this day?”
“Sit down,” the prince said. “We must talk, and there is not much time.” When the young man had settled himself, Kaliq said without preamble, “You are not the son of Vartan of the Fiacre. You are my son, although you mother is unaware of this.” To the prince’s surprise Dillon smiled.
“Thank you,” Dillon said. “I have suspected as much for several years now, but I dared not speak until you did. As much as I love my mother and my grandmother, it was unlikely that the powers I possess came just from the faerie side of my heritage. They are far too strong, and grow stronger. But why do you tell me this now, my lord? Something has changed. What is it?”
“The great star we call Belmair is another world, Dillon. And you are to be king of that world. Even now its old king lies dying. It is your fate to take his place and to wed his daughter. Belmair is protected by a Great Dragon. Her name is Nidhug, and she has trained the sorceress of Belmair in some of the same arts as I have tutored you. We will speak more on this later this evening, but for now you must come with me to catch the last breath of the old king, and then marry his daughter immediately. There is not much time left.”
Dillon swallowed hard. “Does my mother know of this?” he asked.
“No,” Kaliq said. “I lost track of time, my son, and did not realize Fflergant’s death was so close. Come!” The prince flung open his great white cape, and Dillon obediently stepped inside of it.
As the cloak swirled around the two men, Dillon said, “You might have given me a bit more warning, my lord father. What if I don’t like the girl?”
“She already hates you-” the prince chuckled “-for she would be queen of Belmair in her own right. Beware of her until you have won her over.” He tossed the garment open once again.
Dillon found himself in a square chamber that was softly lit. On one wall was a throne in which a frail old man half sat, half reclined. A young girl, frozen in position, stood near him. On the other side of the throne was a very small dragon, equally still.
“I have frozen time briefly,” the prince explained. “The girl is called Cinnia. The dragon Nidhug uses her magic to keep her size small while she is in the company of people. When you become friends she will allow you to see her in all her glory. She is quite magnificent, Dillon, and very wise. It was her decision that you be Belmair’s next king, for it is her duty to make the choice. Trust her. She will be your ally.” He waved his hand gently once again, and the chamber came to life.
Cinnia gasped.
“Cinnia, sorceress of Belmair, I bring you my son, Dillon, sorcerer of the Shadows. Will you have him as your husband?” Prince Kaliq asked.
Cinnia nodded, glancing quickly at the handsome stranger.
“Speak the words,” Nidhug said softly.
“I, Cinnia, sorceress of Belmair, accept Dillon of the Shadows for my husband, and for my king,” the girl said aloud.
“Fflergant, King of Belmair, will you accept Dillon of the Shadows as your successor and as the new king of Belmair?” Nidhug asked the old man.
“I do!” he cried loudly with the last of his strength.
Six grains of purple sand remained in the glass.
“Dillon of the Shadows,” Nidhug said, “do you accept the crown of Belmair, and all it entails?”
“I do,” Dillon answered.
“Will you have Cinnia, the sorceress of Belmair, as your wife?”
“I will,” Dillon replied. He had hardly even looked at the girl.
“Then take the last breath of Fflergant as he breathes it,” the dragon replied. “As he, and all the kings of Belmair have taken the last breath of those who preceded them.”
Dillon stepped up on the dais containing the throne. The old man’s eyes were closed now. Dillon bent down, and opening his mouth took the old king’s last breaths into his body as Fflergant breathed them.
As the sound echoed throughout the room the old king suddenly faded away, leaving the chair empty. The sand in the glass next to the throne turned silver, and then it, too, disappeared. And then suddenly the top of the life glass was filled so full with a new supply of purple sand that no grains were able to begin dropping right away.
Cinnia began to cry. Dillon went to her and attempted to comfort her, but she pushed him away angrily. “Leave me be. My father is dead, and I am wed to a stranger.”
“You are a stranger to me, too,” Dillon reminded her.
“But your father is not dead!” Cinnia sobbed.
“Nay, but until today I thought he was,” Dillon said.
Startled Cinnia stopped weeping, and looked at him. “What do you mean?” she asked him.
Dillon smiled. “It is a tale for another day, lady. Now we must mourn the good man who was your father. Tell me of your traditions so we may follow them.”
“We have none where death is concerned for at death our bodies simply evaporate here on Belmair. Even the life glass of the king has refilled itself with the death of my father. If we go into the Hall of the Kings now we will find a marble bust of Fflergant in the place designated for it. There will be a new empty alcove waiting for you when your reign comes to an end,” Cinnia explained. She wiped her eyes. “We do not celebrate death here in Belmair. We celebrate life. My father was a good king. He will be remembered as such, but he is gone. No further mention will be made of him.”
Dillon nodded. “Thank you for explaining that to me,” he said quietly.
“Nidhug and I will leave you two to become acquainted,” Kaliq said. “I will rejoin you for the meal later.” Then, taking the arm of the dragon, the Shadow Prince walked from the small throne room.
“I am twenty-two,” Dillon said when they were alone.
“I am seventeen,” Cinnia responded.
With a wave of his hand he conjured a perfect white rose, and offered it to her.
Cinnia glared at the rose, and it withered and disappeared in a puff of smoke.
“Surely you do not mean to make a puerile attempt to woo me?” she said scornfully.
“Considering that we do not know one another yet are wed, aye, I was attempting to make a small effort on your behalf,” Dillon responded. And he held out his hand to her. From his fingers hung a beautiful necklace of green stones that matched her eyes.
Cinnia sniffed, pointed a finger and the necklace shattered into dust.
A kitten appeared in his outstretched palm.
She hissed, and it turned into a writhing viper.
Dillon flung the viper into the air, and they were showered with a burst of pink snowflakes.
Cinnia laughed aloud and he grinned back at her. Then she grew solemn. “It isn’t you, my lord. I am simply angry at this turn of events.”
“You wished to be queen of Belmair in your own right,” Dillon said quietly.
“Yes!”
“But tradition dictates Belmair be ruled only by a king,” he continued.
Cinnia nodded. “It isn’t fair! I am the sorceress of Belmair, and I would be a good queen to my people. There was no males available from the ducal families, and then Nidhug said I must marry a Hetarian and he would be the new king. Hetarians are an anathema on Belmair.”
“Why?” Dillon asked her, and he drew her down onto the dais’s steps where they might sit comfortably while they spoke.
“Aeons ago, those we now call Hetarians were citizens of Belmair,” Cinnia began.
“But certain of them grew overly proud. They began to question our traditions and the authority of the king. They wanted to make changes that went against our ways. The king then, his name was Flann, gathered up the troublemakers one spring night. They were placed in an enormous bubble and sent to your world, which is the star we call Hetar. This history is taught to every child born here. Bad children are threatened by their mothers who tell
