Buch lesen: «The Sorceress of Belmair»
The Sorceress of Belmair
Bertrice Small
MILLS & BOON
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Prologue
THE OLD KING of Belmair was coming to the end of his days. He sensed it. And as he had lived over eight hundred years it did not seem to him like such a great matter. But he was leaving his world in even poorer condition than he had inherited it. He knew what needed to be done, but he had never quite been able to bring himself to do it. Now, however, as the purple sands in the great hourglass representing his life that sat in the king’s chamber ebbed away to almost nothing, the king knew he must act before it was too late. If it was not already too late.
“Send for the dragon,” the king said to the chief footman who stood next to his throne.
“Send for the dragon!” the chief footman said to the second footman who repeated the command to the third footman, and so on until the order had reached the last footman in the line within the chamber.
Opening the door the last footman called out, “Send for the dragon!”
And then they all waited in silence. After some time had passed one of the dragon’s servants, dressed in bronze-gold livery, ran into the room and up to the king’s throne.
“My mistress is sleeping, Your Majesty. It will take some time to awaken her for it has been a long while since you have sought her counsel,” the servant said.
“Are you a servant of the first rank?” the king asked.
“I certainly am!” the servant assured the king. “My mistress would allow no one of lesser stature to speak to Your Majesty. Though she sleeps, the protocols are always and ever observed.”
“How long will it be before she is awakened?” the king asked.
“I’m afraid it will be several days, Your Majesty,” the servant answered, his tone holding just the proper amount of regret. “She tends to sleep heavily.”
“Time enough,” the king replied pleasantly. “Send to me before she comes.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” the dragon’s servant said, and then bowing, he backed from the chamber.
As he did, he was passed by a beautiful young woman who hurried into the king’s presence. She was tall and slender with the grace of a willow. Pale as moonlight, her long hair, which was worn loose, was as black as the night, and her eyes were as green as spring. She was dressed in a flowing gown of violet silk.
“You have sent for the dragon, Father?” she said as she came.
“I have. It is past time, my dear Cinnia, that I did so,” the king told his only child.
“You know what she will say,” Cinnia responded. “She has said it before, but you would not listen. Will you listen now, Father?”
The old king sighed. “I have no choice now but to listen,” he admitted.
“But will you follow her advice, Father?” Cinnia persisted.
“I fear I must,” the king replied, and he sighed again. “My time is coming to a close, Daughter. Look to my glass. A successor must be chosen to follow me. It is the dragon’s duty to choose the next king of Belmair, and it is your duty to wed my successor.”
Now it was the girl who sighed deeply. “I do not know,” she said, “why a queen cannot rule Belmair, Father. I am as good a sorceress as any male sorcerer.”
The king nodded. “It is true, Daughter, that you have strong powers, but tradition dictates that a king rule Belmair.”
“Can tradition not be changed, Father?” Cinnia asked seriously.
“Tradition, Daughter, is what keeps our society civilized,” the king reminded her. “Remember our history, my child. The last of our kind to challenge tradition, to cause dissent among our peoples, were sent from Belmair. We do not want to be like them now, do we? Their lives were shortened when they left here, and they have been gone for so many centuries now that they have forgotten their own history. They do not remember from where they came, yet in their overweening pride believe themselves superior to all others in the world in which they live. Worse, they have changed little. They are still contentious.” His eyes began to grow heavy. He slumped in his chair. “I am weary, Cinnia. Leave me now,” the old king said.
“Are you all right?” she asked him anxiously. “Shall I call the physician?” Her small hand felt his forehead to see if he was feverish.
A small chuckle escaped him. “Nay, Daughter. I am neither ill nor quite ready to die. Look to the glass. There is yet enough purple sand in it giving me the time I will need to speak with the dragon. To meet with my successor. I am just old and tired.”
Cinnia moved closer to the old king, and bending, kissed his withered cheek. “I’ll call Samuel, and he will help you to your bed, Father. The king of Belmair should not sleep upon his throne. It takes away from your dignity.”
“As you will, Daughter,” he answered her. “As you will.” And his gnarled old hand waved her from his presence.
1
THE DRAGON FINALLY OPENED her eyes. Turning, she found her servant standing by her bed, waiting. She yawned and stretched lazily. “How long have I slept, Tavey?” she asked her servant, yawning again.
