Fall of the Dragon Prince

by Dan Allen

  “Yes, lovely, Werm. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

  “So what do you suggest we do then?”

  Tanna bit her lip pensively and then said suddenly in a conspiratorial tone, “We just need to get him out of here—make sure he goes to Ferrin-tat. Once he’s gone and can’t fuss over any of us, we can get the whole village to join in. Redif can trap him another dragon. Besides, it’s that firecracker of yours he needs to win.”

  “It’s an incendiary projectile,” Werm corrected with a hint of pride.

  “Any idea why he wants to strap himself to it?”

  “Haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Oh well,” Tanna said matter-of-factly. “We’d better get started. I’ll head for the place of resort to scrounge up some materials. You stay with Terith and get him on the way to Ferrin’s place as soon as he’s up—tell him to ask Ferrin to send help or something. Then see what you can recover from Neutat. It looks like the northwest side is still intact.”

  “I still think you’re crazy,” said the chemist.

  “Do it, Werm. Or face my wrath. We aren’t giving up on him. He never gave up on us.”

  “Fine, I’ll do it. Trouble you for a goodnight kiss?”

  “Werm—”

  “I’ll just . . . get these ropes ready.”

  Chapter 9

  Erdali Realm. Citadel of Toran.

  Reann was dizzy when she finished putting away the last of the historical volumes Verick had torn down from the second tier shelves. But she wasn’t dizzy from the ladders. She left the library and scampered down two flights of stairs to the basement. Her bare feet felt light as she almost skipped along a curving portal that ran around the outside of a circular ceremonial hall. It ended in a small room with heaps of laundered rags and linens. She sighed and collapsed onto the pile of laundry.

  It had been a perfect day, perfect since the first moment.

  Verick had invited her into his room while he had breakfast and they had shared tea together—like friends.

  Reann had never before had tea with a noble.

  They had talked about Toran. They had walked the grounds in the morning for exercise and Reann had taken his arm for surer footing on the castle wall steps—taken his arm. It was like holding an oaken bow.

  Research had gone fantastically well. Verick had spared a clue that Reann had immediately unraveled. It was a reference to a book of clan law, where Reann discovered the legal requirement for a conqueror to produce an heir with a mother from the conquered clan. Toran had ruled five realms, so legally he had to produce a joint heir for each.

  She had also discovered a caveat. The conqueror could choose the mother. And there was a time limit to produce a joint heir to consummate legitimacy of the union of the realms: five years from the date of the alliance. With bounds on the heirs’ birthdates, she had vastly narrowed the search. It was real progress.

  Encouraged, Verick had promised to reveal additional clues.

  Reann grinned at the thought.

  Verick seemed to truly understand her. He obviously found her interesting—choosing to keep her company on his walk and at breakfast.

  From someone so reserved, even a little attention was intoxicating.

  Reann blushed at the thought. But more than that, the possibility of actually finding an heir was suddenly becoming real. With Verick’s help, there could be a new king on the throne, a new future not for her, but the entire alliance of the five realms. Anticipation bubbled up insider her as her mind churned through the details of the day. The expectation grew with every passing moment.

  Verick had eaten dinner with the rest of the visiting nobles and then disappeared into the village to interrogate the locals about Toran.

  At least that’s what Reann supposed he did. She still had chores to finish and couldn’t spy. Beneath his layer of calculated calm was a shadow of hidden intent that Reann couldn’t place.

  It made him all the more interesting—another mystery.

  Ranger yawned from where he lay curled on a pile of still-warm, sun-dried sheets. He made pains to get as much of his fur on them as possible, if only to get Reann’s attention.

  “Go ahead,” Reann said to her tabby cat. “I don’t mind today.”

  “What are you doing down here talking to yourself?”

  “Hello, Wretch.” Reann’s back was to Ret. She didn’t bother turning around. Her thoughts were more interesting.

  The pause from Ret was longer than she expected.

  “Need some help?”

  Reann shrugged. “Not really.”

  “You all right?” Ret asked.

  “Of course I am. Why do you ask?” Reann answered.

  “Well . . . no reason really, except . . . I saw that Serbani lord down in the village. He sent me to ask for you.”

  “Me? Just now?”

  “Yep,” Ret said.

  Reann stood up quickly. “Where is he?”

  “At the cobbler. He was getting his shoes mended.”

  “It’s late for shoe mending,” she noted. Then again, Verick was a very thorough man. He probably had an evening appointment. “When did he send you?” she said, flustered at the sudden summons, and not having time to get herself presentable.

  “Just a few minutes ago. The castle gate is still open. It’s market day. Don’t know why they bother this time of year. Nobody’s around.”

  “Here.” Reann shoved the towel she had been folding at Ret and hurried out of the folding room.

  “What am I supposed to do with this?” Ret called after her.

  “It’s a towel,” Reann called back. “It’s for bathing. You should try it sometime.”

  “Very funny, Reann.”

  Reann hurried up the stairs and out of the castle, slowing as she passed through the castle gates into the village. If Verick was calling for her at his shoe appointment, it probably meant he had run out of people to question and wanted company—her company.

