Dragons and Destiny

by Candy Rae

  Stasya was listening to Philip and Duncin. The Baron was confirming that they would be delighted to stay the night if the offer still stood.

  “Of course,” Duncin said, “We are always glad to have old friends staying and making new ones.” He looked at Elliot.

  “Stasya says that you are agitated. Is there anything wrong?”

  “Wrong? No. I’m pleased we can stay.” He was rushing his words. Can she hear my thoughts?

  Duncin divined what he was trying to ask. “You are wondering if she can hear what you are thinking?”

  “Well, yes,” answered Elliot, embarrassed.

  “No she cannot but she can sense emotions from people, and like horses, cats, even kura she feels unease from those she is physically close to.”

  “I did not mean to scare you,” interrupted Stasya. “I can sense unease, no more. The Larg, they can force the minds of some humans to listen and to be heard. I would not.”

  “Could you?”

  “Why would I want to? Be still and at ease. You are our guests. Robain is our friend. His friends are our friends. I should like to talk to you all about the south. I have never been there and would be interested to hear what it is like.”

  Elliot relaxed. Neither Stasya’s nor Duncin’s face held any guile he could detect. He trusted her for no other reason that he believed it to be so.

  This was a strange feeling, a new feeling. Elliot’s seventeen years had been spent at court where people a prince could trust were rare. Elliot had only trusted Philip Ross because his father had told him that he must.

  Now he was meeting others who his instincts were telling him to trust.

  “What do you want to know?” he asked her.

  “We shall talk later,” she promised, “after our night-meal.”

  Making the meal was a revelation and a delight to Elliot.

  “We all muck in here,” declared their cheerful host.

  “What are we making and for how many?” Elliot asked, “when I was a little boy I used to love it when Nanny took me to the kitchens.”

  “We all know how much you love your food,” laughed James.

  “Cat calling the kettle black,” joked Philip.

  “I’m a growing boy,” James affected mock injury.

  “A meal for ten,” said Duncin, answering the initial question.

  “Ten?” queried Elliot.

  “We six and the two vadeln who will arrive before we are ready unless we get a move on. You two boys bring their big pot over and the ladles. Not these ones. The ones hanging on the wall then take these three bowls, go into the larder and bring back a selection of roots and other vegetables.”

  “Fill all three?” asked a doubtful Elliot, “that’ll be too much.”

  “They’ll need skinned and pared,” Duncin informed them, reaching a long arm and pulling three sharp paring knives out of the rack. “You two and Robain will do the vegetables, Robain knows what to do. Use the big table. Me and Philip here will deal with the meat.”

  “Use the paring knife thus,” explained Robain when James and Elliot had brought in three heaped bowls as requested. He placed a whiteroot in front of him. “Root skins are tough, although they can be used for soup. Once you’ve peeled the skins gather them up and throw them into that bucket. Then chop up the insides into cubes.”

  Both boys picked up their knives and began. They found the task much harder than they had expected.

  “Keep the parings as thin as possible,” warned Robain as with expert fingers he stripped his green celeroot of its stringy outer skin and laid it down ready for chopping.

  “I’m trying,” complained Elliot, “but the knife doesn’t seem to want to do what it’s told.” He held up his pared whiteroot for Robain’s inspection. What Robain saw was barely half the size of the original. Robain had also thought three bowls too many. He revised his opinion.

  The three continued in silence with the occasional mild swear word as a particularly recalcitrant root refused either to sit still or to allow inexpert hands to divest it of its covering.

  “Roots ready yet?” called Duncin who was chopping up spices at the work-surface next to the stove.

  “Almost,” James answered, concentrating hard.

  Philip stood at the stove, stirring the contents of the largest pot with a large ladle.

  Already, enticing smells were wafting over and both James and Elliot felt their stomachs rumble.

  “How long before it is ready?” asked James.

  “About a bell and a half,” Duncin answered. “It’s zarova stew, the slower the cooking the more tender it will be. We’ll put those roots in and the seasoning then we’ll start on the pudding. Redfruit Surprise with cream I think.”

