(c) 1999
The aged dragon, Glaston, slowly approached the counter in a tavern. The toad behind the counter looked up and let his face split into a broad grin. Then he glanced to the table where Glaston’s companion waited, and the smile fell from his face.
Glaston chuckled and leaned across the counter, speaking low. “Don’t fret, Patrick, we’re not here to hassle you about last night. But we do have a preposition. Bring over three lunches and join us.”
Patrick hopped into the kitchen and was soon seated at the dimly lit corner table with Glaston and Hereclitus, the heir to the Principality. Patrick wisely remained silent until he was requested to speak.
Glaston leaned forward and said quietly, “We heard about what happened to your storyteller last night.”
Patrick’s large eyes flickered to Hereclitus.
The heir sat back calmly. “I don’t agree with my father’s actions – especially of late.”
Glaston continued, “What do you know about this, Patrick?”
Patrick drew a deep breath. “I know that Connor is always one to tell things like they are. Lately, he’s told stories about Prince Hendrick’s … ah…”
Hereclitus raised a brow and suggested, “Cruelties?”
“Yes,” he croaked, “Cruelties is a good word. Anyway, late last night after closing, members of the royal brigade stormed in here and hauled Connor away. None of us dared to follow, but his wife has been worried sick since then.”
Hereclitus’ eyes turned sad, “You may tell his widow that Connor’s … remains … are two miles from this village in the woods.”
Horror turned Patrick’s pallor a shade grayer.
Glaston cleared his throat. “As to this situation, you and Connor’s widow are the only two witnesses left alive. I prefer that the two of you tell folks that Connor just left the Principality and keep it at that.”
“But-”
“For the sake of peace. Do you realize what Prince Hendrick would do to this tavern – to this village – if he knew the truth was known?”
Patrick turned white and quickly drained his goblet.
Glaston continued, “You will, of course, need a new storyteller.”
Patrick eyed him silently.
“I propose you hold a storytelling competition. But I also ask that you open the contest to peasants.”
“Peasants? I have nothing against them, but others –”
“Please see that they are invited. Merewin and Mallory will help you. Oh, and I need Leoni as one of the judges.”
The toad was dumbfounded. “But, Lord Glaston, she hates peasants almost as much as –” he cut off abruptly, glancing to the heir.
“As much as my father,” finished Hereclitus. “Fortunately, my view is not clouded by such prejudice. Please do invite the peasants; I would like to see all the classes living in peace together.”
“Y-yes, My Lord Hereclitus,” Patrick croaked. He rose, bowed and quickly excused himself, taking his plate with him.
Hereclitus sighed as he picked up a utensil and turned to Glaston. “I just wish Mother would let me confront him,” he said contemptuously. “Then all this insanity would end. I’ve tried to stop this many times, but Mother intervenes. I love her too much to hurt her.”
“Perhaps she believes that you are too young to assume the coronet.”
“Am I, Glaston? You’ve been my tutor from the cradle.”
Glaston studied him with wise eyes. “Perhaps you are ready. Perhaps you are not.”
Hereclitus sighed again. “Why all the riddles and games, Glaston?”
Glaston smiled. “That’s part of the world you come from. You need to learn to play the game as well as lead the people.”
The aged dragon, Glaston, slowly approached the counter in a tavern. The toad behind the counter looked up and let his face split into a broad grin. Then he glanced to the table where Glaston’s companion waited, and the smile fell from his face.
Glaston chuckled and leaned across the counter, speaking low. “Don’t fret, Patrick, we’re not here to hassle you about last night. But we do have a preposition. Bring over three lunches and join us.”
Patrick hopped into the kitchen and was soon seated at the dimly lit corner table with Glaston and Hereclitus, the heir to the Principality. Patrick wisely remained silent until he was requested to speak.
Glaston leaned forward and said quietly, “We heard about what happened to your storyteller last night.”
Patrick’s large eyes flickered to Hereclitus.
The heir sat back calmly. “I don’t agree with my father’s actions – especially of late.”
Glaston continued, “What do you know about this, Patrick?”
Patrick drew a deep breath. “I know that Connor is always one to tell things like they are. Lately, he’s told stories about Prince Hendrick’s … ah…”
Hereclitus raised a brow and suggested, “Cruelties?”
“Yes,” he croaked, “Cruelties is a good word. Anyway, late last night after closing, members of the royal brigade stormed in here and hauled Connor away. None of us dared to follow, but his wife has been worried sick since then.”
Hereclitus’ eyes turned sad, “You may tell his widow that Connor’s … remains … are two miles from this village in the woods.”
Horror turned Patrick’s pallor a shade grayer.
Glaston cleared his throat. “As to this situation, you and Connor’s widow are the only two witnesses left alive. I prefer that the two of you tell folks that Connor just left the Principality and keep it at that.”
“But-”
“For the sake of peace. Do you realize what Prince Hendrick would do to this tavern – to this village – if he knew the truth was known?”
Patrick turned white and quickly drained his goblet.
Glaston continued, “You will, of course, need a new storyteller.”
Patrick eyed him silently.
“I propose you hold a storytelling competition. But I also ask that you open the contest to peasants.”
“Peasants? I have nothing against them, but others –”
“Please see that they are invited. Merewin and Mallory will help you. Oh, and I need Leoni as one of the judges.”
The toad was dumbfounded. “But, Lord Glaston, she hates peasants almost as much as –” he cut off abruptly, glancing to the heir.