  Or he had made a discovery. Both options were interesting.

  She turned east down a dark street toward the river docks. It was a short walk to the cobbler, and as Ret had said, the streets were quiet and empty.

  “Ah, Reann,” called Verick’s familiar voice as she neared the shop. “I thought you might like to see this.”

  Verick sat on a bench, minus his boots. Candlelight filtering through the cobbler’s window curtain spilled onto the street, lighting one half of Verick’s face. The summer air was warm and comfortable.

  Verick gestured Reann closer and she took the initiative, sitting next to him on the bench as close as she could.

  Verick had a large book on his lap. He spoke as if in mid-thought. “In theory, Toran could have had an heir in Erdal whenever he wanted. But his longest stretch of time in Erdal was after the last campaign in the west desert. He came home for good. Shouldn’t his heir have been born then?”

  Reann nodded, unsure of where Verick was headed.

  Verick hefted the book. “This is a register. I bought it from the cobbler’s wife.”

  “What sort of register?” Reann asked.

  Verick held up a large bound tome. “Midwifery. It documents all the births in this part of Erdal.”

  Reann’s heart sank. “And you want me to read every single one and crosscheck the parentage?”

  “I thought it was splendid—ah, here we are.”

  The cobbler, an old man named Jebsen, emerged with Verick’s boots. “New soles only,” he said. “Uppers are fine quality. Should last a good many season yet.”

  Verick took the boots, tugged them on and allowed the cobbler to bind the laces. Verick left a handful coins in the cobbler’s empty hands and strode up the road toward the high street. Reann followed, carrying the large book. Verick didn’t speak of their business again until they had passed t
hrough the open castle gates.

  Market day was the only day the castle was open to all citizens. That custom of Toran had survived, though few of the villagers had a reason to visit the grounds, except the occasional young couple on a stroll or children playing chase in the open space of the courtyard. At this hour, it was all but empty.

  Reann kept her feet shuffling at an extra half pace to match Verick’s stride, and eventually tucked her arm under his to keep balance as they crossed the wagon ruts.

  “The ledger,” Verick said quietly, “should give us some information about—”

  A hunched man sauntering past in the opposite direction swerved suddenly. His clumsy, uneven footsteps staggered between Reann and Verick. He turned to her and gripped the cuff of her blouse. His breath reeked of bad ale.

  “Trouble you for a half piece? A quarter?”

  Reann shook her head. “I have none.”

  “Leave off,” Verick said. “Do your begging at the market.”

  The man, his grubby fingers writhing like the legs of a weaving spider, turned to Verick. “You are a gentleman. Mercy from your grace.” The beggar stumbled forward and bumped into Verick. The two fell backward. Verick stopped his fall by putting an elbow against the corner of the aviary’s doorpost. He swore angrily and shook his arm.

  Reann laughed. “Funny bone.”

  “It’s not funny.”

  The beggar stumbled away, grumbling about heartless rich folk.

  “Wait—” Verick said suddenly. He put his hand to his coat pocket and patted it. “You there—Stop! On your life!”

  The beggar dropped his cloak and raced forward.

  It wasn’t an old man at all, but a much younger thief. Nor was he drunk, Reann realized. He had probably soaked his scarf in ale.

  Verick jumped forward, chasing after the lithe fellow, matching him stride for stride.

  The expert thief had only a few more paces before he was through the unguarded gate and into the safety of the dark, twisting side streets of the outer village.

  Verick lunged forward and the two men fell to the ground.

  Reann hurried to the spot expecting to see Verick grappling with the pickpocket.

  Verick stood and brushed his knee. He reached down and tore his notebook from the limp hands of the thief, re-pocketed it, and slid his saber back into its sheath.

  The thief did not move.

  Reann gasped. “He’s not . . . you didn’t . . .”

  The thief lay in a crumpled heap on the ground, his arms and head twisted at awkward angles.

  Reann looked around the empty courtyard, horror-struck. Her breathing caught in her throat as panic seized her. “No. No. No.” She looked at Verick. “What have you done?”

  “I have rid your castle of an unwelcome thief.”

  Reann knelt and touched the young man. She shook him gently.

  “He’s dead,” Verick said simply. “I told him to stop, on his life. I gave him fair warning.”

  Reann pulled her hand back as it touched the warm, wet blood near the base of the young man’s skull where Verick’s lunging stab had landed. She stood quickly, her own blood burning within her.

  “You can’t just take the law into your own hands,” she said fiercely. “He has to stand trial before a magistrate and receive sentence.” She stared at Verick, hatred welling up in her.

  “What I hold dear is worth more to me than this entire castle. You would be good to remember that.”

  The notes, Reann realized. She was relieved for a moment that Verick had recovered them, but that thought only made her angrier. “I’m going to report this to the watch.”

  Verick moved with such speed and force that the next thing Reann knew she was pinned against the castle wall with Verick’s hand clamped on her jaw.

  “Stop it,” she tried to say through the pressure of his fingers clamping her mouth. “You’re hurting me.”

  Verick’s face leaned close. He spoke with malice that stabbed at Reann’s wounded heart. She shuddered as his words hissed in her ear. “Listen to me, servant girl. You’ll do exactly as I say, when I say, how I say or you’ll end up just like that fellow in the street. And don’t think I don’t mean it.”