  “Redfruit Surprise?” queried Robain, “don’t think I’ve ever heard of it.”

  “The surprise is that its never the same each time I make it,” Duncin answered in a solemn voice though his eyes were laughing, “and I’m rather partial to redfruit. Stasya likes it too.”

  “Where is she?” asked Elliot looking around.

  “Gone to meet our next guests. Vadeln of the Thirteenth Ryzck returning to Vada after some leave, they’ll be thirsty and hungry.”

  “What’s a Ryzck exactly?” asked James.

  “A Ryzck!” exclaimed Duncin, “I suppose you don’t know coming from the south and all. Now, where to start?”

  “The beginning?” suggested Elliot in a boldly - he had lost most of his diffidence with the elderly head of the Supply Station by now.

  “Cheeky brat,” chortled Duncin, “you two come over here and help with the fruit and I’ll tell you.”

  “Best start on the premise that we know nothing,” said Elliot, unconsciously copying one of his tutors. Iit had been one of the old man’s most favourite expressions.

  “Right,” agreed Duncin, “tip the fruit in here. Now, you know what the Vada is?”

  The boys nodded.

  “The active Vada, those who patrol the designated areas of the continent are split into Ryzcks, you might call them small companies or large platoons.”

  “In the regiments back home a company is about a hundred strong and a platoon eighteen,” mentioned Elliot.

  “There are thirty-five in a Ryzck, thirty five vadelns; a vadeln is a man or a woman and a Lind.

  “Captain Hallam explained that sir,” said Elliot.

  “Now,” continued Duncin, his hands busy hulling the redfruit of its stones, “a Ryzck is led by a Ryzcka and contains four Vadryz of eight vadeln each and the two other members are Holad and comms.”

  “How many Ryzcks are there?”

  “Its no secret, there are fifty one. Course, that’s not all the Vada, there is the Holad, the trainers, the cadets, those like Stasya and me who run the Supply Stations, even the Express is attached though they don’t come under the Susa’s direct command. There are also any number on separated leave at any one time, sick leave, maternity leave. Ah …” Duncin’s eyes gazed into space as he went silent, he blinked and grinned.

  “Stasya says they will be here in a quarter-bell. You,” he pointed at Elliot, “go stir the stew, make sure it isn’t sticking to the pot. James will set the table, seven humans. Place these three large blue bowls at the far end for the Lind. Smaller ones this end nearest the stove. Knives forks and spoons. I’ll get the bread.”

  “What about the fruit?” asked Elliot from the stove where he was stirring the stew with little skill but much vigour, “do I stir the fruit too?”

  “Absolutely not,” Duncin commanded, “it’ll be setting nicely and its best lukewarm and half set with the cream.”

  He put his hand over his mouth. “The cream. I’ve forgotten the cream!” He sped away to the cool room.

  The four visitors looked at each other and burst into laughter. Duncin had looked so vuz-struck when he had realised he had forgotten this most important ingredient.

  “I like that man,” said James through his laughter and as he fished throu
gh the drawer for the spoons.

  “Me too,” agreed Elliot as he bent his energies to the stew.

  * * * * *

  They left the Supply Station mid-morning after many promises to return. Their saddlebags bulged with food, new baked bread rolls split in the middle and filled with meat, pastries and fruit.

  Both Robain and Philip had protested at such largesse. Philip had offered to pay but Duncin had shaken his head.

  “These boys,” he winked at them solemnly and both Elliot and James winked back, “they’ll be starving of the hunger as soon as they’re out of sight. Robain, don’t leave it so long until you come by again.”

  “I won’t,” Robain promised looking down at Duncin from his horse’s back, “duty permitting.”

  “That’s a given,” answered Duncin and he turned to Philip. “Baron Ross, it’s been a pleasure to meet you and your two rascals and if you are passing again don’t ride past. Stasya and I would be delighted to see you.”

  “Indeed,” said Stasya, her eyes on Elliot. “It was most interesting, what you told me of the south and I would like to ask more.”

