In the Shadow of the Dragon King (37 page)

Trog grasped his arm. “Eric, listen to me. I am a knight, a father, and the king’s brother. I will no longer deny it. I cannot even begin to tell you how impossible it seems at times to harmoniously mingle them together. The choices I made were not easy. It was my duty to protect the kingdom, my brother, and you. I was forced to make a decision I never would have chosen otherwise. Someday, you shall have to do the same.”

Eric yanked his arm away. “If deceiving the ones you love is required for the positions of knight, king, or father, then I want nothing to do with any of them!”

“Eric—”

“Leave me alone, you hypocritical liar!”

“Eric, I demand you listen to me!”

“Go to hell!”

Eric barged from the cathedral and ran to the stables, tears streaming down his face.
How could he lie to me! How? After all these years! And what about my father, the man who raised me? What happens now? Is he still my father?
His brain hurt. He needed to leave. Go away.

He flung himself on the bare back of a horse and fled from the castle grounds, over the Haldorian Bridge, toward the Field of Valnor and the Northern Forest, anger and hurt festering more by the minute. He tried to wrap his mind around everything he’d heard, but the deception was so deep. They’d all known—Gildore, Farnsworth, Gowran, and Crohn. They were all in on it.

He listened to the sound of his own pulse beating like a drum in his brain. Trog was his father and Gildore’s brother, which made both of them royalty. Princes. Future kings. No matter how many times he repeated the information, his brain kept spitting it out. It didn’t register. It was illogical, like telling someone everything you say is a lie. The argument goes round and round with no solution, for if everything you say is a lie then you’re really telling the truth, but you can’t be telling the truth because everything you say is a lie.

His head hurt. His heart was shattered.

In the distance, a whooshing, hissing sound sped through the forest. Panic seized Eric’s body. He knew that sound.

Shadowmorths
.

The horse whinnied and reared.

Eric tumbled backward. His body hit the ground, his head slammed into a rock.

Hiss. Hiss.

The sound swarmed around him like an army of flying snakes.

Eric tried to focus on the shapes, but bright, white dots clouded his vision. He gasped for air, but his lungs had closed up shop and run away. The hissing grew louder, rushing around his head.

He scurried back, sucking in short, frantic gasps, praying for air to push the thickening mind fog away.

Appendages, light as air, strong as tempered steel, grabbed for him, their jagged tips grazing his ribs.

Pain, unlike anything he’d ever experienced, ripped through him. A hot knife cutting from the inside out.

Tears drained.

Death knocked.

Too tired to fight, he opened the door.

And let it in.

***

Eric remained still, bare chest hot and wet with perspiration despite the chill in the air.

He forced his eyes open and found himself in a small but comfortable bed tucked in the corner of a one-room cottage. Dappled sunlight trickled through two windows. Copper pots hung above a hearth where food simmered in an iron kettle over a fire. Across the room stood a rectangular table and two chairs, a silver scabbard occupied by its deadly companion, lay on the tabletop. Beside his bed was a high-backed cane chair. An open book lay upside down beside an oil lamp on the table next to him. A few feet away, the door stood wide open.

Eric struggled to sit up. His ribs protested.

He hit the floor, his arms doing little to break his fall. Footsteps stomped toward him. Large, calloused hands lifted and eased him into soft linens. Eric took a deep breath, and then stared into worried green eyes that seemed to hold the heartache of the universe.

“Y-you?” Eric’s bottom lip quivered. “Where am I?” He pawed at his chest, his heart in his throat. “Oh, no! It’s gone!”

“Calm down, son.” Trog sat down in the chair. He wrung out a wet rag and placed it on Eric’s forehead.

“No, you don’t understand! I lost Sestian’s necklace! I have to find it!”

“Are you talking about this?” Trog pulled the filigreed necklace with the dragon eye center from the nightstand drawer and held it up, the pendant dripping from his fingers.

“Yes!” Eric snatched at it.

Trog reeled it back. “Uh-uh. Not until you tell me where you got it.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

“It was in a box of Sestian’s things, and I want it back.”

Trog shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Eric. Slavandria needs this. It’s—”

“I know. It’s a mage stone. The Eye of Kedge. She told us about it when we last saw her.”

“Why didn’t you give it to her if you knew she was looking for it?”

