The Dragon of Despair (4 page)

“I get my things,” she said, “and come back for these letters.”

No one stopped her as she darted out the door.

II

AS HE RODE SOUTH
in the company of a small group from various small holdings in the Norwood Grant, Derian Carter couldn’t help but enjoy watching spring unfold. A moonspan before any blossom, even the little white ones that bloomed out of the snow, was a rarity to be treasured. These days it seemed as if every plant that could flower was doing so, from tiny grass flowers in blues and pinks, to the trumpet-headed glories in their mixed costumes of yellow, white, and orange. Fruit trees, too, were bursting into flower: apple, peach, and cherry all rejoicing in the coming of summer.

Spring’s spreading wash of color seemed to accelerate the more days he was on the road, for Derian’s journey took him not only south, but somewhat east, away from the looming presence of the Iron Mountains, which cradled winter a bit longer in their folds and clefts.

He wondered if Firekeeper, making this journey in advance of him, saw things the same way. She was an odd person—human in shape but sometimes hardly human in her perceptions of the world around her. Would she see the flowers nestled in the grass as he did, bits of bright color that made him smile almost involuntarily after winter’s grey, or as useless foliage, poisonous to eat—or as something else he couldn’t even imagine?

Certainly she wouldn’t have stopped in the towns and villages along the road, luxuriating in the gossipy company of folk glad to see fresh faces and hear the news after winter’s cold had kept casual travelers close to home. One thing Derian knew that many city dwellers did not was that winter didn’t seal country folk onto their farms—not unless the snow was very deep. They simply traded wheels for sled runners and went about their business.

Indeed, as Derian had learned working with his family business from an early age, for some types of commerce the dead of winter was a very active time. Large loads, whether stone or grain or tuns of wine and ale, were more easily slid across snow and ice-packed roads than hauled over dirt or bogged down in mud.

So Derian listened carefully at every inn and tavern where his group paused, dropped a hint or two, guided a conversation, but nowhere did he catch as much as the slightest hint that anyone had heard of Melina’s new and potentially disastrous marriage.

Events from six months before were still being hashed over—the assault on the pirate headquarters in the swamps to the far east, the heroic deeds of Princess Sapphire and Prince Shad, the tragic madness of little Citrine Shield. When Derian’s companions boasted that Derian himself had been among those who assaulted the Smuggler’s Light, he found himself the center of every circle and used his novelty to probe for other gossip.

But he heard nothing of Melina or New Kelvin. Indeed, none in these relatively isolated towns and farming hamlets knew that little Citrine had been left with the pirates as hostage against her mother’s good behavior to allies Melina had later betrayed. Most simply thought Citrine had been kidnapped and held for ransom. After all, wasn’t her eldest sister to be the next queen?

Derian didn’t enlighten them. If what the courier from New Kelvin had told House Kestrel was true, then there was no need to blacken Melina’s name further. Such gossip would only make more difficult the king’s attempts to manage the situation to his advantage.

The news would get out in time. Too many of the soldiers who had fought at the Smuggler’s Light had grasped some inkling of the truth. Derian simply would not help it spread. Still, his joy in the frolicking of newborn lambs and foals was diminished when he thought of the little girl he’d first met—a girl who had been as lively and enthusiastic as any young creature and who now, by all reports, was driven to extremes of sullen brooding and frenetic activity.

Derian’s traveling group reached the vicinity of Eagle’s Nest, the capital city of Hawk Haven, midmorning on the ninth day of their journey. They could have pressed on the night before, but heavy rains and the knowledge that the gates would be locked when they arrived made them hold back.

Once they were in sight of the city, Derian broke from the rest, wheeling Roanne, his chestnut mare, toward the city’s east side. Prancing Steed Stables, his family’s business, was located outside of the east wall and when Derian reined Roanne in under the sign that bore her painted image, he felt as if he was home again.

To Derian’s slight disappointment, Colby Carter, his father, was not present at the stables when Derian arrived, nor was Brock, Derian’s younger brother. Old Toad, retired from heavy work but still working for the Carter family both at home and at the stables, greeted Derian as warmly as his own grandfather might have done. He took charge of Roanne for Derian, promising to have the mare stabled.

“Actually, Toad,” Derian said, burrowing through his saddlebags for the clean though wrinkled clothes he’d put in last night just for this purpose, “if you’ll give Roanne over to someone trustworthy, I’ll ask you to go up to my parents’ house and tell them I’m home. My bags will be coming with one of Kestrel’s men, but I’ve an errand to run for Earl Kestrel before I go to the house.”

Old Toad looked at Derian slyly, obviously hoping the youth would say more. It was a matter of great pride for all those associated with the Carters that the heir to the house was so intimate with nobles and even with royalty. Derian, however, said nothing more, and Toad decided to prime his pump with a bit of gossip.

“It’s said that the wolf-girl, Lady Blysse, has been seen about the castle these two days since,” Toad offered. “Her and her wolf both.”

Derian grinned.

“Lady Blysse made her own way here,” he said, giving nothing much away. “Not many horses can tolerate Blind Seer close by and she wouldn’t leave him behind in the North Woods.”

Toad had to be content with this scrap and with the cheerful importance of bringing the news of Derian’s homecoming to his family. They set off together, parting when Derian’s path took him toward the quarter where House Kestrel maintained its manse.

Derian changed his route as soon as Toad was out of sight, heading straight through the city and up to the heights where Eagle’s Nest Castle brooded over her chicks. He’d pulled a knit cap over his red hair and kept from those streets where chance-met acquaintances might recognize him. Happily, it wasn’t a market day, so this was easily enough done.

