Master of Dragons (40 page)

She was on her
own, free to do as she pleased. Overlooked in the turmoil, Evelina was
forgotten.

She recalled one
of her dear, departed Papa’s maxims. “Wars are for fools who want to be heroes.
The sensible man will have nothing to do with them. At the first sound of the
trumpet, look to yourself.”

Considering this
sound advice, Evelina began to make plans.

KING EDWARD AND
HIS FORCES SAW NO SIGN OF THE DRAGON ARMY on the road from Aston Castle to
Ramsgate. Marcus could not find them, and Draconas remained unable to locate
them. City and castle braced for an assault. A week passed and none came. No
army laid siege to the walls. No enemy appeared at the gates.

People can remain
in a high state of tension and excitement for only so long. When the threat
that they’d been promised did not materialize, those who had fled returned to
their homes, reopened their shops, and grumbled about how much money they’d
lost. Smart young apprentices now scoffed at the tales of demon warriors. Only
a week ago, they’d been shaking beneath the bed covers or on their knees in
church.

Edward wasn’t
scoffing. His tension did not diminish, nor did that of his commanders or the
soldiers who had seen with their own eyes the terror of the enemy.

“They’re letting
us stew in our juices, sire,” said Gunderson. “They’re not through with us yet.”

Far from relaxing
his vigilance, Edward redoubled the guards on the walls and drilled the gunners
on a daily basis.

The peaceful
interlude gave Marcus a chance to rest from a journey that, despite Draconas’s
healing touch, had been difficult. The dragon-magic had mended the broken bones
enough so that it no longer felt like someone was stabbing him every time he
drew a breath. But he was still sore, and the rattling and bouncing of the
wagon over the rough roads added to his discomfort. He endured the pain without
complaint, afraid that his father might stop if he said anything—and at this
point, Marcus’s mental distress was far worse than his physical.

He was not much
better when he reached home, for he could find no relief in sleep. The dragon’s
voice boomed loudly through his dreams as the dragon’s eyes searched for him
and the dragon’s claws tried to dig him out. He would wake, soaked in sweat and
breathing hard, and the voice would die away, only to be replaced by whispers
that dogged his waking hours.

Sometimes Marcus
would hear from Draconas, but the dragon had always the same news to report, “I
cannot find them.”

Perhaps due to the
rigors of the journey or his anxiety, a few days after arriving home, Marcus
was afflicted with a mild fever. Despite his insistence that he was “not so
bad,” he was pale and had no appetite. His terrified mother, remembering how
close she had come to losing him, bundled him off to bed and summoned the royal
physicians.

They eased
Ermintrude’s fears by basically agreeing with Marcus’s own assessment that he
was “not so bad.” They recommended several days’ complete rest. Nothing was to
be said to upset him or fret him. Ermintrude immediately banned all visits from
Edward and Gunderson and provided her son with more pleasant company in the
form of the Lady Izabelle. Ermintrude hoped that nursing the young man from
injuries suffered in a heroic action would cause love to bloom in the lady’s
heart. And how could Marcus, in his weakened state, resist those warm, doe eyes
and gentle demeanor?

Marcus lodged an
appeal with his father. Sickness was well known to be a woman’s province, and
Edward was not inclined to argue with his wife anyway, for he was also
concerned over Marcus’s health. The king abandoned his son to a soft and
perfumed captivity, though Edward did what he could to help lift the prisoner’s
spirits by urging Marcus to regain his strength and quickly at that, for he
might soon be needed.

Marcus swallowed
the medicines and drank the broth and lay in his bed listening to the Lady
Izabelle read to him or play the harp and sing. He was impressed, as his mother
meant him to be, with the lady’s courage in choosing to remain in the castle.
He was touched by her obvious admiration for him, and he found that looking at
her was far more agreeable than staring out the window at the soldiers manning
the castle walls. He found, too, that her voice, which was sweet and melodic,
was the only voice that could drown out that of the dragon.

He thought he
might be falling in love with her.

He remembered the
moment. He’d been in his little room, eavesdropping on the dreams of the
dragons, hoping to stumble upon information that might help save his people,
when he felt a hand touch his hand.

