VI. Dragon Knights

Sixteen years have passed. A clutch Dragon Knights come to the peaceful nation from the east, beaten by years of brutal war. This time, only Za's high priest welcomes them into their home.

“Do you see what I see?”

“Is that - an inn?”

The Dragon Knights searched among the thousands of trees. Somewhere in the shadows and boulders and thorns and wolves and bears - somewhere after the dozens of mountains and freezing rivers and crevices - there was an inn, or a mirage of one. Lord Tristan stepped ahead of his Dragon Knights and shaded his eyes, but surely enough, along the dusty road, there was an inn. Its foundation was of river stone and a wooden sign wavered in the endless gusts that were always beating the mountains. The knights hesitated, and then they dragged their exhausted frames as fast as they could toward it.

“I don’t know which I want more - food or sleep,” growled Sir Gregory, the widest-shouldered knight with a broken sword.

“Maybe there’s a noble spirit who will feed you while you sleep,” Sir Matt, the shortest, teased. Those with the life left in them laughed. “I bet they have a fire in the hearth.”

“There is only one way to find out,” Sir Tanner said.

Lord Tristan’s shredded gray cape caught on a splintered fence, but he paid it no mind. His hair was matted with sweat and filth, and his plated armor was decorated with long lines of bear claws from the incident three weeks prior. His Dragon Knights were in similar disrepair. Two had lost their helmets entirely when bears tried to take their heads off, and three had lost their spears to the thirty-foot wolves that had eaten the spears like they were carrots. The river spiders, with their ten-foot hairy legs and fangs dripping with caustic poison, had killed their horses in their flight from the mountains. It was by the grace of Elysia that Lord Tristan and his eleven knights had survived this far.

As they neared the inn, they smelled aromas that they’d forgotten over months in the wilderness - dinner over a fire, scented soaps from someone’s bath, linens drying on a line. Two gardens with neat, labeled rows had been carved in the sunny, tree-less hills - one for herbs and one for veggies. A lemon tree grew near the front door. Happy gossip flowed out of the paned windows and into the dark forest. It was too much - too obvious a mirage.

Lord Tristan fell into the door when he meant to turn its handle, broke the top hinge, and sent the door to the earth with a clamber. The four or five people within were immediately silent and stood up in their chairs and stools. All of them - even the boy with a broom in his hand - were clean, round, and well-dressed in linen clothes with matching boots or shoes. The entire inn smelled of buttered onions, a roasting duck, and a feast of vegetables on every table.

 He stepped over the door and motioned for his clutch of his Dragon Knights to join him within. Sir Gregory turned and tried to set the door, but it fell again in one loud bang. At the long stone-top counter, a clean-shaven young man with a soiled apron held his bloodied knife toward the knights, motioning at his butchered duck in warning.

“I will pay for the door,” Tristan promised. He grabbed the closest chair  and lowered himself to his battered knee; his ankle had broken when he’d been trapped in one of the rivers. Then he pulled his muddy purse from his thick belt and set it on the counter. The stacks of gold clanged against the wood. He had not spent a single coin in the months they’d spent in the gods-forsaken haunted wasteland; there was no one to give his coin to. “There are twelve of us. We don’t ask for much - just food and-”

“Get out,” the young man bit out. His body shook, but his gray eyes were fixed in a hateful leer. He pointed the knife at Tristan’s chest and let globs of duck blood and trim fall to the floor in the gesture. “Get out right now.”

The other patrons grasped their dinner knives, walking sticks, and whatever else they could arm themselves with. A man from the distant sun room unsheathed a sword, and with the palpable silence in the room, more men came from the back of the inn with spears in hand. Tristan stepped back among his knights and raised an arm to keep them at ease.

“Please, sir,” Tristan said calmly, “we could not do you harm. We are half-dead travelers. We are starved and tired.”

“You’ll be whole-dead Dragon Knights soon,” said one of the merchants, a northerner likely from Trushall. The others cheered with him. Tristan frowned and stepped back.

“You think us stupid enough to let your kind into our lands again?” said a middle-years woman. “We’ll stop you here! You and whatever pests are there!”

“We are refugees,” Tristan said. His voice cracked as fear gripped his throat. They really would kill him and his knights, but if they didn’t get food, they’d die out in the forest, too. He looked over the hateful faces of the room and sighed. “We are refugees, like you, running from Dragoth and his men.”

“Get out or die!” the inn worker yelled. He threw a handful of duck guts at Tristan but missed.

Someone walked on the door behind the Knights, prickling Tristan’s ears and setting his rear guard on edge. He turned and watched an older man with a carved walking stick and copper-colored robes dash in, see the mess, and climb onto the nearest table. He raised his hands to garner everyone’s attention, but after knocking several plates over in his effort, all eyes were on the man in the copper robes. 

“Stop it! All of you!” he yelled. “By Za’s Grace, stop it!”

The people lowered their knives and swords as they turned to the man. His wide eyes were gray and his hair white, but his face was still young. Tristan deciphered the patterns in the man’s robes and tunic, a pattern of clouds and lightning bolts, and the golden pin bearing the god Za’s image in it. He must have been a priest of Za by the looks of it. Tristan lowered his head, both as submission to the peacemaker and to his exhaustion. The knights lowered their guards as well, and he heard one of the knights - probably Tanner, that defiant rogue - slowly sheathe a knife he’d raised against Tristan’s quiet orders.

“Lord Sid, these Dragon Knights have come over the mountains! Look at them!” a woman pleaded.

“And they nearly died doing so,” Sid beckoned. He indicated the knights. “These men are starved and beaten. If this was the invading army, I’d say the war is over in the east.”

“They are Dragon Knights!” said the inn worker.

“Yes, they are.” The priest looked from Tristan to the other knights. “But more importantly, they are men - humans! And unless you would see condemnation from the gods, you will not let begging men starve outside your home! By Za’s holy grace, I command you to feed these men - or I shall give them all I have, and be done with your godless spite!”

The patrons slowly sheathed their weapons, and the worker set his knife on the counter again. The people slowly returned to their meals, muttering and watching them, but it was enough to put Tristan and his knights at ease. The priest of Za, Sid, started to step down from his table; Brador, a rear guard, helped the old man down to the floor and handed him his walking stick. 