Derian knew he might be being overcautious, but if Firekeeper’s arrival was already common gossip—or at least stable gossip, for the stables seemed to get news before anyone else—then he didn’t want to add grist to those active mills. The news that Derian Carter, newly made counselor to the king, had rushed to the castle even before going to his parents’ house might indeed prove interesting.

And then maybe I’m just getting an inflated ego,
Derian thought wryly, but he knew in his heart he was not. He might associate with nobility, but he was common-born and common-bred, and he knew how the least scrap of information was patched into a quilt that covered all the facts—though not always correctly.

The porter on duty proved to be one of those Derian had come to know the year before when Derian had stayed at the castle as part of Earl Kestrel’s retinue. He swung open the wrought-iron gate with a grin.

“I was told to keep an eye out for you,” the porter said, “though I’d hardly need to be told that once Lady Blysse showed here. She makes the guards edgy she does, slipping both herself and that huge wolf in without any the wiser. The watch captain gave his men the sharp edge of his tongue, he did.”

Derian shook his head ruefully.

“And Firekeeper knows well enough that the gate would be opened to her. She just likes causing trouble.”

“Show me a chit of a lass,” the porter said, closing and locking the gate once more, “or a lad either, who doesn’t get joy out of making her elders look foolish.”

Derian agreed, thanking the porter for his news before crossing the interior courtyard. He’d met people in the countryside who thought that a castle was just a big fortified building inside a wall. Realistically, a castle was more like a small town. This one had its own bakeries, stables, gardens, smithies, carpenter shops, and all the rest. The stone buildings held quarters not only for the king and his immediate family, but for the legion of aides, servants, advisors, and the like needed to keep the castle in efficient order.

True, much of the staff lived in the city and came up the hill to work, but in a pinch gates like those the porter manned could be sealed and the life of the castle could go on—for a while at least—independent of the city below.

Further, Eagle’s Nest Castle was legendary for its security. Songs were still sung and stories told about how Zorana Shield, later to become Queen Zorana the First, had infiltrated the castle, cementing her faction’s power during the Civil War. It was no wonder that the watch captain had been furious to have his walls and guards so easily circumvented.

But then no normal army, nor even any normal spy could do what Firekeeper does,
Derian thought.
She climbs like a squirrel, silences guard dogs with a threat, and this all in a silence that makes the blowing of leaves in the wind seem loud.

Once inside the castle, Derian made his way to the king’s audience hall. The herald to whom Derian gave his name was a stranger, but she didn’t ask to be shown the counselor’s ring or any other form of identification.

“You are expected,” she said. “I’ll send a message in to His Majesty’s secretary, Lady Farand, and I am certain that the king will see you as soon as he finishes with his current meeting.”

“That quickly?” Derian replied, surprised.

“The king said he was to be interrupted in the course of his usual appointments,” the herald explained, “the moment you arrived. You were to be offered refreshments while you waited.”

Derian nodded.

“Will there be a long wait?” he asked. “Because I can just run down to the kitchens myself. No need to bother anyone.”

The herald looked a touch startled at his lack of formality.

“If that is your wish,” she said. “A runner can be sent for you there as easily as to the kitchen to bring you a tray.”

Derian nodded and went. The truth was he didn’t want to stand fidgeting in a foyer. Fetching his own bread and beer would be a distraction.

He was finishing up the good-sized meal of cold meats, cheese, and sundry other dainties that a friendly cook had brought him, when a runner came from the herald.

“The king will see you,” the boy announced, sliding across the polished stone flags of the kitchen floor and deftly snatching a chunk of cheese from under Derian’s fingers.

Derian rose and headed out, nodding his thanks to the cook. She waved her free hand—the other was pinched tightly around the lobe of the runner’s ear—and the rest of her attention was given to scolding the boy.

Running up the stone stairs two at a time, mortified that he might have kept the
king
waiting, Derian was relieved to find the herald standing watch before the still closed doors of the king’s chamber, but she stepped aside as he came up.

“His Majesty sent a message out to me,” the herald said. “His current meeting will be over momentarily. Did you happen to see Lady Blysse in the kitchen?”

Derian shook his head.

“His Majesty requested her presence as well,” the herald said with a sigh. “I just hope the runners I sent can find her.”

“Did you send one to Holly Gardener’s cottage?” Derian suggested.

“And to the gardens,” the herald confirmed, her slight, wry smile showing that this wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to locate the wolf-woman, “even though for most people today’s weather would be excuse enough to stay in by the fire.”

“So Firekeeper might have done,” Derian said. “She’s seen enough bad weather to appreciate comfort.”

But Firekeeper hadn’t been located when the doors swung outward and those who had been meeting with the king streamed out, arms loaded with books and papers, most still chattering about whatever matter had been under discussion. A few noticed the tall red-haired youth standing to one side, but Derian had practiced effacing himself, and most overlooked him.

“Go on in,” the herald said. “The king said I need not bother to announce you.”

She looked neither scandalized nor puzzled by this informality and Derian decided that whatever training the castle’s heralds received must include a high amount of tolerance for their aging monarch’s eccentricities.

To his slight surprise, when Derian entered the conference room, he found it empty but for a single uniformed guard. He recognized him at once as Sir Dirkin Eastbranch, captain of the king’s personal guard. Sir Dirkin was a tall man whose square chin and high cheekbones seemed chiseled from his weathered brown skin.

“King Tedric,” Sir Dirkin said without preamble, “has requested that you wait upon him in his sitting room.”

His studiously calm expression broke into a smile so slight Derian might have overlooked it if he hadn’t come to know the man somewhat the summer before.