He whirled, caught by horror and vertigo, and stumbled into a solid object. It was Alcyenne. He was unable to stop shaking his head. “This body isn’t mine. It’s not. No, I’m not dead.” His vision swam as he begged the Sybil for confirmation. “This is a side effect of a narcotic in the incense...I’m going to wake up. I’ll wake up.”
“Corinado. Look at me.” He tried to focus on her face. “You were put in this body to allow you to travel on the Dragon’s quest unremarked. This is the Ordeal. In six weeks, if you have survived the journey to Asteri and back, and have returned with the Goddess offering, I will restore you to your own flesh. Not before. Then you’ll be crowned and married.” She used a cuff of her robe to dry his eyes. “Now get dressed. Time is short.”
Her voice was starting to sound very far away to Corinado. Mechanically, he took and put on the clothes Stellys gave him from the travel pack as Alcyenne talked. The cloth was functional but rough, and far plainer than he was used to and below the quality he was used to.
“Corinado! Are you listening?” Alcyenne stuck a mug of spiced Bollarin coffee under his nose.
He blinked into the fragrant brown depths of the mug, sound snapping back. He drank deep.
“You will be known as Corin Deviida of Ystun Province in the north,” said the Sybil. “You are a new close confidant of the Imperial Prince, brought south to find a bride and because you had interest in the prince’s music. You are being sent with the Dragons as the prince’s observer. If you let the truth be known, the least of your worries will be the unraveling of the spell. You’ll forfeit your life when the spell breaks. Do you understand me?”
He nodded as Stellys handed over an unfamiliar sword and dagger for him to sheath on his belt, and showed him the long bow with the pack.
“Beware the Ozuk. There could be complications with the spell. It’s very delicate,” said the Sybil Alcyenne.
“You fought the transfer so hard we almost lost you but...well it all turned out in the end,” chimed in Stellys as she re-closed the pack. Alcyenne frowned at the other woman. Stellys didn’t notice. “Your horse’s name is Rosa, she’s a bay with a white star on her forehead. She’s being saddled right now in the St. Issac courtyard. Your tent and bedroll have been added to the supply wagon already. Here, eat up.” She handed over a roll and an apple. “Leave through the north exit. It ends near the courtyard and the guards don’t come back on duty until the clock strikes six.”
“Stay close to the Red Dragon. He’ll—” Alcyenne said.
“But he’s sun-mad. He hates the prince,” he said, flabbergasted.
Alcyenne pursed her lips. “He’s your best bet.”
He shouldered the pack and moved to the north end of the circle. With a last look at the covered body, his body, on the slab, he stepped through the drapes.
Stellys’s call followed him as he crossed the marble expanse to the northern passage. “Highness! Don’t forget to pray, dear!”
Corinado bit into the apple she’d given him as he passed into the dimly lit hallway, which ascended in a gradual climb. The more he ate, the more settled his stomach felt. He concentrated on his footsteps, one in front of the other, fast enough to outdistance the dawn. The rest of his problems would have to wait. He couldn’t fail the Ordeal before it had really begun.
At the top of the ramp, he found a trap door that led up to a hallway. He moved down the hall in the direction his inner compass told him was north and turned west at the junction. At the next junction of halls, he recognized a statue of his ancestor, Dorlan Miliarnes. Now he knew where he was. Ten minutes and a set of stairs later saw him back up in the living levels. He turned into the lower galleria that led to the kitchen and had great open windows looking out on the practice yards and the forecourts. Though it was the earliest he had risen in as long as he could remember, the galleria was crowded with maids, workmen, cooks, and a hundred other commoners that he had never seen before. Young, blue-liveried messengers dodged in and out of the crowd and were greeted with curses and kicks by the servants who were jostled. In the courtyard, smiths worked at the forge, farmers had stalls set up for customers, and the palace laundresses carried huge baskets of sheets on their heads. They were loud, and he had no idea what half the good-natured insults they hurled at each other meant.
