Holt
He awoke to the smell of fresh bread and powerful hunger pangs. He ground his knuckles against his eyes to remove the sleep crust and sat up in his bed. This was no noble’s soft bed, but a straw stuffed mattress and coarse blankets like he had had at home. But home was gone now.
The last piece of it lay on the floor by the bedside. Holt bent to pick his mud strewn satchel up and pulled his family’s recipe book out. He had not taken it out since Mr. Monger had returned it to him. Dirt splatted its spine, but it had dried, and a few gentle scrapes suggested it would clean off. The grime and bloodstained pages were another matter but they seemed a fitting reminder of what it and he had been through.
He flicked through it aimlessly, skimming over recipes he didn’t take in, until he saw a note in his father’s hand.
To please storm drakes best, soak the chicken in brine overnight and take it out to dry in the morning. Once dry, roast low and slow, basting with butter. The meat is most succulent this way.
Smiling, Holt closed the book. He would take it with him of course, wherever he might be going. Getting up and dressed, he walked in a daze from the servants’ annex at the back of the palace into the great yard of the kitchens. Sun had returned to Sidastra, as warm and pleasant as any late spring morning could be. He had slept for at least a full day then.
Ash lay curled up, his face tucked under his wings, as peaceful as when he could still fit in Holt’s arm. He checked their bond. Enough time had passed for it to have healed. And like a muscle recovering from a brutal day’s work, it had healed stronger for it. The window to Ash’s core was that bit larger, its edges more robust. Clearly a lot of work would be needed to advance from Ascendant to Champion. The days of rapid progress were over for them.
Ash’s core had also begun replenishing, though it was still dim compared to the diamond shine it had before the battle. Riders really did make a difference to a core’s strength and recovery.
He left the dragon to sleep and followed his nose toward the kitchens. Inside an enormous if simple breakfast was being prepared. Vats of porridge bubbled to perfection, so large that kitchen hands stirred them with spurtles the size of broom sticks. Trays of blackened top loaves were pulled from the great ovens. It was an effort to feed countless thousands; a scale which Holt struggled to wrap his head around. Soldiers and even younger stewards in their smart jackets darted around, helping the kitchenhands and cooks when they would never have done so before.
A strange thing, he thought, that we should all pull together in a crisis in ways we never would otherwise, only for things to return to the way they were as if nothing happened.
Even a large enough break in the delicate order, such as himself, was excused in the utmost hour of need. Yet how long until they returned to seeing him as dangerous?
He found a spot on one of the long benches to break his fast. Simple though the food was, it was what he was used to and suited his tastes. Butter on warm dark bread and thick cuts of bacon. His first mouthful sent a tingle through his jaw and a glorious sense of contentment throughout his whole body.
There would be dark days ahead for sure but how much better all things seemed on this side of the siege, when the storm had quite literally broken. How much better after a long sleep, and now a good meal. Holt ate in peace. Others gave him a wide berth.
Until, cutting through even the banging and shouting of the kitchens, a familiar haughty voice entered his mind, “Good morning, little one. Are you rested?”
“Pyra! Yes, I am feeling much better. Is Talia—”
“She is well. You should make for the curia chambers on the fourth floor to see her.”
“Right now?”
“If it pleases you.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Talia has been summoned by the court masters.”
Holt only had a vague understanding of what that meant but her tone sounded ominous.
Pyra continued. “She is worried they are going to offer her the crown.” “What, today?”
Holt got up, nearly knocking a poor maid over in his haste, and then he was weaving through the kitchen staff.
“Pyra? Pyra?”
He could not actively reach out to her like he could to Ash. He could only hope she was listening. She did not answer. He cursed himself, first for getting lost in the bowels of the palace, then for how he had acted toward Talia. Taking out his anger and frustration on her had not been fair, nor had he acted like himself.
“Pyra?”
“Little one,” the dragon said curtly.
“Tell Talia to wait,” he said as he hurtled around into an upstairs corridor, scattering servants and soldiers alike as he ran. “There’s something I need to tell her.”
“Is there?”
“Yes… look, I know I acted weird that night before the battle—” “You were hurtful.”
“I know.”
No response. Holt hit the stairs to the fourth floor.
“Pyra?”
“A friend is what she needs now. Hurry.”
He burst out onto the fourth floor, twisted left then right, and saw a girl with red hair at the end of the long hallway.
“Talia, wait!”
