did you go there when you were a—”

“That’s none of your business!” his father snapped, his anger curiously at odds with the simple question. He hurriedly pulled down his sleeves, tying the stays at the wrists so that Devin couldn’t see any more. “There are things you don’t ask about!”

“I’m sorry,” Devin said. There were days when Devin barely knew what to say to his father; days when he barely even felt like his son. “I should get to work.”

“So early? You’re going to practice the sword again, aren’t you?” his father demanded. “You’re still trying to be a knight.”

He seemed genuinely angry, and Devin couldn’t begin to work out why.

“Would that be such a terrible thing?” Devin asked tentatively.

“Know your place, boy,” his father spat. “You’re no knight. Just a commoner—like the rest of us.”

Devin bit back an angry response. He didn’t have to go to work for at least an hour yet, but he knew that to stay was to risk an argument, like all the arguments that had come before it.

He stood, not even bothering to finish his meal, and walked out.

A muted sunlight hit him. Around him, most of the city was still asleep, quiet in the earliest part of the morning, even those who worked by night having returned home. It meant that Devin had most of the streets to himself as he made his way to the House of Weapons, running over the cobbles, working hard. The sooner he made it there, the more time he would have, and in any case, he’d heard the sword masters there tell their students that this sort of exercise was vital if they were to have stamina in combat. Devin wasn’t sure if any of them did it, but he did. He would need every skill he could gain if he was going to become a knight.

Devin continued making his way through the city, running faster, harder, still trying to shake off the remnants of the dream. Had it truly been a meeting?

The one who is to be.

What could that mean?

The day your life will change forever.

Devin looked about, as if looking for some sign, some indication of something that would change him on this day.

Yet he saw nothing other than the ordinary goings-on of the city.

Had it just been a foolish dream? A wish?

Royalsport was a place of bridges and of alleys, dark corners and strange smells. At low tide, when the river between the islands that formed it was low enough, people would walk across the riverbeds, although guards would try to manage it and make sure that none of them went to districts where they weren’t wanted.

The waterways between the islands formed a series of concentric circles, the wealthier parts toward its heart, protected by the layers of river beyond. There were entertainment districts and noble districts beyond that, then merchant ones, and poorer areas where anyone walking had to be careful to keep an eye on his money pouch.

The Houses stood out on the skyline, their buildings given over to ancient institutions as old as the kingdom; older, since they were relics of the days when the dragon kings were said to have ruled, back before the wars that had driven them out. The House of Weapons stood belching smoke despite the early hour, while the House of Knowledge stood as two entwined spires, the House of Merchants was gilded until it shone, and the House of Sighs stood at the heart of the entertainment district. Devin wove his way forward through the streets, avoiding the few other figures rising as early as him as he ran his way to the House of Weapons.

When he arrived, the House of Weapons was almost as still as the rest of the city. There was a watchman on the door, but he knew Devin by sight, and was used to him coming in at strange hours. Devin passed him with a nod and then headed inside. He took the sword he’d been working on most recently, solid and dependable, fit for a real soldier’s hand. He finished the wrapping on the hilt and then took it upstairs.

This space did not have the stink of the forge, or the dirt. It was a place of clean wood and sawdust to catch any stray blood, where arms and armor stood on stands and a twelve-sided practice space stood in the middle, surrounded by a small number of benches where those waiting for lessons might sit. There were posts there and cutting bundles, all set so that noble students could practice.

Devin went to an armsman’s quintain, a post taller than him on a base, set with metal poles that served as weapons and free to swing in response to the blows of a swordsman. The skill with it was to strike and then move or parry, to bind to it without getting a weapon caught, and to hit without being hit. Devin took up a high guard, and then struck out.

His first few blows were steady, moving into his work and testing the sword that he held. He caught the first few return swings of the posts, then swayed aside from the next few, slowly getting a feel for the sword he held. He started to increase the pace, adjusting his footwork, moving from one guard to another with his blows: ox, to wraith, to long, and back again.

Somewhere in the flurry of it, he stopped thinking about the individual moves, the strokes and the parries and the binds flowing together into one whole where steel rang on steel and his blade flickered out to cut and thrust. He worked until he was sweating, the post moving at speeds now that could bruise or injure if he misjudged things even once.

Finally, he stepped back, saluting the post as he had seen swordsmen salute an opponent, before checking the blade he held for damage. There were no nicks on it or cracks. That was good.

“Your technique is good,” a voice said, and Devin spun, finding himself facing a man of perhaps thirty, dressed in breeches and a shirt that had been tied tighter to his body to avoid cloth tangling with a passing blade. He had long dark hair, tied back in braids that would not come undone in a fight, and aquiline features leading up to eyes of piecing gray. He walked with a slight limp, as if from an old injury. “But you should keep your weight off your heels as you turn; it makes it hard for you to adjust until you complete the movement.”