“I am Sid, high priest of the Temple of Za,” said the priest.

“I am Tristan, runaway Prince of Azaleo. This is my clutch of Dragon Knights. We have come here seeking refuge from the war. We have skills that your people may put to use in return.”

The priest seemed to only-half listen to Tristan as he looked over the ragged knights in front of him. His eyes fell on the two without helmets first and then measured the others with his mind’s eye. He was searching their helmets for something. Could the high priest really recognize lesser nobility from the east? 

The priest’s eyes caught on Sir Matthew, the only son of a councilman and a lesser lord, a proficient swordsman and bowman. The man’s jaw dropped as though he’d found the queen’s jewels in a junk shop. “You are Sir Matthew?” he gasped.

Matthew and the other Dragon Knights flinched, but he nodded quickly. “I am Matthew, yes,” he said.

Sid’s eyes remained fixed as he stumbled backward. “By Za!”

Sir Matthew stepped back into the crowd of his fellow knights as every pair of eyes fell on him. All of the patrons who’d pointed blades at the Knights suddenly stared with dumbstruck awe. Their hate had become something he could not recognize, but he did not like whatever it was. Sir Gregory gave him a polite shove to distract him from their stares.

“If it is all the same,” Tristan interrupted, “my knights are starved. I have brought gold. We will take whatever food and beds you have.”

“Yes, my lord,” the keeper said demurely. The young man immediately set to crowding a full pan into his oven, burning his hand on a pot handle as he did so. “Please, take whatever table suits you, my lords.”

Tristan stared a moment longer at the man. It was the exact same person who’d held a meat knife at his breast not a moment earlier.

“This is weird,” Sir Tanner muttered. “Do they know you, Matt?”

“No,” Matthew whispered. “Maybe they have me mistaken with someone.”

Tristan stepped toward the long bench near the wall, and the patrons - a family of five - scooted down hastily to yield half the table to the knights. The family watched them sit, but no one spoke to them. At Tristan’s approval, the knights sat in their lines and started pulling plates, food, and mugs from the center. Matthew took the far corner and slouched, hiding from the prying eyes of the other diners. He could hear the other knights laugh and guess at whatever folklore the people of Lohren could have about a knight from the east, but none of it was polite.

They removed their helmets as a curvy lass carried trenchers of potatoes, beans, and mutton on her wide hips and shoulders. Her kindness turned to horror as she looked at their faces, and Tristan imagined it was because the Dragon Knights, in all their mighty black-plated armor, were filthy, gaunt, and wounded underneath. They had thick, dark hair like most of the people of Azaleo, and their helmets left their skin peach in color while Tristan’s had been burned in the mountains many times over. The lass promised to prepare baths for them in the back and scuttled away.

“I don’t like this,” Tristan whispered. “If they recognize Dragon Knights, that’s well and good. The last time Dragon Knights entered Lohren, the Lohrens defeated Dragoth’s right-hand man and cleaved their land straight from their earth with those mountains. But to recognize a single knight?”

“Matthew is a pretty popular name,” Sir Mort said. He ate with his left hand after one of the wolves sank a bite in his dominant hand - straight through the glove. “I heard of a lutist whose name was Matthew. He came from Catsnia.”

“They aren’t looking at a lutist,” Tristan whispered even lower. He tore into his mutton and swallowed it hard. It was hard to be so hungry, so satisfied, and so anxious at the same time. “They revere this person. Yet they hadn’t recognized anyone else.”

A toddling boy wearing potatoes on his pudgy cheeks waddled over to the table with his hand outstretched to Matthew. The Dragon Knight winced, patted the boy’s head, and ducked farther. “How far are we from the capital?” he asked.

“A day by wagon,” the lass answered with three mugs in each hand. “Lord Sid is already talking to the neighbors to arrange one.”

The knights exchanged looks for a moment. They downed their foamy drinks and tried to eat until their bellies were full even as a room filled with strangers stared at them. When they cleared the table of every morsel, the innkeeper, a short and ruddy woman, brought ciders to help cleanse their palates. She openly stared at Matthew, offered hot baths as soon as they were wanting, bowed, and left them to their desserts.

Tristan turned his glass while whispering, “I will learn more of whatever is going on here. Finish your meals, take a bath, and get to bed. We leave . . . ” He looked over their tired faces and wounds. “Well, it would be disrespectful to eat and run, wouldn’t it? We leave in the morning once their wagons are set. I doubt the evenings on the road will be terribly dangerous.”

The knights cheered, slapped the table, and raised their glasses of cider to their prince. Tristan smiled and raised his glass back to them.

The high priest had left in a whirlwind without offering any explanations, and the other patrons were content to remain quiet. The knights left to see to the baths behind the inn and investigate what kinds of beds the inn might offer. They realized, one by one, that after months of starvation, the drinks had ruddied their cheeks and affected their humors more than they anticipated. Sir Gregory said too loudly that he might need help from the chubby bar maiden to find the baths before Sir Tanner nearly scruffed him and took him outside.

Matthew hesitated to leave the table, though. He had put his helmet back as half his brothers in arms had, and he’d traded places with them along the bench, but he could still feels their gazes. Then Sir Bartholomew began to cough, spitting blood and black globs, and his focus switched entirely. He and Sir Mort used the last of their energy to gather their mana, clear their minds, and cast a warm soothing spell on the sickly knight. The patrons gasped and pointed. Once Sir Bartholomew was back in better spirits, Matthew joined the others behind the inn.

Behind the inn were two paths covered in wisteria leading to flagstone patios. Matthew followed the sounds of Azaleon voices to a row of old wine barrels filled to the brim with steaming water with towels and soaps hanging along their edges. He found the next empty bath, pulled off his threadbare clothes and armor, and sank into the barrel. The water sucked away every ache in his muscles and pulled the chill off of his bones.

He closed his eyes and let the floral aromas overwhelm him. Lohren was said to be blessed with mild springs, and as the blooms of the woods turned to leaves, the air supposedly grew warmer. Even the windiest spring day wouldn’t compare to the blizzards in the mountains, though, when the snow banks were twice as tall as a Dragon Knight and their sweat turned to ice whenever they stopped moving. 

