The Dragonprince's Heir (5 page)

But two paces farther into the room, the two girls I'd been following turned back. The commotion had caught their attention. Panicking, I threw one more glance toward Jen, then tried to jerk free of the butcher's grip. He gave me a little shake that clicked my teeth together, and didn't let go.

The maidservants both gaped.

The one on the right said, "Simon, what are you doing!"

The one on the left said, "That is Taryn Dragonprince!"

The grip on my shoulder vanished. Then the voice of Jen I hated so much said, "Taryn Dragonprince." Full of vindictive malice.

I ground my teeth. I didn't look back. I ran straight ahead. Right between the two girls, jostling them out of the way. I ran past a startled butcher dressed in blood and linen, wielding a cleaver against a defenseless opponent. And then I dove into the forest of corpses.

The carcasses of our prized herds hung from steel chains throughout the back half of the room. I'd been here only once before, but I remembered the darkness and the cold and smell. I remembered something else, too, something in the back corner that had gotten me in loads of trouble when I was still a child.

I could hear Jen behind me, bellowing my name and stomping in her heavy boots. Wind and rain, why couldn't it have been Caleb who found me? Or even Toman? With their bulk, neither of them could have moved among the carcasses as easily as I did. But Jen stayed hot on my heels.

My only advantage was surprise. She didn't know where I was going. I drifted like a much-needed breeze to the very back of the room, and I found what I was hoping for. A huge wooden door stood open, flung back against the stone wall. The open door revealed a cupboard two paces square and just as tall, set deep into the very wall. It held two crude wooden crates, each packed with thick-cut steaks and room for several more.

I jumped at a full sprint, threw myself into the cupboard beside the crates, and as soon as I'd cleared the edge I cried out, "Down!" I just had time to see Jen dance into sight, eyes wide, before the cupboard dropped four floors in the space of as many hammering heartbeats.

Darkness gulped me down, and then at the bottom new light washed in. It brought heat, too, and the rich smell of baking bread and searing meat. My favorite room in the whole tower. The kitchens. I had almost managed a smile when a hand like a ham closed around the collar of my fine shirt and hauled me bodily out of the dumbwaiter. Its owner heaved and sent me sprawling on the smooth stone floor, then towered over me, every bit as fearsome as Caleb in his battle gear.

Denton Grey, Mother's head cook. He loomed large and jabbed a huge wooden spoon down at me as though it were a javelin. "The little lord," he boomed, entirely unafraid of my title. "I have told you how often that this is not a toy?"

I didn't wait for his reprimand. I went two paces on my heels and elbows, scraping backward, then threw myself to my feet and into a sprint. The kitchens opened on the great hall. Jen would already be coming down the stairs, but I was too close now. She couldn't stop me. The cook's fury chased me all the way across the bright room, but I fixed my eyes on the wide double doors and felt the thrill of victory.

I could hear the noise in the great hall, too. It was the quiet, distant thunder of a thousand voices cast in quiet conversation. It was the rattle-clatter of platters changing hands, of silverware on pewter plates. It was the sound of a storyteller on the high dais, spinning out a tale like the ones I remembered from my childhood. It was a festival.

I crossed the last ten paces at a full sprint, a smile wide on my face. I burst through the door and into the bright, noisy, happy chaos of a crowded feast in the tower's great hall. All the fires were burning, and the ornate tapestries danced on manufactured breezes. The great hall filled the whole of the first floor, one vast corridor stretching into the far distance, and at its heart stood the huge, wide spiral of the central stairs, rising up past the glittering armory toward the astonishing collection of the library.

And there was Caleb, coming down at a sprint, eyes flashing murder and shoulders heaving with his exertion. Jen was still a floor above him, with Toman right behind her. I grinned up at them, then turned my attention to the dais on my right where Mother sat in her customary place. And the king sat at her side. In my father's seat.

Both of them were staring at me. The king wore a confused smile. My mother wore sheer outrage. "Haven's name, Taryn," she hissed, "you're dripping with blood!"

