“Tradition, Daughter. Tradition,” the old king murmured weakly.
Their eyes met. Hers were angry. His were pleading, and for a moment her resistance dissolved. She had no way to defeat her mentor, and accepting exile would serve no purpose, for if Nidhug had chosen him then this Dillon would be king of Belmair. If she left some other girl would be his queen, and that knowledge was not pleasing to Cinnia. “I will do my duty and marry this man,” she finally said.
“You have chosen wisely as I knew you would,” the dragon replied. “The dukes have been sent for, and will be here on the morrow to learn of my decision.”
“They will be no more pleased with it than I am,” Cinnia said sourly.
“Certainly that is true,” the dragon agreed, “but they surely know there is no other choice. There are no suitable males to follow Fflergant.”
Ping.
The dragon turned at the sound. A single grain of purple sand had fallen from the top to the bottom of the life glass. Eleven grains remained. “You must be wed before the day is out, my child,” Nidhug said. “Even my magic cannot hold back what must be, and the new king must be in Belmair when the old king breathes his last.” She closed her eyes and silently called out to Kaliq, the great Shadow Prince, to come to her.
“I am here, Nidhug,” the prince said as he materialized from the umbrages of the dim room. He went immediately to Fflergant. “Ah, yes, I see your problem. He is close. Greetings, King Fflergant of Belmair. I am Kaliq of the Shadows. I am going to stop time just briefly so I may go and fetch your successor.” With a gentle wave of his hand Kaliq did exactly that. Even the dragon was caught in his spell. He paused a moment to look closely at Cinnia. She was lovely, and his son deserved no less. Turning, he slipped back into the shadows of the chamber, emerging in his own palace.
“Dillon,” he called out. “Come to me now.”
“I am here, my lord prince,” Dillon said as he appeared in a puff of pale green smoke. “How may I serve you 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.
Ping.
Cinnia gasped.
Ping. Ping.
“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.
Ping! Ping!
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.
Ping. Ping. Ping!
“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.
Ping! Ping! PING!
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