The Dragon Throne

by Chrys Cymri - BooksGoSocial Fantasy

  THE DRAGON THRONE

  The Four Kingdoms Book One

  By Chrys Cymri

  Copyright 2015 Chrys Cymri

  Cover by http://www.selfpubbookcovers.com/DaniAlexander

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  Dedication

  For my sister, Heidi

  My first travelling companion…

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  About Chrys Cymri

  Other books by Chrys Cymri

  Connect with Chrys Cymri

  Sample Chapter of The Temptation of Dragons

  Sample Chapter of Dragons Can Only Rust

  CHAPTER ONE

  Fianna dropped a final portion of straw on the stable floor. Resting a moment on her pitchfork, she wiped a grimy sleeve across her sweaty forehead. The smell of horse dung seemed to cling to her very skin, and she studied the stalls left between her and the main doors. Four more to muck out. Her muscles ached already. Taking a deep breath, she moved on.

  ‘My lady.’ Ern, the stablemaster, suddenly stepped in front of her.

  Fianna straightened. She was tall for her eleven years, but still had to tip back her head to look him in the eye. ‘You’ve told me, in here, I’m Fianna.’

  ‘Not today, Your Highness.’ He gently but firmly removed the wooden handle from her grasp. ‘I haven’t forgotten the grief of fourteen months’ standing. Today is your mother’s death day.’

  ‘I didn’t forget,’ she told him bitterly. ‘Please let me work.’

  ‘You should be with the King--’

  ‘My father hardly ever knows when I’m gone.’ The words hung in the warm air. Fianna turned her head, regretting the outburst. A princess did not speak that way of the man who was her ruler as well as her sire.

  ‘Aye, lass, I know.’ Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ern reach out, then drop his hand away before it could touch her. ‘It has been but a year. He might now change.’

  And the dragons might come down from the Sacred Mountains and sit one of their own upon the Throne. Fianna winced at the saying. It had been one of her mother’s favourites. ‘You’re right. I’d better go.’

  ‘I’ll get Jeremy to finish here.’

  Fianna nodded. She glanced at the last stall. ‘Tell him Midnight likes to sleep in the right corner. I always put extra straw there for him.’

  ‘Aye, my lady.’

  The shower rooms were empty. Most of the pages were still at their duties, cleaning stalls, repairing tack, training the dogs, the multiple tasks which young nobility were expected to undertake in their earliest service to the King. Fianna stripped off her dusty clothes, dropped them into the communal barrel, and stepped into a hot jet of water. A child of the royal family, she had discovered when she had first come to the stables just under a year ago, was expected to keep to the lighter duties in the castle itself. Carrying messages, greeting visitors, serving the King.

  Fianna slicked back her long hair. She liked the stables, the kennels. Animals were often better than people when you wanted someone to talk to. Midnight was one of her favourites. The gelding always nuzzled her in greeting, and never minded if she left tears in his mane.

  Once she’d rinsed, she had no excuse to delay any longer. Fianna reluctantly left the shower, grabbing a towel as she stepped into the next room. Heat rose from the floor, drying her skin as she scrubbed her scalp with the towel. As usual, it took longest to convince a brush to tame her mass of hair. She was convinced that a curry comb would work best, but she couldn't see Ern agreeing to let her use one for such a purpose. And the tell tale strands of red she’d leave behind would give her away.

  Beyond the drying room was the dressing area. Fianna opened the wooden door to her own wardrobe. Fortunately she had one set of court silks still unworn. They’d only been sewn for her a month ago, so they’d still fit. She slipped the trousers over clean undergarments, tucked the shirt into the waist before tightening the belt. Dark green and black. Not the royal colours, but the red badge was in its place above her left breast. A golden bar across the top, cutting across the golden wings of the dragon, marking her as heir to the Dragon Throne.

  Fianna laced up her boots, then stared out the window. A wind was playing with remnants of snow, swirling white flakes across the cobblestones. The entrance to Secondus castle was several hundred feet away, and Fianna was tempted to use the underground passage from stables to pages’ quarters. She put the thought aside. It would not do for the King’s daughter to be seen entering the castle from the servants’ halls.

  Gritting her teeth, she made her way across the courtyard to the main entrance. The chill stripped the last of the shower’s warmth from her body, and she was grateful for the mulled wine warming over a brazier just inside the thick doors. She ignored the guards’ respectful salutes as she dipped a mug into the spicy liquid.

  ‘Your Highness.’ Fianna was unable to stop the grimace at Bernard’s low voice. ‘Your sire will meet you in the Queen’s apartments.’

  A Queen must be able to hide her emotions from public view. Her father’s advice helped her to swallow her dislike of the Court Recorder, assisted by a helping of mulled wine. ‘All right, I’m going.’

  Fianna had occasionally heard guests to the castle complain at its size. Since she’d grown up in it, she couldn’t understand how they got lost down the rambling corridors, or wandered into the wrong wings. Her father knew it even better than she did. He had always won their games of hide and seek. Back in the days when they had played games together.

  Her mother’s apartments were on the third level of the north wing. Fianna stopped outside the painted door, automatically checking her clothes, her hair. The seal had only been broken today. The edges of the plaster were rough. She laid a hand on the wood, then pushed it open.

