10. To Rise and To Fall
The Hesero watched the last few straggling two-legs round ears as they walked unsteadily from the battlefield. Today had been excellent, she thought. She loved watching human battles, hearing their clumsy war cries, looking at the pretty colours of their hard-metal-shell armour, seeing the huge variety of weapons they created to use against each other and revelling in the suspense of wondering which side would win. She loved feasting on the unsuspecting two-legs too, swooping on them from above and snatching them up. Now she was full, warm and contented. The only problem was, she was bored.
She roared loudly. Several small flappy feathery birds fluttered away, squawking and twittering with fear, but nothing else happened. She wished she still had her captive two-legs to entertain her.
At home, she had kept twelve tender young two-legs round-ears in a deep canyon, feeding them on whatever foodstuffs she could get hold of without being seen and eating those who annoyed her or grew too fat to resist. When she was not eating them, she had enjoyed watching them chatter and battle amongst themselves, finding them if they tried to hide from her and catching those who tried to escape. Her favourites had been the lean hatchlings with slightly more cunning than the others. Their escape attempts had amused her greatly, particularly when they had noticed her watching them and begun trying to hide, becoming clumsy in their fear. When she had ended up eating them, they had tasted wonderfully sweet, but with a hot mouth-tingling aftertaste.
A small male two-legs round ears with dark brown fur growing on its head was wandering around, his eyes glistening with the salty water produced by human fear, pain or the strange weakness which came over his kind in times of separation from their brethren. His form was wrapped in the brown and white skins of prancing four-legged creatures and very thin, disappointingly thin. With a soft sigh, she folded her wings and crept silently after him.
They continued in this way for several long hours. The Hesero could smell his fear and fatigue. As he slowed, his little legs beginning to tremble with the exertion of running for so long, she longed to reach out a paw to trip him and claim him, as she had so many others. She longed to hold him, subdue him and watch him grow big and round before she eventually devoured him, savouring his tender flesh, crunchy bones and warm coppery blood.
Suddenly, he stumbled, a cry of pain and fear escaping his lips. Delight coursed through her. Soon, so very soon, he would be all hers, she thought, raising a paw to grab him.
A roar reverberated around the arid plains. The Hesero caught a brief glimpse of something huge and black before her human was snatched up and vanished in a flurry of huge black scaly wings. Fury coursed through her and she took off, longing to tear apart the thieving beast that had robbed her of her sport and a meal for another day.
The boy clung tightly to his mysterious rescuer, his heart pounding. As he recovered his breath, he realized what he was riding on and his heart soared. A dragon, he thought, chills of excitement shooting through him. A real, live, powerfully magical, wiser-than-the-greatest-kings dragon!
The Hesero roared again, kicking up great clods of the hard earth in her fury. That big fire-breathing brute had just stolen her quarry! She beat her wings, trying to muster up the energy to pursue her enemy, but somehow she could not fly as quickly as she had before. Eventually, tired and angry, she settled on the earth, breathing heavily. One way or another, she told herself, she would get that human!
Shruikan soared forward on an updraft, feeling happier than he could remember feeling in a hundred and twenty years. He had escaped the big cold stone human dwelling-place and his hairless gold-horned oppressor. He had just saved a small innocent two-legs round ears from a black-and-white poisonous-flying Hesero, one of the greatest enemies of the scale-flapper race. The little two-legs had seemed glad to see him and very excited at the prospect of riding him. He was light too, due to his small size, and very gentle. He would make a fine friend, thought Shruikan.
Then a deep painful feeling arose in his heart, like growling-belly hunger, but worse, more intense. He longed for a friend, someone who could love him for who he was and not just his power. The mad gold-horned ruler did not love him. He knew that well enough, but was too angry at him to care. What he really wanted, what he craved more than anything else, was someone, even just one creature, who did not fear him or wish to use him for their own selfish ends.
The boy was stroking him gently now, talking to him. "Thank you for saving me from that thing," he murmured. "I am eternally in your debt, good sir." "You needn't be so formal with me, young one," Shruikan replied, his eyes roving over the now green earth, searching for a safe place to land and hide the young human. "I only did what was right."
A burst of hope rose in his mind, which seemed to race with new, hopeful thoughts. The human had barely known him for an hour, yet he seemed not to fear him, but to admire him. He had thanked him for saving him, had said he was good and even stroked him! While he hoped he would stop calling him sir soon, it was a fine start. If he could just keep him hidden for long enough, earn his trust and train him in the ancient arts of the fair, music-loving pointy-ears, he told himself he might gain a new Rider. He knew this was a very ambitious and risky plan, which the child might not want to be a part of, but it was nice to dream about it. As he landed gently in a valley surrounded by high rock-pile mountains, he hummed contentedly, enjoying his dream.