He opened his eyes
to find Izabelle by his side.

Her eyes are
beautiful,
he thought. Pale gray iris surrounded by a darker gray circle.
He could look into those eyes forever. The voice of the dragon faded away, and
he heard only her voice, saw only her eyes.

After that,
perhaps it was his illness or perhaps it was love, but Marcus couldn’t seem to
think clearly whenever the Lady Izabelle was near. When she wasn’t, his
thoughts turned to her and away from everything else. He spent less and less
time in the little room.

On the seventh day
after his return, Marcus was lying in his bed, his gaze resting as it always
did on the lady. Izabelle finished the book she had been reading to him and
laid it on the small table at her side.

Conversation
languished. The lady turned to her embroidery. The fabric on which she worked
was secured in a large frame so that it was drawn taut, making it easier to ply
the needle. The standing frame was placed in front of her and she leaned over
it, assiduously taking minute stitches, frowning slightly as she concentrated
on piercing the fabric with the needle, then drawing the colorful thread
through the fabric. So still was the room that Marcus could hear the thread sigh
as it slipped through the cloth.

He watched
Izabelle’s hands. Her skin was smooth and white. Rounded, rose-tinged
fingernails adorned small fingers that skillfully plied the needle. Suddenly he
had the fancy that the thread she was using came not from the spool, but was
sliding out of his own mind. He watched, fascinated, to see her twist and spin
the colors of his magic into silken thread and then stitch them into her work.

“How do you do
that?” he asked, half-laughing.

Izabelle looked
up. “It takes no great skill, Your Highness. The trick is to keep the stitches
small and close together—”

“No, I didn’t mean
that,” he said. “How do you take the colors from my dreams and make them into
silk?”

Looking concerned,
she laid down her work on the table and walked over to him. “I fear the fever
has returned, Your Highness. I will send the servant to fetch your mother—”

“No, don’t. I am
fine, I assure you, my lady.” Marcus rested his hand on the lady’s and touched
her skin, cool and smooth. “See?

No sign of fever.
Please, go back to your work. I’m just teasing you. What is it you are making?”

“Teasing me?” she
said, flushing and giving a little laugh. “I’m afraid I take everything much
too seriously. As for what I am embroidering, it is a portrait, Your Highness.
Are you certain you are feeling well? You look flushed. Perhaps I should see
for myself if the fever has returned.”

Izabelle rested
her hand on his forehead. As she did so, a golden locket, attached to a golden
chain, slipped out from around the lace at her throat and dangled above him.

The locket swung
gently back and forth; gold glinted in the sunlight. Marcus watched it, and he
saw the dragon’s plan. He saw the dragon army marching upon the palace. He saw
his father give the order to fire the cannons. He saw the dragon work her
magic, saw magical fire race from the powder kegs to the cannons. He saw the
horrendous blast that obliterated the cannons and the walls and blew up castle
and city. He saw thousand perished in an instant, blown apart. The blast was of
such magnitude that when the smoke and flame and debris and dust cleared, all
that was left of the city of Ramsgate and the castle and the king and his
people was a gigantic crater.

He saw the dragon
circle above the ruin to make certain that no one survived. Then she summoned
her army, and, after that, every human kingdom faced with this awful threat
heard the terrible history of the kingdom of Idylswylde and capitulated and, in
time, nation after nation came under thrall to the dragons.

Marcus saw it all
and he tried to speak, to shout, to summon the servants to fetch his father,
but the knowledge slid out of his mind as the thread slid off the spool, the
colors of death and terror and destruction running through the lady’s delicate
fingers and sighing into the cloth.

Marcus lay back
down among the pillows.

I must be
feverish,
he thought.
I must be imagining this.

Lady Izabelle
resumed her seat. Tucking the golden locket back into the lace at her throat,
she picked up her work. Marcus watched the needle pierce the cloth, watched it
draw the thread after it.

“Whose portrait?”
he asked.

Reversing it, the
lady showed it to him.

“Yours, Your
Highness,” she said with a gentle smile.

