by GARY DARBY
“Perhaps she is aware of both,” Phigby suggests, “but can handle only one threat at a time and sees a rebellion to unseat her as the greater of the two dangers right now.”
“Perhaps,” Fotina acknowledges and then in a harsh tone says, “but this decision alone tells me that she is a fool who knows not that she is a fool, and will bring the domain to its knees if we are roundly attacked.”
Phigby stills the conversation with a flick of his hand, and my ears catch the sound of heavy sandals on gravel. Two guards approach and I can see in their eyes that they are suspicious. “What are you whispering about over here?” one demands.
Fotina turns and blandly says, “These Drachs are unaccustomed to our ways. I was informing them of the proper respect and demeanor that they were to show Her Majesty if they have the good fortune of being brought before the court.”
The guard snorts. “Good fortune? Drachs presented to the queen?”
She laughs as if the thought were a good joke. “I wouldn’t place a bet on that if I were you.”
One side of her mouth turns up into a leering sort of smile. “However, you two will most certainly be graced with Her Majesty’s presence.”
She twirls a finger around that takes in the whole fortress. “There’s betting going on that says you won’t live more than a day after setting foot on the Grand Plaza.”
Her laugh is sharp. “Me? I’m giving odds that you don’t make it even that far.”
The Mori warrior leans toward Fotina. “Have any money? Care to place a bet?”
Fotina’s hand shoots out to grip Alonya and keep her from lunging at the sneering guard. “Another time, another place,” she whispers.
She holds Alonya for a few heartbeats more before easing her hold. I’m behind Alonya’s broad back and can’t see her face, but her labored breathing tells me that it’s taking all her willpower to obey.
The leering guard doesn’t draw her sword but laughs again and starts to turn away. Just then, Krista’s ringing command fills the square, “Cohort, form ranks! We march!”
Desma, leaning on Lenor, hobbles out to her litter chair, and the look on Desma’s face is such that we waste no time in loading the sprogs into the golden’s saddlebags and climbing aboard our dragons.
Helmar, though becoming more alert and stronger, still needs Amil’s help in keeping himself balanced on Wind Glory, but from what I can see, not as much.
Phigby’s healing potions are taking effect, which is good, because if the threat from that sneering Golian is any indication of what we’re headed for, we need Helmar, though I’m not sure what he can do against a troop of Amazos bent on killing us.
At a signal from Desma, her guard break into a brisk stride, and it doesn’t take long to leave the South Pass garrison behind and begin the long descending march into the Golian Domain proper.
Our trek through and down the mountains is very similar to our hike from the Steps of Geb up to the South Pass, only this time, it’s practically all downhill and our pace is much faster.
The sun has begun its slide toward the mountain horizon when we come around a shoulder of a fair-sized hill and gaze upon a broad, fertile plain. In the far, far distance, I can just make out what appears to be a white mark on the horizon that seems to stretch beyond my sight.
Fotina, who, as before, had been pacing alongside the golden, slows for an instant, before announcing, almost reverently to us, “That line you see in the distance is Dronopolis, the heart, and soul of the Golian Domain.”
Alonya, too, slows, coming close to stopping dead in her tracks as she looks upon the scene as if transfixed at what lies before her. She murmurs, “All my life, I’ve wondered and dreamed about this, and now we’re here.”
“Wait,” I ask, “you’ve never been to Dronopolis?”
Alonya shakes her head, the ends of her braids dancing on her shoulders. “No,” she answers, still gazing on the distant, irregular white line that marks the city.
With a sideways glance at Fotina, she murmurs, “Only in stories and dreams have I ever visited.”
Fotina takes her arm and gently pulls her along. Her face is downcast as she murmurs, “And oh, but that you were still dreaming instead of entering Dronopolis as a captive.”
I turn to Phigby with a questioning look. He only shakes his head at me, but I can see that he too has a sad, concerned expression. Just then, one of the leading warriors calls from the front, “A runner approaches, princess!”
