The Royals

Chapter 2

Wanton Tom the mercenary brushed the hair off Ginni's troubled brow, a move he no longer dared

daughter more often than not. Ginni's new obsession with the Dragon Prince consumed her remaining hours. She had lost all interest in mercenarywork either on behalf of the Ash Kingdom or their own emply stomachs.

Tom when his daughter was awake. He kissed her forehead and tried to smooth the wrinkles with his hand. His rough skin against her unscarred flesh only reminded him how completely he'd failed to protect her from the arcane powers of witches. 'Maybe a cool, damp-

Grosik snorted. 'She's not feverish. She's poi - um, she's unwell.'

This was the closest the dragon had come to admitting the truth about Ginni's run-in with the elfwitch, but Tom checked his urge to pounce. His daughter was a difficult subject for them both.

Although days upon weeks had passed since Roslin had died by the elfwitch's hand, the human mage still seemed to rule her sadly shook his head. He never thought he'd see the day. She'd never been overfond of going hungry. but more, she loved her disguises and trickery.

He hadn't let her out of his sight in nearly a month.

He couldn't even bring himself to leave her in Grosik's care for fear she'd somehow bewitch the dragon. Unable to labor at their usual trade, coin had deteriorated to credit which in turn quickly fell to 'pay up or find yourself on the street.' His was always a harsh livelihood in the best of years, and now the Elfwitch's Autumn had cured most merchants from extending a hand further than the middle finger.

Tom reasoned a change to simpler living might just clear his daughter's mind of whatever demons harried her. Last week they'd retreated to the dragon's favorite cave, expecting Ginni's talents with fire to guarantee cooked game and warm shelter at the least.

'A fool's hope on all counts,' the dragon had predicted and Ginni had proved him right. Her eyes yet shone with the wild, untamed look they'd held the night Tom and Grosik had rescued her from the elfwitch, and her fires remained as uncontrolled as everything else. Finally, the dragon had ordered a stop to her play tonight when she'd unmindfully singed his tail.

Tom went to join the dragon some steps back from the fire they'd allowed against their better judgment.

Grosik sat gingerly. His tail barely brushed the floor rather than resting heavily as it normally did. 'We've got to do something about that girl,' he told Tom in as quiet a growl as the mercenary had ever heard from him. His expression showed more regret than annoyance.

'Agreed,' Tom answered, as if he hadn't already tried to say as much enough times to call down all Seven Sisters. Again he looked at Ginni, curled near the puny fire. Even in sleep, her face held Roslin's fierceness. It was as if all the worst aspects of her dead mother had buried the better parts of both mages - and left the survivor less than either.

'First thing in the morning, Grosik continued.

Now,' Tom argued, knowing how the dragon hadn't quite accepted the inescapable and might well change his mind come morning when he couldn't face her.

'I will not discomfort the child any more than I must. We will be in the Shoremen's capital by nightfall.'

'The Cliffs? Why there? I thought we were taking her to the Tower of the Forty-nine Mages.'

Grosik snorted. You would abandon your only off spring to the hags who rejected her mother when they learned she carried this very child.' The dragon's tail twitched reflexively against the ground. He winced but refused to admit the depth of his pain. 'I think you are lacking in sleep.'

Tom shoved his numb hands into his pockets and wished they didn't need to conduct this argument so far from the fire. The latter I don't deny, but I've never known it to affect my judgment.'

'You were younger then."

'Hmph.' Tom had received more than his share of remarks about his age lately. He'd have thought no one had ever heard of a man living to forty-two with his wits and muscle intact. As for the Forty-nine "hags" as you call them, where else would one take an unschooled and unfettered witch?'

The dragon gave Tom his dirtiest 'are-you-bereft-of your-senses?' look. 'Have you forgotten Abadan?'

Have you forgotten she tried to kill him?'

The dragon approximated a shrug. The old gas-bag wasn't harmed... much. He can survive this."

'But will Ginni?'

'Of course.' Grosik moved closer to Tom. 'Abadan will know what to do with the girl and he will perform in a trustworthy manner. The Forty-nine will have their own aims. Better we throw her off the ledge than risk her to those, those... vipers.'

An odd description coming from a dragon, Tom thought, but kept it to himself. "We'll do it your way,' he said at last, without any confidence.

His sleep that night was restless. He kept rolling over to check on Ginni. Seeing her form in the darkness didn't ease his mind. Come morning he knew why.

Ginni was gone, her shape just another shadowed outline under the blanket.

Maarcus the Seventh rested the tip of the rapier against his opponent's ribs and pushed just hard enough to draw a drop of blood.

Prince Henry looked down at the dragon-shaped birth mark under the blade, then into the other's eyes. He waited to see what the Shoreman would do next.

