The Call of the Crown (Book 1) (5 page)

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The cave entrance was a good thirty paces above the open pastureland of the central valley. A steep path wound through the ring of trees that circled the inner fields. It wasn’t until she passed through the thick line of spruce and fir that the view cleared enough for Brea to judge the time. It was dusk, and would be getting dark soon. She had spent more time in the cave than she had thought. The paddocks were empty. Goat and yak alike were all in for the night, doubtless crowded under the open-sided sheds that ran along the edge of Braylair Village. Ducks waddled along the path from the stream and geese—half-flapping, half-walking—seemed to race each other back to their own shed. It was another quiet evening. Brea often found it hard to believe there were a dozen or so dragons not half a mile from her home.

Looking east, she couldn’t see the other caves. Not that there were many; most of the caves were beyond the ridge—beyond the reach of the valley. And glad of it she was, too
. They were the Tunnels of Aldregair and not a place she would wish to live. She’d heard of men who, over a century ago, tried to map those tunnels, heard they were successful with some. But dragons weren’t the only things that liked the dark, and many men lost their lives discovering things they had “no business poking their noses into.” That’s what Brea’s mother, Affrair, told her two years ago when she asked her how they had died. “There are things we’re not meant to know, Brea,” She should have known better than to press her mother for answers. Now, Brea couldn’t look east without feeling a shudder run down her spine.

Crossing the wide, cobbled track that was the village’s main thoroughfare,
She paused a moment to bid Mrs. Miller a good evening. The older woman was saying something to her, but Brea couldn’t hear a word of it. Her husband was busy loading his cart with sacks of flour, and making a real noisy job of it, too. Brea pointed to her ears, and Mrs. Miller laughed, waving her on.

The Millers lived in the
mill, an irony that always amused Brea. Most other folk lived in the houses built along the main road. Made mainly of stone dragged down from the Karan Ridges, the houses had thatched roofs and wide, open porches. They were simple dwellings but well made. The village was small, with thirty-two homes, a mill, a blacksmith, and an inn. Still, Brea was happy there.

She walked down a narrow passage between her neighbours’ gardens and climbed the wooden steps to her front veranda. After kicking off her boots, she went in.

The door entered immediately into a simple kitchen with a fireplace at one end, table in the middle, and a few chairs scattered about. Affrair was standing at her chopping board in front of the kitchen window, her long silver hair tied up in a bun and a white apron covering her ample frontage.

She
turned to Brea with a smile. “Hello, dear.” She was cheerful as usual. “Is everything well with young Rek?” She asked the last in a cautious whisper, all the while surreptitiously looking from side to side.

Brea laughed at her clandestine enquiry. Everyone in the village knew about the dragons
. Nevertheless, her mother always spoke softly when talking about them, as though spies with some evil agenda were lurking in the shadows. “Mother, please, there is nobody here. Yes, Rek will be fine. He just has a cold.”

“Oh good! That is a relief.”

Affrair turned back to her chopping board.

Brea listened to the tap-tap-tap of the knife as she sat down heavily at the table. She began toying with the cutlery in the centre, spinning a spoon around with her finger. The vision of the two men flashed in her mind
. It had been bothering her all the way home. What did it mean? Why wasn’t there anything else? Was she missing something? She let out a sigh.

“Are you all right, dear?” Affrair asked. She turned to Brea, still holding the tail ends of the spring onions she’d been chopping.

Brea stopped toying with the spoon. “It’s the Lier’sinn, Mother. The image still isn’t clear. I can’t tell where he is or what he’s doing, never mind if he understands what’s going on!” Brea shuffled about in the seat. She knew her mother wouldn’t have a clue about the men in her vision—certainly no more than she already did. There didn’t appear to be any point talking about it. Still, she yearned for a comforting voice, something to settle her mind.

Affrair dunked her hands in a bucket of water. She stood, towelling them dry while she spoke. “Really now, Brea, there
’s nothing to be done. Nothing is certain yet, not by any means. We only have rumours and tales passed down through the ages. I’m sure there’s truth in them, but you can’t let it rule your life.” She smiled as she rubbed Brea’s shoulder. “Don’t you go worrying, my girl, you will only make yourself ill. Let the future unfold in its own time. Worry about what is in front of you, not what is waiting around the corner.”

Brea leaned into her mother’s side and allowed
Affrair's gentle touch to soothe her. Of course, her mother had no answers, but as usual, she saw things for what they were. Listening to Affrair made it all so simple—for a while, at least.