The column comes to a halt. The road has been sufficiently broad that the golden and Wind Song have been side by side and fairly close behind Desma’s litter bearers with Fotina and Alonya walking between the two dragons.
Movement causes me to lift my head to peer ahead. A giant is running hard up the mild incline, her arms and legs pumping in unison. She stops and immediately kneels in front of Desma. “Rise,” Desma orders. “You bear a message for me?”
“Yes, princess,” the warrior responds as she stands. “Queen Gru urges you to hasten and wants to know if it is true that you bring a golden dragon to her.”
Desma hesitates before saying, “Tell the queen that yes, I indeed bring a golden dragon before the throne.”
She turns and casts a glance toward Alonya and Fotina, who return her stare without saying a word. “And more, but that is something that I will discuss with her myself.”
“Yes, my lady,” the young warrior answers and pauses as if hesitant to continue with the rest of the message.
Desma leans forward. “Go on,” she snaps, “what else?”
“A great fleet, princess,” the warrior maiden says, “off our coast, near the Waters of Tyr.”
Desma jerks forward as if she would spring out of the carrying chair. “An invasion fleet? Have they landed?”
“Of that, I do not know,” the warrior admits. “I only know that a messenger from the coast came with those tidings and the queen commanded that I deliver the message to you.”
Desma sits for a moment as if deep in thought.
“The Sung Dar?” I whisper to Phigby.
“Most likely,” he answers.
Fotina leans toward Phigby to murmur, “It would seem that you have a crystal ball in that bag of yours, Phigby, or are you some prophet who can see into the future?”
“Neither,” Phigby returns in a low, sorrowful voice. “And even if I were, this would be one prophecy that I would hope would not come to pass for it can only lead to wanton destruction, misery, and death upon the land.”
He looks long and intent at the distant, thin line that marks Dronopolis before he turns, takes a deep breath and mutters in a hard tone as he peers at Alonya, “Or rather, death, and destruction upon your land, milady.”
22
Our journey into the very heart of the Golian Domain is swift; the news of the sighting of a possible Sung Dar invasion fleet spurring Desma’s guard into a ground-eating stride down the mountainside.
As we rush through the foothills, Desma calls a halt only long enough to change litter bearers. Her stonelike face causes me to mutter to Phigby, “The princess is really pushing the pace. It’s obvious she’s worried.”
“Yes,” Phigby rumbles as he stares thoughtfully at Desma, who’s conferring with Krista while the new litter bearers take their places. “And one has to wonder why.”
“You mean the Sung Dar or a rebellion?”
Phigby nods while he strokes his beard. He swivels around to gaze at Fotina and Alonya, who are sitting back to back on the ground behind us, resting.
“I wouldn’t begin to guess what it means to the domain if Fotina is right about an uprising against the queen. But I strongly suspect that if the Sung Dar are indeed invading the domain, the Golians may have been caught off-guard. This new threat could pose a greater danger than even the Wilders.”
“Why?”
“As I understand it,” he explains, “the Golians have always placed the bulk of their forces in defending the mountain passes which are scat
tered the length of the Denalians. A long, long, line of fortresses and the like, and all far removed from Dronopolis. South Pass appears to be the closest garrison to the city, and they’ve practically emptied that line of defense.
“To bring in their far-flung Amazos cohorts may take more time than they have, which means that they would have to fight with what forces are at hand.”
“But,” Cara asks, “wouldn’t they keep most of their warriors in Dronopolis?”
Phigby squeezes his chin with one hand and his eyes narrow as he gazes at Desma and Krista, who are still off to one side speaking in low tones. “A ruler,” he mutters low, “who trusts his army would do so, yes, but one who has reason to fear her own warriors would disperse them, making it harder for a large force to gather in rebellion.”
“And you think,” Cara replies, “that’s what Queen Gru has done. Thus making them vulnerable to an attack by the Sung Dar from the sea.”
Phigby shrugs. “Pure guesses on my part, my dear, but our princess certainly carries a nervous air about her, doesn’t she?”
