Realm of Dragons

She looked up at him, the fear obvious in her eyes now.

“That’s a better start,” he said. He lifted his hand again. “As for being gentle, that’s not what you’re being paid for, whore. Let’s see if you can scream as beautifully as you kneel.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Devin wandered the streets of Royalsport, still in a daze, crossing the bridges, reflecting on all that had happened to him. Right then he should have been at work; he never wandered the streets this time of day, and it didn’t feel right. He no longer had any work to go to. He felt purposeless.

Yet at the same time, he felt a tremendous purpose hovering just outside the realms of his fingertips, one he knew was circling him yet one he could not understand.

Magic. Was that what had happened back there? Had he really made the prince’s hand move? Or had he imagined it? Did the prince just have a cramp, perhaps?

The memory brought back other, less comfortable memories, from when Devin was a boy. Memories hovering in the outskirts of his brain, foggy; he was not even sure if they were real memories or just fantasies, dreams. But they were there, still. Moments, flashes of a power Devin had wielded. Of others looking at him as if he were different.

Was he?

His father would be so angry, not just at the thought that he’d lost his job, but at the way he had done it. Devin knew he would shout and rage, demand to know what he’d been thinking. The idea that he had been protecting Nem wouldn’t be justification enough, because his father would only think about the things that might follow for all of them.

He couldn’t go home until he’d worked out what to do next, that much was clear.

Yet what could he do next?

Devin didn’t know, so he kept walking. He made his way into the marketplace that sat before the House of Merchants, the large, open space essentially just an extension of the commerce that went on within. Inside, merchants would get loans to finance their expeditions or their businesses; outside, they would sell the fruits of those efforts, trying to recoup enough to start the whole thing over again.

There was a festival attitude there today, with jugglers and musicians in the spaces among the stalls, while criers called out in celebration of Princess Lenore’s upcoming wedding.

“The king has declared feasting at the castle, the outer yards open to all!” a man called out as Devin passed.

Right then, feasting sounded like a good idea. As he walked among the stalls, Devin could smell the scents of food cooking in a dozen spots, open-air stalls set with fires to allow them to prepare meat or stew for those who passed, but Devin was fairly sure he couldn’t afford it right now. There were brightly colored cloths dyed by the weavers and farmers who had set up in the hope of selling their stock.

Devin was still too stunned to take it all in, though he looked around in the vain hope that someone there might need help with their work. Occasionally, there were fairs where the merchants sought out the strong and the willing for whatever tasks they had. Now, one of those seemed like the best chance Devin had of ever finding work again.

The full impact of losing his place in the House of Weapons started to hit home then. Devin had been on the way to being a master smith; everyone knew he understood metal and the way it worked as well as anyone there. And in the House of Weapons, he could have kept training with weapons, could have kept working to be the warrior he wanted to be.

Now he had nothing. He had no job, and probably no chance of getting another. When people learned that he had been dismissed from the House of Weapons, they would never give him another position, except in the lowliest of jobs.

His stomach was rumbling as he passed an inn, but he stopped himself from going in. He didn’t have the coin to spare, and he doubted his parents would be generous with more. Already, his father occasionally dropped hints that it was time he was finding a home of his own.

Devin kept walking, past the inn, on into the city. He crossed another of the bridges, the water rushing by beneath, guards looking him over as if trying to decide if he was someone they should stop. This area had larger, wealthier-looking homes that were mostly half-timbered, the shops having actual glass in their windows, the cobbles of the streets in a better state of repair.

Devin’s path took him past the entwined towers of the House of Knowledge, and briefly he stopped, staring at the doors there, which stood at the top of a flight of steps, behind wrought iron gates that had clearly been worked on by a multitude of different smiths. An inscription above stated Let those who seek understanding enter in peace.

Devin felt the part of this that he’d been avoiding starting to rise up in him. The loss of his job, and the brief fight with a prince had been bad enough, but one part of it seemed to defy understanding. There had been a moment where things had seemed to stretch out, where he had made Prince Vars drop his weapon without even touching him.

He’d done magic.

There was no other explanation for it, yet it made no sense. How could someone like him, low born, just a smith, do magic?

