The crossing was just a few hundred paces ahead of them along a packed-earth road, and already the serenity of the sky was giving way to the tension of the surface. The border was, for the moment, marked with waist-high stakes driven into the ground every twenty paces or so. At some point in history walls might have separated the two kingdoms, at least between some of those cities nearest to one another, but the war had demolished them, and both sides agreed it would not show confidence in the continuing peace efforts if the first order of business was erecting new walls. There was, however, a set of tree-trunk-sized posts on either side of the wide road, and a heavy gate had been mounted on both the northern and southern sides. With soft soil on either side, no vehicle would pass here without the knowledge and permission of the half-dozen soldiers on either side. The same went for the nearby Loom River. The sharpened trunks of trees had been driven into the riverbed, some quite fresh, others rotted by decades in the water. The only difference between those placed by the north or the south was the direction the points were angled. It was worrying that after six months no efforts had been made to remove them and make water passable by river traffic once more.
The other significant addition to the crossing was a set of guard posts, small but sturdy buildings erected on either side of the border to provide lodging and supplies for those stationed here. The northern post was like any other building Myranda had seen erected in the last fifty years: thick planks cut from pine, solidly assembled and topped with thatch. The construction was simple but strong and built to last. The Tresson counterpart was subtly different. It was more ornate, painted a warm red color and bearing carved doors and curved accents on the corner posts. The roof had a shallower peak as well and an unusual combination of thatch at the top and shingles at the edge.
“Oh, my goodness,” Myranda said, stopping suddenly.
“Is something wrong?” Deacon asked, he and Myn stopping as well.
“I’ve just realized—I’m supposed to be a representative of the throne and an ambassador for my people, and I’ve been flying on the back of a dragon.” She shed her cloak and tucked it under one of the straps of Myn’s harness. “I must be a mess.”
She smoothed down her blouse and leggings, both a great deal more formal than she was accustomed to. By rights, on an occasion such as this she should have been wearing a gown, but such clothes were not designed with travel by dragon in mind. Instead she selected the finest alternative she could, each a shade of Alliance or Kenvard blue. After half a lifetime of wandering from town to town struggling to survive, the concept of dressing for grace and elegance rather than practicality was one she was slow to warm to, and the idea that someone might require her hair or face to look a certain way tended to slip her mind.
“You look lovely as ever,” Deacon said. “Though I suppose a bit windswept.”
Myranda pulled a blue ribbon from one of her bags and conjured a simple whisper of magic to smooth the tangles from her hair before she tied it back. When Deacon had stowed his cloak, she helped him put himself in order as well.
“I’m not entirely certain I’m suited for this aspect of diplomacy,” she said. “It’s never been something I’ve had to concern myself with.”
“If appearance has any more than a cursory impact on matters of state, then I would suggest the entire process is badly in need of reassessment,” Deacon said.
Thus prepared, they continued on their way, though with each step, Myn seemed more distracted. She sniffed the air, her eyes wide with interest and curiosity. Ahead, the Alliance Army soldiers on the north side of the border were assembling themselves for the approach of three ambassadors, and a small group stepped out of the Tresson guard post. Unlike Myranda, they had arrived by carriage and therefore were outfitted in the full regalia of their position. Each of the three emissaries wore flowing, airy robes made from fine, thin cloth the same yellow-orange of ripe peaches. The trim of each was a shade of red, though Tressor was a single kingdom rather than an alliance of them, so the shade here indicated rank. The deepest red was worn by a tall, portly man with short salt-and-pepper hair and a full beard that was more silver than black. He wore a tall, round hat made from some sort of stiff cloth. His face was stern—not cruel or angry, but serious and steadfast—and his skin the dark color of a native Tresson. A step behind him on each side stood similarly dressed men, also with short dark hair, but lacking the hat and bearing trim closer to yellow than red. There was something about them that Myranda couldn’t quite identify. Their presence was… significant in some way.
As the Tresson diplomats approached, their soldiers lifted aside the Tresson gate. The Alliance soldier did the same. Myranda stepped forward to greet her equal. He lifted his right hand, she did the same, and they clasped one another’s left shoulder. With the gesture complete, Myranda held her right hand out and he did the same, clasping it in a firm shake across the border.
Myranda cleared her throat and, in her best Tresson, stated, “It is my honor and privilege to meet you as a representative of my people, and it is my profound hope that this is merely the first step toward a lasting peace between our lands.”
“May our children know only peace, but may they never forget this war,” he said in response, in excellent Varden. “I am Ambassador Valaamus. And you are the mythic Duchess Myranda Celeste. It is truly humbling to know that the lives of countless thousands of soldiers on my side and yours could have been plucked from the jaws of endless war by someone so young, and so lovely.”
He had an avuncular disposition that seemed at odds with his serious expression, but nonetheless his words seemed as sincere as they were impeccably pronounced. If his pleasant and welcoming demeanor was an affectation, it was a masterful one.
“You flatter me, Ambassador. I was but one of those responsible. As much thanks can be given to my fellow ambassadors. May I introduce Deacon?”