“A little over a hundred years, mistress,” Tavey replied. “The king has called for you. He is in need of your counsel. The purple sand in his hourglass is almost gone.”
“Humph,” the dragon replied. “How typical of Fflergant,” she said. “For all his bleating about tradition he has never done anything in a timely and correct manner. Now as his days end he calls for me. I have advised all the kings of Belmair since time began, but never have I dealt with one such as this king.”
“Perhaps,” Tavey ventured, “it was meant to be this way, mistress. Have you not always said that everything happens for a specific reason?”
The dragon arose from her bed. Her name was Nidhug, and had she allowed herself to appear in all her glory she would have stood higher than her own castle. For simplicity’s sake she used her own magic to stand no taller than eight feet. It allowed her to enter the king of Belmair’s residence easily as the chambers there were only twelve feet high. “You know me too well,” she said. “How long have you served me, Tavey?”
“Since the beginning of time, mistress,” he answered her with just the faintest smile touching his thin lips.
“Humph,” Nidhug responded. She stretched out her hands. “You have kept my claws nicely trimmed,” she noted. “And my scales are quite supple.”
“I have oiled them weekly, mistress,” Tavey said. “Sleeping should not negate your need for maintenance. You are the Great Dragon of Belmair, mistress.”
“How long ago did Fflergant call for me?” Nidhug asked her servant.
“Five days ago, mistress,” Tavey responded.
The dragon stretched again, opening her delicate gold wings and extending them briefly before refolding them. She was a very beautiful creature, her scales an iridescent sea-blue and spring-green. The crest upon her head was purple and gold. She had beautiful dark eyes swirled with both gold and silver, and thick, heavy eyelashes that clearly indicated her gender. “Tell Fflergant that I will come to see him in the third hour after the dawn tomorrow morning,” she told Tavey. “But before you go to him, tell the cook I will have two dozen sheep, a dozen sides of beef, a wheel of sharp yellow cheese and six cakes soaked in sweet wine for my dinner. Oh! And a nice salad, too, Tavey,” Nidhug said. “I am in the mood for greens tonight.”
“At once, mistress,” the servant said, and hurried from the chamber to first speak with the dragon’s cook. “She’s awake,” he said, entering the kitchens and giving the cook the order for his mistress’s dinner.
“Is she ill?” the cook wanted to know. “’Tis scarcely a mouthful.”
“It was only a nap,” Tavey said. “Add a few dozen roast geese and capons to the order if it pleases you. She could very well discover she is hungrier than she thought, and will thank you for thinking of it,” he said. Then he slipped out the kitchen door to cross the dragon’s gardens, which led into the king’s gardens and into the king’s castle. Before he could find the king, however, he met the king’s daughter, the sorceress Cinnia.
“Is she awake?” Cinnia asked immediately upon seeing Tavey.
“Yes, my lady, she is.”
“When will she see my father? The sands seem to be moving faster,” Cinnia said.
“Come with me, and you will learn the answer to your question,” Tavey said.
“Tell me!” Cinnia demanded.
Tavey turned and looked at her. “You are not the king of Belmair, my lady, and my message is for the king, not his daughter.”
Cinnia’s green eyes narrowed, but the dragon’s servant stood his ground. “I should be Belmair’s next ruler,” she said darkly.
“Belmair has never been ruled by a woman,” Tavey replied quietly, and he began to walk toward the king’s chamber once again.
“Does that mean it shouldn’t?” Cinnia said.
“It is not our tradition, my lady,” her companion replied. “The dragon has always chosen Belmair’s kings. When there has been no son as has happened in this case the dragon chooses a suitable man, and if there is a king’s daughter and she is unmarried, then she weds the new king so that the blood of the old king continues on as will happen for you, my lady. It is a good and sensible tradition, and has kept peace on Belmair.”
Cinnia said nothing more. What was there to say? Her fate had suddenly be taken out of her hands. She was Belmair’s most respected sorceress, but she no longer had any control over her own life. If she attempted to defy tradition she would be punished. The dragon’s magic was far greater than was Cinnia’s, and she was more than well aware of it for it had been the dragon who had taught her.
