Dragons and Destiny (9 page)

“How many are
there? Older like me?”

“There’s never
many, I think you make eight. You and Zawlei get intensive riding
and weapons classes, one to one if they think you need it and
you’ll be slotted into other classes as the timetables allow. Don’t
panic, others have done it and it’s just a matter of application
and practice, lots of practice.”

Rilla was not
convinced.

“Now,” said
Shona. “Here is our barracks.”

The door swung
easily on its hinges so that the Lind could open it easily. Rilla
was to find that most doors in the Stronghold were multi-hinged,
had no handles or locks and could be swung open by pushing from
either side. “You’re on the ground floor. Me and Danei are
upstairs.” She led the way about half way up the long central
corridor to a room on the left hand side. She pushed it open and
Rilla noticed in passing that a square card on which were written
her and Zawlei’s names had already been slotted into the nameplate
holder.

The room was
small and overfull with furniture. A narrow bed was set in the
corner, beside it a small table and chair. The mattress had been
flattened out and Rilla was to later find out that Shona had done
this for her knowing that she would be tired after her long ride. A
clothes press and desk with shelves above sat against the opposite
wall. Under the window was a low divan affair with a thick rough
spun mattress. Shona saw her looking at it.

“That’s for
Zawlei. Now, put your holdall on the bed. We’ll go see the
Quartermaster and get your uniform and the rest of the stuff you’ll
need.”

“Like
what?”

“Grooming kit
for Zawlei for one and he’ll have your study stuff ready too. We
all get standard books etcetera.”

“Oh,” started
Rilla, who hadn’t realised that things would be quite so organised.
Why, it was like what Hilla had written home about when she had
arrived at Settlement.

“The Vada’s not
quite the Garda but there are similarities,” offered Shona who
seemed to know what Rilla was thinking. “We’re both armies if you
think about it logically and armies must be trained.”

“I thought it
might be different here,” said Rilla. “Hilla’s an Officer Trainee,
I am not.”

“We’re all in
training,” Shona corrected her. “We don’t have Officer Trainees,
just cadets and in the Ryzcks the Vadryzkas and Ryzckas are
promoted from the ranks. We all do military lessons work, hence the
books on tactics, geography and the like. Don’t panic, you don’t
look like a dud and I’m sure you’ll manage.”

Shona’s head
cocked.

“I hear the tic
tac of large paws, I think our friends are returning so let’s get
about it or by the time we get to the cookhouse all that will be
left will be a few burnt scrapings at the bottom of the pots.”

“I’d hate
that,” laughed Rilla.

By nightfall
Rilla had settled in, more or less.

She had taken
possession of her cadet uniforms and the other myriad items that
the ‘powers that be’ deemed necessary for a cadet. The promised
books were stacked with exactitude on the shelf above the desk; the
uniforms had peen put away in the closet. The beds were made, for
Rilla a narrow one in the corner, blankets folded at right angles.
Zawlei had taken possession of the low couch affair, a walda hay
mattress covered with thick hessian, resistant to the ravages of
sharp chelas. It didn’t feel like home yet but it would. Tacked to
the inside of the swing doors that marked the entrance to her and
Zawlei’s little domain was her training timetable.

Home. Rilla
wondered, as she had at intervals during the journey, what was
happening at home? How was Zilla? How was she managing on her own?
How were her parents taking the news that she was at Vada?

The vadeln at
the first Supply Station they had stayed at had informed her that a
message would be sent when Rilla had told him that she and Zawlei
had left without a word. He had also provided her with emergency
clothing, enough to get to Vada and a temporary harness for
Zawlei.

Home. Her
father would never forgive her. At least she had had a chance to
say good bye to Zilla.

Rilla lay her
head down on the pillow and fell into an exhausted sleep. Shona had
promised her that tomorrow would be a busy day and an investigation
of the timetable had backed this up.
Riding practice, that
shouldn’t be too difficult, I’ve been riding for years after
all.

