The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (4 page)

Whistle
…

He stamped the floor to make sure his boots were—

Whistle
…

Gialyn started at a hop, almost tripping over his own feet. He was dead last by the time they hit the base of the hill. Leaning forward, he cast a wide stance and kicked
his heels into the hard ground. Whilst tugging at tufts of grass to aid his climb. The first half minute passed quickly and easily; he hardly felt tired at all. Then again, he had barely gone a fifth of the way up the hill. Looking around, he was surprised to see he was fourth, and he
still
felt good. Steady breaths became deeper. The air felt cold on his throat, despite the hot sun. One after another, he planted his feet firmly in the ground, pushing off with a solid rhythm.
Balance first, speed second
is what Grady had told him on the way to Rosefall. It seemed to be working; three quarters of the way and he was solidly in second place.
That’ll do… Second place is good. Now, don’t go acting the fool and trip over again.

Gialyn flinched as the rock hit him on the shoulder. He looked up. Another rock was heading towards his head. He quickly ducked, but still, it hit his hip.
What is the fool doing? The cheating toad! Curse you, Ealian Tanner, throwing rocks at me.

Gialyn dug in, head down, barrelling up the hill, focusing on his next handhold, headless of the pain in his legs. He must have near doubled his pace by the fourth stride, going faster now than he did at the start. He eyed Ealian and overtook him. A quick look up the hill—he still had thirty or more paces to go. Wheezing heavily, his vision blacken
ed at the sides, but there was no quitting, not now, no slowing down, either. His legs felt fat from the blood coursing through them, and yet numb, as if he were losing control of them. He gripped so hard at the tufts of grass that his fingers would barely open to take his next hold. Finally, he pulled himself onto the hilltop.

Legs shaking, he stood, turned, and raised his arms in the air. Ealian was still a good ten paces down.
Gods, I have won. I have actually won!
Waving, he shouted to those down below. Grady, Meric, and a few others shouted back, pointing south.

“Get the… the
fla…”

What are they shouting about?
He still had a smile on his face, still happy with himself. Then more people at the foot of the hill joined in the shouts. He stopped waving and tried to listen.

“Get the Flag!”

The Flag!
Gialyn turned on his heels. He kicked off so hard he slipped. Ealian had reached the summit. Gialyn darted towards the red flag. A hand grabbed at his elbow. He pulled free, almost falling. Another hand, Ealian was pulling at his waist now. He swiped it away, almost falling again. Ealian’s growling cry was too close.
Oh no you don’t, Tanner, not now.
The last few yards were steep. Gialyn wrenched at the grass in front of him as he scrambled to the peak. Finally, with his left hand outstretched, he yanked the red flag out of the ground and raised it in the air.

Ealian fell at his feet, rolled over on his back, and covered his face with his hands.

Gialyn could clearly hear the cheers from below, maybe a few laughs as well—and booing, probably from Ealian’s cronies. He raised the flag high and shouted, “I won!” in a half-celebratory, half-disbelieving manner.

“Why did you try to cheat? Why do you do that?” Gialyn looked down at the Tanner boy.

“What are you moaning about? You won, didn’t you?” Ealian scoffed as though that were all that mattered.

Gialyn ignored him. He revelled for a moment in the cheering of his supporters before starting back down the hill.

It took considerably longer to get down the hill than it did to climb up it. Gialyn had to sit three times and wait for his legs to stop shaking. Once on the ground, he found himself surrounded by folk patting him on the back, congratulating him. Grady put an arm around his shoulder and shook him almost until he fell over. Meric just gave him a hearty pat on the back.

“Well done, my friend!” he said. His big smile showed he meant it.

Theo Tanner pushed his lolloping frame to the fore. Ealian followed close behind, his head bowed, gazing at the ground. It appeared the emissary was none too pleased at his son’s failure.
I wonder if he told him to cheat.

“Well done, young Re’adh, a very
… determined performance.” He said the words, but his eyes gave the impression he didn’t mean them.

“Thank you, sir.” Gialyn bowed respectfully
, at the same time Grady said, “You are lucky that boy of yours didn’t get a thump around the ear, throwing rocks at Gialyn like that.”

Theo Tanner ignored the remark. “Be on the stage in half an hour to receive your prize, young man.” He gave a quick sideways glance at Grady and walked off.

