The Radiant Child

by Duncan Lay

  They had landed near the head of the Dragon Hall, which faced a gentle bay. Martil inhaled deeply, the perfume of a score of flowering plants mingling to make a heady ambrosia. The sun was warm, the sand they walked over soft and everything seemed bright and colourful. It was as if he had stepped into another world, where every sensation was heightened, every sense indulged.

  They had gazed around, Martil in wonder and Karia in the hopes of seeing a fairy or unicorn, then gates opened inside the ‘mouth’ and a hundred Elfarans rushed out to form a double line to welcome them.

  They had cheered them both, reaching out to shake Martil’s hand or bowing to Karia. She enjoyed it thoroughly, and accepted flowers from half-a-dozen Elfarans.

  Martil had hesitated to plunge from the bright sunlight into the cool, dark hall. But the marvels did not stop inside. It was made out of wood and stone, but not as Martil recognised them. He was used to simple homes with little decoration, although he had seen many castles and churches with fantastic designs carved into the stone. But the Hall was something else again. Passageways twisted and turned, changing from Elfaran-size to dragon-size and back again, opening into cosy nooks or soaring halls or to the skies. Grass, trees and other plants grew in, around and on the structure, making it look as though it were one with the landscape. It seemed somehow organic, as if it were a living and breathing part of the island.

  Much of the dragon part of it was empty, although through every other corridor they found smiling Elfarans.

  ‘How was this built?’ Martil had run his hand over the smooth wooden and stone walls in wonder. ‘Do your people remember how it was done?’

  ‘Remember?’ Havell had laughed. ‘Martil, we built it, with the help of the dragons and magic. I helped shape the walls myself.’

  Martil looked at him. ‘You built it? It looks like it has been here for centuries, the way the plants have grown around it…’

  Havell patted a wall gently. ‘It has been a while.’

  He had shown them to a pair of comfy little rooms, off one of the main corridors, which were connected by a common door. The table and chairs were part of the wall, while the bed was a raised tree root on which grasses formed a thick mattress. Martil had been highly dubious that such a thing would be comfortable—or dry—but was astonished to find it felt even better than the thick beds back at Norstalos’ palace. Karia, predictably, loved it. A natural spring provided a shower and bath in one at the back of the rooms, while its runoff was topped by a wooden seat that Karia was highly amused to see was the privy.

  ‘We don’t get many guests here but I am sure you will be comfortable. If you need anything, just ask,’ Havell had said. ‘I will let you rest and relax. Someone will call you for a meal and then tomorrow I thought I could show you across the island?’

  ‘Can we see the Dragon Egg?’ Karia had asked immediately.

  Havell hesitated, looking at Martil, who had shrugged.

  ‘Might as well see what all the fuss is about,’ was all he said.

  Havell had directed them through more twisting, turning passages, until Martil felt lost, then opened a door into a large chamber. Around the edges were benches and seats and, in the centre, stood the Dragon Egg. He heard Karia cry with delight but felt vaguely disappointed. For something that was supposed to be the source of all new magic and on which the fate of the world rested, it looked like a normal, albeit giant, egg. It was large, probably up to his waist, and a glossy, pearly white. He had expected something massive, covered in gold or jewels. But it did have one amazing feature. Every so often, a burst of colour would ripple across its surface, reminding Martil of the shadow of a dragon.

  ‘We had better not stay too long,’ Havell had said nervously.

  ‘Why not?’ Karia had demanded, but Martil had tapped her shoulder and pointed towards the Dragon Sword.

  It had been shaking in its scabbard, and a faint, yet piercing howl came from the dragon on its hilt—whose eyes were glowing ferociously.

  In answer, the swirls of colour across the Egg had grown faster and more expansive.

  ‘Probably best to go now—they sense each other,’ Havell had suggested.

  But Karia was only willing to go when Havell promised to bring her back for a better look, without Martil.

