Master of Dragons

by Margaret Weis

  Her squire escort was clearly glad to be rid of her and she glad to be rid of him, for he was forty years old, proud and snooty, and he coldly repulsed her little smiles and flirtations, when all she was trying to do was make the long journey less tedious.

  The courtyard was in a bustle of activity even in a driving rainstorm. Everyone seemed to be running somewhere with faces that were serious, tense, and wet. If they weren’t running, they were shouting, for the army was making ready to march, although Evelina did not know this. Dismayed and bewildered, she was very nearly trampled by a knight on horseback. Gunderson arrived at that moment to claim her, and he hauled her out of the way, escorting her up an enormous flight of stone stairs and into the palace.

  Evelina walked into the beautiful and impressive building, gazing at the spires and turrets, the gargoyles and leaded windows, the enormous double doors, made of wood and banded with iron, and as those doors opened for her, she hugged herself with glee and wished her father could be here to see her. She imagined herself walking past Ramone. He would humbly doff his hat to her. Haughty and cold and rich, she would throw him a gold coin. Evelina sighed with regret that he was dead.

  Gunderson introduced himself with grave formality, which pleased Evelina, though she didn’t like the shrewd and knowing look in the old man’s one glinting eye. He led her into a huge and echoing hall. The only time Evelina had been inside a building like this was when she’d taken refuge in a cathedral, fleeing a man who claimed she’d picked his pocket.

  She had never in her life seen so many beautiful things— tapestries whose rich colors gleamed in the light, chairs so heavily carved that she wondered who could possibly sit on them in comfort, long tables covered with white linen on which stood plates heaped with food. She had dreamt of what Marcus’s palace would be like. She had expected to find riches and warmth and good food. She had not expected to find that it was all so big and shadowy or that she would feel so small, standing in the entryway, sopping wet, dripping onto the floor.

  It was then she saw Marcus. He was some distance away, walking down a long staircase, and he was not alone. Beside him was a young woman, slender, elegant, graceful. The two conversed as they sauntered down the stairs. They did not see her. They were entirely absorbed in their conversation. And in each other.

  Evelina’s jealous eyes noted every detail of this woman, from her thick, rich coil of chestnut hair, tucked beneath a fine lace head-covering, to her small bosoms and delicate-boned face, her pink cheeks and large, brown eyes.

  Evelina opened her mouth and drew in a breath to call out to Marcus.

  Gunderson said quietly, “A proper young woman does not shout like a fishmonger, Mistress.”

  Evelina let out her breath in an irritated hiss. She was forced to watch in smoldering silence as the two of them reached the bottom of the stairs and continued walking through a door into another part of the castle.

  Men are such fools. To fall for a doe-eyed, pasty-faced little tart like that . . .

  Reminding herself that she had every right to be here, because, after all, she was carrying the prince’s child, Evelina shook out her wet curls and turned to Gunderson.

  “You will tell Marcus I’m here,” she stated.

  “His Highness”—Gunderson emphasized the words—”will be informed.”

  “See that he is,” Evelina said loftily. She made an attempt to boldly meet that single eye and found it difficult. “You may take me to my room now, my good man.”

  Gunderson led her upstairs and through corridors and down halls and up halls, so that she was immediately lost and confused. Once they reached her room, Evelina was vastly pleased with it. The room was larger and warmer and cleaner than any she’d known. At the sight of a beautiful gown on the bed—a gown that he said was hers, a gift from the Queen—Evelina clapped her hands. And when he introduced the servant who was to wait on her, Evelina could almost feel the royal crown being placed on her head. Later she would discover that the room was in a wing of the palace located as far as possible from the chambers of the royal family, and that the servant was not so much a servant as a prison warden. But Evelina now thought herself in heaven.

  The servant was an older woman, with a face like an axe and a steely eye. She obviously disapproved highly of Evelina. The woman assisted Evelina in discarding her old clothes and drying herself off. Then she showed her how to put on the new clothes, for with the chemise and the stockings and the underskirt and overskirt and bodice with sleeves that had to be tied on, Evelina would not have known where to begin. The woman brushed out her hair and, when Evelina said she was hungry, ordered a servant to bring up a tray.

