Dragonskin Slippers (21 page)

“Sarryck has mustered the King’s Guards,” the king said, turning to Mordrel. “There are bowmen on the roof, standing ready. Mordrel, you will command them.”

“Sire,” Mordrel murmured, nodding in acquiescence.

“Shardas,” I murmured, half to myself. “So you’ll shoot him, if he attacks the New Palace?” I asked the king.

“They’ll shoot him if they see a gleam of a scale, whether he’s attacking, or taking tea with a friend,” the king said. “This is war, young woman.”

I closed my eyes against the cold horror and pain in my chest. “He prefers peaches,” I mumbled.

“Creel.” Luka took my hand. “I know that this is hard for you. You cared for Shardas, and I’m sorry. But he’s no longer the dragon you knew. With Amalia controlling his mind, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill even you.”

“I know,” I said with a shiver. “I saw him at the Winter Palace. He was not himself.”

“He’ll likely never be himself again,” the king grumbled. “Now, since you have experience using the slippers, I’m going to keep you close,” he instructed me. “Mora, take charge of her. I want her to sleep in your apartments,” he said to the duchess, who inclined her head in agreement.

“But I really should get word to Ulfrid,” I said to Luka, feeling trapped by the king’s decision and the knowledge that I could not refuse.

The duchess assured me that she would see to it that word was sent. Since I was no longer needed, she and I took our leave of the king and his councillors. The duke excused himself to see us safely to their apartments before he took command of the palace defences. Luka looked like he wanted to come, too, but his father barked for him to sit down and stop twittering. With a grimace, Luka bade me farewell. The door closed on the sound of the king giving the order for a map of the Feravel-Roulain border to be brought in.

The Duke and Duchess of Mordrel walked hand in hand ahead of me down a wide gallery. I was a pace or two behind, studying the portraits that hung on its walls of every queen since the third century.

That was when the second attack came.

It wasn’t Shardas. I had never seen this dragon before, its scales pale red mottled with brown. The thought brought a surge of relief, even as I ran for my life alongside the duke and duchess.

There was no time to seek out the secret tunnels. Instead the duke all but pushed us out of the nearest first-floor windows, and we picked ourselves up and ran along with everyone else lucky enough to have escaped. Blue-white dragonfire lit the sky, and everywhere there was screaming and the sound of falling bricks. Windows shattered from the heat, and the roar of the dragon was only silenced by the roar of its flame as it burned the New Palace.

As we stumbled across the Jyllite Square, the duke, duchess, and I couldn’t help but look back over our shoulders. The roof of the palace had been ripped away, and not one, but two dragons were busily setting fire to
the interior. The square was flooded with sobbing, running, fainting people. Some were wealthies, some servants in livery, and some looked to be bystanders who had come to gawk at the damage to the Winter Palace and been caught in this new attack.

The King’s Guards were lining up in the square as best they could, considering the number of people running through their ranks to safety. The bowmen the king had positioned on the roof had either fled or been killed, and now more bowmen were taking aim, trying to find a clear shot at the dragons through the smoke.

As we turned into a relatively quiet side street, the panting duchess yanked on her husband’s arm, pulling him to a halt. “Where are we going?”

“I’ll take you and Creel to safety, then return to organise the guards.” He turned and would have kept going, but she stopped him again.

“But
where
exactly? We can’t run all the way to our country estates!”

“Ulfrid’s inn,” I gasped, my hand pressed to the stitch in my side. “It’s a way to the east, but I think we can make it, and we’ll be safe there.”

With me in the lead, we fought our way through the crowded streets towards Ulfrid’s inn. Some of the people we pushed past were terrified, others strangely resigned. We passed houses where men with rusted swords, no doubt inherited from their grandfathers, stood guard, and shops where white-faced apprentices were hastily nailing boards over the doors and windows. Dragonfire would
easily burn through such defences, but I did not stop to tell them that. A woman screamed in my ear and then stumbled to her knees, I pulled her to her feet and she slapped at me as she staggered on.

It seemed for ever before we arrived, but at last I was pounding at the thick oak door, shouting Ulfrid’s name. I heard a muffled sound on the other side, as though something was being pulled back from the door, and then Ulfrid’s voice came faintly, asking who we were.

