Dragons Unremembered

by David A Wimsett

  He stepped back and bumped into a Barasha priest. The sorcerer threw powder into Batu’s face and the smuggler fell unconscious.

  Prince Craya’s company circled around the south end of the bay and turned north. With Ryckair removed from the procession, Yetig allowed mourners to approach the body of the imposter and give further credence to Ryckair’s supposed death.

  A week later, Meth came into sight through morning mists. The company headed for the wide bridge over the Peret River. Craya felt a sick pit in his stomach. He might be discovered. The imposter might not be taken as his brother. He thought about breaking free of the column and galloping to the palace to tell his grandfather about Yetig’s betrayal. Baron Etera would certainly know what to do.

  Craya’s horse reached the bridge. Bells rang out. Flowers filled the lanes. The people of Meth flooded into the streets from inns and shops and stables and smithies. There were smiles on their faces and cheers in their voices. They came to welcome home their prince. News of his arrival spread swiftly. A great assembly stood along the south wall of the old city.

  Merchants and seamen left their work to greet the procession. Men waved feathered caps. Women tied bright ribbons to the garlands in their hair, replacing the black ones they had worn since the reports of Ryckair’s death. Children climbed on top of thatched roofs. Sounds of merriment echoed from white stucco walls as the company rode forward.

  Craya raised his hand and brought the column to a halt. Slowly, the mists thinned and the hills north of the city became clear. He saw the wide road that led from the North Gate and ascended the hills to the high plain standing before the palace. The mist wholly departed and Craya beheld the two tall towers, the gleaming audience hall and the arched bridge of the Palace of Carandir.

  Bright banners unfurled and horns echoed from the lofty parapets. Craya imagined that they were announcing, in their brassy, wordless voices, The prince has returned. The succession is assured. The monarchy is safe.

  Tears came to his eyes. He looked about him as people cried his name. Pride swelled in him. This was his rightful place. He was meant to be their king. They all loved him. Mirjel would love him. He waved as he led his company through Meth to the palace.

  As Craya’s column moved forward, no notice was taken of a trading vessel unloading at a wharf. None were there to see Narech Yetig walk down a gang plank. Behind him came Reshna and three Barasha attendants. No words passed between the men. A closed, horse drawn wagon approached. The horse halted and turned its head from left to right, refusing to go further. The driver cracked a whip. The beast became frantic but did not move. Reshna raised a hand, cast powder into the air and spoke a command in a language Yetig had never heard. The horse’s eyes glazed over and it slowly moved forward.

  A chill crawled up Yetig’s back. He saw how the sorcerer grew more powerful each day. Though he still needed the Barasha, he realized that if he didn’t kill Reshna soon, he might not be able to.

  The narech signaled to the ship. Sinkaraka carried two narrow boxes down the gang plank and set them on the wharf. Yetig opened one of the lids and inspected Ryckair. The prince’s eyes were shut and his breathing was shallow. The narech checked the other box where Batu lay in the same state.

  The lids was sealed and the two boxes placed in the rear of the wagon. The Barasha priests climbed in after them and Yetig drew a heavy sheet of canvas over the back. The narech sat up front next to the driver. The horse moved off toward the palace.

  Mirjel looked out of the north tower to see Craya and his column file across the bridge and into the main parade ground. Behind them came the funeral wagon.

  She remembered standing silently as her father had reported the news of Ryckair’s death. The words were like a far off wind. When he finished, she smoothed the fabric of her dress, thanked him and walked to the window of the tower room to stare blankly out to the west.

  Sitting again at the same window, her gaze swept past Meth to the farm valleys filled with new sprouts of grain. She knew she should rejoice in Craya’s safe return. Civil war had been averted. Yet, there was no comfort in the thought. If he passed the test of the key the crown would pass peacefully to him. If not, he would father a child who would take the crown. But, if the key rejected him she would not be the mother of that child. If Ryckair had been the heir, the pact between King Haram and her father would be void. She did not know where she would go or what she would do in that case, but she knew for certain that she would not marry Craya.

