Stephen Deas - The adamantine palace

Almiri ignored her. 'Have you noticed anything about Speaker Hyram?'

'Not really.' Jaslyn shrugged.

'Have yon noticed that he's not shaking or stuttering any more?'

Jaslyn glanced back at the speaker. 'Oh. Did he use to?'

'Little sister, do you notice anything?' Almiri laughed. 'Speaker Hyram has been slowly dying for this last year. Alchemists' disease. Do you know what that is?'

Jaslyn shook her head.

'It's what King Tyan's got. Take a look at him.'

'I know he's sick.'

'It starts with trembling and shaking. Over the years you slowly lose all your capabilities. Eventually you probably die, but generally people either starve because they can't feed themselves any more, or else their family sends them quietly on their way. King Tyan has had this disease for nearly a decade.' Almiri shook herself. 'Anyway, what I'm trying to tell you is that Speaker Hyram has been sick, but now he's better, and it's Queen Zafir who found him the cure. There are quite a lot of other whispers about Speaker Hyram and Queen Zafir too, so if I were you, I wouldn't say anything to his face.'

Jaslyn sniffed. 'Cheating is still cheating.'

Almiri grabbed Jaslyn's arm and squeezed it hard. 'Listen to me, little sister. You do nothing to annoy the speaker. You say nothing about Queen Zafir. Do you understand?'

'Why?'

'Because mother will tear off your head if you do. She's nervous. I haven't seen her like this for a very long time. She thinks Hyram might change his mind about who's going to be the next speaker.'

'But he can't.'

Almiri's grip tightened until it started to hurt. 'Yes he can. He's the speaker.'

'We have a pact!'

'Which can easily be broken.'

'But…'

Almiri let go. Her mouth twitched with amusement. 'Little Jaslyn, these are kings and queens, not your dragons. They don't simply do what you tell them.'

Kings and Queens

Hyram put down his cup and stood up. He looked around the immense ten-sided table at the kings and queens, the knights, the lords, the master alchemists, the priests. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt to young, so strong, so powerful. His head buzzed with Zafir's potions. They left him on edge, hyperactive, almost priapic, but they made the shaking go away, and the stutter – that was what mattered. He wore the Speaker's Robe and held the Speaker's Spear, and the weapon's power coursed through him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so strong.

Around the table the masters and mistresses of the nine realms interrupted their feast and gave him their attention, one dragon-king or -queen on each side of the table. Beside him on his side of the table sat Sirion, the loyal cousin who had inherited his crown and throne when he, Hyram, had become the speaker. On the tenth side, opposite him, sat the grand master alchemists and the dragon-priests who would anoint his successor. As expected, one side of the table was almost empty: the King of the Crags hadn't deigned to join them. No surprises there.

He banged his cup and cleared his throat. 'These words are said once every ten years. You will hear them today. Some of you have heard them before. Some of you have heard them twice or even three times. They are old words and wise words. They are not my words, but the words of all speakers, crafted and honed over the decades. You will hear them now, and then you will not hear them again for another ten years, so I beg you to listen and remember.' He looked around the table from face to face. Some were listening, some were simply pretending to listen. It didn't matter. His voice sounded strong, and he wondered if any of them could understand the simple joy of being able to speak again, to have the words come out of his mouth pure and fully formed, not wrecked and ruined by the twitching that used to plague him. In particular, he looked at King Tyan, his old friend and enemy. Now there was one king who wasn't listening. Tyan was asleep. Trembling a little, but mostly still.

Prince Jehal, sitting next to Tyan, caught Hyram's eye and cocked his head. Hyram bared his teeth and moved on.

'We keep histories of our dragons now.' He nodded towards the alchemists at the end of the table. 'We know when they were born, who was their sire and who was their dam. We breed them to our liking, but it was not always so. They were once wild creatures. We have no histories of them from that time. Not because there was no ink, nor because there were no books, but because they were all burned. There were no towns, no cities, not because there were no bricks and no mortar, but because they were all burned. There were kings and armies, perhaps, but they are forgotten, because they were all burned. We hid in the forests where the dragons couldn't reach us. We lived as the Outsiders live, filthy and starving.'

He let his eyes wander over their faces again, and then banged his cup on the table a second time. This time the kings and queens banged the table with him. 'That was before the alchemists came.' He raised his cup to the far end of the table, where Jeiros gave an embarrassed nod. 'Now the dragons are tamed and we are their fragile masters. You, Kings and Queens of the Nine Realms. You are their masters. You want for nothing and you answer to no one. Except…'

Now was the time. He took the Speaker's Ring, carved into the likeness of a sleeping dragon, from his finger and put it gently down. His finger felt strangely naked. Then he laid the adamantine spear beside it.

'Except to these,' he said. Strange. He'd dreamed of doing this so many times, and it had always felt like the end of his life, as though it was the only thing keeping him together. He'd take off the ring and put down the spear and feel himself immediately begin to fade. Yet now, when the moment was real, he felt lightheaded, as though this was the beginning of something and not the end.

He picked up the ring again and held it out for all to see. 'This. This ring binds you. Binds you to ancient pacts made long ago between the ancestors of all our clans. Every ten years you shall choose from among yourselves one who will take this palace. To be the judge of your actions and the arbiter of your disputes. Ten years ago you and your forefathers chose me. My time is done. In one week you will choose another. I will guide you, but the choice, in the end, lies with you.'

There. Done. The speech they'd all heard before, the speech made by every speaker since time began. His last duty. Speaker Hyram was no more. He wasn't even 'Your Holiness.' Just another dragon-lord sitting at the speaker's table. He put the ring down and banged the table with his cup one last time.

Someone started to clap. Very slowly. Jehal. It had to be Jehal.

'What a fine speech.' The Viper was smirking at him. 'Pity I've heard it all before. Yet unexpectedly clear. I confess I've been dreading it. Th-Th-The 1-1-long a-a-ag-g-gonising w-wait for each word. Truly, the potions that your darling lover stole from me have worked wonders.'

Around the table everyone froze. Some paused only for a moment and then continued to eat. Others stopped, waiting. No one said anything. They were all looking to Hyram. His feast, his hall, his palace, his job to admonish such crass behaviour. Even if the insult was directed at him, Jehal was making fools of them all by being so direct.

Hyram sat slowly down. He smiled and folded his arms. 'What did make you think I would have to give you anything for your elixirs?' He felt strong. Strong enough to challenge Jehal to a duel of the sword and the axe. He could do that now. One of the perks of being a simple dragon-knight again. Yes, and another perk was that he didn't have to be the diplomat now. It wasn't up to him to keep everyone in line any more. 'Never mind, eh? Go back home. Go back to poisoning your father.' I can say that now. In public. In front of everyone.