Gialyn raised a brow at Grady, who laughed off his complaint and took him by the shoulder. The three of them—Meric, too—walked back towards the green.

“Don’t let people like that get the bet
ter of you, my boy,” Grady said, “or you’ll be bowing for the rest of your days. They are no better than us. Most are a lot worse.”

Gialyn nodded as they turned towards the path and crossed the footbridge into the
town green. The royal messenger Theo spoke of was on the small stage, reading from a scroll.

“…of the population can apply. The tax holiday on transported wheat will continue until midsummer’s eve.” A muffled cheer rose from the crowd. “Thereafter, it will return to its previous rate of one bushel in twelve.

“And the final order of business, a note from his Royal Highness, King Vierdan, sovereign of the most exalted order of the Empire of Moyathair, leader of the House of Eidred, High Seat of Bailryn and Aleras’moya.

“His Majesty sends greeting to all and a warm invitation to attend the capital on this midsummer’s eve. Upon which time, the Master at Arms shall choose candidates for the position of Palace Guard. Any citizen, meeting the criteria for the aforementioned post, who wishes to apply for the position, should appear in person before th
e Master at Arms no later than Miatirdis—Monday at noon—the week of midsummer’s eve. Gods save the king!” The messenger rolled up the scroll and bowed to those gathered.

“Gods save the king!” the crowd replied.

The crowd began to thin, many making their way back to the stalls. Many more huddled in groups and talked in varying degrees of interest about what the message contained. Some seemed pleased at the tax cuts; some complained that there shouldn’t be a tax at all! However, none made much fuss over the palace guard recruitments. The position was open to any Surabhan between the age of eighteen and twenty-one. This, in the case of the Geddy Vale, meant no more than five or six at most.

“Strange he would bother coming all this way for that,” Grady muttered. “He
could have just sent a scroll, forty leagues on a barge for a couple of tax announcements and guard recruitment. It makes no sense!”

Gialyn heard Grady’s mutterings but made no comment.
He was still too excited over his victory to give a thought to such things as taxes and guard recruitments.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Elspeth said.

Gialyn’s heart leaped; he couldn’t have been more surprised if she had jumped out from behind a tent. His tired legs very nearly gave way at the sight of her.

The girl was indeed beautiful, half a hand shorter than Gialyn, though she held herself such that she appeared taller. She was standing square in front of him, clad in her hunter garb as though she had just come from tracking a pack of wild boar, rather than competing in a
town fair.

Gialyn rarely, if ever, had been so close, definitely not while
he
was the subject of her gaze. His first few words fared little better than his feet. He coughed and started again. “Thank you, Elspeth. Congratulations to you, too.” He bowed, though it wasn’t necessary. Truly, he didn’t know what else to do.

Elspeth mimed a curtsey—she wore no skirts to flare—laughing a little as she did so. “Why thank you, sir. You are most kind,” she said with a haughty grin.

Gialyn slouched nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, gazing between the ground and Elspeth’s knees.
Say something, you fool! Do not just stand there like a lemon.
“Did you win by much?” he asked.
Yes, that’s a good question. Well done!

“It was closer than I thought it would be.” Elspeth stood up straighter and raised her chin even higher—as if she wasn’t arrogant enough without adding to it. “Mr
. Calande took me to a three arrow shoot-off. Of course, I was sure of the outcome. I could hear by his breathing that the man was getting tired, and probably the worse for ale, too. I’m sure he had three jugs while on the range! Men… they think they can do everything at once.”

“I thought you would win. I watched you
… Uh, I mean, I’ve
seen
you practicing, when I walk past the field… sometimes.”

Meric coughed and cast a wry smile in Gialyn’s direction.

“Yes. You have to work hard if you want to be the best,” Elspeth said, fiddling with her bow. “You will learn that, too, Gialyn, when we get to Bailryn.”

Gialyn dropped his arms
and gave her a wide-eyed gaze. “When we… Who…? Who is going to Bailryn?”

“Oh, hasn’t your father told you yet? Silly me, of course not, you wouldn’t have had time to speak with him. Yes, my father has asked Mr
. Re’adh to escort Ealian and me to Bailryn for the palace guard recruitments. Of course,
Ealian
isn’t applying; he’s just coming because he cannot bear to miss anything. Your father has agreed, and he said it would be ‘good for you to see a bit of the world.’ I think that is how he put it… ‘Maybe Gialyn will apply for the post, too?’ or something like that. I didn’t hear the conversation myself. Can you use a bow or sword, Gialyn?”