Brea had learnt a lot in her eighteen years, but she knew she was still young. Nevertheless, try as she might, sometimes she couldn’t help feeling out of her depth. Surely, these were problems for wise men, not for a young girl who
had hardly set foot outside the Bren’alor valley. For all her love of Rek, sometimes she wished she were like every other girl in the village and not fated to the lives of dragons.

Rek was her biggest worry. The thought of him fighting in a battle
… No, she couldn’t think of it, not her little dragon. Brea gave a long forlorn sigh, before planting her forehead on the table and clasping her hands behind her neck. “I don’t want anything bad to happen to him, Mother,” she cried. She could feel the tears beginning to well up. “He’s too young for this.” She raised a tearful eye to her mother, who brushed it dry with a corner of the towel.

“My dear Brea, Rek may be young, but he is a
Gan!”
She whispered at the last part. “I strongly suspect his father will have something to say to anyone who would do him harm.”

Affrair wrapped up the towel and threw it back over towards the chopping board. “Now, let us stop with this mournful mood and have us a little cake, maybe some wine. What do you think?” Affrair’s eyebrows
rose and she gave a cheeky grin, as though she were suggesting something naughty.

Bre
a couldn’t help but smile.
Yes, Mother could always make it better
, she thought. “That sounds like a wonderful idea. Besides, wherever he is, he’ll get here sooner or later. Tor will make certain of it!”

Brea sat for a moment, gazing out the window at the wisp of a cloud as it rolled softly by. She thought of the future, wondering about the man in the vision. Could she be certain it was really him? And if indeed it was, did he know anything of the part he must play or understand how important he was to every man, woman, and child of Aleras’moya? She wondered when it came down to it, would he even choose to help, as there would be no forcing him. When it was too late for discussion, when
the dragons rang their call to arms, would he indeed come down on
their
side? On the other hand, would he add himself to the list of their enemies?

With a sigh of resignation, she sat up straight and gave her mother ano
ther smile. “I’ll get the cake.”

CHAPTER 3

Gialyn sat huddled on the bed underneath his window. He twisted his long legs around and folded his arms on the sill. Resting his chin on the back of his hands, he blew his long black fringe out of his eyes. It was
hard to see through the thick bubble-filled glass, but still, he let his gaze fall on the distant horizon. Slowly, he scanned along the ridge of the Speerlag Cliffs, following their jagged, silver-black edge on up to the slopes of the Bailie’colne and the snowy peaks of Monacdaire. He looked beyond, through the pale shroud of evening, finally fixing his gaze on the Northern Arc and the flickering Lights of Collisdan as they danced in waves across the distant horizon.

Closing his eyes, he imagined himself exploring the vales and mountains
of what had been his home for the past two years. A horse was his greatest aspiration, buying a horse and travelling the length and breadth of Ealdihain.
Maybe I could find work delivering those scrolls or taking supplies to Ealyn and the other villages. I do not want to go back to Bailryn! Gods, even
fishing
would be better than that.

Stifled shouts from the room next door broke the peace
ful scene. He raised an ear when his name spoken loudly—the one clear word amid the muffled barking of his parents’ argument. He waited a moment. Were they shouting for him or was it just his name spoken at the edge of a sentence? The moment past, his parents continued their… discussion. Gialyn went back to gazing at the mountains and tried not to listen.

The darkness of the mid-spring evening had
all but veiled his view. Yet still he gazed at the faded peaks as he tried to drive out their voices. He searched for the solace that thought of the mountains had often brought him, the place in his mind where he could shut out his frustration. It wasn’t working. Sighing deeply into his chest, he banged his forehead against the backs of his hands. The mountains wouldn’t come to his rescue, not this time.

Shifting his seat, he wrapped his arms around his head, forcing his ears shut.
His parents quarrelling had become louder and louder, more heated by the minute. He let out another woeful sigh and muttered quietly to himself. “Why am I not part of this? Why aren’t they asking me what
I
want?” Lying down on the bed, he buried his face in the pillow, wondering if a simple
no
would finally put an end to it, and if it were that easy, why didn’t he just say it?
A good question,
he thought, though he knew in his heart things were never
that
straightforward.

