The Crown and the Dragon

by John D. Payne

  Knowing that she was in for a lengthy lesson, Elenn leaned back in the cart. Still, she couldn’t help but grin. The two of them, on the road, and Aunt Ethelind expounding—it felt like old times.

  “Some say it was a great weapon,” Ethelind continued, “broken in an ancient battle. I believe it is now the path to Deiran independence.” She held up a single finger. “One thing we do know is that the Gods…” She trailed off, and cocked her head to the left as if listening for a far-off sound.

  Elenn noticed that Gawaine had stopped singing, and that the cart had stopped moving.

  “I guess Seissylt does need someone to—”

  “Quiet, child,” Ethelind interrupted. “And listen.”

  Elenn turned her head slowly. Aside from the songs of a few birds, the woods were quiet. Closing her eyes to concentrate on the sounds around her, Elenn thought she heard the whisper of a distant breeze. Suddenly, the darkness grew a fraction deeper, and Elenn’s eyes flew open to scan the heavens.

  “What was that?” Elenn asked. “The dragon? The shadow monster?”

  “A cloud,” said Ethelind. “Now hush.”

  “But what am I listening for, Aunt—” She stopped. Behind her, Elenn thought she heard the whinny of a horse. “A rider!” she said, hopping off the cart and looking down the road ahead of them. “Thank the Gods!”

  Looking back at her aunt, Elenn saw worry, not relief. Wordlessly, she closed the wooden case and handed the Falarica back to Ethelind, who dropped it in her leather bag and put the bag at the bottom of her travel chest, underneath her clothes.

  Elenn set Gawaine’s cage atop the chest, where the little white bird chirped cheerfully. Ethelind handed Elenn a cap retrieved from her travel chest. Adjusting her own cap and tucking away loose strands of hair, Ethelind gave Seissylt a light swat on the rump and got the tub-cart moving again.

  Through the willows and poplars that grew up alongside the gently winding road, Elenn made out two distant figures on horseback, followed by two others on foot. As they drew near, she saw the men on horseback were cavalry soldiers of some kind. From their strangely pointed steel helmets and the quilted canvas jacks they wore instead of Vitalion scale mail, she supposed that they were auxiliaries from Sarin or Sithia, or some other far-flung province of the Vitalion empire.

  One of the soldiers held a rope, which led to the two men on foot. The men were prisoners—stripped to the waist and filthy, their wrists bound in front of them. Their feet were bare, and the men were muddy up to their knees. One was lean and had close-cropped brown hair and a few days’ beard. The other was large, bald, and ugly. They were perhaps twenty-five or thirty years old, and both of them bore the branding marks of outlaws.

  As Elenn looked over this party, the soldier who was not leading the prisoners trotted ahead towards the cart.

  “Let me do the talking, child,” whispered Ethelind. “Don’t be afraid, but keep your peace and show respect.”

  “This isn’t the first time we’ve encountered a Vitalion patrol, Aunt Ethelind,” said Elenn.

  Ethelind frowned, and seemed about to speak, but Gawaine chose that moment to burst into song.

  “You’re not afraid, either, are you, Gawaine?” said Elenn with a smile. “You’re my brave little warrior.”

  “Gods, please preserve us from warriors and all their brave foolishness,” said Ethelind, and she stepped forward to greet the approaching cavalryman.

  ***

  Chapter Eight

  Aedin Jeoris was on fire, his whole body blazing with pain. His head ached and his feet throbbed with each step. His wrists chafed where they were bound, and his shoulders ached from being yanked along by his Sithian guards when he could not maintain their pace. His lungs gasped for air after eight hours of keeping up with men on horseback. His chest was scratched and bruised from being dragged over the bare ground when he had stopped walking. His throat was raw from screaming at his captors, before he finally admitted to himself that his insults and taunts only made them laugh.

  So Aedin kept moving, kept quiet, and kept his eyes on the road in front of his feet to avoid stumbling. His world contracted: he was aware of nothing but his own body, the rope that pulled him forward, and the labored breathing of Leif beside him. The forced march in the late summer heat was hard on the big man.

