would depart. A guardsman greeted him politely as he stepped out onto the flat surface of the battlements. “The dragon isn’t here?” he said, surprised after Ferrex’s warning.
“She comes now, Your Majesty,” the guardsman said, pointing a loft.
And there in the skies between the two castles, Nidhug, the great guardian dragon of Belmair, soared in all her glory. He marveled at her size, and that she could reduce it to something more manageable in order to deal with the Belmairans. He felt like a pixie when she set down upon the castle’s roof. The guardsman hurried to place the long ladder kept for this purpose against Nidhug. Without a word Dillon climbed up the ladder, settling himself in the small but comfortable pocket on Nidhug’s back.
The guardsman removed the ladder, and the dragon rose slowly into the morning skies, the rising sun touching her gold-lace wings so that they reflected themselves onto the earth below. It was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen, Dillon thought from the safety of his dragon’s nest.
“Good morning, Nidhug!” he called to her.
“Good morrow, Your Majesty,” she answered. “We shall shortly be out over the sea, and you might wish to contemplate just what you will say to the dukes. I am certain you had no time last night to consider it, for it was late when our meeting broke up.”
“Can you tell me about Dreng?” Dillon asked Nidhug.
“A good man, not overly intelligent, but ambitious. As you know he was disappointed when you were chosen to be Belmair’s king. It put an end to his ambitions in that direction. But he is a loyal man,” the dragon said as she flew.
“And the others?” Dillon inquired.
“Tullio of Beldane is an intellectual. He is apt to examine an issue a bit too closely and a bit too long, but he always comes to the right decision. Alban of Belia is a good fellow. Intelligent, and with a fine sense of humor. You will probably like him the best of the three on closer acquaintance,” Nidhug informed Dillon. “Now settle yourself down, my lord. We have a ways to go.”
Dillon took the dragon’s advice. He closed his eyes and contemplated how he would approach Belmair’s dukes. Each would require a different approach if he was to gain their trust and cooperation quickly. Now that the Yafir knew that the king of Belmair was aware of their existence, who knew what mischief they would create. He wanted to make peace with them. He wanted to trust them. But had too many centuries passed for the breach between them to be healed? Only time would tell him the answer. He knew that he could destroy the Yafir if he had to, but the destruction of an entire faerie race would weigh heavily upon his conscience. He smiled to himself. Another tiny bit of his mortal blood showing, Dillon thought. Faeries did not have such troublesome traits as a conscience. He was not certain it was an integral part of his Shadow blood, either. He hoped there was a way to pacify the Yafir, but he also knew that sometimes no matter how hard one tried, peace could not be gained by any other method than force. He wondered if a time would ever come when that rule no longer held.
He was surprised when he heard Nidhug announce, “There is Beltran on the horizon now, Majesty.”
Looking in the direction in which they traveled he watched as the faint smudged line ahead of them grew larger and more distinct as they moved steadily toward it. Eventually he could see that the land rolled gently, and was heavily forested. And on the highest hill in the exact center of Beltran was a large building in the shape of a quadrangle, which, as Nidhug was making directly for it, Dillon assumed was the home of Duke Dreng, lord of Beltran. As they grew closer and began their descent he could see what appeared to be tiny figures, who grew larger with each passing minute, running about the courtyard of the building, pointing up.
As they landed Nidhug called out, “Fetch a ladder, for King Dillon is with me!”
Hearing this there was a great rush for the requested ladder, but Dillon noted that one servant separated himself from the others, and dashed madly into the building. The young king smiled, amused. He wondered if Dreng could reach the courtyard before he had climbed down from Nidhug’s back. The ladder was brought, and Dillon pushed himself from the small passenger pouch on the dragon’s back and climbed slowly down its rungs. Reaching the bottom, he turned to find a red-faced Duke Dreng awaiting him.
“Welcome to Beltran, Your Majesty!” the duke greeted Dillon, holding out his big, rough hand. “We were not expecting you. No messenger was received in advance of your arrival.” Dreng sounded slightly out of breath as if he had been running. He was a stocky man with a balding head on top although the rest of his hair was shoulder length.
“The matter that brings me to Beltran, and will also take me to Beldane and Belia, is of such importance, my lord, that I wasted no time in coming. This is not an official or a state visit. Belmair is in grave danger, and I will want the aid of my dukes in solving the problems that lie ahead of us,” Dillon said gravely as he shook the duke’s hand.
Dreng’s look was immediately concerned. “Come in, come in then, Your Majesty!” he said. “Whatever help I may render is yours.” The duke led Dillon into his home. A pretty woman came forward, and Dreng introduced her. “This is Amata, my wife. My dear, the king.”
Amata curtseyed deeply. “You are most welcome to Beltran, Your Majesty,” she said, smiling. “Your presence honors us.”
Raising Amata up Dillon kissed her on both of her cheeks. “Your hospitality honors me,” he replied in return.
“I have ordered that the Great Dragon be fed and offered a place to rest after your long journey,” Amata said.
“Thank you,” Dillon replied with a smile.
“My dear, the king and I have important business to discuss,” Dreng said. “We will be in my library, and should not be disturbed.” Without a further word he led Dillon down a wide hall with windows on one side, and into a comfortable library. “Sit down, Your Majesty. Let me get us some wine.” He quickly poured two goblets, and then joined the king by the hearth.
“I will not waste your time,” Dillon began. “Do you recall a legend about a faerie race called the Yafir, and their banishment from Belmair aeons ago?”
“Hmm,” Dreng said. “A faerie race? It was not taught in our history of Belmair when I was a lad. And they were banished from Belmair? For what reason? Is it of import to us, Majesty? Why?”
“How many young women have been stolen from Beltran this year?”
The duke considered a long moment, and then he said, “I should have to consult with the Committee for Missing Maidens, Majesty, but I can tell you that one of my granddaughters, Namia, is among them. She was only fourteen, and as fair a maid as you could imagine. Why do you ask?”
“Do you know how many marriages have been celebrated in Beltran this year?” Dillon pursued the issue further.
“Again, Majesty, I should have to consult with the Keeper of Marriage Records,” the duke said. “But there have surely been few as our young women keep disappearing.”
“King Napier IX of Belmair banished the Yafir because they dared to ask for one hundred marriageable maidens each new year. The Yafir are a small group, and they had few women. Their women were dying off or past their childbearing years. If they were to survive they needed brides for their men. But King Napier IX refused them, and told them they must leave Belmair. For him, and for the citizens of Belmair, that was the end of it,” Dillon explained to his host.
“King Napier IX was right to refuse to give our women to a faerie race,” Dreng said, completely forgetting the new king’s bloodline.
Dillon smiled sardonically. To remind this duke of just who his king was would only embarrass him, and possibly even make an enemy of him. He was trying to bring peace to Belmair, not open hostilities on another front. Pushing his own anger at the duke’s stupidity aside, he said, “Perhaps the Yafir should have applied to other faerie races for wives, but they did not. Nor did they depart Belmair. They took the women they needed for wives from among the Belmairans, and are here among us to this day,” Dillon informed Dreng. “It is the Yafir who have been stealing Belmair’s maidens.”
Dreng’s square jaw dropped open at this revelation. “
“My uncle made a summoning spell and brought their leader, Ahura Mazda, to my castle where we spoke. He admits to stealing Belmair’s women over the centuries that have past. He has said he intends to keep on doing it.
