Theft of Dragons (Princes of Naverstrom) (13 page)

Sebine felt silly as she came over and extended her hand towards the horse's neck. Almost instinctively the horse jerked its neck back and released a snort. Her hand vanished within the light illusion of the horse's head. She almost pulled her hand away from the unnatural fright she was feeling, but instead she reached down until she could feel the bald smoothness of the sorcerer's head.

"Why do you not truly transform? Wouldn't that be more effective?" She withdrew her hand and laid it across her chest.

"That would be another...more advanced spell." Vhelan smirked and changed into King Braxion. He let out a hideous chuckle at Sebine's horrified expression. "Don't you want to discover whether the magic is truly complete?" The sorcerer ran wrinkled fingers along the ugly face of the King.

"How did you cast the spell without chanting or moving your fingers?" Sebine narrowed her eyes, trying to remember what Master Vhelan had done.

"And that is yet another more advanced lesson." The sorcerer chuckled, and returned to his natural form, allowing a rare smile to cross his face. "So many interesting things to learn... And now that you are my apprentice, we will have to work very hard to master them quickly. There is no time to spare."

No time?
What did he mean by that? Sebine was about to speak when he interrupted her.

"Now you must memorize the chanting and hand movements. You will work with one of our elders." He motioned to a frail-looking sorcerer with white, bushy eyebrows that curled at the edges. The man seemed ecstatic to be teaching Sebine.
Another rare smile
, she thought. It was unnerving to see Hakkadians smile. Was there something going on that she didn't know about?

After practicing for almost an hour, she gained the ability to consistently create illusive forms over herself. On a few occasions—as a prank—she pictured the image of a praying mantis and assumed the grotesque image of a girl mixed with an insect. It was incredibly odd to see her arms covered in scale. Master Vhelan had explained that when choosing the image of a creature or beast, it was best to choose one of a similar size to oneself.
 

"You could choose to change shape to a fox," he had said, "but a bee or a beaver would yield bizarre results. And whatever form you do decide to take, be sure to practice it over and over again or you'll fail to maintain the illusion for any lengthy period of time."

So she had repeated one form many times, fixing her memory on the image of Emitt Weylor, a young, brilliant historian that with his ruffled hair and curious eyes was in a way almost cute. He had the most rigid routines of any person she'd met, and provided an easy target for impersonation since he did most of his studies at night and always left the palace around two o'clock in the morning. Plenty of time for her to sneak out of the palace unseen.

Master Vhelan came over and squinted at Sebine's hand flourishes, his face expression critical and cold. After she'd completed the illusion sequence several successful times of young historian Emitt, the sorcerer exhaled and nodded his head finally in approval.

"We are done here for today. You may leave us and return to your room and rest." Sebine held back a scoff at the Hakkadian's words, thinking him a fool for daring to command her like a child.
Who does he think he is?
she fumed. Though another, more rational voice inside reminded her that he was probably one of the most powerful practitioners of magic in the world. Though what did she really know...she'd seen so little of the world.

The sorcerers clustered together ceremoniously as Sebine strolled to the stairs. She glanced back, memorizing their serious, astute faces as they studied her departure. Even after she reached the top of the stairs, their eyes still held rigid, devout gazes. She felt a fright from those eyes that dissipated all the warmth and humanity she'd sensed practicing with them during their time together.
They really aren't human...they lack any feeling at all, don't they?
Perhaps the smiles and innocence the Hakkadians projected was merely yet another illusion. At their core were they just hollow forms empty of love and life? Or something vastly more malevolent...

She told herself to remember to distrust them, to avoid being fooled by their illusions, and to keep them at a distance and never reveal too much of herself to them. The only thing she wanted from the Hakkadians was knowledge and power, and whatever she had given them was already far too high of a cost. One day, when she'd gained enough to deal with Master Vhelan, she would kill him. Slice his miserable little wrinkled neck and watch him die. With the same silver dagger he'd used to stab her thigh. And she'd be free of the blood threat he held over her head.

Lunch was being served as Sebine arrived in a fluster at the dining chamber, the King frowning and her mother staring down at her empty plate. The scene was so morbid Sebine wished she never had come—but to do so would certainly invoke the wrath of the King.

"Apologies for my lateness." Sebine slipped into her chair and forced a smile at the King's inspecting eyes.

"Spending too much time reading those books of yours again?" King Braxion sighed, wagging his head in disappointment. "You should be spending time socializing and courting nobles. Or perhaps seeking refinement in dance or art or music. You have more in common with those damn scholars at the Arcanum than with other ladies of the court. It's no wonder so many potential suitors give up pursuing you."

The Arcanum...he actually mentioned the Arcanum?
Perhaps something had happened and the King's mind still lingered on the source of his irritation. And he was irritated and upset, much more so than in recent memory.
 

"Actually I was visiting the kitchens," she lied. "Learning how to better understand how a great house is run."

This pleased the King, as any mention of her involved in domestic activities brought a look of approval to his face. "Although not necessary for a princess, I do find it a useful part of your education. Are you partaking in the revelries tonight at the Festival?"

The Queen lifted her head at the mention, and Sebine swore she saw a hint of mischievousness in her eyes. Usually the King left the palace on festivals, off on some mission or another. Perhaps just a poor excuse for his unpopularity at such events. Braxion always said he despised crowds and festivals, although he always encouraged Sebine to attend in the hopes of her finding a suitor to marry.

"I am in fact most looking forward to the festival tonight." Sebine lifted a finger to her lips, pretending to remember something important. "Isn't Duke Selby attending the ball tonight? Do you think it wise for me to talk with him?"

The King narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "The last time I suggested the Duke as an appropriate match you were most certainly not interested. What's changed?"