“You… you’re Swordmaster Wendros,” Devin said. The House had many sword masters, but Wendros was the one nobles paid most to learn from, some waiting years to do it.

“Am I?” He took a moment to stare at his reflection in a suit of plate armor. “Why, so I am. Hmm, I’d listen to what I said then, if I were you. They tell me I know all there is to know about a sword, as if that’s much.

“Now listen to another piece of advice,” Swordmaster Wendros added. “Give it up.”

“What?” Devin said, shocked.

“Give up your attempt to become a swordsman,” he said. “Soldiers just need to know how to stand in a line. There is more to being a warrior.” He leaned in close. “Much more.”

Devin didn’t know what to say. He knew he was alluding to something greater, something beyond his wisdom; yet he had no idea what it could be.

Devin wanted to say something, but he couldn’t think of the words.

And just like that, Wendros turned and marched off into the sunrise.

Devin found himself thinking about the dream he’d had. He couldn’t help feeling as if they were connected.

He couldn’t help feeling as if today was the day that would change everything.

CHAPTER THREE

Princess Lenore could barely believe the beauty of the castle as servants transformed it in preparation for her wedding. It went from a thing of gray stone to something sheathed in blue silk and elegant tapestries, chains of woven promises and dangling trinkets. Around her, a dozen maidservants busied themselves with elements of dresses and decorations, buzzing around her like a swarm of worker bees.

They did it for her, and Lenore was truly grateful for that, even if she knew that as a princess she should expect it. Lenore had always found it amazing that others were prepared to do so much for her, simply because of who she was. She appreciated beauty almost more than anything else, and here they were, doing so much with silk and lace to make the castle wondrous…

“You look perfect,” her mother said. Queen Aethe was giving commands at the heart of all of it, looking resplendent as she did so in dark velvet and shining jewels.

“Do you think so?” Lenore asked.

Her mother led her to stand in front of the great mirror that her maids had arranged. In it, Lenore could see the similarities between them, from the near black hair to the tall, slender frame. Except for Greave, all her other siblings had taken after their father but Lenore was definitely her mother’s daughter.

Thanks to her maids’ efforts, she shone in silks and diamonds, her hair braided with blue thread, her dress embroidered with silver. Her mother made the smallest of adjustments, then kissed her cheek.

“You look perfect, exactly as a princess should.”

From her mother, that was about the greatest compliment that she could have. She’d always told Lenore that as the eldest sister, her duty was to be the princess that the realm needed, to look it and to act it in every moment. Lenore did her best, hoping it would be enough. It never felt like it, but still Lenore tried to live up to everything she ought to be.

Of course, that also allowed her little sisters to be… other things. Lenore wished that Nerra and Erin were there too. Oh, Erin would complain about being fitted for a dress, and Nerra would probably have to stop partway through because she felt unwell, but Lenore couldn’t think of anyone she wanted there more.

Well, there was one person.

“When will he be here?” Lenore asked her mother.

“They say that Duke Viris’s retinue arrived in the city this morning,” her mother said. “His son should be with it.”

“It did?” Instantly, Lenore ran over to the window and the balcony there, leaning out over it as if being that fraction closer to the city would let her see her betrothed as he arrived. She looked out over the bridge-linked islands that made up Royalsport, but from this height it wasn’t possible to make out individuals, only the concentric rings of the water between the islands, and the buildings that stood between. She could see the guard barracks that spilled out men when it was low tide to manage traffic across the rivers, the Houses—of Weapons and Sighs, Knowledge and Merchants—each standing at the heart of their district. There were the houses of the poorer folk on the islands toward the edges of the city, and the great homes of the wealthy closer to, some even on their own small islands. The castle towered over all of it, of course, but that didn’t mean that Lenore could spot the man to whom she was going to be married.

“He’ll be here,” her mother promised. “Your father has arranged a hunt on the morrow, as part of the celebrations, and the duke will not risk missing it.”

“His son will come for Father’s hunt, but not to see me?” Lenore asked. For a moment, she felt as nervous as a girl, not a woman of eighteen full summers. It was only too easy to imagine him not wanting her, not loving her, in a marriage arranged like this.

“He will see you, and he will love you,” her mother promised. “How could anyone not?”

“I don’t know, Mother… he hasn’t even met me,” Lenore said, feeling the nerves that threatened to overwhelm her.

“He will soon, and…” Her mother paused as a knock came at the door to the chamber. “Come in.”

Another maidservant entered, this one less richly dressed than then others; a servant for the castle, rather than directly for the princess.

“Your majesty, your highness,” she began, with a curtsey. “I’ve been sent to tell you that Duke Viris’s son Finnal has arrived, and is waiting in the greater antechamber, if you have time to meet him before the feasting.”

