King's Dragon

The Eika prince, like a penitent, endured his captivity without complaint through the cold winter and the slow turning of the year.



The Feast of St. Herodia came and passed, and Mariansmass loomed, the first day of spring, the beginning of the new year, which by the reckoning Frater Agius taught him would be the seven hundred and twenty-eighth year since the Proclamation of the Divine Logos, the Holy Word, by the blessed Daisan, also known as the Proclaimer.



A stranger rode into the castle and was escorted to Count Lavastine’s private study, emerging two hours later and riding straight-away south, on a fresh horse. The whispers started.



“Is it true? The Lady Sabella will come here?”



“Does the count mean to join her rebellion? To swear himself to her as his liege?”



“Will we go to war against the king?”



“Not our king. Henry is not rightfully king of Varre, only of Wendar. His grandfather stole the throne of Varre away for his own children.”



Alain worked up his courage, and on St. Rosine’s Day, a week before Mariansmass, he asked Frater Agius two questions.



“I beg your pardon, Brother, but am I to return to my village when my year is up?”



“Your year?” Agius was distracted. He was fingering the Holy Book but not looking at its pages.



“My year of service. In a fortnight it will be St. Euseb?’s Day.”



Agius frowned. “If you wish to return, you must speak with Chatelaine Dhuoda. That is her province, not mine. Certainly such a decision would lie as well in your aunt’s hand. But I do not think that Count Lavastine can spare any of his men-at-arms this year.”



“I don’t wish to go back, not yet,” said Alain hastily, fearing he would be misunderstood. He did want to stay; he wasn’t ready to return to Osna village yet. And yet, was it not disloyal to his father and aunt to stay here so long when they could be using his labor at home? But they would only find some other monastery to send him to.



Agius watched him curiously. Alain recalled his other question. “Is it true Lady Sabella is coming here?”



“It is true,” said Agius.



“But we haven’t prepared—!” He choked back the rest of the sentence. Agius was too preoccupied, taking out his knife and trimming the wick on his lamp, to even have heard Alain’s words. And no wonder. Lady’s Blood! A princess of the royal house of Wendar and Varre was coming, here, to Lavas Castle.



That evening in the hall Count Lavastine rose and addressed his household. His speech was short and direct.



“I have received a message from Her Most Excellent Highness Sabella, daughter of the younger Arnulf, king of Wendar, and of Queen Berengaria of Varre, whose names we remember in our prayers. She bids us greeting and will arrive in Lavas with her husband, Prince Berengar of Varre, and her daughter Tallia, and her retinue, in ten days’ time.”



Cook was furious, in private. “Ten days! I will have to send you boys out to fetch every pig and sheep from the villages nearby. We’ll need at least five hundred. Where shall I get enough wine and ale at this time of year, I ask you? And grain. Chickens! Five wagon loads of turnips, if there are even any left in the cellars. I ask you!”



Chatelaine Dhuoda and her stewards swept the countryside, working frantically for ten days, and brought in all the provender Cook would need as well as additional servingmen and women. Alain worked from dawn to dusk, hauling, fetching, building temporary shelters. There was no time to train at arms; there were no lessons with Frater Agius. Oddly enough, he found he missed the latter as much as the former.



The church bell rang at dawn on Penitire, calling the faithful to the day of penitence. Alain rose, fed the hounds, and allowed himself a handful of fresh rainwater out of the water barrel to wet his throat. From the stockade he could see the road that wound down the valley to Lavas town and the church. Already he saw people, some shuffling forward on their knees, others bent double, the rest with hands clasped across chests, moving toward the church. There Frater Agius would lead the morning service because Deacon Waldrada was still too ill to preach.



Like the stable hands and stock-keepers, he had to care for his charges before he could pray. So had the blessed Daisan wept and prayed and suffered remorse for the sins of the faithful, whose shepherd he was, before he could himself find release from the Earth and pass up through the seven spheres to the heart of the Lord and Lady.



Someone was watching. Alain turned. The Eika prince stared at him. His hair, as white as bone, marked a pale line against the dark slatted walls of the cage. Did he ever sleep? Alain was beginning to believe he did not.