~Andrelandros

  He’d been stuck in his daily routine for the umpteenth day in a row when his brother had come to him to mull something over—an infrequent but not uncommon occurrence. Lancelot was a brilliant man, a “genius swordsman” according to the Royal Swordsmaster, and a perfect Crown Prince in the eyes of his parents and the people.

  Landros knew better. He was privy to Lance’s most idiotic thoughts. He knew about the long hours Lance had put into training (secretly) long after everyone else had left the yard—he was often forced to be his midnight training partner. Perhaps most importantly, he was aware of his older brother's anxiety about becoming the next emperor. In other words, Lance was far from the perfect Crown Prince everyone thought him to be, and Landros loved him all the more for it. Would he ever tell him that? Of course not.

  A more ambitious younger sibling might take advantage of his older brother’s shortcomings, but Landros had no desire to usurp his brother and become emperor. He was content with his position, knowing someday he would likely end up the Archduke of Dorandia…if he wasn’t married off to another country like his older sister was set to. So long as he could continue his hobbies and live the life he was used to, there would be no reason to rebel.

  At least…he had been content with the idea. Not too long ago, Lance had wandered into his chambers late in the evening, a bottle of liquor and two glasses in hand.

  Landros had groaned, knowing what it meant. Still, he’d gotten up from reading his book—Krackow’s Guide to Poisonous and Toxic Flora and Fauna of Dorandia, Kirva, and Liutan?ia, 3rd Edition—and taken the offered glass. He took a sip of some kind of sweet, berry-flavored liquor and raised a brow at his brother.

  “I had a craving for something sweet,” Lance explained with a shrug.

  “It’s not bad,” Landros replied, even though it wasn’t quite to his taste. He’d drink his share to prevent his brother from downing the whole bottle. “Now, tell me why you’re here.”

  “It has to do with father.”

  “Of course.” Landros sat on one of his crimson velvet settees and gestured for Lance to sit opposite him. "If it isn't about ladies, it's about him."

  “It's funny you say that, brother—he wants me to figure out why he’s going through all this trouble for the LaVelle girl instead of just ordering her to swear allegiance to him. It’s giving me a headache.”

  LaVelle. Why did that name sound so familiar...? Then he remembered—the young lady who had been presented at court, who had been forced to remove her veil and take down her hair in front of everyone. He smiled at the memory.

  “Don’t grin like that; you look like a madman,” Lance commented. “So what do you think? Oh! You know the dragon prophecy I told you of? The one you’re not supposed to know anything about? Well…”

  Lancelot told Landros everything. He listened intently, immediately understanding why his father made the move he did. Was his brother thick?

  Well…he already knew the answer to that question.

  “Think about it, Lance: with the first option, your servant is ignorant of her purpose and only loyal to you because she swore to be. With the second option, your servant is trained and invested in your cause, and she would be loyal to you even without an oath because she understands the importance of her role.”

  “Sometimes I think you’d be the better emperor,” Lance commented, pouring the last of the bottle into his glass.

  “Don’t you dare,” Landros replied. “Don't you dare. I have plans of my own, you know.”

  Eventually, in the wee hours of the morning, Lance had left, stumbling back to his chambers down the hall.

  But Landros couldn’t sleep after that, not after learning so much about Lady Florence. The “dragonspeaker.”

  He snorted. By then, he was lying on his bed, shirt unlaced and untucked, boots off, and his hands tucked behind his golden, messy hair. Part of him wanted to dismiss the whole thing as folly—surely, his father was giving far too much credence to some ancient prophecy. A thousand years—a thousand years had passed. Dorandia was barely that old as a country.

  But…if the prophecy was true and a dragon was going to hatch…and if Lady Florence was this “dragonspeaker”...

  She would become famous overnight, overwriting her poor reputation in an instant as the savior of the country.

  Hadn't he planned to bump into her at the Academy at some point? True, that was before he'd forgotten all about her. But now that she was set to become an important figure in the next few years, perhaps he should enact his plan sooner rather than later.

  Before he forgot about her again.

  ?????

  ~Trevor

  Trevor looked up at the old, weatherworn sign, barely visible in the evening streetlight. He had to start somewhere, so it might as well be here.

  The Worn Horn was a bit famous for its tendency to host better bards and musicians than other taverns, a reputation that was self-sustaining—better music attracted more people, which generated more income, which could pay better musicians, starting the whole cycle over.

  He was hoping there would be some musicians here tonight looking to make some extra coin, but even now, seated with his meal and his pint, listening to well-tuned instruments and trained singers, he had doubts about this plan.

  It could backfire. Was it worth the risk?

  Trevor watched the musicians, taking his time with his meal, and decided that he would make the call when he met up with them. He was usually a good judge of character—his gut was rarely wrong—so he’d probably be able to tell if they would be trustworthy to work with.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  A few hours later, when business was winding down and the main show was packed up and getting ready to head out, Trevor exited and waited. There was one fellow in particular he thought would be right for the job, if only he could catch him. He also seemed quite keen and able to escape someone like Trevor—someone wanting something from him.

  Sure enough, the bard had already slipped out the back and was two blocks away before Trevor caught up to him.

  “Sir,” Trevor called, stopping the man where he stood. “Might I have a moment? I’ll make it worth your while.”

  Did…did the man sigh? Slowly, he turned around to face Trevor in the near-dark of the street.

  “Let me guess, you want a love song for your beloved?” the bard began. “Or, are you after a narration of your own heroic deed, perhaps? I’m afraid I don’t accept commissions, not any longer. And since it’s quite late, I’ll be going now.”