“Can I what? This is
… Are you sure? When was this decided?” Gialyn knew he was blank-faced and gawking at Elspeth—of all people—but at that moment, he didn’t care.

“Forgive me. I shouldn
’t have spoken until you have talked with your father.” She wasn’t sorry at all, or at least she didn’t look it. “I’m sure he will explain when you see him.”

“I’m sure he will,” Gialyn whispered. He looked to Meric and then Grady. They both hunched their shoulders; they looked as surprised as he was. “Excuse me. I
…” Gialyn walked off without another word.

“Oh dear, seems I’ve put my foot in it.” Elspeth giggled. She spun on her heels and walked off in the direction of the stage.

Grady and young Meric exchanged puzzled looks and followed her to watch the presentation of the prizes.

Gialyn was late for his.

CHAPTER 2

The
Aldrieg Caves, near the peaceful village of Braylair. One hundred twenty leagues west of Bailryn.

It was su
pposed to be Brea Loian’s day for behaving normally. She should be down at the lake, catching up with friends and others her own age, maybe even fishing. But no, Rek had to fall asleep while lounging in the Moon Pool. Stupid dragon.

The
Aldrieg cave was a poor substitute for a sunny morning in the meadow. It was dark, damp, and
never
was there any chance of a visitor. Not that she had much time for talking, but still, it would be nice if they allowed a friend to come and say hello, occasionally.

Brea perc
hed on the only chair set at an ancient stone table. The table was a good fifty paces up the shallow slope from where the cave’s entrance cut a wide gash in the Bren Ridge. Behind the table was Brea’s shelf, where she kept some of her larger items, mostly mixing bowls and pans. To her right, there was a natural alcove where she could take a nap in a narrow cot. As well as her bed, the curtained off niche was where the rarer herbs were kept, out of the way of clumsy feet. As usual, the tabletop was full of her stuff: books, scales, tools; useful items she had gathered over the past five years. And then there were those things that came as part of the job, like the Lier’sinn—a large silver bowl used for seeing far-off places. As strange as it had once seemed, they were all familiar to her now. Indeed, she loved her work, most days. Still, a day at the lake would have been nice.

Brea
had spent the last few minutes chopping up herbs and roots. As well as her normal clutter, small piles of green, yellow, and purple peppered the tabletop. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a touch of ousblud, a few sprigs of kharoe, and some chopped kalli root—all gathered from the woods around the Bren’alor valley.

She
worked quickly. Once the cutting and chopping was finished, she had began weighing portions on a small brass scale, delicately pinching off a little, or maybe adding a tiny smidgen. She was very fussy about her tonics, and this
had
to be right. Once satisfied, she would pour the measure into a large mortar standing on a plinth of its own beside the table.

The mixture was almost ready, just one final ingredient. Brea hated this part. Leaning back against the battered chair, she sighed before reaching for the knife. After wiping it with a clean cloth, she slowly ran the blade through the candle flame and placed it in a half-full bowl of lemon water. While that soak
ed, she checked her palms. It was a futile exercise, she always cut her left hand, but the act of prodding and poking took her mind off the knife for a while.

After a moment’s pause—a long moment—she took up the
knife with her right hand and ran it over her left palm. The cold, clean blade sliced into her flesh. Brea flinched and sucked in a hissing breath through her gritted teeth. Her shoulders folded up to her ears.
Why is the sting always such a surprise? Surely, there must be a better way than this.
She pulled the blade all the way across before relaxing her shoulders and looking at the cut. Quickly, she put down the knife and clenched her fist above the mortar.

There she waited, watching the blood drip into the bowl, clenching her fis
t, tight then loose, to coax blood from the wound. It was a slow job at times. After a while, she began to pack away her equipment with her free hand: closing the books, arranging the bowls, and pushing them all neatly into a line across the back of the table.
Might as well do something useful
, she thought. A minute passed—another look in the bowl.
That should be enough
.

