Dreams to Nightmares

  “Have you ever watched the blossoms cascading from the cherry trees? It is breathtaking.

  Why is something so beautiful always so fleeting?”

  — Unknown handmaiden to the Imperial Consort, after an evening in the gardens, 517 I.C.

  With the formalities complete and the Magi-King seated, the emperor rose once more and bid his guests to feast and dance.

  As if a curtain of silence had been lifted, the bards and entertainers throughout the great hall sprang back into motion. The din of laughter, music, and clinking goblets resumed with vigor. Cooks hurried about behind the scenes while servers emerged in waves, balancing heaping platters of steaming delicacies, delivering them to every corner of the vast ballroom.

  Conversation blossomed all around. The air filled with echoes of celebration and political undertones.

  Biaun caught snippets of nearby chatter as he sat quietly, nursing a cup of spiced wine. Kings Oran Quinn and Sherard Worthington were locked in a particularly dull exchange regarding the spring floods—something about sandbag levies and redirected irrigation. From the sound of it, both monarchs had taken great precautions, and Biaun found himself stifling a sigh.

  It was always the same. When regional royalty left their domains, the burden of stewardship fell to royal wizards and the nearest high-ranking noble houses. An endless wheel of bureaucracy and crisis management. That, he decided for the hundredth time, was a world he wanted no part of.

  HHis gaze drifted across the grand ballroom.

  The occupants were astoundingly varied. Nobles of every shape and stripe filled the space, each clinging to their traditions—bejeweled robes, tailored uniforms, and dyed silks catching the golden light of the chandeliers. Biaun counted at least half a dozen dukes, three viscounts, and more than a few merchants masquerading as aristocrats, their coin purses fat enough to buy illusion if not legitimacy.

  Near the eastern wall, a cluster of long tables had been pushed together to accommodate the gladiators who had competed in the tournament.

  To his mild surprise, most looked none the worse for wear despite the ferocity of the day’s contests. Calix was among them, wrapped in fresh white bandages but laughing heartily, one arm slung around a towering mug of the emperor’s best ale. Beside him sat Ricardo, the young Shock Warrior who had faced Portean earlier, as well as Barth Aisley, Dreng Fairfax, and a half-dozen other seasoned fighters from across the realm.

  Bruised and bandaged though they were, the gladiators appeared in high spirits, trading boasts and jests over drink. When Biaun’s gaze passed over them, several looked up and—through ale-slowed limbs and slurred solemnity—saluted him as grandly as they could manage.

  The knight smirked and raised his goblet in return.

  He briefly entertained the idea of asking Ean to assign them a week of early morning drills—perhaps stable mucking duty or latrine detail—just to see how their bravado fared after dawn reveille. But he chuckled to himself. Few of them even belonged to the military anymore. Besides, they’d earned their celebration in bruises.

  Over his shoulder, the dance floor had begun to fill. The music had shifted into a more melodic rhythm, and the elegant, patterned movements of nobles in their finest silks gave the floor the air of choreographed grace. Nearby, wealthy merchants mingled freely with lords and ladies, spinning polished tales and gesturing toward samples of their wares with well-practiced charm.

  It was no secret that the Festival of New Spring was as much about commerce as it was about celebration. In truth, more coin changed hands this day than any other in the year. Deals were struck, contracts signed, futures secured—or dashed. For many, the Festival served as the economic launchpad of the season. A single handshake could make or break a business for the year to come.

  There were many powerful noble families living in Jerrico, and a simple glance around the room revealed more than a few engaged with merchants, dancing with their peers, or even joining the bards with their own instruments.

  To name just a few, Clay Derebourne and his only son, Ash, sat near the dance floor, looking as haughty and self-satisfied as ever. Biaun had never seen eye to eye with Clay. Though the two had only met a handful of times, the knight had always sensed an unusual—and unprovoked—hostility from the man.

  Sharing the same table sat Ove’s parents, Grant and Carey MacGillavray, along with their only other child, Bryan. Beside them, occupying the last section of the table, were the Dinsmores—Neil and his son, Nelson. Though the Dinsmores were an ancient family by blood, they were newly established in Jerrico. After Carey had married into the MacGillavray line some thirty-odd years ago, her brother Neil had expanded their father’s horse business and settled on the city’s outskirts. His wife, Morna, had died seventeen years prior, giving birth to Nelson.

