“How can you expect this of me?” she asked in a barely restrained voice. It was shocking that she wasn’t shouting. She’d done naught but scream inside her head for days. “You brought me up to believe I would one day be Sorceress Queen of Bernada. Now you think I’d be willing to settle to be no more than a child minder? Of the one who is to supplant me?”
He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder and she flung it off, striding to gaze out the downstairs window. The opening was barely a sliver since his study was on the ground floor. It didn’t matter, she couldn’t see past her tears of fury anyway.
“I trust only you with this boy’s welfare, Samara,” he said, moving closer. He was wise enough not to touch her this time. He might have lost his hand. “Word is spreading about the prophesy, which makes this boy more vulnerable than ever. He must be safeguarded.”
“He should be eliminated,” she said. It was a foolish answer. Neither she nor her father was a murderer, certainly not of an innocent child.
He released a deep sigh. “Once I was given this prophesy, I had two choices. Dispose of the boy or train him to be the best leader for our people. You know my decision. I want you to help me achieve that goal. Samara–”
She strode to the opposite side of the room where the wall was lined with shelves packed tight with ancient tomes and scrolls. She’d read most of them, planned to read all before she became queen. What would be the point of it now?
“You’re not looking at the long view,” her father chastised, now sounding impatient. “All need not be lost for you, daughter. If you are patient for a decade, you could marry him and become queen in that manner.”
Samara snorted at that humiliating plan. “I shouldn’t have to marry to become queen. I’m a royal princess and your only child. I am also the best sorceress in the realm. Does none of that mean anything?” I thought you loved me.
“As a child, you used to believe in my guidance, Samara. I’m asking you to believe in me one last time. Can you do that?”
“You’ve gone back on your promise and I’m to simply shrug and be fine with that?”
Pain and shock surged up like a hot geyser and Samara stormed out of the room.
That night, a footman slipped a note under her bedroom door. Her father, the coward, was too frightened to enter and deliver it in person. She read the message – I wish you to leave on your mission to Glinnia by week’s end. She sent the sheet of paper up in a furious flare until it was naught but trickling ashes.
The day of her departure approached like dark snow clouds. Samara rebuffed her father’s offer of a prized mare for her ride to Glinnia. Did he just assume she would go? She hadn’t agreed to anything.
Next, she eschewed the magical covered carriage he fashioned so she could travel in comfort and speed. It was pretty, and had cushioned seats with footrests. No!
To avoid the enticing vehicle positioned right outside the steps in the courtyard, she went outside through the back door. Her steps took her in the direction of a graveyard that stretched far into the horizon. All those who had died in service to her family, lay here. Their eternal resting place. At the center of the graveyard, within a large tome, rested all members of Samara’s extended family who had perished over the years.
She pushed open the iron gate and stomped down its stone steps, striding through several corridors until she reached the effigy of the late queen, etched in stone above her coffin. Her mother was depicted lying down while wearing her best gown and holding her scepter while her beloved dragon lay curled up over her feet.
The late queen had the unique talent of being able to speak to dragons. Since her death, no one had been able to communicate with the dragons, and they had become feral and wild. Samara had heard the mortal kingdoms had trained knights who fought these beasts that occasionally raided human habitats.
Her mother would have been heartbroken to hear about that state of affairs. She shrugged aside the wealth of sorrow that always overwhelmed her when she visited her mother’s grave.
Today, all Samara could do was rail at the queen for having married such a short-sighted fiend. At the end of her rant, the silence shuddered through her like a reprimand. Samara didn’t care. What her father did was so unfair. Flinging back her head, she let loose the screams she’d held in for days.
It must have been close to nightfall before she finally grew silent, her throat sore. She slowly slid to the floor and leaned her forehead against her knees, exhausted from her arguments and resistance to her father’s plans.
He expected her to leave the next morning on her journey to Glinnia. Though she had never formally agreed to that plan, there would be no refusing his request. They both knew it.
Even if he no longer loved her, she still adored him. If fetching this boy to Bernada was what her father wanted, then that is what she would do. A lone tear slid down her cheek to mark her capitulation.
About to get up and go tell him he had won, an odd noise had her spinning her head upward. It sounded like stone cracking.
She jumped up and faced her mother’s effigy. The statue of the queen’s arm holding her royal scepter, the symbol of her rule, slowly rose. The fingers opened and the scepter floated out and toward Samara.
Was her mother’s spirit trying to tell her something? That Samara was meant to rule after all?
With a teary smile, Samara held out her hand and the scepter floated into her grip. The moment her fingers closed around the rod, it transformed into cold, heavy steel. She almost dropped it.
Then, it did something even more extraordinary. In a blink, it shrank until it fit within her palm, like a child’s toy.
The dragon’s head at her mother’s feet lifted and its cold stone gaze pierced Samara directly and then it spoke. “A gift for the boy.”
If her father’s blind acceptance of the prophesy had stabbed Samara in the back, this reinforcement of it by her mother’s spirit shattered her heart. Lips pressed tight, Samara tucked the tiny scepter into a pocket of her kirtle and quietly left the tomb.