  Reann closed her eyes as tears welled in them.

  “At this moment, you are an accomplice. No? Try convincing a judge when it’s your word, a peasant’s, against mine. You’d be banished without a thought . . . or worse, whipped and executed.”

  You can’t do this, she thought, but every ounce of logic in her told her that he could do exactly what he promised.

  “We understand each other?” Verick asked, his tone grave and deadly.

  Reann nodded.

  “I came here for a purpose. We are engaged on that cause and nothing will dissuade me—least of all a common thief.”

  Verick released her jaw and Reann gasped.

  “You had better get rid of that body,” Verick added, picking up the register Reann had dropped when Verick assaulted her. “Dead bodies with sword wounds bring questions I don’t have time for. Cart it away and throw it in the river.”

  Reann looked up. The castle guard, totaling seven men with mugs of ale in one hand and halberds in the other were coming up the high street on their patrol. The patrol route on market day conveniently passed several taverns where they received their usual bribes of libations into their empty mugs.

  “It’s too late,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “They’re coming to close the gate.”

  “Then use that clever mind of yours and find a solution.”

  Verick turned and walked briskly toward the double doors of the castle.

  Reann’s heart raced. Her mind spun. She looked again. The portcullis was closing. The guards and their lanterns would pass in moments.

  She glanced back at the aviary. The very thought turned her insides to lead.

  “Please,” Reann whispered. “Move.” She grabbed the young man under his arms and jerked. To her surprise, the underfed body slid easily. She frantically tugged on the corpse until she reached the netted enclosure of the aviary. The door latch opened at her touch.

  Reann hauled the body in, praying the famed hunting birds did not mistake her for their meal. The hunting falcons flexed their talons and clicked their beaks expectantly.

  Reann folded the dead boy’s arms over his chest, quickly whispering an urgent prayer at a speed no monk would dare. “Guardians of the sacred place beyond, guide his spirit, avenge this awful deed and absolve my sin.” Reann turned and dashed out the aviary and closed the latch as tears began to stream down her face.

  Two inquisitive hawks fluttered down, followed by another.

  She turned to flee the scene of impending gore and then turned back in a panic.

  The lock!

  She had almost made a fatal mistake.

  She unlatched the gate.

  A drunk who wandered into a falcon’s roost, thinking it to be an outhouse, could not lock himself in.

  As the approaching guards’ laughter floated on the evening air, Reann staggered toward the castle, clutching her stomach. Her foot squelched as she moved, leaving a residue of the thief’s blood on the cobblestone.

  Demons spare me, she pleaded. She yanked off her slippers and made for the shadows under the west wall. She couldn’t bring herself to think of the noises coming from the aviary.

  She washed at a well—her hands, her feet, her apron—but no matter how she scrubbed, she couldn’t feel clean.

  Not wanting to see the other girls, Reann returned to the basement laundry. She stayed there until dawn.

  

  Reann jolted awake with a scream as something gripped her arm.

  “Reann?”

  She clutched her hand to her chest and sat up, blinking. “Oh, it’s just you, Ret. Where am I?
”

  “Laundry sorting room,” Ret said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He stood up nervously, shut the door, and leaned against it for a moment, saying nothing.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked.

  “I just—” Ret began, “just wanted to check on you.”

  “Why?” Reann twisted around and cleared her drifting brunette bangs out of her eyes.

  Ret’s expression clouded, his face pale. “Someone died last night.”

  Reann grabbed a folded towel and squeezed it. Her heart nearly stopped beating for fright.

  “The girls said you didn’t come in.”

  “You think I killed him?” Reann said defensively. “How could you suggest—”

  “No,” Ret said. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just . . . I found this body in the aviary.”

  “Oh my,” Reann said, burying her face in the towel.

  “Head Butler had me clean up the bones,” Ret said with a grimace.

  “Is that . . . Is that why you came down here, for a rag to wash up with?”

  “Yes . . . no. Look Reann, it’s pretty obvious, isn’t it?”

  Reann said nothing. Ret had that overprotective look written all over his face.

  “I didn’t think it was you in there—I was pretty sure. I mean, somebody had to have killed that guy and tried to hide the body by putting it in the aviary.”

  “No!” Reann gasped.

  “I’ll bet it was that southerner who did it,” Ret said, staring forward at the wall.

  “Verick?”

  “Was he with you last night?” Ret questioned. “Did he escort you back to the castle?”

  “Well, no. I . . . I left him there, at the cobbler’s shop. His shoes weren’t ready yet.” Reann’s heart dropped into her stomach as she lied. “But you don’t know for sure he killed someone.”

  “Isn’t he in the middle of some kind of land dispute?” Ret, the lanky stable hand, said. “I wouldn’t put it past him to end a fight with that sword of his.”

  “I made that rumor up,” Reann said before she realized she had said it.

  “You spread a lie . . . for him?” Ret said in a strained voice. “Why? What else are you doing for him? Is he taking advantage of you? Is that why you were out all night? Dungeons! Reann—”