  Feeling the weight of so many people and the tangled web of their histories pressing in around him, Biaun blanched. But he knew it wouldn’t be proper to leave just yet. So, he resigned himself to the present, half-listening as his large friend, Captain Ogrebane, launched into yet another wildly inappropriate tale—one hand gesturing broadly, the other polishing his newly won medallion.

  As he sat there, quietly trying to determine how much of the captain’s glorified tale was true—and how much had been modestly enhanced—Biaun’s gaze drifted to the small boy seated next to him.

  It was remarkable how much the little warrior reminded him of himself at that age. His own childhood had been one long stretch of drills, mock battles, and what amounted to military boot camps. The memory drew a faint smile from the estranged knight as he recalled how unsettled his father had been when Biaun, at just sixteen, finally bested the then Captain-of-Arms in a spar. He’d been on the verge of beginning his training in the Order.

  Those years in the Obsidian Order had been chaotic at best—grueling, unpredictable, often thankless. And yet, looking back, Biaun supposed they’d been worth it. Without them, he doubted he’d ever have been appointed Captain-of-Arms.

  The emperor hadn’t cared much for him in those early years, but over time a strong mutual respect had formed. In the seasons that followed his promotion, that respect had quietly deepened into something more. Now, the two regarded each other as dear friends. The knight shook his head, half-amused. Life had a strange way of twisting things into shape.

  A gentle tap on his shoulder pulled him from thought.

  Turning, he saw that the diminutive Waewulf had approached. The boy glanced quickly over his shoulder, ensuring his mother was still lost in the rhythm of the dance floor. Then, with all the seriousness of a general on the eve of war, he launched into an interrogation—demanding to know the best course of action should one come across a dark troll in the lower corridors of the palace.

  Biaun’s lips twitched with amusement, but he did not allow himself the laugh.

  Instead, he summoned Ean with a quick gesture, and the three brave warriors gathered, leaning in with heads bowed in solemn conference. Together, they began to formulate a plan to rid the royal corridors of their unseen foe.

  Trolls, after all, waited for no man.

  Their strategy session lasted only as long as the ballad the musicians played. Waewulf, ever mindful, returned to his seat before his mother could find him huddled with the two veterans. But not before promising a late-night visit to finish what they had started. After all, he reasoned, if dark trolls ever did raid the palace, he’d need a proper battle plan.

  Another hour passed, and Biaun was finally ready to take his leave of the palace when his worst fears began to materialize.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the unmistakable movement of a particular blue dress—the one he had been praying not to see all evening. The time for avoiding her had long since passed, and had Thera been alone, he might have been able to escape under the pretense of a sudden and dreadful headache.

  But Thera was not alone.

  Standing beside her was none other than Caroline Faulk, Queen of Iden—and, as far as Biaun was concerned, the reigning “royal pain in the ass.”

  Schooling his expression into pleasant neutrality, the knight stood and bowed deeply, taking each of their proffered hands and brushing them lightly with his lips.

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  Thera wore a deep blue evening dress adorned with silver buttons and black lace. Her long black hair cascaded past her shoulders, nearly to the small of her back. She had delicate features, a thin, elegant face, and deep brown eyes that—if one weren’t careful—could drive a man to madness.

  Caroline, the very picture of prim and proper, wore a long black gown powdered with silver dust. Her hair, the same dark shade as Thera’s, had been pinned into a tight, elegant bun. Their resemblance was uncanny.

  A perfect portrait of mother and daughter, Biaun thought grimly.

  Just what he bloody well needed.

  “Why, Thera,” the knight began as he stepped back, “it was my utmost hope to see you this evening. You look positively beautiful.”

  Then, with practiced grace, he turned to the queen.

  “Caroline, so good to see you again. I trust your journey was a pleasant one?”

  As her lips parted to reply, Biaun couldn’t help but think of a wolf preparing to devour its kill. A faint shiver crept down his spine.

  Realizing he was drifting, he gave a polite nod and remarked how fortunate the empire was to have her and Ailbert as monarchs of Iden. But before the words had fully settled, the queen had already turned and drifted away toward the emperor and empress.

  He hadn’t expected her to linger.

  She hadn’t come to greet him at all. That had been a warning. A quiet reminder that if he dared to hurt her daughter, she would find a way to repay him tenfold.

  Women, Biaun thought darkly. There is absolutely no way to understand them.

  His gaze shifted toward Ove and Ean, and he found himself wondering what made her so different—what had led the fiery-haired lieutenant to pick up a sword instead of the manipulative tools Queen Caroline wielded so naturally.

  Maybe, he mused, she just prefers physically beating my large friend instead of browbeating him.

