King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

Alain gaped at the fine ladies and lords and their splendid horses. All of them wore gold threaded in their tunics and gowns; there was even a biscop among them, her white robes adorned with gold piping and her donkey fitted with a handsome saddle worked with beads and silver. But the most marvelous among them all was Lady Sabella.

r Rodlin had left no directions about the prince. All fasted on Penitire. But wasn’t the Eika prince pledged to false gods? Alain decided it would be more merciful to feed him. So he brought the portion allocated to the prince, and while the prince ate, Alain spoke in a calm voice—not wanting to startle him—about the blessed Daisan and the Holy Circle of Unity. After all, the light of the faithful could be brought to all creatures. Had not the goblin kin of the Harenz Mountains been brought to the faith by the exertions of St. Martin and his sister, the holy martyr St. Placidana?

“On this day we remember our sins,” he said. In the cool, quiet dawn, his voice sounded strange, disembodied, as if someone else was speaking. He heard, like a counterpoint to his speech, the low growls of the hounds as they crunched on bones. The prince ate noiselessly. “And then, for seven days we pray and fast just as the blessed Daisan did at the church Hearth in Saïs, the blessed city. These seven days we call the Ekstasis. In his rapture, as he prayed, seeking redemption for all who might come into the Light of the Circle of Unity drawn by Our Lord and Lady, his soul ascended through the seven spheres until at last, on the morning of the seventh day, it came to the Chamber of Light. And the Lord and Lady in their mercy conveyed him directly to heaven. It is written in the Acts of St. Thecla, the Witnesser, that the church was entirely illuminated with the light of God’s mercy, so brilliant that she was blinded for seven times seven days thereafter. But the blessed Daisan was gone, taken up unto the Chamber of Light. On that day, which we know as the Translatus, there is feasting and rejoicing, for so may we all find mercy in the grace of Our Lord and Lady.”

Like the hounds, the prince seemed to prefer his meat raw, and he ate every bit of it, including the bones. Now he lifted his head and his narrow tongue licked the air. This close, he had the sheen of a snake’s skin, a mellow reddish-brown. He smelled not humanlike, sweat and skin, but like a musty cave, entombed, dry stone.

And he spoke. “Halane.”

Alain started back two steps, he was so surprised. Then he jumped forward and chained the prince’s hand back with the other.

“Halane,” said the Eika, slit eyes fixed on Alain. Bound now, he could only move his chin, up and over. His voice had the smooth tone of a flute.

He’s trying to point at me, Alain thought. And shuddered. Halane.

“My name is Alain,” he said, hesitantly, not sure if he was interpreting the Eika’s intent correctly. “I am Alain, son of Henri. Do you have a name?” He copied the gesture the creature had made. “Do you have a name?”

It bared its teeth, but Alain could not tell if, like a hound, the grimace was meant to scare or if it was trying to smile. “Henry. King.”

Alain gulped down an exclamation. “King Henry rules in Wendar and Varre. What is your name? Who rules in the lands where you come from?”

“Bloodheart. King of shipmen. I also son. Son of Bloodheart.”

Son of the Eika king! Was that truly what the prince was saying? And hard against his astonishment, a wild bubble of laughter tried to escape: The Eika prince thought that he, Alain, was the son of King Henry!

All at once, before Alain could reply, the hounds left off worrying at the bones and ran to the stockade gate. The Eika prince threw his head back and as one with the hounds howled piercingly. Alain clapped his hands over his ears and jumped out of the cage, slamming the door shut and chaining it closed. Such noise! The hounds yammered and howled like wild things. He ran to the ladder, climbed it, and from its height saw what the others had smelled and heard.

There, coming down the road, was the most glorious procession he had ever seen. About fifty riders were surrounded by a great mass of servants and other foot attendants. Banners and pennons rose in the breeze, lit by the sun as it flooded the valley with light. Carts and wagons followed behind, most of them painted in bright colors, and at the very end came the stock-handlers and the extra horses and some few beasts of other description, including a great shrouded cage.

Alain flung himself over the stockade, lowered, and dropped to the ground. He ran. In all his life he had never seen or expected to see anything like this: the retinue of a great prince. He made it to the castle gates in time to fall in behind a smaller procession made up of Count Lavastine, who was dressed in a plain tunic and hosen—without ornament—as was fitting for Penitire, and his household. He and his retinue approached, on foot, the great cavalcade of Lady Sabella and met with them before the church, where a crowd had gathered.

Alain gaped at the fine ladies and lords and their splendid horses. All of them wore gold threaded in their tunics and gowns; there was even a biscop among them, her white robes adorned with gold piping and her donkey fitted with a handsome saddle worked with beads and silver. But the most marvelous among them all was Lady Sabella.

Alain recognized her at once since she wore a gold coronet on her brow and a magnificent golden torque around her neck. She wore a tunic thickly threaded with gold, a belt studded with gems, and gold bindings on her legs. At her belt she wore a sword which boasted a hilt inlaid with gold. That she wore a sword was strange but not unheard of for a woman, but Alain shivered, seeing it, wondering what the count’s reaction would be. A woman of Lady Sabella’s high rank only wore a sword if she meant to lead an army in her own person rather than through the agency of a kinsman. She had a strong face, and she wore her hair plaited back, dressed with gold and silver ribbons but uncovered, like a soldier’s. All at once she reminded him of the Lady of Battles, whom he had seen in that vision almost one year ago.

Count Lavastine greeted her in the formal manner, but he did not help her dismount. One of her own vassals did so, holding the stirrup while she swung down. Then her husband—a paunchy man distinguished only by the gold torque at his neck—dismounted. There were several girls in the party so draped with shawls that Alain could see no outward sign by which to distinguish Tallia—Sabella’s daughter—from the others.

Alain sidled over toward the doors of the church, coming to rest near poor Withi, who had taken up her usual station on her knees by the door.

The biscop, staff in hand, led the company forward to the doors. Frater Agius had come out, and he knelt on the porch in greeting.

“Where is your deacon?” asked the biscop.

“Deacon Waldrada has been ill with the lungfever, Your Grace,” said Lavastine. “She is not yet recovered enough to lead the service.”

“So do we obey the dictates of Our Lady and Lord. While it is not traditional, nevertheless this brother of the church shall assist me today, together with my clerics and deacons.” Almost at the porch, with the lords and ladies following, the biscop caught sight of Withi kneeling in the mud. She lifted her staff and pointed it at the girl. “Who is this penitent with her hair stained with ashes who kneels forward before the others?”

So close behind her, Alain saw Withi’s shoulders tremble as the biscop spoke. He wanted to go forward, to comfort Withi, to tell her that surely this biscop, with her kindly face and her gentle but authoritative manner, could not be harsher than Frater Agius. He even took one step forward, only to halt at the sound of Agius’ hard voice.

“This sinner has confessed to the sin of fornication, Your Grace. She has repented of her sin and now kneels for the prescribed one hundred days here before the church, so that all may see and hear her cries to Our Lady, who is merciful.”

“Poor child,” said the biscop. She was an old woman, white-haired but robust, with cheeks rubbed rosy by evident good health. “Shall we not also act mercifully on this day of repentance?” She walked forward and extended a hand to Withi, who merely gaped at her.

All around, the crowd murmured at this sign of compassion from a great biscop, a noblewoman of high rank.

“Come, child,” said the biscop gently. “You must enter the house of Our Lady and Lord and be forgiven your sins.”

Withi burst into noisy sobs, but at last, under the biscop’s kind gaze, she put out a chapped, callused hand and the biscop took it in one of her own white, clean ones and lifted her up. With the girl beside her she led the procession into the church.