In the Shadow of the Dragon King (7 page)

“Who?”

“Names don’t matter, but I trust him with my life.”

David leaned forward and picked at his nails. “Why did you leave your necklace?”

“It’s a talisman, a safety charm. Through me, it provides a shield of protection to keep you from harm, to keep you safe. I thought by leaving the necklace locked up with the letter and the ring, I might be able to afford you a little extra protection while I was gone.”

David snorted and shook his head. “A talisman? Like in a magic stone that brings good luck?”

“In a sense, yes.”

He laughed. “Yeah, okay. Whatever. And the tattoo and ring? What are they?”

“They are symbols of your destiny, of your true calling. Apart, they are useless. Together, they are invincible. More importantly, they are bound to you, to each other. They cannot be removed without suffering immeasurable pain.”

David turned the ring on his finger, his attempt to remove the silver band still sharp in his mind. “Yeah, I kind of figured that out.”

Silence fell between them as David sifted through the information. None of it made sense, and yet, at the same time he knew it all to be true. At the moment, all that mattered was that his parents were alive. His wish, his impossible dream, had come true. There was one thing left to do.

“Lily, where are my parents?”

She paused for a moment before she said, “Somewhere I will keep you from going with every breath in my body.”

“Why? What are you afraid of?”

Lily’s eyes pooled with tears. “You dying.”

At sunset, Eric and Sestian took their places in the receiving line beside Trog, Farnsworth, and the knights and soldiers of Hirth. Cheers erupted in the streets of Hammershire and rolled in a wave up the hill to the castle. Eric’s skin tingled with excitement as he stood straight and tall between Trog and Gowran. He shot a furtive glance at Sestian who stood opposite him, flanked by Farnsworth and Crohn.

Festival trumpets sounded as a dozen guards rode through the arched entrance. Behind them, the royal carriage made of rare red Elven wood rumbled into the courtyard amidst the ringing of the cathedral bells. The coach circled the drive and came to a stop before Festival Hall. The coachman opened the door and offered his hand to the queen as she emerged amidst a shower of rose petals and cheers.

With an exuberant ruby smile on her lips, Mysterie greeted her people dressed in a low-necked, velvet gown of daisy-yellow, her abundant, ebony hair, braided with strands of pearls and ribbons of gold satin.

“Welcome home, Your Majesty.” Trog folded into a deep bow.

Eric followed suit. The queen lifted Eric’s chin and kissed him on the cheek. “I cannot believe how much you have grown. I hardly recognized you.” She motioned for Trog to draw nearer. “Are you responsible for all of this, my dear Trogsdill?” She smiled and held his gaze, her fingertips lingering on his cheek.

Eric’s breath hitched.
Whoa, what’s that look all about?

“No,” he said, shifting his eyes for a second before glancing back at her. “I’m afraid this welcoming was the brainstorm of Lord Donegan and Lady Ashley.”

“You must remind me to thank them. What an enormous undertaking. It seems as if the entire kingdom is here.”

King Gildore stepped from the carriage amidst loud applause. He smiled and waved to his people.

Eric’s insides fluttered. The once round man was almost unrecognizable. His beard was gone, exposing a chiseled chin and dimpled cheeks that deepened when he smiled. He was thinner and very regal in black trousers and a blue silk shirt. A light breeze played with his dark hair, the silver strands glistening in the evening sun. It was obvious the time away agreed with him.

“Your Majesty.” Trog bowed once more.

Gildore embraced the knight in a hearty hug. “It’s been too long, my friend. I see you’ve done your job well, and my castle still stands.” Gildore winked at Eric, patting him on the shoulder.

“Yes, my liege,” Trog said. “The only disaster to report occurred with your cook. It seems after all these years he’s discovered a propensity for catching himself on fire.”

Gildore glanced at Eric. “Flint caught himself on fire? Is this so?” A broad smile stretched across the king’s face, and the mischievous twinkle Eric loved hovered in his blue eyes.

“Yes, sir,” replied Eric. “Twice. The kitchen staff had to toss him in the horses’ trough the second time to douse the flames.”

King Gildore roared with laughter as did the other knights and squires. “I would have paid a hundred trallons to see that old badger thrown into the watering hole! Come, Eric. Alert those in charge to open these doors. I’m famished!” He leaned in toward Trog and said in a low voice, “I am assuming there is food behind these doors?”