  He had washed and changed back in their room, wincing a little as his wounds stung from the water. But the pain of them seemed somehow lessened. And the hurt inside him felt less as well. He had been sure he could not laugh again but, sitting with Karia, reading sagas and playing games, he had been unable to stop his smile.

  ‘You know, I don’t miss Father Nott as much since we came here.’ Karia had said what he’d been thinking, as they joined the Elfarans for a surprisingly delicious vegetable stew that night. The Elfarans ate no meat, for they did not like to kill living creatures. Martil had quietly decided to go fishing at the first opportunity.

  He had thought being surrounded by Elfarans was going to be a nightmare, he was sure to pick a fight with one, the mood he was in. When he had left Norstalos he had felt as he did back at his darkest days, just after Bellic, when anger came easily and violence was never far away.

  But he managed to sit through a saga performance they had put on for Karia’s amusement without wanting to punch someone. It had to be magic, he thought. Or perhaps a magical little girl.

  That night, she had walked over and sat on his bed, talked to him as he lay there, unable to sleep for the bitterness swirling around in his head.

  ‘Why did she do it? Why didn’t she want you and me?’ she had asked. ‘We were going to be a family, the three of us and then the new baby.’

  Martil breathed out heavily. His first instinct had been to dismiss her words with a quick comment, say he had no idea. But she deserved more of an explanation than that.

  ‘She’s not an ordinary woman. She’s not just a wife and mother. Or not just to the likes of you and me. Normally a mother looks after the children. But Merren has to look after the whole country.’ He sat up then, for the next part of what he had to say he wanted to be sitting next to her. ‘You know your mother gave her life for you?’

  Karia nodded, biting her lip. ‘Father Nott told me that,’ she agreed.

  ‘Mothers would do anything for their children.’

  ‘What about fathers?’

  He hugged her close. ‘Fathers would do anything for their children too.’

  ‘Good.’ She hugged him back.

  ‘So Merren has to do this for her country. It hurts her, but she thinks it is the best thing for the country—for all her children.’

  ‘It’s not fair, though,’ Karia said seriously.

  ‘No. And I don’t agree that it is the best thing for the people, either.’

  ‘Me either,’ Karia agreed. ‘But at least we’ve got each other.’

  After talking to her like that, he had found things easier still.

  Again, the island helped. Sometimes he would have sworn he could feel the island working on him. The hurt he felt, they both felt, seemed more distant here. Every time they walked though the cool forest or along the flat, white sands, or sank into the crystal-clear, warm waters, they could not help but feel better. It was impossible to explain unless, as Havell insisted, it really was a healing island.

  It was the perfect place to relax. While there were no talking animals or fairies or other creatures from Karia’s favourite sagas, the animals on the island were numerous, and all willing to come and speak with her, magically.

  ‘The magic seems so easy here—it is no effort to do things,’ she told Martil.

  ‘You will find that,’ Havell agreed. ‘Magic flows so strongly here, especially now, with so many dragons having returned to the Egg.’

  Martil had nodded. In the short space of time he had been here, the array of dragons who had greeted them so spectacularly had dwindled to just a handful.

  He had thought he would never be happy again when he had walked out of the throne room witho
ut Merren—but he had not counted on Karia. They clung to each other and found, in each other, something to replace what they had lost. Perhaps back in Norstalos it would have been different, would have been much harder. But here, on the island, with its gentle sun and warm water, it was somehow easier.

  He thought this, then raised his head back above the water and looked for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he told her, as she splashed into the water and sat beside him, stretching out her toes towards a school of tiny, brightly coloured fish.

  ‘What for?’

  ‘For coming into my life, and saving it.’ He shrugged.

  ‘Someone had to look after you. It’s a dirty job but someone has to do it,’ she sighed, then splashed him, before running off laughing as he chased her through the shallows.

  Havell watched them with a smile.