The gallows was surrounded by people, men women and children. Rich families leaned out of the windows of their rented rooms while poorer ones craned their necks and jostled to get a good view. Overhead, in the few trees the king had allowed to remain in his capital city, a group of ravens cawed loudly, as though shouting their grief and anger for all to hear. Other birds took up the cry and soon it was hard for anyone to hear each other over the noise. Everyone, including the smallest children, knew something both important and terrible was about to happen.
As the prisoners were marched out, a cry of mingled outrage, scorn, hatred, vindictive pleasure and grief rose up from the crowd. The guards flanking the men, women and children smiled cruelly beneath their black masks. At the head of the line was a tall slim man with sleek blonde hair and penetrating blue eyes.
Kemba jolted awake. Cold sweat was beading on his forehead and he felt himself trembling. That dream had been so real! The image of his father, going so blithely to his death, danced before his eyes like an insensitive court jester. He heard, as though he were a small boy again, standing on the balcony overlooking the surrounding villages with his father in one of their rare moments together, his deep, solemn voice as he had said "A son or daughter of the great Orum is repaid in the next life for what he or she has done. The good will be taken into the sun, to rise and fall with the world he governs. The bad will face death from above and fade into nothingness. One day, my son, I hope to become one with the sun and, later, to see you joined with me in this state."
"Kemba?" The soft voice of Ami broke the train of his thoughts and he turned towards her, feeling his body and thoughts slowly relax. Everything was all right, he told himself. He was a favourite of the king's. He was alive and well, in his ancestral home. Ami was here with him.
"Are you well, my Lord?" she asked, her long blue nightdress rippling as she moved closer to him. Kemba nodded, feeling tongue-tied as her soft voice and her scent, like the sweet, subtle aroma of freshly picked fruit overpowered him. How he loved her, he thought, feeling his racing heart begin to relax.
"Quite well, thank you," he finally managed to say. "Bad dreams?" she asked sympathetically. He nodded and saw her eyes fill with understanding.
"If you want talk of it, I here," she murmured. "Thank you," replied Kemba gratefully. It felt good to have someone with whom he could speak honestly without fear of his words being used against him.
Just then, there came a knock on the door. "Come in," Kemba said, slipping out of the bed. It would be unwise to remain in bed if any member of his family had come to see him.
The chamber door opened and Balaam ambled in. He had been a tall, striking man in his youth, with jet black hair and dark eyes, but the years had bent his body forward, so that he seemed to be hunched under the weight of the many burdens he had borne. His hair was grey, his skin thin and wrinkled. His lips were thin and pale and he seldom spoke. His black and white servant's uniform did nothing to improve his pallid appearance.
"Good morning, my Lord," he wheezed, bowing. "Good morning," replied Kemba, quickly hiding his relief at seeing his manservant. As the old man's eyes roved slowly over him, taking in every detail of his appearance, Kemba felt himself truly relax. Some things never changed, he thought, and Balaam's custom of searching those he encountered for the secrets their hearts might be hiding had remained unchanged for the last fifty years, if his father's stories were true.
"Will you be requiring a bath this morning, sir?" Balaam enquired. "Yes," replied Kemba, thinking of all the things he planned to do with Ami that day. "Very well, sir," replied Balaam. "I will see to it forthwith." Then he shuffled from the room, pausing in Kemba's outer chamber to lay out his clothes for the day.
Once he had gone, he turned back to Ami, who had begun to look quite wistful. "What are you thinking about?" he asked. "My family, my Lord," she replied, her voice quiet and controlled, but curiously emotional.
Kemba sighed, envy and something else battling in his mind. He had heard about her family many times; her hardworking tent-maker father, her brave shepherdess mother, her eight sisters and three brothers who worked tirelessly at their trades to support their nomadic family. At his request, Ami had told him stories of good times and bad ones she had shared with her family, often ending them with a murmured remark about how she would return to them or they would find her. It must be wonderful, he often thought, to have a family who cared so much for its members, regardless of their age, ability in any area, status or beliefs! Then he would push these thoughts aside. A descendant of Lord Ricardo had one mission in life; to rise and fall with the pendulum of politics and assist the kingdom to do the same, as was right and natural. He had no time for such sentimental luxuries as love.
Slowly, he turned his mind to the other feeling, a deep sadness in his heart. As he examined it further, he realized it was not his. He checked his mental barriers, in case the king was trying to possess him, as he sometimes did, but they were firmly in place, blocking his thoughts from any intruders.
