Minstrel's Serenade (4 page)

Nip swallowed. “I have to see with my own eyes what killed my parents.” His chin trembled.

Bron scanned him from the ratty hair on his head to his scuffed boots. Did a hint of warrior shine in those sky blue eyes?

“Troubadir was right about one thing. You are brave.” Bron pulled his boot back on. “Come. Let’s meet this beast eye to eye.”

They skirted the House of Song, careful not to make a sound. Clinking chimes covered their footsteps. The minstrels’ music had taken an introspective turn, and a sprinkle of minimalistic notes drifted over droning chords. The denizens had snuffed out most of their golden lights, and the moon lighted the path.

The carriage lay where he’d left it, parked next to the gates of the village. Bron reached down and fingered the tarp covering his latest conquest. The fabric still emanated heat, warming his fingertips in the cool mist. Bron shot a glance at the boy. Nip nodded in determination. The warrior tugged and the tarp slipped off.

A snout three times bigger than a dog’s and littered with ivory white teeth snarled out from the carriage’s backside. Onyx eyes glared in the moonlight, defying death. Two horns spiraled backward from a ridge of fin-like protrusions.

Nip froze as sulfurous steam from the beast’s mouth pooled around his boots. It would take days for the head to cool and the smoke to dissipate.

The stark fear in his expression reminded Bron of himself as a boy. His brother had paid a shiny copper for each of them to look upon a caged harpy. Walking to the curtained bars, he could still remember the musky scent and hear the squeaking of its claws on the planks. At ten, he’d needed Hule’s cajoling to get him to open his eyes. When he did, the black-feathered beast seemed more prey than predator. Ever since that day, he knew fear lay in anticipation.

Bron nudged the boy forward gently as a clammy tang, like old seaweed drying in the sun for too long, wafted up. “Don’t be afraid.”

“Burrow’s Bucket! It stinks.” Nip covered his mouth with his sleeve.

Bron shook his head. “Remember that smell. Get used to it. ’Tis the reek of death.”

Blue-black blood trickled from thorny whiskers, sizzling a hole in the grass. Nip reached out, his fingers brushing over the oily scales. He shuddered, managing to uphold his stance. A scale the size of his hand stuck out from the weave and the boy yanked it off. Bron caught him as he fell backward.

Nip jumped from his arms and stood on his own. He ran his fingertips over the smooth seashell-like surface of the scale as if touching the feather of a god. Stepping back into the shadows, Bron allowed him time to think, to mourn.

“I promise, Ma and Pa, to right this wrong.” The boy’s eyes watered, and he swiped at them with the back of his hand. His face grew fierce as he held the scale above his head, challenging the night. “Vengeance is mine.”

Break of Dawn

Golden sunlight direct from the heavens refracted within a chain of silver armor. Each soldier gleamed like a
Knights and Wizards
game-piece polished to perfection. Danika observed the processional from her balcony, waving her mother’s satin scarf in the breeze in tribute. Her father wouldn’t approve of her using anything from her mother’s untouched room, never mind the fine scarf he’d given the former queen as a token of his undying love. But, it seemed wasteful to let such finery collect dust. Besides, it was all she had of her mother. The former queen had left her with little else. Now, she might lose her father, too. Watery melancholy and deep angst bled together in her heart, creating a whirlpool of anxiety. Why couldn’t he stay on his throne?

She knew him too well to plead. If the dead army of Sill breached their northern expanses, only fields separated the insidious evil from blighting their lands. This mission ranked too high to trust with his generals, and he never watched the action from afar.

King Artemus led the army on his ebony war stallion, flanked by flag holders on either side. Behind him, Bron rode a dove-white charger. A gilded helmet covered his bald head, but Danika recognized the width of his shoulders and the swell of the armor fitted to his muscles. At least Bron would keep him safe.

A nagging concern pressed on her chest, squeezing out her breath. Her fingertips loosened and the scarf fluttered away in the wind. Hadn’t this scene happened before? A memory of her father’s bluewood coffin draped in Ebonvale’s violet-and-green pennants drifted through her mind.

“No.”

Her attendants shrieked as she pushed herself through the back row and plunged down the stairs in the tower. Her heel caught on the rug and she kicked off her beaded sandal, sprinting three steps at a time.