* * * * *

Big
mistake,
thought a rueful Rilla.
Riding practice, that
shouldn’t be too difficult. I’ve been riding for years after
all.
Joke of the season and it was on her. Rilla had never felt
so sore and stiff her entire life. Riding a Lind, she found out
during the first quarter bell of the lesson was nothing like riding
a pony. First of all, there was neither bridle nor saddle (thus no
convenient bits to hold on to when the going got tough) and Zawlei
had, under orders, twisted and turned in such a violent manner that
Rilla had hit the dust no less than eleven times. When Toinette,
the other newly-arrived cadet (and some five years older than
Rilla) protested, Vadryzka Lachlan, the riding instructor, had
merely smiled a grim smile and lectured Toinette and Rilla about
what would be expected of them in the coming months. “If you think
this is hard,” he wound up, “come look at what the final year
cadets are doing.”

When Toinette
and Rilla did, they got the point immediately. Their training was
preparation for fighting and battle. Rilla was amazed at how these
three and four stripe cadets could stay atop of their Lind, no
matter what happened.

As tendays and
then months passed, Rilla and Zawlei learned to ignore the aches
and pains of riding practice. She and Toinette started to attend
weapons classes, both mounted and un-mounted and learned to grin
and bear a whole lot of new aches in a whole lot of new places.
Added to these classes were lessons in First Aid, Lindish, Cooking,
Living off the Land and EQ (care and maintenance of equipment).
These classes were fitted in where there was space in their
timetables. They saw the senior and junior cadets go through much
the same except that the juniors also attended classes in general
education with a view to passing what Rilla still called ‘The Exam’
at the end of their second year. The senior cadets were taught the
most exciting class of all (at least in Rilla’s eyes), that of
battle practice when they learned how to fight in formation and
against a foe (one or more ryz from the home pack Lindars). This
last looked and was, dangerously exciting.

After five
months Rilla managed to attain the required standard for senior
cadet status. She unstitched the single thick white rank stripe
from her sleeve and attached the three white ones. Toinette kept
the white stripe as she was fully adult and would remain with the
adult cadets until she graduated and joined her Ryzck. Rilla and
Toinette remained friends and Rilla hoped that when she and Zawlei
passed out and became members of a Ryzck it would be to Toinette’s
that she would be posted.

She kept in
touch with Hilla at Settlement and through her with Zilla but she
didn’t go back to Dunetown on leave.

* * * * *

AL607 - Second
Month of Summer (Vadrhed)

Elliot

The Head of
Protocols at the Royal Palace at Fort walked with purposeful step
to the Conclave Chamber. Under his arm he carried a thin roll of
parchment (paper was expensive as it was imported from Argyll and
was used for only the most important record-keeping). Awaiting him
were the Kings, Princes, Dukes and other important people
responsible for the governance of the kingdom.

At this time,
the Head of Protocols was one Kellen Martin Taviston, second son of
Baron Peter Taviston of the Duchy of Smith; one of the oldest
non-ducal noble houses in Murdoch.

Martin Taviston
knew that the forthcoming meeting would be one full of tension and
argument. Word had come that the eighteen year old Margravessa Beth
Baker, betrothed of the seventeen year old Prince-Heir Elliot, was
dead. The coach carrying her to her nuptials had overturned during
the journey and her injuries had been so horrific her death two
days later had been considered a blessing.

The meeting was
to decide who was to replace her.

Martin Taviston
had fifteen names on his list. Fifteen noble girls who might become
Queen of Murdoch. Of course, they would have little or no choice in
the matter, the decision would be taken by the thirteen members of
Conclave. Martin remembered the time, now three years past when
Beth Baker had been selected. It had been a terrible time, full of
argument and unpleasantness among the thirteen. This meeting would
be no different.

Martin Taviston
was right about the acrimony. He could almost feel the tension as
he entered the chamber.

The meeting
started pleasantly enough. Martin handed over the document and on
the command of the King sat down on the chair beside the
minute-secretary in case any of the Conclave had any questions
pertaining to consanguinity and betrothals.

The
Crown-Prince opened the proceedings, reading out the list Martin
Taviston had compiled.

“We can cancel
out any who are too young right away,” he announced. “We are agreed
gentlemen, are we not, that the marriage should take place next
summer at the latest?”