“As much as my father,” finished Hereclitus. “Fortunately, my view is not clouded by such prejudice. Please do invite the peasants; I would like to see all the classes living in peace together.”
“Y-yes, My Lord Hereclitus,” Patrick croaked. He rose, bowed and quickly excused himself, taking his plate with him.
Hereclitus sighed as he picked up a utensil and turned to Glaston. “I just wish Mother would let me confront him,” he said contemptuously. “Then all this insanity would end. I’ve tried to stop this many times, but Mother intervenes. I love her too much to hurt her.”
“Perhaps she believes that you are too young to assume the coronet.”
“Am I, Glaston? You’ve been my tutor from the cradle.”
Glaston studied him with wise eyes. “Perhaps you are ready. Perhaps you are not.”
Hereclitus sighed again. “Why all the riddles and games, Glaston?”
Glaston smiled. “That’s part of the world you come from. You need to learn to play the game as well as lead the people.”
*************************************
The cat stepped out of her home in the poorer section of the village and witnessed soap bubbles drifting across her small backyard. She glanced over the short picket fence and spied her neighbors, Rose and Moustrie, doing their laundry.
With a friendly smile, she called, “Fine morning for laundry,” as she carried her pots down the back steps. “Did you hear about the storytelling contest?”
“We heard last night,” Rose replied. “I’m trying to convince our local celebrity here to enter it.”
“Commoners don’t really want peasants around,” Moustrie replied with a frustrated swish of her tail.
“I don’t see why you won’t at least try,” Rose bleated.
The gray-furred mouse flicked her ears back at the reprimand as she scrubbed at a stubborn stain. “A formal contest is different than just telling stories at Riverside Tavern,” she informed the ewe. “Besides,” she quipped and held up the skirt she was washing, “my reception locally isn’t all that good.”
Rose raised a brow at the mouse. “We’re wasting time doing this now,” she chided as she wrung out a blouse and hung it on the frayed wash line. “And, you won’t be serving tables while you’re telling the story today.”
Moustrie’s large ears sagged. “I just wish people would give me more credit as a storyteller,” she muttered as she rinsed and wrung out her skirt. “If I win the contest…”
“You’re just a dreamer,” mewed the cat as she set down her pots. She licked her paw and pressed a few graying strands of sweat soaked fur away from her green eyes. “They’ll never let a peasant win one of their contests.” With a dismissive swish of her tail, she rolled up her sleeves and started to scrub the baked-on grime from the well-used tin pots.
Rose’s brows came down and she purposely put her back to the feline. “If you don’t take this chance, Moustrie, you’ll be telling tales of woe for the rest of your life. This is a chance many of us would give our tail for!” She glanced up at the summer sun, “Tails! If we’re going to make it, we’ve got to leave now.”
Moustrie frowned. “But this outfit’s all wet; I need a better dress for the contest.”
“No time,” Rose said as she pulled Moustrie through the dark, narrow alley between the buildings. “Besides,” she called over her shoulder, “you might talk yourself out of it again.” Together, the two hurried up the bustling street toward the better part of the village.
*********************
The upscale tavern, High Spirits, was clearly twice the size of Riverside Tavern. A bright coat of colored paint rather than simple whitewash covered the building, while a wooden sign with the carved images of a goblet and plate swung from a metal rod above the door. The pair paused in the deep shadow of the portico in front of an elaborately carved front door. Moustrie’s tail twitched as she poked her nose and whiskers around the slightly open door. “Look, Rose, the windows are colored glass and the walls – even the floor – are waxed beautifully!”
“And I’ll bet a pound of my winter wool that the food we smell is ten times better than what we serve too.”
The fur on the back of their necks rose as a low growl reached their ears. A burly black bear swung the door wide and emerged from the tavern. With a yelp, the pair leapt back as Brutis placed himself squarely in the doorway. “Can’t you read?” he snarled, pointing to the sign nailed beside the doorpost: NO UNESCORTED PEASANTS.
Moustrie shook her head, tucking her long tail down the back of her skirt. “No sir, we’re not schooled in letters.”
“Well, it says that –”
“Hold a moment, Brutis.” A well-groomed fox in good silks stepped out from behind the bear and squinted into the bright daylight. “Perhaps they’re here for the storytelling competition.”
Moustrie and Rose both nodded enthusiastically.
“Ah! Good, then we have at least two peasant storytellers.”
“Uh… no milord,” corrected Rose sheepishly, ducking behind her friend. “I’m just here for Moustrie.”
Disinterested, Brutis shrugged his broad shoulders and lumbered back inside.
A vixen’s head appeared over the fox’s shoulder, just before the door shut behind them. “Who are they, dear? What’s the fuss?”
The fox stepped aside and turned to his wife. “My dear, this is Moustrie and…”
“Rose,” the mouse supplied for her friend.
“…Rose. Moustrie will be joining our storytelling competition.” Then he faced the pair. “I’d like to present to you the Fair Lady Merewin, my beautiful wife and a member of the court of their Royal Highnesses, Prince Hendrick and Princess Galatea.”
The pair stepped back, eyes wide in awe. Then they quickly curtsied deeply, dropping their eyes.
Merewin stepped gracefully past him into the light. Rich folds of cloth enfolded her shapely figure, while finely cut jewels sparkled in the sun. “You girls don’t have to be that formal; we’re not in court here.” Then she frowned at her husband, “You’ll also have to pardon Lord Mallory, his title goes right to his – Tails and Whiskers! Is that the best garb you have?”