  The food was a disappointment, for Evelina had expected peacock’s tongues, and all she got was plain roast beef.

  “And now I think I will go have a look about the palace,” Evelina stated.

  “That is quite out of the question, Mistress,” said the axe-faced woman in an iron tone. “Her Majesty is coming to pay you a visit. You must wait here.”

  Evelina felt a tingle of delight. The Queen, coming to see her. She sat down in one of the chairs to wait.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  The axe-faced woman sat in a chair in steely silence, tatting lace. Evelina felt it beneath her dignity to converse with a servant, so she also sat in silence. She spent some time admiring her new clothes and her new shoes, but one could do that for only so long.

  She went from being pleased to bored and from bored to irritated. And then she heard distant sounds—music! Somewhere people were feasting and dancing. She was thinking of defying Axe-Face and walking out, going to see if she could find Marcus, when she heard a rustle of silk and footsteps outside the door and smelled a fragrance as of spring roses. Axe-Face rose to her feet.

  Evelina tried to calm her racing heart. Her future would be settled in this one moment.

  The Queen came alone. She opened the door, entered, and said something to the woman, who curtsied deeply and went out. The Queen shut the door behind her. She glanced about the room, as though to make certain that all was well, then turned to face Evelina.

  “Well, Mistress,” said the Queen, giving her a dimpled smile, “are you settling in?”

  Evelina made an awkward curtsy, as the servant had instructed her. She started to sit down, then remembered just in time that the servant had also warned her that no one sat while in Her Majesty’s presence. Evelina remained standing, her head lowered, all the while studying the Queen intently from beneath her eyelashes.

  Evelina had always considered other members of her own sex to be weak, stupid creatures, and the Queen was no exception. Evelina saw a plump, overfed, middle-aged woman clad in bejew-eled splendor, pampered and protected and silly. Evelina had no doubt at all about who would win this encounter.

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Evelina replied meekly, with another curtsy She launched into her speech. “I did not expect to be so honored. I’m not a fine lady, you know, ma’am—though I’m often taken for such. I am a good girl, however. I was given a godly upbringing by my poor father, may the saints in heaven rest his soul. If I did anything wrong, it was for love. I love your son, ma’am, with all my heart.”

  Evelina gave a sob at this juncture, and wiped her eyes.

  “Yes, I’m sure you do love my son,” the Queen said. “He is a prince. He is handsome and rich and he rescued you from a terrifying situation. That is enough to turn any girl’s head.”

  “And he loves me, ma’am,” Evelina felt bold enough to assert.

  “You are quite pretty, child. I’ve no doubt that he did fancy himself in love with you,” the Queen said gently. “And now you believe yourself to be pregnant with his child?”

  “I think it is likely, ma’am,” said Evelina. She placed her hand on her flat belly. “I’ve been feeling sickish of late.”

  The Queen’s dimples flashed, then vanished. Evelina began to feel nervous.

  “I know we made love just the once
,” she continued defensively, having first thought she would lie about this, then deciding she wouldn’t. “But a girl knows these things, ma’am.” She let a tear trickle down her cheek.

  “Yes, well, we will see about that,” said the Queen. “I want you to know, Mistress, that I do not defend my son’s actions. They were not those of a gentleman. However, you are both young and you were thrown together in an extraordinary situation, so that I can envision how this all came about. You must understand, Mistress Evelina, that marriage to my son is impossible.”

  “I don’t know that, ma’am,” Evelina said boldly. “Your son loves me and I love him. True, I’m not a fine lady, but I could learn to be—”

  “My son is betrothed to another,” said the Queen. “The Lady Izabelle, daughter of an earl.”

  If the woman had knocked her down with a right hook to the jaw, Evelina could not have been more astonished. She was literally rocked back on the heels of her new shoes. The thought of this had never occurred to her.

