Chapter 14: Chapter Fourteen

Armaila’s leg pained her in the morning, so she heeded the doctor’s advice and found Teryn’s bakery. It was a small building nestled at the bottom of the hill, painted white with brown shudders that made it look like a cottage more than a business. A large sign painted with blue letters assured her it was the right place.

She considered attempting another spell to heal the rest of her injury, now that she had rested, but she wasn’t confident in her word choice. With the medicine, she hoped she would recover soon—otherwise it would be a task for Veral when he arrived.

The bakery greeted her with scents of yeasty bread and sweet cakes. There were exotic spices, and pastries in shapes she had never seen. A man with blond hair and a round face tended to a tray of honey cakes over one of many ovens.

Armaila stared at the many options before her in awe.

“Do you need help choosing?” the man asked with a smile. He wore a white baker’s uniform embroidered with blue and silver, and the front was covered in flour.

She held up the bottle of medicine. “I need something to cut the taste,” she said.

The man wrinkled his nose. “Oh, that’s awful stuff. Wait just a minute, and you can have a warm cake straight from the oven.”

“Do you make all of this yourself?”

“Mostly,” he said. “I have assistants from time to time, but with the war and the king’s draft, help is scarce.”

“You must be Teryn, then?”

He nodded. “And you must be that dragon rider.”

“I…”

“Rumors always find their way out of the castle and into my shop,” Teryn said. He took a thick rag and pulled the pan from the oven, then quickly replaced it with another to bake. “This is on the house.”

While Armaila waited for it to cool enough to touch, Teryn scuttled around the shop and returned with a glass of cold milk. “This will wash away what’s left of the medicine.”

Armaila took a deep breath and put a few drops of the blue liquid on a slice of honey cake. She closed her eyes and was surprised to find that the flavor was very mild compared to her first experience—the taste of fish was barely noticeable.

“How do you like working for King Theodore?” Teryn asked once she finished.

“I don’t know if I work for him, exactly.”

“All of us do.” Teryn shook his head. “Be careful, there is more to our king than meets the eye. He’s a dangerous man.”

“Aren’t all kings?”

“I suppose, but not all kings—” Teryn stopped himself mid-sentence. “I shouldn’t be troubling you with such things. Enjoy the cakes, and come back when you need more.”

He returned to his work, leaving Armaila unsettled by his words.

The ascent to the castle was much more comfortable with the medicine. She kept an extra honey cake tucked in her pocket, for that evening. She glanced at the sky—the sun was nearing its peak. Theodore had ordered that she and Shera be present in the courtyard by noon.

She found Shera lazily draped over a pile of hay in the stables, surrounded by tuffs of white and black wool. The dragon grumbled at being disturbed, but soon they were on their way.

“I will ring this bell,” Theodore said when they landed. Trees in the courtyard had begun to change color and the air was thick with the fruity smell of ripe berries. “I will announce you and Shera publicly, and you will assure them you are capable. Understood?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The bell sounded with a crisp clang, and the citizens knew it signaled an important event. They filed from their homes and into the courtyard, gasping and mumbling at the sight of Shera.

“Welcome, good people of Erithor.” The king’s voice boomed above their whispers. “You have heard stories from a time long ago, when dragons and riders protected this land. Most of you believe they were tales invented to tell children at bedtime.”

Armaila found it difficult to listen as the king continued. She watched the crowd, anticipating their next move—would they attack as the fire priests had in Stonebrook?

The king’s speech finally ended and Shera stretched her wings wide.

“War is coming,” Armaila yelled as she raised her sword in the air. “We will not be caught unprepared!”

Some people cheered. Others cried, terrified, and most stared with frowns.

“Your Majesty,” someone called. “How can we trust a dragon and a woman?” Murmurs rose in intensity as others agreed.

“Silence!” Theodore raised his hand. “Who among you would like to face them in battle?”

On cue, Shera raised her head and let a burst of fire escape harmlessly toward the sky. The crowd quieted.

“That is all. You may return home.” The king turned to Armaila. “Meet me in my chambers.”

Armaila parted from Shera reluctantly as she trailed behind him through the winding castle halls. Teryn’s warning, if that had been what it was, echoed in her mind. He’s a dangerous man.

“I have sent word to Veral and Lord Eric,” Theodore said once seated on his throne. His face was stern. “In the meantime, you will prepare for battle by practicing with my guards.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

The king waved over his guards and instructed them to prepare a sparring area, then he turned back to Armaila. “You will follow their instruction.”