Moustrie’s ears drooped and she looked at the vixen sorrowfully. “I was doing my laundry, My Lady, and there was no time to change clothes.”
Mallory nodded. “That would explain the water stains. You can tell your story last; that will give you time to sun yourself in the garden out back.”
Merewin agreed, “You don’t want your appearance to distract from the story.” She gestured for Moustrie to follow and was about to open the door when Glaston stepped out from the portico’s shadows.
“Allow me, My Lady Merewin.” With as little difficulty as a younger dragon, Glaston swung the thick, heavy oak door wide.
“Ah! Glaston, I didn’t see you standing out here. Did you meet Moustrie and Rose?”
Glaston nodded eloquently. “Glad to make your acquaintances.”
The vixen then introduced him to pair, “Glaston is the Royal Heir’s tutor.” Gracefully stepping into the tavern, Merewin gestured for Moustrie to follow her through the crowded common-room to the back door.
Half-blinded, Rose paused just inside the doorway, letting her eyes adjust.
Glaston placed a clawed hand lightly on her shoulder and asked, “Have you eaten?”
Rose jumped at the unexpected familiarity and meekly bleated, “No, My Lord, not since breaking fast this morning.”
“There are complimentary meals with the contest.”
“Complimentary?” Rose asked, stumbling over the unfamiliar word.
“A free meal, then. The tavern-keeper adds it to Lord Mallory’s tab.”
“For everyone?”
“No, the meals are for the storytellers,” he explained in a deep, persuasive baritone, “but I’m sure Moustrie wouldn’t mind sharing a large meal with you.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Rose agreed quietly, unnerved by the noble’s attention.
“You need not fear me, Rose. I mean you no harm. I, too, am here for moral support.” He gestured to the young, richly dressed griffin at the front table. “Hereclitus is on the panel of judges for this competition.”
“The Heir is here!” she bleated and clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes very wide and fearful.
“Be at peace, Rose. Hereclitus is not his father’s son.”
The sheep studied Hereclitus for a long moment and then studied Glaston as closely as one of her station dared. “If I may be so bold…”
“…to ask a question of me?”
Rose nodded nervously.
“Go ahead.”
“Why…” She swallowed and looked around quickly. “Why are the nobles interested in a commoner’s contest?” she bleated out quickly.
Glaston raised a brow at the question.
Just as quickly, she apologized, “Forgive me, My Lord, my curiosity gets the better of me at times.”
Glaston studied Rose a moment, looking deep into her brown eyes. “No need to forgive when no offence was received. And curiosity is a great path to learning.” He paused, noting her deepening embarrassment. “You and your friend must be hungry.” He gestured for Rose to lead the way to the counter where the tavern-keeper stood. “Tell me, how well do you know Moustrie’s family?”
Rose shrugged, lulled into a strange calmness, and started to weave her way across the room. “She hasn’t much family left in this village. Moustrie and her sister both work at Riverside Tavern with me. Her brothers left to find work elsewhere, and both of her parents are gone now.”
As they reached the counter, the bovine tavern-keeper eyed Rose suspiciously. She ducked her head meekly and said, “I was told there was food for the storytellers.”
The ox was about to send her away until he spied Glaston just behind her. With a scowl, he bellowed the order into the kitchen and added another mark in the book.
As they waited, Glaston quietly asked, “Her parents are gone? Do you mean they left the village too?”
Rose shook her head as she reached for the goblet of wine that the ox had just set down. “Oh no, My Lord, they died … seasons ago.”
“A shame. How did they die? Was it an accident? An illness, perhaps?”
Rose shook her head. “Just old age.”
“Old age?” Glaston’s voice betrayed his surprise. He turned his head away, muttering, “Have so many years passed?” Then he shook his head and faced the counter. The ox was about to set down the plate – piled high with sliced meat, fresh baked bread and steaming vegetables – when Glaston smoothly reached forward and took it. “Thank you, Tavernkeep.”
Upon seeing the generous portions Rose was slack-jawed, but her shoulders and tail sagged when Glaston didn’t pass her the plate. She remained silent, but looked at his with pleading eyes.
The elderly dragon smiled, “If you have no objectives, I’d like to help carry the food out to your friend in the garden.”
“You … help me? But I’m a peasant!”
Glaston chuckled lightly. “That shouldn’t matter.” He turned and indicated that she should lead the way outside.
Rose was momentarily blinded when she stepped from the tavern into the bright sunlight. Moustrie waved to her excitedly. “Over here, Rose. Oh! Hello, My Lord.”
Glaston handed the plate to Moustrie. “I must return to my companion now. I’ll see you inside.” He turned and re-entered the tavern, leaving the two alone in the garden.
Moustrie sat dumbfounded and looked at Rose with wide, questioning eyes.
“I know,” Rose replied, “but I’m not about to argue with a noble. Are you going to eat that before it gets cold?”
Moustrie picked up a spoonful of vegetables and popped it into her mouth. “Wow! This is much better!” she exclaimed with a joyful swish of her tail.
“Told you,” Rose mumbled around a bite of the warm, soft bread. The two friends exchanged information between mouthfuls. Rose related what happened inside, omitting the fact that the royal heir was a judge; she didn’t want to upset Moustrie.
Moustrie, in turn, went over the competition details that Merewin gave her.
Rose took another swallow of the wine. “You mean you’ve got to make up a whole story based on what they ask? Can you do that?”
Moustrie nodded eagerly. “I think so. If they ask for a love story, I tell them one.” She wiped the crumbs from her muzzle with the back of her forepaw. “It can be a story that I already know.”