Chapter 2
After a restless sleep, Samara awoke at daybreak with a headache and the certain knowledge that it was time to leave for Glinnia. She decided to go on foot, and hoped both her parents would magically observe her journey and cringe along every mile she trod. She slipped out of her room with naught but a small pack of essentials. A book from the library, a favorite pair of shoes, one change of clothing and a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese.
Samara bypassed the waiting carriage and had reached the bridge a call came.
A backward glance showed the king hurrying down the front marble stairs. His night cap adorably askew and a servant tried to help him shrug a gown over his nightwear. “Why can you not be reasonable?” he shouted. “It’s a long way to Glinnia.”
“Good! That should give me time to cool my temper so I do not strangle the boy when I find him.”
There, she’d said it. She was doing as he’d ordered by going to fetch the wretched boy. Her father should be thrilled. He’d won. Once her mother’s spirit condoned his decision by placing that scepter into Samara’s care, she knew she had no choice but to go to Glinnia in search of the child.
She walked on, refusing to turn around again. Normally, if planning to leave home on a long journey, she would have kissed her father goodbye.
Not today.
A folded message, sealed with blue wax and imprinted by the Sorcerer King’s mark of a hawk crossed by a wand appeared before her. She grabbed for it, but the paper escaped her grasp and squirreled its way into one of her pockets.
“That’s my instructions to the boy’s father.” The king’s voice carried magically in the wind. “Don’t lose it, daughter!”
Even with her speeding the passage of time with spells and magically procuring meals so she could eat as she walked, the trek from her father’s castle to Glinnia, which was located just outside of Bernada, still took three days. It was insufficient time for Samara to come to terms with h
er distasteful quest.
As she left the border of her father’s green realm and entered the more arid and scrubby human lands, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was a sign of things to come. She couldn’t imagine the boy, once he grew up and became king of the sorcerers, would want her hanging around his castle. How could he ever truly trust someone who had been raised to believe she would rule the land and people he now controlled?
Like the drop of a boulder into a still lake, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. Would she even have a home to return to once this chore was done? She didn’t care for the idea of having to play second fiddle to a child in her father’s affections. The thought of leaving the Sorcerers’ Kingdom for good, however, to make a place for herself elsewhere, was unthinkable. Bernada was her whole world.
Where else would she go? What could she do? Find work as a meagre village hedge witch? Such troubling thoughts continued to plague her as she entered the castle where the King of Glinnia resided during the summer months. Past his wide-open gates, the air thrummed with the sound of steel striking steel. To her right, a crowd cheered. Those familiar signals of knightly entertainment were a definite indication she’d entered a non-magical kingdom.
Guards were stationed on the parapet of the castle walls. From their high vantage point, they had the best view in the courtyard. The guardsmen barely acknowledged Samara before turning their attention back to the tournament in progress.
Samara picked up her skirts and crossed the dusty ground of this mortal king’s courtyard. She would rather have gone directly to the keep to inquire after the nobleman she had come to find, the boy’s father; Sir Ivan. However, he, like any normal man, was more likely to be near combat than in his quarters.
She stopped to take a calming breath and then wove her way through the crowd. She pushed and prodded with her elbows until, with a grunt, a tall, stout fellow who stank of fish, and a plump woman who reeked of garlic, gave way for Samara to stumble close enough to view the combatants without hindrance. She was tall enough to see over the head of the young lad standing directly before her.
Poles had been struck into the ground and roped, to cordon off the crowds from two fighters. Colorful pennants fluttered merrily atop each post. At one end of the central open area, the king sat on a tall, intricately carved throne resting atop a wooden dais.
His countenance appeared as glum as the cloud-covered sky, a playful breeze not doing much to lighten his expression. Unlike his subjects, who hooted and shouted crude encouragements to the two male combatants, their monarch apparently took no pleasure from this fight.
Her curiosity evoked, Samara took careful note of the fighters. One was taller. The myriad of colorful ribbons wrapped around his muscled left arm proclaimed him the ladies’ favorite. The beribboned-fighter moved with practiced ease and fluidity. His unexpected turns and playful strikes suggested that for him, this battle was merely a game.
Shaking her head at his foolery, Samara nudged the young maiden beside her. “Do you know Sir Ivan? Is he here?”
The lady pointed to the shorter fighter.
Great. Considering her rotten luck of late, where else would he be but where she couldn’t get to him easily. She now had to wait for this contest to end. With aggravated resignation, she folded her arms and returned her attention to the fight.
Sir Ivan stood a head below his taller ribboned opponent. His blocks and parries were studied and unhurried, proclaiming him an experienced, mature fighter. Then he made a deadly thrust.
Samara shot up her eyebrow in surprise as the crowed, “Ooohed.”
So, this was not a game for Sir Ivan. Interesting.
The ribboned fighter rolled away from his opponent, regained his feet, and – to the accompaniment of cheers – went back on the offensive.
“Who is Sir Ivan fighting?” she asked her informer.
“Sir Hugh,” the woman sighed, with a vacuous smile, hands clutched to her ample chest. “That yellow on his arm is my ribbon.”
