Rise of the Dragon Queen

by Sherri Beth Mitchell

  Until then, safe journeys.

  ‘S’

  Neihado bastha kri lamuras.

  Her heart stopped.

  Chapter Seven—Key of Conspiracy

  Dessica was stricken with fear for the young woman. Her heart seemed to stop beating inside her chest.

  “What does it say?”

  She handed Geremy the letter without looking at him. Rituel had turned about and was nosing one of the mares attached to the cart. Geremy read the letter twice before returning it to Dessica. His face grew pale.

  “Let us rest the horses and let them graze for a bit. Then we must go on harder, for Silvia is in danger from both Raena and the King.”

  “She was in danger with the King to start with,” Dessica responded crossly. “I still let her leave. You might as well say I’ve let her walk right into the lion’s den, or into the enemy’s open arms.” She silently cursed her stupidity.

  “Silvia is a grown woman and will do as she pleases,” Geremy reminded her.

  “Not Silvia,” said Dilliby. “Lady Serena.”

  “Is that the name she is going by?” Dessica asked.

  He nodded vigorously.

  “Then there is a good chance Raena will not find her. She is staying with Gregorich himself and has another name. The only big thing is that Raena could describe to anyone what Silvia and her party look like.”

  “That could still lead her to them if she asks the right, or should I say the wrong people,” Dessica pointed out.

  They had dismounted and tied Taman and Rituel loosely to two trees. The girth on each had been undone to let them breathe easier. The saddlebags were opened and stale bread and a flask of wine that was half-empty was brought out. Dilliby had his own food, including some venison that had been cooked already that day. He shared the meat with his mistress and her companion, and all ate rather well.

  A short time later, Dessica sent Dilliby on home and the girths were retied on their horses. They mounted, and were off to the city.

  Keelan changed back to human form behind a house near the main street of the city. He had made sure he tied his money satchel to his pants before leaving Silvia’s room that morning and now it jangled at his side under a light overcoat. He wanted to buy her something nice, and he had plenty of money to do it with. He walked all along the street, going into various shops here and there. After a bit he wandered into a dressmaker’s shop. The shop was dimly lit due to the dirty windows and the stumps of unlit candles. The nice young woman who owned it had dozens of dresses already made and ready for sale; they hung on wooden hangers along the walls. Keelan browsed through these and then asked the woman if she had anything more extravagant.

  The woman smiled, but as young as she was (and she was nearly Keelan’s age) she had several teeth missing. “A special something for a special lady, I take it?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “She is the queen of my heart and I wish to show her this.”

  She nodded and smiled sweetly. “Come this way. I may have something for you in here.”

  She led him through a back door and into another room. It was obviously the room in which she did all of her work. Hundreds of different cloths of all colors were strewn about, some still in the dying bins, and there were several large red pincushions filled with pins and needles on a very big oak table. There was a closet in each corner of the room and wooden racks in between them holding all sorts of clothes. There was a large window on each side of the room to let in light. Unfortunately, the clothes on the racks were blocking most of the light from the windows. The woman shoved clothes aside at both windows and cheery sunlight entered the room. Keelan noticed that these windows were much cleaner than the ones in the other room, perhaps because she needed better light to see by. One did not wish to stick oneself with a needle, did they?

  The woman tapped her finger against her lips thoughtfully; then she beckoned him to one of the closets. “If there is anything of high taste in here, it would be in this closet.” She handed him a nearby candelabrum and stood back to let him see.

  Keelan went through the clothes quickly and critically. But he found only one dress that he believed would be worth Silvia’s attention: It was deep purple velvet, with sleeves that ended at the wrists in white lace, and it was cut low in the front. The white lace started two inches above the purple velvet at the breasts and stopped at the base of her neck. The waist was tiny but he thought it was just the right size, and a white, lacey belt clasped in the front.

  “Are there any shoes, by chance, that would match this one?” he asked the woman. “I think she will find this make quite lovely.” A little warm, perhaps, but very lovely.

  “The shoes should be in the bottom,” she said and brushed past him to sift through the floor of the closet. Moments later, she stood with a pair of ankle-high purple shoes; on the toes of each one were five small diamonds.

  “I’ll take it,” Keelan said. “How much?”

  The dress and shoes were wrapped in brown parcel paper. Keelan held the package under his arm and went about in search for other places to visit. His next stop was at a jeweler, where he bought Silvia a diamond-studded silver bracelet, an amethyst-studded silver bracelet, and a very beautiful ring that was silver and contained four stones. The pieces of stone were not very big, but when they were put together, the result was spectacular. The jeweler fetched a handsome price for the ring and turned away happy, even though he had given Keelan excellent prices on the bracelets. The jewelry was placed in a small leather sack and tied tightly to the other side of Keelan’s belt.