  The dust of a year’s neglect stirred at her entrance. Fianna shut the door behind her, then stood in the gloom, remembering other times. Her mother had never been strong, and had spent much of her time in her rooms. But they had been happy, the three of them. In the evenings, Fianna and her father had often come here for games and tales. A game board still stood by one grey window, the pieces ready. And a book rested on a bed-side table, next to the chair where her father had often sat, holding the hand of her mother as she laughed at his gentle teasing.

  But last year the winter had been long and harsh. The winds which blew off the dragons’ Sacred Mountains seemed to find their way in through the thick stones of the castle itself. Despite the efforts of the best mages, her mother sank gradually from life. In one of her last, lucid moments, she had pressed into Fianna’s hand the gold and ruby Summoning Ring. Fianna raised a hand and touched the band where it rested against her neck, held fast on a chain of gold.

  ‘Take one last look.’ Her father’s soft voice startled Fianna. She glanced at him, but Stannard was studying the room. ‘Fourteen months have passed since I placed my seal on wet plaster outside this door. But the seasons turn on, and the year is soon over. This is the last time we will see this place as she left it. Tomorrow, all must change. Will you want these rooms?’

  ‘No!’ The violence of her response finally made him look at her. ‘Leave them like this.’

  Her father sighed.
He ran a hand through his short cropped hair, and for the first time she realised that the once red head was now chased through with grey. ‘The year of mourning is now past, Fia. These apartments must be opened again, and we must both dress in lighter colours. Life must go on.’

  Fianna felt her hands bunch into small, useless fists. ‘I don’t want to forget her.’

  ‘No, you must not.’ Stannard shook his head. ‘Always remember how you felt, fourteen months ago, and again today. Anyone who dies leaves others behind to mourn. Remember that, when you are Queen, and have to order knights into battle. For every one that dies, more are left with dark clothing and empty rooms.’

  ‘We’re not at war,’ she said stubbornly, kicking at a pattern in the carpet.

  ‘Not at the moment. But one never knows what may come from the Third Kingdom.’ He walked over to the bed and retrieved the book. ‘You should have this. It always was your favourite.’

  Fianna numbly accepted the volume, the cover dry and cracked. The emblem of the royal house was etched into the leather, the dragon’s long neck curved around the title. ‘Will I ever meet a dragon, Father?’

  ‘You might, at your coronation. The Family appeared at mine.’ He moved through the bedchamber, touching the game board, studying a portrait. His next words were soft, as if meant to be heard only by himself. ‘Yes, you are now my heir.’

  ‘But I already was,’ Fianna protested. ‘You said so.’

  ‘Only if no boy were born to your mother.’ He returned to her, touched her briefly on one shoulder. ‘That’s why your aunt wasn’t Queen, though she’s three years older than I am. In any other family, the firstborn inherits. But the Dragon Throne goes to a male, if one exists. Come, Fianna, your mother’s body must be put to the flames. Her spirit has now had time to leave her.’

  Fianna allowed him to take her from the room. She kept the book with her as they descended into the catacombs beneath the castle, pressing the tome against her chest like a shield. With a calm, steady voice, her father spoke the final words over her mother’s casket, his torch spluttering in the damp. Then he dropped the flame onto the oak, and they turned away as the fire began at their backs.

  <><><><><><>

  The rustle of papers and a heavy sigh made Fianna look up from where she sat by the fire, using the light to practice in her copybook. She absently rubbed a cramped hand as she watched her father move to add another log to the flames. ‘So, Fianna, what did you think of that last judgement today?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell that man to shut up?’ she asked. ‘He kept going on and on about how it wasn’t fair that he didn’t have more land, and that you wouldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘What would you have done?’

  ‘Told him that I decided who had land, so he should just go away and be happy with what he’s got.’

  His light eyes regarded her for a moment. ‘And what gives you the right to say that?’

  ‘Because I’d be Queen.’ He smiled slightly, and Fianna flushed, uncertain. ‘Doesn’t that make me right?’

  ‘A ruler is no better or worse than those he rules.’ Stannard leaned back in his favourite armchair. He lit his pipe for his nightly smoke, a habit Fianna’s mother had tried and failed to break. Fianna had always secretly liked the rich smell of the tobacco mixture her father used. ‘I am King because I was sired by the last king, and you will be Queen merely because you were born to my wife. Ability has nothing to do with it. You didn’t become my heir by proving yourself the best suited to rule. Only by pure chance were you born to the royal house rather than to a village farmer. Keep that in mind. I’ve found it helps me maintain a more humble perspective.’

  Fianna frowned, trying to understand what he meant. ‘But why did you let him keep talking?’

  ‘Sometimes, a king has to judge. Other times, he has to remain silent.’ Stannard smiled around his pipe. ‘The man simply wanted me to listen.’

  ‘And if you didn’t want to?’

  ‘What I wanted wasn’t important. There are many times when a ruler’s own personal wishes have to come last.’

  Fianna frowned to herself. I, she decided, would’ve told him to shut up.

  Her father shifted in his seat, retrieving a document. ‘I’ve been reviewing names for a new Castellan.’