Samara was hard pressed to see the yellow among all the other strips of material now badly muddied from the fight. The lady’s beau caught Sir Ivan’s over-handed strike and pushed back.
A horn drew the crowd’s attention toward the gates but not the fighters. Sir Hugh took advantage of the slight distraction to counter with a fierce swing and then another, driving his adversary back. He would have overwhelmed Sir Ivan if the king had not stood and boomed, “HOLD!”
The crowd parted to allow a rider to approach. The soldier jumped off his mount, bent under the roped-in crowd barrier, and ran up to kneel before his king.
“My liege,” he said.
“What news?” the king asked.
“A dragon has ravaged another village.”
“Are you certain?” Sir Hugh asked, striding up to the messenger. “Was it the grey?”
“Yes. It attacked Searl this time. If the village witch had not warned them ahead of time, we would have lost many lives. As it is, the dragon razed the entire village, not leaving one house intact.”
“Searl,” the king said. “Not two leagues away. The grey becomes daring, coming so close to my hold.”
“We should begin the hunt for the dragon now,” Sir Hugh said. “We cannot let it get away a second time.”
Sir Ivan pulled off his helmet and marched up to swing Sir Hugh around, glaring at him with furious eyes. “Our fight is not yet done, sir. When it is, you’ll not be in a state to hunt a squirrel.”
Sir Hugh, too, removed his helmet, revealing damp, dark hair and sharply chiseled features that many a maiden would have observed as handsome.
Samara, too, viewed him with appreciation, and then frowned at her shallow reaction. She shook off the odd attraction to this handsome knight and glanced around at the crowd. These people’s handsome heroes or their problems with a marauding dragon was of no concern to her. There were knights aplenty who could defend the villagers if and when a dragon attacked here.
What was of importance was identifying which boy in this crowd was Sir Ivan’s son.
“This could be the grey that killed Sir Oliver,” Sir Hugh said to his opponent. “I am sworn to avenge my friend’s death. How can you speak of mere entertainment when we’ve real work to do?”
“Entertainment?” his adversary asked, thoroughly affronted. “You soiled my wife! You will die for that insult, sir!”
Samara groaned as their argument blossomed. Their petty rivalry could go on all day. With a flick of her hand she sent a seek out spell to identify Sir Ivan’s child. To her surprise, instead of one, several of the children gathered around began to glow with a green sparkle at the top of their hair. They were of all ages, making her sigh with resignation. Trust a man to spread his seed far and wide with little discretion.
Several in the crowd shouted in alarm, stepping away from the marked children.
The king stepped down from the platform. “Who casts this charm?”
Lifting up the rope, Samara bent under it and stepped forward, curtsying to the king. At least her need would take precedence now. They could discuss killing dragons and each other after she and the boy left this kingdom.
“Who are you?” the king asked.
“My apologies, Your Majesty. I had hoped to identify the child I sought without disrupting your court, but it was not to be so. I am Princess Samara, daughter of the Sorcerer King.”
Sir Hugh, who had frowned at her interruption, now watched her with interest sparking his blue gaze.
She tore herself away from his hypnotic stare, ordering her racing heart to behave. No wonder he had won so many ribbons from the womenfolk. The man was commanding in both appearance and manner.
Her gaze left the ribbons fluttering on his arm, and with a flick of her hand, she dismissed the sparks on the children fathered by Sir Ivan. The knights in this castle were certainly loose with their favors.
She pulled out the missive from her father and offered it to Sir Ivan. “This is a reque
st from my father to allow me to transport your son safely to my kingdom.”
The king intercepted the missive, taking it and slitting open the seal. After reading silently for a moment, he frowned. His attention swung from Samara to Sir Ivan to Sir Hugh, and then toward the crowd. She followed his glance to a boy of about eight.
“Come here, Jack,” the king said.
The child ran up and gave a credible bow, though his glance was tinged with worry.
“Seems you have been chosen to be trained as a sorcerer,” the king said. “A great honor, indeed, Jack. Princess Samara is to guide you to Bernada, the renowned Sorcerers’ Kingdom.”
“I don’t want to go,” Jack said.
“Uncle,” Sir Hugh said, addressing the king, “surely, this matter can wait until after we’ve left on the hunt? Time grows short. We must not lose track of the grey again.”
The king appeared just as unhappy with Jack’s response as with Sir Hugh’s interruption, but he turned his short temper on his nephew. “You may be my sister’s child, sir, but do not test our kinship more than you already have.” With a wave, the king dismissed the crowd.
With much regret and grumbling, and urged by the guards who herded them away, the people gathered obeyed their king’s command to leave the courtyard. In a surprisingly short time, Samara found herself alone with the king, Sir Hugh, Sir Ivan, and her new, young charge.
Also present was a beautiful woman with hair of gold and eyes as silvery blue as a heron’s wings. The woman’s continued presence was a surprise until the boy ran to the woman’s side and clung to her. Ah, the child’s mother. The lady kept her gaze trained to the ground, not looking at her husband, the king, or the amorous Sir Hugh.
The cause of this fight now became patently clear. With a cynical twist of lips, Samara returned her attention to the king.
“I want to stay here,” Jack said and hid behind his mother.
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