Authors: Margaret Weis
Cannons. Draconas had seen these monstrosities before. Some were made of
low-grade bronze and were so large and cumbersome and heavy that they had to be
manufactured by bronze-smiths who cast the bells for cathedrals. Others were
constructed of strips of iron welded together lengthwise and bound with iron
hoops to keep the thing from blowing apart, which it usually did in any case.
No matter what they were made of, cannons had to be mounted in one fixed
location, generally on a castle wall. Shifting them about even a few inches required
teams of sweating men, straining and hauling to manhandle the monster into
position.
We can knock a dragon out of the skies.
Draconas grinned inwardly at
the thought. A dragon such as himself could do flip-flops in the sky overhead
while the men were wrestling with the gun, then flap leisurely away by the time
the iron beast was ready to fire a single shot.
Then another boom went off, causing him to flinch, in spite of himself.
“His Majesty is testing his new cannons and training the crews right now,”
said the soldier. “Just feel how she shakes the floor!”
“You can watch, if you’ve a mind,” said another. “There’s always a big crowd
gathers when they fire off the guns.”
“Perhaps I’ll do that,” said Draconas, using this as an excuse to leave. “I
was hoping to visit an old comrade of mine at the castle. He used to serve
there, seneschal to the king. Gunderson is his name. I trust he is well?”
“Gunderson has gone gray and his joints are stiffening up on him, but he is
well. And he is still seneschal,” was the answer.
“That’s good to hear,” said Draconas, privately thinking it was very bad to
hear.
Gunderson had threatened to kill Draconas if he came around King Edward
again. And Draconas knew from experience that Gunderson was a man of his word.
No help for it. Draconas had to find out why no one
in Idlyswylde was celebrating the young prince’s birthday.
Arriving outside the castle walls, Draconas found a large throng of idlers
and gawkers gathered to watch the wonderful cannon exhibit its prowess. At each
firing of the behemoth, the crowd would gasp and applaud in admiration. The
cannon was mounted on the wall high above where he stood, but Draconas could
still get a fairly good view. What he saw both amused and troubled him. Amused
because, although Edward had obviously made advances in the design of the
cannon and its use, he still had a long way to go before, as the soldier had
boasted, it could knock a dragon out of the skies. Troubled because Draconas
could see that, with very little more effort, Edward might actually achieve
that goal.
The cannon was half again as long as a tall man. Its cold black elongated
form stood out against the gray stone of the battlements. The cannon was made
similar to ones Draconas had seen before—iron strips welded together, then
bound with iron bands. This cannon used maybe twice the number of bands at the
stress points, making it stronger and more powerful. It was the positioning of
the gun, however, that gave Draconas cause for concern.
All other cannons Draconas had seen were set in a fixed position so that
they fired a projectile straight ahead. With this cannon, an iron-reinforced
wooden mount attached to pivots cast at the midpoint of the barrel allowed the
cannon’s muzzle to be winched up until it could fire straight into the sky.
Steel arms, affixed to both sides of the mount—front and back—added stability
to the rear of the cannon and helped absorb some of the recoil, while those in
front supported the winches and pulleys that controlled the raising and
lowering of the muzzle. The contraption had been built on a movable, circular
platform. At a word from the commander, men operating the platform could turn
the heavy cannon with relative ease, reposition it and change its angle of fire
in a matter of seconds.
What Draconas found troubling was that Edward was obviously seriously and
even obsessively pursuing the goal of using cannons to battle dragons.
I guess I can’t blame him for hating us,
Draconas reflected somberly.
After what we did to him. And he doesn’t know the half of it.
Draconas pushed his way through the spectators, who
oohed and aahed at every fiery belch, and went to try to bully, beg, or brazen
his way into obtaining an audience with the king, all the while keeping a wary
eye out for Gunderson.
This time of the year, the anniversary of his youngest son’s birth, was
always a difficult time for Edward King of Idlyswylde. He ordered the boy’s
birth month celebrated for the boy’s sake, and made the ceremonies as merry as
he could, although it required an effort on his part. For him, springtime was
not a time to celebrate, but a time of mourning, regret, recrimination, and
guilt. And now, added to that, this spring brought grief and fear. Opening his
eyes this morning, Edward shut them again and wondered how he would find the
strength to go on.