Ah, the feasting. Her father had declared a week of it and more, filled with entertainments, open to all.

“If I have time?” Lenore said, and then remembered how things were done at court. She was a princess, after all. “Of course. Please tell Finnal that I will be down directly.”

She turned to her mother. “Can Father afford to be so generous with the feasting?” she asked. “I’m not… I don’t deserve a whole week and more of it, and it must be eating into both our coin and our food stocks.”

“Your father wants to be generous,” Lenore’s mother said. “He says that the hunt tomorrow would bring enough quarry to make up for it.” She laughed. “My husband thinks himself the grand hunter still.”

“And it’s a good chance to organize things while people are busy feasting,” Lenore guessed.

“That too,” her mother said. “Well, if there’s to be a feast, we should make sure that you look fit for it, Lenore.”

She fussed around Lenore for a few moments longer, and Lenore hoped she looked good enough.

“Now, shall we go and see your husband-to-be?”

Lenore nodded, not able to quiet the excitement practically bursting from her chest. She walked with her mother and her coterie of maids down through the castle, heading to the antechamber that backed onto the great hall.

There were so many people in the castle, all working on the preparations for the wedding, many of them also heading down in the direction of the great hall. The castle was a place of winding corners and rooms that led into one another, the whole layout spiraling much like the arrangement of the city, so that any attacker would have to face layer upon layer of defenses. Her ancestors had made it more than a thing of gray stone defenses though, each room painted in colors so bright they seemed to bring the outside world in. Well, maybe not the world of the city; much of that was made far too drab by rain, mud, smoke, and choking vapors.

Lenore made her way down through a promenading gallery, which had paintings of her ancestors along one wall, each looking stronger and more refined than the last. From there, she took winding stairs that led through a series of receiving rooms, down to a space where an antechamber stood before the great hall. She stood with her mother outside the door, waiting until the servants opened it, announcing her.

“Princess Lenore of the Northern Kingdom, and her mother, Queen Aethe.”

They stepped inside, and there he was.

He was… perfect. There was no other word for it as he turned toward Lenore, sweeping the most graceful bow that she had seen in a long time. He had dark hair in gloriously short curls, features that were refined, almost beautiful, and a form that seemed both slender and athletic, encased in a red slashed doublet and gray hosen. He seemed perhaps a year or two older than Lenore, but that was exciting rather than frightening.

“Your majesty,” he said with a look to Lenore’s mother. “Princess Lenore. I am Finnal of House Viris. I can only tell you how long I have looked forward to this moment. You are even more lovely than I had thought.”

Lenore blushed, and she didn’t blush. Her mother had always told her that it was unbecoming. When Finnal held out his hand, she took it as gracefully as she could, feeling the strength in those hands, imagining what it would be like for them to pull her close so that they could kiss, or more than kiss…

“Next to you, I hardly feel like the lovely one,” she said.

“If I shine, it is only with your reflected light,” he replied. So handsome, and he could manage a compliment so poetic too?

“It’s hard to believe that in just a week we will be married,” Lenore said.

“I think that might be because we aren’t the ones who had to put in long months of work negotiating the marriage,” Finnal replied. He smiled a beautiful smile. “But I am glad that our parents did.” He looked around the room, at her mother and the maids there. “It is almost a pity that I cannot have you here to myself, Princess, but perhaps it is as well. I fear that I might get lost staring into your eyes, and then your father would be annoyed with me for missing so much of his feasting.”

“Do you always manage such pretty compliments?” Lenore asked.

“Only when they are warranted,” he replied.

Lenore felt herself almost swept away with her thoughts of him as she stood beside him at the door leading from the antechamber to the great hall. When servants opened it, she could see the feast in full flow; could hear the music of minstrels and see the tumblers providing entertainment further down the hall where the common folk sat.

“We should go in,” her mother said. “Your father will no doubt wish to show his approval of this marriage, and I am sure that he will want to see how happy you are. You are happy, Lenore?”

Lenore looked into the eyes of her fiancé, and could only nod.

“Yes,” she said.

“And I shall strive to see that you stay that way,” Finnal said. Taking her hand, he lifted it to his lips, and the heat of that contact shot through Lenore. She found herself imagining all the other places that he might kiss, and Finnal smiled again, as if knowing the effect he was having. “Soon, my love.”

His love? Did Lenore love him, so soon after meeting him? Could she love him, when there had been only this brief moment of contact? Lenore knew it was nonsense to think that she could, the stuff of a bard’s songs, but in that moment she did. Oh, how she did.

Smiling, she stepped forward in perfect step with Finnal, knowing that together they must look like something out of legend to those who watched, moving like one thing, joined together. Soon they would be, and that thought was more than enough for Lenore as they went to join the feast.

Nothing, she thought, could possibly ruin this moment.

