Rise of the Dragons by Morgan Rice Page B

had the task
of defending him, even if it was unmerited. A part of Duncan was not surprised
the King had surrendered—but he was surprised at how quickly it had all fallen
apart. All the great knights scattered to the wind, all returning to their own
houses, with no king left to rule and all the power ceded to Pandesia. It had
stripped lawfulness and had turned their Kingdom, once so peaceful, into a
breeding ground for crime and discontent. It was no longer safe to even travel
the roads, once so safe, outside of strongholds.
    Hours passed, and as the meal wound
down, food was taken away and mugs of ale refreshed. Duncan grabbed several
chocolates and ate them, relishing them, as trays of Winter Moon delicacies
were brought to the table. Mugs of royal chocolate were passed around, covered
in the fresh cream of goats, and Duncan, head spinning from drink and needing
to focus, took one in his hands and savored its warmth. He drank it all at
once, the warmth spreading through his belly. The snow raged outside, stronger
with each moment, and jesters played games, bards told stories, musicians
offered interludes, and the night went on and on, all oblivious to the weather.
It was a tradition on Winter Moon to feast past midnight, to welcome the winter
as one would a friend. Keeping the tradition properly, as legend went, meant
the winter would not last as long.
    Duncan, despite himself, finally looked
over and saw Kyra; she sat there, disconsolate, looking down, as if alone. She
had not changed from her warrior’s clothes, as he had commanded; for a moment,
his anger flared up, but then he decided to let it go. He could see she was upset,
too; she, like he, felt things too deeply.
    Duncan decided it was time to make peace
with her, to at least console her if he could not agree with her, and he was
about to rise in his chair and go to her—when suddenly, the great doors of the
banquet hall burst open.
    A visitor hurried into the room, a small
man in luxurious furs heralding another land, his hair and cloak covered in
snow, and he was escorted by attendants to the banquet table. Duncan was
surprised to receive a visitor this late in the night, especially in this
storm, and as the man removed his cloak, Duncan noted he wore the purple and
yellow of Andros. He had come, Duncan realized, all the way from the capital, a
good three-day ride.
    Visitors had been arriving throughout
the night, but none this late, and none from Andros. Seeing those colors made
Duncan think of the old king, of better days.
    The room quieted as the visitor stood
before his seat and bowed his head graciously to Duncan, waiting to be invited
to sit.
    “Forgive me, my lord,” he said. “I meant
to arrive sooner. The snow prevented that, I’m afraid. I mean you no
disrespect.”
    Duncan nodded.
    “I am no lord,” Duncan corrected, “but a
mere commander. And we are all equals here, high and low-born, men and women.
All visitors are welcome, whatever hour they arrive.”
    The visitor nodded graciously and was
about to sit, when Duncan raised a palm.
    “Our tradition holds for visitors from
far away be given an honored seat. Come, sit near me.”
    The visitor, surprised, nodded
graciously and the attendants led him, a thin, short man with gaunt cheeks and
eyes, perhaps in his forties but appearing much older, to a seat near Duncan.
Duncan examined him and detected anxiety in his eyes; the man appeared to be
too on-edge for a visitor in holiday cheer. Something, he knew, was wrong.
    The visitor sat, head down, eyes
averted, and as the room slowly fell back into cheer, the man gulped down the
bowl of soup and chocolate put before him, slurping it down with a big piece of
bread, clearly famished.
    “Tell me,” Duncan said as soon as the
man finished, anxious to know more, “what news do you bring from the capital?”
    The visitor slowly pushed away his bowl
and looked down, unwilling to meet Duncan’s eyes. The table quieted, seeing the
grim look on his