Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “Mikka, Rossemikka to be more precise. Rosse is my cat. Please light the lantern so I may see you properly.”

  The soft feminine voice sounded sweeter than his favorite ballad. Unexplained dampness on his palms made the simple act of striking fire stone clumsy, adolescent. Darville blushed at his ineptness, and thanked the Stargods for a few more moments of darkness in which to recover.

  “Rosie, Mica. Mikka, Rosse. Please explain,” he pleaded. At last, the wick caught a spark and he raised it to reveal the woman who had haunted his dreams since that day in Shayla’s lair.

  Rippling strands of hair flowed down the naked body of Princess Rossemikka. Gold and brown of harvest mixed with just a hint of the bright red of autumn leaves in sunshine. No brand of white at her temple marred the silken mane that covered her body, almost adequately.

  On the bed, nestled into the pillow, was a sleeping cat. Her fur was the same wondrous mix of color, except for one white ear and eye.

  “It’s a long story, Darville. Do you have the time?” Mikka reached a familiar hand to caress his arm.

  “Until dawn. Baamin says this transformation is only temporary. The two of you must embrace willingly for the spell to be reversed permanently.” A lump formed in his throat. He’d found her, his perfect princess, but only for a few hours. Come morning, the cat would once more be in control of the woman’s body.

  They both knew that Rosie would not willingly embrace Mica for any reason, even a restoration of nature’s balance.

  Mikka looked at the cat for a long moment. When she returned her attention to Darville, tears made her eyes overbright. “You must know the truth. Then you will be able to end this wickedness. And I beg of you, Darville, terminate this evil spell, even if you must use force. Even if you must kill one or both of us. Promise me.”

  Darville caught her emotional pain. The tragedy reminded him of his own experience. Lord Krej, disguised as the half-naked, beast-headed man, had left him to die in the forgotten, often reviled body of a wolf. His memories left him mute.

  “Swear to me, Darville, that you will do whatever must be done to restore the balance of souls. If you don’t, I fear the coven plans to use us as pawns. Their plans grow bigger with each season. I believe they want to wrest political power away from legitimate governments. And they will use us to do it.” Her hand gripped his arm in desperation.

  “I swear, by all that binds me to my destiny as King of Coronnan, that I will restore the balance of souls.”

  “Then I will tell you how it came about, so that you can understand. . . .”

  Chapter 14

  “Twas over two years ago . . .” Mikka’s voice drifted off in memory.

  Oh! She had spent a glorious three days in the mountains, dressed in her brother’s old clothes, voluminous trews and a tunic that nearly reached her knees. Under the tutelage of Erda, an old Rover woman, Mikka pushed her muscles and her wits to the limit as she learned to identify dozens of plants and their healing properties, as well as to survive in the high desert. The exercises of mind and body felt good after the restrictions imposed upon her by Uncle Rumbelly.

  This wasn’t the first time she’d slipped away from supervision for a lesson in the healing arts. An hour here, an afternoon there. She was never absent long enough for anyone to miss her.

  However, there were some lessons that couldn’t be learned during those stolen hours in the back of Erda’s colorfully draped market stall.

  On her last afternoon of luxurious freedom, Mikka ran down a hill to show Erda her latest discovery, a rare blossom consisting of long pink filaments that could be fermented into a poultice to clean out infected wounds. Her enthusiasm overtook her feet and she stumbled and rolled to the edge of their primitive camp.

  She fetched up against the boots of the frowning captain of the guard. Erda was bound and gagged. The grimly silent captain threw Mikka onto the back of his own steed. He didn’t dare bind the hands of a royale, but his speed and rough handling kept her from throwing herself off the mount. They raced back to the castle in record time. The Stargods only knew if her teacher would survive the dungeons, where the other guards would take her.

  “Never has there been such a scandal in this family!” Lord Rumbellesth bellowed from his thronelike chair.

  Mikka faced her raging uncle without a word, head high and chin thrust forward in affirmation of the rightness of her actions.

  “No daughter of mine will ever debase herself with foreign lore and peasant herbs and remedies.”