  “I will look forward to it,” Elliot said, “and I’ll remember you always, the first Lind I ever met and talked to.”

  : And I will remember you … Prince Elliot of Murdoch :

  Elliot’s eyes bulged open and he stared straight at Stasya. She however was turning away, following her Duncin back into the station.

  By evening Elliot had come to the conclusion that he must have imagined the words. The alternative was too unbelievable to contemplate.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 6

  AL607 - Fifth Month of Summer (Rakrhed)

  Isobel

  In the dower room at Castle Cocteau to the south of the Kingdom of Murdoch a young girl sat dreaming. She and the others in the room were supposed to be sewing but it has to be admitted that chatter was more the order of the day than fine needlework. The Chatelaine, the Duchess of Cocteau, Anne, Isobel’s aunt, was absent due to an emergency in the kitchens and the young ladies had been most appreciative of the Head Cook’s disaster.

  The four young women were chatting hard.

  To Isobel’s’ right sat her cousin Anne. She was twelve years older than the fifteen year old Isobel. Anne was the Daughter-Heir of the Duchy of Cocteau and married. She was not long recovered from another miscarriage and looked pale and wan. She already had three children, the oldest, Pierre, was seven, Mark was two and Anne five. The three were playing a game of carpet skittles in the corner.

  To Isobel’s left was Jennifer, late of the Duchy of South Baker and married to another cousin, Margrave Mark Cocteau. She was in the first stages of her first pregnancy.

  Between Jennifer and Anne sat Katia, Isobel’s sister-in-law, two months the bride of Isobel’s brother James. She was bemoaning his absence. Katia wouldn’t have dared express her displeasure if the Duchess had been present. Duchess Anne had a sharp tongue. She was sister of the King and very aware of her superior birth. As a Baron’s daughter, Katia sang small when her elders and betters were present, as did Isobel herself, youngest daughter of a younger son, but this was changing. Amazingly, she, Isobel, was the betrothed of the Prince-Heir. In the future she would outrank Duchess Anne. The King had chosen her as his grandson’s bride.

  Fate is a strange thing, the future Queen of Murdoch thought as she picked up her needle and began to apply herself to the intricate embroidery that would decorate the facings on the bodice of her nuptial gown.

  Most Murdochian brides wore yellow at their wedding but for those of royal birth and those noble girls marrying into the royal family, purple was the traditional colour, velvet in winter, silk in summer.

  Of course, here in Murdoch, the summer and winter seasons were not as defined as in the northern continent. The equator ran through the town of Mahler, some hundred miles north of Fort. Fort was the seat of government and the location of the most important of the royal palaces.

  As Isobel’s wedding was scheduled for the first month of summer in the year AL608, she was working on a purple silk bodice of superfine quality.

  She sighed, although an accomplished needlewoman, like most girls of her class and status, embroidery was not one of her favourite occupations, especially the finicky work on the beaded pattern that Duchess Anne had ordained.

  “At least,” said Katia, as she paused to thread her needle, “you’ll be free of all this when you’re wedded.”

  “Mmm,” said Isobel, only half listening.

  Katia continued, “have you thought about what ladies you might like to attend you?”

  “Ladies-in-waiting?” said Isobel, coming out of her reverie.

  “You’re not eligible Katia,” returned Anne. “Royal attendants must be unmarried.”

  “Piffle,” Katia retorted, “there have been married ones before.”

  “Name one,” challenged Anne.

  Katia blushed but stood her ground as she bent her thoughts to the question. Unlike the other three, she had not had the advantages of being brought up in circles close to Court but she was a good listener and had an excellent memory.

  “Well,” she began, “Queen Mary came from the Eastern Isles.”

  “We know that,” snapped Anne.

  “And she married our King in AL567?”

  “What of it?”

  “She brought with her some ladies. She was only seventeen and her sister was one of them, that one who married the old Duke of Smith. You can’t say she wasn’t married.”