  Fianna tensed. ‘That was Mother’s job.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed gently. ‘And for the past year, we’ve all been doing our best to keep the household running smoothly. Bernard keeps reminding me of all the extra work he’s done.’ He shared a grimace with her. ‘You’re not yet old enough to take the duties on yourself. My old friend, the Duke of Cassern, has a young daughter raised to the challenges of managing a castle. He’s offered to bring her here. Her name is Marissa. Do you think that would be a good idea?’

  ‘I guess so.’ Fianna stared at the fire. For some reason she suddenly felt cold.

  <><><><><><>

  Early flowers were beginning to respond to the first warmer days of spring. Fianna waited at the castle entrance, at the side of her father, as servants spread blooms across the courtyard. Bernard had told her how important the Duke was, as head of the second house of the Fourth Kingdom, and he’d instructed her to wear royal colours to honour the man. Fianna felt her skin twitch under the new clothes, red tunic a shade lighter than her trousers, gold threads woven through the material. She fully expected the Duke’s family to gawp over her, and tediously list the eligible boys of rank which might be interested in a marriage pact, though her father had always calmly insisted that she would be free to pick her own consort. The only thing which lightened the day was the newly forged coronet holding back her long hair. This was the first time she’d ever worn the gold circlet of her status, and its slight weight made her straighten with pride.

  Two knights rode through the gates first, blue and orange silks flapping against mail. They formally presented their swords hilt first to the King’s guards, then took up positions on either side of the entrance. The Duke came in next. Fianna only glanced at the dark bearded man, finding his stallion far more interesting. The dappled grey moved well, eagerly arching his neck as he scented the stables nearby. Few fighters rode whole males, most preferring the more controllable geldings and mares.

  The stallion was reined in a few yards from the entrance to the castle proper. Stannard moved forward, taking hold of the horse’s reins before one of the waiting grooms could dash in. ‘Latham,’ he said warmly. ‘Welcome, old friend.’

  The Duke grunted. He slid to the ground, and the two men clasped forearms, the gesture of equals. Stannard glanced back, and Fianna obediently came to his side. ‘My daughter, the Princess Fianna.’

  Latham bowed. ‘Your Highness. You’ve grown since I last saw you.’

  Fianna wondered why adults so often told her that. Then she repeated the words the Court Recorder had drilled into her. ‘Duke Latham, you honour our house with your presence. We are the stronger for your friendship.’

  White teeth flashed under the thick moustache. ‘Well spoken, my Lady.’ He turned his head. ‘May I present my own daughter, the Lady Marissa.’

  His daughter had dismounted a short distance away while they spoke. Now she walked up to them, her flowing dress a bright green which went well with her brown hair. She must’ve changed in the city, Fianna decided, noting the lack of mud on the silk. Stopping beside the Duke, she dropped into a quick curtsy. ‘Your Majesty, Your Highness, I’m proud to place myself at your service. I hope that I will please you in my efforts.’

  ‘You have come highly recommended,’ Stannard said warmly. Fianna glanced up at him, startled by a new note in his voice. ‘I’m sure you will do well. Otherwise, I’m certain we could use more assistance in the kennels.’

  ‘Come now, sir,’ Marissa said, smiling, ‘surely I have a sweeter nature than that?’

  Stannard stared at her for a moment. Then he laughed, the first genuine laugh Fianna had heard from him since her mother’s death. She shifted
restlessly, not understanding the joke. ‘She’s certainly worthy of you, Latham. Come, let’s go inside, and discuss your duties over a glass of wine.’

  <><><><><><>

  The change began slowly. Happy in her duties in stables and kennels, and new experiences gained in the practice yard with dagger and spear, Fianna didn’t take much notice when Marissa began to use the King’s first name. She was nursing bruises and pride from a fall from a warhorse the first time the Castellan called her father by his family nickname, Stan, and plans for recapturing the respect of her fellow pages seemed far more important.

  Summer came, and Marissa spread her interests. She ventured into the kennels one day, the wide skirts she favoured out of place in the warm, doggy environment. Fianna glanced up, annoyed. The kennelmistress was allowing her to assist with a whelping bitch, and the first puppy was yet to emerge. It was the kennelmistress who spoke to the woman. ‘Castellan, how may we serve you?’

  Marissa twitched her skirts back from the whelping box. ‘I came to speak to Fia.’

  ‘Fianna,’ she told Marissa. Only her father used that nickname. ‘I’m busy right now.’

  ‘I’m sure Ellenor can manage on her own.’

  Fianna saw the quiet plea in the kennelmistress’s eyes. As Castellan, Marissa outranked Ellenor. Rising reluctantly to her feet, Fianna asked her, ‘Next time?’

  ‘Next time,’ Ellenor promised, then leaned forward again.

  The sounds of a working castle surrounded them as Fianna followed Marissa across the courtyard. Pages were practising in the training yard, wood thwacking against wood as training swords crossed. In the horse ring beyond them, a stallion was being put through his paces, circling his handler at the end of a lounge line. From beyond the walls came the sound of arrow tips driving into straw, and laughs as the archers sought to best one another.