Desma limps over to her litter, and we’re off again. The trail is hard-packed dirt as if beaten down by the constant treading of giant-sized sandals but it is wide and in only a few spots is it actually steep, unlike the treacherous path we took in our climb into the mountains.
Desma calls for more speed and the Amazos burst into a ground-eating jog that’s almost a full run. The dragons easily match the Amazos’ pace, but each step of Golden Wind jolts my insides as if I’m back in Draconstead with Hakon or Arnie and one or the other, or both, punching my guts out.
Only this time they’re not here to laugh about the whole affair.
After the umpteenth time of my head jerking back and forth as if it were a dandelion being blown about by a breeze, I mutter aloud, “Someday, I’m going to invent a dragon saddle that’s made of the finest, softest sheep’s fleece that can be had.”
Next to me, Phigby’s bag, pushed behind him with its strap over his shoulder, is continuously bouncing here, there, and everywhere, thanks to Wind Song’s lurching gait.
It smacks him in the back, bounces off, and then flips up to actually land on top of his head. After another particularly hard jolt, he grabs the bag, swings it around to his front and squeezes it tight with both arms to keep it in one place.
“Make that two, lad,” he calls over.
The mountain valleys have gone from being narrow and long to wider, more open vales as we hurry through the lower foothills.
We round one long curve around what seems to be the last of the high hills; the path straightens, and I manage to peer ahead long enough to see that our dirt pathway is about to change to a broad road overlaid with flat, smooth tiles made from a gray stone.
The way is so wide that we could actually have all four dragons walk abreast if we wanted to but instead we stay in our two-by-two column with Wind Glory and Rover behind the princess's entourage and Golden Wind and Wind Song behind them.
When we reach the pavement, Desma again orders a changing of her litter bearers, and when we start up again their pace is not as brisk as before. I can understand why as ahead and behind me, I can hear the labored breathing of the Amazos. For sure, they’re giant warriors, but even they have their limits and Desma apparently is giving them a chance to catch their breath.
The slower pace suits me just fine, as it allows the dragons to settle into a gentle swaying gait. Fotina’s and Alonya’s strides bring them to where they’re between the golden and Wind Song.
I peer ahead, and as we’re behind Wind Glory and Wind Rover, and far back from Desma, I decide to take a chance, lean over and whisper, “Alonya, what did you and Desma talk about back when—”
That earns me a scowl and a “Hooper!” from Phigby so I mutter, “Sorry,” to Alonya and right myself on Golden Wind.
Alonya waves Phigby off and says, “It’s all right, the truth is, we actually didn’t talk, she just asked me a few questions.”
Her eyebrows furrow together. “Simple questions, such as, where had we lived and for how long? How did we come to be there? How did we meet you? Was Lady Fotina my mother?”
She shrugs and says, “I answered, she listened, and that was it.”
As Alonya speaks, I glance over at Fotina, but she stares straight ahead, not saying anything, not interrupting. However, I can see that the closer we come to Dronopolis, the harder, more apprehensive her expression is becoming. It’s as if with each step we’re nearing some awful end to our journey, or rather, Alonya’s journey and hers.
In all honesty, I wondered why Desma hadn’t questioned Fotina, as it seemed to me that she held all the answers, not Alonya. Still, when you meet your twin in the middle of nowhere, how could you not have questions of her rather than Fotina?
“Did she accuse you of being a demon, like before?” Cara asks.
“No,” Alonya answers, then hesitates. “But it wasn’t what I would call a warm, friendly conversation, either.”
She gives Fotina another sideways glance. “I have the feeling that she has many more questions, but is holding back until we reach Dronopolis.”
Fotina breaks her silence by saying, “Rest assured, all of you, it won’t be a pleasant conversation, either.”
She no sooner finishes her statement than Krista drops back and gesturing toward Desma says to me, “The princess would speak with you, come forward.”
With an apprehensive glance at my companions, I urge Golden Wind into a faster pace so that we come abreast of Desma’s litter chair.
She peers at me before saying, “I know well the legends of what it means for a golden dragon to come forth. But how is it that such a weak one as you rides the dragon? You obviously are not of noble blood. In my land, if one of us would want to ride that smelly brute only my mother, or perhaps I myself would do so.”