His father was
a captain, or had been. For twelve years, the man had served as Master of the Guard at the royal palace in Bailryn, and still—though he was trying to be a farmer—considered his opinions to be nothing short of common law, when it came to talk of duty. He always held the high ground, or at least
he
thought so. Even if someone were to draw a map, pointing out all of his mistaken assumption, he would
still
be convinced of
his
wisdom on the matter. Yet, as argumentative as he was, he rarely took a stand against Mairi—Gialyn’s mother—when it came to matters of family. Indeed, most of the time, it seemed as though his father would rather take the dog for a walk in a blizzard than have a fight with her. Yet there he was, shouting in the kitchen, arguing with his wife. And from what Gialyn could hear, it seemed as though he were winning!
Looks like I’ll be going to Bailryn.
Gialyn thumped the pillow over his face.

*  *  *

“What of duty?” Mairi asked. “Freezing your bones to the marrow atop the castle parapet or marching the ward all alone at night. I do
not
see duty there. I see servitude!”

“He will be in service to the crown!” Daric insisted.

“He will be a
slave
to the crown! Duty and honour come to a soldier in battle, not
guard
duty—clearing the streets of drunkards and loafers… or… or… standing in line with your buttons polished.”

Gialyn’s mother was a beautiful woman, even when angry. She held herself with grace, even under the direst of circumstances
, yet her clear blue-grey eyes gave Daric an unyielding stare from under her furrowed brow. She folded her arms, tapped her foot, and bit at her bottom lip. She was not going to be budged on this argument.

“Or is it your plan to pray to the gods,” she yelled, poking a finger hard against the back of the chair she
was standing behind, “ask them for the old wounds to reopen, for our enemies to rise again, so Gialyn can taste this… this
duty
you are so keen on? Is it your hope to see our son to WAR?”

Mairi stopped. The sheen on her normal
ly calm exterior had cracked. Shaking, she put her hand to her mouth. She backed off, staring in shame at her husband. “I’m so sorry… I—I didn’t mean that… I should not have shouted. That wasn’t called for.”

She cleared the pots lying by the stove and pulled the large chairs out of the way, in readiness for their supper at the table. “It wouldn’t trouble me so, Daric,
” she said in a calmer voice, “if Bailryn were not so far away. By Ein’laig, you could scarcely go farther without falling into the sea.”

Daric listened silently to Mairi’s comments. There were times he wanted to cut her short, shout back, and even throw something. He had turned wide-eyed and fidgeted with irritation at some of her remarks, but he let her finish—he let her be angry. How could a good mother not be angry at what he was suggesting for their son?

“Then what would you have him do, my love?” Daric asked. “If it is thought for his safety that holds your fears, then there can scarcely be a more dangerous place than the Rundair Mines, nor more tedious. To say nothing of how woefully miserable it will make him. Would you see our only child sent to the pits of Speerlag for the rest of his days? You know that is the most likely outcome, if he stays here.” Daric thought his rebuttal to be fair indeed, though knowing Mairi—as well he did—there was little doubt in his mind that she wouldn’t let it lie.

“He could work with you, labour around the farm!”

Her reply was pitiful. Daric knew she was reaching, at best. Yet she delivered her plea with all the grace she could muster, as though she believed every word.

Daric dipped his head, put his hands flat on the bench, and sighed deeply into his aching chest. “Mairi, my love, if only we could. The farming life is a way off yet. You know that. It will be at least another year before we c
an afford to plant the orchards, and then another three before we make any real money from it.” He stood up straight, sighing and gesturing openly as he tried to explain. “Right now, were it not for my guard’s pension, we would scarcely be eating, to say nothing of the debt on the farm! We would be forced from this house, probably back to Bailryn and your—, your mother’s. By Ein’laig, pray that never happens, for I would be the one to jump into the sea!”

Mairi’s eyebrows rose as though she were waiting for him to bring up their woeful lack of income. “If money is so tight, how is it you can take three months off work to deliver him to Bailryn?” She stood in an all too familiar pose, arms folded below her breast
s, tapping her finger on her elbow, gazing at him with a triumphant expression, as if the argument were all but over.

“I have already told you
. The Tanner girl is coming. Her father is paying me handsomely to see her safely to the capital.”

“Pft.”
Mairi turned away from the table, shaking her head. She clicked her tongue. “Damn, I forgot about that,” she whispered, then quickly turned to see if Daric had heard.

An awkward silence settled heavily on
the room. Both stared at one another. Both convinced in the wisdom of their arguments, yet equally confused by their fears. Daric began to speak and then stopped with his mouth half open. He knew he had to drive his point home if he were to get his way, but the thought of hurting her…

“If your argument is no more than a wish to see Gialyn tied at your apron for the rest of his days, then
, my love, I have no answer to satisfy such a need, none that would change your mind, at any rate. You are his mother. I understand you cannot find this easy; you would not be the mother you are if you did. But Gialyn is eighteen and a man. He cannot stay
your
child for long.”