  Mirjel left the window and walked to the harp next to the fireplace. It was the same instrument she had played for Ryckair the day they first met. Mirjel sat on a stool and took it into her lap. Her fingers ran lightly across the strings. She played no melody in particular. The music flowed from her in sad tones that echoed throughout the chamber. Then, she began to sing the words of an ancient tune whose origins were unknown, even to the Kyar. Her voice was weary at first. As she sang, it gathered strength.

  Cross lands unknown, my love has flown,

  To halls for warriors fallen,

  And ne’er again shall he kiss my brow,

  Or hold my hand most gently;

  On dragons’ wings he flies away,

  May Ilidel receive him,

  On dragons’ wings he flies away,

  And I am left to mourn him;

  Such is the fate of those who wait,

  For all who ride to battle,

  We chop the wood and tend the hearth,

  To guard our hearts from breaking;

  On dragons’ wings he flies away,

  A somber hall he comes to,

  On dragons’ wings he flies away,

  And still I stir the kettle;

  And now the troops return from war,

  My true lover’s horse is unmounted,

  I cry his name, no answer comes,

  His voice is ever silent;

  On dragons’ wings he flies away,

  May Jorondel receive him,

  On dragons’ wings he flies away,

  And I am left to mourn him.

  Mirjel stood the harp upright, placed her head in her hands and at last found tears to let her grief flow.

  It was a span past dawn. Mirjel and her aunt, Lady Zedo, sat on a bench in the north garden as they waited for Craya. Her aunt had insisted she resume the courtship but Mirjel was consumed with Ryckair's memory and wished only to sit in her chambers.

  Though Ryckair had never spoken ill of his brother, Mirjel saw Craya through unfiltered eyes. She had watched him closely since her arrival and heard stories that Lek brought from the servants. She knew Craya was a cruel bully and womanizer who lied and cheated without remorse to get what he wanted.

  Craya arrived, accompanied by six Carandir soldiers. Mirjel found this strange. The brothers always instructed their guards to wait at the entrance of the gardens during courtship.

  The prince bowed and addressed Mirjel in the formal court language. “My lady, I grieve with thee and for thee. I have lost a brother and thou a prince. Please, allow me to comfort thee as I may.”

  Lady Zedo said, “Prince Craya, the lady doth thank thee for thy gracious concern.”

  “Then, madam, we will hear such from the lady herself, as it is she we address.”

  The aunt glowered.

  Mirjel smoothed the folds of her dress. “I thank thee, fair sir, for thy concern, yet no more comfort do I ask than that which be granted thy people. Mine is but a single grief and theirs the tears of many.” It sounded like something Craya wanted to hear. The words were forgotten by the time she spoke them.

  Craya took a step forward. “This may be. Yet even in sadness we must needs think of our wedding.”

  The aunt stood and placed herself between Mirjel and Craya. “Thy wedding shall be a lovely ceremony, Highness.”

  His face reddened and he dropped into the common tongue. “Madam, we be not in the habit of speaking through one of our subjects.”

  “Highness, proper etiquette must
needs be observed.”

  “Enough has been observed.”

  “Highness, please.”

  Craya signaled to an officer. “Captain, it seems the Lady Zedo has taken ill from the sun. Assist her to her chambers and make certain she is not disturbed.”

  The aunt’s mouth opened wide in disbelief. “Highness, the lady must have a chaperone.”

  With a wave of his hand, Craya indicated the guards behind him. “These are chaperon enough.” As the aunt was led away, Craya sat beside Mirjel and fell back into formal Carandirian. “And now, Madam, to a wedding of king and queen.” He gave a smile that seemed more a leer to her.

  Mirjel said, “There be yet the matter of the key, My Lord.”

  “What of keys? Legends only. I am the heir. I will be king.”

  Mirjel knew it was best to say nothing. Yet, something inside made her press back. “If indeed thou doest truly pass the trial, then king thou shalt be.”

