The Witch (Dragon Eyes Book 1)

by Kristina Hlaváčková

  “I am confident that an official arrival of a dignified young lady would have been more appropriate,” John agreed with his wife. Elena smiled happily, as if she hadn’t even heard them, and hugged them affectionately.

  “Gods, what were you thinking?!” Ashka continued, her face a lot more reproachful than that of her husband. For a moment, Elena contemplated which of her sins bothered her parents more, whether it was her taking part in Arkas, or the fact that she kind of wiped the floor with all three of her brothers. Then she noticed Michael’s expression. It was carefully neutral while he was pretending not to have heard anything in the past few minutes. Elena was glad he didn’t say out loud what he was thinking: “I told you so!”

  “I guess it would be better for all concerned if we leave this discussion for later, when we have more privacy,” Ashka ended the overall uncomfortable moment, which, in any case, Elena was letting slide over her. Luckily, a feast, dancing and merriment awaited them all.

  Michael was grinning at her. He didn’t have to tell her that he said so, but it was needlessly written all over his face even so. Elena shrugged and grinned back at her friend.

  “You’re a beast! That was awesome! Did you see Dars? How sour he was?!” Philip voiced part of what Michael was thinking. Elena watched him with interest. He’d grown a bit and matured a lot since she’d last seen him. Though he still was all arms and legs, he’d grown into a man. The biggest change, however, was noticeable in his face. He had laugh wrinkles around the eyes. They could have been from laughter, time spent in the sun, age even. And his eyes had the very shrewd, watchful expression of a man who misses hardly anything.

  “Dars has always been sour,” Elena commented.

  “Sure he has, but getting his arse kicked like that is a rare event,” Philip mused.

  “He asked for it.”

  Letting them talk, Michael fell back a decent three steps, assuming his duty of a personal guard. Elena kept looking over her shoulder, checking to see that he was still there. It felt strange not to have him at her side suddenly.

  “Seriously, you couldn’t have managed a better comeback. It was spectacular!” Philip repeated, while Elena only made a wry face.

  “Ashka will probably eat you alive, but even so! No one is bound to forget that show for ages,” Philip continued brightly, having no idea how amusing had Elena found his last comment. Ashka had a lot more than just that one reason to be angry with Elena, but Philip couldn’t know that. Elena didn’t need to be told that this little stunt of hers was not one of her brightest ideas. She’d given it a lot of thought beforehand and plunged into it head first, nevertheless. It might’ve been stupid, but for it felt right anyway. Besides, it really was fun!

  Had anyone asked her whether it was defiance, or just her longing to prove that she was just as good as any of her brothers, she would not have known the answer. However, had anyone asked Michael the same thing, he would have said that it was not only defiance and proving herself, but also a direct slap in Ashka’s face. When she chose to, Elena could be very sensible. But somewhere, under the surface of the sensible, adolescent Elena, a small child was hidden, a child that had had to take care of herself in an enchanted forests, where her mother had left her. Michael was convinced that Elena’s little escapade had one and only reason: to let her mother know that the Princess of four nations was not to be messed with. Though he did provide some sensible advice in that matter, Michael couldn’t but agree with the girl.

  Pushing through the vibrant crowd made it difficult for Elena to follow Philip’s glib tongue. Training from the quiet elves could not have prepared her for such a noisy environment. At times, it felt like the whole world was attacking her sharpened senses. Elena was trying to monitor all that was going on around her, to avoid all the black clad figures, and also answer Philip from time to time. It was extremely confusing. Philip, on the other hand, had concentrated on his sister and followed hardly anything else that was going on around him. There was some kind of commotion in the crowd. Elena noticed it and stopped. Philip noticed neither and walked on, continuing his monologue.

  He was standing there, surrounded by a circle of black warriors, his right foot forward, left toe turned out. While his left arm was bent at the elbow, and the back of its hand elegantly rested on the man’s kidney, his right hand waved something that, to all Berber, looked like an overgrown toothpick. Standing there in a perfect fencing pose, he brandished his rapier in front of a Berber’s nose. It was his stance that received the most attention and most cheer, but to the man’s opponent it was like a red rag to a bull. It was not only the rapier that was swaying, since the fencer holding it was heartily flustered, which in this case was probably an advantage, because his opponent was drunk as a skunk. Or, maybe, we should say he was drunk as a Berber, meaning, that the same amount of alcohol he consumed, would have sent any other normal person under the table.

