The Dragon Whisperer Read online

  'The knights' hall,' Quenelda told Root. A minstrels' gallery ran along its length, and bright heraldic banners and shields hung from the high rafters; white granite statues of previous kings and queens lined the walls. Great fires blazed at either end and the candelabra were so bright and numerous it was like an explosion of daylight. To Root, more used to the stinking tallow candles in the roosts, the effect was breathtaking.

  The Earl motioned for Quenelda and Root to hurry off and take their places in the arena, then moved on up the hall, followed by his household knights.

  Root looked around with a sense of bewildered excitement. 'Where's he going?' he asked.

  'To wait upon the Queen, of course!' Quenelda could not keep the pride from her voice. 'As Queen's Champion, Papa will escort her to the joust.'

  Root stood on tiptoe, trying to catch a glimpse of the young Queen, but his view was blocked by a group of well-fed merchants, who were discussing the coming jousts with enthusiasm.

  'Oh, no!' one declared. 'DeWinter might be attending, but I assure you he won't be taking to the jousting lists. Take my word for it, he's been wounded. Badly, I heard say. Look! Look at that limp. Got it at the Battle of Howling Glen, a fine victory! Put your money on Lassiter instead. He's not been beaten this year.'

  'I don't agree,' an elderly merchant protested. 'Lassiter took a tumble against the Black Prince at Tantallon Castle. Put your money on St John Belrack! That dragon of his, Marking Time – a fine filly if there ever was one ...'

  'I heard,' came a hushed voice, 'that our esteemed Grand Master has entered a dragon.' There were furtive looks towards the throne, where the Grand Master was bending down to listen to the Queen. 'Been down the paddocks to take a look at the black stallion of his that he's been boasting about. The one that won last week down in the Border Marches. Never seen a dragon like it.' The merchants leaned forward to hear. 'Ugly, mean-looking brute – looks like it's been in a fight or two with its roostmates. Always experimenting with breeding dragons, he is ...'

  'Well, I shall put my money on that beast,' a courtier declared. 'The Grand Master rarely loses. With the Earl injured, your money's safe with him.'

  'Pssst,' Quenelda hissed, grabbing Root's elbow pulling him towards the door. 'What are you doing! Come on! We have to get there before the Queen. That's royal protocol. The Queen has her own private passages through the castle. It will take us much longer.'

  Root allowed Quenelda to lead him along another crowded stone-flagged corridor and up a twisting staircase to the jousting arena. They stepped out onto a wide stone gallery, and Quenelda beckoned him forward. Standing on tiptoe, Root looked down onto the oval jousting arena, tier upon tier of seats falling steeply away below him. He had never seen anything like it. It was vast beyond imagining! The sounds and scents and sights were intoxicating!

  'They call it "the Cauldron",' Quenelda said softly beside him.

  'Newt and toad!' Root breathed, awestruck, blinking owlishly at the coloured brilliance all around him.

  The crowd was now reaching capacity; many of the best seats had been filled even before dawn. Despite that, raucous crowds were still streaming in through the tiered white arches, pushing and shoving until the very last seat was taken.

  Root whistled.

  'Impressive, isn't it?' Quenelda grinned, pleased at his reaction.

  At either end of the oval arena stood a great oak, taller than any Root had ever seen. At the top of each trunk the tree divided into a crown of many branches. Wooden platforms were set about the bole, and at the tops of branches.

  Quenelda followed his gaze. 'Jousting lists for the dragons,' she explained. And far below stretched the great silver ropes of spiderdragon webbing, light as a feather yet stronger than steel, designed to catch the fallen and safely funnel them down to the sawdust floor.

  Suddenly there were courtiers and knights of the Queen's retinue coming in behind them in twos and threes, chatting, discussing the merits of different dragons, exchanging bets. Quenelda pulled Root to one side, to stand behind her chair. Darcy accompanied by Armelia and two of his friends swaggered in; he was rebelliously still wearing the dashing uniform of the Unicorn Cavalry. They took one look at Quenelda, uncomfortably trussed up in her skirts, and broke into unkind laughter. When it seemed to Root as if the gallery could barely hold another person, two pages lifted great mammoth-horns to their lips. Their challenges boomed around the arena, the noise echoing, vibrating through the stone of the castle, making Quenelda's toes tingle.