  Craya smiled again, but coldly. “We hear a certain hesitation in thy voice. Tell us, if our brother sat here next to thee and poor Craya lay in state, wouldst thou still insist that he pass this test of the key?”

  “Highness, I pray. Give heed to things private that should not be asked of another.”

  “Private?” His speech fell abruptly out of the formal court language again. “Not so private as you assume. Things like letters, love poems, all secretly passed by your loyal lady-in-waiting? You must think me blind as well as stupid. I know everything about you and Ryckair, even how you were planning to meet secretly and conduct an affair behind my back. You thought yourselves so clever.”

  She fought to remain in the formal tongue. “Your Highnesses words are a puzzle to me.”

  He made ready to strike her. Mirjel moved her hand near the dagger secreted in her bodice. By long tradition women from Rascalla carried such weapons to protect their virtue.

  Craya lowered his hand. “Do not patronize me. I have too many eyes and ears in this palace. My agents followed Lek everywhere she went. She unwittingly revealed all of your secrets. Remember that well when I am king.”

  Mirjel answered in the common tongue. “As I have said, if the key accepts you, then you will be king and my duty will be to wed you.”

  “Duty! I don’t want your duty. I will rule the most powerful nation in the world. I must have a queen who will rule with me and love me as a husband. It is my destiny. Even Ryckair knew that, although he was fool enough to think he could have you when I became king.”

  She slapped him. “You are the fool. Love you? I despise you. The thought of seeing you sickens me, let alone touching you. But that’s something that will never happen. The key will reject you as I do. Ryckair was the true heir. Anyone with eyes can see that. Yes, I loved him and I still love him. As for you, you’re not fit to rule pigs.”

  Craya’s jaw tensed at the same insult Ackella had used in the Barasha camp. He grabbed her by the arm. “You have no idea what is happening. It’s just a game to you. Well, let me tell you something of the real world. No ghost will lie between us in our bed. You will become my queen and sit at my side and bear my children. You will do all this for your precious Ryckair.”

  His manner became calm and controlled, almost detached, which scared Mirjel more than the rage. He snapped his fingers and two of the guards stepped to either side of her.

  He said, “Follow.”

  They passed sculptured hedges and fountains set before the high windows of the ballroom. At a break in the shrubbery Craya threw open an iron gate. Mirjel had never noticed it before. It led down a damp alley to a door set in stone.

  Craya opened it and shoved Mirjel through. She found herself on the landing of a spiral staircase. The guards remained outside. Craya lit a smoky torch, then closed and locked the door behind him.

  They descended to a cavernous room where several dozen men loaded wooden barrels onto carts and wheeled them through a large opening to another chamber. Being from Rascalla, she recognized them as Sinkarekans, even though they wore the uniforms of Carandir soldiers.

  Craya led her down a passage lined with iron doors, each with a small viewing slat set at eye level. The air was near choking with greasy torch smoke. Craya stopped in front of one of the doors and placed his torch in a metal bracket. “Now, my dear, I have an old friend for you to meet.” He opened the slat in the door.

  Mirjel peered into the gloom. At first, she saw nothing in the dim light. Her eyes adjusted and she recognized Ryckair laying on his back, chained to the floor.

  The light where they stood was dim. Mirjel was certain the Sinkarekans couldn’t see them. A set of keys hung from Craya’s belt. She drew the dagger from her bodice, spun around and sprang on him.

  The point of her blade was aimed at Craya’s throat as she flew into his chest and knocked him to the ground. He clasped his fingers tightly around her wrist and tried to deflect the dagger. She lay on top of him, bearing down with all her weight. The blade moved slowly forward.

  As the tip of the dagger pricked his flesh, Craya howled and pushed up. She fought to press the knife back but he was too strong.

  The blade moved away from his neck. He gave her wrist a sharp, painful twist. She thought it would break as she released her grip. The knife fell on Craya’s chest. Mirjel grabbed for it. Craya was there first.