Armaila breathed a sigh of relief once dismissed, and she followed the guards quietly. If they had an opinion about whether women should be dragon riders or not, they did not show it. Their training was cold and indifferent, and it made her appreciate Veral’s approach.

Her previous training had helped greatly. She was able to disarm some of the guards, but there were still many maneuvers she didn’t know or couldn’t execute fast enough to win.

Days passed and her leg healed well enough she longer needed the medicine. She had grown to enjoy her visits with Teryn at the bakery, though he still wouldn’t speak further about King Theodore, and respect had developed between her and the king’s guards she sparred with. When she was not busy with her duties, she and Shera roamed through the city, taking time to speak with people and letting the bravest children stroke Shera’s nose.

A horn sounded and Armaila looked to see Vincent Ergath, the commanding officer of the third regiment of the Legion, standing before the gate with his small group of the Legion’s foot soldiers. It was strange, to realize how much faster she could travel with Shera.

He introduced himself once more. “Azghar is approaching,” he warned. “Any who do not join forces with him shall be considered an enemy.”

Armaila turned to the king. “Your Majesty?”

“Leave him. He will root out any who are disloyal.”

A few people trickled through the gate, but most shuttered their windows or took their battle stations. Vicent made camp some distance away, still visible from Normar.

“Is it wise to allow them to stay on our doorstep?”

The king frowned. “Perhaps not, but this is a matter I will leave to the Ravens.”

Armaila and Shera spent the evening watching the encampment from a distance, perched on a castle turret. A chill hung in the air and colorful leaves danced in the wind.

Look, Shera said, rising. She stretched her neck toward the cobblestone road leading toward the castle. A figure walked alone, and his build and gait were familiar.

Armaila climbed onto the dragon’s back and they glided down.

“Gregory, I didn’t expect to see you here.”

He looked up with a tense smile.

“Did you find out anything about your father?” she asked.

“No. It was a dead end, so I came here.”

“What about Greenfields?”

“Hamsted is in charge while I’m away.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Has Veral joined you?”

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

“He’s on his way,” Armaila said. There was something different about Gregory—his usual lighthearted demeanor was replaced with nervous energy. “Come, you must be hungry.”

She led Gregory further up the road to Teryn’s bakery, which she had decided was her favorite place in Normar. Each visit she tried something new, and it would be quite some time before her list was exhausted.

“I’ll have one of those pink things, please.” She pointed to a small cake with light pink foam covering it.

“You will love it,” Teryn said. “It’s a new invention of mine: egg whites and honey beaten with rose petals and put on a honey cake.”

“I’ll have one as well,” Gregory added.

Armaila closed her eyes as she bit into the soft, fluffy cake. Teryn used only the best wheat for his cakes, a white variety with very mild flavor that allowed the flavor of other ingredients to shine. The honey and rose blended together perfectly. “This is delicious.” She set down a coin—Theodore had generously given her a wage—and ordered another.

Teryn beamed. “I’m glad you approve,” he said. “I plan to serve these at Theodore’s next feast.”

“Feast?” Armaila set down her cake. “With Azghar on his way?”

The baker nodded.

She turned to Gregory. “Would you like to join me? I’m sure there will be many nobles you already know.”

“Sure.” Gregory’s expression remained stiff, a stark contrast to his usual bubbliness and tendency to talk for hours.

What happened to you in Stonebrook? Armaila frowned but she didn’t voice her concerns in front of Teryn.

The guards made no attempt to stop Gregory from accompanying her to the throne room. She had earned the respect of some, and others obeyed because of the king’s insistence of her value in the war. Theodore was not one to be trifled with and few dared to contradict his opinion publicly.

“Your Majesty,” she said to mark her entry into the room.

The king was deep in thought over several parchment letters on his desk, with a large red stain on his hand. It took Armaila a moment to realize it was only spilled ink. He wrote exclusively in crimson, and during her time in the castle, she had come to learn that he leaned into the image of a king with a crown of blood intentionally.

“I was about to send for you.” The kind had made no effort to clean the spill, and ink dripped from his hand into a puddle by his feet. “I’ve planned a great feast tonight, and I intend to introduce you to some of the most influential families in Normar. It’s time for old traditions to change, and gaining their support will greatly boost your image.”

“What is the Legion reaches us during the feast?” she asked. “Won’t we be caught unprepared?”

The king laughed and wiped his palm on his tunic, giving the appearance of a grievous wound. “My dear girl, the soldiers won’t be invited. And my reports assure me Azghar is still some distance away.”

“Your Majesty, this is Gregory Smith, son of Baron Josef Smith of Greenfields. With your permission, he will accompany me to the feast tonight.”

