“We in Xinglan have no magic as do the Kyar and Daro. Our powers are of preserving and harmonizing. I am not certain what we might do. We must withdraw and consider our options.”
Three weeks after Jea’s audience with Queen Quanto, Mirjel made her way slowly down the main staircase of the north tower. She would spend the afternoon reading reports and signing papers as usual. When the sun set, the guards would escort her back to her chambers where she would open the secret passage and step through with Lek to escape the palace and the Barasha. Her child would be born far to the east.
Yetig was away on maneuvers with the largest part of his own troops. He arranged for his men to be relieved by Craya’s Sinkarekan guards. They would carry the blame for Mirjel’s disappearance.
Yetig’s men walked with her as she descended the stairs to the main audience hall. Craya came staggering up from below. Several weeks had passed since Mirjel had last seen him. She was shocked by the change in his appearance. It wasn’t just the crumpled and stained clothes he wore, where once he dressed in immaculate uniforms. Neither was it the filthy, uncombed hair and beard. What struck her was the hopeless stare of his eyes. He clutched a wine bottle as he wove up the steps.
They met at the midpoint. Craya stared at her as he swayed slightly from side to side. He made a mocking bow. “My dear wife.” His speech was slurred. The guards moved to block him from Mirjel. He waved his hands at them. “Dogs. Do you not recognize your master? I still rule here, in name, at least.” He stared at Mirjel’s belly. “They probably won’t even let me see it. My heir.” He raised his arms to indicate the palace. “Heir to all I possess. Heir to nothing.”
Mirjel forced a smile. “Good day, My Lord. I was on my way to read reports on the food supply. I know how you hate to be disturbed with such trivial matters.” She tried to move on. Craya blocked her way.
He grabbed the papers from her. “I read the reports here.” The prince stumbled and nearly fell down the stairs before regaining his balance. Mirjel continued to hold a frozen smile. Craya said, “Stop grinning at me. I know what you’re doing. You mean to usurp me. You and those filthy red-robed bastards.”
“Your Highness is mistaken.”
“Don’t lie. You mock me. You whisper behind my back. You tell everyone how much you despise me and you think I don’t know.” He slapped her across the face.
The burn of Craya’s slap flashed burned Mirjel’s cheek. Without thinking, she slapped him back and spit in his face.
Craya gave a deep animal growl and reached for her throat.
As he turned to run, her foot slipped on the tread and she tumbled down the stairs. The guards ran after her.
Mirjel lay in a daze. Looking back up the stairs, she saw Craya stand in place for a moment before fleeing. She heard one of the guards send the other for a healer. Her head hurt. She was nauseous. Then, she screamed as wrenching pain shot though her abdomen.
Shara’s troops led Ryckair and his men past the rolling grasslands and into pristine expanses of forest whose barren limbs and green needles were covered in a white blanket of snow. Tall hills enclosed wide valleys. Stone bridges took them over frozen streams and rivers. To the north, the hills rose to towering mountains. The column’s route, however, continued east.
Ryckair’s men were free to talk among themselves, though the Dharam soldiers ignored questions. Ryckair wondered if they understood the Carandir language at all. Only Shara spoke with him in a dialect so heavy it seemed almost another tongue.
The hills became more mountainous. After seven weeks of travel, they crested a peak. Before them lay a valley with a wide river that was still free of ice. Across it stood a walled city. Shara said, “Behold, Ryckair of many lands. Kackar. Capital of the Dharam.”
It reminded Ryckair of the walled cities on the eastern borders of Carandir, but larger. One gate opened to the south and another to the north. Soldiers with bows walked along the parapets.
The company crossed the river on barges and were marched by Shara’s troops through the north entrance. This was secured with a heavy wooden gate and an iron portcullis.
Ryckair noticed that few buildings stood more than a single story tall. Each bore a high-pitched roof from which snow tumbled. The walls of the structures were thick with deep, inset windows shuttered against the cold. Some were constructed with wood frames. Most were made of stone and brick.