  “They’ll water the horses soon,” Aedin lied. In truth he had no idea when they would be stopping, or how long it had been since their last rest. But he could hear the Shirbrook babbling not far off, and he could surely use a drink. “Keep moving.”

  Leif nodded his bald head raggedly and kept staggering forward

  Aedin owed the ugly brute his life in a way, but Leif’s gambit had only kept the two of them alive long enough to be dragged down the road to Tantillion for a friendly chat with Corvus and his butchers—assuming they survived the trip. So Aedin wasn’t sure they were much better off than poor Orren and Dawes, still swinging from the branches of an oak up by Tay Barrows.

  The Sithian cavalryman holding their leash, a young man with wisps of blond hair peeking out from underneath his pointed steel helmet, abruptly stopped. Aedin nearly stumbled into the horse, which kicked at him absently, but missed. Beside him, Leif collapsed onto the road, exhausted.

  “Get up, you big girl’s blouse,” said Aedin quietly. If they were not ready to move when the Sithians spurred their horses, they would be dragged. “Not going to carry your fat corpse all the way to Tantillion.”

  “Leave me alone,” Leif rasped.

  “Come on, you great, ugly goon,” said Aedin, unable to pull the big man up out of the mud. The cawing of crows in in nearby trees sounded like the cackling of ghouls. “Listen, even the birds are laughing at you.”

  “Mingin’ crows,” Leif growled, struggling to his feet. “You’ll not pick my bones.”

  Aedin helped him stand up, wondering why they had not been whipped or even berated by their captors. Glancing up at the Sithians, he saw them looking down the road.

  Following their gaze, Aedin finally noticed two female figures walking alongside a horse pulling a small cart. They must have been desperate to be traveling alone in the Riverlands in such troubled times.

  Ignoring their prisoners for the moment, the Sithians strung their bows and conversed in their own tongue. Aedin did not understand their speech, but he had so far gathered that the older one, dark-haired with a neatly trimmed beard, was named Tuliyek, and the younger was called Nurzod. He had also gathered that each took pleasure in the suffering of others. Aedin did not envy the women.

  “So… stinking… hot,” Leif said. “Thirsty.”

  “Sharp now,” Aedin whispered. “This might be our chance.”

  Tuliyek glared at Aedin and Leif, stroking his straight, pointed beard. Then he barked an order to young Nurzod and trotted over to the women. The blond cavalryman tied the rope to his saddle and then slowly deliberately placed an arrow on his bowstring. “You run, I shoot,” the Sithian said in muddy Deiran.

  Aedin said nothing, but contemplated the arithmetic of one arrow and two targets. His eyes darted over at Leif, who stared murder up at their young captor. Any other day, the bald brute would’ve pulled Nurzod off his horse and strangled him with the rope. But they were both wounded and exhausted.

  The young cavalryman glanced over at his fellow, who was officiously questioning the women about a hundred yards down the winding dirt road. Nodding in the direction of the cart, Nurzod said, “Walk.”

  Aedin walked, supporting Leif with one arm. Nurzod followed behind on his horse, and Aedin didn’t have to turn to see the young Sithian’s arrow pointed at his back. He felt it.

  Rounding the bend, Aedin saw the two women more clearly. One was tall, sturdy, and dressed like a nun. She was answering Tuliyek’s questions, standing protectively in front of her companion, who modestly averted her eyes. She was young, dressed in an elegant scarlet kirtle and linen smock, her fair hair covered with a yellow-gold cap. Her unspoiled beauty had not
gone unnoticed by the Sithian, who stared at her intently.

  The older woman, still shielding her young companion, produced a few folded pieces of paper from within her robes, and handed them to the Sithian. Tuliyek took the papers without looking at them and nudged his horse forward so that his view of the lady in scarlet was again unobstructed. He gave the girl a smile, the same smile he had given Aedin before dragging him behind his horse for half a mile. It was not a good smile.

  “As you can see,” the older woman said, “we are on official business of the Leodrine Order.” She paused. “Our authorization is written in Vitalion as well, of course.”

  “Of course,” nodded the Sithian, stroking his neat black beard. Aedin didn’t suppose he could read or write in any language. “What is in the cart?” He tossed the papers carelessly back to the older woman, who snatched them before they could fall to the muddy ground

  “Candles,” the woman replied, “and other supplies. We are bearing them to the Leode of Ghel. You’ve seen our documents. May we be on our way?”