  There was movement behind, and then the Queen was there, with the Earl on her right, the Grand Master to her left, and her constable, Sir Gharad Mowbray, behind her; suddenly the courtiers were all bowing or sinking into graceful curtsies. Quenelda, unused to her dress, half bowed and half curtsied, raising muted laughter from the accomplished courtiers. Darcy and Armelia exchanged loud contemptuous remarks as Quenelda's face flamed hot with embarrassment. But one warning look from his father silenced Darcy, whose face flushed in turn.

  As the Queen stepped forward to wave at the crowds, Root stole a glance at her. Her face was in profile, and although he had never seen her before, her determined look, the jut of her jaw, the elegant sweep of brows and high cheekbones seemed somehow familiar.

  Everyone in the Seven Sea Kingdoms knew the story of how, when she was barely fifteen and a princess, the King, her father, her two brothers and the SDS Commander, the Earl Wilder DeWinter, had all died at the bloody Battle of the Salmon Trap on the Isle of Midges, wiped out by an overwhelming force of seven hobgoblin banners. With her mother long since dead, Caitlin became the youngest Queen in living memory, her inheritance guaranteed and guarded by the loyalty of the SDS and its new young commander, the Earl Rufus.

  Dressed in cream brocade robes stitched with gold beneath a heavy fur-lined cloak, she wore her long blonde hair netted with fine threads of spun silver, inset with tiny diamonds. Waving one last time, she returned to her throne, wrapping her furs around her; the royal joust had begun.

  The Earl, seated at the Queen's right shoulder, nodded to her high steward, who raised his staff.

  At his signal a trumpet sounded. As Root watched, wide-eyed, three dozen dragons swooped down into the arena from all points of the compass, to a mass roar of approval. Flying around the stands, crisscrossing the vast bowl of the Cauldron in leisurely fashion, they then gave a great show of high-speed aerial manoeuvring to impress the crowds.

  'If you want to see the dragons close up,' Quenelda shouted in Root's ear, 'then you can go to the parade paddock out by the practice lists. The esquires walk the dragons around before they're saddled and armoured so that everyone can judge them before gambling on the outcome. Though not all the dragons are here – some that are highly strung are only brought in when it's their turn at the lists.'

  Root was riveted. The knights wore engraved jousting armour of many colours, beneath helmets crested with fantastical heraldic creatures. The dragons were also armoured, to protect them from injury by the jousting lances. On top of their armour they also wore brightly coloured caparisons stitched with the colours and coats of arms of their knights. Around the arena heralds in royal tabards called out all the jousters' names and titles, followed by the rules of the tournament. Then those dragons chosen to open the competition flew to the lower lists of the jousting trees, where their esquires waited for them, bearing shields and brightly garlanded jousting lances.

  'And now,' the herald in the royal box declared, his voice sucked up by the mammoth-horn and expelled so that it boomed around the stadium, 'for your entertainment – in the blue list: Sir Rannoch Hamilton flying Thundering Tornado Talonthrust the Second. In the red list, challenging him: Sir Stelton Quandry flying Starstruck Highland Wanderer.'

  Two dragons took off from the list trees. Slowly they flew once more around the arena, allowing the crowds a closer look at them before alighting on the small dragonpad in front of the royal gallery. Raising their gauntleted fists to their chest, the contestan
ts saluted the Queen after the fashion of the SDS. One of the dragons stretched out her long neck to consider Quenelda with unblinking green eyes.

  Greetings, Starstruck Highland Wanderer, Quenelda said. May the wind always sail under your wings.

  Greetings, Dancing with Dragons, the dragon responded, her forked tongue flicking towards the girl. Abandoning any pretence at dignity, the courtiers tumbled backwards as one. Even the men-at-arms bent backwards as far as they could without falling over.

  The Queen, with the Earl Rufus at her side, merely smiled, but the Grand Master's dark eyes turned thoughtfully to consider Quenelda. Observing the Queen's calm reaction, her embarrassed courtiers coughed, pretending their panic had merely been a jest.