He eased his matted hair into the water and picked at it. Among the dirt and pine needles, he found a pillbug, two ants, and either the carcass of a large spider or a particularly tough blossom. Gregory indicated the soap behind him on a crate, and Matthew started rinsing blood and filth from his flesh. He leaned over the barrel for a bucket to finish cleaning his face and hair.

“Can you believe the young prince?” Sir Gregory whispered. “Telling us to sleep, as if we need to be told to sleep.”

“I know,” Sir Matt said with a grin. “It will be nice to sleep somewhere with four walls and a roof. Maybe Bart won’t get dragged off by any bears tonight.”

“Maybe.” Sir Gregory rinsed his face with a bowl of fresh water and pulled himself up. “And maybe everyone will stop watching you by the time you fall asleep.”

Matthew sighed and pulled at his clean hair. “Thank-you for the image. Maybe I’ll sleep right here.”

With a final chuckle, Gregory pushed himself out from the barrel and shook water off like a dog. All of the Dragon Knights had scars or bruises of some sort, though Matthew was lucky to only have two - a white line down his leg where a wolf had sunk his teeth while Bart pulled him into the safety of their brothers, and a pink scar down his back where a soldier had nearly cut him down in the Battle of the Silver Mist. 

He sank back into the barrel and worked on his hair, focusing on the individual black clumps until he could free his dark brown locks. He scrubbed up and down, pulling whatever critters had followed him in and pulling old scabs off as he washed. When he was finished, his head felt lighter and fresher. He rinsed his wounded flesh with the fresh water as he emerged. A breeze pulled what warmth was left in him away before he could dry off. He followed Sir Tanner to the clothesline where a pair of workers folded their clothes.

“Sir Matthew!” a woman shouted. She was another buxom lass with full lips and high cheekbones - a welcome sight after months in the wilderness. He blushed and held his towel firmly against his hips. How did everyone here recognize him? “Your clothes, sir!” 

She held his tunic in her hands as his pants wavered on the line. She glanced over his chest and blushed while he nodded and retrieved his things, and then he did his very best to disappear behind the wall of wisteria. He jumped into his pants with agility he had forgotten he’d had and pulled his tunic on with equal ferocity. 

Their armor was neatly organized on the plank fence near rags and bottles of oil. An older man and woman gently rubbed at the joists and poured dark ooze where tooth, claw, and blades had broken the armor. He paused and considered the favor. It was one thing to offer food and a safe haven for refugees, especially refugees who looked like invaders who had killed their people in the past, but to mend their armor was perhaps too much of a favor.

The inn’s upper quarters were divided by paneled walls with images of meadows and mountains. Instead of private rooms, the beds were lined along the walls with chests at the end and small tables in between. Two men stood near a window overseeing the herb garden, whispering to each other. Matthew sank into a corner bed, and before he could think or chatter or pray, he was out cold. It had been three days since he’d slept. If he could sleep against the howls of demon wolves, he could bear the curiosity of strangers.

They left in the morning long after the sun had risen, taking bread with nuts and fruit baked in and wheels of cheese in their wake. They rode in two wine-stained wagons along the bumpy road. Most of the knights closed their eyes and slept for the ride, but they took turns watching the skies and the road for danger - mostly out of habit. The dense trees slowly scattered as rich farmland became denser along the way.

Only the full farmland separated the haunted woods and mountains from the castle, but the air was filled with palpable mana. The earth was black and moist, but its nutrients were more than just manure and old mulch. They passed an orchard with trees that were more apple blossoms than wood and a lemon tree already sporting fat yellow lemons in the spring. 

They passed a bright purple wagon with tall red and gold flags. Inside were minstrels and musicians practicing for a show. As they passed, they yelled, jeered, and drew daggers at the Dragon Knights just as the inn patrons had. They were horrified and angry, but the wagon passed before anyone could act.

Matthew leaned over the wagon wall and addressed their driver. “How do all of these people know me?” he asked.

“The statue,” the driver said simply.

He rolled his eyes. Tristan had heard the same dumbfounded answer - some statue in the capital that looked like Matthew with his name on it. He sighed and accepted that it was just lucky that he had a common name and a recognizable face. It had bought them safety, food, clean clothes, warm baths, and a ride to the capital. Hopefully they would have similarly good luck with His Majesty, King Cyril.

The clouds over the city parted near noon, and the sight of the long line of stone stairs leading up to the palace became visible. The stories were true, then: the palace was atop a scrawny hill with a mountainous set of stairs leading up. Water flowed near the stairs from the castle, though no one could tell where the water came from. The castle was as white as the clouds that surrounded it and glistened like a thousand polished gems in the sun. 

“I thought Lohren was an agrarian country,” Sir Tanner said. “Why did they put their castle on top of a mountain?”

“They did not,” Tristan said. “They created the mountain beneath the castle when Dragoth sent his army. Its height is its last defense.”

“You’re half-right, prince,” the wagon driver said merrily. “Lady Diana created the mountain on her own. She made Za’s Crown, too.”

“That’s impossible,” Sir Tanner said. “Even Dragoth himself isn’t that powerful.”

The wagon driver hummed a humored note, but the knights ignored him. They admired the even roads that glistened and the waterways that flowed under sturdy stone bridges. The farmhouses turned to denser town houses with smaller gardens in smaller yards, and then they reached the capital proper.

The heart of Lohren looked like a city frozen in time and of peace. It was everything that the stories had promised and more. Everyone was clean, well-rested, and well-fed. They wore their hair long and tied in cords or braided- even the men. As they passed the alleys and shops, they could still feel the palpable mana. The streets were empty of beggars, orphans, or veterans; Azaleo had two beggars for every one person shopping in the markets.

“It’s quiet here,” Tristan said, breaking the silence among them.

The wagon driver picked his head up. “Quiet? Well, of course. It’s Freyday.” They waited for more of an explanation. “Freyday? Every morning on Freyday, the tempest comes trough and sweeps the streets. You don’t want to be in the way when the dust and the critters and the trash come blowing through. We just missed it, mind you, but the people don’t come to the market until after the tempest.”

They waited, but the wagon driver stopped. Tristan rubbed his chin a moment. “I have not heard of Freyday tempests. Is it a spring phenomenon?”

