by N M Zoltack
All her life, it seemed, was nothing more than one challenge, one struggle, after the next.
Finally, she almost tore the gown off her and allowed it to crumble to the floor. She stepped out of it and was far gentler with the necklaces she wore, removing them and laying them reverently onto the vanity.
As for the crown, she tossed that on the small table beside her bed.
That crown had given her nothing but pain. Her mother had conspired against her, seeking the crown when she could have had it for herself if she had been the one to wed the king.
Sabine could only guess as to why her mother had gone to such elaborate lengths to reach the crown from afar. Had her mother always been jealous of Sabine? Had she wanted her daughter to have the crown just so she could have an excuse to have Sabine killed? Or had she been unable to stomach marrying the king, considering his stomach had to be at least quadruple the size of a normal person’s?
For all of her own personal ambitions, Sabine truly had tried to be a kind and loving wife to the king despite their short time as a married couple, but the king had never even looked at her. He had hated his second wife, but Sabine long suspected that hate had originated far before he ever learned of the queen’s betrayal. The king had even hated Sabine through no fault of her own.
She wasn't who he wished to be married to.
The king had only ever loved Rohesia Rivera, his first wife and the mother to his children.
In fact, Sabine was fairly certain he did not love any of his children, certainly not Vivian, the youngest. Through no fault of her own, Vivian had caused the queen’s death through childbirth.
Sabine did not know Vivian all that well. After Greta killed the prince, Vivian had fled the castle for a long while. Perhaps she should strive to get to know the princess.
To what end? Vivian must be sixteen by now. Sabine was not much older than her, at almost twenty-two. The date of her birth was… Actually, it would be coming up in a week. No one here in the castle would recall the date, she was certain, although she had celebrated her twenty-first birthday here in the castle. She hadn't made a grand affair of it, but there had been some extra treats for her, probably arranged by her mother. Had it been before or after the king had died? Maybe he had been the one… No. No, despite her hoping the king would look upon her as he had when he merely thought of Rohesia, he never had, and he never would have. His love had been used up solely for one woman. There might have been a time when he cared for others, cared for his subjects, but that had been before Sabine even contemplated leaving her hometown.
Etian. Would those she had left behind there recall her date of birth? She had no way to know how the city far to the southwest of Atlan fared, if the dragons had gone there. That was what troubled Sabine the most—the dragons. They moved so very quickly, and their destructive capabilities were massive. Why could they not head to the south and… and what? Kill the Vincanans? Why should they suffer over those from Atlan or Etian?
Although her thoughts constantly churned, eventually, her eyelids grew heavy, and Sabine slumbered. When she woke, she sat up, reached for her crown, and placed it on her head.
The scent of burnt skin assaulted her before she realized the source—herself. More specifically, her forehead. The crown was burning her.
With a shriek, she hurled the crown across the room. It clattered against the stone floor, the golden coloring redder than normal as if the heat remained even though the crown itself was not on fire.
Unnerved, Sabine edged away from the area where the crown was, and she slipped on a simple enough gown with only a dozen buttons. She struggled to do them all, and her gaze then fell onto her vanity. After examining her forehead, she cringed. There was a slight mark from the crown. It took her a moment to adjust her hair to conceal the injury, and her fingers brushed against the jewels she’d worn the previous day.
Her fingers burned, and she discovered, to her horror, that she could not draw back her hand. Her fingers had adhered to the jewels. In a near panic, she grabbed the necklace with her other hand, but now she had even more burnt parts of herself. Even worse, her entire body felt as if she were burning from the inside out, and it dawned on her that she was dying, and she would die without leaving a lasting impression on the world. No one would remember Sabine Grantham, whose husband, the king, hadn't allowed her to take on his name. No one would recall her short reign. What legacy did she have to leave behind? No children, no true accomplishments… She hadn't bettered the world.
The world would, perhaps, be better off without her.
With a strangled breath, Sabine sat up. She felt her chest, her swiftly beating heart, and then touched her forehead before looking at her palms. There were no burnt marks at all, no melted skin.
A nightmare.
Not wishing to be alone, Sabine summoned a servant girl and put on a blue gown rather than the red one she had put on in the terrible dream. Her hair she had pinned up so that it was completely off her neck with only a few tendrils let free to frame her face.
“My Queen, which jewels would you like to wear today?” the serving girl asked.
“None.”
“None?” The girl blinked a few times. Truly, she was no young girl. She was perhaps fourteen, fifteen, maybe even married, although Sabine knew that plenty of the commoners waited until they were closer to twenty to marry. Sabine herself hadn’t wed for the first time until she was twenty, and she had been the adopted daughter of a baron, her mother’s second husband.
The baron was dead. Greta technically had the title of dowager baroness, although she preferred greatly to be known as the queen's mother.
Not for the first time, Sabine wondered if her mother had killed the baron. His death, after all, had happened within a fortnight of his declaring Sabine his daughter and Greta as his heir.
“Not today,” Sabine said firmly.