  “He never told me that, Your Majesty!” Evelina gasped and she burst into sobs. “He lied to me!”

  “My son did not know himself,” the Queen returned. “The marriage was arranged in his absence. This must seem harsh to you, but it is the way of the world, Mistress Evelina. You will remain here in the castle until we know for certain whether or not you are pregnant. If you are, we will care for you and your child. Marriage with some good man ...”

  Evelina had stopped listening to the woman’s yammering. A rival! Evelina didn’t believe for one moment that this marriage had been arranged without Marcus’s knowledge. He knew! He’d used her! He’d made her fall in love with him! The wormwood in his wine was suddenly justified. Her fisherman lover faded conveniently from her mind. Marcus was a prince. He could do what he wanted. If he wanted to marry her, he had only to make it a royal decree or a royal edict or a papal bull or whatever and it would happen. Who would dare tell him no? It was this other woman. The thin, pasty-faced little slut. She was the reason he wouldn’t marry her.

  All this flashed through Evelina’s mind in a second. The Queen was still talking, saying something about Marcus riding off to war, but that she would be safe in the castle. All the ladies of the court were remaining.

  Evelina said, in a half-choked voice, “Including the Lady Izabelle?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. The castle is quite a large place. The two of you do not ever have to meet—”

  “Oh, I would like to meet her, Your Majesty,” said Evelina softly.

  The Queen departed. Axe-Face returned.

  When Evelina told the woman, experimentally, that she would like to have some air, Axe-Face marched her up and down an empty corridor, never taking her eyes off her, not permitting her to speak to anyone, making certain no one spoke to her. Then Axe-Face returned Evelina to her room, shut the door, and locked it.

  Evelina understood. While she was in the palace, she would be a prisoner. They would not let her talk to Marcus or even see him.

  Evelina snuggled into her warm, dry bed that night and said to herself softly, “We’ll see about that.”

  32

  THE NEXT MORNING, MARCUS AND HIS FATHER AND A SMALL contingent of knights and footsoldiers left the city. They traveled light, marching swiftly for the border that separated Idylswylde from her neighbor Weinmauer and also from Dragonkeep. The nearest outpost was Aston Castle, home of Crown Prince Wilhelm, Marcus’s eldest half-brother. King Edward had sent the prince an urgent message, telling him as much of the truth as he thought his son likely to believe, commanding him to send his troops to the northwest, toward the hitherto unknown city of Dragonkeep, where the prince was to deploy his men as he saw fit.

  The king’s army set out beneath a gray sky, for the rain that had soaked Evelina the day before continued to fall and, according to the weather-watchers, was likely to fall all that day. They rode with their hats pulled low to keep the rainwater out of their eyes. The bright-colored standards flapped sullenly in wind gusts that drove the cold rain into their faces. There was no talking among the knights or jesting or boasting of past deeds of glory. The bad weather probably had much to do with this, though Marcus felt their silence was darker and more sinister.

  He had been present when his father had tried to explain the nature of this enemy to a few trusted knights. Some were professional soldiers, others landed nobles; all were friends and comrades of the king, men who had known Marcus all his life. He saw the shock and incredulity in their eyes as his father told them, in a calm and steady voice, about the kingdom hidden by dragon-magic, about warriors who wielded magic given to them by dragons. A few knew the king well enough to voice their skepticism aloud, asking how Edward knew all this, and—when he mentioned his son—their incredulity hardened to disbelief.

  Most of these men thought privately—and some muttered aloud—that they were being led on a wild goose chase by a lunatic.

  Marcus began to wonder himself if this was true. He had lied to his father. He hadn’t actually seen this army of dragon warriors with his own eyes, though he’d assured Edward he had. Marcus had seen them with his mind’s eye. As a child, he’d seen many terrible and wonderful sights with that eye, sights that had been the dreams of dragons. What if this was a dragon’s dream? Or a drunkard’s dream? Whenever Marcus thought of Evelina and the wine, he flushed in shame. What if the army marched all this way and found nothing at the end?

