Later I learned that while I had been in the caverns beneath the palace, the three collared dragons had been fighting their friends above. Niva had tried to plead with the others to go to the Mordrel estates and be collared, too, but the slippers’ hold had been too strong. The ensuing battle had destroyed the east wing of the New Palace. As Feniul and I flew over the rubble, still stunned by the deaths of Shardas and Velika, we heard shouting.
Feniul swooped in for a closer look, and we saw a hand reaching out of a pile of roof tiles. I dismounted, and helped Feniul dig the unfortunate person free. It was Crown Prince Milun, with Pippin, Amalia’s little white lapdog, stuffed into his shirt.
He had spent most of his imprisonment in the attics where unused furniture and unwanted princes were stored, lying in an old bed with only Pippin as company. When the roof collapsed, the heavy canopy and tree-trunk-thick bedposts had formed a protective cage around him. His leg was broken, but he was otherwise unharmed.
Pippin circled Feniul, barking ferociously for a dog the size of a muff. But the dragon lowered his head and made a trilling noise, and she stopped barking and pranced right over to him. She gave his proffered muzzle a lick, then ran up his tail like it was a ramp and settled herself amid the horns crowning his head.
Back at the Mordrel estates, Luka and I assured Feniul that he could keep the dog. We doubted anyone would care, but he wanted to make a fair trade. So he gave Azarte to Prince Miles. Miles was delighted, and Azarte leaned against the prince’s legs and lowed like a cow. I shook my head and warned Miles to keep all sweets well out of the dog’s reach, but I don’t think he was listening to me.
King Prilian was killed in the battle beneath the palace. The Feravelan soldiers, fighting for home and hearth, had rallied and defeated the Roulaini in the cavern beside the waterfall. The soldier I had found hiding in the kitchens had slain Prilian with his own hand, and was now captain of a regiment.
The new Roulaini king, Prilian’s nephew Rolian, had been quick to send messages declaring his goodwill. The Roulaini army was recalled, and King Rolian was making noises about tithes of appeasement and demonstrations of brotherhood, whatever that meant.
Larkin had been found by the King’s Guards as they swept through the palace hunting for Roulaini. She claimed that the Roulaini had tried to torture her for information, but the kitchen maid who was asked to bring her some hot tea recognised her as Princess Amalia’s uppity maid. Luka and I both testified against her, and she was sentenced to life in prison for treason. To give her something to do – idle hands crochet the devil’s stockings, as my silly aunt would say – she was put to work hemming sheets and rolling bandages for the Royal Hospital. I thought the monotonous work a fitting punishment.
So now there was just the little matter of rebuilding the New Palace, the Winter Palace and the King’s Seat. Not to mention that the dragons, absent from the lives of humans for centuries, were now still very much among us. Niva was leading a vigil along the shores of the Boiling Sea, where more than two dozen dragons had gathered to sing a mourning song for King Shardas and Queen Velika, Theoradus the Brown and the handful of others who had died in the battle. They would remain there, fasting and singing, for a full cycle of the moons. Whenever I had time, I went down and stood between Niva and Feniul, putting a hand on the foreclaw of each and listening to their song.
King Caxel declared that Theoradus’s hoard should be a gift to the public. I didn’t know what that meant, but Luka explained that the shoes would be put in a special building so that the public could come to admire them. I said that I thought Theoradus would like that, but also that I thought it should be available to the dragons, too. Luka squeezed my hand and said he would make sure there was a dragon-sized entrance. The display house would be built in Carlieff Town, and Luka promised to hire my brother, Hagen, as a caretaker. I sent a note for Hagen with the nobleman designated to design and build the display house.
Then the king had discussed repairing and displaying Shardas’s hoard as well, but I had vehemently disagreed. Just thinking of how Amalia had ordered Shardas to destroy his beloved windows made me sick inside, and the idea of thousands of people, people who had never known Shardas when he was warm and humorous and alive, trespassing in his cave caused me even greater distress. Instead, Feniul promised to seal the entrance to Shardas’s cave. Niva thought that we should remove the contents of the alchemist’s room, and let other alchemists study his work, and I said that I thought both Shardas and the alchemist would have approved.
“Which brings us to you, Mistress Carlbrun,” the king said at last, looking down the table at me.
It was the end of a very long meeting, after a week of very long meetings. I had been included in this council on the insistence of both princes and the Duke of Mordrel, who had all pointed out that I was more involved than anyone, and deserved to be there.
“To me?” I asked. “Your Majesty?”
“I think that a reward is in order, for our resourceful Mistress Carlbrun,” the king said. “I have heard that the populace is referring to her as the Heroine of the Dragon War.”
I looked down at my hands, feeling awkward. The Duke of Mordrel, sitting next to me, patted my arm. I straightened the cuffs of my gown. It was one of the duchess’s, hastily altered, so that I would look presentable enough to sit at the king’s council table. She had said that I could keep it, and I was already planning to add panels of embroidery to it, in honour of friends lost. Blue and gold, I thought, in a pattern like scales.