“My lady, wait! Come back!” Muriel, her lady-in-waiting, screamed just as Danika flung open the door and met the crowd.

A pang of guilt rolled through her. Muriel was like a sister and to leave her worrying was cruel. Yet, she had to stop her father before he made the mistake that would cost him his life.

People crowded around her, tugging on her lacy clothes.

She pushed through the throng of onlookers. “Let me through!”

Elbowing two men as big as bears, she tore herself away from groping hands. A circle of milk-maids leaned over the main road, dropping roses at the soldiers’ feet. She squeezed through, stepping on their offerings. An old man placed his cane on the trail of her gown and she ripped her underskirt, kicking the fabric free. When she turned back, a poor chimneysweep, covered in ash, dove for the rich lace.

Danika emerged from the crowd, stumbling onto the pebble stone of the main thoroughfare. She jogged alongside the marching army. Ignoring the soldiers’ questioning looks and hoots, she picked up her pace. The brigade went on and on in an endless line. Would she ever find the lead? Their pace quickened and she panted as she struggled to keep up. What if her father had already kicked his horse into a gallop? The hills of Mealee rose before her like the fuzzy backs of giants, and Sill’s blackened gates lay just beyond.

Gravel tore the skin of her bare foot and blood ran, warm and sticky, through her toes. Bron’s helmet rose a head taller from the ranks and she quickened her pace, her lungs burning raw.

“Father!”

Bron turned in his saddle but she paid him no heed. Danika focused on the golden-etched armor in the lead, as if staring could bore a hole into his back.

“Father, stop!”

A gilded lion’s head turned toward her. The visor snapped open and her father’s rigid face peeked through. He looked both majestic and timeworn, his sharp features decorated by webs of wrinkles.

Danika tripped and fell to her knees.

Her father tugged his reins and his black horse turned full circle, interrupting the ranks. The soldiers eddied around him like river waves parting before a stone. He dismounted and rushed to her side. His armor chinked as he knelt beside her and laid a hand on her arm. “Why have you left your attendants?”

Time suffocated her, pressing in on all sides. She knew she had only moments before the past replayed the chain of events leading to his demise.

“You’ll die in this battle.” Her words tainted her tongue.

His eyes were steady, his features as calm as if he knew what his future held. “You must let me go.”

“No.”

Soldiers marched around them like puppets of fate, their boots stomping the ground in rhythm with her racing heart. King Artemus’ voice grew faint. “You’re the ruler of Ebonvale now.”

She shook her head. “I’m not ready.”

“As the woman of the manor, you’ve been ready for many years.”

His armor reflected the sun’s rays, blinding her.

She fell back, shielding her eyes. “I need you. The castle is under siege once again.”

He stood, gathering his horse’s reins in his hands. “You know what to do. Follow your instincts. The answers lie in front of you. All you have to do is pay attention.”

He pulled away, leaving Danika on the pebble stones. A horn blasted through the air, the intervals signaling the call to arms. The army surged around her, hoof-beats and footsteps speeding into a blur of movement on all sides.

Emptiness consumed her, her body fell in on itself until it was as though she’d shrivel up like a dead flower. Her father had taken a part of her with him. Would she ever again feel complete?

“Princess.” Bron’s bass voice broke though the pattering of hooves and feet. “Princess, if you don’t come out, I’ll have to break in.”

Come out where? Danika scanned the crowd. The bodies ran together in a blur of strangers.

“Princess!”

Danika shot upright in bed. Sunlight streamed in through transparent curtains. A loud knock came at her door.

The bluewood muffled Bron’s voice. “What if she’s not in there? What if the minstrels stole her away? I’m breaking the door in.”

“No!” Danika stumbled from the bed, her legs catching on the sheets. She kicked the satin off and stumbled forward. A broken door would only stir up animosity in her newly formed alliance. She turned the handle and whipped the wood back just as Bron held up the blunt end of his claymore.

“Princess?” Bron’s eyes widened in surprise. He looked away, sheathing his sword. Nip stood by him, holding his own makeshift wooden weapon.