Brea
took a clean piece of cloth, and after dipping it in the lemon water, used it to bandage her cut palm. That stung nearly as badly as the knife, but she had to try keeping the wound clean, the cave was hardly sanitary.

Once set, she took up the pestle and began to grind her blood into the ingredients. The stone pestle clattered a
round the mortar as she pounded down around the inside, making sure to include the whole measure of elements into the mixture. It didn’t look to be a very appetising recipe. Brea cringed at the odour and blinked at the vapours that brought tears to her eyes and a bitter taste of rusty metal to her tongue.

After two minutes, the mixture turned to a smooth, thin paste. Brea shouted loudly towards the back of the cave, “Come on! It’s ready.”
She wiped down the pestle and arranged her tools back in their proper place, then picked up the mortar, turned to face the darkness, and waited.

Brea heard a faint murmur break
the near silence of the deep cavern. It was the sound of a low, deep breath—a sigh, maybe—but no sign of movement. The noise faded to a hum, then to nothing, lost against the gently, swirling drone of the stream that flowed through the centre of the cave. Brea peered into the darkness.
Is he there?

Tapping a finger against the side of the mortar, she gazed aimlessly
into the shadows.
Why is this always such a game?
she thought. “It’s ready!” she called with a firm, loud voice.

From
the back of the cave, Brea saw the reflection of candle light in Rek’s eyes. Two discs of pale, translucent orange flickered amongst darkness. The reflections steadied against the black backdrop of the cave wall. Slowly, the pale lights rose as the dragon heaved himself up. Pausing a moment, he blinked, before finally fixing his gaze on her.

The
mirrors of flame that were the dragon’s eyes swooped down and began to move closer, becoming larger with each passing second. The sound of his laboured breath returned, echoing like bellows against the hard rock of the cave wall. She could hear it much clearer now—a muffled rasp rumbled in his chest, as though each draw of the warm, damp air was a chore. The dragon came to a standstill just beyond the circle of candle light—a silhouette waiting in the shadows, motionless in the darkness.

Rek edged slowly
forward. His scaly, golden skin shone in the candlelight as though wet to the touch. Black slit pupils split his orange eyes in two. Shadow still covered his forehead, but she could see the outline of horns beside small, pointed ears. At the front of his serpent-like jaw, tendrils of fleshy whiskers hung around long, pointed teeth. A pinkish tongue pulsed with every laboured breath inside his half-open mouth.

Rek tilted his head to the side like a dog quizzing its master. Brea lifted the mortar and gestured for him to come to her. Begrudgingly, and with more than a fleeting glance of unwillingness, Rek moved, slowly edging forward, head still tilted
, and eyes fixed on Brea. His enamelled talons clicked on the hard floor as his warm breath pushed at her thin skirt. Another tenuous step brought him close enough to touch.

Brea took the mortar in both hands and held it ready to pour. “Open up now. I want to see your tongue, Rek.” She made her tone kindly and reassuring
. She knew what her dragon thought of medicine. A calm, caring hand is what he needed.

On seeing the mortar, Rek let out a sighing wheeze from his nose, causing a greenish slime to drip from his left nostril. He quickly lapped it.

“Ugh… disgusting!” Brea said. Flinching, she creased her face in revulsion. “That’s not going to help you, now is it?”

Rek backed off a pace, bowing his head as though cowering. His inner eyelids blinked sideways as he pushed out his lower lip.

“Aw… I’m sorry!” Brea tried not to laugh. Balancing the mortar on her knee, she reached out an open hand, and with a compassionate gaze, she beckoned him forward again. He approached her, slowly. Brea waited with a patient smile.
Please hurry,
she thought.
It’s going to turn tacky and useless soon!

Rek was close enough
. Brea grabbed a thick, leathery lip—curled around a huge, razor-sharp tooth—and tugged it down, hinting that she wanted his mouth open. Rek obliged and cheekily stuck out his forked tongue. Brea poured the contents of the mortar upon it. Rek winced and curled his lip, displaying a full range of fearsome teeth. Brea put down the empty mortar and sprang to her feet. She grabbed his jaws, top and bottom, and forced them together—not that she had a hope of stopping him if he really had a mind to spit it out onto the floor. She pushed hard against his coarse, scaly jaws. “No you don’t… Swallow it all!”