Mairi’s lip quivered. She stared aimlessly at the floor. Daric knew he must
have been upsetting her. Any other day, the pitiful look she gave would have been enough to stop him, but so sure was he of his plan.

“If you have a good argument, save that of a mother’s coddling, then I would hear it spoken now.” Daric waited for a response.
Mairi didn’t so much as move her lips. He continued, “He must see the country. Whether he chooses the guards or ends up in the mine is not important. He must grow up. He is drifting into oblivion, wasting his life. He will come to Bailryn with me. He will seize this opportunity. What he decides to do with it is up to him, I swear it, Mairi. It …
is
… up to him! But I will not have him sitting here as though his life has already been carved in stone.” Daric stood up straight and folded his arms. “That is my word on—”

*  *  *

A door slammed. Gialyn stomped through the kitchen, eyes front, ignoring his parents. He swung the outer door wide and left the house. The door banged hard against the kitchen wall. It was still shaking when Daric shouted after him.

“Where are you
go—Gialyn!”

Gialyn ignored his father’s cry and left him standing on the threshold of their home. He skipped the fence, pulled his coat around his shoulders—even though it wasn’t particularly cold—and made off at a brisk pace towards the
town square.

He strode determinedly along the track towards Alberged
dy, only pausing briefly at the edge of the farmyard to glance over his shoulder. His father had already gone back into the house, probably to continue the argument with his mother. Gialyn had no doubt Daric would use his sudden exit as yet another reason to prove himself right, prove that his son was “an irresponsible child,” but he didn’t care, not right then. He was already numb from all the thinking he had done. One more thread in his father’s ridiculous plan wouldn’t matter too much. He knew the man had already made up his mind five minutes after talking to Theo at the Spring Feast—and that’s if it took five minutes.

From the hilltop, Gialyn could see the entire
town.
Town? Only settlers would call fifty homes a town.
The lamps of the town square shone bright in the near darkness. Lights flickered in the windows of many of the homes, too, none more so than the Tanners’ house—it was the biggest, after all. Gialyn wondered if Elspeth was home. He knew which room was hers but couldn’t tell if her light was on, not at this distance.

“She’s probably polishing her trophy,” Gialyn whispered to himself. “I bet
her
father has thrown a party.”

It was true. To listen to Theo after the prize-giving ceremony anyone would think
he
had won. Elspeth, for all her arrogance, had looked embarrassed by his constant prattle and praise.
And what do I get for winning
? Gialyn thought.
Dragged off to Bailryn.

All was quiet when Gialyn reached the outskirts of the
town. The day’s activities had sent most to their beds. Or so it seemed…

He glanced briefly between two houses. Ealian and his friends leaned against the low wall of Mayon Bower’s cottage. Gialyn quickly averted his eyes; he didn’t want to deal with them right now, not tonight. He spread his arms and pulled his collar up around his chin, trying to hide his face. Ealian and his cronies were laughing and joking. Gialyn held his breath and trod quietly until he was well past the alley. They didn’t notice him, thankfully.

The town square was quiet but brightly lit. Every window of the Lesgar Inn shone with the flickering glow of oil lamps. It appeared not everyone had gone to their beds.
Is drinking ale all day not enough
? Gialyn shook his head and made his way to the well. He pulled himself up onto the circular wall and sat watching the folk go by, listening to snips of their conversations. It always irritated him how people could be happy when he was upset. Of course, he knew that made no sense, but still, it annoyed him.

As if his ill mood needed further aid, Ealian and his friends waltzed into the square. Clearly, they’d been drinking—either that or one of Ealian’s legs had suddenly grown a foot longer than the other.

“Here he is… the hill climber. That prize should have been mine, Re’adh.” Gialyn sighed heavily. “What… what was that for? Y-you think you deserved to win, do you? You cheated!” Ealian staggered as he attempted to point at the well.

Gialyn stood and began to walk towards the canal where his father worked. “Best way to avoid an argument is not be there.” That was one of his father’s sayings
. For once, Gialyn agreed.

“Where are you going? Re’adh!”

Surprisingly, Ealian’s friends didn’t help spur him on; maybe even they had realised how pathetic he acted. However, it didn’t stop the emissary’s son. He threw his quarter-full bottle of ale at Gialyn, missing him by barely a hand—a lucky throw in his present condition.