Chimneys spewed thick black smoke. Thousands of homes and shops, all belching fumes from cooking and heating fires, cast a near choking blanket across the snow covered valley and left a sooty deposit on everything. They walked along streets filled with the filth of animal droppings and sewage. The people looked much like Shara with mostly red or dark hair.
In the center of the city was a palace. It was the tallest building in the valley and was surrounded by a wall running around an area a quarter the size of the palace at Meth. Towers ranging from three to five stories were set at uneven intervals.
Shara turned Ryckair and his men over to a detachment of guards at the palace gates. She saluted. “Farewell, Ryckair of many lands. Mayhaps we shall meet again.”
The prisoners were herded down stone stairs to a space with no windows. A cage made of iron strapping filled the area. A guard unlocked it and indicated for Ryckair and his men to enter. The door only came up to their chests and they were forced to stoop. The air was stifling with the stench of urine. Straw covered the floor in a damp matting.
Several spans passed before a man pushed a cart with a caldron up to the cage. He looked very different from the people in the city. His complexion was fair and his hair sandy blond like the prince’s. The man ladled stew into bowls and passed them through a slot in the cage.
Ryckair moved close to the server. “Can you understand the tongue of the Dharam? Who are you? Where do you come from?”
“He is Fadella.” Ryckair looked up to see Shara step down into the dungeon with two Dharam guards behind her. “They are a wild people of the north, uncivilized and untamable. Many live in the mountains around the valley where their tribes raise what they can and steal what they cannot. This one can indeed understand you, though he knows the consequences of speaking to prisoners.”
Shara cocked her head slightly and Ryckair felt like a prize horse being inspected. She motioned for the door to be unlocked “Step out, Ryckair of many lands. King Masalta calls you to judgment.”
The prince was taken to a room where roasted meats, boiled roots and dried fruits were laid out on linen-covered tables. More Fadella servants, all women, brought pitchers of cold, fermented goats milk. The meat and fruit tasted almost too rich. The fermented milk was strong and heady, yet refreshing on his throat. The guards and servants left the room. Shara remained.
She took a winter berry from one of the trays and put the succulent fruit to her lips, then bit off the smallest nibble. “Ryckair.” She said the name slowly as she smoothed her clothing the way Mirjel was often wont to do. Ryckair took in a sharp breath at the sudden memory. Shara smiled. “Do you find me alluring, Ryckair of many lands?”
“As a great cat of prey, general, striking and deadly.”
She laughed. “And now, you must be bathed and dressed to meet the king.” She slapped her hands. The women servants reappeared and began to strip the thatch clothing from Ryckair’s body. He held fast to them. “I can bathe and dress myself.”
Shara laughed again. “Does the attention of women disturb you?”
“I prefer privacy.”
“Alas, that is a luxury not offered to prisoners.”
One of the serving women pulled off his matted shirt and exposed the dragon mark. The rest of the servants stared, then fell to their knees making what appeared to be the sign of the covenant while repeatedly chanting the word “Parili. Parili. Parili”.
Shara slapped the closest. “None of that blasphemy.” She inspected the mark carefully. “What trick is this?” She tried to rub it from Ryckair’s chest. When it didn’t come off she st
ruck another servant. “Dress him now. Cover that mark. To speak of it is your death.” She threw open the doors to the chambers. Four guards stood outside. “Captain. Take him to the audience hall when he is ready. I go to my father.” She marched down the corridor.
Ryckair followed soon after. As the guards escorted him, he noted peeling plaster on the walls and ceilings and many tapestries that were worn and dirty.
The audience hall was dark and tainted with smoke from torches set along the walls. At the east end of the chamber an obese man overflowed his throne. He wore a heavy fur coat under an animal hide cloak. His hair and beard were bright red with flecks of gray. On his head was a golden crown studded with jewels.