CHAPTER FOUR

Prince Vars downed a flagon of ale, making sure he had a good view of Lyril as he did. She lay, still undressed in his bed, sitting up and watching him with just as much obvious interest, the bruises of the night before showing only a little.

As well she should, Vars thought. He was a prince of the blood after all, maybe not as muscled as his older brother, but at twenty-one he was still young, still handsome. She should watch him with interest, and deference, and maybe fear if she could tell all the things he thought about doing to her in that moment.

No, better to leave that for now. Being rough with her was one thing, but she was just noble enough for it to matter. Better to leave the fullness of it for those who wouldn’t be missed.

Lyril was rather beautiful herself, of course, because Vars wouldn’t be sleeping with her if she weren’t: flame-haired and creamy-skinned, full-bodied and green-eyed. She was the eldest daughter of a nobleman who fancied himself a merchant, or a merchant who’d bought nobility, Vars couldn’t remember which, and didn’t particularly care. She was less than him, so she did as he commanded. What else was there?

“Seen enough, my prince?” she asked. She stood and moved across to him. Vars liked the way she did that. Liked the way she did a lot of things.

“My father wants me to join him on a hunt tomorrow,” Vars said.

“I could ride out with you,” Lyril said. “Watch you and offer you my favors as you ride.”

Vars laughed, and if that caused a flash of hurt to her, who cared? Besides, Lyril would be used to it by now. Ordinarily, he didn’t sleep with women for long before he grew bored with them, or they drifted off elsewhere, or he hurt them too much and they ran. Lyril had lasted longer than most. Years now, although obviously there had been others in that time.

“Embarrassed to be seen with me?” she asked.

Vars stepped close to her, stopping her with a look. In that moment of fear, she was as beautiful as anyone he had seen.

“I will do as I wish,” Vars said.

“Yes, my prince,” she replied, with another shiver that set its answer trembling along Vars’s arms with desire.

“You are as lovely as any woman alive, and noble born, and perfect,” he said.

“Then why is it that you’re taking so long to marry me?” Lyril asked. It was an old argument. She’d been asking, and hinting, and commenting for as long as Vars could remember.

He stepped in, quick and sharp, grabbing her by the hair. “Marry you? Why should I marry you? Do you think you’re special?”

“I must be,” she countered. “Or a prince like you would never want me.”

She had him there.

“Soon,” Vars said, pushing down his flash of anger. “When things are right for it.”

“And when will things be right?” Lyril demanded. She started to dress, and just the sight of her doing it was enough to make Vars want to undress her again. He moved over to her, kissing her deeply.

“Soon,” Vars promised, because promising was easy. “For now though…”

“For now, we’re meant to be at your father’s feast, celebrating the arrival of your sister’s fiancé,” Lyril said. She looked thoughtful for a moment. “I wonder if he’s handsome.”

Vars spun her to him, his arms grasping hard enough that she gasped. “Am I not enough for you?”

“Enough, and more than enough.”

Vars groaned at the trap in that, then went and dressed, finding a flask of wine and sipping it as he went. He offered it to Lyril, who also took some. They headed out into the castle, making their way through its twists and turns, down toward the great hall.

“Your highness, my lady,” a servant said as they passed, “the feasting has already begun.”

Vars rounded on the man. “Do you think I need you to tell me that? Do you think I’m stupid, or that I have no idea of the time?”

“No, my prince, but your father—”

“My father will be busy with the politics of it all, or he will be listening to Rodry boast about whatever my brother has done now,” Vars said.

“As you say, your highness,” the man said. He made to go.

“Wait,” Lyril said. “Do you think that you just get to go? You should apologize to the prince, and to me, for interrupting us.”

“Yes, of course,” the servant said. “I am most—”

“A proper apology,” Lyril said. “On your knees.”

The man hesitated for a moment, and Vars leapt in. “Do it.”

The servant sank to his knees. “I apologize for interrupting you, your highness, my lady. I should not have done it.”

Vars saw Lyril smile at that.

“No,” she said. “Now go, get out of our sight.”

The servant all but ran off at her command, like a greyhound after a rabbit. Vars laughed as he went.

“You can be deliciously cruel sometimes,” he said. He liked that in her.

“Only when it is amusing,” Lyril replied.

They kept going, down to the feast. Of course, by the time they entered, it was in full swing, with everyone drinking and dancing, eating and enjoying themselves. Vars could see his half-sister up at the front, the center of attention along with her husband-to-be. Why the child of a king’s second wife should warrant such attention was beyond him.

It was bad enough that Rodry was there with a cluster of noble youths in one corner, receiving their admiration as he told and retold stories of his exploits. Why had fate seen fit to make him the oldest? It made no sense to Vars when it was obvious that Rodry was about as suited to the future role of king as he was to flying by flapping his over-muscled arms.