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Authors: Richard A. Knaak
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without revealing an intruder. Valea stepped farther into the chamber, studying each direction carefully.
She could still find nothing.
The enchantress at last exited. Her skills were not inconsiderable. It was possible that whomever she had heard had vanished immediately upon her entrance, but even Darkhorse, as formidable as he was, had alerted her senses just before his appearance. She should have felt something .
Frustration over so many other matters made her finally push aside the incident. Nothing had looked out of place. Perhaps her father had briefly returned to the library along with either her mother or Lord Gryphon. That seemed most reasonable, although it did strike her that if such was the case, surely they would have heard Darkhorse and come out to see why he had visited.
Once more she considered what next to do. Each time, Valea returned to the notion of journeying to that one place where she might find the information she sought. It would mean some risk, not only in regard to how her parents would react if they learned but also, in truth, to her life. He might be glad to see her, but those who surrounded him, assuming they learned of her visit, would not be pleased in the least.
She saw no choice. She would have to go see Kyl.
She would have to turn to the Dragon Emperor himself.
TALAK WAS A KINGDOM set south of the vast mountain chain separating the rest of the Dragonrealm from the chill desolation called the Northern Wastes. It was also a kingdom once thoroughly under the claws of the Gold Dragon. Yet, the last two decades had seen not only freedom from that long rule, but also a rise in prominence that put Talak on par with Penacles as a bastion of humanity’s growing influence.
However, that transformation had not come without a price. The previous king had been driven mad by his contact with the servants of the Gold Dragon and his heir, the current ruler, had, in his zealousness to avenge his father, become terribly maimed. For a time, it had appeared that he would follow his sire into insanity.
From a distance, King Melicard still looked to be a fit man for his years. Despite his hair, which was all but grey, he had the form and stance of the warrior he had been when forced to take the throne upon his father’s death. As he rode through the city toward the palace—the dozen men of his personal guard warily surveying the vicinity all the while—those on the streets who saw only his right profile recognized the weathered but determined visage that had begun to resemble his predecessor.
But for those on his left . . .
The crowds cheered as Melicard led his men toward the palace gates. He nodded to both sides equally, ever aware of the true position of a king among his subjects. Melicard ruled well and wisely and was the first to say that he did so because of his queen, chosen for him for political reasons but beloved by him for both her beauty and her heart. It was she who had drawn him from the brink, from the darkness that had overtaken him after not only his father’s loss . . . but also the loss of his arm and one side of his face.
The hand that gripped the reins was flesh and blood and well muscled. Scars ran across it, the scars of battles.
The hand that ever remained near the sword sheathed at hisside—a necessity with so many enemies, mostly drake, always seeking his death—was carved of wood .
Melicard adjusted his left hand, the fingers shifting the hilt so as to allow him a better grip on the weapon should the need arise. The fingers moved with almost as much grace and dexterity as those of any skilled warrior, though that had not been the case when first the false limb had been grafted onto his body. Then, it had moved more stiffly, although it had still moved. The arm had been carved from elfwood, a rare wood found only in a few places on all the continent. The cost to have the work on the arm done had been high.
And to re-create the face had cost even more.
Magic
She could still find nothing.
The enchantress at last exited. Her skills were not inconsiderable. It was possible that whomever she had heard had vanished immediately upon her entrance, but even Darkhorse, as formidable as he was, had alerted her senses just before his appearance. She should have felt something .
Frustration over so many other matters made her finally push aside the incident. Nothing had looked out of place. Perhaps her father had briefly returned to the library along with either her mother or Lord Gryphon. That seemed most reasonable, although it did strike her that if such was the case, surely they would have heard Darkhorse and come out to see why he had visited.
Once more she considered what next to do. Each time, Valea returned to the notion of journeying to that one place where she might find the information she sought. It would mean some risk, not only in regard to how her parents would react if they learned but also, in truth, to her life. He might be glad to see her, but those who surrounded him, assuming they learned of her visit, would not be pleased in the least.
She saw no choice. She would have to go see Kyl.
She would have to turn to the Dragon Emperor himself.
TALAK WAS A KINGDOM set south of the vast mountain chain separating the rest of the Dragonrealm from the chill desolation called the Northern Wastes. It was also a kingdom once thoroughly under the claws of the Gold Dragon. Yet, the last two decades had seen not only freedom from that long rule, but also a rise in prominence that put Talak on par with Penacles as a bastion of humanity’s growing influence.
However, that transformation had not come without a price. The previous king had been driven mad by his contact with the servants of the Gold Dragon and his heir, the current ruler, had, in his zealousness to avenge his father, become terribly maimed. For a time, it had appeared that he would follow his sire into insanity.
From a distance, King Melicard still looked to be a fit man for his years. Despite his hair, which was all but grey, he had the form and stance of the warrior he had been when forced to take the throne upon his father’s death. As he rode through the city toward the palace—the dozen men of his personal guard warily surveying the vicinity all the while—those on the streets who saw only his right profile recognized the weathered but determined visage that had begun to resemble his predecessor.
But for those on his left . . .
The crowds cheered as Melicard led his men toward the palace gates. He nodded to both sides equally, ever aware of the true position of a king among his subjects. Melicard ruled well and wisely and was the first to say that he did so because of his queen, chosen for him for political reasons but beloved by him for both her beauty and her heart. It was she who had drawn him from the brink, from the darkness that had overtaken him after not only his father’s loss . . . but also the loss of his arm and one side of his face.
The hand that gripped the reins was flesh and blood and well muscled. Scars ran across it, the scars of battles.
The hand that ever remained near the sword sheathed at hisside—a necessity with so many enemies, mostly drake, always seeking his death—was carved of wood .
Melicard adjusted his left hand, the fingers shifting the hilt so as to allow him a better grip on the weapon should the need arise. The fingers moved with almost as much grace and dexterity as those of any skilled warrior, though that had not been the case when first the false limb had been grafted onto his body. Then, it had moved more stiffly, although it had still moved. The arm had been carved from elfwood, a rare wood found only in a few places on all the continent. The cost to have the work on the arm done had been high.
And to re-create the face had cost even more.
Magic
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