  “On guard, ribald!” the foreigner ordered, again swaying his rapier pointedly against his adversary, who, quite mockingly, lifted a sword that was beyond compare heavier, bulkier and bigger than the toothpick the stranger was holding.

  Though Elena would have liked to think that the Berber men were a bit rough, but gentlemen nevertheless, reality was often somewhat different. There’s a rotten apple in every basket and our stranger had happened on one of them. The quarrel had started because of a woman, or rather, because of the drunkard’s rude behavior to a girl. Elena watched the uproar with interest. Under normal circumstances someone would’ve put a stop to the argument before it got out of hand. These were not normal circumstances, however. A skinny man with rapier was simply far too entertaining to watch. A Berber never says no to good entertainment.

  From the edge of the crowd, the subject of controversy, a proud young blond, watched both men with fiery eyes. She noticed Elena looking at her and nodded to her slightly. Elena had a feeling the ruffian was probably better off fighting a rapier, than the proud cat he had insulted.

  “He’ll end up a pulp. Just hope it ain’t gonna be an international faux pas,” commented Philip, who suddenly appeared at Elena’s side.

  “I wouldn’t be so prompt with your judgement. Quite the same thing has been often said about me,” Elena smiled, her eyes on the stranger. He was rather tall, his limbs lanky with clumsy looking joints. At first sight, it was hard to find any muscle on him, but Elena gave him a second look and figured he was wiry and flexible.

  And very elegant. His hair was combed painstakingly, forming an almost girly curl on his forehead. Blue-green eyes peered at the world from behind thin glasses. The only thing that might have helped him blend in with the crowd, was the color of his clothes. It was black. Sort of. His entire apparel was of a strange style and its material was very obviously luxurious. Trousers even had creases on them! And Elena would have sworn they were, well, embroidered. The shirt? It had a deep open-neck, cuffs on the sleeves, a turned-up collar, and the material it was made of was strangely airy, ruffling in the slight breeze. It shone! Every girl in the crowd could have sworn there was a slight whiff of an unobtrusive scent every time the stranger moved, forcing ladies to draw a deep breath and seek the source of the sweet smell. Men, on the other hand, were largely irritated by it.

  But none of that was important now, because the Berber attacked. Swished almost leisurely, the rapier jangled like a badly tuned string, and to everybody’s surprise fenced the attack effortlessly. Buzzing in the afternoon air, the rapier slapped the ruffian across his side in an edificatory manner, like a mother slapping her child. The onlookers hummed in appreciation.

  “Fe treat the girls with respect,” proclaimed our stranger in a sing song voice with heavy accent. The Berber facing him was furious, seeing red through the alcohol mist in his drunken brain. He tried to stab his sword into the stranger’s ribs. Drawing an elegant curve, the rapier twanged in the sword’s path.

  “Girls are fragile creatures, hit his essential to protect them!” sang out the stranger. F
ascinated, the crowd watched as sword and rapier danced in the sunlight, as the lanky stranger slowly got the better of his opponent. Almost every time the weapons met, an educational comment on good manners followed. Though his feet were unsteady due to alcohol, dodging and parrying, the stranger appeared to be dancing around his adversary. Slashing him repeatedly over the back and buttocks in a matter of fact manner, he delivered very embarrassing and painful lessons. Every such strike was rewarded with an appreciative cheer from the crowd of onlookers. A Berber simply loves a good fight and good show even more.

  The more furious the assailant got, the easier it was for the stranger to strike him. However, the situation was growing dangerous. No wonder, with two sharp weapons in charge. And the foreigner was obviously getting bored, his reactions swifter now and a lot more to the point, so to speak. In reply to the ruffian’s next attack he hit him in the nose with the decorative hilt-guard of his rapier. Suddenly, fun was over with an ugly crunch of broken bones and blood rushing down the Berber’s chin. The ruffian collapsed onto the ground. Quite ceremoniously, the foreigner scabbarded his weapon and bowed to his audience, winking at the beautiful blonde. Crowd applauded and slowly began to disperse. Staggering slightly, the stranger tried to blend in with the departing mob.