He had never taken notice that servants and workers had made way for the imperial heir. His time was running out. He tried to shoulder ahead of a slender housemaid, and doubled over when a pointy elbow slammed into his ribs, gasping at the outrage and the lack of oxygen. They didn’t know he was the prince. Who am I fooling? I’m not the prince. The rage hit the helplessness in his mind and blew out as he caught his breath. He would have to go with the flow of the crowd. The smell was almost overpowering.
He passed the stairs that led up to the noble apartments and felt a stab of yearning. Goddess, he hated this galleria. There were the rain barrels spaced under the windows. Such simple things that he hated so much. They had caused so much pain. Shortly after Anoni—he flinched inwardly at the name—was sentenced he had ordered the master of the lower palace to take all the rain barrels out of the galleria and have them smashed. He had been overruled by Markham’s father, told he was a foolish boy and that the barrels would stay because the palace shunted water into the galleria as part of the old system of cisterns.
A scullery maid stepped on his foot, and he jerked back and nearly fell into the path of an angry and rotund cook bearing cages of swans into the kitchen. He held his long bow close and vowed to pay more attention. Finally, the way cleared somewhat and he was able to get to the door that let out into the northwestern courtyard. It was known affectionately to everyone but the palace architects as St. Issac’s court for the statue of the old Earth monk at the center.
Over the east wall the sun cleared the towers, glowing somberly through cloud cover. Along the north wall towers, the windmills turned in the breeze adding their perennial whoosh to the clamor. Corinado easily spotted the Dragons in their black uniforms, each with a wide brimmed hat and smoked glasses to protect them from the sun. There were seven of them, half already mounted on laden horses. There was also a boy of about fifteen summers sitting on the driver’s seat of a covered wagon, conversing with servants as they finished the loading of supplies. The Red Dragon, recognizable from behind by his slender form and short stature, stood beside a blue roan and argued with a young, auburn-haired woman. Corin stopped a hostler to ask about Rosa, and joined the group.
“Copelia, you don’t have to worry. Vansainté is fine. A close call is all. Really, I’ll keep him fine,” the Red Dragon was saying with good natured aggravation. The pretty, young Copelia smiled back indulgently, not buying a word of it.
“Ryelis Miz-ra-hi.” She wagged a finger at him, “I know you better than that. You need me to keep you two from going off fire-brained on some raid. You know I’m good with a bow.”
“I’m sorry Copelia, but not this time. The Safiro Wilds are no place for a girl.”
The Red Dragon sounded like he was retreading an old argument. “Ozuk, bandits, and Goddess knows what else are waiting for us...” The argument had turned them around and now the Red Dragon was studying Corinado as he approached.
Copelia, seeing she’d lost the Dragon’s attention said, “But I hope you’ll miss me,” in a melodramatic swoon and wrapped her arms around the Dragon’s neck. When he looked at her in surprise, she went up on tiptoes and gave him a smoldering kiss. Several long moments passed before the Red Dragon could get his face back, blushing so hard it obscured his freckles. Vansainté, arm in a sling, left the hostlers and none too gently dragged Copelia away.
“Stop that! What would our father say?” Vansainté frowned like a cleric. “Does the term ‘respectable merchant family’ mean anything to you? Do you recall the respectable part?”
“Father would say I was giving Rye a good farewell. You want one too, you big baby?”
“Just one on the cheek, thanks. I’d rather no
t dodge your teeth.”
“Ha ha,” she said dryly and gave him a peck on each cheek in the eastern custom. She looked him in the eye, suddenly serious. She gave Vansainté a close, careful hug.
“Come back to me, brother.” She stepped back. “And try to keep Ryelis on his horse this time. I wouldn’t want anything delicate to be damaged in battle.” She winked at Corinado, and laughing, danced away to talk to the boy on the supply wagon.
Under his breath, Mizrahi whispered to Vansainté, “Could you please tell your sister I have a plague or something? This is getting ridiculous.”
Vansainté answered in a low voice, “I tried. She just thinks anything you have is something only she can cure. She’s a good kid really...”
“Yeah well...you got her horse right? You checked the compound?”
“Yeah, horse is at the Clover Inn. Our master Sarousch gets to have his pretentious little hands all over my business while I’m away. Seas are calm and weather’s clear.” Vansainté turned to mount his horse. Corinado was surprised to see the man mount as smoothly with one arm as Corinado did with two.