  “Bloody Orders,” muttered Leif. “Think they run the whole world.”

  “Rather tip my hat to a nun than bend the knee to the Vitalion,” said Aedin. “Or their dogs,” he added, glancing back at Nurzod, who was watching them.

  “No stinking difference” said Leif. “I bow to no man. And especially no woman.”

  “Some I wouldn’t mind bending for,” said Aedin, taking a step forward.

  As he did, Nurzod tugged hard on his rope, nearly causing him to lose his balance. Glancing back, Aedin saw the blond cavalryman lift his bow and point the arrow once more at his prisoners.

  “I shoot,” he said.

  “You shoot,” muttered Aedin. “Got it.”

  Turning his back on his captor, Aedin tried to catch another glimpse of the girl in the scarlet kirtle. In a few days, he would likely be tortured to death. It would be nice to drink in a little beauty before all that ugliness.

  “Two women, all alone,” said Tuliyek, stroking his black beard. “Where are your men?”

  “My men?” the woman repeated, sounding offended. “My niece and I are quite capable of looking after one horse and a little tub cart.”

  “You sure?” the elder Sithian asked, patting the horse harnessed to the cart. “He is a very fine animal, but he needs better care. You work him too hard.”

  Nurzod laughed and called out something in their own tongue which had the rhythm of a proverb.

  “My friend reminds me of a saying,” said Tuliyek, grinning. “‘The donkey refuses the heavy burden, but the horse will work to death.’” He straightened up in his saddle and set his hands on the pommel. “We say this to the young man when he marries. Because the man is like the donkey, and he does not understand that the woman is like the horse.”

  “Like a horse?” said the older woman flatly.

  “Beautiful creatures,” said the elder Sithian. “Loving. Selfless. They serve man and delight his heart. But they need the man’s care. Because they are not wise.” He smiled.

  At this, the older woman’s eyes widened and her chin rose, but before she could speak, her companion in scarlet leaned in and whispered something in her ear.

  “Thank you,” the older woman said at last, “for your counsel on horses. The man who cared for this noble beast left us two days ago. If our own efforts have fallen short, may the Gods forgive us for our poor stewardship.”

  “The shame is the man’s, for leaving you,” said Tuliyek. “There are wicked men in this country, who prey on the weak. A terrible thing, this.”

  “See?” said Nurzod, pointing at Aedin and Leif with his bow and arrow. “Bandits.”

  The older woman merely glanced in their direction, but the girl regarded them with some interest. Seeing Leif puff out his great chest, Aedin felt stupid for straightening up.

  “They ambushed a merchants’ caravan two days ago,” said the older Sithian. “But Vitalion soldiers caught them.” He nudged his horse closer, and leaned in towards the younger woman. “Many we branded, others we hung. These two we take to be questioned. All this we do for your safety.”

  “We offer prayers of thanks for your service,” said the woman, “on behalf of all the gentle women and children of Deira.” She bowed to the Sithians in the manner of the Leodrine Sisters, who do not curtsey. The Sithians returned the bow, with no sign that they perceived disrespect or immodesty.

  “It is our pleasure,” said Tuliyek, “to rid the world of such as these.” Looking at Aedin, his nose wrinkled as if he were passing by a tannery.

  “Gods protect us from such men,” the woman said, crossing her middle and ring fingers and placing her hands on her chest in an appeal to heaven. “And since our journey takes us where you have already been, we thank you doubly for having cleared the roads.” She bowed again, more deeply, and this time her young companion curtsied.

  “We appreciate your thanks,” said the Sithian, inclining his head graciously toward the women, “but we are merely soldiers who serve the Vitalion Empire, as all subjects of the Emperor must.” He smiled.

  “Naturally,” said the woman.

  “And speaking of this reminds me that we still have a service to perform today,” Tuliyek said. He glanced at Aedin and Leif and stroked his beard, an expression of slight regret on his face. “These men must go to be questioned, and as humble servants of the Empire, we must take them. And you must take your candles to Ghel.”