Just then the back door opened and a gopher poked his head out. “You’re just about up, Moustrie. You’d better get inside and be ready.”
They quickly gathered the dishes and went inside, blinking into the darkness interspersed with pools of colors from the windows. The room was quiet as everyone listened closely to the buck storyteller’s words. The gopher gestured for Rose to return the dishes to the tavern-keeper and led Moustrie to the front of the room, pausing just behind the judges.
Moustrie was more nervous than ever before and started trembling. “You’ll do fine,” came a deep-voiced whisper to her large ears. She glanced over her shoulder and glimpsed Glaston sitting in the shadow of a supporting beam just behind the judges’ table.
“…And when their eyes met, they both could look deep into each other’s soul. Tears welled up in joy; at last they found each other. Thus ends the tale of Nora and Jayson,” the stag storyteller finished with a flourish and bow to the judges.
As Mallory led him away, Merewin brought Moustrie before the judges: a boar, a toad, a lioness and a griffin. “This last contestant is Moustrie,” she announced. “Moustrie, this is Bannon, Patrick, Leoni and Hereclitus,” she indicated each of the judges in order.
Moustrie nodded her head to each in acknowledgement, but all the faces were new to her and she was too nervous to register any of the names.
With a graceful sweep of her tail, Merewin strolled to the chair that Mallory held for her, leaving Moustrie alone before the judges.
Leoni crossed her arms, leaned back in her chair and muttered, “Why is there a peasant in this contest?”
Glaston pitched his voice to her feline ears only. “Perhaps they want to bring nobles, commoners and peasants to the same level.”
Leoni’s ears flattened and she grimaced in disgust. She was about to reply but realized that the speaker was a noble.
By then Bannon had finished writing comments and checked the score-sheet on the table before him. “Moustrie? Ah, good. Leoni,” he said turning to the she-lion, “it’s your turn to decide – and please – not another mushy love story.”
“As you wish.” Leoni studied Moustrie as though she was an insect found in a favorite dish. The lioness grinned mischievously and said, “Then the story shall be this: a tale of true friendship and sacrifice between a noble and a peasant.”
Moustrie’s tail swished, and her forepaw rose to her muzzle in thought as her mind pulled a plot line together.
“Oh, and it must be a true story,” Leoni added as she leaned forward and casually raked one of her long claws along the table top.
Moustrie’s ears and tail drooped and her gaze fell to the floor.
A murmur rippled through the room.
Patrick rolled his eyes rafterward then sent a meaningful glance toward Bannon beside him.
The boar nodded and turned to the lioness. “Perhaps you misspoke. So seldom do nobles and peasants interact that closely; this is a difficult story to tell.”
The feline purred as she leaned back in her chair with a daring, devilish grin. “I spoke correctly. If she knows such a story, let’s hear it. If not, she’s out of this contest.”
Hereclitus was about to speak when Glaston hissed, “Let it be; let’s see how this plays itself out.”
Moustrie stood silent in front of the judges, her mind racing. Then an old story that her mother told her rose from her memory. “I… I know a story,” she quietly said, raising her eyes to the crowded common-room. She lifted her head confidently with an almost daring look in her eye. “I’d like to tell it.”
Murmurs rose to peak, then silence settled. All eyes were locked on her, and all ears were swiveled toward her. Leoni’s ears flattened along her head, her teeth bared in a silent snarl, and her full set of claws carved deeply into the tabletop. Merewin and Mallory exchanged puzzled glances and put their heads together, whispering. Bannon and Patrick exchanged smug smiles, then the boar gestured. “Proceed then.”
- - -
“Two generations ago, there was a peasant mouse named Seana who lived in a village not far from a great, deep wood. Oftimes when she was done with her work in the local tavern, she’d spend her free time in the afternoon exploring the woodlands. One day, she spied a young dragon there. Not quite sure how to approach this noble, she hid herself and watched him day after day.
“Some days, the dragon occupied himself by creating marvelous little creatures from folded paper, which he later gave to friend and stranger alike or left behind for someone to discover later. On windy days, the dragon was seen in a large clearing. Children’s laughter filled the air as he patiently taught them – noble, commoner and peasant alike – to make colored paper constructions dance like butterflies on the breeze.
“At other times, when people would wander alone and disheartened into the woods, there the dragon would be, ready to listen to their troubles and aid them anyway he could. And whenever people needed a safe haven, the dragon opened his home to them. As Seana witnessed all this, she learned that nobility could be courteous and kind to those stationed below them.
“A pawful of years had passed before the mouse gained the courage to approach the dragon in the woods. But when she did, she knew she had nothing to fear from him, and a strong friendship developed between them. The dragon taught her many things: how to open her eyes and see the world around her without prejudice; to think before acting; to understand the consequences of making a decision and to stick with that decision once made. She grew in confidence of her own capabilities and passed this wisdom to her husband and children. Seana also told the dragon much about her family in the village, and the years passed pleasantly.
“One day, a young griffin – just about the dragon’s age – came to the woods. Though the dragon would have welcomed him, the griffin used an illusion to disguise himself as a lion. The dragon, at this time, was busy teaching pages the proper handling and respect for weapons.
“The griffin drew his saber, boldly called his challenge and charged the dragon. The children panicked and scattered, but Seana found the courage to unsheathe her small utility knife and help her dragon friend. The griffin sought to dispatch her right away so he could focus on his fight with the dragon. The blow came fast, but the dragon was even swifter. Lightning-quick, he threw himself between his friend and the griffin’s blade.