“The scholar! We have heard of you as well,” he said, exchanging the shoulder clasp and handshake with him too. “And this is the mighty dragon, Mine.”
Myn glanced briefly at the ambassador but quickly resumed her curious sampling of the air. She had her forepaw raised, as though ready to bound across the border to investigate whatever it was that had caught her interest, but she held her ground faithfully beside Myranda.
“It’s Myn, actually, but yes,” Myranda said.
“Ah, my apologies. I have only seen it written. A fine specimen, and expertly trained.”
“Not trained. Just observant and eager to please,” Myranda said. “If you don’t mind the observation, I’ve seldom met a group who so gracefully handled their first introduction to Myn.”
“Like many in service to the Tresson throne, I am no stranger to the company of dragons. To that end, I suppose it is best that I introduce our protector for this tour.” He turned and clapped his hands, barking a sharp order in Tresson that was a much better match for his expression. “Grustim, to my side!”
The hiss of heavy breath and the sound of rustling grass came as a reply. The ground shook lightly as a long shadow separated itself from that of the Tresson guard post. A stout full-grown dragon slid from behind the post. It must have been curled up behind the building, because now that it was visible, it was astounding that the little structure could have hidden it so completely. The beast was a bit larger than Myn overall, but also of a much thicker build. Rather than the red of Myn’s scales, this beast’s were a deep forest-green along its back, and its belly scales were a similar but lighter gold color to hers. Its snout was shorter and broader, its lower jaw jutting just a bit further than its upper one and featuring a bristly “beard” of downward-pointing horns. Its eyes were smaller than Myn’s and set slightly deeper in its head. The two forelegs had a wide, almost bulldog-like build, and the horns and spines of its head were longer, more numerous, and more vicious. The same could be said of the spikes running down its spine and along the back of its long neck. Its most peculiar features, though, were the accessories on its
head and back. Strapped over its face was a sculpted metal plate, something between a mask and a helmet. The armor was covered with green enamel that was a precise match for its natural color, and here and there silver scrapes and gouges gleamed through the coating. A second bundle of metal nestled between its neatly folded wings, this time made of a strange assortment of overlapping plates of the same green color. When the dragon had taken its position just behind the diplomats, this metal bundle moved.
Gradually the form of an armored human seemed to coalesce on the creature’s back, though it was quickly clear that his armor was simply designed to match the hide of the dragon so closely it had been difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. The human smoothly dismounted with a jingle of plates. For anyone who had never ridden a dragon in flight, the armor would have seemed nonsensical. The helmet was rounded and flared out at the neck, and the back plates shared a similar flared and overlapping shape. The tops of the shoulders came to a pointed ridge, and the belly was lightly armored with smooth plates and thin mail. When standing, the plates jutted awkwardly out behind him and seemed to offer little protection, but when riding low against the dragon’s back, the gaps closed and he may as well have been an extension of the beast.
At the first glimpse of the beast, Myn froze in place. She then took a cautious step forward, subtly placing one huge paw slightly in front of Myranda. She craned her neck, stretching it forward as far as she could without leaving her spot, and drew long, slow whiffs of the beast’s scent. Every muscle in her body seemed tense, and her eyes were wide and locked on the other dragon.
“You may be the first Northerners in two hundred years to see a Tresson Dragon Rider without his lance in hand. This is Grustim Terrim, the fourth Rider of Mikkalla and Shaal’s Terrible Green Gristle,” said the ambassador.
“It is an honor and a pleasure to meet you, Grustim, and you as well… I’m sorry, how should I address the dragon?”
“You address dragon and Rider as one. I refer to them as Grustim, you may do the same. Though for the purposes of this tour, they serve as our escorts only and need not be addressed at all. Similarly my attendants are merely record keepers and servants for this journey. Consider me your host. But please, we have reached across this line in the earth for long enough. Please allow me to formally invite you to my land so that we can begin this tour properly.”
He stood aside and spread his arm magisterially to the land beyond. Myranda stepped forward and onto the soil of Tressor. Deacon followed. Myn remained where she was for a moment, eyes still locked on the green dragon. When she glanced down and noticed Myranda stepping past the ambassador and toward the beast, she quickly strode forward and placed herself between them. With her forepaw planted firmly in front of Myranda to keep her from getting any closer, she extended her neck again, sniffing at the foreign dragon.
“Myn, relax. No one here means us any harm,” Myranda said.
The ambassador chuckled, somehow managing to sound mirthful while the humor barely registered on his face, and paced onward. Myranda tried to follow but had to step further and further aside as Myn angled herself to separate her and Deacon from the Dragon Rider and his mount. For their part, both the green dragon and the Rider stood impassively, keeping an eye on the newcomers but otherwise offering no indication of interest or concern. When the others were far enough ahead, the Dragon Rider made a barely audible sound in his throat, and his steed slightly raised the forepaw nearest to him. The Rider stepped on and, with a smooth motion of both man and beast, vaulted into place on the dragon’s back. Myn kept careful pace beside them, never taking her eyes from the pair.
