Empress Aurora Trilogy Quest For the Kingdom Parts I, II, and III Revised With Index (Quest For the Kingdom Set) (34 page)

Dag remained
seated and shook his head as if in pain. Cort sat stiffly and lowered his eyes
to his plate. Kyrene tried to catch Fanchon’s attention by softly calling her
name. But Fanchon ignored her and danced out the door.

Felix sighed wearily
and rolled his eyes, but Marcus decided to follow and perhaps stem Fanchon from
any further folly. It was clear to him that the guests saw nothing untoward in
her behavior, but Marcus felt that as an Alexandrian Fanchon should not indulge
in drunkenness. And to make a public display of herself was even more
deplorable.

Marcus went
outside and saw Fanchon and the dancers romping on the well-tended lawn. The
moon had risen and illuminated the carousers in a silvery gleam, but the effect
to Marcus was chilling and surreal. Like pagan creatures out of myth they
appeared; the ladies’ hair tumbled wildly about their shoulders, flying free,
and the men leering at the ladies like satyrs intent on ravishing, while the
pipes played some primitive music that made the blood pound in the veins even
as the wine rushed to the head.

A movement at
the edge of the woods caught Marcus’ eye. Was there a shape down there,
watching the dancers in smug satisfaction? Yes, there was. It appeared to have
the body of a goat with the head of a man, much as the satyrs of fiction. And it
gloated triumphantly at the drunken dancers with a glee that to Marcus seemed
purely demonic. Anger filled him at the creature’s smile, and he started to the
woods to confront it.

But just as he
took the first step it suddenly vanished, and the woods were empty.

The dancers
continued, unheeding, as the night came on. The grass looked gray in the
moonlight, and the dancers cast eerie shadows on the lawn.

Fanchon
whirled and twirled, and leaped and spun around, then caught her foot in her
robe and fell to the ground. Marcus rushed to her side, but she sat upright
where she fell and looked about in a stupor, giggling at nothing. Fanchon was
drunk.

Marcus plopped
down beside her, but said not a word. He plucked a blade of grass and twirled
it idly between his fingers. Fanchon at last became aware of his presence.

“Hel
lo
,
Marcus! Why are you not dancing? I love to whirl and twirl, just whirl and
twirl…”

“Yes, I see
that,” he barked. “You also seem overly fond of wine and do not know when to
stop imbibing.”

“Oh, but that
is what we do in Gaudereaux, Marcus. It is the land of the grape and the vine.
What better way to celebrate than to partake of it, no?”

“Partaking in
moderation is one thing, Fanchon, but you have imbibed to the point of drunkenness.
Such a display is a disgrace to an Alexandrian. How could you do this thing?”
Marcus reprimanded.

For the first
time since she left the banquet hall Fanchon seemed to be able to focus her
eyes. And they narrowed at Marcus with a hostility that shocked and saddened
him.

“How could I,
Marcus? Easily! Because I like to
enjoy
myself, not spend hours in
prayer and study as Kyrene does! How dull, no? You do not know how I have
missed Gaudereaux and my own people. And dancing! Ah, to dance is the joy of my
life! How I have missed it!”

For once
Marcus did not cut off her speech. It was too enlightening to cut short. Was it
possible that Fanchon had not changed as the rest of them had?

He posed a
question to her.

“Fanchon, you
made a commitment to serve Dominio alone and to spread His Kingdom. Did that
mean nothing to you? Have you so quickly forgotten Him?”

Fanchon sighed
and shook her head. Her golden hair was lit by a silvery halo in the light of
the moon. She looked more than ever like some enchanted creature out of a
fable, Marcus thought.

“I
did
make a commitment, yes. And I have not forgotten! But I did not expect that
following Alexandros would make my intended a man hunted by his own people! A
man who must never set foot in his own country again on pain of death. This was
not the Cause I pledged myself to; fleeing from those who hunt us that they may
rejoice in our deaths. I cannot live that way, Marcus. And I
will
not.”

This last was
uttered with such fierce determination that Marcus was startled. Always he had
seen Fanchon laughing and gay. Her present serious demeanor bore evidence to
him that she meant what she said. But what then, of Dag, and their approaching
marriage?

“But,
Fanchon,” Marcus reasoned, “you don’t have to live that way. Dag agreed with
you to live in Gaudereaux and make your home here. You will not be hunted after
all.”

A shadow
crossed the girl’s face. Her lips narrowed in a line of bitterness. Then she
spoke.

“The manner in
which Dag wants to live in Gaudereaux and the way I wish to live is not the
same. Can you believe it; he wants to take work as a common laborer, and my
father is willing to settle an allowance on us, as he says I should not lack
for anything I desire. Yet Dag refuses it. That is madness, no?”

“Well,” Marcus
hesitated, “it is a matter of pride. Dag does not wish to take what he has not
earned. It is a point of honor with him.”