Slowly he realized the feeling was somehow connected to Ami, but he knew she could not be contacting his mind, as she could not use magic. He could not feel any physical pain, yet the feeling was as painful to him as a dagger in his side. What on earth could be causing it, he wondered.
"It must be awful being away from those you love," he heard himself say. Ami looked up at him, her eyes filled with a deep gratitude. Why was that, wondered Kemba. He had only said a few words.
"Will I ever see them again?" she asked and for the first time Kemba saw how young and vulnerable she really was. A second later, his worry was replaced by admiration. She was so strong, he though, to cope with all the things she had been through. Not for the first time, he wished she were a lady of noble birth, so that he could marry her.
At that moment, Balaam returned. "Your bath is ready, my Lord," he informed him. "Thank you," responded Kemba, making his way from the room.
As he entered the bathroom, he found the bath full, steam rising from the water. With a sigh of contentment, he removed his nightshirt and slipped into the warm water, relishing the feeling of warmth on his cold skin. Whatever the rest of the day might bring, he was glad of this moment of relaxation.
His tranquil mood did not last long. A sharp pain in his leg brought him back to reality. Looking down, he saw a small copper-coloured creature, like a baby dragon with no wings in his bath water. Its tiny jaws were clenched around his leg, its sharp little teeth sinking like miniature knives into his flesh.
In one swift movement, he prized it off his leg. It shrieked and tried to bite his fingers, but Kemba quickly broke its neck, killing it instantly. Then he threw it from him, his mind racing.
He knew what the creature was. It was a Nidhwal, a very intelligent sea serpent related to dragons. According to the king, they were a scourge and a terror to sailors because of their perpetual hunger. This one must have been brought here by Henry or their mother, he realized. There was no way a sea-dwelling creature could reach this castle, it being so far away from the sea. One way or another, he decided, he was going to find out who had put it in his bath and pay them back.
"Kemba, my darling son!" cooed a voice as he was making his way to his study, having bandaged his leg with a torn-up cloak before dressing. He turned sharply and saw the short, thin form of his mother coming towards him. Her white hair was curled neatly, like the petals of a certain kind of delicate flower which blooms in the darkest months of winter, but Kemba knew she was anything but delicate or beautiful inside. She wore a blue and white dress threaded with gold, which made her look even paler and thinner than she already was. A silver shawl was draped over her bony shoulders and she shuffled as she walked in her soft black boots.
"Good morning, Mother," he responded coldly. Her ice-blue eyes travelled slowly over him, taking in every detail of his appearance, his tall, slender build, inherited from his father, his impassive expression and the clothes he wore, black pants, a crimson shirt, soft brown boots and a black cloak over his shoulders. Her gaze lingered for a moment on his leg, where the Nidhwal had bitten him and for a moment something flashed in her eyes, like anger or perhaps amusement. In that moment, Kemba realized she had put the creature in his bath.
His mother now took his hand in the usual gesture of affection after one of these incidents. Kemba took it and kissed it gently, then gazed into her eyes, waiting for whatever she might say. "I am tired, my son," she was saying. "Will you bring me some tea?" "Of course, Mother," replied Kemba in the soft, loving voice he reserved for his family between attempted killings, or tests, as they were called. Then he walked away, a surge of vindictive satisfaction rising in his heart. He had survived this time, thus passing the test, and now had a perfect way of getting revenge.
A few moments later, he was pouring boiling water into a teapot lined with tea leaves. As he did, smiling to himself as he thought of his plan, a small bottle on the shelf where the cook kept herbs caught his eye. A brilliant white substance lay inside. The label on the vial read: DANGER! Do not use on the elderly, the infirm or those with child. Improper use could cause death. After a moment's thought, he unscrewed the lid of the bottle and added a pinch of the glittering white powder.
A few moments later, carrying a tray bearing the teapot, his mother's gold cup and a plate of honey cakes, he made his way upstairs, his heart thumping with anticipation. From the passage above, he could hear Henry's enraged voice yelling, "I should go to the king! I'm the eldest! Why does Kemba get all the glory? He's just a stupid upstart with no prospects!"
His mother was sitting on an elegant couch when he entered her chamber. As he crossed the threshold, Henry sidled out, his expression sullen, reaching for a honey cake as he passed, only to receive a sharp slap from his brother. His mother laughed softly.
"Come hither, my boy," she crooned. Kemba obeyed and grabbed the teapot as she made to pour herself a cup of tea. "Allow me," he murmured, carefully pouring the hot brown liquid into the cup. "Thank you, my son," she crooned, lifting the cup to her lips. "Now go. The king wishes to see you."