Danika realized she wore only her underdress. The lacy trim barely covered the swell of her breasts and the wind blew the hem up past her knees. Goosebumps prickled her ivory skin, but her cheeks burned as hot as blood. Trying to regain her composure, she stood up straight as if she wore a full-length gown. “I’m quite all right.”

“I can see that.” Did Bron’s cheeks redden underneath his tan? “We were afraid the minstrels took you away.”

“No. I simply overslept.”

The remnants of her wretched dream seized her. Why did she always dream of her father?

Bron spoke into the door instead of meeting her gaze, as if looking upon her committed a crime. “The minstrels have arranged for five bushels of rice. We can fit the load in the carriage if you and Nip ride alongside.”

“Nip cannot come with us. It’s too dangerous for a boy.”

Bron grinned as if he’d lost the argument already. “You tell him that.”

Danika put her hands on her hips and glared at Nip. The boy clutched his mini-sword in his hand, swinging the blade at thin air. “I can too. You need me to find the albinos. Besides, I know how to barter.”

“And how would a young boy who cannot even comb his hair know all this?” Danika raised her brow. She could sniff the stench of a tall tale from the truth.

Nip held his head up high, even though his curly head of hair only came to Danika’s silken waist. He sheathed his sword in a loop at his side. “My father told me tales of Darkenbite.”

Danika glanced at Bron and tweaked a questioning eyebrow.

The warrior shrugged. “He provided an accurate description of the stalagmites. In other words, he speaks the truth, Princess.”

She paused, ruminating over the lesser of two evils. Either leave him with the minstrels, or take him with her to Darkenbite. Both ways presented problems, including possible ransom or the unknown dangers of the caverns. Who knew how well the minstrels would look after him? If they didn’t hold him prisoner, they might just allow him to wander off. If Danika brought Nip with her, at least she’d have him in her sights.

“All right, but you answer to me, you hear?” Danika pressed him as if her edict as High Princess had no clout in a boy’s eyes.

Nip nodded eagerly, his hair falling into his face. “Right.”

“We’ll have to get you a haircut along the way.”

Nip froze in terror and Bron smiled, running a hand through his floppy hair. “I’ll see what I can do, Princess. In the meantime, we’ll take our leave to allow you time to change. The weather’s cool today, like the gods have turned their backs on us.”

“Let them. We don’t need their help.” Danika bluffed and slapped her nightshift down against the wind. Honestly, her attendants would have a heart attack if they saw her now.

Bron bowed, pulling the boy away. “Come, gallant knight. Let’s see what these lute players eat for breakfast.”

“Yes, sir.” Nip bowed and winked at Danika before skipping to join him.

Party of Four

A light jig danced on the wind as Danika approached the carriage. She wanted to scream for the song to stop. Not only had she listened to enough music, the playful tones mocked the gravity of the journey ahead. If only she could find the source of the tune, she’d bash in that particular player’s lute.

When she arrived, Bron had loaded most of the bags of rice, filling both passenger seats and the underside of the carriage where he’d stored the wyvern’s head. He’d already hooked up their horses, and Nip sat in the driver’s seat, pretending to whip the reins.

“What about your war trophy? You cannot leave a good wyvern head behind.” Danika smiled.

“I gave it to the minstrels.” Bron heaved the last bag of rice into the carriage. It plopped on top of the velvety seats, stirring up moss dust. He turned and winked. “Maybe King Troubadir will make another table.”

“A horrid table indeed.” Danika rolled her eyes. “I cannot even imagine.”

“Maybe you can discuss it with him now.” Bron gestured over her shoulder.

King Troubadir had arrived, flanked by three minstrels on either side. Their long cloaks brushed the tall grasses behind them. They were dressed in formal robes, flutes hung from silver cords around their waists. Not one of them carried a lute. Valorian hadn’t come.

His absence surprised her. Why wouldn’t the prince bid them farewell on their journey? Maybe his affections didn’t run as deep as she thought. A newfound sense of freedom from obligation poured over her, but an underlying current of disappointment irked her as well. Did no man seek her attentions?

“Good morning, Princess Danika.” Troubadir smiled and extended his hand. Danika bowed before him, taking his hand in hers.

“I trust your quarters provided sufficient rest and relaxation.”

Behind her, Bron grunted and spoke under his breath, “Maybe a little too much.”