Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [129]
Hollee did a twirly dance through the late autumn mumfers, gathering blooms to make a chain. Wizard Fenworth tilted his face up to catch the brilliance of the day. The satisfied expression on his face shifted to horror, and the old man dragged the sleeves of his wizard’s garb up off his wrists to expose scrawny white arms.
“Look at that, Hollee,” he cried. “The hairs are standing up. Trouble!”
He let the sleeves fall before she got a good look. He scoured the immediate area with steely eyes. Then he lifted one hand to shield against the bright sun and surveyed the rising mountains all around.
“Trouble!”
“What kind of trouble?” she asked.
He sniffed the air. “The Grawl, and something I daresay I’ve never smelled.” He stuck his tongue out and wiggled it in the open air. “Tastes like trouble too.”
“Are we going to go look for it?”
The twinkle left the old man’s eyes. “No, it’s coming to us.”
Hollee swallowed to keep her voice from coming out in a squeak. “The Grawl?”
The wizard stood for a moment with his head tilted and an expression of deep concentration on his face. “Yes, I’m afraid so, but do not worry. The Grawl is not the only one coming and might very well get lost in the crowd.”
“Reinforcements?”
“For us? No.” He untangled a grasshopper from his beard and let it go. “Odidoddex’s army is only about a half day’s march to the east.”
Hollee quivered so violently that her dress made of light blinked on and off. “Why shouldn’t I worry?”
“Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t like this business of war.” He pointed to a dragon cresting the northern ridge. “Here comes the first of our bad news.”
“What? What? What’s happening?”
“Patience,” said the wizard and placed a hand on her head, mashing down her unruly spikes of wispy hair.
The dragon landed next to the castle. A marione slipped off its back and ran in. A second rider, a kimen, came to Fenworth and Hollee.
“Tut, tut,” said the wizard. “I wish I could be with Lady Peg and Tipper.”
“Why?” Hollee watched the approaching messenger. “What’s happened?”
“The city of Ragar has fallen.”
The kimen reached them as Fenworth dropped down on a log. His hat wiggled and fell off in his lap. A bird flew away from his head.
“Oh dear, oh dear. I don’t like war.” Fenworth leaned forward, propping his elbows on his knees and putting his face in his hands.
Hollee spoke to the kimen. “There’s more bad news, isn’t there?”
The messenger nodded, his long hair falling into his eyes and his face distraught. “The king fought with his soldiers to defend Amber Palace and was killed.”
“Oh no!”
“Verrin Schope rescued the queen and is taking her to Byrdschopen.”
“That means Princess Tipper will be queen.”
Wizard Fenworth lifted his head. “Why?”
“In Chiril,” explained the messenger, “the crown goes to the second generation, second child.”
“Lady Peg and her sister are the first generation,” said Hollee, “and Princess Tipper is the second child.”
Fenworth shook his head. “She has no older sibling.”
Hollee hopped from one foot to the other. “No, but she has one older cousin.” She stood on tiptoe. “I’m sorry the king is dead, but this is so exciting. Princess Tipper will be a great queen.”
“Interesting.” Fenworth nodded. “Unusual.” He stood. “Odd.” He sat again. “Is there a reason for this second generation, second child tradition?”
“Oh yes.” Hollee used her hands to gesture, emphasizing the importance of the custom with wide, sweeping motions. “Royalty stopped killing each other to get the throne. The spouse cannot inherit the crown, and the royal children can’t either. It makes plotting to overthrow the