The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  Only when satisfied that no man dared challenge him—yet—he picked up the heavy Dragon Crown and tucked it under his arm. Briefly he turned toward the panels and draperies behind him and winked at Linda. Then he stalked out of the Council Chamber.

  “Your Grace,” Lord Andrall said quietly. “As husband to your Aunt, I am privy to pieces of information the others have no knowledge of.”

  The king stopped, without changing his posture. He did not turn around.

  Linda leaned closer trying desperately to see what could make her father change his mind. About anything.

  “You have a son,” Lord Andrall said quietly.

  Instantly the men stilled. Silence sat heavily among them, like a living wall.

  “A son? I have a brother? Why didn’t I know about this?” Linda asked no one in particular, not bothering to hush her tones. Her middle grew cold and her breaths grew heavy, short, painful.

  “Your Grace?” Lord Laislac asked the unaskable.

  “He told you that I have a son. The result of a youthful . . .” He fluttered his fingers in a dismissive gesture.

  But Linda saw a softening in his shoulders.

  “A youthful indiscretion,” P’pa continued. “My baseborn son has been raised in secret at the edge of the kingdom. I have acknowledged him to no one but his mother and her husband. He’s nearly eighteen now, on the verge of manhood.”

  Linda groaned. How could you, P’pa?

  “There are ways to make such a child legitimate in the eyes of the law and the priests,” Lord Jemmarc said after a long moment. “I have gone through the rituals for my own son,” Lord Jemmarc looked at his hands.

  “Will the queen agree to legitimize the boy?” Lord Laislac asked.

  “My wife accepted Lucjemm without hesitation when she proved infertile,” Jemmarc said. “But the queen?”

  Linda remembered Jemmarc’s scandal three years ago; various court factions rallied around him, while others sought to shun him in support of his wife. Lady Lucinda had accepted the boy into her household as an infant. The only mother he’d known. The formal acceptance of him as heir had to wait until he was old enough to accept it with his own oath, not his father’s.

  What was the boy’s name? Linda had danced with him two weeks ago at her Coming of Age party. She knew she must have matched blades with him, and a dozen others, in the arena, but his name eluded her, unimportant until now. She hadn’t registered what Jemmarc called him. The boy didn’t smell too bad, didn’t trip over his own feet. She vaguely remembered that he’d fought her to a draw in their last sword match. And he had a magnificent black gelding with a smooth gait and nimble intelligence.

  “This requires much thought and consultation. I declare this meeting at an end.” P’pa exited quickly without turning to wink at Linda.

  CHAPTER 5

  DARVILLE ASSUMED a wary stance, broadsword held in both hands en garde. He blinked against the bright afternoon sun, wishing his head would stop hurting. A good long bout in the training arena outside the household guard barracks had always banished his hurts and settled his mood.

  So far he’d sent three opponents sprawling in the sawdust or staggering against the split rail fence that separated the field from the courtyard, and anger still boiled in his gut. Now he faced his fourth and most challenging adversary.

  He watched his opponent’s eyes between the slats of his practice helm, only peripherally aware of the stiffness in his shoulders and shifting of feet to ease his bruised knee within the many layers of quilted padding.

  If only his eyes would focus as sharply as they did twenty years ago. Or even five years ago . . .

  There, a flick of a glance to the left. General Marcelle betrayed himself every time. Had for years, since Darville had first learned to control his blade. The king slashed left, right, left in a quick barrage of blows. General Marcelle retreated, barely parrying the attack.

  Then, just when Darville lunged to come beneath the general’s guard, his opponent caught his blade with his own and slid forward until the guards engaged and tangled.

  “Slow down, Your Grace. You haven’t let your temper rule your blade since my father taught us this trick when we were twelve,” the general whispered when they stood helm to helm.

  “My apologies, Marcelle.” Darville disengaged and took three steps back before settling into his guarded stance once more.

  Before Darville could assess his opponent’s next move, the general bore down on him in a flurry of blows. The king parried and countered move for move. Marcelle kept coming. Darville’s temper lost its grip on his mind in the face of defending himself or losing all honor in front of seasoned warriors. His seasoned warriors.

  Then he saw the opening. Marcelle allowed his strength to overcome his control. He raised his sword for a crushing blow toward Darville’s shoulder. Darville parried with renewed vigor and lunged.

  His attack fell short.

  Instead of a strike with the tip of his blade against Marcelle’s chest, a ragged half blade stopped short of his target.

  He stared at the blade, broken in half. Where was the other half?

  Around him, he sensed the absolute stillness of the watchers, and of Marcelle. Something had gone terribly wrong.

  Suddenly Marcelle raised his sword in salute, raised his helm and bowed deeply from the waist.

  Darville straightened, raising his own helm. “S’murghit, what just happened?” he yelled at one and all.

  Two accidents in the same day. He was having trouble convincing himself they were accidents.

  “Something weakened your blade, your Grace. We will attend to it.” Marcelle bowed again and took one step backward.

  Not an accident. Tempered steel did not “weaken” on its own.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” Queen Rossemikka said from behind him. A hint of laughter colored her voice.