  ‘I thought perhaps tomorrow I would take Karia to have a proper look at the Egg?’ he suggested, as Martil piggy-backed Karia through some deeper water. She was holding her nose and trying to look underneath the water, just in case a mermaid swam by.

  ‘Yes please!’ Karia squealed, pulling her head out of the water and wiping her wet face on Martil’s hair.

  ‘Good! Then perhaps I can swim in peace!’ Martil grunted.

  ‘Only if you can’t hear all the fishes laughing at the way you swim,’ she warned.

  ‘That’s it! You’re going under!’ he mockthreatened her as she clung on tight around his neck, giggling.

  Havell smiled too, as their laughter echoed around the deserted beach.

  Merren sighed. Carefully she stood and stretched, feeling her back creak and her shoulders finally settle back into their normal position. She looked out the window to see the setting sun and guessed she had been at her desk for more than twelve turns of the hourglass. And the pile of work did not seem to be getting much smaller.

  ‘You need to take a break, my Queen,’ Louise told her, worriedly.

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk! You three have been here just as long as I!’ Merren tried to smile at where Louise, Gia and Conal worked.

  ‘You have to take a break anyway. The Royal Dressmaker is coming to do the final fitting,’ Gia reminded her.

  Merren’s attempt at a smile faded instantly. ‘Can’t you put her off?’ she complained. ‘There is still so much to do…’

  ‘My Queen, the wedding is tomorrow,’ Conal said gently.

  Merren rubbed gritty eyes. ‘It is all nonsense anyway,’ she muttered.

  They tried to ignore that.

  ‘The people need this; they are all looking forward to it. They see it as a symbol of Norstalos being reborn,’ Gia tried.

  But Merren did not react, even though she knew the Norstalines needed something to cheer them. The country was still in an uproar, still dealing with the effects of the mass evacuations and the triple invasions.

  Somehow, Merren had to get everyone back to their homes, rebuild every village and town that had been destroyed, resettle the Derthals, restart every industry that had ground to a halt and get the farming community back on its feet. And she had to do that while ensuring that the people did not starve to death. Just one of those tasks would have been enormous—to try and solve every one of them at the same time was proving near-impossible. But she had to do it.

  Barrett and his Magicians’ Guild was proving invaluable. Not only were the mages hard at work all over the country, helping with the rebuilding and, most importantly, with growing crops but thanks to Barrett, she had been able to get across the country almost as fast as when Argurium had flown her around. She had been driving herself hard, driving Barrett to exhaustion as she worked from dawn to dusk—and often deep into the night. This was the first day she had been back in the palace since Martil had left, which was why there was so much paperwork waiting for her. She had spent plenty of time up in the north, while also visiting Cessor, Worick, Wells and the ravaged south.

  Luckily it seemed she could at least concentrate on Norstalos—for now. Berellia was in chaos—with King Markuz dead and Onzalez gone, the country had split into a score of small fiefs, run by the remaining nobles, as well as by Fearpriests. She did not want to leave that nest of vipers to her south but, realistically, it would need a major invasion to wipe out their evil—and her people were not ready for that. The northern border was deserted—Merren presumed the closest Berellians had fled south, fearing invasion. Without an immediate threat, nobody wanted to begin another war. She had heard from both the Avish and Ralloran ambassadors that those countries were preparing their own invasions, to secure their own borders—and no doubt extract a portion of revenge. With the Berellian army destroyed, there would be little resistance. It was a concern—but it was a problem for another day.

  Besides, she had too much else to worry about.

  Sendric had the various other guilds all at work—although their help was coming at the price of almost all the country’s gold reserves.

  The army was trying to help people rebuild, while the roads were filled with long columns of refugees returning home. The weather had improved a little, thanks in part to the work of Archbishop Sadlier, although the roads to the north were still difficult to traverse, especially with all the wagons and carts that had become bogged in the attempt to flee north.