“Yes, sire,” Trog said with a smile. “Plenty.”

The carriage rolled away. Eric and Sestian, along with the knights, led the royal party through the two-story-high mahogany doors of Festival Hall and down the center aisle inlaid with lapis tiles. Brilliant tapestries hung on every wall. Fires burned in the eight hearths, and the twenty-tiered, crystal chandeliers, each possessing more than a hundred lit candles, hung from the high, domed ceiling in sparkling brilliance.

The court musicians began to play as rows upon rows of tables, set with a buffet of food, filled up with guests. Eric waited for the king and queen to take their seats upon the raised dais before sitting beside Sestian.

“Did the von Stueglers give you a good tip, baggage boy?” A smile twitched at his lips.

“Two trallons.” Sestian said, a cocky grin on his face. “Heh, you should have seen Farnsworth’s face when he found out the courtyard troll turned me into a baggage hand. He got so mad I thought his brains would explode from his eye sockets.”

Sestian waited for Eric to stop laughing. “Speaking of seeing people’s faces, what’s with Trog and the queen, eh?” Sestian nudged Eric on the shoulder. “The way he stared at her, you’d think he was the king.”

Eric stared at his plate. “I’m not sure. I don’t think it means anything. I mean, Gildore didn’t seem upset by it, and they did it right in front of him.”

“Still weird if you ask me.” Sestian sipped his wine.

Eric acknowledged Sestian’s curiosity with a nod and glanced around the room filled with close to a thousand souls. His gaze settled on the Von Stueglers guffawing with some obscure landowner at a side table. Eric snorted. “I guess we should be thankful their son isn’t here.”

Sestian set down his chalice, its contents sloshing over the edge. “Bainesworth? Luck has nothing to do with it. I heard it from a reliable source that Gowran and Crohn took a trip to Faucher a couple of weeks ago and delivered a personal warning that he was not welcome. Need I say more?”

Eric snorted. “As if Trog needs their protection.”

“Well, you know how the four of them are, all armed to the hilt and eager to ruffle some feathers.”

“They must have anticipated trouble and put an end to it before it began.” Eric put down his goblet and rotated it around on the tablecloth. He looked down at his plate of food and pushed it away, his mind elsewhere.

“What’s the matter?” Sestian asked, taking a bite of bread. “Not hungry?”

Eric shook his head. “I can’t eat.”

Sestian’s eyes narrowed with concern. “Why not?”

“I found out about an hour ago Trog, and I are heading to Avaleen tomorrow.”

Sestian’s gaze fixed upon Eric. “What? Why?”

Eric folded his arms on the table and spoke just above a whisper. “I’m to spend the next twelve days in combat training with the mages.”

Sestian sputtered, almost choking on his food. “What?” he whispered back, his eyes wide with disbelief. He put down his napkin. “No one our age trains with the mages!”

“You sound almost jealous,” Eric said. “I’ll be more than happy to let you go in my place.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. This is incredible! Who will be your master?”

Eric kept his expression bland. “Mangus Grythorn.”

Sestian caught his breath for a moment and let it go. “The general of the mage army? Jared’s right arm?”

“One and the same.” Eric swallowed his wine in one gulp.

“B-but. That man is a lethal weapon, more so than Trog!”

“Thanks, Sestian. You’re doing a fine job making me feel better.” Eric sat back, his arms folded tight to his chest.

“This is insane,” said Sestian. “That man has the power to kill you with a look. Why would Jared hand over his top advisor and right-hand man to train you?”

“Do you have to say it like that?”

“You know what I meant. I wonder if it has something to do with the paladin.”

“I doubt it. I think Trog feels he’s taught me all he can.”

“That’s a load of dragon dung, and you know it,” Sestian said. “You could spend a lifetime with Trog and never learn all he knows. No. There’s something more to this. They must have hand-picked you for something.”

“Like what? An early death?”

Sestian patted Eric’s back. “You’re going to be fine. I’m sure Trog won’t let him scar up that pretty face of yours too bad.” An infectious grin spread across his face.

Eric smiled despite himself. “I’ll show off my battle wounds when I return.”

“I’d expect nothing less. Now eat. You’re going to need it.”