She took half a step forward toward a pair of great doors and stopped at his words. Up close, her eyes were puffy from lack of sleep.
“Holt I’ve been summoned by the curia; I don’t have time for—”
“You haven’t entered yet because you haven’t decided yet, am I right?” She pursed her lips, but her eyes found the floor.
“Look, come here,” he said, and he dragged her out onto a balcony away from any prying ears behind those counsel room doors. Distant blue mountains and a bright sun signaled they were on the eastern side of the palace. Signs of the battle were still evident in the burnt remains of outer islands. Fresh smoke rose from piles of burning scourge. The city would take time to heal.
Pyra appeared, landing onto a section of roof just above them. Her amber eyes bore into Holt. He gulped but soldiered on with his piece.
“I’m sorry for what I said the other night, before the battle.” She remained silent so he continued. “When I suggested you found it easy to turn away from those in need, as if you were cold. That wasn’t fair. I was just… well, I’m sorry.”
She smiled. “You were in pain. I understand. And after what we’ve just been through it all seems so trivial now… but I appreciate the apology.”
“But you shouldn’t doubt yourself so much either,” he hurried on. Her brow raised and she seemed ready to counter so Holt plowed on.
“I know that you keep turning your past over. What if you had flown to save your father? Well, you couldn’t have known he would be betrayed or even lose. All you knew for sure was that by leaving you would be breaking your oath. You probably wouldn’t have been punished. Commander Denna let you in because she wanted the Order to maintain good relations with the court, but such leniency would only have fueled Harroway’s side or caused trouble within the Order itself. You didn’t make the wrong choice in not flying to the Toll Pass. You made the right choice even though it must have killed you to do so.”
“Holt…”
“I know you think Ash and I have somehow proved that breaking the rules works out. I let my heart get the better of me and, somehow, we got Ash and his incredible magic out of it, and I advanced quickly due to our unusually strong bond. But the result could have been terrible. Most likely it would have been. I was bound to get caught sooner or later and then what? Only luck, well it was more like bad luck, saved us both. Commander Denna may have taken Ash from me, or let the others kill him
—” He choked at the very thought of it. How narrowly they had avoided such a fate. “It was foolhardy in the extreme to do what I did – my near banishment is proof of that – and if my father had lived, he might have suffered for it too. And all because I let my heart lead me.”
Talia’s expression softened. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“It’s funny, in a way,” he said. “You’ve been in anguish over a choice you didn’t make, while I’ve been worried over the one I made. Yet you made the best choice you could at the time. I acted rashly. And that’s why – that’s why you would make a good queen, I think. Because you can make the hard choices, even awful ones. You’ve got the stomach for it. So, don’t doubt yourself so much.”
She smiled. “You’re not as dumb as you look, pot boy.” She followed up with a punch on the shoulder only this time his enhanced body could take it. “You realize this is an even harder choice than just leaving to help my father in one battle? Whatever I decide, there will be dire consequences.”
“Well, I know whatever you decide it will be the right call. And I’ll support it.”
“Thank you, Holt,” she said, sounding surprised at herself. “That means a lot.”
“We have to stick together, right? We chaos bringers?” Pyra rumbled happily from above.
Holt thought the presence entering his mind was her, but quickly found the power behind it far different. It was the West Warden who spoke to him.
“Youngling, if you are rested, the Elder would see you.”
“I have to go,” he said.
She caught his arm. “The Elder?” He nodded.
“You’ll tell me what he says?” He didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”
Still holding his arm, she pulled him into a fierce hug. “Pyra and I could never have done this without you and Ash. Thank you.”
Holt was taken aback but pleased and returned the embrace with equal strength.
“We didn’t do so bad,” he said. “For two lowly Ascendants.” They parted.
“We must have a funeral for Brode today,” Talia said. “Sunset?” “Sunset.” He nodded. “Good luck in there.”
With that, he dashed off, eager to wake up Ash; eager to learn all he could from the ancient dragon.
Talia
She watched Holt go, feeling decidedly better. How did he know where I was? Then she turned and looked to the purple dragon lounging on the roof, entirely pleased with herself.
Pyra puffed smoke at her.
Talia waved it off and stepped closer. “Did you know what he was going to say?”
“Not exactly. I suggested he had acted poorly and then his own mind did the rest.”
“I thought ice dragons were the crafty ones.”
Pyra flicked her tail, though playfully so. “Have you decided then?”