Shara, surrounded by other women of the court, stood behind the throne. All wore finely groomed furs. One man pushed his way forward. Although dressed in a warm cloak, his clothes were distinctively different from the Dharam. He leered at Ryckair like a wolf that had cornered its prey. His face was covered with scars. His left arm was missing. He threw back his cloak to reveal a Carandir officer’s uniform. Ryckair stared silently. Commander Petstra had found him.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
King Masalta raised a silver chalice. “Welcome, Ryckair Avar. Long have our cousins to the south remained away. We are pleased that two emissaries of the dragon-crested crown bless our court.” Like Shara, he spoke a thickly accented form of the Carandir tongue.
As Ryckair bowed to the king he kept Petstra in sight. “Our cousin Dharam speaks truly. For too many years have our peoples been sundered.” He let his eyes stray above the king to Shara. She stood next to two other women. Slightly, almost imperceptibly, her eyes slid sideways and caught his. Then they moved off as if to show him no special concern.
Masalta lifted the chalice to his lips, then handed it to a servant. “Now that we gather again as cousins, let us continue the entertainment begun before our prince arrived. Commander Petstra was the last to weave a tale for our amusement.
“His, as I recall, told of a brother consumed with jealousy, who plotted to steal a crown. This traitorous prince took a ship filled with treasure and escaped. The matter would have been laid to rest were it not for the concern of the injured brother, who, after taking the crown, sent emissaries to bring his beloved sibling home.”
Masalta sat back in his throne. “Does our cousin care to join with his own story?”
It was a dangerous game that Ryckair knew well. None dared speak openly of the incident, yet if Ryckair’s tale was not persuasive he would be on a ship bound for Meth and death by sorcery.
“A fanciful tale indeed,” said Ryckair. “Yet, I tell another, of a beloved brother seduced by evil and a treacherous officer who plotted both to steal a monarchy and send a prince to exile and death. Yet, the prince did not die. Fate led him to his true friends.”
“And what evil can overcome the reason of a loving brother?”
“That evil called Barasha.”
A hushed rumble echoed through the hall. Masalta’s face paled for a moment. One of his Ministers came forward and whispered in the king’s ear. Masalta nodded his head. “Other tales there are that have reached our ears. They seemed too fantastic to be entertained. Now, we will explore those lost tales further. Is there some sign that will illuminate this story?”
Ryckair moved to show the dragon shaped birthmark, then remembered the reaction of the Fadella and Shara. Masalta might kill him to remove a threat to his power. He decided to wait until he understood its impact. He said, “For time uncounted, this prince and the men who served him, mined copper for the gill men beneath the Great River before they gained their freedom and took the spears of their captors as proof. They are now in the hands of your prison guards. Once free, they escaped through the mines of the Oola to come to the forbidden city and the lands of mighty Dharam. All proofs of sorcerers were lost with the ship. Then again, it was supposed a one armed commander also perished there. It seems he rose from a wet grave and likely carries with him instruments of dark magic in preparation for some evil deed.” Ryckair looked directly at Petstra. The commander stared back coldly.
Masalta said, “This is a different tale indeed. One most concerning. How then will we end this play? One story tells of sadness and a brother’s love lost; the other of a darkness that consumes all it touches. Can you answer the riddle, commander?”
Petstra bowed. “As our exalted prince has said, Highness, a fanciful tale.”
“We do not find that adequate. This story will be held open until we have occasion to play again. For now, Ryckair Avar, Prince of Carandir, we request you honor us as our guest. “
“I thank you, cousin. Where will my men be quartered?”
Masalta gave a howling laugh that became a cough. A Minister rushed forward and patted the king on the back. Masalta waved him away. “By the dragons’ barbs, you are good, boy. Each moment I’m beginning to like you more and trust you less. There is much to be decided here. For the moment, your men will be quartered where they sit.”
A squad of four Dharam guards formed around Ryckair. He saw Shara watching him. She smiled, cat-like, then turned away.
Two days later, guards appeared at Ryckair’s chambers. One said, “We come to accompany you to an audience.”
“With whom?”
“An audience, Highness. Please follow us.” The sun was just setting as they escorted him to a set of double doors. Ryckair stepped into a room whose walls and ceiling were draped in brightly colored fabric.