“The move was hurried and miscalculated. The griffin’s saber slid along the dragon’s sword with the keening sound of steel on steel. Then the saber sprung from the tip of the sword and bit deeply into the dragon’s side.
“The blow didn’t kill the dragon outright, but his strength ebbed quickly from him. With the last of his reserves, the dragon slashed at the head of his attacker. The illusion broke as the griffin cried out in pain; a red line of blood dampened his facial feathers.
“When the dragon drew back in surprise, the griffin slashed across the dragon’s torso, trying to gut his victim under his protective plates. Holding his gaping side, the dragon collapsed into a growing puddle of blood.
“Seana squeaked a battle cry and scurried between the dragon and his attacker.
“With a graceful sweep of his saber, the griffin sent her blade flying freely through the air. Then he circled her, playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse.
“Thinking quickly, Seana seized a large rock at her feet – as big as her head – and positioned it shoulder high to throw it at the griffin.
“Not so fast, mouse” he snickered and neatly sliced open her throat.
“She collapsed and the rock fell from her forepaws and struck the dragon’s side with a crack that sounded like breaking ribs.
“With a tremendous groan, the dragon’s eyes fluttered close.
“Ready to deliver the final blow to the dragon, the griffin paused when he heard someone approaching them. Since the dragon’s pallor was death white, apparently beyond recovery, the griffin quickly fled the scene.
“What the griffin didn’t realize was that the dragon had carried a vial of water from the unicorn pool in his pouch. The falling rock had struck the vial, breaking it open. It took some time for the water to seep through the lining and into his wounds but it healed him sufficiently to live. Sadly, by the time the dragon awoke, the water was gone and it was too late to save his friend. Pale and weak, he gently gathered her in his arms and brought her into his home.
“Seana’s family sought her when she didn’t return that afternoon, but they were unable to locate her. However, late that night the dragon slipped unnoticed into the poorer part of the village and brought her body home to her family. Once inside, he revealed his identity and told them what happened in the woods. Then he slipped out and no one has seen him since.
“For two generations, this story lived, passed from parent to child down through Seana’s family. And it is this very story that I share with you this day. Thus ends the tale of Seana and the dragon.”
- - -
Stunned silence filled the room, and Moustrie trembled in anticipation as she studied the judges’ faces. Bannon grinned proudly as he scribbled something down on the papers before him. Patrick sat back, sipping wine and nodding his approval. Leoni glared silently at Moustrie. Hereclitus looked… confused, as though he was trying to understand a complicated puzzle. Merewin and Mallory had their heads close, speaking in hurried whispers.
Bannon cleared his throat and said, “Well, considering the difficulty level, I believe we have our winner.”
“WHAT!” roared Leoni, leaping to her feet, haunches rising and teeth bared. “That’s got to be a lie! No noble would sacrifice his life for a peasant!”
Bannon also rose, spines bristling. “You yourself placed the restriction that the story must be true.” He turned to Moustrie, “It is true, is it not?”
“Yes sir,” Moustrie answered proudly, “It is, every word.”
“How do you know this story?” inquired Patrick curiously.
“Seana was my grandmother. My mother was old enough to remember when the dragon brought her home.”
“Lie!” growled Leoni. “A savage lie! There’s been no dragon living in our woods! Why would there be?”
With her own teeth bared and ears flung back, Merewin snarled at Leoni. “There was such a dragon, long ago. If Seana was Moustrie’s grandmother, there would have been a solitary dragon living there. We have records of him in court.”
Hereclitus’ head snapped up. “Then who was this griffin?”
Rumors, questions and guesses sent up such a ruckus in the common-room that everything happened quickly. Bannon removed his notes from the table before Leoni could shred them. Merewin pulled Moustrie into the kitchen, but not before she noticed Glaston leading a very upset griffin out the front door.
A moment later, Mallory dragged Rose into the kitchen with him. He glanced over his shoulder indicating the rising noise level in the common-room. “Singed Fur! You sure stirred them up out there. That was a good tale. Your grandmother, you say? Tell us more about it.”
“That’s all I know, honest!”
“It’s all right, dear. You did nothing wrong,” Merewin said as she patted Moustrie’s trembling hands. “In fact, I think you’ve won the contest.”
“You did it!” Rose cried and hugged Moustrie enthusiastically.
Just then, Patrick peered around the door. “Ah!” he croaked and hopped into the kitchen. “There you are. I needed to speak with you before you left.”
Mallory held up his hand. “Moustrie still has one more requirement to fulfill.”
Patrick’s eyes narrowed. “I thought the competition was over.”
“I’m obliged to invite Moustrie to entertain the court and the ruling family with the story.” Mallory exchanged meaningful glances with Merewin, and she held her tongue. He faced the storyteller. “You’ll be guests of nobility this evening. Will you honor us?”
**********************
The room blazed with gold, silver and sparkling gems. Food was prepared and arrayed in the finest fashion. Wine chilled in buckets of snow brought back from the distant mountaintops by the fleetest feet. Moustrie hungered at the tantalizing scent of the bounty set on tables along one side of the feast hall. She absently fingered the simple dress she wore, quite out of place in all this glamor.