3. A Royal Invitation

I looked down and felt all the thrill of victory drip out through my toes. My fine clothes were ruined. I'd torn a sleeve when I caught myself on the magic window, and scuffed my boots crossing the store room. I'd pulled my shirt loose from the belt while I ran from Caleb, and soaked the other sleeve and both legs of my fine breeches in the blood of slaughtered cows when I'd jumped into the dumbwaiter.

There might've been a little bit of my own blood in there, too, from scrapes and scratches along the way, but the worst of it was from the butcher's block. I'd beaten Caleb and my knights down to the hall, I'd made my appearance before the king...and I did it looking like some filthy peasant running from the Guard.

I realized I was still panting, too, sides heaving as I tried to catch my breath. I shook the hair out of my eyes and met the gaze of the king. He was smiling, his laughter barely contained. I felt heat flood my cheeks and the bitter taste of humiliation on the back of my tongue.

But now I was here. Mother would have me in chains after this, so I would not get another chance. No matter how I'd spoiled my arrival, I had to make the best of it. I straightened my spine, pulled back my shoulders, and met the king's eyes levelly.

I stepped up onto the dais, ignoring Mother's furious frown. She gestured, too, shooing me away, but I'd already come. There was little more I could do to trouble her. I put her from my mind, and fixed all my attention on the king.

I nodded to him for the sake of form. "Lord Timmon," I said in a serious voice. "I apologize for my state. It has been a...hectic afternoon." I gave a wry twist to my mouth at that, inviting him in on the joke, and the king responded with a laugh.

No one else did. Mother looked pale. I blinked that away and turned my full attention back to him. "I would welcome you to the Tower of Drakes."

The king's brows bobbed up in surprise. At the same time Mother snapped "Taryn!" again, and she sounded terrified. She nearly toppled her chair rising, and she was halfway to me in one long pace before the king spoke.

He froze her in place with one word. "Isabelle," he said, turning in his chair to face us directly. He had a strong voice for a man so frail. It had the bark of command I associated with Caleb, but without the bitter edge. He wiped his mustaches with a silk napkin, then smacked his lips and shook his head. "Dear Isabelle," he said again, "whom do we have here?"

"He is just a boy," Mother said, placating.

I stepped up to loom over the king. He had to crane his neck to meet my eyes, and that was well. "I am Taryn Dragonprince, lord of this land in my father's absence. I grant you welcome."

His eyes narrowed while he measured me up and down. I did not flinch. I held my chin high and let him look. He'd already seen the black eye and the ruined clothes, but let him see now the man strong enough to stand unashamed before a king, even in that state, and welcome him as an equal.

After a moment he spoke without ever taking his eyes from me. "Isabelle, you never told me you had a child." He scrubbed a hand over his beard, measuring me with his eyes, and added, "That Daven had an heir."

"Times were hard, Your Majesty."

"Indeed they were," the king said. "And yet this seems a matter of great significance. I would have much preferred the...opportunity to share in your joy. And there has certainly been time. He must be, what, twelve years old?"

"Fourteen." I meant it to seem authoritative, matter-of-fact, but my voice sounded a shade curt. Reproachful. He frowned at that, so I made a bid to recover. "And for my part, I regret that we could not be introduced sooner. It seems a great oversight."

"I'm certain you do," the king said evenly. "You are certainly Daven's child. Do they really call you Dragonprince?"

Behind me, Mother tried to answer him. But he had asked me, and I gave him a short nod. "It is only a nickname among the servants. For now."

His eyes widened, and behind me Mother grunted. A shadow fell over me, and I felt the heavy presence of Caleb behind me. For the first time, I remembered his intentions. I swallowed and steeled myself. "Lord Timmon—"

"Your Majesty," Mother hissed at my shoulder. "We do not address a king by name, Taryn."

At the same time, Caleb's hand fell on my shoulder. As soon as Mother finished, Caleb said, "Come, Taryn. You are needed upstairs."

Mother hurried to say, "Yes, please excuse him, Your Majesty."

But the king had never taken his gaze from mine, and now he waved them both to silence. "No," he said. "No, I must exercise my tenuous authority for the trivial, personal desire to know more of this young man."

Mother started to object again, but the king silenced her with a pointed look. He offered one to Caleb, too, and the heavy hand fell away from shoulder.