  Philip nudged Elena in the ribs to let her know he was leaving, but she remained where she was, looking at the fallen figure. Though he tried to appear so, the Berber was far from motionless. There was still a sort of an empty aisle between the Berber and his departing opponent. Unexpectedly, the lying figure moved, a knife glimmered in the sun.

  “Watch out!” Elena warned the man passing her, and jerked her hand. Something swished through air. Still on the ground, the hooligan yelped, dropped his dagger and clutched at his injured hand.

  His rapier miraculously jumped into his palm, and the foreigner turned sharply.

  Michael moved fast, stepping towards the injured man. He grabbed the dagger, sliding it behind his own belt at the back of his trousers. With fingers like steel he clenched the assailant’s wrist to savagely yank out of it Elena’s throwing knife. The drunkard screamed, but with the crowd already on the move, no one really noticed anything was happening.

  “Merci, mademoiselle,” the stranger bowed to Elena and hid his rapier back in its scabbard. Elena nodded at him lightly.

  “With pleasure. I am Elena de Leon. Whom I have the honor of meeting?”

  This time, the stranger accompanied his bow with a complicated hand gesture.

  “My name is Francois Lekleare. The honor is mine. Should you ever require my services, I am at your disposal.” Just like his clothes, his speech was very fancy. Though he looked like a boy who’d grown up too fast, Elena rather liked the man.

  She smiled at him. “I would choose your words carefully, were I you, dear Lekleare. No obligation, but I would be honored to see you amidst the ranks of my personal guard. Should you consider my offer appealing when you have sobered up, you will find me at the court.” Nodding to him ever so slightly, Elena left him standing there dumbstruck, and fell into step with Michael.

  “What ranks of ya’ personal guard?” Michael asked flippantly. His arms were full of weapons he’d confiscated from the angry thug. Elena laughed.

  “The ranks we need to increase. I dare say a personal guard of only two people is quite insufficient for a lady of my position,” she said, perfectly mimicking the speech style of her great-aunt.

  Michael shook his head in disbelieve. “Is that why ya’re picking up all those weirdoes?”

  “Weirdoes like Morpheus and yourself, you mean?” she needled him. Michael grinned at her in reply, pushing through the crowd to get to their horses.

  “He’s a good swordsmen and you have to admit we could use someone with a different fighting style.”

  “We’d have to teach him a few tricks with a real sword, though. That toothpick of his is something ghastly. Ya’d be a laughing stock.”

  “He hasn’t agreed to my offer yet. Besides, that toothpick, as you call it, looks like elven steel.”

  “Oh yeah? And what do ya’ suggest he’ll do in battle when someone breaks that thing to pieces?” Michael argued.

  “That is precisely why I have you as a captain of my personal guard, to train the others properly.” Elena tried to sound courtly, but she was never too good at that.

  “Where have you been? Don’t you dare think you’ll run away again!” Philip appeared from nowhere.

  “She stopped to pick up more exotic pieces to add to her personal guard,” Michael commented dryly, still looking like a decorated May pole with all those weapons in his hands. Elena gave him a sharp look. Taken aback, Philip opened his mouth to ask what was that supposed to mean, but no sound came out of him. A black giant of a man entered his vision, emerging from the shadows of the stables. A feebler character would have probably freaked, because in the shadows the man was virtually invisible, until he moved. And the whites of his eyes and his smile of shining white teeth gave Philip the creeps. To be exact, it was not really a smile. It was more of a short flash of shining white teeth that gave the giant an appearance of a furious, hungry, wild cat that was getting ready to attack. Even more terrifying was the complicated gesture with which Morpheus complimented the fighting skills of his charge.