“Pride?”
Fanchon exclaimed. “What of
my
pride? Do you think I wish my husband to
be a common laborer when my father owns one of the finest estates in the land?
Our vineyards produce wine that merchants buy throughout the Empire! Why should
Dag want to abase himself so and shame me? I will not allow it!”

And Fanchon
abruptly rose from the grass and stalked into the house.

The time had
come to leave Gaudereaux. They had not lingered long this time, as they had in
the spring: the sooner they left the better for all, Marcus felt.

Fanchon would
not be joining them. She chose to stay behind in Gaudereaux and resume her old
status as the daughter of the house where she would pick up her former life. She
had given Dag the choice of renouncing his pledge to Dominio to remain with
her, or leaving her to serve Dominio if he refused to comply with her wishes.
Dag was immovable, and now the two were no longer betrothed.

It had been a
mistake, Fanchon said, one of those foolish infatuations that sometimes spring
up in a moment and die just as quickly, no? Or so she reasoned.

Dag, however,
viewed the matter in a different light. The angry mob and sentence of death
pronounced on him in Trekur Lende combined with the return to her home had
proved too much for Fanchon to bear. She was like a butterfly, he said, and
butterflies are not made for hard times. It was for the best to find that out
now, and let her go to live her life in her own way.

But that way
was not the way of Alexandros, Felix remarked to Marcus. In his eyes Fanchon
had fallen away from the truth and returned to her old habits. She could not
resist temptation. Marcus agreed, but felt that sooner or later Dag and Fanchon
would have encountered stormy seas. They were far too different to have found
lasting happiness unless each was willing to change for the other. And that had
not happened. Fanchon could not endure the rugged isolation of Trekur Lende,
and Dag would not become a pampered son-in-law who did not earn his keep. Nor
would he renounce Dominio so Fanchon could live without fear and have the
freedom to indulge in her folly. It was for the best, Marcus thought.

A complication
had arisen with the defection of Fanchon from their little troop. Kyrene
insisted she could not continue with the others because as a lone woman in a
group of men her reputation would be tarnished. Marcus and Felix considered the
truth of this and tried to think of a solution to their dilemma. For not only
did they genuinely wish to retain Kyrene’s companionship, they still needed her
guidance and mentoring.

Surprisingly,
a solution to their problem was provided by Fanchon. She had discussed it at
length with her parents, she said, and they agreed to give Elena to Kyrene as a
lady’s maid. It would be a gift to them for taking such good care of Fanchon on
the journey.

Kyrene was
appalled at being given another human being as casually as if she were
presented with a doll. Not wishing to offend, she agreed to take Elena with her
only on condition that it agreed with Elena, and if she could pay her wages as
a freewoman, and not a slave.

Pascal and
Gaelle were taken aback, but after consultation with Elena they agreed to
Kyrene’s terms. They granted the slave girl a certificate of manumission,
proclaiming her freedom, and bade her goodbye.

Elena could
scarcely believe her good fortune, and was eager to begin the journey. For the
friends had been kind to her, always thanking her for services rendered, and
calling her by her name. Marcus was relieved that Kyrene would now continue
with them, for Xenon had sent her with them to be a spiritual guide.

Now they were
at the pier of the city preparing to embark in their small boat. They had said
their farewells to Fanchon’s parents at the villa, but Fanchon insisted on
seeing them off at the river. Marcus wished she would have stayed at home.

One by one she
bade them adieux, hugging Kyrene, tousling Cort’s curls, shaking hands with
Marcus and Felix, coolly inclining her head to her former slave Elena. When she
came to Dag, she drew a shaky breath, but made no move to touch him. Her blue
eyes suddenly filled and she clapped a hand to her mouth; then steadied herself
with visible difficulty.

“Goodbye,
Dag,” she whispered softly.

Dag said
nothing. He stood tall and straight before her, and gave her a long, unblinking
look, as if memorizing her features and every strand of her golden hair. He
nodded briefly, and turned from her to the boat.

“Goodbye,
goodbye!” Fanchon cried to them all. Then with a burst of tears she picked up
the hem of her robe and ran from their sight.

She was gone.

They cast the
rope from the pier and let the River take them. Dag continued to gaze at the
empty shore, but said nothing. Marcus longed to say a word that would ease the
great man’s pain. He opened his mouth, but Dag stopped him with a lift of his
heavy hand.

“It is done,”
he said. “We will speak of her no more, if you please.”

