“I too have heard the tales.” The steward of the king was a sharp-eyed, handsome man of middling stature who wore lavender robes. “Peasants, nobles, and all between, speak of the maiden of the mountains, stolen by a wicked dragon. They seem high tales, my liege.”

  The ante chamber to the throne room was adorned thick with gold and gems and fine silks. The king was a weathered man in the twilight of his years. A long gray beard reached to his belly, and his eyes, once shrewd, were a misted sightless milk-white. He sat in a low chair carved from stone and cushioned with furs.

  His voice was the gravel of age, “High tales from distant lands, low tales from the dregs, whatever they may be, they seem worth the proving for the sake of my son.” He looked over dotingly in the vague direction of a well-built younger man whose hair was summer blonde and whose eyes were of aquamarine. The young man stood near the king’s seat. His arms hung at his sides awkwardly. He shifted and fiddled with his hands.

  The steward gave a polite nod to the prince who spoke softly, “I would prove myself, yea even for her of whom they speak.”

  The steward raised an eyebrow, but the king spoke first, “Oh you’ve nothing to prove, born as you were in my house. Worthy you are, Prince Kierran. We will send one of our knights to fetch her for you.”

  “But father,” the young man stepped forward, “blood alone does not tell all. This is a mighty quest for one beautiful beyond imagining. It must be me, or else the one who saves her win her truly.”

  “Silence! I will not have my son risk himself upon a fool dragon’s hunt and disgrace himself in a death when he could have all and yet risk nothing! I did not build this kingdom for such as you to throw it away on some reckless venture.”

  The steward interrupted slowly, “Sire, perhaps we first should send an expedition to ascertain the truth of these claims. A single spymaster might inquire and sift the truths from the falsehoods. It may be there is a dragon but no woman, or no dragon at all or woman. Too many unknowns lay heavy upon this case. That dragons once walked our world is certain, but that they do still is dubious at best.”

  The king mused for a moment. “True true, though if there is a dragon, there is the hoard to be considered. It could tip the balance of powers in our realm, such a vast sum as would be carried by a great wyrm. Such it must be if still it lives. It might be the last of the hoards. No dragon has been witnessed in centuries. We cannot be late to the field lest we be late to the spoils. All this talk of some beautiful creature being held seems a trap for the weak-minded.”

  Kierran clenched his fists and stared hard at the ground.

  “Yes,” the steward began, “we must consider the treasure. There may be items of power there too if the stories be even partially true. A single mystic artefact in the hands of our court sorcerers might make the difference between victory and defeat. Tivaer still wields Gae Luin, and Vaerus has no ward against it. There is also the potential that this is all a ruse by some other power to draw our strength away from our borders, to weaken us, and others. I wouldn’t put it past the Tarovians. Never mind the talk of a worthy bride.”

  Prince Kierran stepped forward, “She is of greater worth than all the hoard within and all hoards of all dragons. Such are the emeralds of her eyes, the rich ruby of her hair, greater still the radiance of her countenance.” The prince’s voice shook with anger and wonder.

  The king and steward looked aghast before both chuckling softly. The king spoke, “And my son has turned poet by these stories.”

  Kierran spoke more loudly, “What I have witnessed with my own eyes now I speak, not the idle chatter of the masses nor the swaying sibilance of sycophants. In mystic vision I witnessed a woman of surpassing beauty overborne by a dragon the size of this castle, with scales of luminescent silver, and breath of icewhite fog. Six others there are, at least, who have seen the vision. Six other suitors stood ghostly in the cavern with me who represented men of great renown. We were summoned, and I must go. I dare not defy this calling lest I defy the whole of my life to succulent stupor in these gilded halls. Arm me as you will, else I will arm myself with only these hands and weak magics as I know and go.”

  The king slapped his hand hard against the stone of the chair’s arm as he stood and shouted, “Enough of your nonsense! You are a boy, a useless little boy who has yet to learn the ways of men. You know not the first thing about war or dragon hunting much less women. What could call you?”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  The prince stepped back with the blow and thought to strike out but heard a voice in his heart, a reminder of his teacher, honor thy father though he dishonor himself. The young man breathed and spoke, “Father, you said by your own words that your blood makes me worthy, then let me honor thy blood in great action. Give me leave to dare that your name may go forward in strength from me, and if it be that I fail, that your blood fall in the glory of great battle. Though you loathe to lose me, think of your name.”

  The steward looked long at the prince, and then gave a proud nod and spoke before the king could, “Your son speaks well, my King. He is of his father’s blood. We can send with him a retinue for protection as well, that we may add prudence to the pride of youth.”