  You are not of Dragonkind – your skin is not scaled ... you have no wings and no tail – yet you are not a Wingless One and you speak our language? The long red snout was softly blowing towards Quenelda like a warm spring breeze. By now Sir Stelton was red-faced and sweating with the effort of reining back his disobedient mount. Some courtiers were openly laughing.

  Have you not yet shed your first skin? the dragon enquired solicitously as her tongue flicked out again, searching for the tasty food tablets in Quenelda's flying belt.

  It has always been so, she responded, opening the pouch and stepping down to give the dragon a handful of tablets.

  Ah, so that was why the dragon was so interested! A ripple of amusement went round the gallery as the dragon greedily took the offered treats. Losing interest, the Grand Master turned away.

  And as you say, I have not shed my first skin. I only have eleven winters behind me.

  Farewell, then. May the wind always blow under your wings ...

  Farewell, Starstruck Highland Wanderer, may you soar to the stars ...

  Then the silent conversation was blown to one side as the crowd roared impatiently and the embarrassed young knight finally succeeded in turning his mount away. Behind Quenelda, the courtiers had regained their courage and were already placing bets in overloud voices.

  'I'll wager twenty golden guineas on Starstruck Highland Wanderer.'

  'Six to two on the red list!'

  'Twenty silver shillings on Tornado Talonthrust!'

  Root could hardly believe his ears. All around him small fortunes were changing hands – enough to keep a family for ten years or more. After listening for a moment, he leaned forward to whisper to Quenelda, 'Who do you think is going to win?'

  Without hesitation, Quenelda pointed to the small but powerfully built dragon already alighting on the left lists,

  'Sir Rannoch and Thundering Tornado Talonthrust. Sir Rannoch is a brave and accomplished jouster and his mare is also very experienced. They've fought in dozens of battles with the SDS. Sir Stelton is not so experienced – he's just seventeen – and Starstruck Highland Wanderer, as you saw, is young and headstrong and difficult to control.'

  Swiftly, Starstruck Highland Wanderer alighted on the highest platform on the opposite list, her young rider anxious to prove himself.

  'Each knight has three lances,' Quenelda explained to Root, whose mouth was still hanging open. 'Then, if both are still flying, they choose their own personal weapon. Papa always chooses a dragonmace.'

  Root shivered and wrapped his cloak tightly around himself. 'Don't they get killed? Or horribly wounded?'

  'They used to,' Quenelda admitted. 'Until recently they used battlefield weapons. But the Queen's father banned them because the SDS were losing too many young cadets before they even fought their first battle. The lances are blunt now, and both knights and dragons are heavily padded and armoured, so that rarely happens. The whole point is to test skills for the battlefield, to make them better fighters, so there's no honour in deliberately injuring an opponent. That's why the use of Battle Magic is banned too. It's too potent. It would cause casualties in the crowd. Wait ... they're about to begin.'

  The noise was becoming deafening. As it reached a crescendo, the high steward dropped the royal standard. A horn sounded and the dragons leaped out of the lists, coming together in the blink of an eye, brightly coloured lances catching on shields – and then they were past, throwing broken lances to the ground below. But to the crowd's disappointment, Sir Stelton was undragoned at the second tilt. Caught by the spiderdragon net, he bounced two or three times before being helped to his feet by stewards. His opponent landed and reached for his sword. But Sir Stelton's armour was badly dented. He tried lifting his sword but his arm was injured.

  'I yield,' he said reluctantly.

  The noisy crowd groaned; those who had betted on

  him reluctantly parted with their money. The herald blew a ringing note and announced the second combatants. Two fresh dragons flew around the arena.

  The hazy sun was finally swallowed by heavy clouds. Instantly it grew darker; the braziers around the lip of the arena now shone brightly. Snow as light and puffy as thistledown began to drift lazily down.

  'So' – Rufus DeWinter beckoned his daughter to his side as the two new combatants saluted the Queen – 'both knights are equally skilled at the lists. Which dragon would you put your money on, Goose?'

  Quenelda could hear some of the courtiers laughing indulgently, whispering amongst themselves behind her. As if such a young girl could know anything about dragons! Their elders smiled knowingly and waited to place their bets. But the Grand Master stepped forward to listen.