Talia bit her lip. “What do you think?” “It is not my decision to make.” “Being evasive speaks volumes.”
A feeling Talia knew all too well passed across the bond; a feeling of being torn.
“I am wary of it. The guidance of the ancestors should not be set aside lightly. There are reasons for their teachings and guidance, even if we cannot remember them.”
“Then you aren’t in favor.”
“We might be bonded but this is not my decision to make. Whichever you decide, I too shall stand with you.”
“Even if it makes you uncomfortable. Even if it defies the Order?”
“Do you know why I chose you? I feel the lineage in my blood, a purer song than others of my kin. I wished to write a song of fire greater than any since the Elder. Many humans were brought before me. None satisfied. And then you came along. Hailing from a strong line of your own, the first royal to enter the Order, and with a grit I sensed in few others, even in the Commander. I knew together we would do great things.”
Talia looked out across the city. What would happen to it, to the kingdom, if she left? She should not trouble herself about it. She had sworn such things away.
“I know my duty.”
Pyra hummed low. “The little one is right, don’t doubt yourself so much.”
Taking a deep breath, Talia left the balcony, went back to the council room doors and pushed with a great sense of purpose. She strode inside.
An oval room well-lit by high windows greeted her. Sitting at the edges of the room was a small army of stewards and coteries, those who served the masters and mistresses of court who sat at the long table in the center. Everyone at the long table reacted differently. The court masters were clearly unsure what level of courtesy they ought to give her. Some stood and bowed, others inclined their heads, some stood but did not bow, and the rest remained seated without ceremony, treating her more like a common rider of her Ascendant rank. Already it spoke of confusion.
Most of the faces she recognized. The Master of Roles and Mistress of Embassy had been in place since her grandfather’s day. Yet others must have inherited their mother or father’s position since she had left for the Order and so she could only be sure of their status from their seat at the table. The Mistress of Coin looked barely older than herself. More like the Lass of Coins, she thought.
A seat lay empty where Harroway, the Master of War, should have sat. Being the eldest and most venerable of the gathering, the Master of
Roles spoke first. “Talia, may I first thank you on behalf of the curia for your most excellent service in the battle for this city.”
“It is my duty to defend against the scourge,” Talia said. “You should extend your true thanks to the Life Elder. He did not have to come and lost members of his flight to save us.”
“A delegation shall be arranged,” wheezed the Master of Roles.
He indicated she should move to the end of the table; not the end where the monarch would sit, but the seatless end where stewards, knights and others would be summoned to make reports, be given orders or reprimanded. She wondered, as she approached that spot, whether this would turn out differently than she assumed. When she stopped and faced them, the members of the curia took their seats, other than the Master of Roles.
“Despite the victory, this kingdom finds itself in grave circumstances.” He clicked his fingers and a youthful steward carrying an enormous book labored from his chair to deposit his burden before his master. Talia reckoned it could only be one of the census books. The Master of Roles opened it to a pre-selected page. “The sudden death of your brother, and the departure of your uncle without an heir leaves the role of the monarch
empty. In such times, after agreement of the curia, an ealdor might be raised to the position, and subsequent arrangements made to fill the position left in their wake, and so on and so forth. The vacancy left by the late Ealdor Harroway raises further problems. The curia fears for the stability of the realm.”
None of this was unexpected. Still, she owed it to herself, her honor and her oath, to seek an alternative if she could.
“Can no such candidate be found by agreement?” she asked. Their silence said it all.
“Very well,” she said. “Forgive my bluntness, but were there any other candidate, any at all, they would be preferable.”
It was the wizened Mistress of Embassy who answered. “We quite agree but we are not in a position to appear disunited and frail after an incursion. Already the Risalian ambassador will be penning letters of our exposure to his archduke.”
That was hardly a surprise. Risalia might seek to win back the Toll Pass and its incomes while Feorlen was too weak to resist. Still, Talia thought common fear would stay the Risalians. Few of Archduke Conrad’s advisors would wish to risk sending their own people to a land so recently plagued by the blight lest they bring it home with them in great numbers.
“Do you truly fear that Risalia would march against us?” Talia asked. “It is our role to fear the worst,” said the Master of Roles.
Talia frowned. Had they forgotten her mother’s brother, King Roland of Brenin?
“Brenin would surely intervene if—”
“King Roland left us to our fates,” the Mistress said. “Twice.”