  A tap on his shoulder pulled him from the thought.

  He turned to find the princess of Iden eying him like a fish in a bowl.

  “Sir knight, is all well with you?” Thera asked, one of her slender hands coming to rest lightly on his forehead. A series of high-pitched clucks escaped her lips as if she were examining a child with fever.

  “Hmm, you do seem a trifle hot,” she said, lips twitching with amusement. “But with all the activity in this ballroom, I suppose we’re all warmer than is entirely comfortable.”

  Hiding his annoyance, Biaun reached up and gently removed her hand from his forehead.

  “I assure you, Thera, I am in top physical shape. But should I come down with something, I’ll run straight to a priest as soon as humanly possible.”

  The young woman eyed him curiously for a moment longer, then—without a word—took the decidedly healthy knight by the arm and led him toward the dance floor.

  The ballad playing was slow, one of the more popular melodies in the empire over the past few years. And so, feeling vaguely like a fool, Biaun summoned his best smile and pretended—as convincingly as he could—that there was nowhere in the world he’d rather be.

  Despite the fact that Thera was dancing far too close for his comfort, he eventually found himself enjoying the sweeping movements and gentle whirls of the dance. He’d never admit it aloud, but there was something satisfying about the precision and rhythm of it all.

  Some might laugh at the idea, but Biaun was convinced that many of the forms used in combat had been borrowed from dances—or perhaps it was the other way around.

  Absurd as the notion might seem, there were undeniable parallels. Both demanded control, grace, and timing. As a general rule, those trained in the art of war made surprisingly elegant dancers.

  Only the performers who studied dance as a discipline—actors, courtiers, and stage-trained artists—could outmatch the gruff warrior’s skill.

  The minstrels brought their tune to a gentle close, and the young princess seized the moment to slip her arm through Biaun’s and begin the conversation he’d been dreading all evening.

  “Biaun,” she said coyly, gazing up at him with those undeniably beautiful brown eyes, “I assume you received my letter. And I trust you know that, though years have passed and many suitors have come to my father’s door asking for my hand, my heart has remained yours alone.”

  The knight shifted uncomfortably and began to clear his throat, but Thera raised a delicate finger, signaling she wished to finish.

  “Just think of it,” she said, voice drifting dreamily. “You and I, living together in that grand mansion of yours—with Carrigan’s help, of course.”

  Her eyes went misty as she imagined the life, but in the seconds that followed, she noticed Biaun’s complexion had shifted—from a light red to ash gray.

  “Sir knight,” she asked gently, “have I said something wrong?”

  Biaun’s stomach churned. He shook his head sadly.

  “Excuse me, dear Thera… you do not know. Carrigan passed away rather suddenly last night.”

  His stone fa?ade settled back into place, and his voice flattened. Each word was spoken with careful detachment, as if distance could somehow dull the ache. He found it strange—how he could accept the death of a comrade on the battlefield with a salute and a bowed head, but couldn’t quite bring himself to grieve for the man who had brought him tea on cold mornings and scolded him when he forgot to eat.

  Perhaps it was because, in truth, Carrigan had been more than a servant. He had been the grandfather Biaun never knew.

  There were things he’d shared with that old man—shameful things, complicated things—that he would never have dared speak aloud to anyone else. Carrigan had never judged. He’d simply listened. Helped, when he could. Cursed the knight when necessary.

  Yes, Biaun thought grimly, Carrigan had been one of only two people who truly knew him. He hadn’t lost a manservant.

  He’d lost family. A friend.

  Thera watched him compassionately, standing in quiet, stoic thought. One of her small hands came to rest on his broad chest, and her eyes met his with unexpected tenderness.

  “I’m sorry, Biaun,” she said softly, a twinge of regret in her voice. “I know how much he meant to you. Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Snapping from his unexpected bout of sorrow, Biaun mustered a pleasant smile and offered a gentle shake of his head. “I’m fine,” he said, though the words felt heavier than usual.

  He turned, intending to lead her back to the tables and away from the dance floor. But Thera held her ground.

  “Just one dance?” she pouted.

  He sighed—softly, but with the resignation of a man who knew he’d lost this particular battle—and allowed himself to be swept back into motion as the musicians struck up a livelier tune.

  To his dismay, the new ballad was fast-paced and full of energy.

  The evening stretched on, and the wolfish knight, convinced he’d never break free of the tireless young princess, resigned himself to his fate. Each whirl and turn seemed to sap a little more of his will—until, at last, a playful slap on the shoulder snapped him from his misery.