  'The Spotted Cobblethwaite' – Quenelda's eyes were narrowed with concentration – 'has good balance – strongly muscled – but he's carrying an old injury on the third finger of his right quipsom; it's healed but it's a weakness, and there's a hint of wing-droop too. Probably good for a quick knockout but I don't think he'd last a long contest, Papa.'

  People were listening now as the two dragons pranced on the platform. The younger courtiers looked amazed.

  'And the filly?'

  'Beautiful bones and well muscled. But wait!' Quenelda sensed pain radiating from the young dragon and stepped forward to the balustrade.

  A break? she asked the beautiful blue dragon who was turning away from the gallery.

  A break, Dancing with Dragons, the young Arabian confirmed. It is not yet mended ...

  'A broken upper rib.' Quenelda turned towards her father. 'And it hasn't been given time to mend properly. One hit to her peytral and she'll be down. She's been treated badly.' She was indignant. 'See where she's scarred by spurs? And ...'

  There was a mass exodus from the royal box as courtiers hastily changed their bets.

  The morning wore on, an exhausting blur of wings and steel. Falling steadily now, the snow began to eddy and swirl in the rising wind. Quenelda raised the hood of her fur-lined flying cloak. Teeth chattering, Root thought longingly of a bowl of hot barley broth. Darcy cursed and called for more wine. Having loudly derided his sister's opinions, he and his friends had lost a great deal betting on the losers. The Earl cursed the injury that prevented him from taking to the lists. The Grand Master debated the finer points of dragonmanship with the Queen.

  'I understand you have entered the young stallion we have heard so much about?' The Queen turned thoughtful eyes on him. 'They say he can't be beaten, Hugo; that you have bred yet another champion.'

  'Your Most Gracious Majesty' – the Grand Master bowed – 'is too generous. Midnight Madness is certainly one of a kind. He takes to the lists now.'

  The herald raised his voice. A hush fell. This was the battle the crowd had been waiting for. Quenelda, as curious as everyone else, raised her telescope towards the paddocks.

  'In the red list, from the stables of the Grand Master, Sir Hugo Mandrake, comes Midnight Madness, ridden by Duke Roger Grenville.' A cheer went up from the crowd: the Grand Master's dragons were always exciting to watch.

  Duke Grenville ... ? Quenelda frowned. Then a memory clicked into place. Second in command of the SDS at the time of her grandfather's death, the Duke had expected to be made Commander, but her father had been appointed inste
ad.

  The Grand Master grinned wolfishly at his friend, the Earl. 'Care to place a wager, Rufus?'

  The Earl smiled. 'Let's see his form first.'

  The Grand Master's dragon entered the arena for the first time. Powerfully built, he was the colour of a wet stormy night. As he swept up to the podium to allow the Duke to salute the Queen and his patron, Quenelda knew she had never seen a dragon quite like him. A memory eons old that was not her own shied away. The hairs along her arms stood on end, and she shivered with sudden premonition.

  The tall black-armoured Duke who rode Midnight Madness dipped his lance. His surcoat and his dragon's trapper were also black, on which the striking red adder of the Grand Master was quartered with the Grenville rampant lion, stitched in silver. The stallion wore only the lightest padded armour.

  Quenelda continued to stare at the dragon and felt another prickle of unease. What was it about this dragon that was unsettling her? She cautiously quested out to greet him, but met with a violent rebuff.

  Do not seek to play with me, little Wingless One. The angry dragon effortlessly batted her thoughts aside, as his talons struck the platform, gouging the wood. I have no time ... no time ... the hunt is on ...

  The hunt ... ? she echoed.

  'What is it?' Root whispered. Quenelda looked as if she had just been slapped in the face. 'What's wrong?'

  'I don't know.' She frowned. 'That dragon's thoughts are strange. It's as if he's in pain.' She lifted a hand and massaged her temples.

  'And riding a stallion from Dragonsdome's stud, Greenstone Gemstar, is Sir William de la Timber, of the Earl's household guard!' announced the herald.

  A second smaller dragon was flying around the arena as the crowd roared their approval. She was a bottle-green Moss dragon with white spines, bred not only for her agility but because she perfectly matched the de la Timber coat of arms of a green dragon emblazoned on white.