  Slowly, Darville turned, fully aware of his sweaty body and gritty face, strands of loose hair plastered across his brow. He cast aside his broken sword, making sure it landed near his squire’s feet. “Your Grace,” Darville said formally, bowing. When he stood straight again, he let her smile fill his world. He responded in kind, despite the ringing anvil inside his bruised head.

  “We must talk,” she said simply, with less delight, brushing his face free of wayward strands of hair.

  Darville looked around. All of his men had retreated a nominal step or two to grant them an illusion of privacy. An illusion only.

  “What brings you out of doors, so far from your sick bed?” he asked quietly, noting how the sun glistened in her red/brown/gold hair, but not as vibrantly as it had in their youth.

  “I have spent far too many weeks of my life recovering in that bed. I need fresh air, sunshine, glimpses of life instead of constant reminders of all that we have lost,” she replied grimly. Her eyes strayed to the sword lying on the ground, the ragged break as dangerous as the sharpened edged or piercing point.

  Darville pursed his lips. A good sword, his favorite practice weapon reserved for him and him alone, should not have broken so easily. Someone had tampered with it.

  He released his sudden flare of anger, nodding toward the blade so that his squire, Jensen, a good boy of thirteen, knew to stay with the blade through General Marcelle’s investigation. Marcelle hurried to the boy’s side and took custody. His toe nudged the stray piece in the sawdust of the practice field.

  Deliberately, the king turned his frown into the smile he reserved for his queen. He raised her hand to his lips, all the while studying her face for signs of weakness. A little pale yet, far too thin, with that hesitant forward stance of guarding her belly. A gaggle of ladies stood behind her, more concerned with keeping their skirts out of the churned mud and sawdust than with the health of their queen.

  �
��Then come, my dear. Let us sit in the rose garden a while.” He stripped off the padded tunic and breeches to reveal his own simple dark clothing beneath. Divested of the outward reminders of his weapons practice, he tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her back toward a postern gate in the palace walls.

  With the garden and its inviting benches in sight he dismissed the trailing ladies with a wave of his hand. Only one of them paused, a protest halted on her lips.

  “I shall not need you, Lady Anya,” Mikka said lightly. “I am with my husband after all.”

  The good lady retreated with her companions.

  Mikka leaned more heavily on his arm.

  “You should not have challenged your strength so soon,” Darville whispered, guiding her to the nearest bench and helping her sit without collapsing into a weak puddle.

  “I heard about the Council’s demands, and about your slip on the stairs,” she said as soon as she settled with his arm behind her back. Weakly, she leaned her head against his shoulder. “Now your broken sword,” she sighed heavily. “Two accidents in one day could have been a deliberate attempt to shorten your life.”

  “Or perhaps just a warning that I am not immortal and need to address the question of an heir.” He tried to ease her worry. He worried enough for both of them.

  “I wanted to be there in the Council Chamber with you, to advise you.”

  “I did not want to trouble you. It has only been ten days since the miscarriage.”

  “Linda is my daughter as well as yours,” Mikka insisted, some vibrancy returning to her voice with the strong emotions. “I have a right to express an opinion about the eligibility of her suitors. And I knew you would not bring your troubled temper to my bedside. You always wish to spare me.” She sat straighter.

  “And so I let my temper control my blade and beat up my generals until I am too tired to stand, let alone yell at the idiots who pretend to guide me.” Chagrin heated his face. “That was my intent until the blade broke. I have not sent it to the blacksmith for sharpening lately. No one else would have possession of the blade long enough to use heat and rapid cooling to weaken the steel. I wonder what kind of acid would eat slowly at the metal, weakening it unnoticed until the stress of my blows finally broke it. Magic?”

  “No. I would have smelled magic.”

  “The Council Lords are truly idiots if they think these episodes will push me to agree with them. I’m too stubborn for that. It only firms my resolve to find another solution. Or stall for time.”

  “They are not total idiots. They have concerns about the governance of this country.”

  “Their concerns are misguided. I am young and healthy. And as long as I wear the Dragon Crown, I have protection.”

  “But you have to have that heavy crown on your head for the magic to protect you from magic. Not even the Coraurlia can protect you from mundane tricks and tampering. You do not wear it now. You have no accepted heir should an ‘accident’ befall you. I cannot give you the son our people think they need to keep the government and economy stable.” She turned her face into his shoulder, hiding her grief.

  “This latest miscarriage took a heavy toll on your health, Mikka my love. Do not speak out of grief and weakness. We can wait a little while.”

  “I’m not so certain. I will never carry another child and survive. Lady Anya collected some herbs at the market yesterday. I will not conceive again as long as I take them.”

  “Is that safe?” Darville reared back in alarm.

  “According to Brevelan, my dearest friend and your first love, the herbal combination is safer than bleeding to death next time I try to carry another life within me.”

  “Just herbs, not magic.”

  “No magic necessary.”

  “I—I would rather risk magic than lose you, Mikka.”

  She smiled up at him, not bothering to hide the tears that glistened in her lustrous brown eyes. “We must send for him, Darville.”

  Something twisted in his gut. Humiliation, pain, he wasn’t sure, only extreme gratitude that she thought of the kingdom before her own emotional needs.

