The other man shook his head, but inside he found his heart beginning to hope. He did not like this world beyond the Borders. It was far colder than his own country, and after several weeks of guarding King Fidel of Parumvir in this isolated place, he had begun to think the cold had seeped into his bones and would stay there permanently. Not a pleasant thought.
“If only Oeric would return,” Sir Imoo said. “It has been two days since he left – I would have thought he’d be back here by now. If only he would bring us word of the outside world! I feel I shall become like one of those before long.” He indicated the stone watchmen carved and set within alcoves of the fortress wall. There were two of them, solemn figures from legends of Parumvir’s past. It was the custom for statues of these men to stand guard over the king’s fortresses, but Imoo found them uncomfortable company in the long watches of the night.
Sir Rogan remained merry. “He will return tonight, Imoo. And he will herald attack, and we shall test the sharpness of our blades upon our enemies!”
Imoo shivered and stared hard into the gloom of the mountain trail winding down beneath them, searching for any sign of truth to Rogan’s words. The green-eyed knight started to hum to himself and soon began to sing a bloodthirsty song. His jewel eyes shone like those of a cat ready to pounce but ever so patient for the right moment.
At last Imoo said, “He comes.”
Rogan drew his sword.
–––––––
The yellow-eyed boy grinned down at her, his eyes gleaming like struck matches. Angry at losing her dream, the dragon girl snarled, “What do you want?”
“There’s been a disturbance in the tunnel,” he said. His teeth glinted in the light of his own eyes. “Someone’s been discovered in our lands, not a brother or sister. He wandered in here on his own and was taken without a fight. How foolish is that? They are bringing him to the Village. Come, let’s go see!”
Reluctant yet also interested, she climbed out from behind her boulder and followed the yellow-eyed boy. A great crowd, hundreds of shadow figures, gathered thickly near the mouth of the tunnel. They jostled and fought each other, and spurts of flame flared up at intervals. But everyone’s eyes were fixed on the tunnel mouth, curious about what was coming. The yellow-eyed boy led her off to one side and showed her where to climb to a ledge from which they had a clear view. She settled onto the narrow outcropping and waited.
Suddenly, there he was.
Her eyes widened and her breath stilled. She did not hear the shouts from a hundred dragonish throats, did not take in the swift surge of heat and anger. Her gaze was filled with Prince Aethelbald standing in the mouth of the tunnel over the dark cavern, held by two enormous men with black talons. He was unarmed, yet his face was, she thought, serene even in the harsh red firelight.
“Who are you and how dare you cross our borders?” the Bane of Corrilond, who stood forefront in the mob, demanded.
“I seek a princess,” he replied. His voice rang clear among the harsh snarls that rose in response.
“A princess?” The Bane of Corrilond spat. “We have no princess here. We are all brothers and sisters, not princes and princesses. And you have not answered my question. Who are you?”
“I know who he is.”
The dragon girl started in surprise to hear the rasping voice of the yellow-eyed boy beside her.
“Who is he, then?” the Bane of Corrilond asked, turning red eyes toward the ledge where the two sat.
Instead of answering, the yellow-eyed boy slid from the ledge and elbowed his way through the crowd and up the path until he stood face-to-face with the captive.
“Hello, Prince of Farthestshore,” he said.
“Hello, Diarmid,” Aethelbald replied.
“What do you call me?” The yellow-eyed boy snorted. “Is that a name?”
“It is your name.”
“Funny thing, that. No wonder I forgot it. I have no name now, Prince. How long has it been since last we met?”
“Five hundred years by the Near World’s count.”
“Only five hundred? I thought perhaps more. Seems like an eternity since last I really burned!”
“What is this?” the Bane of Corrilond cried, coming up beside the yellow-eyed boy. “Is this one of your former kin?”
The yellow-eyed boy laughed and flung an arm around Aethelbald’s shoulders. “This is the Prince of Farthestshore, my one-time master of yore!” He spat the word with a spark of fire. “The selfsame master who, five hundred years ago, tried to undo the gift our father bestowed upon me. He tried to quench my fire!”