Bertrice Small: The Sorceress of Belmair

She had never bothered to consider exactly what had happened to them because it didn’t matter as long as they were no longer able to cause trouble for Belmair; Kaliq had given her that knowledge when he had touched her forehead. For centuries in their arrogance and pride, the Hetarians had existed in another bubble of sorts, believing themselves the only denizens of their world but for a people they called Outlanders.

The Outlanders and the Terahns were Hetar’s original inhabitants. Like the Hetarians, the lord of the Dark Lands had come later. But now all knew that the other existed. The women of Hetar were in revolt against the government that kept them subjugated because of their sex, as their ancestors had once been in revolt against the ruler of Belmair for wanting change. And from this madness the next king would come.

Nidhug shook her head. She had to trust the great Shadow Prince, for of all the creatures in the cosmos he was the one who stood highest in the Originator’s favor. If he said Dillon of Hetar was to be Belmair’s next king, then it must be so. The dragon unfolded her golden wings again and rose into the night sky to fly back to her castle. The dawn was just beginning to pull at the edges of the sky when she gained her own battlements. As her large, clawed feet touched the stone roof she shrank down to a more manageable and less frightening size.

Watching her come, Tavey marveled at the beauty and the magnificence of his mistress. He stepped forward immediately as she landed, bowing. “Your oil bath is ready, mistress. And Sarabeth has prepared a small breakfast for you,” he told her.

“I will soak my scales first,” Nidhug told him. “Will there be cinnamon rolls?”

“Only three trays, mistress. The cook thought that while you would be hungry this morning, you would not want to feel too full. She’s done a nice kettle of porridge, two hams and four dozen boiled eggs for you, as well.”

“How well you all care for me,” Nidhug said, feeling a bit sentimental. “Aye, I will need to be on my toes this morning, given what I must tell Fflergant and his daughter. Send for the dukes. They must be here tomorrow morning to be told the name of the next king. Now, I must have my soak. My scales are dry from the wind.” She hurried off.

When she had soaked for an hour up to her jowls in the warm oil, Nidhug felt refreshed. Arising from the large oval marble tub the dragon let her serving women gently rub the oil into her skin and blot away the excess. Then she repaired to her dining room for her morning meal, and having finished it she prepared to depart for the king’s castle. She would walk across the gardens that separated the two castles, giving her time to consider exactly how she would approach the matter of succession. By the time she had reached Fflergant’s castle and the throne room, she knew exactly what she must say.

“I called for you almost a full week ago,” the old king said by way of greeting.

“And good morrow to you, Your Majesty,” the dragon replied. She glanced at the hourglass and caught her breath. He was almost gone.

“Who will follow me?” Fflergant demanded to know. “Cinnia tells me that the dukes have no sons but one. What of grandsons? The dukes must have grandsons.”

“They do,” the dragon said, “but none are suitable. Several are already wed, and the rest too young to be either king of Belmair, or a husband.”

“How young?” the king wanted to know.

“The oldest of them is eleven, Your Majesty,” the dragon answered.

“Eleven. In three years he would be mature enough to be a husband,” Fflergant said. “And in the meantime there could be a regency to rule for him.”

“I will turn him into a toad,” Cinnia said darkly. “You will not wed me to a child, Father. It is past time for the tradition of kings only rule Belmair to change. You have no other choice. I must be Belmair’s queen in my own right. I will not take a little boy for a husband and then be told what to do by a regent’s counsel. I am seventeen, not twelve.”

“What other choice have we?” her father asked, desperately looking to the dragon.

“It is not a question of choice for Belmair,” the dragon said. “It is my decision who rules. The Great Dragon of Belmair has always determined its king from the beginnings of time, and I am the Great Dragon, Nidhug XXII. Fflergant of Belmair will be followed by Dillon, son of Kaliq of the Shadows.”

“A Hetarian?” the old king gasped, and fell back in his throne. A dozen grains of purple sand remained in the top half of the life glass.

Seeing how near to death Fflergant was, the dragon stopped the sands flow.

Cinnia noted Nidhug’s action, and looked to her mentor questioningly.

“I am permitted to do such in extreme cases,” Nidhug explained softly, and the girl nodded. Then the dragon turned to the old king. “Your Majesty, I know this must seem more than odd, but you must trust me as did your last three predecessors. The son of Kaliq of the Shadows is meant to be Belmair’s next king. His mother is a faerie woman called Lara. She was born in the faerie forest, and raised by her Hetarian father, who also has faerie blood. She is a great woman who has always used her powers for the good. Lara’s mother is Ilona, queen of the Forest Faeries. Dillon is more than worthy of your daughter. He is fair to look upon, and has lived twenty-two years.”

“I will not wed a Hetarian,” Cinnia said. “They are a cursed race, Nidhug, and you are mad to even suggest it. He will bring discord to Belmair. Is that not why we sent his ancestors from our world? If you try to force me to this I will find a way to kill him.”

“The Sorceress of Belmair should be wed only to a great sorcerer,” Nidhug told the girl in a quiet voice. “It was your ancestors who exiled the dissenters from this world, sending them to the place you called Hetar, and now you scornfully refer to them as Hetarians. But that world already had a people upon it. People much like the Belmairans. They are Terahns, and they called their world Terah. They prefer peace to war. They are artisans and simple folk content to be with themselves. And until recently the two peoples knew little of each other. In Hetar, except for those who call themselves Coastal kings, none of the Hetarians knew of the Terahns. Dillon’s mother changed all that for it is she who is meant to eventually unite the world upon which she lives into one world of peace, unity and prosperity. It is not an easy task, and even she is not aware of her full destiny yet. This union between you and her son is meant to be, Cinnia. You cannot refuse it. If you do then you must be exiled from Belmair.”

Cinnia flushed with an anger that threatened to overwhelm her, but then as Nidhug’s words sunk in she grew even paler than she normally was. “I would be sent from here?” she whispered, frightened. But then her courage returned, and she stamped her foot. “You give me a choice between marriage to a Hetarian, or exile? Is it not your duty to protect Belmair? Protect its people? Its ruler? Me?”

“Aye,” the dragon said, small puffs of smoke coming forth from her carved nostrils. Cinnia’s selfish childishness was beginning to annoy her, and she had to struggle with herself not to become angry. “You have been given a choice, sorceress. Marriage or exile. But either way, Dillon of the Shadows will rule next in Belmair.”

Cinnia glared defiantly at the Great Dragon. She wanted to tell Nidhug to go to Limbo. She wanted to scream with her frustration, and her outrage. Belmair needed no foreign king. It was she who should be her world’s next ruler. Cinnia, the sorceress of Belmair, had been born to be its queen! But then she felt the cold, weak touch of her father’s hand on her hand.