“Forgive me,” the maid whispered. “I did not mean to question you.”
Sabine tried to smile at her. “You do not need to fear me. I am not an ogre. That is my mother. Although would it be more proper to call her an ogress?”
The maid giggled then covered her mouth with her hands, her eyes wide. “I… Ah…”
“I made a jest. You can laugh.”
“I know, but your mother…”
Sabine smirked. Ah, it seemed that the servants had not the latest gossip about the queen’s mother and where she was spending her days and nights.
The queen had not gone down to visit her mother as of yet, and perhaps she wouldn’t. As of right now, she had far more pressing matters to attend to, but then again, everything was more important than Greta, even having Sabine’s hair washed.
Her nightmare not far from her mind, Sabine headed toward the door when the maid coughed slightly.
Sabine whirled around and followed the maid’s gaze to the crown still resting on Sabine’s table.
For a moment, but only a moment, Sabine hesitated. Then, she crossed over to it and nodded.
The maid rushed over, lifted the crown, and waited for Sabine to lower herself down in a curtsey so that the maid could place the crown upon the royal’s head.
“You make a lovely queen,” the maid murmured.
“Thank you.” Sabine nodded to her and fled the room, walking swiftly but not outwardly running.
It did not take long for servants to send word for her council members to come, and within twenty minutes, a spread of rolls and butter and some fruits were laid out for them all to enjoy as they sat at the long table in the meeting room.
Aldus Perez was the last to arrive. Sabine knew the advisor well, perhaps too well, although she made certain to never be alone with the man again. He and she were vastly similar persons, almost too similar. Both ambitious and willing to do almost anything to get what they wanted, a fact that left her nervous around him. She had learned from her mother to keep a close eye on one’s enemies, and while Sabine was doing everything she could to prevent Aldus from viewin
g her as an enemy, she also did not consider him a true ally.
Cricket Woodham, of course, was helping himself to several rolls, slathering butter on each one. Also hailing from Etian, he was wealthy because of his own actions, not his father or his father's father. His ability to turn one coin into several was why he was her treasurer. She supposed they would need to discuss how many coins they have and how much of an expense he thought it would be to defend against the dragons or perhaps to mount an attack against them. That would be the point of their upcoming discussion, after all, precisely what they should be doing.
Emerson Fenne, the constable who lorded over the knights, no doubt would want to have as many coins as possible to pay blacksmiths for more armor, more weapons, but as much as it pained Sabine to have lost warriors in battle already, could not their armor and weapons be used? Yes, they could make more, and they should and would, but in the meanwhile, knights perhaps should forego being buried in armor.
Wystan Bartone, in charge of the peasants, cast his gaze around wildly as if he feared a dragon would burst through the glass window and snatch him into his huge maw. He had to fear for his people and rightly so, although all persons—nobles and commoners alike—had reasons to fear.
Brid Donocani, the justiciar, the one who presided over the court and any judiciary matters, still did not know about Greta, and Sabine supposed that once the meeting concluded, she should rectify that. Brid must know about the queen’s mother, or perhaps did the woman know already? If she were any good at her post, she should know who was locked up in the castle’s dungeon.
Finally, Irmela Fiedlerg, the duchess in charge of the nobles, sat primly in her seat, her lips pursed. She had several necklaces on, and her fingers kept running along the strands as if to call attention to the fact she wore them and Sabine did not. Unlike most of the others, Irmela did not eat, not until Sabine reached for a roll.
Sabine hadn't the stomach to eat, not after that horrid dream. She could still smell her burnt skin, and her stomach churned whenever she thought of it.
Absent, of course, was the last council member, but Greta could and would continue to rot in jail until she was dealt with, perhaps executed.
Once most everyone had a chance to eat and the customary idle greetings were dispensed with, Sabine stood. The men all did as well, as a matter of respect, but she waved them to sit.
“We have much to discuss,” Sabine said evenly, “about our people, about our future… about our legacy. What kind of world will we leave for our children? For our children’s children? Will our children even have the chance to have children? That is for us to ensure does happen, and how, pray tell, can we go about ensuring that?”
24
Prince Marcellus Gallus
A fortnight had passed since the dragon attack. That was now how Marcellus viewed that showdown between Vincana and Tenoch on the shores of the rivers. Neither side had a clear victory ahead of them when the dragons had appeared, rushing out of the ground. Honestly, Marcellus was not certain they could win. If not for the dragons, those from Tenoch might have been able to encroach and surround the Vincanans, and although each Vincanan warrior was worth at least double if not triple a knight from Tenoch, Tenoch had the numbers.
But only if the other cities came to protect Atlan.
So far, that hadn’t happened.
Could the other cities have been besieged by the dragons? Marcellus hadn’t seen any since that first day, but he knew they were not gone away yet and perhaps never would be again.
The dragons had returned.