The driver turned his head and cocked his brow. “All of the weather in Lohren is on a schedule. Freyday is tempest and then clear. Aelsiday is bright and sunny. It’s all strict and predictable, else how would you know when it was going to rain? Or if it would rain at all? Or when to do the laundry?” He turned back to the city streets and nudged the horse away from the beautiful fountains near a city garden. “Oh, I suppose that where you folks come from, you don’t have the luxury.”

“The man is mad,” Sir Tanner whispered. “It’s cruel for the prince to keep entertaining him.”

“You feel it, don’t you?” Matthew whispered back. “This land is positively teeming with magic. They’re growing more food than they could ever eat, and by the looks of it, they’re trying. Their water is crystal clear. I can believe the weather is predictable, too.”

They quieted as they approached the edge of the market. Before them was the bottom of the storied stairs up to the heavens, and by the looks of it, no wagon was going to make it up those steps. Tristan shook the driver’s hand and looked over his knights before he gestured up the steps. Once the wagon had stopped, though, they were at the mercy of the citizens - citizens who were horrified at the sight of Dragon Knights in their city. Sir Bartholemew began coughing up blood at the sight of the climb.

They climbed. The first flight of stairs took an hour to climb, and then they paused in a garden. A fountain with two dancing girls dropped crystal water into the tiled pool below. Tristan replaced the splint along his ankle as his knights tended to one another’s illnesses. They drank deeply of the cold water before climbing to the next set of steps. From above, they could see the capital city filled with people and their beasts of burden. It was a bright, musical, beautiful city, perhaps the only prosperous and happy city in the entire world. The mana was less dense as they climbed into the sky.

After another hour, they reached the first of the merchants who sold fruits and water. He scowled at the knights, but he eagerly took their bronze coin without complaint. When the sun began to descend, they still had hundreds more steps left to climb before they’d reach the castle. They paused under a thick tree and drank sweet water from a decorative fountain like unabashed horses. Then they climbed until they could no longer breathe and the sun had already set. 

The last dozen steps were decorated with red, green, and white tiles to make roses. The Dragon Knights gasped for air with their hands on their knees as they crested the top of the stairs. They had just barely made the journey. Then they saw castle guards in long white tabards run toward them with shining pikes in hand.

“Halt!” the guards yelled. “Dragon Knights!”

Tristan fell to his hands and knees as he panted. He could not speak or persuade the guards for lack of breath. There were four furious guards at the top of the stairs,  but more filed in from the gardens beyond, all drawing their swords, pikes, and spears. The Dragon Knights froze behind their prince with their hands on their sheathes except for Sir Bartholomew, who’d doubled over and coughed.

A small voice called from behind the castle guards. “Wait!” he shouted. “These are the men Lord Sid spoke of!” The boy ran around the guards with his hands waving in the air. “Stop it!”

“Lord Sid,” Tristan gasped. He pointed and panted, “Matthew.”

As the prince gasped for breath on his hands and knees, the castle guards stared a moment longer. They stared at Matthew, but their expression was less shocked than the inn patrons had looked. They sheathed their weapons with obvious hesitation. “Come with us. Try anything, and we will throw you down the mountain.”

The guards didn’t wait for the Dragon Knights to catch their breath. Sir Gregory and Sir Mort lifted their fallen friend and helped him through the garden until he could walk. They formed their lines and followed Tristan through the gated passages, under ivy-laden arches to the mouth of the castle. Servants in pressed gowns stopped to gape at their sight. Other guards followed them, abandoning their stations with their hands over their hilts.

They reached the grand hall after a long march over rose gardens and bridges. The hall’s ceiling was taller than most chapels, and its stone pillars looked freshly polished. The burgundy runners smelled freshly beaten, and pots of lavender lined the walls and columns. At the very end of the runner was a raised dais and a silver throne decorated with a wreath of flowers. A wide pillar, covered from the ceiling to the floor by the stallion crest of the royal family, separated the dais from the back of the hall. The guards escorted the Dragon Knights to the end of the runner and formed a circle around them.

“Do not move,” a guard warned.

Silence fell over the men. Bartholomew coughed again until he could catch his breath, but they knew he needed a healing spell. The guards were too tense; they’d assume it was an offensive spell. He just needed to survive another hour at the most. Lord  Tristan nodded to the knights and then kneeled on the runner in the direction of the throne.

King Cyril’s fast, heavy footsteps were audible long before they saw him. He was an image of gold and crimson - golden hair, crimson robe, gold embellishments, ruby and gold crown. He grasped his scepter from the young page and threw open his cape as he stood before the knights. His cheeks were red, and his golden brow was tight with the same hatred they’d seen in every other person they’d met. He couldn’t be more than five-and-twenty summers, but his blue eyes were filled with more hate than any other mortal could bear.

“Tell me why my men haven’t put you dogs down the second they saw you,” he muttered.

“We are refugees,” Tristan pleaded. 

“You are Dragon Knights,” King Cyril interrupted. “You are scum, and you should never have made it this far.”

The Dragon Knights seemed to wonder the same thing - did the high priest’s notice ever reach the prince? 

“We have escaped Dragoth’s reign of terror through the mountains. Please, sire. We would serve you and your people as humble servants. Your lands are the only safe haven in the world,” Tristan said. He held a fist over his heart.

“No thanks to your kind!” Cyril bellowed. “The last time I saw Dragon Knights, they murdered half our Council, drove my father mad, and they murdered my sisters!” He slammed his scepter into the dais. His voice trembled. “They murdered hundreds of innocent people before they could be put down. So why would they let you into my castle to try again?”

His hot gaze froze the Dragon Knights. Tristan never seemed to look up from the floor as he panted for air. To their relief, they could hear fast foot steps and a fine wooden walking staff nearby - the high priest, Sid. He closed the distance, but the king never looked up from the Dragon Knights.

“Your Grace!” yelled the familiar priest. “Your anger does you and these men injustice!” Sid stepped between Tristan and the king. “Hear them out before you send them to their deaths. I know these men to be honest, tired souls.”

Deaths? Banishment, perhaps, but they had not expected death.

King Cyril squeezed his fist until it was white. “Speak, then!”

“We come to seek refuge,” Tristan said again. “Your Grace, I am the eldest prince of Azaleo. If you will give my men shelter, I will give you every speckle of gold to my name. I will give you my kingdom. All I ask is that you let us take refuge in your land.”