I straightened again, and nodded my gratitude to the king. "As I was saying—"

"Hush," he said. It was not cruel, but he spoke with authority enough to silence a storm. "You offered me welcome to the...what did you call it?"

"The Tower of Drakes."

"Of Drakes!" he said, almost on top of me. "Oh, how clever. It used to have a different name. Did you know that?"

"No, Lor—Your Majesty. I have not heard that story."

He smiled again, and again it did not touch his eyes. "The FirstKing built this tower. Two thousand years ago. He built the walls around it. He made it by his own hands, and it was the foundation of his authority."

He paused to take a sip from his goblet, and I thought I heard a growl from him before he resumed. "He united all the lands of Men. He built this kingdom from nothing, from squabbling little lords, and he wore the crown that now graces my unworthy brow."

I spread my hands. "I'm sure—"

"Back then it was called the Tower of Days," he said over me, as though he hadn't heard me speaking. "But now it belongs to your father. To the Dragonprince. And now it is called the Tower of Drakes instead. As I said, it is clever. After all, that is the foundation of
his
authority."

Mother spoke again, "It is just a bit of foolishness, dreamed up by frightened refugees. It has no meaning."

"Oh, Isabelle," the king said, absently chiding. "We have more to discuss than I ever imagined."

"We do," I said, bobbing my head. I took half a step closer and lowered my voice, "You are not safe inside these walls."

The king's eyes narrowed at that, hard as stone, and I nodded furiously. I opened my mouth to go on, to lay out Caleb's plans as best I'd guessed, but before I could say more the king rolled his eyes. He leaned away from me and shot a look at Caleb. "That is enough," he said. "You may take him, Master Drake."

"No!" I shouted. Caleb caught my arm in a grip so hard it hurt, but I fought against him. I clutched at the king's shirt. "No, my lord, you must listen."

"Enough!" he shouted. "Isabelle, have you no control in this house? Take him away, or I will have my own men do it!"

Caleb snapped a quick kick at my left heel. It cost me my balance and startled me just enough that I released my grip on the king. I tried to turn on Caleb, to fight my way free, but he was waiting. He released my arm and planted that hand over my face, driving the heel of it against my mouth.

I threw two quick punches at his short ribs, just as he'd taught me, but he didn't even grunt. He dropped his other arm across my chest, closed his fingers on my belt at the hip, and hoisted me bodily from the ground.

I fought him. I tried to bite the hand clamped over my mouth. I tried to scream, to warn the king, but fighting Caleb was like fighting an elder oak. He did not give. Caleb carried me from the room like a toddler throwing a tantrum, and I was helpless to stop him.

By the time we had left the hall, I was no longer fighting. I lay limp in his grip, breathing heavy. He started up the long stairs, and I tried to shake free of him, but he pressed me to stillness. I tried to shout, "Let me go!" but the words were still muffled by his hand. After a moment I sighed, and tried, "I'm sorry," instead.

Neither worked. Caleb carried me up five floors as though I were no burden at all then kicked open the door to my room and dropped me on my bed with no special violence. He went to the window and slapped the pane with the palm of his hand, assuring himself it was closed. Then he closed the door and put his back against the wall to stare down at me.

For a moment I sat there, glowering up at him, hating him as much as I ever had. He had chased me through the halls of my father's tower like some kind of criminal. He had driven me before the king in a wretched state. He had dragged me from the great hall in front of a thousand watching eyes.

The reality of that sank in. The reality of all of it. I replayed the whole scene in my head—from my arrival dripping with pig's blood to my frantic scrabbling at the king's shirt front to my violent removal at Caleb's hand. I'd done it all before the king and his dignitaries, before our own people, and before my mother.

With every realization I wilted. The glare I'd aimed at Caleb guttered and went out. I shrank back against the cool stone wall and hugged my knees to my chest. After a moment more I buried my face in my hands.

Then, for the first time, Caleb spoke. Without a trace of emotion in his voice, and just loud enough that I could hear it across the quiet room, he asked, "Who told you about the windows?"

"It doesn't matter," I said.

"Who?" he asked again.

"I figured it out," I said at last. "After I learned about the dumbwaiter. And the great gate. I pieced it together, and then I heard Mother use the phrase 'windspun glass.'"