“It’s me, it’s Creel!” I pounded again. “Please let us in!”

There were exclamations from inside, and then the heavy bolts were drawn and the door swung open. Ulfrid stood there with a sword in her hand, Marta beside her clutching a dagger in a shaking fist.

“Creel!” Marta tossed her dagger down on the table and yanked me inside. She threw her arms around me and gave me a huge hug, which I heartily returned. “You’re safe!” Her cheeks were tear-stained. “We were sure that you had been eaten by that awful dragon.”

Ulfrid ushered the duke and duchess inside, then closed and bolted the door behind them. She sheathed the sword in the scabbard hanging at her waist with a smooth motion: she had used a sword before.

“Tobin?” Ulfrid was looking to the Duke of Mordrel, whose presence didn’t seem to awe her. After all, she had raised a prince.

“We have not seen him,” the duke said. “But the king often sends him scouting when there is trouble.”

Ulfrid nodded, satisfied by this.

“Creel, what’s going on?” Marta’s voice shook. “They say that dragons attacked the Winter Palace.”

“Yes,” was all I could say for a moment. I sank down on a long bench, and one of Ulfrid’s serving maids brought me a cup of hot tea. “It was my slippers,” I said after I had taken a sip. “The slippers that Larkin stole once belonged to King Milun the First. They can be used to control dragons, and Amalia is doing just that.” I took another, longer sip of the tea.

“What?” Marta clutched at her apron. “Why?”

“To start a war.” It was the duke who answered her. “A war they know they can win, because they have turned our greatest weapon against us.”

The duchess sat beside me, patting my hand. The girl offered her tea as well, and the duchess took the thick mug with graceful thanks, as though it were the finest palace china. The duke, meanwhile, told a wide-eyed Marta and a silent Ulfrid the rest of the story.

“I’d like to black both her eyes,” Marta said in a fierce voice.

A movement caught my eye, and I turned to see Tobin standing at the door to the kitchens, his head back in his silent laugh. Marta blushed scarlet, and looked down at her clenched hands, relaxing them with an effort.

“Ah, Tobin!” The duke slapped one hand on the table. “What news?”

I thought this a rather odd question, considering that Tobin couldn’t answer, other than to make faces or
maybe a few signals with his hands. Tobin began to make a series of quick and complex gestures. I had seen him do this before, but hadn’t realised the extent of his “vocabulary”, or that anyone besides Ulfrid and Luka understood it. The duke, Ulfrid, and even Marta followed the motions with nodding heads, as though it made some sense to them.

“So Prilian has delivered an ultimatum?” The duke stroked his chin and squinted. “What is it he wants?”

More gestures from Tobin, a gasp from Marta.

“No lack of ambition, eh?” The duke gave a mirthless chuckle, his expression dark.

“What did he say?” The duchess prodded her husband’s arm, her brow creased.

“Prilian is demanding no less than the throne of Feravel. He marched into the council chamber with an armed guard just after the dragons attacked the New Palace. Apparently the Roulaini army has been mobilised for weeks: they’ve been trickling towards our border a regiment at a time, moving only at night, and now they’ve crossed over in full force. If we don’t surrender, what the dragons don’t burn the Roulaini army will.”

“I can’t believe it!” The duchess chewed her lower lip. “It’s madness! What are they planning to do, burn us all to death? What would they have to gain?”

“A very large country of very submissive peasants,” I said bitterly.

“Yes, but why?”

“Because Prilian wants what every king of Roulain
has wanted since Milun the First’s crushing defeat: Feravel,” the duke said. “They aren’t content with taxing our furs and gold and other exports. They want them for their own, and –” The duke broke off. “What’s that?” He rose, and we all followed suit.

There was a scratching sound coming from the inn door.

Tobin and Ulfrid had their swords out before I could blink. Tobin glided over to the door and pressed one ear to it, holding out his free hand in a “stay” gesture to the rest of us. The maids all squeaked and pulled out carving knives and small daggers, and Marta had her dagger in hand as well.

“It sounds like –” I began, but was hushed by the duke.

“What is it?” he whispered to Tobin.

The noise continued: a scraping low against the door. It put me in mind of something. My first thought was dragons, but then it was replaced with a memory of my uncle’s old bird hound, begging to come in from the cold at winter.