Reaching the king’s privy chamber, they entered. Fflergant looked pale, but seeing Tavey, he seemed to perk up.
Tavey bowed to the king. “My mistress has just awakened, and, learning of your need, has told me to tell you she will be here in the third hour after the dawn tomorrow.”
“Thank her for me, and tell her I eagerly await her coming,” the king replied. Then he fell back among his pillows, and his eyes closed again.
Tavey looked to the great hourglass. The purple sand was almost all gone now. When the last grain of it dropped from the top to the bottom it would turn silver, and the king would die. He bowed again, and backed out of the chamber.
Cinnia went to her father’s side. “You cannot die before this is decided,” she said. “It is tradition. And you cannot die before you have passed your authority to your successor. That, too, is tradition on Belmair.”
“I have almost waited too long,” Fflergant said weakly. “My pride could not admit to the fact that I was getting old, Daughter. But my time is very close now. I heard your mother singing again in my dreams last night. She is waiting for me.”
“And you will be with her soon enough, Father,” Cinnia said softly, her eyes welling with tears. “But do not leave me until you have met this man who I must wed and who will be Belmair’s next king.”
“There can be no delay,” the king told his daughter. “Once he is chosen and brought to the castle, the marriage must take place. My last breath as king will be his first breath as king. That is also tradition, Cinnia.”
The young woman nodded. “I chafe against it, but I will not break with tradition, Father. I will not be like those exiled from us so long ago,” she promised him.
“I am relieved to hear it,” the old king said with some small humor. “I know how difficult it is for you, my daughter, for you are not a woman to sit by her loom weaving contentedly. Nidhug has taught you well, and you are a great sorceress.”
“I show promise, the dragon says,” Cinnia responded with a chuckle.
“I wonder who she will choose to follow me,” the old king said.
“What are your thoughts on the matter, Daughter?”
The young woman considered, and then she shook her head. “I can name no one I would choose to follow you, Father. Unless there is someone in one of the three provinces I do not know of, I can think of none. Its dukes are ancient, and long wed.”
“Memory fails me, Daughter. Do any have sons?” the old king asked.
“Only Dreng of Beltran,” Cinnia answered, “but he is long wed.”
“How odd,” the old king said thoughtfully. “In a time when a king is needed it would appear there is none to be had.”
“Perhaps tradition is about to change,” Cinnia suggested mischievously, “and a queen will follow you.”
“If that be so,” replied her father, “the queen still needs a husband if she is to produce the next king. Even all your sorcery cannot give you a child without a man.”
“We can make all the suppositions we want to make,” Cinnia said. “Only the dragon can tell us what is to come, Father. Even I acknowledge that. I am sorry she did not come tonight, but I know how hungry she is after one of her little naps. She must eat before she can consider the solution to our problem.”
And Nidhug was indeed enjoying her evening feast. She praised the cook lavishly for her presence of mind in including the poultry offerings. “No one, Sarabeth,” she said to the cook, “can roast a goose as you do.” She popped a whole bird into her mouth, crunching down upon it, her thin tongue whipping out to lick her lips. “Delicious!” Nidhug pronounced as she swallowed the goose. “And capon, too! Is it stuffed?”
“Of course, mistress, and with that apple and walnut stuffing you so like,” the cook replied, forgetting entirely that it had been Tavey’s suggestion to include a bit of poultry. “I only did two of them, but I roasted two ducks in the plum sauce you favor, as well,” Sarabeth told the dragon.
“Excellent!” the dragon said. “I shall need all my strength tomorrow, for the king is not an easy man to deal with, I fear.”
When the dragon had finished her meal she went up upon the battlements of her castle and stretched to her full height. Then unfolding her delicate wings she rose up into the night sky. Belmair possessed twin moons. One of silver, one of gold. Their phases were identical, and tonight they shone in their first quarter, lighting the landscape below her as she flew. Peace flowed through the dragon’s veins as she looked down.
Belmair was not a large world. It consisted of four islands of varying size set in a great sea. The largest island, which bore the name of Belmair, was the king’s land. The three provinces were the smaller islands of Beldane, Belia and Beltran. Beldane was a lovely land of valleys, gentle hills and glens. Belia was mountainous. Beltran consisted mostly of great tracts of forest and meadows. Each province was ruled over by a ducal family, and each duke answered to the king.