She hadn’t budged from the corner where she stood since Merewin brought her here – that was two hours ago. Lady Merewin and Lord Mallory had disappeared for a short time and returned in their decadent courtly garb. Jewels sparkled from both their outfits in the bright candlelight as the two foxes intermingled with the other members of court. By now, many nobles, lords and ladies were feasting, catered by silent yet swift servants. Moustrie glanced nervously to the high table where three vacant chairs sat in the radiance of polished plates and sparkling goblets.
Just then, a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Prince, Princess and their son and heir, Hereclitus. The entire assemblage rose as one and faced the ruler’s private entrance. Hendrick, a proud griffin, stroke forward confidently. His satin tunic and cape were trimmed with gold threadwork, while a finely-crafted golden coronet circled his head. With a delicate hand upon his arm, Galatea, the beautiful and well-loved griffin Princess, strolled gracefully beside him. Both her courtly garb and smaller coronet matched the Prince’s. Behind them, Hereclitus followed. His bearing wasn’t overly proud; he walked confidently and smiled warmly at their guests.
At first Moustrie watched the procession in awe; this was the first time she had ever seen the Principality’s rulers. Suddenly, she gasped when she recognized Hereclitus. He was one of the judges in the storytelling competition. He’s the heir? She started trembling and fought the urge to flee. Many tales of horrible things done to peasants by this family came to mind. Did I say something wrong when I told the story?
Merewin moved swiftly to the high table, kneeled and spoke with the ruling family.
When Galatea raised her glass goblet, a respectful silence dropped like a muffling blanket in the hall. “I hear we have a storyteller who will honor us with the tale that won a competition today. Please, Lady Merewin, bring her out.”
Malevolent whispers hissed across the feast hall when Merewin pulled Moustrie from the shadows. Moustrie’s eyes pleaded with Merewin, but the vixen told her in hushed tones, “Have no fear; you have friends here.”
Hendrick cried, “A peasant? What game are you playing, Merewin?”
Mallory stood up, bowed and replied, “If your highness would just listen to the wondrous tale that she has told this afternoon, you will hear the treasure we’ve found. She has a true story about a noble’s great deeds that I’m sure none of us has ever heard before.”
“A noble’s great deeds, eh? Very well, tell the mouse to get on with it.”
Before her first words were out, the murmurs of other conversations nearly drowned Moustrie’s story out. But the tale had to be told, so she strained her vocal chords, speaking her loudest and practically shouting at the royal couple who listened half-heartedly, engaged in their own conversations.
When she reached the point where the griffin disguised himself, Hendrick cocked his head and frowned. Then he signaled to a pegasus sitting in the room who rose and walked to another table, roughly nudging Moustrie out of his way.
Moustrie stumbled a step forward and her monologue stopped abruptly. Humiliated, tears threatening in her eyes, she swallowed her pride and continued. At another signal from Hendrick, the same pegasus rudely shoved the storyteller to the floor as he returned to his seat. Tears welled in her eyes, sparkling in the candlelight and leaving damp streaks down her furred cheeks.
Hereclitus slammed his goblet on the table and rose. All in the room turned as one to eye him. “Moustrie came a long way to tell you all something very important – something about our history. It should behoove you all to hear it.”
Hendrick’s eyes narrowed as he smashed his own goblet down, shattering it and staining the tablecloth with expensive red wine. “And what would a peasant know about our history,… Son?”
Galatea replied quietly, “Dear, this storyteller has lived in our Principality her whole life. Since you are from another realm, you may not have learned all of our history. It would be nice to hear some of the old stories again.”
Hereclitus studied his father with renewed interest. “Another realm?”
“You contemptuous upstart!” Hendrick snapped at Hereclitus. “You’re not yet Prince of this realm!”
Galatea restrained Hendrick’s arm and gently pulled the Prince back into his seat. “Now dear, we must not embarrass our guests with your temper.”
After a long moment, Hereclitus also took his seat.
The Princess nodded to Merewin. “Please have your storyteller continue.”
Merewin nodded to Moustrie who shook so bad she could not speak. Mallory strolled over to her and gave her a drink from his own goblet. “Calm yourself,” he whispered, “We can’t turn back now. You must finish your story.”
Moustrie drew a deep breath and continued her story under the suddenly rapt attention of all. Mallory stood by her side until confidence grew in her voice once again. Moustrie realized something in the story triggered this argument and tried to portray the details as best as she could.
When she told how the griffin dispatched Seana, Hendrick leapt to his feet, wings extended as he seethed in rage. “You lie! How can you know all this, mouse? No one witnessed this! It was years before you were ever born!”
Hereclitus’ eyes narrowed and Galatea’s eyes widened with horror.
Moustrie couldn’t take any more and ran weeping from the feast hall. Hereclitus quickly signaled to the guards to let her go.
Galatea grabbed Hendrick’s arm but he yanked it away. “Tell me you didn’t,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Tell me you did not kill the dragon in the woods.”
Members of the court exchanged a few glances and a few discretely drew their blades ready for action.
“Of course not,” he replied, suddenly remembering there were others in the hall. “It is all lies. We all know that the dragon left the realm when you sought to wed him.”
“Moustrie’s words are TRUE!” rang a clear, deep voice from a shadowed corner of the room. Glaston stepped into the light and strode purposely toward high table. “The story was about that mouse’s grandmother who was a dear friend of mine.”
“It couldn’t be,” snapped Hendrick. “That dragon was my age and you’re far older.”
“Am I?” asked Glaston as his image flickered to that of a younger dragon, then returned just as quickly back to the aged figure.
“No! It can’t be! I killed you! Gods of Thunder! And I let you help raise my son?! Begone spirit! She was only a mouse and you were my competition for the coronet.”