Sebine considered for a moment, wanting to lead the King's mind in a direction away from being concerned. "I've heard the Duke is kind, and his children love him. This is important to me. I thought I could talk more to him and discover for myself what kind of a man he is and of the lands he rules."

The King frowned. "Those are the most promising words you've ever said regarding a suitor." He leaned forward in his chair, the iron and gold medallion around his neck dangling. "You know you had me worried with all that business before...but it seems to me that you've snapped out of it. Your words relieve me. Perhaps I am free to attend to some important matters in the Kingdom's far reaches. After all, my dragons need to flap their wings and fly. Enough of being cooped up in this overcrowded, festering city..."

"Surely you'll be able to stay for the festival?" The Queen genuinely looked concerned as she placed her hand on his arm and studied him with earnest eyes, but Sebine knew it was all a fake. Mother loved the festival and the freedom from the King, and the ornate masks that provided anonymity and the promise of vice.

The King shook his head and shoved a leg of lamb against his wrinkled mouth. He chewed loudly and washed down the meat with a gulp of wine. "Urgent business...nasty business, really. Out west...looks like another incursion. I'll be bringing Brandeth, the boy needs more field experience. Seems those Malathian bastards are displeased with me. Hah! I can't imagine why."

Sebine cast her eyes down at the mention, but quickly shrugged and forced a weak smile at the King. She ate another bite of buttered bread, not trusting her mouth to refrain from releasing a harsh retort.

"I suppose I should be going then. I'll leave you two to prepare for the festival." Braxion fixed a threatening eye on the Queen. "And do be a dear and behave yourself. I tire of murdering your playthings."

And with that the King rose and sauntered out of the room, whispering with a steward who nodded as he departed. Sebine felt a flush of anger at the King's proclamation, noticing Mother's dark mood had spoiled her appetite. With a heavy sigh, the Queen let her fork drop to the plate and she pinched her eyes shut as if trying to hold back tears.

Stiff-backed servants were shooed away by Sebine's harsh flick of her wrist, and she made her way around the long, dining table and knelt down to hold her mother's hand.

"I despise him...no, loathe him with all my heart." Sebine's voice was low, but filled with comforting malice. "Blessed is the man that slays our cruel King, and frees the land from the blight that is Braxion. That is the man I would marry. One strong enough to kill a King."

But the Queen failed to respond to Sebine's words, and instead tears now flowed freely down her aging cheeks, cheeks that were once so soft and ruddy when Sebine was a child. Eyes that had beamed love and mischief—before the gloom had arrived—were now filled with sorrow and spite. Hands went to embrace her mother, but the Queen turned away, spurning the comfort.
 

This is how my world falls apart
, thought Sebine,
the day Mother refuses my affection.
She gathered herself up, turned and fled back to her room, determined that this night was the night she'd escape unnoticed from the palace—and maybe never return.

Chapter Thirteen

AFTER EATING A rather boring dinner of baked beans, a slab of ham, broiled potatoes, and mulled wine, Tael decided it was time to flee the confinement of his room at the Dour Bear Inn. He put on his black hooded cloak and pried open a window, sliding outside into the cool, night air. The roof angled towards the side of the inn, where he found a carriage waiting conveniently below.
 

A spot of red illuminated the misty air where a coachman smoked a cigar, his eyes studying the departure of a gold-crown-festooned carriage. Tael summoned shadows around him—an ancient spell his grandfather had taught him—and jumped down onto the carriage and sneaked over to an alleyway that went in the direction of the docks.

The once dutiful guards at the gate now smoked jaheesh, their drug-filled eyes dull in mindless humor. Tael slid effortlessly behind the men, stealing a bag of the herb sticks from a young, coughing soldier. Their laughter at the man faded into the haze surrounding the torchlight as Tael filtered his way down the dark street.
 

In his mind he pictured the celebratory faces ahead at the Festival, heard the laughter, and could taste the sweet wine on the lips of beautiful girls. It would be his night tonight, and he wasn't about to let that old, arrogant Bishop ruin it. Why did he need him, anyway? Tael was inside the city and free to do whatever he wanted to do.

The beggars now slept with sad faces, eyes closed and twitching—likely from hunger dreams induced from empty bellies laced with liquor. Ahead the canal came into view, the silky surface shimmering in the gaslight of lanterns mounted atop the many warehouses set along the water. Empty here, the buildings heard faint echoes of the screams and raucous laughter from the Festival in the distant quarter. Tael followed the sounds of merriment, intoxicated by the cacophony—for there were many voices and instruments that intermixed, and from this distance gave the impression of a muffled mysterious murmuring, invoking longing and delight into his heart.

The noise rose into a melody, bathing him with waves of pleasure as he rounded corners. The sweet, salivating smell of feast flooded his senses, and bursts of polychromatic light ripped across the dark and smoky sky and were followed by the crackle and boom of fireworks. Shrill, feminine shrieks—loud now—and gasps of delight at the show caused Tael to quicken his pace, chest pounding, until the outer filaments of the Festival appeared for the first time down the distant street.

He forgot that the shadows still cloaked his figure, and the partygoers failed to perceive his advance. Only when a greeting issued from his mouth did Tael realize his blunder from the perplexed and sweaty faces of the partygoers. Another burst of light and crackling in the sky jerked the people's attention away, providing him with the distraction needed to release the shadow spell. He threaded into the crowd, smiling at the fading, smoky light in the sky, and caught the euphoric eyes of a boy his age who returned his smile. Black hair slicked with sweat, the handsome boy was tall and lean, and his eyes oozed youth and vitality. His humorous face quickly delivered an expression of mock horror upon discovering Tael's empty hands.