  Uncle Rumbelly grimaced in pain and swilled a huge mouthful of beta’arack.

  “Since I am certainly no daughter of yours, then I shall continue to prepare myself for my life as Princess Royale of Rossemeyer.” Disgust for her mother’s brother overcame her dignified silence. “I choose to set an example for our people. We must have healers of our own and not be dependent upon foreign magicians.”

  Just then, two guards led a badly bruised and humiliated Erda into the audience hall. Mikka sped to the side of her longtime friend and teacher. A heavily armed courtier grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back to face her uncle.

  “If word of your disgraceful behavior leaks out, your chances of a successful marriage are ruined,” Uncle Rumbelly spat.

  “Listen to your uncle, dear. He knows best,” Dowager Queen Sousyam echoed her brother’s sentiments.

  “If he,” Mikka indicated her loathsome uncle, “were to produce a candidate worth marrying, I might have reason to listen to him.” She refused to dwell on her current predicament. This wasn’t the first time she’d been hauled before Uncle Rumbelly for discipline. Nor would this be the last, even if she married one of his sniveling princelings.

  “You are a princess and must set an example for your ladies. How can you do that dressed as a boy, exposing your limbs, and with dirt all over you?” Rumbelly reminded them all of her inappropriate behavior.

  Queen Sousyam shuddered delicately and wrung her hands.

  “What is exposed? My hair and ankles are covered!” Mikka protested.

  As the mother of three children, Queen Sousyam was entitled to fully expose her skinny, jiggling breasts. Mikka’s gowns were cut a little higher, as befitted a virgin, but still low enough to display her potential.

  “My brother’s cast-off clothes cover more of me than the gown you wear, Mother. These trews are so full, you can’t possibly discern the shape of my legs.”

  “How dare you mention your anatomy in such a blatant manner?” Rumbelly took another swig of his liquor.

  The Queen Dowager looked close to fainting.

  Mikka’s mother was a mouse, without a thought of her own. Tradition had been pounded into her since . . . oh, forever. Well, Mikka was not going to bow to tradition. It was up to her to stand up for the rights of herself and her brothers in the face of their power-hungry uncle. Why, Uncle Rumbelly wasn’t even a royale. Just the younger brother of the Queen Dowager.

  “Mayhap it is time to set a new kind of example for the women of Rossemeyer.” Mikka turned to confront the gathered courtiers, rather than her uncle. “We are a land of warriors. Our mercenaries bring much needed gold and trade to our impoverished shores. But he restricts our campaigns to ‘safe’ little wars because we lack healers of our own for battlefield injuries and illness, and we dare not trust foreign healers who might be our enemy in the last war or the next.” Mikka’s face flushed with exhilaration. Rossemeyer needed change and she intended to provide the impetus. At sixteen she was considered an adult, ready to face the challenges of her life alone.

  “Our soldiers are as tired as I am of the humdrum mercenary wars imposed on us by you, Uncle. Rossemeyer should conquer empires. Now we barely conquer boredom.”

  “Go to your room, Princess Rossemikka,” Lord Rumbellesth commanded.

  The quiet calm of his voice only hinted at the roaring anger underneath his words.

  “When I am assured of Erda’s freedom and well-being.”

  “Yo
u defend a Rover?”

  “I care for a friend.”

  “Never name one of those loathsome thieves as friends!” Rumbellesth’s face became splotched with high color. He reached for his ever-present cup of distilled spirits. “You will retire now.”

  “Release Erda,” Mikka called to the guards holding the old woman upright. The men looked first at her, then to the regent. After a moment’s hesitation, they obeyed her.

  For a moment it looked as if Uncle Rumbelly would explode. Mikka had purposely defied him in little ways for years—showing up late for audiences with prospective husbands, walking in the gardens without the protection of her governess, and pointedly refusing all drink except water when Rumbelly was noticeably drunk. Her open disregard for his orders looked to be the absolute end of his patience.

  “I have had enough of your disrespect. You need a husband to bed you and tame your unnatural inclinations. Name your husband.” Rumbellesth glared at Mikka through slitted eyes.

