I:I
Celia’s Homecoming
Princess Celia eyed the castle gate warily. Nervousness
stole over her and she tightened her grip on Beatrice’s hand. Before her stood
her home: Castle Dragonfell. Ancient, beautiful, and imposing, with its white
towers and tall battlements, it stood proudly against the cold of the morning
winter light.
She missed this place, she realized. When she was younger, she knew no other
world outside the castle walls. The gardens smelled sweet of birch and roses
and firs that would bloom brightly in the spring, while the warm fires of the
giant firepits of the grand dining halls would keep her warm while she
overheard the cooking maids gossip. When she dressed in disguise three months
ago and followed her father’s van under Beatrice’s care, it was her first view
of the world. The streets of Dragonfell, what little she saw, were teamed with
people cheering the train of Dragonfell as they gallantly galloped forth from
the gates of the castle, her father leading the way with his sword outstretched
and his banner held high.
Her return home was quite different. The people were on the verge of
riots—starving, poor, and filled with trepidation over the constant skirmishes
amongst the minor houses, it felt as if the staring eyes of the populace could
cut into her heart and blame her for all the misfortunes that had befallen
them.
She grew with the belief that her father would change things. She grew up
believing in the purity of the heart of Westra and her people. She grew up with
the image of brave knights, generous nobility, and honest folk. Reality had
twisted this image to the point of numbness in her head, and as she looked upon
the gates of Dragonfell, she realized all too well that she had not, in fact,
returned home.
The gates opened wide with a groan and creak. Two Dragonguard stood at
attention on either side, their splendid regalia and armor still pristine in
the light of the sun. The portcullis of the outer wall was open and the stone
bridge of Kalab, spanning the cliff that separated the city of Dragonfell from
the castle, greeted her view before a jolt pushed her back to her seat in the
cabin. As Beatrice’s carriage crossed the bridge, Celia craned her neck to see
the once-familiar sight of the valley below through the window of the cab.
Guardian’s Valley, they called it, for it served as a natural barrier for any
would-be attackers against the might of Dragonfell. Trees, she saw, dotted the
brown carpet of grass, moist and weakened from new fallen snow. The castle
itself, perched on a shelf that was hewn smartly from the mountainside, stood
proudly at attention. Somewhere far off, Celia heard some herald yell a garbled
command before the inner gates opened outward for the carriage. More
Dragonguard, Ser Ester and the legendary Ser Simon, stood protectively at the
entrance, eyeing the Conrath wagon. Ser Simon’s stare seemed to linger on Celia
for a moment.
“Shae, get away from the window,” Beatrice quietly commanded.
Celia obediently returned to her cushion and looked down with her accustomed
blank expression. A great weight that once was not set upon her shoulders
seemed to return as soon as they entered the gates. Beatrice noticed this
change over Celia but, before she could say something, the carriage door had
opened and a young porter had set the step stool down for his lady.
“Greetings, m’lady,” a strong baritone voice intoned.
“Good morning, Lord Valnor,” she took the hand Valnor extended to her then
politely curtsied. “I am honored that my lord has greeted me personally.”
“Bah! I have not grown accustomed to that awful title. It’d do better, I think
there, if you just addressed me as ‘Ser’, even as you always had.”
The slightest tug of a smile wrested at Beatrice’s lips. “Yes, of course Ser
Valnor.”
Celia quietly stepped out of the carriage and took her usual place behind
Beatrice, meekly hiding in the folds of her dress for protection.
Valnor didn’t seem to take notice of Celia. “Come, then. There is much drinking
to be had and much discussion to be made!”
“To be sure, good Ser.” The thought of Valnor, some ale, and her in the same
room definitely did not hold any appeal for Beatrice. More urgently, however,
she had to hide Princess Celia before anyone could possibly recognize her. “But
the trip has tired me and my company greatly. Perhaps we could retire to our
quarters first and recuperate.”
“Fine, fine, then. But don’t take too long with yer’ nappin’, Maid Tellman.
There’s more going on here than I’d care to shake a sword at (mind ye’, that’s
saying a lot). I’ll need you before sundown. And Jaden too, when he gets here.”
“I’ll send him when he arrives,” Beatrice assured him.
“See that you do, then. See that you do.” Valnor’s usually humored face
possessed itself of a slight change just then, and the first signs of worry
seem to overshadow his eyes. It was the first time that Beatrice had ever seen
Valnor as such. Drunk, flirty, and always boisterous, Valnor certainly had a
way of making a show of himself. However, since Lord Dante’s tragic death one
month ago, Valnor (and the whole Conrath family for that matter) had been,
understandably, very out of sorts. It wouldn’t surprise Beatrice if Lord
Valnor’s eager suggestion of drink and talk was just a great show to hide the
pain that he must bearing.
They exchanged a few more token words of courtesy and small talk before Valnor
excused himself. Some advisors and guardsmen followed after him.
Beatrice was lost in thought for several minutes while walking to the Conrath
Quarter of the castle before she felt a tugging at her dress.
“M’lady?” Celia asked quietly.
“Yes, my dear?”
“Where is Master Jaden?”
“He’s—treating with Lady Algoth.”
“Shana?”
“Yes, dear. And be careful when you talk of her. Remember: she’s not supposed
to be here,” Beatrice said softly.
“Yes, milady.”
The two of them, followed by servants carrying their bags, walked onward in
silence.