The kings of Belmair did not always follow a familial succession. From the beginnings of time as far back as the Belmairans could remember, it was a dragon who had chosen the king from among the ducal families. And if the preceding king had a daughter of marriageable age the new king was required to wed her.
Once many centuries back, a king designate had been betrothed to a woman he loved when he had been chosen to be king. The betrothed maiden was willing to step aside for her beloved’s sake for no one chosen by the dragon to be Belmair’s king could refuse the honor. The previous king’s daughter was willing to give up her place for she saw the love the king designate had for his betrothed, and she was a maiden with a kind heart. The dragon settled the matter by sitting both maidens in a pen filled with peas. Somewhere among the peas was a pearl. Whoever found the pearl would be the king’s bride. The rumor was that the princess, finding the pearl first, surreptitiously pushed it into the other girl’s view thus giving up her place. The dragon, who knew all, saw the princess married to the young duke of Beltran, who was also in need of a wife, and blessed her with healthy children and many happy years with her husband to reward her for her good and thoughtful heart.
The dragon stopped to rest herself upon a mountaintop in the duchy of Belia. It was spring, and the snows were melting. The sea surrounding the island, visible from her perch, sparkled in the dappled moonlight. She closed her eyes briefly and breathed deeply of the fresh mountain air. There had been but one Great Dragon of Belmair before her—her father. And when her time was over there would be another Great Dragon, but as she had yet had the inclination to raise a hatchling, she knew she would continue her watch over Belmair into the distant future.
The problem before her was to choose a successor for King Fflergant. But there was no successor here on Belmair. She knew each ducal family, and she knew all the men in those ducal families. But none of those males was the next king. She might have changed tradition and chosen Cinnia to be Belmair’s queen. But Cinnia, while a great sorceress although Nidhug would never tell her so, was not capable of ruling Belmair no matter what the girl thought.
“Greetings, Nidhug. How beautiful you are in the moonlight,” an elegant voice said, and then Kaliq, the great Shadow Prince of Hetar, laughed as the dragon’s eyes flew open with her surprise to see him standing before her. “My lord Kaliq, I greet you in friendship,” Nidhug told him.
“What brings you to Belmair?” Indeed what did bring him to Belmair? She had not seen him in at least a thousand years. Kaliq of the Shadows did not come casually. There was a purpose to his visit. And to come at this particular time? He had intrigued her as he always did.
“The purple sands in Fflergant’s glass are almost gone,” Kaliq began. “You need a king, and there is no king at this time here in Belmair, is there?”
The dragon shook her head. “Nay, there is no one, my lord Kaliq.”
“That is because Belmair’s new king is in my palace, Nidhug,” the prince said.
“He is Hetarian?” This could not be!
“He is my son,” the Shadow Prince surprised the dragon by saying. “His mother is called Lara. She is the daughter of Ilona, queen of the Forest Faeries in Hetar, and of a Hetarian called John Swiftsword. Lara has always believed that Dillon was the son of her first husband, Vartan of the Fiacre. We were once lovers long ago, and I told her that we Shadow Princes no longer reproduced. But how could I deny myself the joy of having a son with her for she was perfect. I left my seed in Lara, and when she was ready to give Vartan a child that seed bloomed. I saw to it that the boy had Vartan’s coloring, and when people looked at him as a boy they saw Vartan through the magic with which I surrounded him.”
Kaliq chuckled. “Lara has always thought Dillon gained his magic through her and her faerie blood. But he has my blood, too. He came to me for training when he was twelve. He is now twenty-two, and a great sorcerer. The perfect king for Belmair, and the perfect mate for the fair Cinnia, the sorceress of Belmair.”
“She is a great sorceress,” Nidhug said proudly. “I have taught her myself. But a Hetarian as Belmair’s king? I do not know, my lord Kaliq.”
“He was not born in Hetar, nor has he ever lived there. He was born in the Outlands into the Clan Fiacre. He was raised by the Fiacre, and later in Terah by his mother and his stepfather, Magnus Hauk, its Dominus. And for almost half his life he has lived with me.”