  “So here we part,” the woman said. “And Gods watch over us all.”

  “Yes,” said the Sithian. “But first,” he added, removing his helmet, “you will serve me.”

  ***

  Chapter Nine

  Elenn’s heart nearly stopped at the bearded Sithian’s leering insinuation. All his talk of protection and service, and now this! Even one of the two wretched prisoners—the lean one with short brown hair, not the big bald one—looked abashed. Elenn opened her mouth to rebuke him for his rudeness, but Aunt Ethelind was already speaking.

  “We are happy to serve the Empire,” said Ethelind, as cool as a river rock, “but we have little to offer.”

  “I thirst,” said the man. With his pointed steel helmet removed, Elenn saw sweat dripping down his brow. She didn’t know how soldiers tolerated all that heavy armor.

  “The Shirbrook is very close,” said Ethelind, “and a drink would refresh us all.” She took Seissylt’s bridle in her hand and turned his head toward the brook.

  “No,” said the Sithian. He pointed to a small wooden barrel in the tub-cart. “Whatever you have in that cask.”

  “Everything in our cart belongs to the Leode,” said Ethelind, “including the ale.”

  “Are we not all under the same sun?” the Sithian asked. “Children of the same Gods?”

  “Neither your idols nor the Emperor you bow to now fathered the Deirans,” said Ethelind.

  “Were you there when the world was young, to see how its peoples came to be?” asked the Sithian, stroking his neatly-trimmed beard. “Perhaps your gods and mine are closer kin than you think.”

  Ethelind raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps.”

  The Sithian smiled and said something to his young compatriot in their own tongue. Elenn saw nothing funny about this exchange, but both cavalrymen were laughing. Neither of the two prisoners seemed amused, either. Maybe it was something only Sithians found humorous.

  “Now we see why woman needs man,” said the older Sithian. “Because otherwise she would never admit ignorance.”

  “Thank you for helping me to be humble,” said Ethelind drily.

  “Even in humility she is proud!” laughed the Sithian. Then he leaned back in his saddle and sighed. “Ah, if we had met when you were sixteen…”

  “But you did not,” said Ethelind, “and instead my path took me to the Sisters of the Leodrine, as it does again today.” She gestured at the cart. “The goods we carry are needed to celebrate Lammas Eve. These ceremonial candles are from the shrine of
Enid the Prophetess, where bees gather nectar from the flowers that grow on her grave. Her essence is literally distilled in that honey, so her wisdom will give us light on this most sacred and joyous day.”

  Both Sithians looked impressed by this speech, as was Elenn—although she tried to keep it from showing. The candles in the wagon were from her grandparents’ estate, and quite ordinary as far as she knew.

  “Those are blessed candles indeed,” said the Sithian, stroking his beard. “Is the ale also holy? Perhaps the tears of sea nymphs, brewed in the skull of a visionary hermit?”

  “No,” said Ethelind, with the ghost of a smile. “Just ale.”

  “Then, surely,” the Sithian winked, “you would not deny me one drink.”

  Ethelind leaned back where she stood, looking down her nose at the Sithian on his horse above her. “One drink,” she said at last. Then, with a deep sigh, she murmured, “If only I had found you when you were sixteen…”

  The Sithian roared with laughter. While he repeated the conversation to his young companion in their own tongue, Ethelind went to the cart and poured amber ale from the cask into a clay mug.

  “Vile men,” said Ethelind quietly to Elenn, “both of them. Be glad you don’t know what they’re saying about us.”

  “You understand?” Elenn asked.

  “I learned to ride in Sithia,” said Ethelind. She turned the cask upright again, stoppered it, and stepped around with the full mug.

  The elder Sithian abruptly stopped talking and held up his hand. “No. Not from you. From her,” he said, pointing at Elenn.

  Elenn looked to her aunt, who bowed and said, “Of course.” Ethelind turned and handed the mug to Elenn. With her back to the men on horseback, she silently mouthed, “Be careful.”

  Elenn approached the bearded horseman with the mug in her hand. She kept her eyes modestly turned down, but she felt his gaze intently on her as she walked. Reaching him, she curtsied and lifted the mug.