Daughter of Regals

by Stephen R. Donaldson

  The sudden tightening of my hand on his arm stopped him. His words brought the monarch of Lodan’s unexplained subterfuge back to me. Almost involuntarily, I asked, “Is it true?”

  He turned toward me at the doors to the ballroom.

  From beyond them came the sounds of musicians tuning their instruments. “That Scour requested that song for your banquet? I know not. Surely he wished me to believe it.”

  I met his questioning look squarely. “Is it true that the last Dragon was slain by the Basilisk-Regal?”

  He scowled as he studied me, trying to guess what was in my mind. “That tale is told,” he said slowly. “Perhaps it is true. There are many who believe that one Dragon still lived in the world when the Basilisk-Regal’s rule began—and that it was gone when his rule ended. But only one portion of the tale is known to be certain: for the last years of his reign, the Basilisk-Regal wore his hands covered.”

  Unwilling either to outface or to satisfy Ryzel’s curiosity, I moved toward the doors. But as they were opened for me, I thought better of my silence. On the threshold of the ball, I turned back to the Mage and said, “Then his grief must have been as terrible as his crime.”

  A step or two ahead of him, I went forward to continue this night’s festivities.

  Most of the guests had preceded me. King Thone’s retinue appeared somewhat unsettled by his absence; but Queen Damia presided over her portion of the ballroom in great state and glitter; Count Thornden and his attendants kept their backs to her as pointedly as possible; and around the hall moved those families, courtiers, eavesdroppers, and lovers of dancing or sport who were not restrained by allegiance or personal interest.

  At my entrance the gathering was hushed. The musicians ceased their tuning; the rulers and their entourages looked toward me; after a last giggle or two, the more playful girls joined the general silence. For a moment, I gazed about me and tried to appear pleased. Taken together, these people were a gay and enchanting sight under the bright gleam of the chandeliers. They were comely and fashionable—and well-to-do. Indeed, hardly a person could be seen who did not display some form of wealth. Here was evidence that the realm had prospered mightily under the imposed peace of the Regals. The rule to which I aspired was manifestly worthy and admirable; yet all these gallant men and women bedecked in loveliness also served to remind me that I was the plainest woman in the Three Kingdoms, as Ryzel had said. For all my victory over King Thone, I was not the equal of the manor’s guests.

  Nevertheless, I played my part as I was able. Assuming a pace I did not possess, I advanced into the centre of the ballroom and spread my arms in a gesture of welcome. “Please dance,” I said clearly. “This is the night of my Ascension, and I wish all the realm happy.”

  At once, the musicians struck up a lively tune; and after a moment’s hesitation the ball came to life. Commanding every opportunity for advantageous display, Queen Damia allowed herself to be swept into the arms of a fortunate swain and began to float around the floor. Quickly, other eager young men found themselves partners; dignified old noblemen and their wives made stately circles as they moved. From the corner of my eye, I saw King Thone enter the ballroom, unremarked amid the first swirl of dancing. To myself, I applauded the way he contrived to rejoin the festivities without calling attention to himself; and I noted that he had managed to change parts of his apparel, thus eliminating the marks of Cashon’s persuasion. In a moment, he garnered a partner for himself—the wife of one of his dependents—and busied himself about the task of pretending that nothing had happened.

  Even Mage Ryzel tucked his Sceptre under his arm and took a woman to dance—a girl who gazed at him as if he were the highlight of her life. Thus he also played his part. Soon it appeared that only Count Thornden and I were not dancing. He remained aloof, too fierce for such pastimes. And I—Apparently there were no men in the room bold enough to approach me.

  Stiffly, I turned to remove myself from the path of the dancers. My thought was to gain the edge of the whirl and there to watch and listen until I found my chance to slip away unobserved. I did not enjoy what I felt as I saw the youngest daughters of the least consequential families outshine me. But when I left my place in the centre of the ballroom, I nearly collided with the servant Wallin.

