King's Dragon (Crown of Stars 1)

After twenty years of labor in the scriptorium, Rosvita knew well how difficult it would be to make changes once she had begun, the time it would take to recopy an entire page or, worse, a whole chapter. But she had decided at last on the order of chapters, and it was truly time to plan no longer but simply compose.

1. First of all I will set down a few things regarding the origin and condition of the Wendish people, following in this matter only hearsay, since the truth of those times is too thickly obscured in antiquity.

Some hold that the Wendish people lived first in the northlands, from which they were driven south by the incursions of those whom we name the Eika, the dragon-men. Others believe that the Wendish came originally from Arethousa, and that they were the remnant of the great army led by Alexandros, the Son of Thunder, which after its final defeat by the armies of the Dariyan Empress Arku-ak-nia was scattered throughout the world. This opinion I heard in my youth from an old scholar. For the rest, it is commonly accepted that the Wendish were an ancient and noble people, known to the Hessi peoples and written of in their most ancient books, and referred to in Polyxene’s History of the Dariya.

We are certain, however, that the Wendish people first came to these lands in ships, and that they landed at the town known as Hathelenga, which lies west of the city of Gent. The natives who lived in those lands at that time, said to be Ostravians, took up arms against them. The Wendish fought valiantly and took the shorelands for their own.

There was a sudden eruption of noise at the entrance to the scriptorium. Clerics and monks, lost in their copying, now started up or turned their heads as old Cleric Monica appeared at the head of a loud and, for the moment, unruly band. But it was not an invasion of the Wendish tribes. It was merely the inconvenient arrival of the youngest members of the king’s schola.

Rosvita sighed and set down her pen. She then berated herself for her exasperation and rose to help Cleric Monica herd her charges onto benches at those of the desks which were free. As she sat back down at her own bench, eyeing fresh parchment with the longing of one who knows she will not be able to work any further this hour, a young man slid onto the bench beside her.

“I beg your pardon,” he whispered.

It was young Berthold Villam. He smiled winningly at her; he was one of those rare young men who are utterly charming without being the least aware of it. Indeed, of the children and young persons who attended the king’s progress, he was her favorite. He had turned fifteen last winter and had, as was customary, been given a retinue of his own. Thus, he was too old for the schoolroom, but he, genuinely loved learning or, at least, was desperately curious.

He reached out diffidently and touched the parchment, ink still wet on it, with a forefinger. “This is your History?”

Rosvita nodded. Other children, she noted, were sharing benches with the clerics who had been at work in the scriptorium. In the last half year the number of children on the king’s progress had doubled. This by itself was a sign there was trouble in the kingdom.

Her gaze settled on the girl who sat, silent and with a mulish expression, on the bench nearest Cleric Monica. This latest arrival was the eldest child of Conrad the Black, Duke of Wayland; though she was only eight years old, she knew she was being held hostage for her father’s good behavior.

“Now, children,” said Cleric Monica. She was quite bent with arthritis but a formidable presence nevertheless. She glared the children into silence and raised a hand. “Attend. There are enough tablets that you must only share with one another person. Some of you boys need only listen.”

Berthold fidgeted, fingers toying with Rosvita’s stylus. Like many of the boys and young men who were fated to marry and then spend most of their life riding to war or protecting their wives’ lands, he had not been taught how to write, although he could read. He noticed what he was doing and, embarrassed, ducked his chin.

“You may use it,” she said. He flashed her a smile and laboriously impressed a “B” into the tablet.

“Attend,” said Cleric Monica. “To read the works of the ancients you must know Dariyan, for that is the language in which they wrote and spoke in the old Dariyan Empire. Though there is much knowledge we may gain from those works left to us after the fall of that great empire, there is a greater knowledge yet: that the old Empire, the union of elves and men, was fated to fall because its emperors and empresses would not receive into their hearts the truth of the Unities and the blessing of the Light. That is why, when the great Taillefer restored the empire in the year 600, he called it the Holy Dariyan Empire.”

begins the First Book of the Deeds of the Great Princes.

After twenty years of labor in the scriptorium, Rosvita knew well how difficult it would be to make changes once she had begun, the time it would take to recopy an entire page or, worse, a whole chapter. But she had decided at last on the order of chapters, and it was truly time to plan no longer but simply compose.

1. First of all I will set down a few things regarding the origin and condition of the Wendish people, following in this matter only hearsay, since the truth of those times is too thickly obscured in antiquity.

Some hold that the Wendish people lived first in the northlands, from which they were driven south by the incursions of those whom we name the Eika, the dragon-men. Others believe that the Wendish came originally from Arethousa, and that they were the remnant of the great army led by Alexandros, the Son of Thunder, which after its final defeat by the armies of the Dariyan Empress Arku-ak-nia was scattered throughout the world. This opinion I heard in my youth from an old scholar. For the rest, it is commonly accepted that the Wendish were an ancient and noble people, known to the Hessi peoples and written of in their most ancient books, and referred to in Polyxene’s History of the Dariya.

We are certain, however, that the Wendish people first came to these lands in ships, and that they landed at the town known as Hathelenga, which lies west of the city of Gent. The natives who lived in those lands at that time, said to be Ostravians, took up arms against them. The Wendish fought valiantly and took the shorelands for their own.

There was a sudden eruption of noise at the entrance to the scriptorium. Clerics and monks, lost in their copying, now started up or turned their heads as old Cleric Monica appeared at the head of a loud and, for the moment, unruly band. But it was not an invasion of the Wendish tribes. It was merely the inconvenient arrival of the youngest members of the king’s schola.

Rosvita sighed and set down her pen. She then berated herself for her exasperation and rose to help Cleric Monica herd her charges onto benches at those of the desks which were free. As she sat back down at her own bench, eyeing fresh parchment with the longing of one who knows she will not be able to work any further this hour, a young man slid onto the bench beside her.

“I beg your pardon,” he whispered.

It was young Berthold Villam. He smiled winningly at her; he was one of those rare young men who are utterly charming without being the least aware of it. Indeed, of the children and young persons who attended the king’s progress, he was her favorite. He had turned fifteen last winter and had, as was customary, been given a retinue of his own. Thus, he was too old for the schoolroom, but he, genuinely loved learning or, at least, was desperately curious.

He reached out diffidently and touched the parchment, ink still wet on it, with a forefinger. “This is your History?”

Rosvita nodded. Other children, she noted, were sharing benches with the clerics who had been at work in the scriptorium. In the last half year the number of children on the king’s progress had doubled. This by itself was a sign there was trouble in the kingdom.

Her gaze settled on the girl who sat, silent and with a mulish expression, on the bench nearest Cleric Monica. This latest arrival was the eldest child of Conrad the Black, Duke of Wayland; though she was only eight years old, she knew she was being held hostage for her father’s good behavior.

“Now, children,” said Cleric Monica. She was quite bent with arthritis but a formidable presence nevertheless. She glared the children into silence and raised a hand. “Attend. There are enough tablets that you must only share with one another person. Some of you boys need only listen.”

Berthold fidgeted, fingers toying with Rosvita’s stylus. Like many of the boys and young men who were fated to marry and then spend most of their life riding to war or protecting their wives’ lands, he had not been taught how to write, although he could read. He noticed what he was doing and, embarrassed, ducked his chin.

“You may use it,” she said. He flashed her a smile and laboriously impressed a “B” into the tablet.