Rek did so but with as much exaggerated, pathetic effort as he could muster. Like a child playing for sympathy, he circled his jaw around the medicine, doubtless trying to edge it past his taste buds and straight down his throat, all the while eyeing Brea with a pitiful gaze.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “If you’re going to go falling asleep neck deep in the Moon Pool, then you’re bound to catch a cold, my little one. There is nothing so sure.”

Rek coughed on his medicine and gave a loud sneeze. A small ball of flame came forth from his one unblocked nostril and hit a pile of rags gathered in a heap on the cave floor, immediately setting them ablaze. Brea ran over to the small fire and stamped it out. “Be more careful!” she said while laughing. A dragon sneezing was a comical sight, as long as it was aimed somewhere safe.

Brea slapped her ash-covered shoe on the damp cave floor. She paused a moment to listen; a bubbling, spitting sound was coming from her table. It was the Lier’sinn. The large silver bowl, full of a murky, oily liquid, was coming to a boil—or so it seemed, as there was no flame beneath it. Steam rose from the slick surface and a sulphurous smell filled the air.

Brea and the dragon
both looked at it. Rek knew what it was for, just as much as she did. Still, knowing what it was for did not mean either of them liked what it did. She had hoped to get away without having to deal with it today. After all, it was supposed to be her day off. Brea’s shoulders stooped as she sighed. Rek curled a lip and dipped his head.

Gathering herself, Brea huffed and took a deliberate step forward. She waved her hand over t
he top of the bowl, wafting the steam away, and peered over the rim. The foul brew spat, bubbled, and popped ferociously. With every burst of a bubble, a small wisp of stinking, nauseating vapour rose up. Brea backed away from the stench and grabbed a cloth to cover her nose. She paused a moment to brace herself before looking again.

The bubbling gradually settled and, after a few seconds, a blurry image began to form on the slick, oily surface: a faint picture of two men walking along a narrow
, sloping track. It appeared the two were travelling together. The track levelled and followed a river through wide grassland, tapering off into a misty horizon. The two figures approached a small town. One man was tall—very tall—a giant of a man, massively broad across the shoulders. The other was older, with maybe a cane or staff by his side. The taller man carried a hefty pack strapped across his shoulders. The two walked a hundred paces behind a horse and cart, led by another two men. Again, one looked older than the other did. The picture began to fade. Brea squinted around for signs of any landmarks—nothing. Only the shadows gave a bearing. They were travelling south, but that could mean anything. It may well be a southerly turning of an otherwise westerly road.

Brea looked across at Rek
. His head was by her shoulder, his eyes staring down at the near-faded image in the bowl. “Not long now!” she said in a soft voice as she patted the dragon under his chin.

Rek moaned as though understanding her words—he couldn’t yet answer Brea in her own tongue. A dragon’s voice didn’t mature until they were at least thirty, and Rek was barely eighteen. He gently rubbed his cheek against Brea’s side and whimpered like a lost puppy.

Brea threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Never mind, my brave boy. All will be fine,” she said, rubbing his cheek softly. “If he comes, if he will help, all will be well. You’ll see!”

Brea caught the sound of a distant roar coming from the tunnel opposite. “That sounds like your mother, young man. I think maybe Father has brought you a goat—or perhaps half a goat—yummy!” She rubbed a rag around Rek’s runny nose. “Besides
… I must be off myself soon, or I’ll be late for my own supper.”

Rek turned his slender, twenty-foot body slowly towards the passageway, taking care to stay clear of the table. Brea smiled
. Rek had sent her things flying on more than one occasion. Once clear, he set off lumbering down the short shaft to the inner chambers. About halfway down, he sneezed again. Brea saw the tunnel walls light up a reddish-orange. She laughed at the sight of it and then watched as her dragon disappeared in the darkness.

Brea wrapped her arms around her middle. A deep sense of dread welled up until a real sensation of pain rose in her stomach. She knew difficult times lay ahead for her young dragon. That thought alone tugged hard at her heart, for there was one thing she was certain of—she loved that dragon!

Brea raised her wounded hand and removed the bandage—it was already healing fast. She threw the bloodied rag into the pile of those that caught fire earlier. Picking up her bag, she blew out the candles and made for the entrance, some hundred paces down the shallow slope of the cave. The sound of the trickling stream and the reflections of distant daylight upon the water guided her out of her cave.