  He had exchanged his livery for a plain broadcloth coat, clean and well-fitting but neither formal nor festive—a garment which emphasized his extreme handsomeness by its very simplicity. He took advantage of my surprise by slipping one arm about my waist, grasping my hand, and pulling me into the music.

  A servant. The same servant who had proclaimed a desire for my person. In my first confusion as he commandeered me, the only thing about him which was not surprising was the fact that he danced excellently. Whatever else he was, I did not take him for a man who would have placed himself in this position if he had lacked the appropriate graces.

  For half a turn of the ballroom, I simply clung to him and let him lead me while I sought to clear my head. His physical nearness, the strength of his arms, the scent of him—half kitchen-sweat, half raw soap—all served to confound me. But then I caught Ryzel’s eye as we danced past him, and his nod of approval brought me to myself. He conveyed the clear impression that he saw my dancing—and my partner—as a gambit I had prepared for the occasion, so that I would not appear foolish when no man freely asked my company. And the other guests who noticed me did so with curiosity, startlement, and speculation in their eyes, sharing Ryzel’s assumption—or perhaps thinking that I had in fact chosen Wallin to be my husband.

  The Mage gave me too much credit—and revealed that he had had no hand in Wallin’s behaviour. With an effort, I mastered my confusion. Leaning closer to Wallin, I said so that only he would hear me, “You are fond of risks.”

  “My lady?” I seemed to feel his voice through his broad chest.

  “If the steward discovers that you have left your duties, you will lose them altogether. You are a servant, not the scion of some rich nobleman. Even men of goodly aspect and astonishing presumption must have work in order to eat.”

  He chuckled softly, almost intimately. “Tonight I do not covet either work or food, my lady.”

  “Then you are either a hero or a fool,” I replied tartly, seeking an emotional distance from him. “Did you see Count Thornden’s gaze upon us? Already he has marked you for death. King Thone surely will not wish you well. And Queen Damia—” Would not her blood seethe to see me dancing with a man who was handsomer than any who courted her? “You would be wiser to test your audacity upon her.”

  “Ah, my lady.” His amusement seemed genuine; but his eyes were watchful as we circled. Watchful and brown, as soft as fine fur. “It would delight me to be able to thrill you with my courage. Unfortunately, I am in no such peril. I am merely a servant, beneath the notice of monarchs.” Then he laughed outright—a little harshly, I thought. “Also, Count Thornden is a great lumbering ox and cannot run swiftly enough to catch me. None of King Thone’s hirelings are manly enough to meet me with a sword. And as for the queen of Lodan”—he glanced in Damia’s direction—”I have heard it said that Kodar the rebel has chosen her for his especial attention. While he occupies her, I will be secure, I think.”

  “And for more subtle dangers,” I remarked, “such as poison or hired murder, you have no fear. You are a wonderment to me, Wallin. Where does such a man come from? And how does it chance that you are ‘merely a servant’? I would be pleased to hear your life’s tale as we dance.”

  For an instant, he looked at me sharply, and his arm about my waist tightened. More and more of the guests took sidelong notice of us as we followed the current of the dance. But whatever he saw in my face reassured him; his expression became at once playful and intent. “My lady, I am of common birth. Yet I have gleaned some education.” His dancing showed that. “I am learned enough in the ways of the world to know that men do not seek to woo women by telling them tales of low parentage and menial labour. Romance requires o
f me a princely heritage in a far-off land—a throne temporarily lost—a life of high adventure—”

  “No,” I said; and the snap in my voice made him stop. I was on the verge of avowing to him that my Regal sires had all chosen their brides from the common people for reasons of policy—and for the additional reason that it was the common people whom the Regals loved, the common people who had suffered most from the constant warring of the Three Kingdoms. But I halted those words in time. Instead, I said, “If you truly wish to woo me”— if you are not toying with me—oh, if you are not toying with me! —”then you will speak of such things tomorrow, not tonight. Tonight I have no heart for them.”

  At once, he ceased dancing and gave me a formal bow. His face was closed; I could not read it. “My lady,” he said quietly. “if you have any need that I may serve, call for me and I will come.” Then he turned and left me, melting away into the gay swirl as discreetly as any servant.