“It’s really not necessary, Your Majesty,” I mumbled. “I was only trying to help. After all, I’m the one who brought the slippers here to begin with.”
King Caxel made an airy gesture with one hand. “You had no way of knowing what they were. No, the populace has become enamoured of you, and you must be rewarded.”
I got the distinct impression that had the “populace” reviled me, the king would have reviled me. And had they ignored me, I would not be sitting here, between a duke and a prince, being addressed by His Majesty.
“As the marriage to the Roulaini princess is no longer feasible,” the king went on, ignoring several snorts of incredulity at the overstatement, “other arrangements for Prince Milun will have to be made. Perhaps a fitting alliance would be for him to marry the Heroine of the Dragon War, who saved him from a terrible fate.”
“What?” I half-rose in my seat.
The king frowned at me. “Pardon?”
“You can’t want Miles … Prince Milun to marry me,” I squeaked, sinking back down. “I’m a commoner.” I looked to Miles for support and saw that he was wearing an uncomfortable expression. He caught my eye and gave me a pained smile. It seemed he didn’t like this idea, either.
“I am very much aware of your common roots,” the king said with a hint of disdain. “And that is why you do not understand affairs of state.” He turned to look at the scribe sitting in the corner of the room. “Send out a proclamation: on this day, We, King Caxel the Third of Feravel, do decree that our eldest son and heir, Crown Prince Milun, shall marry the Heroine of the Dragon War, etc.” He made a circular gesture with his hand and then turned back to the table. “Now, is there other business before lunch?” He looked around, his face bland.
“Your Majesty,” I said loudly. “I’m sorry, but I don’t want to marry Miles.”
Everyone froze, and the king glared at me. “Young woman,” he said in a low voice, “I am your king, and as a commoner it is not for you to question my decrees.”
I felt my indignation rising. This was the man who had been too blind to recognise that the Roulaini were plotting something terrible. This was the man for whom dragons had died, for whom humans had died, and I was finding that I didn’t much care for him or his decrees.
“Well, according to you, Your Majesty,” I said as politely as I could manage, “I am the Heroine of the Dragon War. And as the Heroine of the Dragon War, I wish to refuse this offer of marriage.” I ignored the fact that it hadn’t so much been an offer as an order, and privately vowed that I would never use my “title” again.
The entire room, including the scribe, stared at me in disbelief. I plunged on, thinking that I might as well continue, seeing as I had already put myself in harm’s way.
“I am very grateful to Your Majesty for wishing to reward me for my humble service,” I said, thinking back to the fancy dialogue of my aunt’s romantic novels. “But if Your Majesty wishes to make me a more appropriate gift, I would be greatly pleased to have a dress shop of my own.”
The king’s eyes bulged, and beside me, Luka began to laugh under his breath, and the Duke of Mordrel applauded softly.
“You would rather work in a dress shop than marry the crown prince? The future king? I am offering you the chance to be the queen of Feravel one day!”
“And I am respectfully refusing,” I replied. “Not that the offer isn’t tempting, but I really don’t think I would be a very good queen. And I don’t want to just work in the shop, I want to own the shop,” I corrected him.
Luka was now laughing aloud. “Oh, Father! Creel’s right. She doesn’t want to marry Miles – although I think she would be a wonderful queen! Let’s buy her a dress shop and everything she’ll need to make a go of it: furnishings, living quarters …”
“Cloth and ribbons, shears and thread,” I put in. I saw an expression of profound relief cross Miles’s face, and I winked at him.
“You’ll need to hire a staff,” Luka reminded me. “We’ll pay their wages for the first six months.”
“Marta will be my partner, and I think Derda’s planning to retire, so I might be able to get Alle to work for us,” I said, feeling myself flush with excitement.
The king cleared his throat loudly, and my flush faded to pallor. “Very well,” he said. “Strike that last decree, scribe. Make out a title for a shop –”
“I want it called Marisel’s Fine Dressmaking, after my mother,” I told the scribe.
“Yes, yes,” the king waved his hand. “Find something big and stock it with … whatever Mistress Creel requires. Buy it off the old owner, if they’re still alive. And have the title read, ‘Bequeathed by his Majesty, King Caxel the Third of Feravel, on this day, to Creelisel Carlbrun, the Heroine of the Dragon War, this place of business, etc’.” He made a circle with his hand again. “Any other matters of import? No? We shall continue this council after lunch to discuss reconstruction of the chapels.”
I got to my feet with the rest, somewhat dazed.
“Well, it seems that you will not need to attend the Merchants’ Ball next year,” the duke said lightly. He took my elbow and steered me from the room after the king had exited. “I shall have my carriage take you to Ulfrid’s inn, so that you may inform Marta of this change in your fortunes. I might add congratulations, as well.”