Beyond the
Pillars of Petruchios where the sea broadens to the full scope of True Ocean,
lay a region so fair and yet perilous that sailors spoke of it in whispered
awe. It was, so they said, of such depth it could not be measured by even the
longest of their ropes. The waters were of the clear, clean blue of the
sapphire stone, dark and dazzling. Yet they held hidden dangers; whales that
might suddenly sound from the deep and burst upon an unsuspecting vessel. And the
Cherak, though rarely sighted at the surface, occasionally surprised the unwary
sailor who couldn’t resist the temptation of a brief swim while the ship lay at
anchor. An encounter with such a creature usually resulted in death or
dismemberment. If his shrieks of pain and terror were heard by his fellow
sailors, they were frequently answered with paralyzed immobility as they
abandoned the man to his fate.

For what, they
reasoned among themselves, could they do to defend a man against such a
fearsome creature? Five times the size of a man, with an impenetrable hide,
that their spears seemed ineffective against, and a mouth that could swallow a
man whole, with teeth as long as a man’s finger, that could crush and grind a
man to death. The only help they could offer was to throw their spears from the
shelter of the boat, and offer the unfortunate victim a rope to climb back
aboard; provided he had an arm left after the attack.

But the peril
that all sailors feared most of all was that of a narrow stretch of water that
lay in the Belt of Dracomache in the Argyros Pontos, or the Silver Sea. Like
quicksilver it could change from a glassy surface smooth with serenity to waves
rippled by squally storms that blew up without warning. The ancients who first
traversed this stretch of water dubbed it thus, because they claimed that the
mighty Dragon who lived at the bottom of the world lay in wait for the
unsuspecting ships that entered its lair, that it might devour all those on
board.

Here, it made
war on those who trespassed on its domain. It rose up with a mighty heave,
flinging towering waves to crash over the decks of a ship. Its breaths of fire
were unleashed as bolts of lightning that seared those hapless enough to be in
its path. Its cries of outrage hurled booming thunder over the water in a
deafening roar. The lashing of its tail threw water cascading upward, only to
fall back on the sea in a torrent of blinding rain.

No captain
willingly entered this fabled stretch of sea. The prudent avoided it; the
heedless or uninitiated paid for it with the loss of ships and human lives.

It was to this
stormy belt of water that the little band of companions now headed.

Soon after
their departure from Gaudereaux, it became painfully clear that their small
boat would be no match for the ocean they must cross to reach Valerium. A
council was held among them: Dag, Cort, and Elena argued to board a larger
vessel, taking their small craft along to be used when they left the true
ocean.

Marcus, Felix,
and Kyrene questioned whether in doing so they would be disobeying the
instruction of Xenon, who advised them to let the River Zoe take them where it
would. Felix was gradually won over by the reasoning of Dag and Cort, who spoke
of ocean currents and waves that their little boat could not withstand. Marcus
and Kyrene, realizing that they were in the minority, gave way to the others,
albeit with foreboding in their hearts.

“Know this,”
Marcus announced. “If we disobey the instructions given us by Xenon, we place
ourselves outside the protection of Dominio. For to go our own way is to test
Him, and my heart misgives me in this action.”

Kyrene nodded
her head in agreement, but to no avail. The others were adamant on boarding a
larger vessel, so they booked passage on a ship that was headed for Valerium.
It was this craft that now found itself heading into the Silver Sea.

Marcus paced
the deck, a feeling of restlessness heavy on his spirit. The heat was intense,
the air dense with moisture, and a haze lay on the horizon. Whether it was due
to the sultry air or the defection of Fanchon from their ranks, he could not
say, yet all were somewhat fractious of temper, and sharp words had passed
between the usually placid Dag and cheerful Felix.

Marcus
reflected on the events of the past few weeks. It was more than a fortnight
since they left Fanchon in Gaudereaux. Her decision to stay in her native land
and return to her old life was not a choice that truly surprised Marcus. From
the day in Trekur Lende when he saw the dismay on her face at the first sight
of her future home he had both expected yet dreaded the break with Dag. For how
could such a frivolous creature so enamored of merriment possibly adapt to the
harsh environs of the northern forest?

Yet how could
one even as strong as Dag bear the defection of his love twice in one lifetime?
Dag, so it seemed, had a deadly desire for lighthearted damsels who led him a
dance. If Fanchon was like a fragile butterfly, in some respects Dag was like
the moth that could not resist the flame of her gaiety. And like the moth, his
wings had been singed. Would he, Marcus wondered, ever find the courage to love
a third time?

Marcus
confessed himself curious regarding the friction between Dag and Felix. Had
Fanchon been the cause? She had always irritated both Marcus and Felix, of that
there was no doubt. Her aimless prattle and endless running commentary on every
new experience of their journey only served to make Marcus long for Tullia,
with her quiet dignity and pleasant conversation.

And what now,
of Tullia? If Urbanus was to be truly believed, she was all but betrothed to
Decimus Hadrianus. Marcus pondered; he knew nothing of Decimus, a stranger to
him. When he last visited Lycenium with his parents three summers ago, a
different man had been Governor. What of this Decimus? Was he a good man? Would
he truly love and care for Tullia, as he, Marcus did? As for himself Marcus
realized he would always love Tullia, to the day he drew his last breath he
would love her. He would give himself to no other woman. Whether Tullia would
have him or not, his heart belonged to her.