Confused and shocked, Galatea reached toward Glaston. “But why?” she sobbed.
Hendrick furiously backhanded her across her face, causing her to fall to the floor.
Hereclitus rose to intervene, but Galatea waved him back. The feast hall echoed with the sounds of chairs scraping back, as court members rose from their seats.
“How else would I have won you and the coronet?” Hendrick snapped at his wife. “That fool would have won the courtesy contest your father held.”
“But I loved him! That’s why my father arranged the contest thus. How could you?” She got up to hit him with her fists, but he struck her down again.
Hereclitus was in her place in a heartbeat, and the other members of the court flocked behind him with their blades sparkling in the candlelight.
Hendrick scowled at them. “I am still in power here.”
“Not anymore,” Hereclitus replied. “The power of the throne is the people who back it. You are alone and shall be exiled for your actions,… Father.”
“Traitors!” Hendrick squawked, “Traitors, one and all!” He turned and fled the room with a mob at his heels.
Hereclitus remained and helped his mother to her feet. Then he turned to his tutor and studied the aged dragon. “You’re not a ghost.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Glaston dropped the illusion so all could truly see him. “You might have believed that I wanted your cornet, which I do not. But I did want Hendrick off the throne, and I had to wait until you were old enough to assume its responsibilities.”
Galatea stared in disbelief. “You are alive? And you never let me know? Why? I loved you!”
Glaston stepped back a bit, “I cared much for you too, Galatea, but you were the only heir to your father’s coronet. And the court and all its trappings,” he added with a broad sweep of his arm, “were not for me.”
Hereclitus weighed these answers and said, “I shall not forget what you have taught me.”
Glaston smiled. “I must be off; there’s one part left unfinished.”
She hadn’t budged from the corner where she stood since Merewin brought her here – that was two hours ago. Lady Merewin and Lord Mallory had disappeared for a short time and returned in their decadent courtly garb. Jewels sparkled from both their outfits in the bright candlelight as the two foxes intermingled with the other members of court. By now, many nobles, lords and ladies were feasting, catered by silent yet swift servants. Moustrie glanced nervously to the high table where three vacant chairs sat in the radiance of polished plates and sparkling goblets.
Just then, a blare of trumpets announced the arrival of the Prince, Princess and their son and heir, Hereclitus. The entire assemblage rose as one and faced the ruler’s private entrance. Hendrick, a proud griffin, stroke forward confidently. His satin tunic and cape were trimmed with gold threadwork, while a finely-crafted golden coronet circled his head. With a delicate hand upon his arm, Galatea, the beautiful and well-loved griffin Princess, strolled gracefully beside him. Both her courtly garb and smaller coronet matched the Prince’s. Behind them, Hereclitus followed. His bearing wasn’t overly proud; he walked confidently and smiled warmly at their guests.
At first Moustrie watched the procession in awe; this was the first time she had ever seen the Principality’s rulers. Suddenly, she gasped when she recognized Hereclitus. He was one of the judges in the storytelling competition. He’s the heir? She started trembling and fought the urge to flee. Many tales of horrible things done to peasants by this family came to mind. Did I say something wrong when I told the story?
Merewin moved swiftly to the high table, kneeled and spoke with the ruling family.
When Galatea raised her glass goblet, a respectful silence dropped like a muffling blanket in the hall. “I hear we have a storyteller who will honor us with the tale that won a competition today. Please, Lady Merewin, bring her out.”
Malevolent whispers hissed across the feast hall when Merewin pulled Moustrie from the shadows. Moustrie’s eyes pleaded with Merewin, but the vixen told her in hushed tones, “Have no fear; you have friends here.”
Hendrick cried, “A peasant? What game are you playing, Merewin?”
Mallory stood up, bowed and replied, “If your highness would just listen to the wondrous tale that she has told this afternoon, you will hear the treasure we’ve found. She has a true story about a noble’s great deeds that I’m sure none of us has ever heard before.”
“A noble’s great deeds, eh? Very well, tell the mouse to get on with it.”
Before her first words were out, the murmurs of other conversations nearly drowned Moustrie’s story out. But the tale had to be told, so she strained her vocal chords, speaking her loudest and practically shouting at the royal couple who listened half-heartedly, engaged in their own conversations.
When she reached the point where the griffin disguised himself, Hendrick cocked his head and frowned. Then he signaled to a pegasus sitting in the room who rose and walked to another table, roughly nudging Moustrie out of his way.
Moustrie stumbled a step forward and her monologue stopped abruptly. Humiliated, tears threatening in her eyes, she swallowed her pride and continued. At another signal from Hendrick, the same pegasus rudely shoved the storyteller to the floor as he returned to his seat. Tears welled in her eyes, sparkling in the candlelight and leaving damp streaks down her furred cheeks.
Hereclitus slammed his goblet on the table and rose. All in the room turned as one to eye him. “Moustrie came a long way to tell you all something very important – something about our history. It should behoove you all to hear it.”
Hendrick’s eyes narrowed as he smashed his own goblet down, shattering it and staining the tablecloth with expensive red wine. “And what would a peasant know about our history,… Son?”
Galatea replied quietly, “Dear, this storyteller has lived in our Principality her whole life. Since you are from another realm, you may not have learned all of our history. It would be nice to hear some of the old stories again.”
Hereclitus studied his father with renewed interest. “Another realm?”
“You contemptuous upstart!” Hendrick snapped at Hereclitus. “You’re not yet Prince of this realm!”