I wet my lips, trying to think of an answer that won’t offend. With a little swallow, I say, “I guess, princess, that our lands are a little different in that respect. But just so you’ll know, I didn’t choose to ride Golden Wind, she chose me.”
Her eyes take on a questioning stare. “Really? Why would she choose you? I have no love or respect for Drachs, but even I know that if she were going to choose one of your kind, she should have chosen a mighty warrior to sit astride her, or perhaps a great wizard or sorceress.”
I bow my head. “So it would seem, Your Highness, but here I sit.”
Desma snorts. “Yes, there you sit.”
She points at Scamper and shakes her head. “We’ve never known an Anarsi to wander so far from the sacred lands, nor to befriend one of your kind.”
The Golian princess pauses before saying, “Nor one of us, either, for that matter. Tell me, how did you come by the Anarsi?”
Once again, I rapidly recount how I found Scamper and how we became friends.
“Drogs.” She spits the word out as if she’d bitten into rotten meat. “One of the few creatures on Erdon worse than Drachs.”
To that, I keep my mouth shut.
She stares long at the golden as though she’s fascinated by Golden Wind. She puts out a tentative hand but withdraws her fingers just before they touch Golden Wind’s scales.
“It’s all right, princess,” I say, “she won’t mind.”
Desma eyes me for a moment. “I’ve never touched a dragon, let alone one with scales that shine like a new dawn.”
Sweeping her hand across Golden Wind’s burnished scales she draws in a little breath. “Why, they’re smooth, not rough to the touch.”
She presses on Golden Wind again. “Yet, hard too, like a well-made shield made on one of our forges.”
Desma shakes her head with a puzzled expression on her face as peers at me. “You ride a golden dragon, you are bonded with an Anarsi, and you are neither a mighty warrior nor sorcerer.”
I bite my lip for an instant, before saying, “No, Your Highness, I am neither of those, and especially, I am not a warrior. Sca
mper and I are friends, and Golden Wind, well, I guess she has her reasons for allowing me to ride her, meek as I am.”
“How very, very odd,” Desma asserts and strokes the golden again. “You would think that such a powerful one would choose someone as commanding as she.”
“I agree, Your Highness,” I murmur in return. “You would think so.”
Desma grows quiet as if thinking to herself before she withdraws her hand and says, “Fair warning, for what it’s worth, Drach. My mother will have many questions of you and your companions. Try to pass a falsehood and her Queen Sight will know instantly that you lie, and with us, a lie brings harsh punishment, even death if warranted.”
She gestures with her head toward my companions. “I would advise you to share that with your friends, for it applies to them, as well.”
With that, she waves a hand, dismissing me. The golden and I drop back next to Wind Song. I lean over and whisper to the others, “What is Queen Sight?”
Fotina whips her head around, her eyes wide in disbelief. “What did you say?”
“Desma,” I answer, “told me that if any of us lied to the queen, that her mother’s ‘Queen Sight’ would instantly tell her that we lied, and we’d be punished, maybe even put to death.”
Fotina’s face is a mask of fury and anger and for a moment, I think it’s directed at me as if I’d said something wrong. I pull back, afraid that she’s going to lash out with one of her great arms or hands.
She must have seen my distress, for she reaches over and lays a gentle hand on my leg. “Hooper, it is not you I am angry at. Forgive me if I caused you fear, it is just that your words bring sharp and painful memories.”
I swallow and mumble, “Oh, it’s all right. I seem to spend a lot of time being afraid these days.”
“Lady Fotina, I’m sorry,” Cara softly says, “but I’m as curious as Hooper. I’ve never heard of ‘Queen Sight.’ What is it?”
I can see that Alonya is peering intently at Fotina as if she too would hear her answer but doesn’t speak. Fotina draws in a breath before murmuring, “Just accept the fact that it is a gift given to the rightful queen and that Desma is correct that we should tell the truth when we are presented to Gru.”