He did find the strength. He did go on. He had to. He had no choice. Life
went on and especially the life of a king, for his life did not belong to him.
His life belonged to his people. Edward found solace in his work and he spent
most of the day engrossed in the complex business of running the kingdom. He
supervised the firing of his newly designed cannon and took some grim pleasure
in the fact that his innovative design was producing the desired results.
His pleasure was short-lived, however. Firing the cannon was expensive, both
in shot and powder and manpower, not to mention making reparation to various
shopowners who claimed that the reverberations from the gun had broken windows
and cracked crockery. Edward could fire off only a few rounds, and then the gun
was silenced. He had to go back to being a king and, more difficult, a father.
Queen Ermintrude knew better than anyone what this time of year meant to her
husband. She offered him sympathy, but since she was partially the cause of his
guilt, she knew that her sympathy brought him more pain than comfort. She had
her own burden of grief and unhappiness to bear, made worse by the fact that it
had to be kept concealed. No one must know the terrible secret hidden inside
the royal palace. No one must suspect that anything was wrong. She had to
smile. Her dimples had to flash as brightly as they had on past birthday
celebrations for her youngest child. For even though Marcus was not her child
by birth, he had become her child. Hers to love as she loved her own. Hers to
weep over in the dark hours of the night when no one could see.
Her other three boys were away from home. Her eldest, Crown Prince Wilhelm,
thirteen, was living in the court of his grandfather, the king of Weinmauer.
The two younger boys had been sent off with their tutor for an extended holiday
in the north of the kingdom. She was glad that they were not here, forced to
participate in the lie, although their absence left an aching silence in the
room when she and Edward were alone— each so very alone—together.
Ermintrude had dismissed the few women she kept about her, ordering her
ladies-in-waiting to go enjoy this lovely late-spring day in the palace
gardens. Seated in the solar near the window to gain the benefit of the
sunlight for her needlework, she was silently wiping away the tears she had
resolved not to cry, when she caught sight of Gunderson striding across the
courtyard, heading for the palace. Ermintrude could not see his face from this
angle, for she was looking down upon the top of his gray head, but she could
tell by the rigid set of his shoulders and the swiftness of his walk that
something was amiss.
Jabbing her needle into the fabric, Ermintrude hastened to the hall in order
to intercept Gunderson before he could reach the king. He was too quick for
her, however. She just missed him. He was already stomping up the stairs that
led to the king’s private chamber.
Ermintrude was about to call out to him, then thought better of it. She
followed after him, moving as swiftly as she could. Since she was inclined to
plumpness and much encumbered by her heavy, voluminous, hooped skirt, corset,
chemise, and petticoats, climbing the stairs required time, care, and a stop on
the landing to catch her breath. She reached Edward’s rooms well after
Gunderson had been admitted and was talking in urgent tones to the king.
The seneschal had left the door ajar, and Ermintrude lingered outside,
waiting for a propitious time to enter. From her vantage point, she could see
that Edward’s careworn face had gone quite grim. She had not followed Gunderson
with the intention of eavesdropping, but she couldn’t very well barge in on the
conversation now, and she was determined to find out what was going on, for
Edward’s sake. She waited just outside the open door, listening in dread to
hear what terrible thing had happened. Since Gunderson had a good, strong
carrying voice and Edward’s was deep and resonant, she could not help but
overhear them.
“—threatens to cause trouble, Your Majesty.”
“I don’t care, Gunderson,” said Edward harshly. “I will not see him. Send
him away.”
“I tried that. He refuses to leave. He says he will camp outside the walls,
day and night, until you admit him. And he says he will start talking,” Gunderson
added dourly.
“Then have him arrested and escorted to the border by armed guards. Tell him
if he dares to return, he does so on pain of death.”
Ermintrude knew all now, or guessed it.