  The bard turned to leave, but Trevor moved to stand in front of him—looming over him a good six inches.

  “My request is…a bit different than either of those,” he said quietly, looking down into the bard’s impassive gray eyes. “I’ll pay you just to listen to my request. Please.”

  The bard sighed again.

  “Fine,” he agreed. “But this isn’t a promise to work for you.”

  “Understood.”

  The two of them went to a late-night cafe—a type of business growing in popularity due to Doran City’s active nightlife—and sat in a quiet corner.

  “Have you heard of Florence LaVelle?” Trevor asked.

  The bard snorted. “Who hasn’t? Poor girl.”

  “Exactly,” Trevor replied, looking into the bard’s eyes once more. “I have good reason to…alter her reputation. You see, none of the rumors going around about her are remotely true. All I ask is that you learn about her, observe her if need be, and write a ballad based on your perception of her. Whatever you end up with—I’m not asking you to tell lies.”

  The bard’s eyebrows shot up into his curly, light brown hair, damp with sweat.

  “You seem quite confident that I’ll view her favorably. If I take the job, that is.” He sipped his sweetened cup of coffee.

  “Perhaps I’ll figure out a way the two of you can meet, too,” Trevor pondered, rubbing his chin.

  “That shouldn’t be necessary.” The bard pressed his lips together, looked at the table for a moment, then looked up at Trevor. “My name is Gavin Yarrow, but as you heard at the Horn, I’m known as The Sparrow. Aren’t you going to introduce yourself? Or, let me guess, you’re a noble here in secret or something of the sort.”

  “Not quite, mate, but not far off, either. Thorne, Thorne Black,” he said, reaching across the table to shake hands. “Funds are not an issue, so name your price to make it happen.”

  “Even if what I come up with isn’t favorable to the lady in question?”

  “I’d still pay you…and I’d ask you not to sing it…but I wouldn’t stop you if you truly wanted to. However, I don’t think that’s how you’ll feel. Let’s just say my gut says you’ll like her—the real Lady Florence.”

  “Hm. We’ll see.”

  Trevor smiled at Gavin beneath his hood and slid a scrap of parchment across the table that had several of Lady Florence’s most frequented locations scrawled on it.

  “This should assist you. Is two weeks long enough?” Gavin nodded. “Good, then we’ll meet back here then.”

  ?????

  ~Florence

  “Sir Thorne…?” I begin, then stop. Earlier, I had convinced myself that if I simply started talking, I’d be forced to finish the question and ask him—I need answers and can’t afford to be a coward forever. But now that I’ve opened my mouth, I can’t remember how I had planned to ask the rest.

  “What is it, Ren?” He puts down the bar with a sandbag tied to either end that he’d been lifting.

  “How does one…procure a fortune?” I rub my thumbs together, looking intently at my ragged nailbeds. They’ll need to be manicured before I go back to the Academy in a couple of days, for I dislike writing with gloves on during classes.

  “Uh…” I glance up to see Sir Thorne place his hand on top of the cowl to pull it further down his face. “Give me…a moment…”

  Is he…laughing at me??

  I jump to my feet and walk the few paces over to him. His shoulders shake silently while his hand, covering the cowl, presses over his mouth.

  “You are laughing!” I shout, giving him a push.

  At that, he can contain it no longer. He throws his head back and lets out a deep chuckle.

  Even I can’t help smiling when I hear it—it’s a happy sound.

  “Fine, I admit it’s an odd request,” I shout over his laughter, “but I really do need your help. I don't have anyone else I can ask.”

  “Yes,” he pauses to breathe, “yes, I can help you. What have you thought of so far?”

  Not, Why do you need the money? or, Why don’t you ask your father? or, Ridiculous! Absolutely not.

  Had I expected questions like these?

  Yes…I had.

  “Well,” I begin, picking up some weights to lift while I talk, “to be honest, I don’t have any real experience with money other than spending it, but I need to raise funds. Discreetly. And it would be good if it’s something I don’t need to commit a lot of time to since I’m already so short on it. I know that’s asking a lot…”

  “Hmm,” Sir Thorne also resumes exercising while he thinks.

  For a few minutes, it’s just the sounds of the wind in the wooded area around us and our breathing as we exert ourselves. It feels companionable. Comfortable.

  “Do you already have some funds set aside somewhere?” he finally asks.

  “Yes.” Should I tell him how much? Do I need to?

  “You could invest some of it, or you could buy a mine or some land, or…” he huffs as he lifts the bar above his head. “...you could start a business of some kind. But that,” huff, “would take quite a bit of work up front. And there is no guarantee any of these would succeed.”

  Invest, business…words I’m not very familiar with.

  I can feel my brow furrow in response. Before I can reply, he continues,

  “Would you like me to ask Lord Trevor for some ideas? He might also have some connections—”

  “No!” I interrupt. “No, thank you. I couldn't possibly trouble his lordship over something like this.”

  “Then, how about I do some more thinking and I’ll write back to you in the journal?”

  “Thank you, Sir Thorne,” I say, feeling optimistic. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I appreciate your assistance in this matter.”

  “It’s my pleasure, m’lady,” he replies. “Now, how about we switch to leg exercises, then work on weapons training for a bit before calling it a night? I think I have the perfect things picked out for you.”

  Despite the heaviness of the weights in my hands, it feels like an even heavier weight has been lifted off my shoulders.

  "That sounds good," I tell him with a genuine smile.

  Uh-oh....a couple of the guys are up to something! Will it be good? Bad? Landros, Trevor...I'm keeping an eye on you two. ??

  ??

  Lots of love,

  xo??kb