  I watched him go as if I were a mist-eyed maiden, but inwardly I hardened myself to the promise that I would not call for him—not this night. I could not afford to trust his inexplicable behaviour; and if I failed at my Ascension, he would not deserve the consequences of aiding me.

  Somehow, I found my way from the flow of the dance toward the wide stair to the upper levels. By the foot of the stair, a chair had been set for me on a low dais, so that I might preside over the ball in some comfort. There I seated myself, determined now to let any of the dancers who wished look at me and think what they willed.

  Perhaps for those who had come to the ball simply because it was a ball, the time passed swiftly. For me it dragged past like a fettered thing. The musicians excelled themselves in variety and vivacity, the dancers glittered as if they were the jewels of the realm, bright and rich and enviable. At intervals, Mage Ryzel came to stand beside me; but we had little to say to each other. Diligently, he continued to play his part, so that all the gathering would know he was not at work elsewhere, labouring either to prevent my ruin or to preserve his own regency. And my exposed position required meat all costs to maintain my facade of surety. I could do nothing to satisfy my true need, which was to shore up my courage for the coming crisis. Blandly, I smiled and nodded and replied when I was addressed—all the while yearning for privacy and peace. I did not wish to die; still less did I wish to fail.

  It happened, however, that when the evening was half gone Queen Damia grew weary of the ball and again took command of the occasion. During a pause between dances, she approached me, accompanied by Mage Scour. In a tone as gracious and lovely as her person, she said, “My lady, your guests must have some respite in which to refresh themselves, lest they lose their pleasure in dancing. If you will permit it, I will offer some small entertainment for their enjoyment.”

  Her voice and her suggestion chilled me. I feared her extremely. And—as ever—I was unable to fathom her intent. But I could hardly refuse her offer. The callowest youth in the ballroom would know how to interpret a denial.

  I saw Ryzel shifting through the stilled assembly toward me. To temporise until he reached me, I replied, “You are most kind, my lady of Lodan. What entertainment do you propose?”

  “A display of Magic,” she answered as if every word were honey and wine. “Mage Scour has mastered an art which will amaze you—an art previously unknown in the Three Kingdoms”

  At that, a murmur of surprise and excitement scattered around the ballroom.

  Ryzel’s eyes were wary as he met my glance; but I did not need his slight nod to choose my course. We had often discussed the rumour that Scour’s research had borne remarkable fruit. That rumour, however, had always been empty of useful content, leaving us unable to gauge either its truth or its importance. An opportunity for answers was not to be missed.

  Yet I feared it, as I feared Queen Damia herself. She did not mean me well.

  My throat had gone dry. For a moment, I could not speak. A short distance away stood Count Thornden, glowering like a wolf while his Mage, Brodwick, whispered feverishly in his ear. Scour’s grin made him resemble a ferret more than ever. King Thone’s milky eyes showed nothing; but he had no Mage to support him now, and he held himself apart from most of the guests. Until this moment, I had not realized that my white muslin might become so uncomfortably warm. Surely the night was cooler than this?

  Though every eye watched me as if my fears were written on my face, I waited until I was sure of my voice. Then I said as mildly as I was able, “A rare promise, good lady. Surely its fulfilment will be fascinating. Please give Mage Scour my permission.”

  At once, Scour let out a high, sharp bark of laughter and hurried away into the centre of the ballroom.

  Around him, the people moved toward the walls, making space for his display. Gallants and girls pressed for the best view, and behind the thick circle of spectators some of the less dignified guests stood on chairs. Mage Ryzel ascended a short way up the stair in order to see well. With a conscious effort, I refrained from gripping the arms of my seat; folding my hands in my lap, I schooled myself-to appear calm.

  Scour was a small, slight man, yet in his black cassock he appeared capable of wonders: dangerous. The silence of the ballroom was complete as he readied himself for his demonstration. He used no powders or periapts, made no mystic signs, drew no pentacles. Such village chicanery would have drawn nothing but mirth from the guests of the manor. These people knew that magery was internal, the result of personal aptitude and discipline rather than of flummery or show. Yet Scour contrived to make his simple preparations appear elaborate and meaningful, charged with power.