  Mikka felt the cold menace in that gaze. She knew she was in trouble, yet she persevered. “Guarantee Erda’s freedom and well-being.”

  Rumbellesth waved a hand at the Rover woman. The older of the two guards released Erda’s bonds and placed a polite hand under her elbow as he escorted her back out the side door. The ancient woman glanced over her shoulder toward Mikka as she was led away. Her blacker than black eyes seemed to warn her. Warn her of what?

  “She is safe. Now name your husband.” Rumbellesth took another swig of beta’arack. A little of the yellowish liquid dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

  “I find all of the prospects lacking.” Mikka stared at the offensive drops of liquor.

  “You have been paraded before a dozen eligible young men. Choose one, tonight, for you shall be wed on the morrow.”

  “No.” Mikka suddenly felt cold. This time her uncle meant to marry her off without delay.

  “Then I must choose for you. So sayeth the law,” he pronounced to the assembled diners. “At the fourth hour after dawn you will be escorted to the chapel where you will be joined in perpetual wedlock to Lord Jhorge, my son.”

  Clammy-handed, sour-breathed Jhorge! A year younger than herself and still dependent on his father for the smallest decisions.

  “Never. I’ll never marry that mealymouthed, white-tailed hare.”

  “Oh, Mikka,” her mother wailed and twisted her heavy rings around and around her bony fingers. “What will it take to make you see reason? You must marry. Name any price, just so you marry Lord Jhorge.”

  Any price? She could ask for the kingdom’s wealth and her uncle would be honor bound to grant it. Instead, she requested the impossible.

  “I ask the privilege of Singing to my own babes.”

  “Singing? The Princess wishes to Sing? First witch’s remedies and now Songs!” Lords and servitors alike murmured in awe as they made the flapping gesture against evil.

  Witches Sang their evil spells. Therefore, all women were forbidden to make music with their voices or other instruments in Rossemeyer.

  “Guards, remove the princess to the south tower.” Rumbellesth lowered his gaze from the soldiers standing at the door. His pale gray eyes seemed to bore directly into her private thoughts.

  The south tower.

  A dark and grim cell where she would be forgotten, unfed, unloved.

  Mikka fought the trembling of her chin.

  The south tower.

  Prisoners died there.

  “Your governess will be sent to see to your needs. You shall have no books, no companions, and the meanest of foodstuffs. And you will not leave that tower until you agree to marry. You, Princess Rossemikka, need a strong hand to tame your impulses and teach you to be a proper woman.”

  A heavy hand gripped her arm with cruel strength. She felt bruises forming under the iron fingers.

  “What shall I do?” she whispered to deaf ears.

  She whispered her question again to the impatient Janataea hours later.

  “I don’t know, my princess. Your uncle has promised to replace me as your tutor and guardian before we break our fast at dawn.” The tall spinster, who had been with Mikka since her coming of womanhood, prowled the single room allotted to them. “The Lord Regent has pronounced me unfit to be a royal governess. I have allowed you to slip away to learn forbidden things once too often.” Janataea picked up a sampler of crude embroidery. “I see Lord Rumbelly has decided to allow you some needlework to occupy your hands while imprisoned.”

  “That’s my punishment. I have to learn proper women’s activities in order to entice a husband. As if any man would be interested in anything but my title and marriage portion.” Her brother faced the same problems in choosing a wife. At least Rossemanuel could wait another two years until he was old enough to assume the throne without a regent. Then he could choose his own queen.

  A harsh yowl broke their contemplative silence. The screech of cat claws scratching at the locked door sent shivers up Mikka’s spine. The annoyed guard, posted outside, opened the door just wide enough for Mikka’s pet cat, Rosse, to enter. Then the portal was locked and barred up.

  With tears in her eyes, Mikka picked up her closest companion. The small cat grumbled and mewed her protest at having to search the castle for her mistress. Mikka soothed the variegated brown fur with gentle strokes.

  “It is not fair. I won’t waste away into a stupid mouse like my mother,” Mikka proclaimed to the silent walls of her prison.

