Daughter of Regals by Stephen R. Donaldson

abruptly, he said, “Scour.”
    His
dislike of Queen Damia’s Mage was of long standing; but it did not account for
his present vehemence. And my own apprehensions concerning the lady of Lodan
were many. Carefully, I inquired, “And what did this Scour say?”
    “My
lady,” Ryzel said, obscurely angered and unable or unwilling to say why, “he
spoke nonsense—hints and jests to no purpose. He could not be silenced. His own
cleverness was a source of vast amusement to him.” The Mage snarled his
vexation. “Only one thing did he say clearly: he revealed that at his request
Queen Damia’s minstrel would sing of the slaying of the last Dragon for your
banquet.”
    The
sudden tightening of my hand on his arm stopped him. His words brought the
monarch of Lodan’s unexplained subterfuge back to me. Almost involuntarily, I
asked, “Is it true?”
    He
turned toward me at the doors to the ballroom.
    From
beyond them came the sounds of musicians tuning their instruments. “That Scour
requested that song for your banquet? I know not. Surely he wished me to
believe it.”
    I met
his questioning look squarely. “Is it true that the last Dragon was slain by
the Basilisk-Regal?”
    He
scowled as he studied me, trying to guess what was in my mind. “That tale is
told,” he said slowly. “Perhaps it is true. There are many who believe that one
Dragon still lived in the world when the Basilisk-Regal’s rule began—and that
it was gone when his rule ended. But only one portion of the tale is known to
be certain: for the last years of his reign, the Basilisk-Regal wore his hands
covered.”
    Unwilling
either to outface or to satisfy Ryzel’s curiosity, I moved toward the doors.
But as they were opened for me, I thought better of my silence. On the
threshold of the ball, I turned back to the Mage and said, “Then his grief must
have been as terrible as his crime.”
    A step
or two ahead of him, I went forward to continue this night’s festivities.
    Most of
the guests had preceded me. King Thone’s retinue appeared somewhat unsettled by
his absence; but Queen Damia presided over her portion of the ballroom in great
state and glitter; Count Thornden and his attendants kept their backs to her
as pointedly as possible; and around the hall moved those families, courtiers,
eavesdroppers, and lovers of dancing or sport who were not restrained by
allegiance or personal interest.
    At my
entrance the gathering was hushed. The musicians ceased their tuning; the
rulers and their entourages looked toward me; after a last giggle or two, the
more playful girls joined the general silence. For a moment, I gazed about me
and tried to appear pleased. Taken together, these people were a gay and
enchanting sight under the bright gleam of the chandeliers. They were comely
and fashionable—and well-to-do. Indeed, hardly a person could be seen who did
not display some form of wealth. Here was evidence that the realm had prospered
mightily under the imposed peace of the Regals. The rule to which I aspired was
manifestly worthy and admirable; yet all these gallant men and women bedecked
in loveliness also served to remind me that I was the plainest woman in the
Three Kingdoms, as Ryzel had said. For all my victory over King Thone, I was
not the equal of the manor’s guests.
    Nevertheless,
I played my part as I was able. Assuming a pace I did not possess, I advanced
into the centre of the ballroom and spread my arms in a gesture of welcome. “Please
dance,” I said clearly. “This is the night of my Ascension, and I wish all the
realm happy.”
    At
once, the musicians struck up a lively tune; and after a moment’s hesitation
the ball came to life. Commanding every opportunity for advantageous display,
Queen Damia allowed herself to be swept into the arms of a fortunate swain and
began to float around the floor. Quickly, other eager young men found
themselves partners; dignified old noblemen and their wives made stately
circles as they moved.