Nidhug nodded, but then she said, “For all its lands with their differences it is still considered the world of Hetar, and the boy’s grandsire was Hetarian.”
“With faerie blood in his veins, as well,” Kaliq responded. “Trust me, Nidhug. Dillon is meant to be Belmair’s new king and Cinnia’s husband.”
“Show him to me,” the dragon said quietly.
The prince held out his palm, and blew into it until a large iridescent bubble had formed itself into a perfect sphere. Then he gently waved his hand over it.
The dragon peered into it and saw a handsome young man with dark hair and blue eyes. He sat on a bench in earnest conversation with a lovely young girl while three young children played about them. “Who are the others?” Nidhug asked.
“The girl he speaks with is his sister, Anoush, daughter of Vartan. The other three are Magnus Hauk’s offspring. The older girl is Zagiri, and the twins are Taj and Marzina.”
“The twins are quite dissimilar,” the dragon noted.
“Yes,” the prince replied. “Kol, the Twilight Lord, caught Lara on the Dream Plain, and implanted his seed within her. As her husband had just gotten her with child that seed quickly took root, and the children were born together, and assumed to be twins.”
“I thought Kol was imprisoned,” the dragon said.
“He is now,” Kaliq told her. “And he has been forbidden from the Dream Plain for what he did there.”
The dragon nodded. “This is an interesting family whose blood you would mix into Belmair,” she said drily. She peered more closely. The young man was fair of face and sturdy of form. Was he strong enough, however, to rule both Belmair and its sorceress? “Can he wield the power of a Belmairan king firmly? He looks to be a gentle man. But he cannot be! You are asking me to introduce a stranger into Belmair as its new king. The ducal families will not be pleased by a decision such as this.”
“Only Dreng of Beltran has a son,” Kaliq said. “And he is married.”
“But all three dukes have grandsons,” the dragon pointed out.
“Most are not old enough to be king, and the two who are could not control Cinnia,” the great Shadow Prince said quietly. “Fflergant’s sands will be gone in less than three days, Nidhug. Do you think I did not know this time was coming? I did not give Lara my son on a purely sentimental whim.”
“Does he know?” the dragon asked candidly.
“He will before he comes to Belmair,” Kaliq answered her. “I believe he has suspected it, though, for the last few years.”
“And his mother?”
Kaliq smiled. “In time, Nidhug. Lara has only partly fulfilled the destiny that was planned for her. In time she will, but for now it is Belmair’s future we must concern ourselves with. Have you seen enough?”
The dragon looked a final time into the bubble. “He is loving,” she said. “Tender with his three sisters, and thoughtful of the little boy. I can only hope you are correct, my lord prince, and that your son is strong enough to master Cinnia. If he can then he will rule Belmair well. She would be queen of Belmair in her own right, you know. Swear to me that your fatherly pride has not blinded you.”
Kaliq blew gently upon the bubble and it dissolved. “I love him well, I will admit, but he is strong, I promise you, Nidhug. He will be one of Belmair’s great kings.” Reaching out he placed his hand on the dragon’s forehead between her two eyes pressing the heel of it firmly against her skin. “Here is all the knowledge that you will need to know,” he said. “We will speak again soon.” Removing his hand from her forehead, he disappeared from her sight.
The dragon stood for a moment longer, absorbing the knowledge the prince had transferred into her head. Then she looked up at the star she knew as Hetar. It was a crystalline-blue, and it twinkled coldly in the black silk night sky. She would be fortunate not to have an insurrection on her hands when she announced that the next king of Belmair was a Hetarian. While Hetar had lost the history of its beginnings, Belmair knew that history well. Those who called themselves Hetarians were not originally of that world. They had been Belmairans once. But they had chafed against tradition, and caused such trouble among the world’s people that the king of that day had gathered them all up, placed them into a bubble and sent them to the world of Hetar.
She had never bothered to consider exactly what had happened to them because it didn’t matter as long as they were no longer able to cause trouble for Belmair; Kaliq had given her that knowledge when he had touched her forehead. For centuries in their arrogance and pride, the Hetarians had existed in another bubble of sorts, believing themselves the only denizens of their world but for a people they called Outlanders.