  It was said that the blood of a distant Magic man or woman ran in some veins but not others, gifting some with the ability to touch upon the secret essence of the Real, leaving the rest normal and incapable. Whatever the explanation, Scour possessed something which I lacked. And I had been so thoroughly trained by Mage Ryzel— and to so little avail—that I needed only a moment to recognize that Scour was a true master.

  Step by step, I watched him succeed where I had always failed.

  First he closed his eyes and clasped his hands together before him. Such actions might be necessary or unnecessary, according to his gift for concentration. His mouth shaped complex words which had no sound—again an aid to concentration. Softly, then with more force, his left heel began to tap an unsteady rhythm against the floor. Another man might have done these same things and seemed merely preposterous. Queen Damia’s Mage had the look of a man who would soon be strong enough to consume the very manor of the Regals.

  Slowly, he separated his hands. Holding his arms rigid, he spread them wider and wider by small increments. Across the gap between his hands ran a palpable crackle of power. It was neither a clear bolt such as lightning nor a diffuse shimmer such as beat, but rather something of both. It shot streaks of red within the reach of his arms, then green, then red again.

  And as the colors crackled and flared, a shape coalesced within them.

  I should have known what was coming. I had been given hints enough; a child could have read them. But the queen of Lodan had been too subtle for me from the first.

  The shape took on depth and definition as it grew larger. Its lines became solid, etched upon the air, Moment by moment, its size increased. At first, it might have been a starling—then a pigeon—then a hawk. But it was no bird of any description. Passion flashed in its eyes, light glared along its scales. Gouts of fire burst from its nostrils.

  As it beat its wings and rose above Scour’s head, it was unmistakably a Dragon. In response, cries of alarm and astonishment rang across the ballroom. Doors were flung open and banged shut as men and women snatched their children and fled. Some of the guests retreated to the walls to watch or cower others cheered like Banshees.

  It was small yet. But it continued to grow as it soared and flashed; and the stretch of Scour’s arms, the clench of his fists, the beat of his heel showed that he could make his Creature as large as he willed.

>   The sight of it wrung my heart with love and fear. I had risen to my feet as if in one mad instant I had thought that I might fly with it, forsaking my human flesh for wings. It was instantly precious to me—a thing of such beauty and necessity and passion, such transcending Reality and importance, such glory that for me the world would be forevermore pale without it.

  And it was my doom.

  Even as my truest nerves sang to the flight of the Dragon, I understood what I saw. Mage Scour had gone beyond all the known bounds of his art to make something Real—not an image but the thing itself There was no Dragon in all the realm from which an image might have been cast. Scour might as easily have worked magery of me as of a Dragon which did not exist. He had created Reality, could summon or dismiss it as he willed. And thereby he had made himself mightier than any Magic or Mage or Regal in all the history of the Three Kingdoms.

  Or else he had simply cast an image as any other Mage might—an image of a Dragon which had come secretly into being in the realm.

  In a way, that was inconceivable. Knowledge of such a Creature would not have remained hidden; one Mage or another would have stumbled upon it, and the word of the wonder would have spread. But in another way the thought was altogether too conceivable: if some man or woman of [Man—or Mage Scour—or Queen Damia herself—were a Creature such as the Regals had been? Capable of appearing human or Real at will? Then the knowledge might well have remained hidden, especially if the Magic had been latent until recently. That would explain all Queen Damia’s ploys—her confidence, her choice of songs for her minstrel, Scour’s talk at the Mages’ dinner.

  Whatever its meaning, however, the Dragon bearing itself majestically above Scour’s head and snorting flame spelled an end for me. Any Mage capable of creating Reality was strong enough to take the realm for himself at whim. And a Creature hidden among Queen Damia’s adherents—no, in the queen herself, for how could she appear so certain if one near her were stronger than herself and therefore a threat to her?—would be similarly potent.