A tall, pudgy man dressed in silk robes stood before another door at the far side. His face was clean shaven and his dark hair set in tight curls. He bowed low and reverently. “I am Neesa, chief eunuch to Princess Shara. She bids you welcome and requests your presence.”
He opened the door and led Ryckair into a chamber with settees, tables, pillows and rugs. Women in fur trimmed robes moved about the room carrying trays of food and drink. One strummed a stringed instrument unfamiliar to Ryckair as another danced with slow, undulating movements. In the center of this scene Shara, attired in several layers of colored veils, reclined on pillows.
She smiled as Ryckair stepped through the door. “Welcome, prince of the south. Will you take refreshment?”
Ryckair checked for exits as he walked across the room. “You do me too much honor.”
Pillows were placed next to Shara. She motioned to a young serving girl who brought a tray to the prince. “We in the north drink the fermented milk. I know your southern palate prefers wine.”
Ryckair took the silver goblet. “Thank you. If only my men had such luxuries.”
“It is a true general who thinks of his command. Do you enjoy the music? It is an ancient song called The Seduction of the King.”
Ryckair turned back to watch the dancer. “It surpasses its title.”
She laughed. When the dance concluded she clapped her hands. The eunuch hurried the women out and departed.
A hint of perfume, floral yet tinged with spice, wisped through the air. The jewels set in Shara’s goblet caught the sparkle of lamplight as she sipped fermented milk. She sat the goblet down and rolled over to him. “Why do you think I have brought you here tonight, Ryckair of Carandir?”
“My guess is either entertainment or intrigue.”
She laughed. “Such wit you men of the south have. The Dharam are so dull. That is one reason I have had you brought here tonight. You fascinate me; you and your beggar army marching proudly from the forbidden city. I could learn to like you very much, Ryckair of Carandir.”
“And the other reason?”
Shara sat up. “I am the third daughter of Masalta. Three daughters. That was his issue. Therein is my father’s greatest sorrow, for no woman may ascend to the throne of the Dharam.
“By tradition, whoever marries my eldest sister will fight my father in a mock duel and take the throne, whereupon my father will retire to a life of leisure, a fate he is not eager to accept. All potential suitors have been turned down by the Coun
cil of Ministers, upon my father’s recommendation.”
She stood, walked to a set of heavy wooden shutters and threw them opened to reveal a balcony overlooking Kackar. Above, the stars shone hazily though the smoke of the city. “You must think us barbarians, with your elegant palaces and great cities. But, there is much strength in the north. Kackar can be magnificent. Imagine what the forbidden city once looked like. This can be the new Carandir.
“My sisters cannot see this vision. My father thinks only of defeating the Fadella. The throne should be mine and you will get it for me.”
The choking city air drove away the delicate perfume. Ryckair swirled the wine in his goblet. “I am hardly in a position to raise an insurrection. I have only a beggar army.”
She closed the shutters and sprang onto the pillows next to him. “Then I shall give you an army that will crush my father.” She gently brushed his chest with her fingers. “Show me the dragon mark.”
Ryckair hesitated, then opened his tunic. Shara traced her finger over the spot. “Why did you hide this to my father at the audience? It would have created a sensation and helped your claim.”
“I thought it best to wait.”
She pulled her fingers away. “To the north we are surrounded by the Fadella clans. They make war upon one other as much as upon us. Each would sell out the others for a season’s grain or a handful of gold. That is how the Dharam have always kept them subdued.
“But, if they were united, my father’s army could never stand against them. With such a force you could sweep into Kackar and take the throne. Then, as the lawful king, you would marry me and make me queen. Together, we will build a Dharam that can crush any enemy.”
Ryckair s slowly laced his tunic. “I could take this conversation to your father. I am sure you realize he would reward me handsomely.”
“You will say nothing of this to my father because I have told you this in confidence and you are not a man to betray a confidence. You are honest to annoyance. But, even if it were different, my father cannot give you what you truly want, vengeance on your brother.”
Dragons Unremembered Page 19