Maybe they would have an answer in the House of Knowledge. Then again, maybe they wouldn’t; after all, the kingdom seemed to only have one true sorcerer. Inexorably, Devin found his eyes drawn toward the castle, and to the tower that stood over part of it, sticking out over the water around it in a way that looked tenuous, even dangerous. Devin knew that the occupant of that tower would have answers for him, had even come to him once before, in his dreams.

Suddenly, a sense of purpose, of direction, came rushing to him all at once. Of course. His dream. Master Grey. He had to see Master Grey, had to ask him what was going on. No one else would be able to explain it all.

Yet how was he supposed to get in to see the king’s sorcerer?

A crier shouted again, declaring the feasting once more, and Devin knew that it was his best chance. Setting his eyes on the castle, he started to walk, making his way inward through the circles of the city. He crossed more bridges, and now guards started to frown more, half stepping in front of him as he passed.

“I’m on my way to the feasting,” Devin said each time, and each time they stepped back, as if it were some password to let even a commoner like him into the most exalted parts of the city. Soon, the outer walls of the castle were rising above him, tall and gray and sheer as a cliff face, even though they were festooned with banners celebrating the noble lines attending the celebrations.

Once more, the guards stepped back for Devin, although this time, one of them called to him as he passed.

“Just remember that there’s none but the nobles allowed in the great hall proper. Keep yourself to the outer courtyards with all the others.”

“I will,” Devin said, and set off in the direction of the sounds of festivities in progress.

Even in the outer courtyards, things were more lavish than he could have imagined. There were people everywhere, although most seemed to be merchants and burghers rather than truly common folk. There were whole roast boars, and trestle tables set with more food than Devin had seen before. He was more than hungry enough to grab a wooden trencher and pile it high with swan and grouse, buttered parsnips and suet dumplings. Picking at it gave him an excuse to wander through the crowd, avoiding the dancing as a trio of minstrels played, trying to work out what he was going to do next.

Right now, Devin was close, but not close enough. If he was going to get to see Master Grey, he would have to access the rest of the castle, and that was impossible while he was stuck outside its inner spaces.

I could just walk up to a guard and tell them who I am, who I want to see, he thought to himself. Devin could guess how that could go, though. They would think he was drunk, or turn him away on principle, or… or worse, it would attract the wrong attention. Devin doubted it would go well if Prince Vars learned that the boy he’d fought with was there, in the castle, right under his nose.

All he could do for the moment was wait. Periodically, the doors leading to the great hall opened, either to let servants through with more food, or let them back carrying empty platters. Each time they opened, Devin looked at the room beyond, searching for any sign of the sorcerer.

Suddenly, he saw him there, standing in the middle of the hall, staring back. Master Grey’s eyes locked with his, and Devin was sure there was a moment of acknowledgment, of understanding, of connection.

Devin found himself drawn forward by that gaze, walking deeper into the festivities beyond.

In that instant, Devin felt rough hands on him.

He turned, stunned to see guards there, hands grabbing him, detaining him.

“What have I done?” Devin asked.

But they didn’t respond.

Instead, they dragged him away, backward, away from Master Grey.

Devin was sure they were escorting him out of the feasting hall for some reason, perhaps back outside the castle walls. Perhaps he wasn’t dressed appropriately.

But a jolt of fear ran through him as he realized they were not dragging him out of the castle, but into it. They were heading down a dark corridor, toward a steel door.

And what could only be a dungeon.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Greave didn’t understand how anyone could have celebrations when there was clearly so much sadness and evil in the world. He sat in the castle’s library, away from the need to be involved in any of it, knowing that his presence would only bring down the others there. His father, in particular, seemed to look on him as an intrusion, and had since the day his mother had fainted and fallen and struck her head on a step, the blow sharp, and sudden, and fatal…

“I will not think of it,” Greave said. “I will not.”

It was hard not to think of his mother, though, when he saw the echo of her features every time he looked in the mirror. His brothers looked more like their father, with Rodry’s blond hair the only hint of her, but Greave… well, his features were as soft and delicate as a man’s might get, his hair falling in waves, his hands not calloused by swordplay and his body slender at twenty. Every glance at himself brought back memories of the blood, and then Greave had to retreat here, to the only place that seemed safe.