“Because she didn’t ask for it.”

Trog stared at him, his green orbs locked on Eric’s face. “That is very selfish, Eric, especially when you know how it can alter the course of this war.”

Eric stared back. He was done being intimidated, especially by someone who had lied to him his entire life. “Don’t lecture me on selfishness,
Father
.” The word clung like poison on his tongue. “Sestian left it to me. Therefore it is mine to do with as I wish, so if you don’t mind, give it back and do something you never do. Trust me.”

Trog considered him for the longest time, all the while brushing his thumb over the smooth eye. After several minutes, he tossed the necklace to Eric. “Give it to Farnsworth when we return to Gyllen, understood?”

Eric caught it and draped the chain around his neck. “Yeah. Sure.”

Trog stood and walked to the hearth. “How are you feeling?” He ladled some food into two bowls.

“Fine, except for this ridiculous burning in my ribs.”

“You were scratched by a shadowmorth’s blade. Not enough to bring blood, but sufficient to cause some discomfort.” Trog returned to his chair and sat down, handing Eric one of the bowls. “I used some of the same ointments Charlotte used on my wound. Let me know if they help.”

Eric’s insides fluttered. There was that name again. Charlotte. So unusual. So beguiling. He shifted in the bed.

“Who is Charlotte?” he asked, trying to sound nonchalant. “Is she a healer of some sort?”

Trog nodded. “Yes, she is. Appointed by Slavandria herself. Why?”

Eric shrugged. “I was curious why a paladin would bring a girl into battle with him, but if she’s a healer, then it makes perfect sense.”

“There’s more to it,” Trog said, taking a bite of food. He motioned to Eric with his fork. “Eat. You need your strength.”

Eric tried but there were too many questions, anger, happiness, and confusion, floating around inside of him to even think about food. He set his bowl on the bedside table with only a few bites gone.

“I’m sorry for lashing out at you,” he said. “I was—am—so angry you’d lied to me. Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There were many times I wanted to, son, but I couldn’t. The risk was far too dangerous. If anyone else knew the truth, your life would have been in danger.”

“You mean, because of whatever deal King Gildore made with Seyekrad?”

Trog nodded. “Yes.”

“But why would the king do such a thing? He’s never trusted Seyekrad.”

“It’s a long story.” Trog leaned back and ran his hands through his hair.

“So. Have you got some place you need to be?”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Eric.”

“Then don’t call me son if you have no intentions of treating me like one.” Eric crossed his arms and stared at his father.

“Fine,” Trog said with a deep, heavy sigh. “It was seventeen years ago. You were a baby, no more than six months old, when we heard rumors of Einar amassing an army so he could attack Hirth. Gildore dispatched several legions to seek proof of such an army. I took five men with me and headed east. Several weeks into the journey, we encountered a dragon in the Northern Forest—a vile creature who resembled Einar right down to his sinewy tail. In a very short time, the black beast managed to slay all five of my men. In the end, the dragon lay dead on the forest floor. By some miracle, I survived, though not without suffering my own wounds.”

“The one on your neck and your back,” Eric said.

Trog nodded. “Once I regained my strength, I continued my search, eventually meeting up with a small regiment from Doursmouth and Trent. About three months later we discovered the location of two outposts filled with Dalvarian rebels. I returned home to report what I’d discovered. That is when I found out your mother had been murdered.”

“Murdered?” The word stuck in his throat like an ice pick. “By who?”

“No one knows, but we suspect Einar sent someone to do what he couldn’t. Queen Mysterie found her floating in the fountain. She’d been stabbed through the heart.”

Eric swallowed hard, pretending not to feel the anguish caught in his chest for a woman he never knew, a woman he should have known. He stared at his lap and fiddled with the sheet. Poor Trog. His nightly visits to the fountain weren’t just sentimental journeys. He was there to pay homage to his wife and the mother of his child. Eric’s heart fell into his gut, Trog’s drawn face almost unbearable. He knew Trog. He knew him well enough to know he blamed himself for her death. All these years he carried around his own guilt. Guilt for not being there to protect the woman he loved. Guilt for angering a dragon to the point he would seek revenge over the death of his own son.

Blinking back tears that burned to escape, Eric asked, “What was she like, my mother?”