It was nearly nighttime, and Marcellus had opted to take the first watch. The Vincanans wounded during the battle were slowly healing. The ones with the burns were not fairing quite so well, unfortunately. Despite Valeria and Cassia attempting to locate herbs to help soothe the burns, they had been fruitless ventures, and Marcellus did not like the idea of any of them wandering far from their camp.
Here, they were safe, or so he hoped.
After he made two loops around the perimeter of their encampment, a figure slinked toward him. He bristled, reaching for his sword when the clouds shifted away from the moon, allowing him to see Horatia.
“You mentioned earlier you wished to speak with me, but you never did,” the Valkyrie said.
Marcellus grimaced, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword although he did not draw the blade.
“What is it, Marcellus?”
He smiled wanly, appreciating that she spoke to him as an equal instead of her a servant to his princedom. He hadn’t asked for the title, didn’t want to have any consider him a prince. Marcellus wasn’t a prince. He was a warrior, yes, but that hardly set him apart from the rest of those from Vincana.
As out of place as he felt in this role, he couldn’t help thinking about a certain dark-haired, blue-eyed young woman who might feel much as he did.
Horatia waited another moment and then ventured, "If you're concerned about Flavius and me—"
“Is there a Flavius and you?” Marcellus asked, grateful to push off a conversation that was truly necessary but would be awkward and uncomfortable.
Although this particular conversation might be awkward as well.
Horatia flared her nostrils. “I don’t know. I… He… I slapped him.”
“You did? Why? And a slap? I would have thought you would’ve kicked and punched him, maybe swept his legs out from under him.”
It was hard to tell from the dying embers of their campfire, but Marcellus thought she might be blushing.
“I did sweep him, yes.”
“Were you two sparring?” Marcellus asked.
“He… surprised me.”
“You allowed him to sneak up on you?”
“Of course not,” she said indignantly. “He kissed me.”
“So you slapped him,” he assumed.
“Yes. Then I…” Horatia shook her head. “I would rather not get into that, but I am not sure where I stand with him or him me, but regardless, none of that will affect my serving you and my duties nor him from his. You have our words.”
“As grateful as I am concerning that,” Marcellus said slowly, grimacing, wishing he did not have to mention this.
“What is it?” she prompted when he spoke no further.
“You are not beholden to me, not any longer.”
“I… I don’t…” Her eyes widened as recognition dawned.
“The Valkyries have always been the chosen fighters of the dragons,” Marcellus said firmly. “Why should now be any different?”
“The dragons have been gone these past 1,500 years,” Horatia argued. “We cannot—”
“You must.”
“But the dragons might not even want us to…” Horatia fell silent.
“What is it?”
“The dragons,” she murmured. “The Valkyries were their warriors, but they had servants, too, once upon a time.”
“Maybe now the Valkyries can serve as both,” he suggested.
Horatia looked ready to spar him. “You jest.”
“I do not profess to understand what the dragons will want, but I cannot imagine they will be pleased at all that the Valkyries have not immediately sought to serve their will.”
Horatia closed her eyes. “I must confess the thought did occur to me,” she murmured. “The dragons.”
“Do you… feel called to them?”
“No. Honestly, I feel no different save now I feel almost… betrayed. Yes, betrayed. The dragons are not supposed to burn and fight and kill without reason behind it.”
“Mayhap there is a reason…” He trailed off as the Valkyrie shook her head.
“No. This is madness. This is an act of war,” she said firmly, “and I want no part on the dragon side of a war between dragons and man. When claws and swords collide, I will be bearing a sword, not riding on the back of one of those winged beasts.”
“Did the Valkyries of old ride on the back of dragons?” he asked in wonder.
&nb
sp; “No,” she snapped.
He jerked back, startled by her sharp tone.
“No. I only meant to illustrate which side I will fight on. I choose you.”
Marcellus nodded, deeply moved by her loyalty, but it wasn’t to him. It was to Vincana.
“The other Valkyries will have to decide for themselves who they will serve,” he said, thinking about the messenger he had sent via one of their smallest, fastest ships. It would not have reached Vincana, not yet, but soon, his father would know that the dragons had returned.
Unless the dragons had already headed that far south.
“You look troubled,” she murmured. “What distresses you? How can I assist? You do not think that the others will side with the dragons, do you?”
“I—”
Marcellus didn’t have a chance to finish his thought aloud. A massive blast of fire rained down toward them, and he knocked Horatia aside as he yelled for the others to wake.
The dragon reared his head, blasting enough fire all around so that they could see him in all of his glory. He swooped down past them, near them, not quite low enough for their weapons to reach him.
Furious that the dragon had even dared to cast his fiery breath near the already burnt ones, Marcellus arched back his arm and launched his sword through the air as if it were a spear.
It hit the underbelly of the beast and bounced off, not harming the creature in the least.
Marcellus gulped. What were they to do?
25
Rase Ainsley
The days passed Rase by, and the street rat hardly knew what to do with himself. Yes, he fed Leanne because she still would not feed herself, but she would not talk to him. She hardly acknowledged him at all. Had something happened to her when she had run away the second time? She wouldn’t survive on her own, not like this.