  He made another stop shortly afterwards. This was at the blacksmith. Here, he picked out a dagger for Silvia. The leather sheath was engraved with pictures of a hunting party chasing a stag. The handle was made of smooth cherry and curved slightly. The blade was tapered, with a ridge like a backbone along both sides of the flat blade. It was finely honed and the sides and tip were razor sharp. He placed his forefinger at the base of the blade where it met the hilt, and was satisfied that it was perfectly balanced. It would be a good starter knife for learning to throw daggers.

  When he left the blacksmith he walked for almost an hour to Zander’s house. Zander was just fixing some ham for lunch, and was more than happy to feed Keelan as well. During lunch Keelan told him all about the night before and about the gifts he had purchased for Silvia. Zander was elated, jumping and clapping and raising a big hurrah. He pressed Keelan to ask for Silvia’s hand, and told him he had dreamed of them getting married the previous night. Keelan was unsure as to whether or not he would propose to her while she was still contending for the throne, but Zander assured him that it would not matter one way or the other.

  When Keelan left, the butterflies in his stomach were fluttering madly. With any luck he hoped they would kill each other or settle down by the time he returned to the palace.

  Gregorich had sent for Motilda at the crack of dawn. She took with her a pile of cleaning rags, two pails of water, and a scrubbing brush. Going down the hallway, Motilda turned her head to see if she could tell if Quentin was behind her. (He had spent the night on her bedroom floor so he would awaken when she was summoned.) A light squeeze on her shoulder relaxed her anxiety and she turned her head to watch the King walking in front of her. She was extremely nervous, and wondered briefly if the King could tell. He was a very intelligent man, despite what Mistress Silvia might think.

  Hapshamin stopped in front of a massive oak door with an image of a woman crying engraved on it, reaching into the deep breast pocket on the left side beneath his great cloak. The key he pulled out was easily four inches long and made of cast iron. The teeth were jagged and strangely shaped and the other end boasted a shape cut out of the cast iron: a raven in flight. He stuck the key in the lock as if he were deflowering a young virgin. The key turned to the left and clicked. The door swung open at the same time the key disappeared back inside the King’s pocket. He stepped inside the room and stood gazing at the walls and furnishings. Th
en he turned about with a gloomy expression on his face and waited for Motilda to move all of her cleaning supplies into the room. When she finished Gregorich shut the door and when the latch clicked, an invisible watcher assumed that the door locked itself every time it closed.

  Quentin followed Gregorich all the way over to the west side of the palace on the second floor. He entered the King’s study just before the door shut and locked. He watched Gregorich sigh and go to a mammoth-size mahogany desk to sit down. To Quentin’s surprise, he started talking to himself with watery eyes.

  “I abhor that room…If only I could bring myself to burn every bloody thing in it.” He sighed again and rubbed the tears out of his eyes. “But I cannot do that. I must keep a reminder of how easy it can be to be dethroned.” He was silent for a minute, tapping his fingers on the desk slowly. “The messenger comes tonight…and if I do not have any news for him I shall be in much trouble…What am I supposed to say? That the only thing I have done is invite a strange, exotic woman to live with me and give me council on a war about which I already know the end? Father would not be happy with that knowledge unless we were betrothed.” His eyes lit up. “Yes! I believe that is the perfect thing to say! I shall tell him we are engaged to be married.”

  Quentin’s invisible mouth dropped open. Sure, he had heard the King mutter and talk to himself before—everyone did that at times. But not lunacy such as this! What could he be thinking? His concern for his mistress grew.

  Gregorich kept raving to himself, his voice staying eerily calm. “Maybe I really shall propose to her. After all, it would make perfect sense, and besides—who would say no to a King?” He slipped the cast iron key from his pocket, stood up, and laid it on top of a bookshelf. He turned, smoothing back several strands of his blond hair, and a grim look marred his handsome features. “But Dalton has interest in her too…That could pose a slight problem.” He began pacing around the room, hands behind his back, fingers twitching.

  Very quietly, Quentin made his way around the King and went to the bookshelf. He reached up and grasped the iron key in his fingers, lifting it up instead of dragging it so that it wouldn’t scrap the shelf. Seconds later he was at the door, waiting in vain for Gregorich to open it and leave.

  “I know,” Hapshamin said in a queer voice. “I will just convince him to leave…A family tragedy, maybe? Oh, I believe Father could arrange that most easily. And if he won’t leave, I will simply call my Special One to do the job. I might just do that anyway...”

  Quentin’s blood froze, but his heart began galloping nevertheless. He knew he was Gregorich’s Special One; that had been the bastard’s nickname for him for years now. What would he do if Gregorich did summon him? Would the cloak he was wearing still draw itself to the King like a magnet as it used to? Would the broken spell be renewed somehow? If so, how badly would he endanger the others? Maybe Quentin could find a way to make Dalton leave before anything bad happened…It was something to hope for.

  After a while, a knock sounded on Gregorich’s door. The servant who was there told him there was a horse tournament coming to the city and the owner of the traveling band of men and horses requested an audience from His Royal Highness.

  “I don’t want a damn horse tournament! Where is this bloody fool?” he snapped, rushing past the servant and into the hall. The servant hurried to catch up to him without bothering to shut the door of the study.