The king trembled and reddened.  The room was quiet again. The high priest stepped forward and whispered, but his words carried across the stone as though he’d shouted it; “Look upon them, Cyril. Look into their eyes.”

King Cyril punched the throne, but the priest didn’t flinch. He looked beyond the prince and glanced at the Knights. The red in his cheeks lessened slightly. “They are Dragon Knights,” he muttered. “They all look the same to me.”

“Then look upon them as men, as your sister would have.”

With a sigh, King Cyril looked away from the knights and to the stained glass windows in the ceiling of his grand hall. Tristan’s gaze followed and found the image of the gods playing instruments in a rose garden. The king sighed even louder and met Tristan’s eyes, but they were still cold and dark. “Swear to me your loyalty, your allegiance, and your lives,” he said half-heartedly.

“I swear it,” Tristan declared.

“And your knights.”

“Knights!”

“I swear it!” they shouted.

King Cyril closed his eyes and lowered his scepter onto the dais. “Sid, never ask me another kindness again,” he muttered. He looked to a trembling page with his lips pulled tight and muttered, “Prepare twelve more seats at my table tonight. And beds, I suppose.”

The page dashed off with one glance over his shoulder at the knights. The clambering of doors followed. The Dragon Knights stood with their prince and breathed a sigh of relief, but the leers of every guard and the prince still bound their lines. They had survived and gotten the refuge they sought, and yet they felt the guillotine resting over their heads nonetheless.

King Cyril stepped from his dais and turned, brushing the white fur of his cape along the fine dais as he walked. “Come with me. I would rather you stayed as one pestilent body than-”

“Cyril!” called an alto voice. A golden-haired woman in silver satin and a velvet cape ran across the chamber and threw her arms around the prince. They shared the same wide eyes and gentle face, though wrinkles outlining years of sadness and anger. She was Lady Safia, then, the regent queen and King Cyril’s mother. “Are these the Dragon Knights that the guard spoke of? What do they want?”

“Only our food and beds,” King Cyril said, “for now.”

Sir Tanner grumbled, and Matthew glanced to nod in agreement. 

They followed Tristan to the king’s side. They tried to whisper quietly and remember any details about Lohren that passed over the mountains in recent years. Cyril was the Crowned Prince after his older sister perished, and his parents were at times absent from the throne. The people feared the wrathful young king, but he was the face of stability and the head of the last peaceful nation in the world. They knew little else besides the names of the royal family. 

Lady Safia raised her hand to her lips as she looked over their helmets. “If you make trouble for my people,” she warned, “I will have your heads on spikes in my city. Do I make myself clear?” 

The Dragon Knights agreed with fists to heart, just as they were trained, without witty remarks that would get them killed.

She turned but kept an eye on Tristan as she walked around the pillar. The thick cloud of lavender struck them long before they saw the nurtured blossoms. Tristan followed King Cyril to the engraved doors beyond another plant and looked over his shoulder for his knights. In their usual lines, they followed the royal procession.

A glint of sunlight caught Matthew’s eye from beyond the lavender. He stopped, nearly tripping, and stepped aside from the lines. The others kept their march. Beyond the lavender and in a small alcove was a seven-foot slab of lavender crystal hidden behind the pillar and throne. He pushed aside the flowers and blinked, but the image was still there. A woman was trapped inside the crystal.

“What are you doing?” King Cyril roared from the corridor. “Get away from her!”

Matthew stepped back, but his fear of the angry prince could not match his potion of emotions from the sight of the woman. Her eyes were clenched shut, and her body was pulled tight not from fear of whatever imprisoned her, but from extreme pain or sorrow. Her hands crossed over her heart below a broken collar of gems. Her long hair was a mess around her frozen shoulders, caught in frizz for all of time. She wore a beautiful ballgown with stains at the hem. Her pain echoed through the crystal and into the thin layer of mana in the air. He ached to soothe the sorrow from her pained body. He touched the crystal, but the glass was harder than armor.

Tristan tackled Matthew, yanked him from the crystal, and threw him into a trio of knights. “What are you doing?” he yelled with piercing eyes. “We are here no more than an hour and you’re - what are you doing? The king will have our heads!”

“Who is she?” Matthew whispered. His chin quivered. He clenched his eyes shut against the dryness burning them, and only then did he see the red-faced king and regent queen standing before him. Matthew bowed, dropping his tears as he bent. He bowed lower. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I was . . . I was overwhelmed.”

King Cyril struck his helmeted skull with his scepter, slamming him to the ground more from the momentum than the angry strike. Sir Tanner stepped forward, but Tristan raised an arm against the knights.

“She is my sister,” King Cyril muttered through clenched teeth, “and a warning against Dragon Knights. Dragoth sent men to our castle to take her on her birthday, and they did this to her.” He heaved a breath. “The kindest creature in all of creation, loved by even the most hateful hearts, born a blessing from Elysia herself - and you people did this to her!”

Matthew looked past the king  to the woman in the crystal prison. “The Sun Princess,” he whispered in awe. It fit her perfectly. Louder, he declared, “She’s Princess Arianna.”

“She is,” the regent queen said more calmly. “Seventeen years ago, in the middle of her birthday ball, Dragon Knights and Prince Erlid of Rosewall came and murdered dozens Council members and hundreds of innocents without raising a single alarm. Her foolish champion had trusted Dragon Knights for some silly reason. Before they met their own deaths, they trapped Arianna  in this prison.” She touched the crystal, but Matthew noticed that she wouldn’t look at her daughter. “No pick nor fire can break it. She is . . . trapped.”

“Enough,” King Cyril snapped. “You will not come near here again, and you will not delay tonight’s supper.”

“Yes, sire,” Matthew said with another bow.

With one more glance at the tragic woman, Matthew followed the entourage into the crowded dining hall. Rows of servants in varying degrees of formal attire were separated by tables stacked high with pastries, meats, and fruits from the earth. A semicircle table atop a raised stand overlooked the tables from beneath a row of tapestries. King Cyril and his mother took the tall cushioned chairs in the center of the table and watched as the knights lined the rest of the table, mirroring their lines. Tristan took King Cyril’s side with Sir Mort at his side, and Matthew sat beside Sir Mort. A man in plain garb brought another cushioned chair and wedged it between the Queen and Sir Gregory, and Lord Sid took the seat at her side with a smile to the knights. Once everyone was seated, King Cyril raised his goblet, and everyone began eating.

