King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

Alain sighed and turned away from the sea. He tugged on the rope, pulling the donkey away from a tuft of grass. It moved reluctantly, but it did move. Together they walked on, kicking sand up from the path that ran along the spine of the ridge, leading from the town to the monastery. The surf muttered far below.

The path began to slope down toward the Dragon’s Tail, where the monastery lay. Soon Alain caught a glimpse of buildings spaced out around the church with its single tower. He lost sight of them again as the path cut down through tumbled boulders along the landward side of the ridge and, farther down still, turning to loam, wound through quiet forest.

He came out of the forest into cleared fields and soon enough trudged through the open gates and into the monastery that, on St. Euseb?’s Day, would be his home for the rest of his life. Ai, Lord and Lady! Surely his guilt stained him red for all to see: The boy who loved the Father and Mother of Life and who yet rebelled in his heart against entering Their service. Ashamed, he stared at his feet as he skirted the outbuildings and arrived, finally, at the scriptorium.

Brother Gilles was waiting for him, patient as always, leaning on a walking stick.

“You have brought the tithe of candles from the village,” the old monk said approvingly. “Ah, and I see a jar of oil as well.”

Alain carefully unloaded the baskets slung by a rope harness on either side of the donkey. He set the bundle of candles, rolled up in heavy cloth, down on the tile floor of the scriptorium. Brother Gilles propped the door open. The few small windows were open as well, shutters tied back against the wall, but even so at the central lecterns it was dim work for the monks copying missals and lectionaries.

“The catch was poor last week,” Alain said as he lifted out the jar of oil. “Aunt Bel promises that she will send two more jars after Ladysday.”

“She is truly generous. The Lord and Lady will reward her for her service to Them. You may take the oil to the sacristy.”

“Yes, Brother.”

“I will go with you.”

They walked outside, circling the church, passing the walled enclosure of the novitiate where Alain would soon be spending his days and nights.

“You are troubled, child,” said Brother Gilles gently as he hobbled along beside Alain.

Alain flushed, fearing to tell him the truth, fearing to dishonor the covenant already agreed upon between the monastery and his father and aunt.

Brother Gilles grunted softly. “You are destined for the church, child, whether you wish it or not. I suppose you have heard too many stories of the great deeds of the Emperor Taillefer’s warriors?”

Alain flushed more deeply but did not reply. He could not bear to lie to Brother Gilles, who had always treated him as kindly as if they were kin. Was it too much to ask to go only one time to Medemelacha or to ports farther south, even into the kingdom of Salia? To see with his own eyes the strange and wonderful things told of by the merchants who sailed out of Osna Sound each season? Such stories were told by all the merchants, except his father, of course, who was as talkative as a rock.

Imagine! He might pass men-at-arms bearing the standard of the Salian king. He might watch Hessi merchants, men from a foreign land so distant that none of the Osna merchants had ever visited their towns, men who had unusually dark skin and hair, who wore round pointed caps on their heads even when they were indoors, and who were said to pray to a god different than the Lord and Lady of Unities. He might speak with traders from the island of Alba, where, it was said, the Lost Ones still walked abroad in the deep forests, hidden to the sight of men. He might even hear the adventures of the fraters, wandering priests ready to venture out again to barbarous lands to bring the word of the blessed Daisan and the Church of Unities to people who lived outside the Light of the Holy Circle of Unity.

Once a year, during the summer, there was a great fair at Medemelacha where any possible thing known to men might be bought or sold. Slaves from lands far to the south, where the sun, as fierce as a blacksmith’s furnace (or so said the merchants), burned their skin black, and others from the ice lands who were so pale you could see right through them. Infant basilisks chained in shrouded cages. Goblin children from the Harenz Mountains, trained as rat-catchers. Bolts of silk from Arethousa. Cloisonné clasps in the shape of wolf heads, gold and green and blue, to ornament the belts and fasten the cloaks of noblemen. Finely wrought swords. Pitchers molded of white clay, painted with roundels and chevrons. Amber. Angel tears like beads of glass. Slivers of dragon’s fire ossified into obsidian.

“You have left me, Alain.”

He started back to himself, aware that he was standing like a lackwit ten paces from the door that led into the vestibule and thence to the sacristy, where the sacred vessels and vestments for the church were kept.

Smiling, Brother Gilles patted him on the arm. “You must accept what Our Lord and Lady have chosen for you, my child. For They have chosen. It remains only for you to understand what They ask of you, and to obey Them.”

Alain hung his head. “I will, Brother.”

He took the jar of oil inside and left it with one of sacrist brother’s mute assistants. Coming back outside to an afternoon dimmed by the approach of clouds, he heard horses and the cheerful noise of riders unfettered by the vows of silence that most monks took.

Circling to the front of the church, he saw Father Richander, Brother Gilles, and the cellarer speaking with a group of visitors. The strangers were brightly dressed in tunics and capes trimmed with borders of red leaves and blue diamonds. There was a deacon and her attendant frater in drab brown robes, a woman with a fur-trimmed cloak, two well-dressed men, and a half dozen foot soldiers in boiled leather tunics. Imagine what it would be like to ride free of here, of the monastery, of the village, to ride outside the great Dragonback Ridge that bounded his world and venture into the world beyond!

He edged closer to listen.

“The usual tithe includes the service for a year of five young persons of sound body, does it not, Mistress Dhuoda?” Father Richander asked of the woman in the fur-trimmed cloak. “If you ask for more, then the townspeople may be forced to send some of the young persons we employ as servants here, and that would create hardship for us, especially now, in the planting season.”

She had a haughty face, tempered by a grave expression. “That is true, Father, but there have been more raids along the coast this year, and Count Lavastine must increase his levy.”

Count Lavastine! Mistress Dhuoda was his chatelaine; Alain recognized her now, as she turned toward him to gesture to the soldiers accompanying her. If he could not sail with his father, then he had hoped that at least he might be called to service in Count Lavastine’s levy, even if only for one year. But it was not to be. Alain knew why. Everyone knew why. The church was the suitable place for the child Merchant Henri had acknowledged and raised as his own but whom everyone knew was really the bastard child of a whore.

flushed, fearing to tell him the truth, fearing to dishonor the covenant already agreed upon between the monastery and his father and aunt.

Brother Gilles grunted softly. “You are destined for the church, child, whether you wish it or not. I suppose you have heard too many stories of the great deeds of the Emperor Taillefer’s warriors?”

Alain flushed more deeply but did not reply. He could not bear to lie to Brother Gilles, who had always treated him as kindly as if they were kin. Was it too much to ask to go only one time to Medemelacha or to ports farther south, even into the kingdom of Salia? To see with his own eyes the strange and wonderful things told of by the merchants who sailed out of Osna Sound each season? Such stories were told by all the merchants, except his father, of course, who was as talkative as a rock.