Chapter Ten
It was to be something involving a dragon, of course; that part had been prearranged in accordance with Mortmain’s suggestions. What else could Bellemontagne seriously offer a wandering prince in need of a Herculean labor? Lacking Nemean lions, hydras, golden-horned stags, wild boars of heroic size, Augean stables, Stymphalian birds, Cretan bulls, man-eating mares (so much as one, let alone four), girdle-wearing Amazons, monstrous cows, golden apples, and three-headed watchdogs from hell… well, absent any of these classic obstacles, a decently sized man-killer rakai—or two or three, they were common enough in the southern mountain passes—would simply have to do. And none but Mortmain, Reginald, and Robert would ever have to know the truth of the journey.
Thus, as preparations moved apace, it appeared that everyone was finally going to get what they wanted. Even King Antoine was feeling pleased with the way things had turned out. Though he still harbored concerns about King Krije’s intentions, better a wedding than a war—and the young man really had been quite admirable in his presentation. The fact that all the other princes still lurking about the property disliked him immensely was just something of a bonus, like a proper Tokaji wine after a superb meal.
As for the Princess Cerise, seeing and hearing Prince Reginald speak his heart had lifted the tides of her spirit to their former level. She was not only thrilled by the notion of her practically intended setting off to slay a dragon or two: she was determined to organize the entire expedition. Her mother approved enthusiastically, saying, “Let him see how useful you can be, and what a help you would be to a king—a young king at the beginning of his reign. This is certainly not the time to allow him any second thoughts. And don’t forget to take the gentian-blue court dress, whatever else you pack. Men are helpless against gentian blue, every one of them. My grandmother taught me that.”
As it happened, Cerise did not pack the gentian blue, thinking (correctly) that it did not flatter her eyes. But in Robert’s estimation, there was very little else she left behind.
From the start—right from that afternoon at the Dragon Market, when he had laid out the basics of the idea in response to Mortmain’s carefully phrased questions and proposals—Robert had assumed that the expedition would be small in total number and lightly equipped: just himself, the two Corvinians, a guide, a surgeon—because you never really knew—and two cart drivers. Now, however, he discovered that there would be a flotilla of servants, cooks, court officials, and men-at-arms accompanying them, in addition to several of the Princess’s ladies-in-waiting, two doctors, a priest for the blessing of Prince Reginald’s weaponry and sword arm, and even King Antoine’s personal jester, on special loan for the event.
“On top of all that,” Robert told his family, “we’re stuck with half a dozen useless sightseeing princes tagging along. They’re all hoping to see Prince Reginald fail, and they want to be right there to impress the Princess if he does. Worse than that, two or three will probably sneak off to try and bag a rakai on their own. And there’s not a thing I can do about it. They’re princes; they wouldn’t listen to me even if I could make them sit still for the lecture. I’m sorry, Mother, I know how you feel, but royalty doesn’t wear that well when you get close.”
“I don’t care,” Patience declared. “I wish I could go!” Her sister Rosamonde chimed in, “I want to see a big dragon too! Everybody else is going, why can’t we?”
Robert’s quiet voice silenced both girls. “Rakais aren’t like our Adelise, our Lux, our Reynald. They aren’t charming, and they aren’t friendly at all. And while it’s likely that a rakai will take a cow or a goat over a little girl, were the two standing side by side, they’d choose the little girl if she was one step closer. They like to eat people, Rosamonde. Very much.”
“Is the Princess coming along?” That was Caralos, the older of Robert’s two brothers, who had always shared more than a touch of Odelette’s veneration for the nobility. One morning Princess Cerise’s entourage had ridden past a field he was working, and he had been addled for a week. Robert smiled at him, wryly but with affection.
“She’s in charge, more or less. But don’t worry, no dragon’s going to get her”—this to Patience and Rosamonde, recognizing the anxious looks on the two girls’ faces—“because Prince Reginald won’t let them. He’s the dragonslayer, and he’s very brave, and very strong. So you needn’t worry about the Princess.”
In fact, however, Robert did worry about Princess Cerise, more than he was willing to admit to himself… which was probably for the best, since what he did accept was already much too unnerving. He worried about Prince Reginald too. Rather, he worried about the Prince’s being worried, which Reginald could hide effectively from everyone else, perhaps, but not from Robert, not after so many training sessions. There was the thing that happened in his eyes whenever he actually said the word dragon, for example, not to mention the way he quizzed Robert about the sizes, habits, diets, and even the social customs of the various types and species, especially the sort he was about to hunt. Although the questions themselves remained offhand and unconcerned—“I mean, it would help if I knew a few things about the beggars before I start whacking at them. Useful things, best places to whack, and so forth. Don’t you think?”—he gave extraordinary attention to Robert’s answers, as if listening with his entire skin rather than his ears, even as he strained to make it appear that he didn’t care at all.