  “There is a fine line drawn between a strong woman and a . . . and the kind of women who are outlawed in this kingdom.” Janataea did not look at Mikka as she made this pronouncement.

  “What kind of woman is that?” Mikka didn’t look up from the cat.

  “A long time ago, the legends say, there were women warriors who fought alongside the men. They were strong and beautiful. Ideal companions to our fierce mercenaries. In battle, these women surrounded their men with protective spells. Their Songs of magic were said to send opposing armies into madly disorganized retreat. But the leader of the women’s brigade loved only women and refused to take any man to her bed. She seduced the queen.” Janataea refused to look at Mikka.

  “Another woman might prove a better lover than some of the rabbit kits my uncle wants me to wed.”

  “That kind of woman is not considered a suitable subject for an innocent princess to discuss.” Janataea finally turned to face her young charge. “Some say that long-ago queen, Safflon by name, was a powerful witch. She refused her husband access to her bed until he acknowledged their only child, Jaylene, as his heir. When he refused, the queen and her lover brought a plague on the entire country. The female warriors were executed, en masse, in their barracks. Queen Safflon was with them. They were all witches.” While the news of the ancient massacre penetrated Mikka’s thoughts, Janataea fingered the folds of her gown, which always concealed numerous pockets.

  “How awful.” Mikka clutched Rosse tight against her breast, as if the cat could protect her from a similar fate. The pet scrambled to her customary place on the princess’ shoulder and began her bath.

  “Since all of the women warriors worked witchcraft in protecting the armies, I presume my ancestors also condemned all witches. Is that why women are forbidden to Sing?”

  Janataea nodded silently. “However,” the governess continued the lesson, “every few years rumors spread through Rossemeyer that some witches escaped. A race of women warriors is said to exist far to the west of here. Jaylene was exiled after her mother’s death. She may have set up a court somewhere with the survivors.”

  Mikka found the story horrible and fascinating at the same time. She could see a similar fascination in her governess’ expression and posture.

  Janataea was tall and strong. Her arm and back muscles were well developed, though she never seemed to exercise. Mikka had watched her pick up the royal brothers with ease, one under each arm, when they were ten and twelve. No small weight for a big man. And Janataea
disliked men intensely.

  Could it be that this favored governess was really one of the legendary female warriors? Mikka’s imagination ran wild with possibilities.

  “If I could escape,” Mikka thought out loud, “I could seek out these women and enlist them to my cause. If I returned with an army at my back, I could supplant Uncle Rumbelly.” Childish dreams at best. Escape was out of the question.

  Mikka’s prison was one level below the top watch platform of the tallest tower in the castle. There was a sheer drop to the bottom of a rocky cliff from the single, arrow-slit window. The guard outside the door was well armed and loyal to her uncle, even if Mikka could open the massive planks of wood.

  “A foolish notion, Mikka.” Janataea began to pace the circumference of the room, widdershins—opposite the path of the sun. Little furniture impeded her progress. There was only a cot for sleeping and a single stool for sitting. Not even a hearth interrupted the smooth lines of the walls.

  “I know. I was only wishing.” Mikka sank onto the cot. She wasn’t willing to give in to despair yet. But her hopes were fading fast. Rosse butted her head against Mikka’s chin and purred her sympathy. The princess reached a loving hand to her pet.

  At least she had Rosse to keep her company. No one in the castle was willing to suffer the cat’s temper tantrums if they were separated for long. That was why Mikka had given the cat part of her own name. As long as Rosse was with her, Mikka felt . . . well, she just felt better.

  “There is no evidence such a nation of women warriors truly exists.” Janataea was staring at Mikka in an odd way after her third circuit of the room. “Yet there may be a way for you to escape.”

  “How?” Mikka looked up with excitement, as well as a little trepidation.

  “There is magic in your family,” Janataea stated flatly.

  “Magic, bah,” Mikka dismissed the subject. “Leave the incantations and prayers to feeble old men and priests. Strong men and knowledgeable healers are the answers to Rossemeyer’s problems.”