Chapter 8 Aderyn
ADERYN
Bowen and I found Tris in his office, Bowen refusing to let me out of his sight after, as he put it, “such a difficult morning.”
So he accompanied me through the warren of the Spires, knocking hard on Tristram’s office door when we reached it. His knock was so strident, so confident, I envied him that.
I always tapped, barely making any noise, so concerned about not taking up more space than I had to.
“Enter,” Tristram said immediately, and so Bowen opened the door and marched us in.
Tris was . . . well, he was the humanest dragon I knew.
Unlike me, who’d spent my first decade-and-then-some as a dragon, Tris had spent his first nearly three decades as only a human.
It was almost impossible for me to imagine, that until Tris had been older than I was right then, he’d never once shifted forms.
If any dragon understood what Roland needed, it would be him. He was the one who’d taught Roland to be a good king, after all. He knew everything about what it meant to be human, and to rule Llangard.
He’d done it himself, sort of.
Bowen led me across the room to the front of Tris’s desk, and motioned me into one of the chairs, then he started pacing, which was . . . odd. Bowen was rarely the sort of dragon who let his emotions overcome him.
I squinted at him as he moved, hands clasped behind his back as he stalked back and forth, this mountain of a man, usually so calm, so staid.
He was acting on my behalf, I realized. He was expressing my concern. Acting on it, worried for me because I was worried.
My heart melted at the reminder of Bowen as . . . well, as the closest thing I had to a sire or matriarch. I had to blink away tears at the realization, rolling my lips between my teeth to keep from speaking.
“There was a man in the royal wing this morning,” Bowen began, and Tris pursed his lips.
“Master Aronin. I am sorry. Was he harassing you, Aderyn?”
Bowen spun to face him, holding up a finger. “He called him dragon.”
Tris blinked for a second, before his breath caught and he lifted his hand to cover his mouth. The room was silent, tense, filled with the strain and anger of the situation, even though not a single person present had any grudge against another.
Finally, Tris dropped his hand back to his desk and nodded.
“It’s beginning to prove to be a problem, the .
. . the Destovian envoys. They refuse to work with or even speak to dragons, regardless of how they’re reminded that we’re a part of Llangard.
We didn’t have nearly as much trouble with the people of Llangard coming over to realize that dragons aren’t the monsters of legend. ”
Bowen scowled, crossing his arms. “Then why are they still here?”
Tris slumped back in his seat. “Frankly, Bowen, because we’re realizing that Llangard isn’t as alone in the world as we’ve so often thought. There are dozens of countries across the sea. Islands with enormous navies. An entire continent in the midst of an ugly war for land. Farmland.”
For a moment, Bowen just stood there, staring at him.
“Farmland?” I asked. “Llangard is covered with farmland. Is it rare?”
“Apparently it’s in high demand across the sea.
There isn’t enough farmland to feed all the people who live there.
” He glanced between Bowen and me for a moment, finally settling on me.
“We’re worried, Aderyn. Not . . . frightened, exactly, not yet, but it would do us good to have allies like the Destovians, an empire in their own right, plenty of their own land, able to feed their own people, and with a large navy.
With the ability to defend themselves, and possibly, if called upon, to help us as well. That’s why we’re putting up with them.”
“We . . . we need them?”
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment before looking back up at me.
“Not yet, and I hope we never do. But we are concerned. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have put up with a moment of this nonsense.
” He leaned forward, holding my gaze. “I will speak to them on this, though. If they can’t be at least respectful to our dragon population, this isn’t going to work. ”
“What about . . .” I trailed off, but they were both looking at me. Waiting to hear what I was going to say. There was nothing but to simply say it. “What about heirs? The man this morning. He said . . . he said Roland needs to marry and have heirs, and I need to talk him into it.”
A meaty wooden snap made me jump in my seat, and even Bowen turned to look at Tris.
Tris. Who was looking in dissatisfaction at the broken remains of his pen. He sighed and leaned over, throwing the halves into a waste basket, then looking back at me.
“First of all, you don’t need to do anything. Not for Destovia, not for their so-called diplomats.” He held my eye until I nodded, before going on. “And Roland has heirs, Aderyn. Gillian has the twins, and if he doesn’t have children, then one of them will be the next ruler of Llangard.”
Bowen leaned against the edge of Tris’s desk with a thump, craning in, looking at Tris avidly, like he’d just done something shocking. “Even though they’re dragons?”
Tris smiled up at him, back to his usual serenity. “That they’re dragons doesn’t come into it. They’re Cavendish. Roland put forth the suggestion to make them the official heirs, and the council approved it unanimously. He didn’t need us, but not a single person complained at the idea.”
Bowen leaned back, a dreamy smile on his face.
I understood. More than any other dragon, Bowen shared my fear of humans, and the Cavendish line in particular. He was old enough that he remembered cowering in caves, hiding from Athelstan Cavendish, slayer of dragons. Monster of Windy Pass.
He understood fearing humans and thinking that we could never be allies with them. That our peoples were working together so well after hundreds of years of conflict? It was like a dream.
Just a little more than ten years earlier, Tristram’s best friend, King Reynold, had nearly executed Tris for the crime of being born a dragon.
We had come so far.
Clearly, Destovia had not.
“So,” Tris said, bringing me back to the conversation. “Roland may marry if he wishes to. But there’s no need for him to produce an heir. He already has two. And frankly, I suspect that in some years when Penrose eclipses Nye again, Gillian and Maddox might just add to that.”
I blinked in shock at the very notion, but Princess Gillian was a mage, and they were known to be long-lived. And she was still young. So why not?
Either way, it meant that the man had been wrong. Roland didn’t need to have children and I didn’t have to give him up for his own good. Right?