“Er, thank you.” I gave him a weak smile. It was starting to hit home that I had defied my king. I must be completely mad.
“Don’t worry,” Luka hissed, taking my other elbow. “The old man’s probably relieved. Imagine if you’d turned out to be as crazy as Amalia and a commoner? He’d die of embarrassment.” He gave me a roguish smile, and I elbowed him in the ribs.
Luka rode with me to Ulfrid’s inn. It was nearly full: so many people no longer had homes or jobs that they had nowhere else to go but to an inn to drink away their sorrows. Ulfrid served them, if not with a smile, then at least with a sympathetic nod, and also provided fresh bread and hearty stews to soak up some of the ale in their stomachs.
Sitting in pride of place before the fire on a bench padded with cushions and sheepskin, Tobin lay recuperating. He and Luka had faced over a dozen men in that corridor, with Tobin bearing the brunt of the attack. Finally, Luka’s sword had been broken and his right arm gashed to the bone. Tobin had insisted that his prince flee, and stayed behind to finish off the last three men. Luka had gone to the kitchens, where the formidable head cook had bandaged his arm and sent an army of scullery maids with carving knives to help Tobin. They had found him sitting atop the stacked bodies of the last three men, bloodied but triumphant.
When we entered the inn’s common room, we saw Marta sitting beside the mute hero, working her laborious way through a book of epic poetry in Moralienin. Ulfrid had confided to me that Marta’s accent was atrocious, but Tobin didn’t seem to mind. Both his arms were heavily bandaged, one leg was splinted, and there was a long gash across his tattooed scalp that Marta had stitched with her own hands, insisting that her stitches would be far neater than any surgeon’s.
“I got a shop for us,” I told her, plopping down on a stool by Tobin’s side. I made the “hello” gesture to Tobin that Luka had taught me. He made it back, grinning.
“What?” Marta looked up from the poetry. “You did?”
“She only bullied my father into it, is all,” Luka said breezily, calling to one of the serving girls for tea.
“You did not!” Marta closed the book with a snap, goggling at me. Tobin was laughing silently. She poked his shoulder. “That isn’t funny!”
“Well,” I drawled, “first he offered to marry me to Miles and make me the crown princess and future queen, but I said I shouldn’t care for the job. So I asked the king to give us a shop instead.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” Marta said, fanning herself with the book.
“Oh, don’t be,” I said, laughing. “We got the shop, and that’s all that matters.”
Tobin nudged Marta and said something with his hands that I couldn’t follow. She blushed to the roots of her strawberry blonde hair, and then looked at me, biting her lip.
“What is it?”
“Well, er, we also have good news, although you might be disappointed,” she said.
“Tobin, you didn’t!” Luka looked delighted. “Four mugs of cider,” he hollered to the serving girl, who was on her way towards us with a tea tray. She halted in confusion.
“Didn’t what? What’s happened?” I looked from Marta to Luka to Tobin, but they were all too busy grinning at each other.
Marta set her book in her lap and held out her right hand. There was a beautiful sapphire ring, wide and foreign-looking, on her middle finger. She was betrothed.
“Tobin?” I gawked at her, then at him. “Tobin!”
He nodded, and slipped one bandaged arm around my friend’s shoulders. She leaned close, laying her head on his chest, looking like a very contented angel.
“Congratulations,” I said past the lump in my throat. I wondered if Alle would like to be my partner. It wouldn’t be the same, but at least I wouldn’t be running a shop on my own.
“So, we’ll be moving to the New Palace,” Marta said, lifting her head. “I’m sorry, Creel. I’ll come and help, though, I just won’t be able to be your partner.”
“Actually, you will,” Luka said, looking a bit deflated. “I spoke to my father before the council this morning, Tobin. He’s decided that you should be retired.”
Tobin’s eyes narrowed. His fingers flickered.
“No, no, it’s not that.” Luka shook his head. “Just from your bodyguard duties. Father feels – and I agree – that you’ve served our family more than faithfully for over ten years, risking your life to protect us, training me and Miles. My father wants you to take on an advisory role. Train the King’s Guards, and our personal bodyguards. We’ll double your salary, and give you a house in the King’s Seat so that you can leave the palace and relax at the end of the day.”
Tobin’s grin was back, broader than before. He beamed at Luka and gave Marta another squeeze.
“We’ll get a house near the shop,” Marta declared. “And can I still be your partner?”
I nodded eagerly.
“Good. And Tobin can take care of all the children!” She gave a satisfied nod. Then we both laughed at the alarmed look on her betrothed’s face.
Ulfrid came over with five mugs of cider and joined us in toasting the happy couple. Then Luka gave her the rest of the news, and we toasted Tobin’s new career and the opening of Marisel’s Fine Dressmaking.
It was one of the better days I’d had since Shardas died.