  True, Draconas had confirmed what he’d seen, but Draconas was a dragon, and could he be trusted? He’d as much as admitted that he’d taken Marcus to Dragonkeep as bait in order to lure out the dragon. And he’d made it clear that what he did, he did for love of his own kind, not for love of humans. Perhaps Draconas was playing his own game.

  Marcus knew his father had doubts, though Edward had said nothing to him. The king was taking an immense risk, believing in his son—a son who was having difficulty believing in himself. True, Edward had seen the mad monks. He’d seen illusion magic at work—Draconas had once knocked the king through what he’d perceived to be a stone wall. But that was a long way from believing in magic that could hide an entire city from sight for hundreds of years and field an army of warriors with the blood of dragons in their veins.

  As Marcus rode at the head of his own force—the Prince’s Own, a troop of knights who had been rewarded for service to the crown by being given the honor of escorting the prince—he looked into a future that was bleak and gray as the day.

  He did not know what to wish for. If he hoped for vindication, then it was likely that he and many of these men riding with him would die. If he wished it to be nothing more than a dream, his fattier had mustered his army at great expense for nothing, and news that the prince was mad would spread like wildfire. His parents would have to shut him up in a monastery to silence the outcry and keep him from further disgracing his family. Thinking of this, Marcus deemed a metal dart in the throat preferable.

  He rode by himself, keeping his distance from his escorts, who—truth to tell—were not disposed to be on a friendly basis with the young man. The knights, led by Sir Troeven had vowed before God and their king that they would lay down their lives for their prince if need be. They hadn’t taken any oath to be his friend.

  Edward was concerned about his son. Marcus knew that, for he saw his father casting worried glances in his direction. Marcus pretended he didn’t notice. He much preferred to keep himself to himself.

  By afternoon, however, when Marcus had not said a word to anyone and had given away his food to a pack of delighted urchins and their dogs, Edward fell back from his position at the head of the army to join his son. Raising his voice to be heard over the drumming rain, he said, in companionable tones, “What did you think of the Lady Izabelle?”

  Marcus blinked his eyes to clear them of rainwater and dragged his thoughts back from the gloomy prospect before him to wonder what he did think of the young woman who was going to be his wife. The truth was, he’d been so preoccu
pied and worried that he hadn’t given her much thought at all.

  Perhaps his father guessed as much for he added, louder still, “By your silent preoccupation all day, my son, I take it you’ve been thinking of little else except her lovely face.”

  Marcus took the hint. “She is truly very beautiful, Father,” he said, trying to sound as enthusiastic as possible.

  And he had to give his mother credit. The Lady Izabelle was lovely. She was sweet, gentle, and graceful, and if she wasn’t madly in love with him now, she was prepared to be. He had taken her on a walk around the balustrades and they had viewed the famous cannons. There had been dinner—a grand affair, served in the great hall. There was music and dancing, with the lady as his partner.

  After that, his mother had suggested that he and the lady play a game of chess, which neither proved to be very good at, perhaps because neither was paying much attention. Gunderson and Sir Troeven and some of the other knights had drifted off to one part of the hall. Marcus spent much of his time watching them and wondering what they were saying. He kept having to force himself to make polite conversation and to move his chess pieces when he was supposed to.

  Lady Izabelle was likewise preoccupied. When it occurred to him that a long time had passed between them in silence, he found her staring into the fire, her expression grave. When the Queen rose to her feet and summoned her ladies to her, freeing Marcus to go to his father, the lady made him a graceful bow, gave him an enigmatic smile, and glided off to join Her Majesty without a backward look.

  Edward rode closer to Marcus to have a private conversation, their words covered by the rattle and clank of harness and bridle and the crackle of thunder.

  “What do you truly think of her?” Edward asked.

  “She is quite nice, Father,” Marcus answered, thinking, even as he said it, that this was hardly the rapturous praise of an ardent lover.