  This was Quentin’s chance to leave, and he did so quickly. He raced down halls, corridors, and passageways until he came upon the courtyard in the middle of the palace.

  Frero was weeding when he was tapped on the shoulder. Quentin whispered some hasty instructions and gave the old man the key. As Frero went off in search of the nearest blacksmith, Quentin’s thoughts returned to the King. But there was one thought that particularly haunted him: If Gregorich called on him, would he be strong enough to resist?

  Keelan was walking back through the city when he heard Frero’s voice in his head, asking to meet him at the Town Common. The young man made his way there quickly, wondering what was happening.

  “I’ve got the key!” Frero whispered as they met up. “I’ve just made a duplicate of it and I am on my way back to the palace to give the original to Quentin so that he may return it.”

  “Wonderful!” Keelan exclaimed. “That is good news, indeed. Oh, is it possible for you to take these parcels to Mistress S-, uh, Lady Serena’s room? They are presents for her, but I am not able to carry such large things when I am in fox-form.”

  “Yes, I can do that. Come—Quentin should be at the meeting place now.”

  Keelan nodded and they walked on a bit, and then turned to go down a small, empty side street. When Frero came out, a beautiful red fox was trotting by his side and inside the palace Quentin was making his way to Silvia’s room.

  Gregorich had managed to dissuade the owner of the horse tournament, asking him to return at another time; however during his conversation with the man he noticed a nagging feeling, as if something was wrong. He finished the meeting in a hurry and almost trotted back to his study. He looked around, staring at everything but seeing nothing strange…

  Until he looked atop one of the bookshelves and saw that a certain, important key had disappeared. His fists clenched in fury as he stormed out.

  Motilda had not stopped scrubbing or dusting since she had been locked in the room. She wanted to get everything done right away so she could try and find time to explore. All of the paintings had been gently wiped with a dry cloth and their frames shined. The tapestries had been beaten with a broom and showed brighter, clearer images. The bookshelves, wardrobes, desks, cabinets, chairs, and tables had all been cleaned as well. The only other thing she had to do was wash the great stone floor and she would be done. Even the windows were cleaned.

  It was mid-afternoon when she heard someone beating on the door. Startled, she went to it and said in a loud voice, “The door cannot be opened, except by the King, who has the key!”

  “This is the King!” his angry voice bellowed. “Are you alone? Has anyone tried to get in this door?”

  Motilda was glad she could answer truthfully. “Your Majesty, of course I am alone—just as I was when you locked me in. And no, no one has tried to get inside. Why would they? There is nothing in here but a collection of dust.”

  “Very well.”

  She thought she heard him walking off, and she went back to scrubbing the floor. But there was a terrible feeling in her stomach as a realization hit her. “My god,” she whispered, “Quentin must have succeeded in stealing the key…and now Gregorich knows.” And she had no way of informing the others.

  Silvia was not far away from the stables when she heard it:

  I am heading back to the castle to return the key, Quentin said through the sapphires.

  Silvia’s breath caught in her throat. Trying to contain her excitement, she turned to the prince, unconsciously clutching her sapphire stone. “My Lord Prince,” she said calmly, “let us journey faster, if you please. My body is yearning a short rest and reprieve before dinner is served.”

  “My dear lady, if you get any more beauty sleep, then mortal men would not be able to look upon your face without dying of love, for you would be nothing short of a goddess.” His face was serious and beautiful in the rays of the late morning sun.

  Silvia could not help but smile at him, even though her face was partially obscured by her veil. “That is too gracious a compliment for the likes of me. I am but a simple woman, far from a deity.”

  “Not so far as you think,” he said softly, half-bowing from atop his horse. “But if you wish to rest and reprieve, then let us hasten to the stables.”

  Silvia smiled again, but uneasiness stirred within her; she had caught the way he gazed at her from the corner of her eye. He had looked at her with mounting affection, and it was a look she recognized.

  It was the same way Keelan always gazed at her.

  Hans took Windfall’s reins and
smiled at his mistress. She was so radiant and full of life; her cheeks were flushed and he could tell she was excited over something or other. By the Dark Moon, she had practically bounced off of the reddish brown horse, smiling jubilantly when Hans offered his hand. My, how he loved this dear girl. In a way, she reminded him of his own daughter, who was married and had children nearly grown already. Silvia was a gem of a young lady and he thought of how quickly the years had gone by; the years that had turned his hair silver, wrinkled his body in places that he would never thought to have wrinkled, that had made him wise and experienced, had done the opposite with Silvia. Her beautiful, well-groomed hair had grown so long and thick, outlining her small white face. Her tiny nose, full lips, and high but well-defined cheekbones brought out her gorgeous almond shaped green eyes. Her body had stretched out, and she had turned into a rather tall, lithe woman with wide-set hips. Her manners and her behavior had flourished as well. She was (overall) attractive, smart, and sweet-tempered…and Hans loved her for it. He cherished her and wished her nothing but a safe and happy life in which to live.