“It should be
this summer,” grunted Prince-Duke Xavier of South Baker, whose
cousin-in-law the dead fiancé was. He wanted Beth’s younger sister
Susan to take the vacant royal position and knew that if the
marriage were to be postponed another year there were others who
would be of suitable age and eligible for consideration.

The
Crown-Prince shook his head. “I’m afraid not Xavier. Next summer,
our father has agreed. I’ve got plans for Elliot over the next
months and a delayed wedding is most fortuitous in some ways, sad
as I am at the death of Margravessa Beth.”

Xavier frowned
and muttered to himself.

Crown-Prince
Paul continued his perusal of the list. “If we remove all those
girls who will not be sixteen by next summer, that means we only
have to consider the others. I remember what we went through before
and I am in no mind to discuss the sheer number of prospective
brides we did last time.”

Martin Taviston
breathed a silent prayer of thanks.
Seven down, eight to
go
.

“First we have
to consider the degree of consanguinity between my son and those
remaining on the list.”

He turned to
William, Duke of North Baker. “William, your granddaughter Olga is
not eligible. She is my niece, my wife, the Crown-Princess, your
daughter, is her aunt.”

“Knew it,”
smiled William Baker. “Go on, cross her off, negotiations are well
under way for her marriage anyway.”

“Thank you,”
answered Crown-Prince Paul.

Eight down,
seven to go
, Martin Taviston was thinking.
Perhaps this
won’t be so bad after all.

“And talking
about marriage,” continued the Crown-Prince, “all but one of the
seven remaining are betrothed. I’m not anxious to break them if at
all possible.”

“Betrothals can
be broken, often are,” announced his brother Xavier.

“May I speak?”
asked Raoul van Buren.

Crown-Prince
Paul gave his courteous consent.

“My cousin
Arthur, he is betrothed to Contessa Susan Kirkton of the Eastern
Isles and who is on the list. Not only is this a love match but the
marriage contract is linked to certain trade concessions; to our
Kingdom’s benefit I might add. I forward that it is not in our best
interests to dissolve the contract and move that her name should
also be removed from those being considered.”

“I understand
My Lord van Buren; are their any objections?” Paul’s agate eyes
surveyed the other twelve round the table. He glanced at his father
and the King nodded once.

There were no
objections.

Nine down,
six to go
, thought a gleeful Martin Taviston

“Who’s left?”
asked the elderly Duke Alastair Gardiner.

Crown-Prince
Paul looked at the parchment, “Margravessa Isobel Cocteau,
Margravessa Susan Baker, Kellessas Lucy Merriman and Alison
Taviston and Thanessas Melody Oxbridge and Petra Taviston.” He
slunk a teasing eye to Martin who sat impassively on his chair.
“Your daughter I believe, Kellen Taviston?”

“She
is
eligible,” he said.
Nothing ventured nothing gained in this
world.

“Rank too low,”
said the gruff Alastair Gardiner but with a nod of apology in
Martin’s direction. “I’ll agree to a Kellessa, especially if
descended from one of the ducal houses but a Thanessa, never.”

Martin Taviston
had never really thought his daughter Petra or Melody Oxbridge
would have a chance so he merely smiled disarmingly at the grumpy
old Duke and mentally deleted the two from the list.
Eleven
down, four to go. This is going well and not a Duke at his rival’s
throat … yet.

The
Crown-Prince turned to the Duke of Cocteau. “Your niece, Isobel,
she is not betrothed? I don’t think I’ve seen her at Court.”

Pierre Cocteau
answered. “She has never been here My Prince. She is my brother
James’s daughter. The eldest one is married to Margrave William
Brentwood; Isobel now, she’s a pleasant lass, I don’t know why no
one’s approached James about a match. He is I believe thinking of
Holy Orders for her but hasn’t come to a decision.”

“Does she wish
to become a Nun?”

“I don’t think
he has mentioned it,” was Pierre Cocteau’s careful answer. “She’s a
pretty little thing, educated too; at the mother house of the Order
of Grey Nuns some twenty miles south of my main manor.”