Rise of the Dragon Queen

by Sherri Beth Mitchell

  “My apologies, Zander, but my mind was on other matters. I hope I haven’t disturbed anyone’s rest.”

  The old man’s smile faded and his face looked more wrinkled in the candlelight; his white hair frayed out in the back in long wisps, as if he’d been leaning his head against something. He placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “They are in the sitting room, by the fire. I admire your courage, son, to face up to your past life.”

  Quentin nodded and watched Zander walk outside, take out a pipe, and sit down. He sighed and walked into the sitting room. Dessica he recognized immediately, but he did not know the man beside her. Silently he delved into the memories he had stolen from Venicius and noted the man as the boy’s grandfather.

  Dessica saw him first and gasped. “Y-you are the one who attacked my home.”

  He didn’t agree to her remark, nor did he discourage it. He merely stood there, his white robe shimmering in the dim light of the room.

  The man put out his hand as he stood up. “I wish to be as formal as possible with this, so let us introduce ourselves, even though you may already know who we are. I am Geremy, grandfather to a young man who was called Venicius. This is Mistress Dessica, the adopted mother of your, um, newest master.” Dessica nodded curtly, but did not put forth her hand to be shaken.

  “My name is…” Quentin paused, his voice breaking when he continued. “My name is terror…demon…hunter of memories…murderer.” His hand tightened upon Geremy’s. “Or was, I should say. My name now is saved…scorned… vengeful…and shamed.” He blinked back the tears, but they came anyway. “My brother and my Queen call me Quentin.” He let go of Geremy’s hand and turned to Dessica, bowing as low as he could. “But you may call me what you will.”

  Geremy and Dessica glanced at one another. They had had a long talk earlier with Zander and had tried to prepare themselves for this meeting, though they did not know it would come this soon. “Your friend Zander has told us many things,” Geremy began, “and one of them was that forgiving is the hardest deed because it is difficult to forget. So, I suppose if you want to be forgiven, you must tell us your tale from beginning to end so that we may understand, although we may never forget.”

  Quentin said, “My story is long in telling. But if you will hear it and the possibility of forgiveness lingers at all, then I will tell it. But be warned: my life is…was horrible.” He glanced at Dessica.

  “It is all right,” she assured him with a touch of wariness. “I need to know the whole truth…about everything.”

  “Very well.” And he began.

  The body had been disposed of; how and where he did not know, and did not care. He had been shaken badly by Lady Serena’s behavior, not to mention the ghastly apparition after she had departed, and he had retired to his chambers with a large jug of borchum, with a little extra chopped deridam inside it for good measure. He had locked himself in and sat outside on his terrace; nearly half of the jug was inside his stomach now. He pondered on many things that had happened of late, especially the coming of his father in a few days and the beautiful woman on the third floor. Would his father approve of her? He rather thought that part did not matter. He was a king after all—no one had the right to tell him whom he could marry, even if it was in the bylaws. And why was his father coming to Darkania in the first place? A pulse of fear went through his body at the thought of being replaced on the throne. How many of his brothers and sisters thought themselves more than worthy of taking his place? Most likely too many to count, and Zela had made it clear that something was going to be happening. In some ways he did not care, for running a large city was very difficult at times and always stressful. There were days when he wished on the stars that he could have a normal, simple life in a nice, quiet place out in the country.

  His thoughts soon fell once more to the grace and beauty of Lady Serena. Should he propose? Would she even be likely to accept? She was not betrothed or married (so she said) but sometimes women and their families set other standards. She had suffered several insults by him and his own, the latest being the death of her servant girl.

  Motilda…what had that idiot girl been trying to tell him before she went stupid? He tried to clear his muddled thoughts, his mind swimming in the deridam. He had gathered that Lady Serena was not who she seemed and that she was blood kin to royalty. Who was she really and whom was she related to? No answers came to his mind. But if she was royalty, then that meant he wouldn’t have to worry about the bylaws at all, making things much simpler for him. And what of her planned treachery against him? Could there be any truth in that? He supposed he would know soon enough although it did not really worry him. Besides, maybe Lady Serena and himself could work something out if she wanted the throne so badly…a marriage may not be completely out of the question now. But how could he believe someone such as Motilda, who switched masters in the blink of an eye? He had no way of trying to find out the truth about his guest without insulting her anyway. Perhaps he should just forget about the whole incident. He thought about the book Motilda had said she had found and how she had apologized for the citizens of Darkania believing some ancient rumor or other. He had not been able to decipher much through her incessant chatter. Maybe this book she had spoken of would help him understand, but too many things pressed upon his mind at the moment to ponder much over it. Moreover, she had not said where the book was or how she had even come about it. Stupid girl. Why did she go blank on him? That had been very strange and unnerving, and he did not know how to explain whatever had happened.

  He shrugged. Who cared, now that she was out of the way? Not him, for sure. One less thing for him to worry about.

  A knock on his chamber door brought his sluggish body to unwilling feet. He walked back inside his room, saying, “I’m coming, I’m coming” in a slurred voice. He opened the door to find the Captain of the Royal Guard awaiting him patiently.