Had his stomach not been so empty and his body so sore, Matthew would not have fought the queasiness for a meal. He and Sir Tanner grabbed at the plates nearest to them in desperation. The grapes burst with a flick of their tongue with sweetness they had never known in their lives. The ham was covered in juices, and the meat overflowed with fat and muscle. They had only known bony birds and starved rabbits for years. Slowly, they became deaf madmen, focusing on stuffing their bellies and then their gullets until they could not breathe. In the corner near the kitchen doors, a harpist began strumming a song.

“I trust you find our food to your liking,” King Cyril declared.

“This ambrosia is nothing short of perfection,” Tristan answered.

The two fell into a long conversation about refugee chefs of all the palaces coming to the castle and bringing various seeds and tools from their homelands. Sir Tanner waited a moment longer and whispered to Matthew, “Do you think everyone is grumpy because they leave their petrified princess in the throne room?”

“Stop,” Matthew chided.

“At least the grumps aren’t going to stab us to death,” Sir Erickson offered as lightly as a breath. “And I don’t think anyone save the old priest is staring at him anymore.”

Matthew grumbled and sipped the sweetest wine he’d ever sipped. The food was bountiful and delicious even as he became full. It was odd. He looked over the servants and the clergymen visiting the castle and noted the round bellies they sported under their plain clothing. No one looked terribly dirty or impoverished. Did they feast every day? He doubted even Dragoth had such feasts every night with his terrified peasants.

“My lord,” Matthew whispered to Tristan, “is this a festival?”

“We have not had a spring festival in seventeen years,” Cyril declared. He glared at Matthew. “This is merely the gift of my sister.”

“Princess Arianna?” Tristan asked. “In her honor?”

Cyril smiled for a second and shook his head. He’d seemed less tense at that moment. “No, not Arianna.”

“He means his adopted sister,” the regent queen said more coldly. “Lady Diana. On the night of the attack, she did many things. Giving every farm an underground river and black soil was among them.”

Cyril glanced over to his mother for a moment. She sliced violently into a carrot until the knife sliced deep into the silver dish. His smile was gone, but he looked into the sky window with softness nonetheless.

“An underground river? So she was born to Lady Freya?” Tristan asked. “She must have been beautiful.”

King Cyril’s smile returned, and a glimpse of a younger, sweeter man crept to the surface. “She was born to Za,” he said gently. “On the night she was born, the air ripped open and lightning crashed down in the east.” He set his wet knife on the table and picked among the rolls as his smile widened. “She was a goddess - a Great Soul. She could do anything at all. Water all the crops with a storm? Heal the dying? She did all those things. It was my sister Diana who raised the mountain beneath the city, you know. And she crowned our very kingdom - hence  the Crown of Za. There were only old mountains to the east before. Now all of Lohren is encircled with impassable mountains. And she killed the right-hand man of the dragon king, Dragoth.” He banged his knife playfully. “Sid, tell them! You stood right there!”

“I did,” the high priest stuttered. “It was a terrible sight!” The knights were quiet by then, and though no words could stop their feasting, their ears were open to the priest’s excited story. “Why, I stood in the field, where the Dragon Knights had taken Lady Diana. She had been arr-” He stopped to look at the scowling queen and looked abashed for a moment.

King Cyril banged his knife again playfully. “My father sold her to his enemy,” he said with a shrug. “Betrayed my sisters. Undid Diana’s good deeds whenever he could. Broke their hearts before they died. Right in front of everyone, including our enemies. Move on, Sid!”

“Cyril!” the regent queen snapped, but the prince only lifted a brow and ignored her protest.

Lord Sid blushed and slowly moved his hands to urge himself on. “I followed them outside the city gates, and before my eyes, she zapped the Dragon Knights to their death with the flick of her wrist! The monsters that had slain a hundred innocents were no more, simply because she willed it!”

“Lightning is not our friend,” Sir Tanner mumbled into his goblet. Matthew frowned. Both Sir Bart and Sir Erickson had both been stricken in the mountains during the wicked storms and had barely survived. Their skin had burned into their armor. It stank for days.

Sid gestured wildly, pretending to lie down and half-dancing. “She entombed the last death-bringer, and I thought ‘surely he is dead!’ And she raised the mountain behind me with spin, and then she danced and danced. I could see the line of the horizon break as far as I could see as lightning struck the earth, and mountains formed all around me. The ground shook and shook. It was not until the next day that I knew that she had carved rivers into the earth and cursed the Crown of Za with such storms.” The priest paused to drink as his face became flushed. “And then the final battle began, for the sorcerer vermin was not dead in his earth tomb. He tried to burn Lady Diana to death, but she was stronger. She cast lightning faster than any storm and kept his wicked spells from escaping the battlefield. He was a powerful demon, but with her last breath, she killed him, saving Lohren from Dragoth forever.”

As Sid finished his goblet, the knights picked at more fruits and waited for more stories. They were interesting legends at the very least. Matthew searched the priest’s face for the usual animism of temple men and could not see it. Perhaps Lord Sid was too tired to tell the moral of this tale.

“Do you know why Diana created the mountains and rivers that night?” Cyril asked with a crooked smile. “Why she gave her last breath to kill that loud, arrogant louse?”

“To keep Dragoth out of Lohren,” Tristan guessed.

“To keep her promise and protect Arianna.” He paused. “My sisters would go into the streets and speak to every single person and hear their tales. They would hold babies and chase toddlers until the sky was black and she was late to dinner. And they would make them little promises of fair pay for their harvests and protection from the dangers in the east and from disease. Arianna made all of these promises, and Diana would deliver them tenfold without anyone knowing she’d cast a spell. Diana had promised to protect Arianna, so when she failed to keep the Dragon Knights out, she made sure no one could ever cross into Lohren again.”

The table was cleared of food. The knights leaned into their chairs and tried to listen to the tales, but Sir Bartholemew was half-asleep, and Sir Mort snored too loudly for his brothers to hear at their end of the table. Matthew nodded off despite his interest in the sad princess and the priest’s interest in a stranger. It was more than their tired heads could wrap around.