Trog stared at a spot behind his son. “She was unlike any woman I’ve ever known—beautiful. Spirited.” He glanced at Eric and smiled ever so slightly, as if the memory pleased him. “A mirror image of her sister, Mysterie.”

Eric’s heart almost jumped from his chest. “What! They were twins?” He pushed himself up a little more so he was straight up and down on the bed.

Trog nodded. “Identical.”

“Dragon’s breath! No wonder you look at the queen like … ” Eric caught his words before they flew out of his mouth.

“It’s alright, Eric.” Trog stood and looked out the window. “It is difficult sometimes to see her and not see Gwyndolyn. In moments of anger or frustration with Gildore, my tongue has been known to slip and call her by her sister’s name. She understands. Both of them do.”

Silence filled the room except for the crackle of the fire. Sunlight was fading, and a brisk breeze wafted through the open door, carrying with it a hint of rain. Trog closed it and poured a cup of wine.

“Anyway, before my return to Hirth, Gildore received word that a few hundred of Einar’s troops were marching their way across Berg toward Hirth. He sent a messenger to Chalisdawn to ask Slavandria for help, but she was gone. Desperate to save his kingdom, Gildore met with Seyekrad. The sorcerer made him an offer. He would place a spell around Gyllen to protect it from an attack by Einar and his shadowmorths. In exchange, Gildore would ensure no heirs to the throne existed within Fallhollow, and that upon his natural death, the throne would revert to Seyekrad. Should the terms break, so would the protections.”

“I don’t understand? You’re the king’s brother. You’re an heir. I’m an heir.” Saying the words out loud still didn’t make them real.

Trog leaned against the kitchen table. “Yes, and no. Gildore was barely two years old when I was born. Our mother died giving birth to me, and our father fell ill from grief, but not before he proclaimed me dead as well, or so the story goes. I was taken to live with Gowran’s family. For fifteen years, Father lingered in a comatose state, tucked away from the world, not knowing one person from the next.”

“Who took care of King Gildore?”

“Father’s best friend was Sir Falwyn, Farnsworth’s father. Farnsworth was the same age as Gildore so it only made sense to move Falwyn’s family into the castle to care for Gildore. Of course, my brother and I grew up knowing the truth, Sir Falwyn made sure of it, but according to royal papers, I was dead. It wasn’t until my adoubement ceremony two years after Gildore became king that we dared tell Gowran and Crohn the truth. What I didn’t know until a few years ago was that Slavandria and Jared documented our
holy
births (he rolled his eyes at the words) and our official records are stored in the mage vaults in Avaleen. If need be, I could assume the throne without question.”

“Wait. Are you telling me that Seyekrad knows who you are?”

“No.” Trog sipped his wine and walked over to the hearth. “The documents are locked up tight in Jared’s personal vault, protected in ways I can’t even fathom.”

“But still, you’re the king’s brother. How could Gildore make the promise to not have any heirs in Hirth when you’re obviously here?”

Trog faced Eric. “When you were born, the king and queen still did not have any children. Convinced they would never have any, Gildore appointed you as the heir apparent upon your birth. The ceremony was private and overseen by Jared and his two daughters.”

Eric’s mouth hung open in shock. “Wait. Jared ordained my title? Why would he do such a thing?”

“Their sacred Book of Telling requires Hirth to have an heir to the throne at all times. Since I was the official heir to the throne, but didn’t want to be, and you were my son, thus third in line, you were appointed, I was removed, and Jared was happy.”

“But there was still an heir in the kingdom,” Eric said, his eyes pinched in confusion. “Me.”

“Yes, but you’re also a mage-appointed heir, meaning your identity is kept secret until such day it needs to be revealed. Your presence, however, can be detected with the right kind of magic. Crooked magic, Slavandria called it.”

“Crooked magic?”

“Trickery, Eric. You see, according to Gildore, there was another caveat in place. The mages’ sacred book states that Jared has the authority to summon the paladin in a time of war. He would then join forces with the heir of Hirth to return stability to the land. However, he couldn’t enter Fallhollow unless the heir was present, so, Seyekrad, in his greediness, made sure that didn’t happen. In short, Seyekrad got tired of waiting for Gildore to die. He caused enough chaos to force Slavandria to summon the paladin, and waited to see what would happen.”