  “There are reasons . . .”

  “Good reasons. I know. But I am more than your wife. I am your queen. I was raised to accept compromises in politics when necessary.”

  “My son should be more to us than a compromise.” That was his Mikka, a queen before a wife and mother. He needed her stable judgment to rise above their human disappointments and his temper.

  “I know. But if Brevelan and Jaylor will give him up, I will welcome him into our household, our family. His presence will give us time. Stall the assassins who seek to take you down prematurely to further their own quests for power.”

  “My son will give us time for Linda to grow up a bit.”

  “More than just a bit. I will not see her forced into a loveless marriage before she knows why she does such a thing, why it’s important. Before she knows something of the world and possibly finds the love of her life. As I did.”

  “Ours is not a loveless marriage.” He kissed her lightly on the nose, delighted anew at how much joy she had brought to his troubled life.

  “It could have been. But I am glad we found each other compatible.”

  “More than compatible. I hope our three girls are as lucky as we.”

  CHAPTER 6

  “WILL YOU ACCEPT ME as your escort, Highness?” A lanky, brown-haired young man with a proper court queue, about a year older than Linda, bowed before her and her ladies. His clear brown eyes sparkled with a bit of humor and more than a bit of mischief. She found herself grinning at him.

  Jensen, her father’s squire, hovered behind them, not at all happy to escort girls shopping when he could be drilling with men in the practice arena. But he came alert at the sudden appearance of the almost familiar young man.

  “Master Lucjemm.” Linda nodded her head. At last she’d found the name of Lord Jemmarc’s son floating around her memory, just out of reach until she saw him and recognized his face. “If you have the patience to examine ribbons and laces in all the stalls on Market Isle . . .”

  “A small price for the right to escort you, Highness. And possibly show you some of the treasures you might not notice at first look.” He bowed again, not exactly graceful or practiced, but less awkward than some seasoned courtiers.

  She wondered who on the Council had sent him. His father certainly. But who were his allies?

  A diversion. If she found she liked him, maybe she could dangle him before the court as a potential and eligible suitor, long enough for them to forget about bringing P’pa’s bastard to the palace as the heir.

  She should be the heir, S’murghit!

  Linda looked to Miri and Chastet for agreement. They hid giggles and rolled eyes behind delicate handkerchiefs. They each took the opportunity to smooth their light brown hair to ensure tidiness and therefore attractiveness. Linda decided that that was agreement to include the young man in their entourage. She didn’t quite have the nerve to draw attention to her own gold/brown/red locks by tucking a stray curl behind her ear. That seemed the height of vanity.

  “You are welcome to join us, Master Lucjemm. Jensen, you may return to your duties with my father.”

  Lucjemm added his own dismissal to the young man with an anxious gesture. Then he offered Linda his arm.

  Jensen scooted away without a backward glance.

  Um. What was the royal protocol for this encounter? She was the Princess Royale; he was the heir to one of the great lords on the Council of Provinces. She outranked him and should therefore remain one step ahead of him. Taking his arm would keep her beside her. An intimate position due a suitor . . . Um.

  Miri and Chastet were no help with their barely suppressed giggles, exchanging whispers and thinly veiled glances bene
ath lowered lashes.

  She’d never had a suitor before. She’d never taken any man’s arm, except her father’s, since she had become an adult.

  Not knowing what else to do, Linda slipped her hand around his proffered arm.

  “I let you win that bout in the practice arena yesterday,” he said quietly, looking straight ahead so that she couldn’t see his expression beyond a stern control of the corner of his mouth that wanted to quirk upward.

  “Oh?” She tried to arch one eyebrow like Papa did, but failed miserably. “I did not know that you, or anyone, recognized me.” She wanted to frown sternly but his smile was warm and inviting. She couldn’t remain stern and disapproving for long.

  “We were told by General Marcelle not to recognize the anonymous ‘boy’ who only came to practice when the king did, and always showed up already armored and helmed with queue fully hidden, and never lingered for conversation and steed play among the other boys.”

  “If you did not ‘recognize’ me, why did you let me win?” Now she was angry that Papa and General Marcelle had not allowed her to properly judge her swordwork by honest bouts. How could she learn her faults if they always “let” her win?

  “To see how you took your victory. And to learn your faults.”

  She nodded, accepting his strategy. “And the draw the day before?” She nibbled her lower lip nervously, not caring that it revealed her overhanging upper teeth.

  “Honestly fought. You learned as much about my faults as I did yours. I applaud you for taking your lessons seriously and not accepting victory as your due.”

  Linda smiled genuinely this time. As they crossed the bridge onto Market Isle, she did not drop his arm at the first opportunity to examine some fine silk cloth from the big continent to the northeast of Coronnan.

  While Miri and Chastet cooed over bolts of silky greens with silver brocade, she half-listened to the voices around her. The sounds blended into excited babbles and serious bartering. None of the discontent the lords had hinted at. This portion of Market Isle displayed luxury goods sold by wealthy merchants with permanent storefronts. The gossip here would revolve around the court and scandalous activities of the nobles. If she wanted the truth, she needed to go farther afield.