Chapter 1
Alinore
ALINORE HAD BEEN told that there were dragons in the north.
Her maid said that they skulked through the mountainous borders of Calestra, weaving between stacks and crouching in caves.
They made that most northern, sparse region of the United Kingdoms of Galasque notable.
They were the cause of Calestra’s notorious spring tradition: the Maiden Sacrifice – a grisly custom from long ago in which a girl was forfeited in an ancient treaty.
But however gruesome it all sounded, Alinore could not help but be fascinated by such elusive beasts that had roamed the realm long before the land was invaded, conquered and divided.
She imagined fierce, lithe creatures flitting amid rocky peaks and tapering shadows swooping against a pale sky.
She had heard of sea dragons, mighty beasts that undulated in the depths of the oceans, surfacing only to drag unsuspecting ships to their watery end.
But her father said that sea dragons were mere myth and if such creatures had ever existed, they were now extinct.
He had certainly never come across any during his extensive travels.
Alinore had once seen a doll dragon, a miniature reptilian with sharp scales and needle teeth brought caged to her father’s villa by a merchant intending to sell it as an exotic pet.
Her father had said that dogs and horses were the only pets he needed, and he had sent the man away, but not before Alinore had glimpsed a thin, lizard-like creature with a tufted beard and glinting eyes.
But she had never seen a real dragon.
So when her father announced that they were to travel together to visit the King of Calestra in the north region, Alinore was delighted.
Apart from one trip to the High King’s court when she was six winters old, Alinore had not left their villa on the outskirts of the central region of Galasque.
This was her chance to visit parts of the country she had only seen on maps in their library.
This was her chance to spend time with her father who was always away, fighting battles and attending to the orders of Lord Lassiaro and the High King.
But most importantly of all, this was her chance to see a dragon.
Alinore had started the journey north full of enthusiasm.
She sat tall in the saddle and took note of all the towns and villages they passed, making their way north through three of the seven different regions that formed the United Kingdoms of Galasque.
But after just a few days of relentless travel, the dusty roads and saddle sores began wearing her down, until, soon, there was little zeal left.
It was the end of winter and the lands they passed were bleak and nondescript: rows of olive trees, stark fields and grey skies.
Everywhere looked the same.
Alinore kept herself entertained dreaming of dragons and asking her father to repeat her favourite tale from his time fighting for the High King in the Upper Northern Realm.
When home, her father would often regale her with accounts of his battles and travels.
Alinore loved nothing more than sitting at his feet, listening to his stories.
Undoubtably the most thrilling was the tale of the Battle of Rowlyn when a dragon had attacked from the sky at the bidding of a handler.
Her father said he had never seen anything as majestic and terrifying.
The dragon had webbed wings, a muscular, scaled body and long, curved fangs.
It had taken many soldiers to defeat such a beast and the final blow had been at the hands of her father.
‘The trick is to strike the throat,’ he always told her.
‘You have to stop the creature spitting out fire.’ Then a reenactment of the fatal attack would follow.
Alinore made her father repeat the tale so often on their journey to Calestra that she could soon recite it verbatim – much to the dissatisfaction of her maid, who said that such horrid tales were not right for little girls.
After five long days on the road, when they did finally cross the border into the Kingdom of Calestra, Alinore looked about her eagerly.
Standing up in the stirrups of her pony, she peered at the farmland, expecting great, winged shadows in the sky and streams of burning red fire.
But she saw nothing. Not even scorch marks or shed scales.
The further their party travelled through that region, the more her disappointment sharpened.
Finally, she could bear it no longer and broke formation to canter ahead on her pony.
Drawing up alongside her father’s warhorse, she demanded to know where the dragons were hiding.
Her father laughed his hearty laugh and, despite her disobedience, he did not send her back to ride with her maid.
Instead, she was permitted to trot with him at the head of the party – just in case a dragon was spotted on the horizon.
Alinore did not see such a creature but, when she first caught sight of the Calestran mountains, she was struck with wonder all the same.
The tall, serrated arches of rock were so different from the flat grasslands of her home.
The mountains were like something from a bedtime storybook, and the further they travelled towards them, the more towering and magnificent they became.
Alinore found herself gazing at them constantly; watching the dappled shadows of clouds shift across their broad expanse.
She was so consumed with the mountains that she did not see the city of Tormale until they were almost upon it.
Walls bronzed by wintery sunlight appeared and the capital of Calestra rose behind them, swelling from the undulating, dusty ground.
It was not as big as Foresquia, the capital of the Galasque region, and behind its walls Tormale appeared much like other places Alinore had seen on their journey: snaking streets of slums that turned into wide squares of tall, stone buildings with people rushing and bustling everywhere.
It would not have been a remarkable place at all except for the mountains that soared at its back.
They towered over everything, silent and watchful.
Alinore kept her pony close to her father’s warhorse as their party skirted the edges of Tormale.
They followed the banks of a river north, rising from the slums in the valley to wider, cleaner streets.
Barefoot, tatty children scurried out to watch them, and passers-by on the road stared at the grand procession.
Alinore saw one man in a wagon tap the shoulder of a boy at his side and point at her father.
‘A knight,’ she saw the man mouth and then add, ‘With a Galasque medallion.’
She smiled to herself.
The ground was beginning to level when they turned into a vast, cobbled square and her father said, ‘Alinore, look. There’s Syonno Castle.’
Alinore raised her head to see a tall building of bronze stone with symmetrical square turrets at each corner.
Crenellations topped its battlements like the crinkled edge of a pie, and the purple banner of Calestra fluttered at its entrance, the emblem of a golden dragon just visible at its centre.
It looked grand enough, she supposed, but nothing like the High King’s palace that she had once visited in Foresquia.
‘It’s a bit small.’
‘Alinore!’
Alinore licked her lips and tried again. ‘It looks very … neat.’
‘It’s an honour to stay with His Majesty King Borto.’ Her father sounded unusually stern. ‘You will represent the House of Mattinias – you will represent me – and I expect you to be on your best behaviour.’
‘Yes, Father.’
They rode through the gates of the castle into a courtyard where grooms and stable boys waited, poised to attend them. Then reins were flung aside, packs were hauled from saddles and the horses tossed their heads and stretched their necks in relief.
Alinore dismounted and followed her father inside.
Syonno Castle might not be as impressive as her memory of the High King’s palace, but it was certainly older and grander than what she was used to at home.
Trotting at the heels of her father, she passed through long corridors thick with rugs and winding passageways of terracotta tiles, their walls cluttered with paintings.
At last, they stopped at a set of double doors bordered by guards.
Alinore shuffled her feet as her father spoke to an attendant.
She had been so excited about the journey – and the prospect of dragons – that she had not thought much about this visit.
She was not exactly sure what she needed to do or say.
Her maid had tried to give her some instructions during their travels, but it had all been so boring that Alinore had found it hard to listen.
Her father looked down and caught her eye. He winked.
‘Sir Thomaso, House of Mattinias,’ called the attendant. ‘Entering the private salon of King Borto Donolaino.’
The doors were pulled open and Alinore followed her father into a large, wide room. It was so bright after the shadows of the corridors that Alinore’s eyes had not even adjusted before she heard a loud voice booming, ‘Thom! Thom, you’re finally here!’
A tall, dark-haired man strode towards them, large hands outstretched. He wore an emerald-coloured shirt with puffed sleeves and his accent was deep and quick. Alinore had to listen carefully to understand his rapid, clipped Galasquese.
‘Peace be with Your Majesty, King Borto Donolaino of Calestra,’ said her father and bent into a low bow.
Alinore hurriedly dropped into a curtsey too, but no one seemed to notice her.