Galatea restrained Hendrick’s arm and gently pulled the Prince back into his seat. “Now dear, we must not embarrass our guests with your temper.”
After a long moment, Hereclitus also took his seat.
The Princess nodded to Merewin. “Please have your storyteller continue.”
Merewin nodded to Moustrie who shook so bad she could not speak. Mallory strolled over to her and gave her a drink from his own goblet. “Calm yourself,” he whispered, “We can’t turn back now. You must finish your story.”
Moustrie drew a deep breath and continued her story under the suddenly rapt attention of all. Mallory stood by her side until confidence grew in her voice once again. Moustrie realized something in the story triggered this argument and tried to portray the details as best as she could.
When she told how the griffin dispatched Seana, Hendrick leapt to his feet, wings extended as he seethed in rage. “You lie! How can you know all this, mouse? No one witnessed this! It was years before you were ever born!”
Hereclitus’ eyes narrowed and Galatea’s eyes widened with horror.
Moustrie couldn’t take any more and ran weeping from the feast hall. Hereclitus quickly signaled to the guards to let her go.
Galatea grabbed Hendrick’s arm but he yanked it away. “Tell me you didn’t,” she cried, tears streaming down her face. “Tell me you did not kill the dragon in the woods.”
Members of the court exchanged a few glances and a few discretely drew their blades ready for action.
“Of course not,” he replied, suddenly remembering there were others in the hall. “It is all lies. We all know that the dragon left the realm when you sought to wed him.”
“Moustrie’s words are TRUE!” rang a clear, deep voice from a shadowed corner of the room. Glaston stepped into the light and strode purposely toward high table. “The story was about that mouse’s grandmother who was a dear friend of mine.”
“It couldn’t be,” snapped Hendrick. “That dragon was my age and you’re far older.”
“Am I?” asked Glaston as his image flickered to that of a younger dragon, then returned just as quickly back to the aged figure.
“No! It can’t be! I killed you! Gods of Thunder! And I let you help raise my son?! Begone spirit! She was only a mouse and you were my competition for the coronet.”
Confused and shocked, Galatea reached toward Glaston. “But why?” she sobbed.
Hendrick furiously backhanded her across her face, causing her to fall to the floor.
Hereclitus rose to intervene, but Galatea waved him back. The feast hall echoed with the sounds of chairs scraping back, as court members rose from their seats.
“How else would I have won you and the coronet?” Hendrick snapped at his wife. “That fool would have won the courtesy contest your father held.”
“But I loved him! That’s why my father arranged the contest thus. How could you?” She got up to hit him with her fists, but he struck her down again.
Hereclitus was in her place in a heartbeat, and the other members of the court flocked behind him with their blades sparkling in the candlelight.
Hendrick scowled at them. “I am still in power here.”
“Not anymore,” Hereclitus replied. “The power of the throne is the people who back it. You are alone and shall be exiled for your actions,… Father.”
“Traitors!” Hendrick squawked, “Traitors, one and all!” He turned and fled the room with a mob at his heels.
Hereclitus remained and helped his mother to her feet. Then he turned to his tutor and studied the aged dragon. “You’re not a ghost.” He paused, weighing his next words. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Glaston dropped the illusion so all could truly see him. “You might have believed that I wanted your cornet, which I do not. But I did want Hendrick off the throne, and I had to wait until you were old enough to assume its responsibilities.”
Galatea stared in disbelief. “You are alive? And you never let me know? Why? I loved you!”
Glaston stepped back a bit, “I cared much for you too, Galatea, but you were the only heir to your father’s coronet. And the court and all its trappings,” he added with a broad sweep of his arm, “were not for me.”
Hereclitus weighed these answers and said, “I shall not forget what you have taught me.”
Glaston smiled. “I must be off; there’s one part left unfinished.”
**************************
Moustrie made it back to the village by foot and met Rose and Patrick as they stepped out of the tavern. Rose saw Moustrie’s tears and ran to her friend’s side. “Tails! What happened, girl?”
“Terrible… so terrible…” was all Moustrie could squeak out between sobs.
Patrick draped a comforting arm over her shoulders, trying to add his support. “Lousy reception, eh?” he croaked. “Well, we’ve got better news.” He grinned broadly. “For one, I’ve just hired your friend, Rose, to wait on our tables.”
“Our?” Moustrie sniffled.
“You don’t think that thick-headed ox owns the whole joint, do you? Who do you think runs things?”
Moustrie smiled a little, feeling the warmth from the toad’s open personality. “That’s great, Rose; we’ll miss you at Riverside Tavern.”
“There’s more,” Rose added as she bounced on her toes.
“More?”
Patrick’s face split into a wider grin. “Our former storyteller has left the Principality and consequently our employ. And quite frankly, with him gone, you’re the best storyteller in the realm. I’d like to hire you too.”
“You want me to tell stories and wait on tables here?”
“Your talent is far too valuable for that,” he corrected. “You just tell your stories and keep our patrons entertained.”
“I say it’s a splendid idea,” came a deep, persuasive baritone from the dark. Glaston, once again the aged dragon, emerged into the pool of light before the tavern.
“Ah! Lord Glaston, what are you doing out alone tonight?”
“I only wanted to ensure that our storyteller keeps telling her stories. Remember,” he said turning to Moustrie with a wink and a gentle smile, “a sharp blade may kill many, but only the truth can bring whole realms down.” Then he turned away and faded into the darkness.
- ESA
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