Brenin had stayed out of the war last year, much to her father’s ire. She doubted they would allow Risalia to sweep what remained of Feorlen aside and so come to dominate the region with ease. But staying out of an incursion was another matter.
“Osric must have ensured our messengers never made it to Brenin,” Talia said. “King Roland is my uncle too. He would have not willfully abandoned us or my mother.”
Mother, she thought. It was her last, desperate play. “Could Queen Felice act as regent until—”
“She cannot,” said the Master of Roles and the Mistress of Embassy together.
“Your mother, Felice, only holds title by marriage,” said the Mistress. “As you well know, Princess.”
“And even if she were here,” said the Master of Roles, rapping his census book as though drawing all his power from it, “she could not affect the judgment of the curia without a seat at this table.”
Talia did know it and hadn’t expected anything different. Yet despite all that there was a genuine cause for concern.
“I fear what you’re asking will only inflame the voices that the late Ealdor Harroway once spoke for. How will it appear if a dragon rider takes the throne?”
The youngest member of the curia, the Mistress of Coin, cleared her throat. “They would not be entirely opposed.”
Talia frowned. Now that was unexpected. She examined the young woman. Delicate features, skin like alabaster, and flowing golden hair that spoke of Skarl lineage. Such thoroughbred families of Feorlen often liked to boast that the blood of the first settlers flowed in their veins, from a time before the Alduneis had invaded. This made some of them feel superior. Talia wondered if this Mistress of Coin felt that way herself. She was stunning, Talia had to admit, wearing an immaculate white gown trimmed with gold that fit her snugly and modestly at the same time.
Talia shifted uneasily, feeling suddenly bulky and clumsy in her mail and leather. She cleared her throat and said, “Am I to imagine there has been a change of heart on dragon riders since the battle?”
“Princess,” the Mistress of Coin said, every word spoken with impeccable clarity, “the moderates amongst us never claimed the riders were not useful. Just expensive.” She rubbed a thumb and forefinger together to demonstrate.
Talia thought that too smoothing over too deep an issue. She held the Mistress’ gaze and to this woman’s credit she didn’t baulk. Young she might be, but she seemed to fit the robes of office like a doe skin glove. Better than Talia would suit them in all likelihood.
“Besides,” the Mistress of Coin continued, “you leaving the Order would represent a victory of sorts for those… sympathetic to Ealdor Harroway’s concerns.”
It seemed they were decided.
“How might this affect our relations with the other powers, beyond Risalia and Brenin?” Talia asked of the Mistress of Embassy.
The old mistress steepled her fingers and pondered for a long time.
She has no idea, Talia thought. Or if she does, she does not wish to give me reason to reject the crown.
“There are many factors to consider,” the Mistress at last said. “Yet however the decision is taken in distant lands, we shall weather it. Feorlen has long stood on its own feet,” she ended proudly. A general muttering of agreement and much bobbing of heads followed that sentiment.
More like we have long been ignored, Talia thought. Feorlen was a much smaller realm than either of their eastern neighbors, Risalia and Brenin. And those latter nations were smaller still compared to the power of some of the Free Cities which had risen from the ashes of the Aldunei Republic. North of Risalia, the Province of Fornheim was small but strong; a land of vast fortresses and elite warriors who had long guarded the Skarls from the south until they had claimed a semi-independence of their own. Finally, to the north, through Risalia and then Fornheim by land or by sailing across the great Bitter Bay, lay the Skarl Empire itself. The Skarls truly did stand on their own feet, keeping the rest of the world at arm’s length as much out of pride as it was physically separated by mountains, vast dark forests and snow.
Talia observed the council members one by one. As she did so, Talia knew then there was no getting out of it. They were terrified – chaos had come so close to destroying everything. Further chaos could not be allowed.
She wished dearly that Harroway had lived.
The Master of Roles leaned forward, beseeching her. “If we had any other choice…”
The curia nodded collectively.
Should I warn them of the true threat? Should I tell them that the worst may lie ahead?
“Have you decided, Princess?” asked the Mistress of Coin.
Talia eyed her, looking for some sign that would betray her inner thoughts, but none rose to the surface. The others, however, showed theirs in their eyes, in the way they tilted toward her, and in the speed in which they had made this offer.
She rocked on the balls of her feet and decided to take Holt and Pyra’s words to heart; not to doubt herself so much.
“I know my duty.”