“It sounds like a dog scratching!” I hissed.

Tobin shot me a look, then unbarred the door and peered out. First he looked up, then down, and gave a whoosh of surprised breath. He opened the door just a tad wider, and a tall but very narrow dog came slinking in.

He was white, with large black patches, and a long snout not unlike a dragon’s. He rushed to me at once, and licked my hand, leaning his considerable weight against my thighs.

“Azarte?” I laid a tentative hand on his head and he wagged his tail. “Is that you?”

“A friend of yours?” The duchess looked amused.

“He belongs to –” I stopped myself, then realised that they knew everything anyway. “He belongs to a dragon I know,” I finished. I sighed. “Poor Feniul. He’s quite harmless, sort of like a dithering old uncle. He doesn’t deserve what the Roulaini are doing.”

I scratched Azarte’s head and then moved down to his neck as he closed his eyes and let his tongue loll out of his mouth with happiness. My fingers encountered a wide collar of woven tapestry-work, and I scratched beneath it. Something slipped out of the collar and fell on the floor with a soft smack.

“What’s this?” Marta put down her dagger and picked up a folded square of paper.

She opened it to reveal a large, ragged sheet of parchment. Block letters the size of my hand had been printed on it in smudged charcoal.

“What does it say?” The duke leaned over, curious.

FOLLOW THE DOG.

“How odd! Who do you imagine wrote it?” The duke took the parchment from Marta and frowned at it.

“Feniul,” I breathed. Azarte’s tail wagged, pounding against the side of the table. “Feniul? Did Feniul send you?” More wagging. “Where’s Feniul, Azarte? Where is he, boy? Go find him!”

Grinning his toothy grin, the dog bounded to the door, woofing with joy that I had understood. I went after him, my heart pounding. Feniul!

“Wait a moment, there!” The duke, alarmed, hurried over to stop us. “We don’t know for certain who wrote this. That dog could be leading you into a trap!”

“But I know this dog,” I protested. “I’m sure that he was sent to help us. A dog can’t be manipulated with the slippers; I’ll wager Feniul sent him for help.”

Tobin gestured to me and Azarte, seeming to indicate that he was coming along, then opened the door for us to exit. Azarte, needing no invitation, leaped out the door. I followed, with Tobin just behind.

The street was eerily quiet. It was night-time, but compared to the noise and panic of before, the stillness was jarring. The windows of the shop across the street had been boarded up, but the ale house next door looked abandoned: the door left open wide and one window smashed.

“Hey! Who’s there?”

Azarte had run right into someone who was standing in the street outside the inn. Tobin stepped forward, sword drawn, then relaxed. It was Luka, tunic torn and face smeared with soot and dirt. I felt weak and the blood rushed in my ears to see him standing there unharmed.

“Tobin? Creel? Everyone all right?” He was leading a pair of horses.

“We have to follow that dog!” I pointed at Azarte, who had run a little way down the street and was now doubling back, prancing with impatience.

“What?” Luka gave me a concerned look, then glanced beyond me to Tobin. “Is she all right?”

“I’m fine,” I assured him. “But that dog belongs to a dragon I know. He had a note on his collar and he’s leading us to the dragon. I have to follow!” I reached out and took hold of the reins of one of the horses.

Tobin made some gesture that I didn’t pay attention to as I talked soothingly to Luka’s horse. I didn’t know how I was to ride in my stiffly embroidered skirt, but I would have to: walking the entire way was out of the question.

“Here.” Marta, who had followed us out of the door, anticipated my need. She came forward with her dagger drawn. “I’m sorry,” she said, and then she slashed open my outer skirt in the front and back, cutting neatly between the panels of embroidery. I felt faint at seeing all my hard work ruined, but pushed the feeling aside. More important matters were at hand. Marta offered me the dagger and I tucked it into my sash.

“Your Highness?” The duke came striding out of the inn. “Is King Caxel well?”

“He’s been taken to the caverns,” Luka said. Seeing the questioning look on my face, he explained, “The hill beneath the King’s Seat has quite a few natural caves. There are tunnels leading down from the palace to the caves, to hide the royal family in times of war. It’s stocked with enough food and water for three months.” He made a face. “Father tried to refuse, of course, but the council forced him to go down. We’ll still be able to get word to him, through the guards.”