More than once it occurred to Robert that he didn’t understand the rules of being a prince. But he was determined to watch and learn, so that Mortmain would have no excuse to reconsider their bargain.
His own role in the expedition was officially a minor one, at least until they reached the mountains; but his professional expertise was much in demand during the planning and packing. Several times a day, messengers with questions from the Princess would find him wherever he was working, and he was on standing commission to come round the castle each evening to inspect and approve the day’s preparations. Despite himself, he was beginning to enjoy these visits—for while there was never anything important to do, they made him feel like his new life in service had already begun.
And then there was the Princess Cerise.
More and more, the Princess was a confusion to Robert. Unlike Prince Reginald, or the King and Queen, who wore their royalty from the bones on out, to Robert’s eye the Princess seemed too constantly busy to bother being aware of her position. She was everywhere: forever reorganizing the line of march, checking supplies against manifests, going over recipes with the cooks, making sure that tents were weatherproofed, even taking it upon herself to make certain that all armor and armaments were in the best possible condition, down to the type and amount of polish to be employed. Prince Reginald’s quest may indeed have been the official reason for the party, but there was no question whose party it was. There was something in this commitment that Robert recognized and respected—an entirely new feeling for him where anything royal was concerned. It was one thing to want to work for them, if it got him where he wished to go. But this was perilously close to thinking of one of them as a person, just like himself or his friends or his family, and that would never do.
King Antoine and Queen Hélène saw the expedition off, the King in stoic sniffles, the Queen waving her scarf emphatically, blowing kisses to her daughter and Prince Reginald alike. To Robert—what with the musicians striking up all together, King Antoine’s jester tumbling in the lead, dogs and children scampering and yelping in the parade’s wake—the whole affair seemed much more like a wedding procession or a grand festival pageant than anything to do with fire and blood and dragons. Princess Cerise rode proudly ahead, stirrup to stirrup with Prince Reginald, who kept looking over his shoulder toward Mortmain and Robert riding with the servants and supplies, barely visible through the dust clouds raised by the leaders. Mortmain smiled and waved, in a tidy manner, encouraging his master; but Robert shrank back further, trusting to the dust to shelter him from Odelette’s loving gaze. She’s out there somewhere, he thought, thrilled to see her gallant son in such company. But if she knew what I was really doing here, or what I was buying with the deed, would she be so proud and happy? Not likely.
Within a few hours, after most of the assorted hangers-on had fallen away, things began to look almost disciplined. The Princess Cerise, a fine rider, set a pace that was steady, but not unduly grueling; the supply wagons held close together at the rear; and all in between bore up handsomely, even singing spirited catches and come-all-ye’s from time to time. Robert did his best to shake off his sour mood but could not bring himself to join in with the general gaiety: his knowledge of what lay ahead rendered it shallow and absurd.
Mortmain was still riding next to him. He turned in his saddle to face the valet and said, “This crowd is going to make matters more difficult.”
“Not at all, Master Thrax. A minor complication, no more, easily finessed.”
“So you say.”
“And so it shall be. Indeed, I see more than one way to turn it to our favor. Meanwhile, I suggest you sing along with everyone else, as the Prince is doing. Quite egalitarian, that’s one thing about him.”
Robert made a face. “Easy to sing in the sun, early on the first day’s ride. Let’s see how this merry band sounds when we’re nearer the mountains.”
And so indeed they did see. On the second day all novelty had paled for the procession, and random bursts of song and merriment were replaced with the quieter pleasures of tasting the air, enjoying the sunshine, and gossiping about anyone currently out of earshot. They passed through three villages before nightfall: each march-past bringing with it an echo of the previous day’s festive sentiments, which by the third promenade was beginning to feel rather forced. On the next day the weather turned cold and overcast, and the horses grew fractious, fighting saddle, bridle, and burden as they had not done since they were bruised and unruly colts. The only village they encountered, early into the first foothills, had been dourly suspicious, not friendly, its inhabitants as narrow and stony as the few arable strips of land they farmed. The jester had worked overtime to jolly them along, but no one had smiled except for one small boy, who was promptly whisked inside by his mother before he could laugh.