“On the contrary, Gunderson,” she said, sweeping into the room with a
defiant rustle of petticoats, “tell him that we will see him. Bring him here,
to His Majesty’s chamber. Or to my own, if His Majesty persists in his refusal.”
Edward frowned. “My dear, this does not concern you—”
“But it does,” Ermintrude said, calmly refuting him. “You speak of Draconas,
don’t you, Gunderson?”
The seneschal made no response, other than a noncommittal bow, but
Ermintrude didn’t need his response.
“I was not spying on you, so don’t give me that look, Edward. I guessed who
it was the moment I saw Gunderson come up here. If you must know, Husband,”
Ermintrude continued, “I’ve been hoping Draconas would come.”
“You are mad,” said Edward, turning away.
“I am not mad,” Ermintrude cried, her voice shaking, “but I am nearly driven
so. He might be able to help, Edward. He might!”
Gunderson glowered and Edward shook his head emphatically and made an
impatient gesture of dismissal. “Go back to your women, my dear—”
Ermintrude held her ground, which, considering the amount of room her hooped
skirts took up, was considerable.
“We owe it to the child, Edward,” she said emphatically. “We owe it to him
to find out if there is anything that can be done.”
“And what makes you think Draconas knows any more than I do—his father?”
Edward demanded angrily.
“I’m not sure,” Ermintrude faltered. She laid her hand on her breast. “But I
have a feeling here, in my heart. Call it a woman’s instinct, if you will, but
please see Draconas, Edward. See him and tell him . . . tell him the truth.”
She drew near him, stretched out her hands in supplication. “For the boy’s
sake, Edward. For the sake of our son.”
He looked at her and for a moment his anger still burned. She clasped her
hands over his, held them fast, and looked into his eyes. His anger, which was
more truly fear than rage, could not withstand her loving gaze. He bowed his
head.
“You always say ‘our’ son,” he murmured brokenly.
“And so he is, Edward,” whispered Ermintrude, tears sliding down her cheeks.
“And so he is and always will be.”
“Tell Draconas we will see him, Gunderson,” said Edward.
Gunderson hesitated, not wanting this, disapproving it. He longed to urge
the king to follow through on his first command and have the “dragon hunter”
marched to the border in chains. Gunderson looked pleadingly at his king, at
the man who was so much more to him than king, dearer than son.
Six years ago, Edward had been a youthful king in his thirties; open,
earnest, handsome, with hazel eyes and a charming smile. Then Draconas had
entered Edward’s life and carried him away to a strange kingdom and a terrible
adventure, that had left him with a son born of death.
Now Gunderson saw Edward stagger beneath the heavy burden of this terrible
secret. Gunderson realized then that unless something changed for the better,
the burden would crush the king. He would fall beneath it and with it, the
kingdom.
Shaking his head, Gunderson headed for the door.
“Gunderson,” called Ermintrude.
“Your Majesty?” He turned.
“Do not bring Draconas here,” she said. “Bring him to the room.”
Gunderson glanced at the king.
Edward closed his eyes. A spasm of pain constricted his face. When he spoke,
it was without a voice. His lips formed the words. “Do it.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Sighing deeply, his heart full to bursting,
Gunderson left to obey his king’s command.
HIS EYES WERE PRISMS, HIS MIND A FRACTURED RAINBOW.
All day, all night, Marcus gazed in rapt fascination on colors unimaginable.
If such colors existed in the world at all, they came as unexpectedly as the
rainbow and faded away before anyone could capture them. Anyone except Marcus.
He held the colors trapped in his mind, admired them, played with them, danced
among them. The sun shone through the perpetual stained glass of his fancy by
day. The stars shone through a night that was bright and vibrant with moon glow
and white fire.
People were nothing, food was nothing, sleep was nothing.
He was nothing. The colors were all and everything.
As beautiful and amazing as the colors were, they could be horrifying, too.
There was something dreadful in the colors, something alien and bestial and
terrifying that wanted him, that was trying to find him, and he knew that he
didn’t want to be found. He would hide himself amid the colors and they would
cluster thick around him and the fear would go away, leaving him again at peace
to play and dance along the rainbow.