When their beds were ready, the knights followed a page into the corridor and down the stairs into a basement. Its walls smelled of fresh life in its panels, and the bright rugs suggested they’d only been dyed within the month. It was a new addition to the castle. Their narrow cots lined the corridor with trunks in between. A squat bookshelf stood at the very end with a lantern atop. They thanked the page and quickly claimed their cots, for their stomachs were full for the second time in years, and their heads were heavy with wine, legends, and exhaustion. One by one, they collapsed into the thin mattresses. Only Matthew and Sir Tanner remained awake.

“I think if we keep asking about his sister,” Sir Tanner whispered, “the prince will be in a good mood and keep talking. Just don’t talk about her giant coffin he keeps behind the throne.”

Matthew sighed and offered a weak grin. “Or his adopted sister. The one that can raise mountains with her mind and apparently killed Prince Elrid in a cow field.”

“What do you think happened to her? Used up all her magic until she died?”

“I don’t doubt Elrid killed her with a curse,” Matthew murmured. He could feel sleep crawl in with his memory of the horror Elrid’s name could conjure in his nearly-forgotten home. “A killing curse, like that rogue in the Black Meadow would cast if he thought he’d be caught. Elrid knew all of them.”

Sir Tanner had fallen asleep, though. They were too tired for stories or speculation. Matthew longed for the sleep that crawled into his head from every wall, but a single memory disturbed the approaching darkness. The face of the princess, tight with such sorrow, and her wringed hands haunted him. She was alone and beyond anyone’s reach. He wished with all of his remaining strength that he could console her. Alas, sleep came to him, and her face was gone. He dreamed of falling and flying from the mountain and of rolling down its cliff with his full, groaning belly.

Despite the comfort of a cot and a pillow, Matthew still woke early. Even Lord Tristan, who had never slept beyond the sunrise in his entire life, snored away in a wad of drool. Sir Gregory paced between the cots in his usual sleepwalking. Sir Erickson was awake but trying to fall back to sleep. All were quiet in the dark narrow chamber.

Beyond the chasm of pleasant dreams, Matthew remembered the Sun Princess. The memory itched deep in his skull where he could not scratch it. He hated the sight until he could not bear it. He quietly changed into fresh clothes from the trunks and eyed his armor, but it would be too loud. He wore only his gauntlets and sword for protection from angry guards. The rest would remain.

The halls were lit with raging torches between ivy-laden columns and pots of nightshade, poppies, and lavender. The only guards between the chamber and the grand hall were asleep on their feet. Matthew looked up and down the pathways and around each corner, but his footfalls were silent on the runner, and he was too quiet to wake the snoring sentries. Perhaps stuffing the guards full of rich meat and wine was not the wisest decision.

Matthew ducked into the hall and hid behind a pillar. Two of the guards near the mouth of the chamber were awake, chattering about the Dragon Knights they’d met so many years ago. He ignored them and stepped through the lavender plants. The crystal was exactly where it’d been before, and the princess still looked more sorrowful than Death itself.

“I am sorry,” he whispered to the silent woman.

He pressed his hand to the crystal, but it would not move. It was a foolish thing to try. She had been frozen in time for years. If the mighty Kings of Lohren and the high priests could not undo the spell, no one could. He sighed and gazed at her through the crystal. The beautiful Sun Princess, the desire of Lord Dragoth for thirty years, stood before him in a dreadful state.

His hand felt warm and sticky, as though he’d leaned into honey. Matthew looked and saw that the crystal had begun to glow at his palm and suck his hand in. A shout from the guards echoed from the walls and woke the others, but a loud hum deafened their shouts. The light became hot as more light licked around his hand. He pulled his palm from the liquid crystal to shield his eyes, watching as the stone became nothing but hot light.

The princess’s arms fell from her tight brace to her satin skirt as the crystal faded. She blinked her eyes for a moment and closed them against the light. “Diana,” came her hoarse whisper, and then she began to fall. 

He dashed and caught her in his arms. The yells of the approaching guards tore into Matt’s ears, demanding to know what was happening, what he’d done, and why he’d meddled with the crystal again. He ignored them and braced the fallen princess against his chest. She was soft and warm, small and fair, and she hugged him as snugly as a greeting cat. Her hair smelled like scented oils that the noblewomen wore to parties. She mumbled, but she did not move away from him. He pushed the tendrils of wild hair from her face and cupped her cheek. 

“Princess,” he whispered, “stay with me. You’ve been asleep for a very long time.”

She opened her eyes again, catching his gaze. The light had faded and left only the moonlight from the window above to light her face, but the intensity of her eyes was unmistakable. She lifted her hand and wrapped a lock of his hair around her finger, and to his shock, she smiled the most beautiful smile in the world. His heart thundered in his chest. How could the tragic woman smile so widely now?

“Matthew,” she whispered. Her voice was mangled and hoarse, but he heard his name clearly. “You’re Matthew.”

“I am,” he whispered gently. His cheeks flushed. “I am Sir Matthew of Azaleo, son of Lord Matthew of the same land. Pleased to make your acquaintance, princess.”

Her smile became a wide grin as her head lulled. The moon sparkled across her eyes, snatching his heartbeats. Then the familiar shouts of King Cyril broke through the cool air, and every torch and lantern was lit until it appeared as though the sun had risen early within the grand hall. The king pushed through the staring, shouting guards and froze.

“Arianna!” the king cried. “By the gods, you’re alive! Ari! Ari!”

King Cyril fell to his knees and gathered his sister’s hand into his own. His eyes twinkled with coming tears, but his laughter and smile did not break. She smiled at the prince and wrapped her hand around his cheek. “I am alive,” she rasped. “Who are you?”

The prince’s smile faded into a destitute “o.” The color rushed from his face. “I’m your brother,” he said weakly, “Cyril.”

“My baby brother?” she murmured. She pursed her lips. “No, I just saw my baby brother.”

King Cyril quaked on his knees. His jaw fell lower and lower until Matthew was sure he’d swallow himself in his disbelief. It was too late, though, for Princess Arianna’s breaths became warm and even with sleep. Matthew noticed the crowd had grown to include more guardsmen than he had seen since he had entered the city. They brought torches, and with every light, Matthew saw more of the radiance of the sun princess. Then he heard Tristan’s voice along the walls.