  “Your Highness,” the man said, bowing curtly.

  “What is it? Tis late, you know. A king needs his rest.”

  George ignored that remark, noting the King’s obvious inebriation. “Pardons, Your Highness, but I thought you might want to read this letter. It came just moments ago.” A tiny piece of paper was handed to him. “It’s from Lord Algermark of Alwak: perhaps a response to the inquiry of the lovely lady guest. It arrived just a short time ago by eagle.”

  Interested, the King peered at the letter, still sealed with a yellow owl, but the deridam within him was well at work. “Read it to me,” he drawled to George, thrusting the letter back towards the Guard. He shook his head, trying to clear it.

  George took back the unfolded letter. “Very well, sire.

  ‘Royal Guardian of the land, King Gregorich Hapshamin of Darkania—

  I received your letter concerning ‘Lady Serena of Alwak’ and sought for her parents and family. I have strange news. There is a Lady Seryna in Alwak, and the only person of that name in our small city, although it is not spelled the same as you wrote it. She is a very short, portly woman who breathes louder than a charging bull and has the same personality as well. But if You may, Sire, there is a problem: She is here in Alwak at the present and is married with three children, so I doubt she could be in Your Blessed Palace at this point in time. I am sorry to be the informer of bad news, Your Majesty, but your ‘Lady Serena’ is a fake, a genuine charlatan. If I were one of your wise friends, my Lord, I would suggest ridding yourself of such a parasite, as they can be unseemingly dangerous.

  In Your Servitude, Lord Algermark’.”

  Gregorich’s fists clenched, his mind becoming clearer as he realized what this letter implied. He snatched the piece of parchment from George’s hand with a low snarl. “Breathe a word to no one, do you hear?” he hissed, and slammed the door in a shocked face.

  “Who are you, devil bitch?” he yelled to the night air blowing into the room. “I curse you for your intrusion into my home! Just you wait…I will have you no matter who you are, and you shall share my bed
for eternity in a week’s time!” He strode back and forth, thinking furiously. Finally he stopped, a sneer forming on his handsome face. “I know just the way to find out who you really are…the perfect person to look into your affairs without ever being seen.”

  Long ago, when he had been living in the city for only a few months, he received a visit from Perconia, one of his many half-sisters. She had told him he needed help to gain the throne, and after much begging on his part she had revealed a strange spell to him. It did not require much magic, which was to his advantage, for he was not strong in the art. The spell offered him complete control of the one he cast it upon.

  “The younger generations are easier to obtain as these servants”, Perconia had told him. She had given him a queer garment, ensuring that it would give his servant amazing powers, and even invisibility. They had scanned the crowds of the market nonchalantly that day, and she had pointed out a good-looking but rather scraggly young boy of about nine or ten. Perconia had told Gregorich the boy would be ideal for the spell before wishing him luck and disappearing. He had not seen or heard from her since.

  But the boy had proved to be an excellent servant. His ‘Special One’ did not have a name, so far as he knew (although Gregorich would not have cared to have known it if he’d had one), and did his work well. Why, Hapshamin himself had never shed a drop of blood to get the throne; his hands had quite literally been clean.

  And now, in a time of need, who better to call on than someone who was infinitely loyal?

  Summoning up old memories of the words to the spell, Gregorich slowly remembered every word in its correct order that would bring forth the Special One. He began to chant them, softly at first, then louder and louder. The words seemed to linger in the room before stretching out the balcony doors, searching for his slave.

  It was almost two hours before Quentin finished his long tale. Dessica and Geremy were leaned back against the hard sofa, flabbergasted at all that he had said. But neither asked any questions, or cursed him. He could tell Dessica was angered by much of the story, though it was hard to tell if she was mad at him or at Hapshamin. As he concluded his tale he waited in anticipation for their reactions. Much to his surprise and relief he received hugs and blessed forgiveness. Zander had come in out of the humid night air to listen to the end of the story and was pleased at their response to the young man.

  “Well, that is said and done with, Quentin,” said Geremy. “But have you any ideas on what to do about Raena? I stayed within sight of the road we were traveling on for several long and uneventful hours today, but I saw her not.”

  Quentin shrugged, pulling his shoulder-length white hair out of his face. He seemed about to say something, but his body suddenly jerked right out of his chair, standing up. His face was as pale as could be, the veins standing out in his neck as though he were straining against an unseen force.

  “What’s wrong, son?” Zander asked, jumping up from his own chair to grab the young man’s shoulders. Quentin started shaking violently beneath his hands and sweat poured from every orifice on him. “What are you shaking for? Can you hear me?” Pure fear had entered Zander’s blood as a terrible thought came to him.

  “What is happening to him?” Dessica shrieked.

  Not knowing what else to do (and silently praying to Chin, goddess of humanity, that his fears were unfounded) Zander grabbed Quentin’s sapphire in a tight fist. He quickly let go, involuntarily taking a step back. He had heard awful words from out of nowhere, and though he heard them for only a moment he felt drawn to a distant place. His body shifted towards the door as thoughts of the palace darted in his mind before disappearing. He shook his head to clear it and turned towards Geremy and Dessica. “I believe Gregorich Hapshamin is trying to call upon him. I do not see how Quentin is doing it, but he is fighting it fiercely.”