“Good,” Mizrahi said, then in a normal voice addressed Corinado. “Hello. You must be the prince’s man.” He offered his hand.
Corinado stared a moment, then clasped it with his own. No one, not even Highlords, shook hands with the prince. Even the highest bowed. Corinado remembered how close a blade held by this hand had come to killing him. “Uhm. Yes, I am...the prince’s man. Corin Deviida.” He tried to smile but managed only a wan twitch of the lips. He dropped the Dragon’s hand. A hostler brought up a placid bay mare and took charge of Corinado’s pack to attach it to the toggles on the back of the saddle.
Mizrahi gave him a curious glance, then said, “I’m sure it’s an honor to have you here on our little quest. But the day’s getting old, so if you please?” Mizrahi turned to the rest of the men. “Dragons form up.”
Vansainté walked his black mount close and leaned down. “Rye, we’re waiting for you. It’ll be a real short quest if you fall and break your neck trying to mount.”
“Why thank you, Lieutenant,” the Red Dragon said dryly, rolling his eyes. He nodded to Corinado and drew his blue roan away a little. He swung himself into the saddle so awkwardly it was painful to watch. Corinado made a better show of mounting Rosa, who didn’t seem to notice. He settled his feet in the stirrups with a creak of leather and joined the newly formed column of Dragons in front of the gate. From the head of the column, Mizrahi gave the signal for the gate to open. The thick oak gates swung back to reveal Arrow Street zigzagging down through the northern outskirts of the city on the steep back side of the palace mesa. A crowd of well-wishers lined the sides of the street. Corin wondered if the people turned out because they knew the only reason Arrow Street was kept in repair in the sparsely populated area of the city behind the palace was because every fifty or sixty years a group of Dragons had to make the journey north and west. He changed his mind a moment later when Mizrahi stood in his saddle. The Red Dragon pulled his sword. In a voice loud enough for the crowd to hear, the Red Dragon spoke. “What do you see men?”
The Dragons responded in concert, just as loud. “A Dragon! A Dragon! Dragon wings and Dragon flame! Feel the heat. Face the fire! We live to serve, we die to serve. Embers everlasting, all enemies burn! For House Miliarnes, Dragons fly!”
The crowd cheered as the column advanced. A child of about four sat on his father’s shoulders throwing confetti, his laughter lost in the din. A priest in dove-gray robes used a flail of wild grass to shower the column with holy salt water—a blessing from the local temple. A baker did a quick trade in sweet rolls from a basket, while his wife sold fragrant coffee to the crowd. A gaggle of young women waved scarves; when Corinado caught the eye of one brunette, the girl blushed and dissolved into giggling. Two workmen stopped for a rest and waved from their perches on an unfinished roof as they passed. Mothers restrained their children and a few, their lively market purchases. The crowds chanted, “Dragon! Dragon!” while a bard climbed up on the edge of a fountain and began improvising on the spot a song to commemorate the future emperor’s soon-to-be guards.
A group of street boys in ragged clothes ran alongside the head of the column. Yet the boys didn’t seem to notice their poverty; eyes only for the Dragons, they whooped and danced, daring each other to get the closest. The boys took up broom handles, firewood, anything to improvise practice swords, and several skirmishes had been won and lost before the column reached the bottom of the hill.
CHAPTER 2
Sea Road, Northwest of Aquillion
Anoni
Anoni breathed a sigh of relief and gave one last look over her shoulder at the palace as the column passed through the northwest city gate. Goddess knew she was a fan of grand gestures and heroic posturing, but more than an hour of parading down the street was a little much. Her face was numb from smiling, and the salt water each temple insisted on sprinkling her with had combined with the road dust to form a layer of grime on her skin. She was simply glad their journey was northwestward. Aquillion was laid out in a fan shape with the palace at its central northern point—if they had been going any other direction they would have had to cross the span of the city through the lower wards and guild quarters, a trip taking hours. She gave the blue uniformed guards at the gate a salute and led the men out onto the Sea Road. It was a good day for traveling, the light cloud cover keeping off the sun’s heavy rays. On the north side of the narrow valley the Lesser Iyekas mountain range guarded the city’s back. Anoni sighted a pair of eagles, made small by the distance, riding the wind near the peak of Mount Ayak. She rolled her shoulders to relieve the tension brought on by the crowds, and gave the signal to slow the horses. A second signal told the men they could relax ranks. The road was wide enough for six horses to go abreast, well maintained if not well traveled. Anoni let her horse fall back near the wagon, nodded to Arjent, the young man in the driver’s seat, and turned her attention to the newcomer.