“The princess is freed!” a page boy said.

A stone formed in Matthew’s belly as he realized that this was happening quickly. He wished he’d been stealthier, or that the crystal had been more subtle when it decided to disappear. Why did it break when he touched it? What was the princess experiencing? Was she sleeping? How did she know his face but not her brother’s?

“Matthew, what have you done?” Tristan yelled. He pushed through the men and stood with his arms crossed.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “The crystal disappeared when I touched it.”

King Cyril suddenly grabbed one of the boys weaving through the guardsmen and whispered harsh words into his ear, but Matthew could not hear it. The guards were too loud. He turned to Tristan, but his lord didn’t seem to have any answers in his face. Then he felt the princess speaking once more.

“Diana,” she mumbled, but her voice was still hoarse. Matthew pushed a healing spell to his palm, turning the warmth over in his fingers, but he couldn’t do it with so many men waiting to cut his head off at the first sight of spellcasting.

Cyril took the princess into his arms and lifted her head to his shoulder. She opened her eyes. “Arianna,” he said, “come. It’s past bedtime.”

“Where’s Diana?” she asked.

Arianna grasped at her throat and coughed a dry, painful breath. Then her eyes lit like an arrow-stricken deer. She gasped and looked to the empty hall. Her eyes moved over the windows, the cleaned rugs, the new plants. Her breaths became rapid, and what color had been in her face was gone. Her lips moved, forming the same name over and over as she pushed herself from Cyril’s arms, took to her feet, and leaned against the flower trenches that once surrounded her crystal coffin. Then she tried to scream for her friend, but her voice was spent.

“I’ll explain everything,” Cyril pleaded. 

Tears poured over her cheeks as she gasped and choked out her sister’s name. She searched the crowd of faces and stopped at none except for Matthew’s. Her expression was terror and grief and pain again. She clasped Matthew’s shoulders, turned him around gently, and put the knight between herself and the prince. She hugged him hard and cried into his the back of his tunic. He blushed and proffered his palms in surrender to the king. 

“Sir Matthew,” she rasped between sobs.

He sighed and wished he’d slept just a little longer. His duty was to Tristan, and it was indirectly tied to Cyril as of the previous night. Nonetheless he appeared to have some bond to this princess. He was able to save her from her strange prison, and now he had to save her from her loving brother.

“Your Grace, I can escort the princess and a handmaiden to her chambers,” Matthew offered.

“I’ll see you dead,” Cyril snapped.

“Your Grace,” Tristan interjected. He proffered his palms and stood between Cyril and Matthew. “The princess is frightened. She needs time to absorb all of this.”

Cyril’s shoulders fell, but his eyes still searched for Arianna. He lifted a hand and, with a sigh, waved off his men. The guards hesitated before returning to their posts about the hall and the other rooms, and the servants, excited by the midnight news, dashed into the returning shadows. Several of the women remained, including an older woman with a bird-like face and a thick mantle over her shoulders. Cyril murmured to her and indicated a hall, and the woman bowed before Matthew and the princess behind him.

“Goodnight, sister,” Cyril said.

Arianna stepped beside Matthew and pulled his sleeve. She didn’t wait for the woman; instead she pulled him down the hall near another tall pot of flowers. Tristan had remained with King Cyril, so with a few quick turns, the princess and Dragon Knight were alone.

She led him down the marble passages to a room near a rose-filled courtyard where the scent of rain washed in through its massive windows. Around a bookshelf and plush chairs, he saw two beds on raised marble and several games stacked between them. There was a hearth in the corner near a dining area and an open chest filled with colorful stones. Arianna locked the door behind them and fell to the floor.

Matthew had no words. It was improper to touch her. He would be hung from the balcony for being in this room alone with her. He didn’t know what it would be like to be frozen for nearly twenty years after Elrid attacked an entire city and two mages changed the face of the earth in their brawl. Arianna probably had no idea anything had changed. 

He sat against the door beside her. He held the healing spell in his hand and was suddenly too nervous to know how to offer it to her, so he placed it on her shoulder and let the warm light travel to her throat instead. She gasped, and he quickly retreated his hand.

“So you can use magic?” she asked. Her voice was normal - clear and lovely.

“All of us can do a little bit,” he said. “Just healing spells. I can make tiny fireballs.”

“Do you remember your past life? How big are the fireballs?” Her eyes were wide. Matthew could see her pulse in her milky neck as it hastened.

“My past life?” he said with a laugh. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Then you don’t remember Diana?”

He chuckled and looked out the window. It had to be a joke, or perhaps a dream. The princess leaned in with her head cocked. Matthew lifted his knee and sighed. She seemed serious. Her fair brow furrowed, and her eyes wrinkled at the corners like she was reading a book with too little light.

“She was your true love!” Arianna said. “She remembered you. She told everyone about you.”

“My true love?” He laughed harder. “We were destined to meet and fall in love again?”

“Yes! She waited for you for years! She told me about all the things you did together, all the lives you lived out with each other!” The princess wasn’t laughing. Her voice caught and stuttered as she spoke without breath. “She made the statue in the-” Then she stopped, her mouth frozen, her eyes welling and brimming, and she rested her chin on her knees. “How long was I trapped in there?”

Matthew stopped laughing, too. “I don’t know,” he said. “I think your brother said seventeen years?” 

He tried to sort the tragedies of the long wars in his head. Every land in the east had fallen to Dragoth except this single promised land. Countless powerful families and lineages had been destroyed. Centuries-old nations were snuffed under the boots of armored knights. Castles were torn stone from stone, and river beds filled with blood and bodies before they dried up completely.

When did those mountains appear to the south of Azaleo? Matthew had been a small boy, still learning to eat and hold a staff, and he did not understand what the traveling merchant meant when he described the crown of mountains that formed from nothing. No one understood. Even as the Dragon Knights scaled those mountains and fought the monsters within its forests, they didn’t understand the power it would take to create mountains where there had only been trees on hills.

“Seventeen years,” he said. “It’s been seventeen years, I think.”

Author's Note

Polished 5 July 2023