“Very well.” The king waved them away with his stained hand. “Don’t be late.”

As Armaila walked with Greogry down the hall, she noted groves worn in the stone by centuries of footsteps. How many people had been there before her? The castle held secrets from long before Theodore’s reign.

“I’m sorry you didn’t find the answers you were looking for.”

Gregory grunted. “You seem to have settled in well to living in Normar. The luxury suits you.”

“There are benefits,” she said, thinking of the warm baths and not needing to wash her own laundry. “I could not imagine living my whole life here though, and neither could Shera.”

“What is it like to be bonded to a dragon?” he asked. “Can she hear what I’m saying right now?”

“No, but she can sense how I’m feeling, and I can tell you that she’s found a warm spot of sun to nap in after her lunch.”

They passed by a window with a view of the southernmost side of Normar, which contained factories and large warehouses. Past the bustle of the city was an endless expanse of forest and mountains, and it was easy to imagine a peaceful life there, like Veral had before she had interrupted it.

“How do you feel?” Gregory’s voice was strained, almost broken.

“I feel nervous about the battle,” she said. “I don’t know if my training is enough.”

The edge of his mouth curved into a slight frown. “Do you wish Eric was here?”

“Why would I—”

“Never mind.” Gregory cut off her response and put on a fake grin. “You should go prepare for the feast. I’ll see if Teryn needs any help, and I’ll meet you there.”

He continued down the hall at a brisk pace, leaving Armaila confused by his strange behavior. She sighed and went to her chambers, where she found a bath had already been drawn and several garments were laid out.

They were not gowns as she expected, but trousers and tailcoats that were similar to what a high-ranking soldier might wear, but with a feminine touch of delicate embroidery and lace borders. After her bath, she tried on the first pair—black trousers and a blue coat with highlights of silver—and admired the way it looked. It hugged her figure without being restricting. She could wear it in a fight, and she would not be mistaken for a man.

Servants were still setting the tables when she arrived in the banquet hall. Music switched from skilled melodies to jarring reverberation as the band tuned their instruments. Large strips of blue and silver cloth stretched across the ceiling with lanterns hung between them, and a fire burned in the hearth to take off the late summer chill.

A commotion in the corridor caught Armaila’s attention over the din. She peered out the entryway and saw the king’s guards blocking Eric and Veral from the hall.

“As High Knight Commander, I order you to let us both pass.”

“I’m sorry, sir.” The guard held firm. “I cannot allow him inside without explicit permission from our king.”

Veral put a hang on Eric’s shoulder and nodded for him to stand down.

Theodore arrived a moment later, his face red and the stain gone from his hand. “I want a detailed explanation for every second you were gone.”

“Your Majesty—” Eric began, but Veral cut him off.

“You asked me to train Armaila, and that is what I did. Do not tell me how to train riders and I will not tell you how to be a king.”

Theodore scoffed. “You let all of Erithor know of Shera’s existence and left me to do damage control.”

Veral cracked his knuckles, feigning an air of nonchalance, but a bulging vein on the side of his forehead was visible even from a distance. “You had to let the people know, eventually. The dragon is of more use to you this way.”

“Bloody fire, she is!” Theodore yelled. “This is no place for your personal grudge against me.”

A heavy silence fell.

“I did what is best for Erithor,” Veral said. “Which is more than I can say for you.”

The king’s face flushed with anger, and his guards shared a nervous glance. “We will revisit this discussion when the war is over.” He stormed away in the direction of his chambers.

The guards shrugged and allowed Eric and Veral to continue. Armaila took a deep breath and stepped into the hall.

“I know you’re mad,” she said, speaking fast enough that her words ran together. “I heard that Azghar was on his way to Normar and I had to do something. I knew you would say my training wasn’t enough, but I couldn’t bare the thought of people dying because of me, and I—”

“Can everyone stop talking for a single bloody minute?” Veral grabbed a mug of ale and sank into a chair. “By the mountains, I remember why I left civilization.”

The rhythm of music became smooth and calm, and servers began bringing out the feast. Plates of various kinds of meat cooked in a dozen different ways, vegetables of all colors, dishes sweetened with honey or soured with vinegar, and Teryn’s best bread all found their way to the table.

“Gregory!” Armaila left Eric and Veral to help him with a large tray of honey cakes he was carrying before it tipped over. Some were plain and some we the special ones with roses she had sampled earlier, and he had almost dropped the entire tray on the floor.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. He starred over her shoulder to where Eric and Veral were sitting. “I thought you said they hadn’t arrived yet.”