  The king’s eyes widened, and he bore a look as if betrayed. He set his sightless gaze in the direction of the last voice, and he sighed and slumped upon his chair.

  “Very well, my son, very well. Authority forgets a passing king, but you speak well. Set a retinue and begin your quest, but before you do, allow me to throw a farewell feasting for my son. My only son you are after all, and whether you succeed or fail I may not see you more.” Tears began to fill the old man’s eyes, and Kierran ran to his father’s side, knelt, and took the king’s hand.

  “At your command my father and my king. But speak not of eternal departure. We will meet again, I to honor thee with the honor I earn, in this world or the worlds beyond.”

  #

  A lively tune played through the festal hall, and a dozen knights with their ladies sat around a long table. The king sat at the head, his face buried in a goblet wine. Prince Kierran sat to the king’s right, eyes intent on a candlestick flame in front of him.

  “Careful Kierran, a living flame is not long in casting a spell of its own upon your mind.” The man who spoke had a boyish face that could not have been more than twenty summers old, but his eyes were deep pools of dusk-dark blue filled with ancient knowing. Glyphs of light blue were tattooed down his throat and over his hands.

  Kierran pulled his eyes from the flame with an effort and looked at the wizard, “Master Mareth, I bear no mood for jokes.”

  Mareth pulled his own chair closer to the prince with loud noises, interrupting surrounding chatter and the loud chewing of a heavy-faced knight who bulged from the edges of his green doublet.

  The wizard grinned and whispered, “No jokes, just spells and incantations and the mad wonder of what Apeiron has made.” He waved his hand toward the candle flame, and a hiss filled the air. The flame’s color flashed blue-green and the prince thought he tasted copper on the air.

  A nearby lady in a dress of violet gasped and pointed, but, by the time others looked, the flame had returned to its usual shade, flickering innocently in the night.

  “Come, my Prince, we’ve another lesson before you depart.”

  “But the feast. I promised…” Kierran looked around and realized that no one was moving. The king’s hand had paused mid-gulp and the last drop of his wine hung still on the edge of the goblet. The knight next to him, broad shouldered and eyes closed with delight was frozen with his teeth sunk deep into a turkey thigh. A lady in mourning black was at the mad angle of a potential fall, her friend in a sky blue dress reaching out to catch her hand.

  Kierran stood, knocking his chair back into a young servant with a silver tray of small cakes that floated upward slowly from the impact and then stopped in midair high above him.

  Mareth moved quickly, pulling out a small club staff and twirling it like an orchestral conductor’s baton. A shifting wind carried the cakes and placed them down on the platter, righting them and the servant, “It would be criminal to ruin the red velvet, my prince.” He smiled and beckoned for Kierran to follow.

  Mareth led the young prince out into a broad, grassy courtyard beneath a cloudy night sky. Kierran breathed into his hands and fog flooded between his fingers in the standoffish torchlight. Mareth made his way out into the center of the grass and beckoned.

  “To stop time, Master Mareth. What.” Kierran did not finish before Mareth boomed back.

  “Foolish! Time kneels to none but Apeiron. But that is not why I brought you out. There is a hard lesson you must learn before we depart.” Mareth’s eyes narrowed.

  Kierran swallowed hard and stepped out into the grassy courtyard. “What spell will you teach today?”

  “None,” Mareth set his clubstaff on the ground and rolled up his sleeves revealing more tattoos and arcane marks across forearms to rival a blacksmith’s.

  Kierran walked forward slowly, holding out his hands, “Then what am I to learn?”

  Mareth sank into a fighting stance and his normally genial aura was swallowed by a sense of ready violence. Kierran felt a rising panic and took a step back.

  “Defend yourself!” Mareth shouted as he sprinted forward, covering the distance to the boy faster than Kierran could respond.

  The wizard’s shoulder struck Kierran in the thigh, and then Kierran was airborne, looking down at the frost blade grasses for a fraction of a moment before he was piled into the frigid earth, and all the wind escaped from his lungs with a gasp.

  Mareth stood and reached out a hand to the prince who groaned on the ground.

  “You will not always have the time for a casting. It is not enough to hone your magics and your wits. Your father kept us from this training for fear of your harm, but now one fear yields to a greater.”

  Kierran forced himself to breathe and reached up to grab Mareth’s hand.

  Mareth yanked upward with more strength than Kierran expected and spoke again, “He wishes you to live, and so do I.”

  Kierran breathed out hard in the cold and replied, “It doesn’t feel like it.”

  Mareth took a few steps away and turned back to face Kierran again, “all discipline seems unpleasant.” The wizard sunk low into a fighting stance again, and Kierran tried to mirror him.

  “Gooood,” Mareth’s voice was pleased, “now defend yourself!”