  Since Michael was one of the best warriors of Arkas war games, he and his mother were naturally invited to the feast. Elena banished him from her side for the time being, so he could catch up with his ma, and disappeared into her chambers. Her rooms were, quite understandably, not prepared for her arrival. Despite the furniture draped with protective cloth, her bedroom was still a child’s bedroom full of toys. Elena halted in the doorway, savoring the moment.

  ◆◆◆

  Michael's finely tuned instinct made him lift his head when Elena walked into the room. Unannounced, she entered a dining hall full of merry making people and instantly drew all their attention to herself. Michael’s jaw dropped. He had to correct himself, because Elena didn’t walk into the room. She gracefully glided in. In the few minutes she was alone, she’d managed to change from a fighter into an ethereal nymph. She wore her hair loose. Apart from the few strands pulled back from her temples. Those were embroiled with a light chainlet to form a discreet diadem. Her eyes were defined with … whatever it was women defined their eyes with. Dresses were hardly Michael’s line of expertise, but he suspected Elena’s attire to be elven made. As she moved, the fabric changed shades raging from light green to silvery-gray. All the way to her hips, the dress embraced her body tightly, emphasizing her womanly curves. From her hips down, the skirt fell in flyaway waves. With her head held high proudly, Elena was simply gorgeous. Gradually, the ballroom grew silent, as she passed to the royal table. Heads turned, mesmerized by the picture presented to them. A few steps behind Elena, walked Morpheus. Elena looked even more beautiful in contrast with her horrifying guardian, who happened to be two heads taller than she, and forgive me for saying so, pitch black, looking murderous with the whites of his eyes shining from the darkness of his face.

  Michael snapped his mouth shut, thinking he must have seriously missed something. It took only few minutes for Elena to change from a sprightly child into a lady who turned the heads of literarily everyone in the hall.

  King John watched his daughter thoughtfully. Last time he had seen her, she was an eight-year-old disappearing into the rain. Now, a young lady was gracefully walking his way. Ashka automatically reached out to search for her child’s consciousness. What she found was a calm surface of an almost unprotected mind that showed no sign of magical power whatsoever. Surprised, Ashka gave Elena a searching look. In return, she got a light, satisfied smile, as Elena almost unnoticeably shook her head. Ashka searched again, deeper this time.

  Elena’s consciousness rippled slightly under Ashka’s touch, began to move and evade her, welter and trickle, just like water running through your fingers, uncatchable. Her mother’s attempt to invade her mind did no
t seem to bother Elena. Light-heartedly she sat next to Philip and began talking to him, paying Ashka no attention whatsoever. Displeased with her findings, the queen gave up her futile attempts.

  Elena enjoyed the feast, contently listening to music. It was so different from the music of the elves! It was quick and lively. Slowly, song lyrics began to emerge from the depths of her memory. Food was more colorful than she remembered, pronounced tastes and variations of meat dishes tempted her. Everything was so familiar and distant at the same time. Watching the people around her, she tried to remember names belonging to faces that had either aged, grew into beauty or grown into men, while she was gone. Many of the guest she didn’t know, of course. It was true that she was home, now, but there were many things she would have to remember and learn. Elena was aware she would have to actually get used to her own home. But more importantly, her home would have to get used to her.

  “You’re not listening to me!” Philip accused her, sounding offended.

  “You were saying that I will have to tell you all about what was going on at school, because you have a notion I held a lot back in my letters.” With her eyes still on the dining hall activity, but without the smallest hesitation, Elena repeated the last sentence of his monologue, and only then did she look at him. Suddenly, Philip was taken aback. Eyes of a shrewd warrior were suddenly peering at him from a happy face of his little sis. They were sharp as needles before she smiled, and a friendly spark entered her prickly look. Philip took a deep breath.

  “Alright, you’re good. But you don’t deny you’ve kept things from me,” he commented thoughtfully.

  Elena smiled at him sweetly, saying: “All in good time, buddy.”

  Why should that answer surprise him? Eli was never simple to deal with, so why should that change now?

  “You’re right. Now it’s time to dance.” Philip got up, bowed to her and offered her a hand. “Would you honor me with a dance, your highness?” Elena laughed that familiar ringing laugh of hers and accepted his hand.