Out of the Darkness

Skarnu took her arm. “Come on,” he said, and steered her toward the receiving line. “Time for the king to meet you.” That flustered her anew. He added, “Remember, this is why he invited you.”

Merkela nodded, but nervously. The line moved slowly, which gave her the chance to get back some of her composure. Even so, she squeezed Skarnu’s hand and whispered, “I don’t believe this is really happening.”

Before Skarnu could answer, the two of them stood before the king. Gainibu had aged more than the years that lay between now and the last time Skarnu saw him; the red veins in his nose said he’d pickled as well as aged. But his grip was firm as he clasped Skarnu’s hand, and he spoke clearly enough: “A pleasure, your Excellency. And your charming companion is--?”

“My fiancée, your Majesty,” Skarnu answered. “Merkela of Pavilosta.”

“Your Majesty,” Merkela whispered. Her curtsy was awkward, but it served.

“A pleasure to meet you, milady,” the king said, and raised her hand to his lips. “I’ve seen Skarnu’s sister at enough of these functions, but she was always with that Colonel Lurcanio. Some things can’t be helped. Still, this is better.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” Merkela said. She had her spirit back now, and looked around the Grand Hall as if to challenge anyone to say she didn’t belong there. No one did, of course, but anyone who tried would have been sorry.

Skarnu glanced back at Gainibu as he led Merkela away. Gainibu, plainly, had not had an easy time during the Algarvian occupation. Even so, he still remembered how to act like a king.

The dragon farm lay just outside a Yaninan village called Psinthos. Sleet blew into Count Sabrino’s face as he trudged toward the farmhouse where he’d rest till it was time to take his wing into the air and throw the dragonfliers at the Unkerlanters yet again. Mostly, the mud squelched under his boots, but it also had a gritty crunch that hadn’t been there a couple of days before.

It’s starting to freeze up and get hard, Sabrino thought. That’s not so good. It means better footing for behemoths, and that means King Swemmel’s soldiers will come nosing forward again. Things have been pretty quiet down here the last couple of days. Nothing wrong with that. I like quiet.

He opened the door to the farmhouse, then slammed it and barred it to keep the wind from ripping it out of his hands. Then he built up the fire, feeding it wood one of the dragon-handlers had cut. The wood was damp, and smoked when it burned. Sabrino didn’t much care. Maybe it’ll smother me, went through his mind. Who would care if it did? My wife might, a little. My mistress? He snorted. His mistress had left him for a younger man, only to discover the other fellow wasn’t so inclined to support her in the luxury to which she’d been accustomed.

Count Sabrino snorted again. I wish I could leave me for a younger man. He was nearer sixty than fifty; he’d fought as a footsoldier in the Six Years’ War more than a generation before. He’d started flying dragons because he didn’t want to get caught up once more in the great slaughters on the ground, of which he’d seen entirely too many in the last war. And so, in this war, he’d seen plenty of slaughters from the air. It was less of an improvement than he’d hoped.

Smoky or not, the fire was warm. Little by little, the chill began to leach out of Sabrino’s bones. Heading into the fourth winter of the war against Unkerlant. He shook his head in slow wonder. Who would have imagined that, back in the days when Mezentio of Algarve hurtled his army west against Swemmel? One kick and the whole rotten structure of Unkerlant would come crashing down. That was what the Algarvians had thought then. They’d learned some hard lessons since.

Joints clicking, Sabrino got to his feet. I had a flask somewhere. He thumped his forehead with the heel of his hand. I really am getting old if I can’t remember where. He snapped his fingers. “In the bedding--that’s right,” he said aloud, as if talking to himself weren’t another sign of too many years.

When he found the flask, it felt lighter than it should have. Of that he had no doubt whatever. If that dragon-handler gives me wood, I don’t suppose I can begrudge him a knock of spirits. He yanked out the stopper and poured down a knock himself. The spirits were Yaninan: anise-flavored and strong as a demon.