  “Can’t we do something?” said Geremy. His face wore a terrified expression. “How do we stop this? If he goes back to Gregorich we’re all doomed and Silvia will hang from the gallows by morning.”

  A million things swam through Zander’s mind at that moment. What should he do? What could he do? Making a hasty decision and hoping things would turn out as he wanted he clenched Quentin’s stone in one hand and wrapped the other around the young man’s chest. He tried to ignore the other words, concentrating on the young man. He forced Quentin’s head down and began whispering soothing words in Kieluna. In this way he spoke straight into the boy’s mind by the stone he clutched, into his soul by the hushed words in his ear and his heart by the embrace. He hardly noticed Dessica and Geremy also hugging him tightly, one on each side of the boy, also whispering words of encouragement. Zander’s lips became dry, his voice hoarse, but he did not stop what he was saying. He told Quentin to be strong, and to remember that Gregorich had no power over him, for he was free of his chains and bonds. Quentin still struggled with the summoning, his every muscle straining to its limit. Several long minutes passed with sweat and tears before Quentin began to mouth something over and over. The spell Hapshamin was trying to cast became weaker, and he was able to speak in an out of breath manner seconds later. The words he had been repeating were simple, yet apparently very important to him: My Queen. The struggle ceased and Quentin collapsed to the floor, his mane of white hair splayed around his pale, sweaty face.

  Dessica retrieved a basin of water that was sitting next to the back door and a small cloth hanging on the wall above it. She dipped the rag in the water, wrung it out and pressed it against the young man’s face. Pity was in her features, and fright in her eyes. Geremy was on his knees across from her, holding one of Quentin’s hands between his own. All thoughts of scorn and any doubts about loyalty were wiped from their minds as they prayed for Chin to help the boy sweating as if from fever beside them.

  “He was very lucky,” Zander said. He had risen from beside Quentin and stood beside the hearth, gazing into the low flames that couldn’t seem to keep the chill out of him tonight. “Gregorich may know some magic, but I sensed its weakness. He is not strong in the art, nor does he know how to harbor it.” He paused, and turned to look at Dessica and Geremy with tears in his eyes. “I didn’t do that alone, you know…I heard the voices of the others too: Silvia, Keelan, and Frero. I doubt they knew what was happening, but they whispered their own words from their hearts to Quentin, and I believe they helped a lot.”

  Dessica said nothing, and Geremy only nodded. Zander had told them that morning the meaning of the sapphire necklaces and about the five guardians of Silvia’s life, including Silvia herself, who wore them.

  Quentin moaned on the floor and moved his head a little. But his eyes did not open, and he spoke no more. Zander could hear Silvia’s voice through the stones, fear and panic speaking through the blue sapphire. He picked up his own stone and said, “I plan to hold Quentin here over night, for he is not well. Gregorich tried to summon him, but he fought it with our help. He has been left physically exhausted, and he is sleeping now.”

  We will be there first thing in the morning, Keelan said.

  And so it was just after the first rays of dawn pricked the sky with pink fingers that Silvia, Frero, Keelan, Maura, and Hans all arrived. By their expressions anyone could see that they were extremely worried, and the dark patches beneath their eyes reflected the inability to sleep worth a damn. One by one they checked on Quentin, who was laid out on a cot near the fire, still sleeping. Maura helped Zander with a large breakfast and by the time everything was prepared Quentin had woken up. He wouldn’t say anything about what had happened the night before, and no one asked him any questions. His face remained pale and damp until after he had eaten a little food.

  After a quiet breakfast, Zander took Silvia outside for more lessons in Kieluna, although much of the lessons were now only things that he had heard of, but could not do or did not have the strength to do himself. Silvia had been practicing incessantly every chance she got, and had learned quite a bit on her own. They experimented with calling the b
irds to her, as well as other animals. However, not all animals liked to be summoned. The large deer that answered her spell was very angry indeed, and drove all of them indoors with the threat of his great antlers. When they went to the river, they found that she was able to guide water to different courses via a small stream. She learned to gather clouds, so that a brief storm slammed into Darkania quite unexpectedly. While it was raining, Silvia tried something of her own and discovered a very simple trick to keep the rain off of her body, enabling her to stay dry throughout the storm while standing outside in the yard. Zander cautioned against changing the weather, for it took great energy for most wizards and sorcerers, although Silvia appeared unaffected. Zander was very surprised but relieved that the magic was not affecting her stamina. It meant she would have a better chance against Lord Rohedon and Gregorich Hapshamin. When the lessons were over (right after the rain shower, to be precise) it was mid-morning. It was then that Silvia asked Zander to do her a favor.

  “Anything that I can, Your Highness,” he replied.

  “I want you to make a coin for me, just like the one you made for Keelan long ago,” she said. “I want a large dragon to be carved upon it instead of a small animal.”