  Knife in hand, he seized her by the hair. She tried to pull away. He yanked her back. She spit in his face. “Go on. Finish it.”

  He traced the point of the dagger across her throat, up her chin, her cheek and around her eyes. Then, he threw it into the darkness, jerked her head forward and slapped her hard across the face. Raging tears formed in Mirjel’s eyes. Craya rolled over on top of her, pressing his lips hard against hers. She pushed and clawed and tried to knee him, all to no effect. Still, she fought on.

  Craya stopped suddenly and stood. “No. I will not deflower my prize yet. That is a pleasure I will save for our wedding night, to be savored every night thereafter.”

  She jumped up and pressed her back against the wall. “I will kill you first. I will cut out your heart while you sleep.”

  He shook his head. “You will not hurt me. Nor will you reveal anything of what has happened here. Tell me, how often has your father spoken of the Barasha?”

  Mirjel stared at him.

  Craya laughed. “He was right. They have risen. But, they are not the all-powerful devils your father makes them into. They are as mortal as you or I. Still, they can call upon powers to end the strife in Carandir forever. Narech Yetig and I have come to terms with them.”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Oh no. No one has ever been more sane, or more aware of what he wants and how to get it. What do you want? Ryckair’s life? Four days from now, as the full moon rises, the Barasha will kill him in a magical ceremony to guarantee that I am the heir.”

  Mirjel looked to Ryckair’s cell.

  Craya raised his hand in a gesture of assurance. “They need not have their victim. Consent to become my queen, of your own free will, and Ryckair will live. I will order him marooned on an island, safe from the sorcerers. Each year I will allow one letter between you, so that you may be assured he still lives. As long as you submit, the Barasha will never know where to find him and the letters, along with his supply of food, will continue.”

  She slowly shook her head. “They will consume you Craya, along with the rest of Carandir. Don’t you realize who they are, what they mean to do?”

  “Of course. They mean to have the crown. I, however, will crush them as soon as I become king. They think they play with a child.”

  “No child. Simply a fool.”

  “The Barasha do my bidding. I will take the crown whether Ryckair lives or dies. Do not think he is protected by brotherly love or magical spells. If not for the superstition of Bureaucrats I could march into the throne room and take the key right now. My brother can die at any time. It doesn’t really matter how.

  “Imagine a Barasha priest sp
rinkling powder over his head and driving a blade into his heart. So quick. No pain. No suffering. Done and over in an instant. Almost humane. Not like some other kinds of death. Not like being ripped apart by wild boars, for instance.”

  She shuddered as he fondled her cheek and throat. “Have you ever seen a pack of them attack a man who is strapped down, my lady? A most visceral scene and possible to arrange this very moment. In the cell next to Ryckair is a Rascalla boar. I’m certain you’re familiar with them. I can let it through to have its sport and when it’s finished I can leave you to live a long and quiet life in the cell with Ryckair, or at least, what is left of him.”

  “Even you won’t kill your own brother like that. No one can do such a thing.”

  Craya dragged her across the hall and shoved her face against a view port. He shouted an order into the darkness. Mirjel heard the sound of creaking chains and metal levers. A small gate rose jerkily at the far end of Ryckair’s cell.

  From beyond it came the unmistakable cries of the Rascalla boar, a foul beast with a tough hairy hide and long straight tusks. Standing as tall as a man’s thigh, they hunted in packs and fell upon mounted riders, pulling down both rider and horse and killing them with their tusks and ripping teeth.

  She saw a flat snout push under the gate.

  Craya pointed into the cell. “Watch Ryckair’s legs, that’s where it will attack first. They like to make certain their victims don’t escape. Of course, this one can’t.”

  The door crept up a finger’s width. She saw the pointed tusks now. Mirjel imagined them spattered with gore as they tore into Ryckair’s side. In her mind she heard his screams, saw him arch his spine and throw back his head, felt the torment of his contorted face. He would be dragged into a waking nightmare, searing pain the last thing he knew of life.

  Mirjel sobbed openly. “You cannot do this.”