***

The festivities continued in the adjoining ballroom where the royal couple initiated the first dance of the evening. Eric leaned against a marble column and watched, thankful to be a spectator. His contentment was short-lived when Trog arrived with Lady Emelia on his arm.

“Eric, I think you have met Lady Emelia, Lord Cameron’s daughter.” He gestured to the center of the room. “Why don’t you take her for a dance?”

Lady Emelia smirked as she twirled a red ringlet around her finger. “Hello, Eric.” She linked her gloved arm in his. “Shall we?”

Eric’s insides boiled as he moved onto the dance floor. “I see you used your position to once again get what you want.”

She laughed in his ear. “I always get what I want, haven’t you noticed?”

“You won’t get me.”

“Ahh, but I have you now, don’t I?” Her words brushed across his ear like a warm summer breeze laced with slivers of glass.

Unfortunately.

The music ended, and everyone clapped.

Eric bowed and escorted Lady Emelia to her father and exchanged a few moments of necessary pleasantries. Afterward, he returned to the dais where he bid goodnight to the royal couple. Trog caught up with him in the courtyard.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to leave.”

Eric continued walking, his temper ready to explode. “I didn’t think I needed your permission. I excused myself from the king and queen, as is proper etiquette.”

“But it is not proper protocol. You know what I require of you.”

Eric whipped around. “And am I required to be your pawn to move around at will, forced to do what you wish?”

“You were disrespectful to Lady Emelia at the festival.”

“Me? Disrespectful to her? That spoiled cat?”

“Regardless of your personal feelings toward her, she is still a lady of this court.”

“She’s a snobbish tart,” Eric snarled. “Her snout is stuck so far up in the air I’m surprised she doesn’t suffer nosebleeds. You should have seen the way she ogled me like I was some prize at a fair. She walks and dances like an ass, and her face is in a constant state of puckered haughtiness. She is impertinent and would illuminate any room simply by leaving it!”

Trog stared at him hard. “Those words are most unbefitting of a future knight.”

“I don’t care. She’s unbefitting of the title she holds.”

“You had better care, Eric. She is, after all, of the queen’s blood.”

Eric gritted his teeth. “Just because she holds some distant and unlikely title to the throne means nothing to me. I will not be forced to engage in activities with a haughty, twittering, little bird whose only purpose in life is to wed and produce more twittering canaries!”

Trog jabbed his finger into Eric’s chest. “You need to watch what you say and think. The very soul you loathe may be the one to save your hide someday.”

“I shall ponder that thought as I prepare for our trip tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed.”

Trog’s nostrils flared like a horse’s after a taxing run. “I expect you to be ready to leave at first light.”

***

Eric retired to his chambers, his brain too busy and irritated to sleep. The day’s events monopolized all of his time and the incidents with Lady Emelia served only to twist every nerve in his body into tightly wound knots. He clenched his fists and cursed her name each time he paced by his windows. Because of her, he and Sestian had lost track of the mages. Because of her, they never found out whether the paladin arrived. Because of her, there was now a rift between Trog and him that wasn’t there before. The girl was trouble. She needed to go away. Far, far away.

Eric sat at the foot of his bed and stared at the floor. A knock at the door broke him from his thoughts. The door inched open, and King Gildore peered inside.

“You mind if I come in?”

Eric stood and bowed. “No, sire. Please.” He scurried about the room, picking up his clothes. “I’m sorry about the mess. With everything going on today, I didn’t get a chance—”

“I’m not here to lecture you on the cleanliness of your room, Eric.” Gildore’s eyes held a fatherly gentleness, his lips a warm smile. “Please, sit. I’d like to chat with you for a moment.” He sat in a high-backed upholstered chair.

Eric dropped the clothes in a basket and returned to his bed. “Have I done something wrong, Your Majesty?”

Gildore chuckled. “No, no, lad, not at all. You seemed out of sorts, even a bit angry when you said your goodnights. I thought perhaps you could use a good listening ear. Was I mistaken?”

Eric breathed a giant sigh. “No, sire, you weren’t mistaken. Does Sir Trogsdill know you’re here?”

“Would it matter if he did?”

Eric paused for a moment then shook his head, his eyes turned downward. “No, I suppose not.”