  “Lady Petra was four years younger than the Queen and she wasn’t married or even betrothed when she arrived at Court,” countered Anne with a satisfaction bordering on glee. She did so like to be right. “Try again.”

  “Her cousin Olga then, she’s about the same age.”

  “Countess Olga who married Count Peter van Buren?” interposed Isobel.

  “Yes. She was lady-in-waiting and remained with the Queen for some years.”

  “That’s true,” said Isobel, “she only resigned when she had her first child.”

  “But my point is that she wasn’t married when she was appointed,” said Anne in triumph.

  “She was betrothed,” said Isobel in a happy voice. “There is precedent, and,” she added, “Katia had forgotten one. One who was married. Jill van Buren. She was one of the Queen’s original ladies and was married at the time.”

  Anne flushed with annoyance.

  “Well you just try it,” she contented herself with saying, “and if it is permitted, which I’m sure it won’t be, Isobel can choose me. I’d like to be back at Court and I’ve the rank.” What Anne wasn’t saying but Isobel understood was that Anne felt she had more right to be at Court than Isobel herself. She was niece of the King. As Daughter-Heir to the Duchy she had few rights of her own. It was her husband and not she who was the future reigning Duke of Cocteau, despite her birth. Although her mother was a Princess of the Murdoch Bloodline and Duchess both, her daughter had no such claim; royal offspring who married into ducal houses kept their royal prerogatives only for their lifetime and it was not passed down to their children. It was an old law designed to remove the possibility of civil war.

  Isobel ignored Anne’s plea.

  “So have you any ideas?” queried Jennifer, Anne having descended into sullen silence.

  “I’d like you,” answered Isobel with a smile. “Father said that I’d get some say about who was chosen and I’d like Cousin Tamsin as well, impossible I know as she’s pregnant again.”

  Isobel harboured a warm affection for her cousin Tamsin who was married to Kellen Charles Dubois and who, since her marriage lived in the far away Duchy of Duchesne.

  “You’ll have to take what you get,” insisted Anne, “whether you like it or not and there’ll be one from every ducal house in the kingdom, you’ll see.”

  “Oh I hope not Anne,” exclaimed Isobel, “that would be just too much.”

  The next day word came from th
e Duke that Isobel’s future ladies had been selected and the news that they would be arriving at the manor the month prior to her wedding. Anne had been correct. Isobel shrugged her shoulders and accepted the Conclave’s decision with only a small show of disappointment that thankfully the Duke of Cocteau did not notice when he told her. Jennifer and Katia would be able to visit her at the palace.

  The lady appointed as senior Lady-in-Waiting was not so very old either, one Kellessa Anne Fullarton who had attended Isobel at her betrothal. She was only twenty-three and at present one of the junior ladies of her future mother-in-law. The others were two young daughters of the Duke of the Eastern Isles and two cousins from the Barony of Taviston, Alison and Mary. It could have been a lot worse.

  Anne was the only one who felt she had a grievance as despite her hopes, she was not on the list and as she learnt later, had never even been considered. She went off in a flounce of petticoats to gnash her teeth in private.

  * * * * *

  Elliot and Zilla

  “We’re staying at the Little Rover tonight,” announced Philip with an understanding smile in Robain’s direction as they stopped to water the horses.

  “Isn’t that where?” queried Elliot.

  “Yes and no snide remark from either of you. Let Robain deal with the situation as he feels is best.”

  “It’ll be interesting to see if Hilla’s sister is anything like her,” said James.

  There wasn’t time for any teasing because Robain returned from the stream. He had changed his clothes and had had a quick wash.

  Wants to make a good impression with his future in-laws.

  Robain looked nervous. He began fiddling with his saddlebags.

  “Is it far to the Inn?” asked Elliot in an attempt to fill the awkward silence.

  “We’ll be there before dark,” answered Philip, “so long as we don’t dawdle along the way and none of the horses throw a shoe. I’m a tad worried about your mount, he seems to be favouring his off-fore. The tendon felt a trifle hot when I felt it.”