A fortnight passed
in peace and quiet for the people of Ramsgate. Some in the city were starting
to say that the battle of Aston Castle, though first thought to be a defeat,
had, in retrospect, been a resounding victory. The demon warriors had seen the
power of God-fearing men and taken themselves back to the fiery regions from
whence they’d sprung.

In the castle,
King Edward and his army were left to simmer in the pot until they were so
thoroughly overcooked that the meat was falling off the bone. Everyone was worn
out from the tension. Nerves and tempers were stretched taut.

Marcus was up and
about and seemed almost fully recovered, at least physically. Edward was
concerned about his son’s mental state, however, for Marcus was lethargic,
absent-minded, and given to daydreaming.

Ermintrude wasn’t
worried.

“He’s falling in
love, my dear,” she assured Edward.

“Falling in love
doesn’t mean a man’s brain turns to mush,” Edward said sharply.

“Doesn’t it?”
Ermintrude asked with the flash of a dimple.

One conversation
in particular worried the king. He had taken his son aside to speak to him in
private. “Have you received any word from Draconas? If so, you’ve said nothing
to me. Much as I dislike depending on him, he is our eyes and ears.”

“Draconas . . .”
Marcus repeated. His brow puckered. He seemed to be trying to place the man.

“Draconas. You
remember. The dragon?”

“I’m sorry,
Father.” Marcus faltered. “I don’t... I can’t. . .”

The Lady Izabelle
glided up to stand beside him. Marcus smiled.

“No,” Marcus said
mildly. “I haven’t heard anything of him in days. And now, if you will excuse
me, Father, I promised the Lady Izabelle a game of draughts.”

He and the lady
sat at table by the fire.

Evelina,
meanwhile, was proceeding with her plans for regaining her prince.

On his return, she’d
managed to catch a glimpse of Marcus as they had carried him to his room.
Evelina had been shocked at the sight and had known a twinge of fear. He was so
pale and thin, he looked to be at death’s door, and what would that mean for
her? Her spirits rallied, however, on considering that, if the prince did die,
she would be the mother of the only son poor Marcus would ever father. Evelina
decided that she could bear the news of his death with fortitude, and she was
almost disappointed to hear that he was recovering.

The serving girl
who had been Evelina’s source for information had left the castle, but, now
free to roam about, Evelina made friends with Cook, who kept Evelina informed.
Cook brought Evelina the news that the Lady Izabelle had moved into the royal
chambers lock, stock, and barrel, establishing herself as Marcus’s nurse and
companion. Evelina seethed with jealousy.

That day, she
dared to try to pay the prince a visit and walked boldly into the royal
quarters. Guards, posted outside the prince’s chambers, escorted her off.
Evelina then tried to find a way to sneak into Marcus’s room in the middle of
the night. Lady Izabelle might possess talents in lute-playing, but Evelina
possessed talents of her own that she was certain the prince would find far
more exciting. A night spent in bed with her would clinch the deal.

Evelina eagerly
questioned Cook about secret passages and hidden tunnels, such as she’d heard
about in minstrels’ songs, which told of forbidden lovers sneaking through
passages to meet each other in clandestine embrace. Unfortunately, the
architect of this palace had been totally lacking in romance, for no secret
passages existed, at least that Cook knew about, and she’d lived in the palace
for twenty years.

“Though,” Cook
remarked thoughtfully, “I do remember that there was a wing in the palace that
was sealed off and no one was allowed inside. Unsafe, we were told. Bits of the
ceiling fell down on people’s heads or something like that.”

“That’s no help,”
said Evelina with a sigh.

“I did hear that
His Highness asked about you,” said Cook.

“Did he?” Evelina
was vastly pleased.

“He heard that you
came to see him, and he asked the Lady Izabelle to send for you and bring you
in to him.”

“He did?” Evelina’s
heart beat fast. “His Highness sent for me? When was that? This morning?”

“Oh, no. A few
days ago,” said Cook.

“But ... no one
came to fetch me!” Evelina cried.

“The Lady Izabelle
never told you,” said Cook with a wink. “She promised His Highness she would,
but she never did.”