“Please, sire,” his senior attendant said, reaching out protectively to the king. “You must rest – ”
“What news?” Fidel roared, slapping the attendant’s hands aside and grabbing the young soldier viciously. “What news of my son?”
The soldier, white as a sheet, babbled, “I was with the company that rode north, Your Highness. We were attacked, set upon by Shippening soldiers – ”
“My son?”
“Lost, sire.”
Fidel’s grip slackened, and he sagged back, caught and supported by several of his attendants. “Dead?” he whispered.
“I do not know,” the soldier said. “I fear so. We were slaughtered, Your Majesty.”
Fidel, in a weak haze, noticed suddenly how haggard and weak the young soldier was, saw the wound crusted with blood on his shoulder.
“We were slaughtered,” the soldier repeated. “Captain Janus led the prince away, but we could not keep up, and they disappeared into Goldstone Wood. When we came to the Wood there was – ” He hung his head, and his voice choked suddenly. “A dragon,” he said. “Not large, but we were unprepared.”
The soldier, hardly more than a boy, shivered and swayed on his feet. General Argus put a supporting hand under his elbow. “I alone escaped,” he continued. “I was wounded and fell into a ditch. I believe I fainted.” His voice was low with shame. “When I woke, I searched the Wood but found only my . . . my comrades. Dead. All except Captain Janus.” He shuddered and whispered, “Burned.”
Another soldier who stood aside from the group spoke up, drawing the king’s attention. “We discovered Janus’s body,” he said, “just outside Dompstead. He was dead before the company left for the north. Whoever it was who rode with your son was not Captain Janus but an imposter.”
Fidel closed his eyes. Everything within him was still, the stillness of death. “Take me inside,” he murmured, and his attendants assisted him back to his room, beside the dark fireplace. One of them started to build a fire, but the king said, “Leave me,” in a tone that made no room for argument.
But Argus stood his ground in the doorway. “Your Majesty, the duke will come. Probably this very evening. We cannot protect you here. Dompstead is unprepared for defense.”
The king did not answer, and the attendants tried to force Argus from the room.
The general nearly shouted in frustration, “We must get you away from here!”
Fidel looked up, and murder flashed through his eyes. “Leave me, Argus. Now.”
The general cursed as a man should never curse before his sovereign but allowed himself to be pushed, still cursing, from the room. The door slammed.
Fidel sank into darkness and felt the dragon poison in his blood sucking him deeper. “My children,” he whispered.
The attendants stood in the hall, pale as ghosts, and listened helplessly to their king’s weeping.
–––––––
Heavy drizzle hung in the air, dampening the streets of a small town and the spirits of those who walked in them. This time of year, all one could expect in Beauclair was rain, rain, and more rain, with the occasional sleet for added interest. It put everyone in such a sour mood that even friends refused to make eye contact with friends.
Into this town Una stepped on unsteady feet, uncertain anymore of her own limbs. If a wind blew, she felt a lightheaded whirr inside, as though her small frame would be lifted and blown away like dandelion fluff. Her dress was torn, hanging in loose tatters on her body, little protection from the cold and rain. She felt conspicuous, but no one took notice of one solitary girl, intent as they were upon getting to their various destinations and out of the wet.
At a signpost, Una recognized that she had been following the Wide Road, the primary highway that merchants and other travelers took between Parumvir and Beauclair. The town she entered was, from what she could tell, built in the Beauclair style, and she guessed that she must have crossed the border.
She had never in her life traveled so far from home, yet here she stood in the middle of a strange town, utterly alone. She wanted to crawl into a hole and cry for fear and loneliness. But there were no tears, not even now that her fire was low.
She stood in the middle of a cobbled street, looking this way and that. Surely there was somewhere she could go for shelter? Warm light poured through the one large window of an inn at the end of the street. The sign, creaking mournfully in the wet air, sported a crude sketch and read: The Rampant Dragon.
She grimaced.
But perhaps they would let her warm herself at the fire? For though Una could feel her own fire deep down inside, it was faint, and outside she was cold and desperate for comfort.
The door of the inn was firmly closed against the bitter night. She knocked smartly, then stepped back, tucking her hands under her arms, hunched over in the cold.
A thin, grizzled man looked out, around, and finally down at her. His face darkened.
“What d’yer want?”