“They’ve only been here a few minutes.”

They arranged the cakes and the feast was ready. Guards began emitting guests and Armaila introduce herself to a multitude of noble families—she had met only a handful at her last feast. She spoke with confidence and did her best to assuage their doubts.

Theodore had returned and he sat at the head of the table, a drink in one hand and meat in the other.

“Dragons are an asset,” he said to a fat man in expensive robes beside him.

“This is what we’ve come to?” the man said, his many rolls jiggling as he lifted his hands in exasperation. “Letting little girls and bedtime stories defend us?”

The banter continued for several minutes before Theodore moved on to someone else.

“This is better than father’s parties.” Armaila turned to see Gregory with a smile, waving a drink in the air. “He never let guests have the good stuff.”

“Are you… drunk?” She stared in disbelief.

“Pfft, no.” He waved her comment away with his hand. “I’m merely under the influence of a particularly good ale.”

“You’re going to make a fool of yourself,” Armaila hissed under her breath. “Don’t embarrass me at such an important event.”

“Embarrass you?” Gregory’s words slurred. “I can’t do a better job of that than you’ve already done! A girl from nowhere trying to be someone important.”

“That’s enough.”

“No, by the mountains, it’s not. You think you can do anything to stop this war? You think anyone will listen to you? Who are you trying to impress?” Gregory stumbled closer and took another drink. “Is it so Eric will notice you and you won’t have to be alone? Refusing me was the biggest mistake you ever made.”

Armaila recoiled at the smell of his breath. “Are you jealous? Leaving you at the alter was the best thing I ever did, and I wish I had done it sooner.”

Eric approached from across the room. “Is everything all right?” he asked, keeping his voice low. Guests were beginning to stare.

Armaila entwined her arm with his and pulled him right. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Let’s have dessert.”

Gregory stomped away to refill his mug and Armaila selected a honey cake with rose icing for herself. “You should try one,” she suggested.

Eric frowned. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked, keeping his eye on Gregory.

“He’s been acting strange all day,” she admitted.

“Veral was mad that you left, you know.”

Armaila winced. “I did what I had to,” she said. “Have you seen the encampment north of here?”

Eric nodded. “I don’t like it.”

Armaila watched as Gregory approached Veral. To her surprise, the old man hadn’t left the party, and he sat in the corner with a half-eaten cake in his hand and a frown that drove away unwanted conversation. Unlike most of the guests, he didn’t have a drink, and he refused the one Gregory offered.

“Strange…” she murmured.

Gregory stayed for a moment, and then left to pace in a corner at the opposite side of the room.

“I should go talk to him.”

Eric gently grabbed her arm. “Don’t. He’s made enough of a scene as it is.”

Armaila frowned and forced herself to turn away. “Fine.”

She put on her best fake smile and returned to mingling with guests with Eric by her side. He was watching Gregory too, even if he didn’t admit it.

Eventually, Gregory struck up a conversation with a young noblewoman about his age. Armaila pretended not to notice as she greeted someone at the opposite side of the table.

“These cakes are delicious,” she said.

The old woman she had chosen to speak with nodded and smiled. “Yes, they’re quite interesting. Too sweet for me, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps you would like this kind more,” Armaila suggested, pointing to one of Teryn’s many baked goods on the tray.

She barely heard the woman’s reply. Across the table, Gregory was telling the girl a tale of being strung along and abandoned on his wedding day.

“…left me without a word.”

Eric caught Armaila’s eye, pleading for her to remain silent.

“Now she’s trying to get me back.”

Armaila excused herself from the conversation with the elderly woman. She stepped forward to where Eric was standing, and certain Gregory could see her well, reached up to kiss Eric on the cheek. On the lips was far too scandalous—she hadn’t even kissed Gregory that way during their engagement—but the cheek was innocent enough to not damage either of their reputations.

Eric reeled back, a look of shock and disgust on his face.

A scream from the opposite end of the banquet shattered the air and chaos unfolded. A woman wailed over a man stretched across his belly on the floor with a spilled drink in his hand. Veral rushed forward to see if aid was possible.

Gregory cursed softly and sprinted the distance between them. He produced a dagger and rammed it into the old man’s back, driving it deep and twisting.

Veral gasped and managed to grab hold of Gregory enough to bash his skull into the floor.

“Tell me the words.” Armaila removed the dagger and pressed her hands against the wound. The blade had entered between his ribs and his breathing had a rasp to it.

Veral slumped forward in a pool of his own blood. “It is my time.”

The king’s guards pulled Armaila away as the doctor knelt over him. She screamed, but no sound came.