  He turned to find the grinning elven ranger, Portean of Vistadora.

  Mischief danced in the elf’s eyes as he bowed deeply to Thera, one arm swept behind him in an exaggerated, bent-knee flourish. Standing beside the light-footed warrior was Aehyl, nervously adjusting the folds of her emerald green dress and clearly uncomfortable with having been dragged to the dance floor.

  Her gaze flicked up toward Biaun, as if silently pleading for rescue.

  The sight of her stole the hardened warrior’s breath. In his effort to refocus—on anything, anyone, anywhere else—he completely tuned out whatever it was Portean had just said.

  Realizing too late that he had no idea what the elf had asked—but not wanting to risk further awkwardness—Biaun nodded dumbly, hoping it was the correct response.

  Apparently, it was.

  Looking satisfied, Portean turned to Thera and extended his hand. With a delighted laugh, she accepted, and the two swept away onto the floor, leaving Biaun blinking, dumbfounded by how quickly he had been replaced.

  His first instinct was to make a hasty escape toward the staircase.

  But then a velvet-soft hand slipped into his own.

  “Sir knight,” came Aehyl’s voice—quiet, melodic, and impossibly steady, “I believe Portean wished for us to share a dance.”

  She looked up at him, brown eyes meeting his with such gentleness that it sent a fresh fog through his mind. He nodded again—still dumbly—and let her guide him onto the floor, though it felt like he was the one leading.

  The slow waltz played by the minstrels faded from his awareness, as did the laughter and the murmurs that had, moments ago, seemed to crowd in on all sides. Now, he was floating.

  Floating with an angel who smiled shyly in his arms.

  He could neither speak nor think. And for one of those rare, fragile moments in life, Biaun allowed himself to feel.

  Her scent lingered close—fresh and earthy, like the air after a spring rain in the woods.

  The pounding of his heart was astonishing. He flushed, briefly fearing she might somehow sense it, but to his relief, Aehyl seemed preoccupied too. Besides the occasional furtive glance, she was just as focused on avoiding his eyes as he was on avoiding hers.

  Yet the knight could not help but marvel at the grace with which she moved. Her frame was slight, her body supple yet strong—like wind through branches, or a dancer forged by the wild itself.

  Glancing around in a heavy daze, the knight spotted Ean and Ove beside him, laughing playfully with one another. Somehow, the large Captain-of-Arms kept his bulk from ever seeming clumsy.

  Melchan and Trina had once again joined the dance, accompanied by Talose and his latest partner. How many does that make now? Biaun wondered absently.

  Portean and Thera were close by, and if the knight hadn’t known better, he’d have wagered the princess of Iden was quickly forgetting all about him. A smirk tugged at Biaun’s lips—he couldn’t help but pity the unknowing elf.

  A roar of laughter erupted nearby, drawing his attention to the drunken ex-con, Calix Carcer, and the wiry mercenary, Dreng Fairfax. The two were dancing with reckless abandon, punctuating their steps with huge gulps of thick ale.

  As the music shifted into a faster tempo, they matched it—linking arms, skipping in wide circles before switching directions again and inevitably collapsing into a tangled heap on the floor.

  “They’re drunk, no?” Aehyl piped up questioningly, her eyes sparkling as she watched the two men with a wide grin.

  “I haven’t spent much time with humans,” she added thoughtfully, “but it looks like your warriors act much the same as ours when they’re celebrating.”

  A giggle shook through her slender frame, and Biaun felt his knees go weak once more. He found it increasingly difficult to look away from the enchanting young elf.

  “Yes,” he agreed, blushing. “Your elven wine seems to have much the same effect on soldiers as our ale. And dwarven spirits among their people, for that matter.” He added the last offhandedly, recalling the usually gruff dwarves wildly dancing in their cavern halls.

  “So you’ve been to Iron Stone?” Aehyl asked, her musical voice tinged with genuine interest.

  “Aye,” the knight confirmed. “The dwarven folk are not so different from others, just more secluded. Still, what they lack in overt friendliness, they make up for in sincerity.”

  She looked up at him curiously but didn’t voice the question that clearly lingered in her mind.

  “It’s good that they enjoy the night,” Biaun said softly. “Soon we may very well ask them to die for us.”

  His voice grew heavy, and the she-elf’s brow furrowed with concern. Shaking his head, he forced a smile. “I’m sorry. Tonight is not a night to think of war.”

  He was about to launch into the faster-paced tune the minstrels had picked up when the world around him exploded into chaos.