And on the morning of the fourth day, before anyone was awake to face the thin drizzle that had begun while they all slept, Robert dreamed…
This was not The Dream, but a dark mirror of it. He stood in a clearing filled with white bones and black ash, screaming defiance at something he could not see. But his voice was not his voice, and when he reached out to seize the man who opposed him—it was a man, somehow he knew it was a man—he saw that his arms were not arms at all, but vast ebon wings.
The dream faded as he dressed, leaving behind nothing but the twinned certainties that something was wrong, and that he was not equipped to face it.
Prince Reginald was waiting outside Robert’s tent, boots soaked, mist drops glistening in the tangle of his hair. Somehow even that dishevelment contrived to look elegant on him, as if he were growing his own net of jewels.
The Prince was nervous and unhappy. “It took me five minutes to calm my horse enough to saddle him,” he complained, “and after that it was everything I could do to get him over the next ridge. Is this it? Are they close?”
Robert sniffed at the wet air.
“Nothing has changed since we made camp last night. This is old scent, freshened by the rain, that’s all. You can rest easy, Prince Reginald. We’re a day or more yet from where rakais are usually found, this time of the year. Still…”
“Still what?” The Prince’s voice squeaked on the question, ever so slightly, surprising both of them.
Robert answered in the flat, knowing voice that he used with his most nervous clients. “Dragons are animals like us, Prince, and no more individually predictable than we are. But each species has its own patterns of behavior, within whose bounds they commonly stay. This scent is stronger than I’d expect, even allowing for the rain. It means there have been rakais here—more than one—later in the season than usual. I can only assume that something ahead has disturbed their normal patterns. It would be wise to proceed with caution.”
“How I let Mortmain talk me into this…” Prince Reginald set his mouth firmly. “Very well, then. Caution it is. From this point on, you will ride with me in the front.”
The company gained height that day, moving from the lower to the upper foothills, but mud slowed their forward progress. They stopped again for the night having made only half the distance intended, and grateful for even that much. The village planned as their final stop before reaching the old forests of the central range would have to wait until the following morning.
Nothing startling had happened—unless the priest losing one of his best boots to a sucking mud pit qualified—but a growing tension possessed them all nonetheless, and the conversation around the evening’s campfires rang with false laughter and more than a few harshly spoken words.
At least the rain had stopped.
Robert chose to keep to himself, having found the day more difficult than expected. He had felt out of place and out of sorts the entire time he spent in Reginald’s and Cerise’s company, and answered their occasional questions as tersely as possible. Flashes of his dream had stayed with him throughout the ride, flickering in his awareness like a smoke scent on the breeze, and all along the muddy road he saw odd and troubling bits of evidence that made no proper sense.
Now he rolled over, lying awake in his blanket, thinking furiously. A little way from him, Mortmain slept deeply and placidly; but when Robert closed his own eyes, he saw great angled green ones, crystal-cut eyes large as both his fists, with green fires behind them that rose up until they swallowed the sky.
When he could see nothing else, even with his eyes open, he wrapped his father’s old cloak—redolent of dragons, like this night itself—around his shoulders, and walked through the silent camp, pacing the perimeter. He roused drowsy sentinels, checked his sword and spear where they were stowed, and spent an hour talking softly under the stars to the increasingly nervous horses. Then he strayed a little way into the darkness and lay down to press his cheek hard against a patch of moist but solid earth that had been sheltered from the worst of the rain by overhanging stones. He cast his other senses away from him, focusing on his ears alone, and listened as intently as though to a woman’s heartbeat.
The Princess Cerise very nearly tripped over him.
“What are you doing?” she demanded, springing back. “Who are you?” She recognized Robert when he stood up, and quickly sheathed the dirk that had leaped into her hand. “Oh, it’s you. Why aren’t you sleeping?”
“For the same reason you’re not, Your Highness,” Robert answered her. “Trying to keep this parade safe, for as long as I can.”
The Princess tossed her head indignantly. “But that is my task. And Prince Reginald’s.”
“It’s everyone’s job, but not everyone is doing it.” As they studied each other in silence, a long, resonant snore came from the tent where Prince Reginald slept. The Princess said, somewhat defensively, “He has had a very long, hard day.”
Robert did not reply.
“Well, he did,” Cerise said. “And he’ll need to be rested tomorrow.” She paused. “You were listening for dragons, weren’t you?”
“You can feel the big ones sometimes, walking on the earth. If they’re big enough and close enough.”
“And these? Answer me.” It was somewhere between a command and a plea.
Robert looked away, searching the empty night. Even from this relatively low vantage you could see a great distance, once your eyes had adjusted to the starlight. “I don’t hear anything,” he said quietly. “Not a blessed thing. I wish I did.”