The Outlanders and the Terahns were Hetar’s original inhabitants. Like the Hetarians, the lord of the Dark Lands had come later. But now all knew that the other existed. The women of Hetar were in revolt against the government that kept them subjugated because of their sex, as their ancestors had once been in revolt against the ruler of Belmair for wanting change. And from this madness the next king would come.
Nidhug shook her head. She had to trust the great Shadow Prince, for of all the creatures in the cosmos he was the one who stood highest in the Originator’s favor. If he said Dillon of Hetar was to be Belmair’s next king, then it must be so. The dragon unfolded her golden wings again and rose into the night sky to fly back to her castle. The dawn was just beginning to pull at the edges of the sky when she gained her own battlements. As her large, clawed feet touched the stone roof she shrank down to a more manageable and less frightening size.
Watching her come, Tavey marveled at the beauty and the magnificence of his mistress. He stepped forward immediately as she landed, bowing. “Your oil bath is ready, mistress. And Sarabeth has prepared a small breakfast for you,” he told her.
“I will soak my scales first,” Nidhug told him. “Will there be cinnamon rolls?”
“Only three trays, mistress. The cook thought that while you would be hungry this morning, you would not want to feel too full. She’s done a nice kettle of porridge, two hams and four dozen boiled eggs for you, as well.”
“How well you all care for me,” Nidhug said, feeling a bit sentimental. “Aye, I will need to be on my toes this morning, given what I must tell Fflergant and his daughter. Send for the dukes. They must be here tomorrow morning to be told the name of the next king. Now, I must have my soak. My scales are dry from the wind.” She hurried off.
When she had soaked for an hour up to her jowls in the warm oil, Nidhug felt refreshed. Arising from the large oval marble tub the dragon let her serving women gently rub the oil into her skin and blot away the excess. Then she repaired to her dining room for her morning meal, and having finished it she prepared to depart for the king’s castle. She would walk across the gardens that separated the two castles, giving her time to consider exactly how she would approach the matter of succession. By the time she had reached Fflergant’s castle and the throne room, she knew exactly what she must say.
“I called for you almost a full week ago,” the old king said by way of greeting.
“And good morrow to you, Your Majesty,” the dragon replied. She glanced at the hourglass and caught her breath. He was almost gone.
“Who will follow me?” Fflergant demanded to know. “Cinnia tells me that the dukes have no sons but one. What of grandsons? The dukes must have grandsons.”
“They do,” the dragon said, “but none are suitable. Several are already wed, and the rest too young to be either king of Belmair, or a husband.”
“How young?” the king wanted to know.
“The oldest of them is eleven, Your Majesty,” the dragon answered.
“Eleven. In three years he would be mature enough to be a husband,” Fflergant said. “And in the meantime there could be a regency to rule for him.”
“I will turn him into a toad,” Cinnia said darkly. “You will not wed me to a child, Father. It is past time for the tradition of kings only rule Belmair to change. You have no other choice. I must be Belmair’s queen in my own right. I will not take a little boy for a husband and then be told what to do by a regent’s counsel. I am seventeen, not twelve.”
“What other choice have we?” her father asked, desperately looking to the dragon.
“It is not a question of choice for Belmair,” the dragon said. “It is my decision who rules. The Great Dragon of Belmair has always determined its king from the beginnings of time, and I am the Great Dragon, Nidhug XXII. Fflergant of Belmair will be followed by Dillon, son of Kaliq of the Shadows.”
“A Hetarian?” the old king gasped, and fell back in his throne. A dozen grains of purple sand remained in the top half of the life glass.
Seeing how near to death Fflergant was, the dragon stopped the sands flow.
Cinnia noted Nidhug’s action, and looked to her mentor questioningly.
“I am permitted to do such in extreme cases,” Nidhug explained softly, and the girl nodded. Then the dragon turned to the old king. “Your Majesty, I know this must seem more than odd, but you must trust me as did your last three predecessors. The son of Kaliq of the Shadows is meant to be Belmair’s next king. His mother is a faerie woman called Lara. She was born in the faerie forest, and raised by her Hetarian father, who also has faerie blood. She is a great woman who has always used her powers for the good. Lara’s mother is Ilona, queen of the Forest Faeries. Dillon is more than worthy of your daughter. He is fair to look upon, and has lived twenty-two years.”