  Some of the invaders’ supplies could be used—but they had obviously planned on living off the land, bringing only a few extra days of rations. It helped—every bit helped—but it was not the answer. Luckily, the thousands of horses left behind by the invaders were being used to help carry people—and then were being used as food. Horse would never be Merren’s favourite dish but she had no need of thousands of warhorses—and the people desperately needed food. Of course a diet of horse would never get them safely through the winter and here the Magicians’ Guild came into their own. Enough fruit and vegetables were being grown that, while belts would have to be tightened, the people would survive the winter.

  The one thing she did not seem to worry about was the people. After reading Sendric’s devastating survey, she had been scared that they would be taking out their anger and fear on her. But, even in the far north, they had been delighted to see her, cheering her even when she told them the Derthals would be given the northern forest as theirs forever.

  Part of this she put down to the work of Romon and his bards. Again, thanks to Barrett, they had been sent out to every part of the country, where they were singing songs of Archbishop Sadlier, who had defeated a Fearpriest to save a village, of how the Derthals had saved the country—and how the Fearpriests had ripped out the hearts of a hundred men, women and children who had stayed behind to support Gello.

  But it was more than that. It was as if the spirit she had seen in the capital, when Norstalines had rushed out to help wounded Derthals, Rallorans and their own countrymen, was spreading across Norstalos. The new town council of Cessor, led by a man named Fergus, was the embodiment of that. Fergus had offered homes to every one of Kettering’s pardoned criminals who wanted to come and make a new life in the ruined city. Scores had agreed and two of them—Leigh and Hawke—had even become part of the new town council. Rich and poor alike were working together to get the city rebuilt. Meanwhile, the surviving Rallorans had all been offered homes in the south, in the villages they had saved as well as Wells, the town they had held. Some of the villages had almost been competing with each other to invite the most Rallorans into their midst. The once-hated Butchers of Bellic were now accepted, even welcomed and Merren felt, at last, they might get the chance for peace and the new start she had promised them months ago, at Sendric.

  In fact, she was beginning to think Sendric’s doom-laden predictions might not come true.

  ‘Is it too late to call it off?’ she muttered, then looked up in horror as she realised she had spoken aloud.

  ‘It’s never too late, my Queen,’ Louise said boldly. ‘Why not contact Martil? You can still have the marriage, just not to Sendric.’

  M
erren ran her fingers through hair that she was horribly aware was dirty and lank and needing both a wash and the attentions of a maid—possibly two. It was a thought, an intoxicating thought.

  She understood what Sendric was saying: the country could still fall apart. The people were happy because she was about to marry the last Norstaline noble and protect the royal bloodline. A Ralloran Prince Consort and Crown Prince would be too much for them.

  But against that was the utter certainty she had made the worst mistake of her life. She could not get Martil out of her thoughts. And every time she heard a child laugh, her heart leaped, thinking it was Karia.

  Sometimes she thought about sending a message to Martil, imagined the reunion they would have—before she came to her senses again. Both of them had too much pride for that to work.

  Besides, how could she go out and tell the people she had made a mistake? That the wedding to Count Sendric, the event that was taking people’s minds away from their loss and grief, was off? That she was to marry a Ralloran War Captain instead?

  All the scandal, the rumours and the gossip she had tried to stop by marrying Sendric would return in full force. People would suspect—rightly, as it happened—she was pregnant and had to marry in haste to hide something.

  Then there was the fear Martil would simply refuse to return. She had made it clear she did not love him enough to put him before the country. Imagine if she were to cancel the marriage to Sendric and then Martil refused to return! What would she do then?

  ‘You know, your majesty, there has been some talk about your marriage,’ Conal said carefully.

  ‘Oh yes?’ Merren replied absently, her mind still far away.

  ‘There has been a growing feeling that you deserve more than Sendric. After all, in the sagas they love so much, the Princess always marries a young, handsome Prince. Even the kindest of his supporters would not say Sendric was one of those…’