“Our carriage will return for us shortly. Horses, if well trained, will ride beside a dragon, but try as we might we could not get them to calm when standing near one. I sent them ahead,” Valaamus said.
“Yes, it usually takes a few days before any new horses will ease themselves around Myn,” Myranda said.
“I hope you don’t mind a bit of walking while we await their return.”
“Of course not. May I ask what has been planned for this tour? We were not given many details. This all was organized quite swiftly.”
“Yes, I’m quite curious as well. I’ve heard of many wonders of this land,” Deacon said, pulling out his book and stylus. “I attempted to find literature concerning your land to prepare for this journey, but there was little to be found.”
“Is it any wonder?” Valaamus said. “If you found any, might I politely suggest you disregard it. Those things written of one’s enemies during war tend not to paint a flattering picture. I hesitate to think what the common folk have read of you and your people. It is that sort of thing that we hope to change. But I ramble. When the carriage arrives, we shall set off immediately to the first point of interest. With luck we will reach it by nightfall. There we shall see the Memorial for Fallen Officers and spend the night. The following morning we shall discuss the remainder of the itinerary, as it is currently somewhat… fluid. In two weeks time you will make an official appearance at the capital for a banquet in your honor. From there any further stops will be discussed and planned for. I apologize for the lack of specificity but… well, the circumstances prohibit it.”
“I very much look forward to the sights and knowledge your people have to offer. I’m already most impressed with your mystics,” Deacon said.
Valaamus glanced to him, his expression unchanged. “Oh? Have you observed them in some way?”
“Only since my arrival, obviously,” Deacon said simply. He turned to the ambassador’s two attendants. “I’m particularly impressed with your suppression techniques.”
Myranda kept her expression steady, but with Deacon’s words came a flash of realization. Now that he’d drawn attention to it, it seemed obvious in retrospect. Everyone, whether mystically inclined or not, had an aura of power about them. Sensing this was among the first lessons a wizard would learn, and shortly thereafter it became second nature. Both attendants at first blush seemed to have the same subtle power to them that any human might. But it was wrong somehow… like the shifting subtle energy was an illusion covering something else.
Deacon turned back to Valaamus. “For a moment I wasn’t certain your men were trained mystics at all. Quite effective. It wasn’t an area of focus for me, but I would be happy to discuss my own—”
Myranda touched his shoulder, quieting him. “I think such matters can wait for our next visit.”
“Yes. Time is short,” Valaamus said quickly. “Let us be sharp in our focus.”
“Yes. Of course,” Deacon said.
Valaamus gave his men a brief but significant glance and they retreated a few steps behind the rest of the group. In the distance, a form appeared on the road, turning the bend around a small stand of trees.
“Ah!” said the ambassador. “The exquisitely timed return of our coach. Let us be properly on our way.”
The ambassador quickened his step to greet the carriage. Deacon stepped a bit closer to Myranda.
“I feel as though my compliment was not taken in the spirit in which it was offered,” Deacon said.
“Under the circumstances, I think the observation served its purpose. There was never any doubt they’d be taking precautions, but it never hurts to let them know we’re aware of them…”
#
Ivy stood anxiously in the foyer of a small church a short distance down the main street from the southern gate of New Kenvard. As the largest and most formal of the buildings that had finished their restoration, it was chosen as the meeting place for the diplomatic envoy. Efforts had been made to decorate it in a manner befitting so historic a moment. The colors of both Kenvard as a kingdom and the Northern Alliance as a whole were hung as banners and pennants, swathing the walls and tall ceiling of the church in two shades of blue and an icy white. At some point long in the past, the northern kingdoms had agreed that blue should be the color of the north. Ostensibly it was to invoke the frigid temperatures that
hardened the populace. More likely it had been a means to illustrate the wealth the mountains provided, as blue dye had been and remained highly expensive. Thus the mere ability to swaddle their meeting place in blue was evidence of the Kenvard’s steady recovery. Seven months prior, during the small ceremony in which Myranda and Deacon had been wed, this church was nearly bare and still badly in need of repair. It had come a long way in a short time.
Chandeliers and torchères loaded with tallow candles filled the space with warm yellow light. The pews were pushed to the walls, and a long banquet table was placed in the center of the room, set with all of the delights the Northern Alliance could provide. There were fine wines, roasted meats, fresh breads, and rich desserts. It was as grand a welcome as any dignitary could hope to receive, but that did little to set Ivy’s mind at ease.
She was dressed elegantly. Her gown was Alliance blue with Kenvard blue accents. The skirt fell to just above her ankles to reveal tasteful blue slippers with low heels. The sleeves were short, just long enough to meet the full-length blue gloves she wore. Her long white hair had been tamed, woven into an intricate braid and topped with a silver chain headpiece. To her left, standing carefully away from Ivy, was a young woman in similar but lesser attire. To Ivy’s right was Greydon Celeste, dressed in formal but, again, lesser attire.
The D'Karon Apprentice Page 6