The Sorceress of Belmair

“Will you have Cinnia, the sorceress of Belmair, as your wife?”

“I will,” Dillon replied. He had hardly even looked at the girl.

Ping. Ping. Ping!

“Then take the last breath of Fflergant as he breathes it,” the dragon replied. “As he, and all the kings of Belmair have taken the last breath of those who preceded them.”

Dillon stepped up on the dais containing the throne. The old man’s eyes were closed now. Dillon bent down, and opening his mouth took the old king’s last breaths into his body as Fflergant breathed them.

Ping! Ping! PING!

As the sound echoed throughout the room the old king suddenly faded away, leaving the chair empty. The sand in the glass next to the throne turned silver, and then it, too, disappeared. And then suddenly the top of the life glass was filled so full with a new supply of purple sand that no grains were able to begin dropping right away.

Cinnia began to cry. Dillon went to her and attempted to comfort her, but she pushed him away angrily. “Leave me be. My father is dead, and I am wed to a stranger.”

“You are a stranger to me, too,” Dillon reminded her.

“But your father is not dead!” Cinnia sobbed.

“Nay, but until today I thought he was,” Dillon said.

Startled Cinnia stopped weeping, and looked at him. “What do you mean?” she asked him.

Dillon smiled. “It is a tale for another day, lady. Now we must mourn the good man who was your father. Tell me of your traditions so we may follow them.”

“We have none where death is concerned for at death our bodies simply evaporate here on Belmair. Even the life glass of the king has refilled itself with the death of my father. If we go into the Hall of the Kings now we will find a marble bust of Fflergant in the place designated for it. There will be a new empty alcove waiting for you when your reign comes to an end,” Cinnia explained. She wiped her eyes. “We do not celebrate death here in Belmair. We celebrate life. My father was a good king. He will be remembered as such, but he is gone. No further mention will be made of him.”

Dillon nodded. “Thank you for explaining that to me,” he said quietly.

“Nidhug and I will leave you two to become acquainted,” Kaliq said. “I will rejoin you for the meal later.” Then, taking the arm of the dragon, the Shadow Prince walked from the small throne room.

“I am twenty-two,” Dillon said when they were alone.

“I am seventeen,” Cinnia responded.

With a wave of his hand he conjured a perfect white rose, and offered it to her.

Cinnia glared at the rose, and it withered and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

“Surely you do not mean to make a puerile attempt to woo me?” she said scornfully.

“Considering that we do not know one another yet are wed, aye, I was attempting to make a small effort on your behalf,” Dillon responded. And he held out his hand to her. From his fingers hung a beautiful necklace of green stones that matched her eyes.

Cinnia sniffed, pointed a finger and the necklace shattered into dust.

A kitten appeared in his outstretched palm.

She hissed, and it turned into a writhing viper.

Dillon flung the viper into the air, and they were showered with a burst of pink snowflakes.

Cinnia laughed aloud and he grinned back at her. Then she grew solemn. “It isn’t you, my lord. I am simply angry at this turn of events.”

“You wished to be queen of Belmair in your own right,” Dillon said quietly.

“Yes!”

“But tradition dictates Belmair be ruled only by a king,” he continued.

Cinnia nodded. “It isn’t fair! I am the sorceress of Belmair, and I would be a good queen to my people. There was no males available from the ducal families, and then Nidhug said I must marry a Hetarian and he would be the new king. Hetarians are an anathema on Belmair.”

“Why?” Dillon asked her, and he drew her down onto the dais’s steps where they might sit comfortably while they spoke.

“Aeons ago, those we now call Hetarians were citizens of Belmair,” Cinnia began.

“But certain of them grew overly proud. They began to question our traditions and the authority of the king. They wanted to make changes that went against our ways. The king then, his name was Flann, gathered up the troublemakers one spring night. They were placed in an enormous bubble and sent to your world, which is the star we call Hetar. This history is taught to every child born here. Bad children are threatened by their mothers who tell them that they will end up on Hetar if they do not behave.”

Dillon laughed. “You cannot know how terrible a threat that is,” he told her.

“You are not of Hetarian blood?” Cinnia asked.

“I have some of their blood through my mother’s father, but then he also had faerie blood,” Dillon answered her. “I was raised in the Outlands and in Terah until I was twelve. Then I was sent to Kaliq for my training. I did not know until a little while ago that he was my father. I was raised to believe that Vartan, lord of the Fiacre, was my father. Even my own mother does not know the truth. I barely remember Vartan, but I have had a good stepfather in the Dominus of Terah, Magnus Hauk. And my mother is an incredible woman. She has great powers.”

“What will she think when your father tells her where you are, what you are to be and that you have a wife who is a sorceress?” Cinnia wanted to know.

“At first she will be angry that Kaliq planned this without consulting her. But she will be far angrier when she learns the truth of my paternity,” Dillon said with a smile. “My mother has been cursed, or blessed if you will, with a destiny that is not yet fulfilled. It has taken her many places. She has had great adventures, and done marvelous things. But she does not like being at the mercy of a greater power. Did you?”

“No, I did not,” Cinnia admitted.

“I find your tale of how Hetarians came to be rather interesting, for that is not at all the story told on Hetar,” Dillon said.

“We know they have forgotten this world. It was meant that they forget. We did not want them returning to cause havoc once again,” Cinnia said. “But tell me what they say of their beginnings.” She shifted against him, stretching herself briefly.

“It is said Hetar was once a world of clouds and fog. That the Shadow Princes came from those mists, and for generations mated with the faerie races they found there. When the day came that the clouds evaporated and Hetar was visible to all, it was discovered there were other races living there created by the tree, earth and sea spirits. The Shadow Princes took the desert for their own, and so Hetar was born. The City was built, and civilization ensued. It is a bit more complicated than that but that is the basis of the history of Hetar as it is told,” Dillon finished.

“Some of it is probably true,” Cinnia remarked, “but if you ask him your father will tell you the truth of Hetar. We were told our people were deliberately settled on one side of that world in order to keep them from those on the rest of Hetar. I believe you call them Terahns. And then there were smaller regions called the Outlands and the Dark Lands. But Prince Kaliq knows more of it than I do. We but sought to rid ourselves of those who caused trouble in our lands.”

“Tell me of Belmair,” Dillon said. “I am very much at a disadvantage as you can appreciate, Cinnia.”

“I did not give you permission to speak my name,” she said sharply.

“You are my wife, and therefore your name is mine to speak,” Dillon said.

“I will not be some meek creature who sits by her loom in the hall, my lord Dillon,” Cinnia told him. “I am a great sorceress!”

“And what do you do with your sorcery, Cinnia? Other than play with mine?” he asked her wickedly. “Do you use it for good?” He turned so he might see her face.

“Play? I do not play!” the girl said outraged.