Maarcus lowered his sword and spat on the solarium floor in disgust. You can do better than this, Hen! So you've lost your sword. You've still got your dagger.' When the prince didn't answer, he raised the rapier in challenge. 'Come on, man. Move!'

That was just it. Being a man took getting used to. Mut hadn't expected that. Even his name needed constant vigilance. Often as not, he thought of himself as Mut the mercenary's dragon rather than Prince Henry, heir to the throne of the fractured Ash Kingdom.

Nor had the prince foreseen the unending weeks of swordplay. The old physician did all his teaching from the perimeter while Hen thrusted and parried with Maarcus the Seventh. The grandson wasn't half bad at wielding a blade when he concentrated on the purpose instead of Hen's sister Kate - not that the prince could blame his slow progress on anyone other than himself.

Henry couldn't repress a smile. 'Sorry, I keep wanting to use my teeth.'

Maarcus tried to remain stern and failed. His face broke into a grin as wide as the prince's. 'What do you say we speak with the cook about a proper midday meal?'

'Oh come now,' the elder Maarcus called from a safe distance. Neither one of you has begun to breathe hard yet.

'Grandfather, can't you see our breath steaming above us?'

'I can see my own, equally well,' the older man countered. 'It's unseemly for a man of your training to complain about the cold.'

'I enjoy the frigid wind and the rise of goose flesh,' Maarcus joked. But it's the blue lips and stiff fingers I look forward to each morning.'

The elder man shook his head at the two of them. This is serious business.'

'Indeed it is, Grandfather. Nonetheless, I could drill the prince for another hour and his chest wouldn't rise any quicker than it is now. You'll need to come up with a better measurement than that.

The physician scowled and waved his hand in acqui escence. 'I have matters to attend to,' he said, as if the call to halt had been his idea. 'I'll expect both of back here working a twin-time this afternoon.

The two younger men stood in mock solemnity until their tutor reached the far end of the solarium.

Henry rubbed the circulation back into his arms, Today the sun was bright outside, but this morning the high windowed shutters had once again scraped against deep-packed snow. No question a hard winter had arrived in The Cliffs, a season made worse by the Elfwitch's Autumn - as the past three deadly months had come to be known.

Of necessity, this winter had become a time of healing. Snow settled on the ashes of the villages that had not withstood Alvaria's onslaught and wiped those towns from memory. In each of the remaining ones, people had buried their dead and now looked to the spring.

Most survivors hoped to forget the elfwitch and unnatural trolls. In the darkest hours of deepnight, Henry wished he could share in their reprieve. Come daylight, he knew he couldn't abandon the Ash Kingdom to chance when fresh rumors of new terrors already floated around the capital. Henry gave a mental shrug. Whether true tales or not, the elfwitch wasn't idle and therefore the resistance couldn't rest. Their wounds would mend or they must learn to ignore them.

"Your teeth,' Maarcus repeated, bringing the prince back to the present. You will never be a swordsman, my liege.'

'No, but I'll make an uncommonly dangerous dancer.' He performed a two-step that one of the chambermaids had taught him.

Maarcus appeared impressed. Your feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. Next you'll be trying to fly.'

'No,' Henry answered. 'I wings wouldn't hold me. gave that up years ago.

The 'Pity,' Maarcus said. "It would have been a useful talent against the elfwitch.'

Henry looked at the flawless skin on his arms and abdomen. Only the dragon birthmark over his ribs marred the flesh. 'Yes, well, so you've told me a time or seven.' He exhaled, trying to make smoke rings in the frigid air then giving up. It had all been easier in the days when he looked liked a malformed dragon, when he and Kate had believed he'd been abandoned by the great beasts because of his useless wings. The prince moved to stare out at the snow mounds and beyond them to the hastily patched stable which housed scores of refugees. Turning the talk to less personal issues, he asked, 'How fare the newest round of incoming?"

Maarcus shook his head. 'Food, shelter, discontent over who gets what. All of it wearies me and leads me no closer to a solution. How can there be a fair answer when more people arrive every other day despite the deepsnows?'

Henry put his hand on the man's shoulder in a fatherly gesture he never would have imagined himself using only weeks ago. 'You do as well as you can, Maarcus. Neither of us was really meant to spend our days settling disputes over supplies.'

Maarcus made a strange face. 'Some of us were intended '

Done so soon?' called out a woman's voice from across the room. 'I was hoping to take him on once you'd worn him out.'

Henry turned to watch his sister striding purposefully across the stone floor. Though her voice had been light, her tight expression suggested something troubled her. No point in asking about it now. She'd be in a more talkative mood after a good work-out at her brother's expense. 'Which him?' he asked. 'Maarcus is always game.'

Kate lifted one shoulder and let it fall in a careless gesture. 'Whichever. I'm not picky. Especially since I can whip either of you one-handed.'