The sound of
approaching steps roused him from his musings. Felix rounded the corner of the
deck and waved a greeting as he came into view. He joined Marcus at the rail
and together they gazed at the expanse of water in companionable silence.

Marcus noted
the beads of sweat on the brow of his friend. His own robe seemed plastered to
his body, as though he had jumped fully clothed into a fountain and emerged
saturated. In truth, the oppressive air drained him of all vitality, so that
even conversation was an effort.

Not even in
the Desert of Dubar had he experienced such heat. For there the air was burning
yet dry, as if one had stepped into a kiln. But this hot humidity brought to
his mind the steam chambers at the baths; wet, heavy, and suffocating. How
Marcus longed for a breeze to cool his body down! But the air did not stir, and
the ship had lain idle for two days.

“The Captain
tells me we are near the Belt of Dracomache, and there we will have stormy seas,
if we are so unlucky as to enter those waters,” Felix remarked.

“What is the
Belt of Dracomache?” Marcus inquired, grateful that Felix did not first comment
on the heat. He abhorred unnecessary remarks on the obvious, and appreciated
anew the intelligence of his friend.

“The Belt of
Dracomache,” Felix solemnly intoned with a wicked sparkle in his eye, “belongs
to the dreaded, feared, loathsome Dragon who lives at the bottom of the world.
She wages war on all who enter her domain, and wreaks her revenge by sending
their ships to the ocean’s floor. She floods the decks, as she rises; she
singes the sails with her breath of fiery lightning. She is fierce, mighty, and
feasts on the bones of her foes!” Felix shuddered in mock horror. “Or so I have
been informed,” he chuckled as he shrugged one shoulder.

“What is the
logical cause for such storms?” Marcus asked, as he raised one brow in his
skepticism.

“I know not,”
Felix admitted. “Currents? Hot air masses? I would venture that this heat is
key to the nature of such a tempest, and is the fault of no dragon.”

“Watch your
words, young Master!” the Captain warned as he came up behind them.

So quiet was
his approach, and so entertained was Marcus by Felix’s droll commentary that
neither had heard his step.

“I have heard
too many tales of the Dragon’s vengeance to mock her, nor scorn her power,” the
Captain continued. “Why just two summers ago a ship sailed by one of my oldest
boon companions was lost in these very waters we are so perilously near. More
than one hundred souls there were on board that vessel, and all of them lost,
sent to the depths of the sea by the terrible beast.”

He closed his
eyes and shuddered as he let out a sigh.

“I would not
willingly enter the Dragon’s domain for all the treasure of all the kingdoms of
the world. Yet if this drifting takes us into the current we will be powerless
to save ourselves.”

“Current, you
say?” Felix snatched at the word. “Then there
is
a logical explanation
for the ferocity of these tempests you told me of.”

“No, young
Master,” the Captain vehemently denied. “It is the wrath of the Dragon and no
mistake. You see, many, many years ago, before there was a Valeriun Empire, a
great tragedy befell the Dragon. She had a child, a baby who loved to play and
be amused. How he relished flying over the sea, watching the whales and the
dolphins sporting in the waves.

“Then, one
fateful day, it spied a ship, a sight it had never beheld til now, and it
joyfully flew over the mast to explore this new creature.

“The lookout,
however, raised the alarm at the sight of the dragon, young though it was. The
captain and the crew rushed onto the deck, and with one well-aimed arrow
brought the creature down.

“Great was the
relief on the ship, but greater still was the grief of the baby’s mother. With
a cry of outrage she rose from her bed on the ocean floor and took her
vengeance. Towering waves announced her coming as she ascended to the surface.
The lashing of her enormous tail sent the water spiraling to the heavens, and
returned as torrents of rain that blinded the eyes, leaving the ship without a
guide to steer her.

“But most
dreaded of all was her voice. She roared in a spate of fury and it thundered
across the sea, striking terror into the hearts of those who heard it. She
breathed her vapor on the mast, setting it afire with the scorching as of a
bolt of lightning. And then, she waited; waited for the ship to break up and
sink to the bottom. And there, she lay in wait, to feast on the flesh of those
who had taken the life of her child, her vengeance complete.”

The Captain
lowered his voice on those last words and closed his eyes.

“When the air
is heavy and day is hot,

To enter the
Dragon’s Belt you dare not.

For she wreaks
her vengeance upon her foes,

From her rage
and grasp so ruthless none goes.

She rises in
fury out of the waves,

Sending the
sailors to watery graves.

All the
unlucky are seized in her hold,

Ending the
days of the valiant bold.”

“So you see,
young Masters,” he continued as he opened his eyes once more, “it would not be
wise to cross the Dragon.”