The prince’s man, Corin Deviida. A bland name. Lords were always trying to curry favor by naming their children permutations on the names of the imperial family. There was probably a full legion of Corins in Aquillion, two of Ventirus, and a generation with the names of the dead empress and three princes. But this Corin, she considered, was the only one that was her problem.
He was only a finger-width taller than her, had light brown wavy hair and wide blue eyes. His hair barely reached his chin, which was short for a noble. His nose was small and his chin was...too strong for the ideals of the Aquillion aesthetic. His lioness head buckle was still bright and shiny, no doubt only just presented by his parents. But, she thought, he wasn’t flabby and rode his horse with a posture and style she couldn’t even begin to match, though she had tried and tried to learn. She didn’t like nobles, never had when she lived in the palace, and her years in Oruno hadn’t changed that. It was twice as bad that he was a friend of the prince and the great deceiver Markham Shaiso. And while Sybil Alcyenne could show snobbery as high as a Highlady, she was still very serious about the cause. If she said Corin was a strategic asset, then Anoni was honor bound to make an effort.
He couldn’t be much of threat. He’s talking to himself and studying his own hands. Was Alcyenne sure he was not a threat because he was mad? Or perhaps had suffered a head injury? Or perhaps the old priestess had had the head injury...
Suddenly Corin’s head came up. He met her gaze. She looked away and guided her horse back to the front of the group. She sighed as she heard Corin spur his horse to follow her. He settled his horse to walking between her and Vansainté. He studied Vansainté’s wounded arm for a long moment, eyes unreadable.
He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about your arm.”
Vansainté looked up from the road, looking surprised. “Don’t worry about it. It was our Imperial Prince’s slip, not yours.” His tone was only a little bitter as he opened and closed his sword hand, perhaps testing for weakn
ess. “Would you hold such an accident...against him?”
“Against him?” asked Vansainté.
“You are a Dragon. You are duty bound to...say, step into an arrow for the emperor. But it was his slip.” He swallowed. “Which almost cost you the arm.”
Vansainté smiled. “Nah, I’ve spent too long training to do this. It was a stupid mistake, with all due respect to his highness. Even gods make mistakes, and he’s not even a god. Besides, if I had been crippled, I know Mizrahi would have to deal with Copelia blaming him. My sister is determined and...crafty.”
Anoni laughed. “I’ll remember that. She might have put a burr under my saddle and when Pelaki here dumped me over a cliff everyone would just blame me.”
“Nah, I don’t think she’d kill you, she likes you too much.”
“Yeah, really. Explain it to me, Vansainté. Why does your sister hunt me like a prize boar?”
Vansainté shrugged carefully. “Don’t ask me. You’re pretty enough for her, but she normally goes for long-haired blonds, all lace cuffs and poetry. Maybe it’s the uniform.”
“Your mother wouldn’t even recognize you in that chain mail,” Wix, her second lieutenant, said wickedly behind them. “But I find the magic of the uniform works on the ladies of Aquillion. All kinds of ladies.” Wix did a little dance with his upper body. He was a wiry black man she’d brought with her from Warcollege. His women problems were like a steward’s math equations: always involving formulas, much time, and multiple variables.
“Yeah, we noticed.” Anoni ribbed him, “I told you to keep your women out of the barracks last night, but apparently, you’ve forgotten who gives orders around here, Wix.”
“Oh no boss, I remember. I figured you’d be up polishing your own sword anyway. It’s not my fault my ladies are noisy.”
Corin interrupted the Dragons’ laughter, asking quietly, “Why do you train so hard to be a Dragon?” His eyes were still trained on Vansainté’s arm.
A Glimmer on the Blade Page 4