“But that’s… that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Not to hear them?” She already knew it must not be, and Robert knew she knew. He did not reply, and they looked steadily at each other without speaking, until the Princess finally said, “Tell me why it’s bad. Please.”
She had a right to know, and he debated his response only briefly. He said, “This is their country; with a scent this strong, rakai should be as thick on the ground as pignuts. I should be able to hear their movements. Yet except for the scent, all the signs are months old—no fresh tracks or droppings, no unweathered scorch marks or claw marks on the trees… it worries me. I don’t mean to frighten you—”
“You are,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly even, if her eyes were anxious. “Could something have driven them away? Or… or…?”
She did not finish. Robert said, “Rakai aren’t like the little dragonlets I forced out of your castle walls, Princess. I’ve never met anything that could drive a rakai away… and that’s not what happened here. Only one explanation satisfies both scent and silence: the rakai we seek are dead. Every one, dead for months. Whatever killed them soaked the ground for miles with their blood, and left nothing else behind.”
“Oh,” said Princess Cerise softly. She lowered her head, and actually scuffed one dainty boot-toe on the ground, like an abashed child. Then she raised her face to his, tossing her hair back, and looked straight into Robert’s eyes. “Well,” she said, her voice steady and calm as she answered. “Whatever they are or aren’t, they’ve never met us, either. What do you think we should do?”
“That’s for you and Prince Reginald to decide. You’re the leaders.” There was no mockery in Robert’s voice; merely Elpidus Thrax’s old caution about nobility, recited sternly to his prentice son: do your job, tell them what they want to hear, and get out. But Princess Cerise took his tone as derisory, and her own voice turned cold and royal.
“So we are. And I asked for your opinion.”
“Then,” Robert said, “I would send everyone home—now, this minute, wake them all—everyone except Prince Reginald and me. And Mortmain, I suppose. That’s what I’d do, since you ask.”
The Princess stared. “And you and he… you imagine that the two of you could slay this unknown danger by yourselves?”
“I don’t know. But if not, then at worst only three people would die, instead of almost a hundred. If you start getting this whole carnival pointed toward home right away.” He was standing close enough to see her expression go from defiant to stricken, and back again. On an impulse to make her laugh, he added, “Don’t forget, we’d have Mortmain with us. He wouldn’t dare let anything happen to Prince Reginald.”
Princess Cerise did not laugh. She simply said, “No.”
Anger enfolded Robert, enveloping him in sudden flame, as it never had done in his life. “That’s very foolish of you, Your Highness.” The anger blazed higher, frightening him, but he plunged on. “No, that’s more than foolish—it’s stupid. Stupid!”
The royalty of Bellemontagne was, by tradition, far less autocratic than many of its neighbors—Corvinia prominent among them. Even so, Princess Cerise would have been well within her historic rights to order Robert arrested and imprisoned for addressing her as he had. But she said only, “Lower your voice. People are sleeping.”
Robert opened his mouth to continue berating her decision, but she silenced him, surprisingly, by laying a finger on his lips. She said, “I will follow your advice, on one condition. Everyone else will turn around and go directly home, back to the castle, as you suggest. But I will stay here with Prince Reginald and you—and Mortmain, I suppose”—she smiled slightly, mimicking him—“and face this horror with you. If that is what it comes to.” There was only a slight quaver in her voice on the last words. “Are we agreed, then?”
She took her hand away, and Robert burst out, “No, we certainly are not! How could you fight anything that could slaughter a rakai?”
“The same way you or anyone else would—with a sword and a lance.” The Princess drew herself up proudly. “I have been taking lessons since I was six years old.”
Robert could hear himself screaming inside, as in the dream, but he knew that letting it out would do no good. He took a deep breath instead. “I understand that you don’t want to leave Prince Reginald to face danger without you. But if you’re here, he’ll be so distracted that at some point he’ll take his eye off whatever this is, just for an instant, to make sure you’re safe. It will happen, Princess, we both know that. And maybe he’ll be lucky when he does, and maybe he won’t be. But it will happen.”
There was a moment—only seconds, perhaps—when Robert’s gray eyes and Cerise’s dark, dark ones sought each other’s depths and, strangers still, they understood each other beyond words. Then, as though it had been scheduled and rehearsed, Prince Reginald turned in his sleep behind them and uttered a soft whimper. It was a curiously forlorn and vulnerable sound. Robert knew he had lost even before the Princess said, simply and shortly, “No. I stay.” Then she walked away abruptly, vanishing into the blackness that still burned green, so very green, all around him.