The Dragon's Clause

Chapter 5: Memories

"Little Scale!" A tall man with rough skin and deep lines by his eyes called for you, and much like your namesake you flitted about, the only thing giving you away were the tumbling giggles all small children had.

You'd learned to run by your second summer, and you sprinted with more grace and skill than you walked with, to your father's amusement. The difference evened out by your third summer, and by your fourth he was keeping you entertained with exercises and drills, building up your small body to be able to hold a sword, or bow, or both, by your fifth summer.

At little more than four right now, you weren't quite there yet.

The shrill squeal that escaped you as calloused hands plucked you from your mad adventure turned into more laughter as your father held you aloft. The lands were cold, but it hardly seemed to bother you. An immunity most children had, with little care or concern for the snow or sun.

"Tell me you lost your gloves for once," your father questions, running his thick beard against your cheek and making you wriggle in a giggled attempt to get away. "And that you didn't give them away again."

"Papa!" You respond, mischief dappling your cheeks before you even say more. "They sprouted legs and ran away!"

"That was the seventh pair to do so!" He tries to scold you, but his voice and face can never match his intent. "It's an epidemic. Knitting is not meant to run away, and we must remedy this immediately."

You're sat upon your father's shoulder. For another couple years he will be larger than life, and the world itself will seem small and safe from your perch. The knights in your father's regiment will decide to take up knitting in their downtime in order to test how often mittens sprout legs, and by your fifth summer most of the children in the northern border towns will have warm hands.

Calloused hands will be a mark of honor for you come your sixth birthday. You and your grip are strong enough to use a weighted wooden sword. The hilt is wrapped in linen and leather, and so your calluses look like your father's, and there are no sharp splinters to be seen.

The troupe's tactician teaches you reading and arithmetic, having you practice your writing and doing sums when the knights are deeper into the woods than your father will let you follow.

Culling the beasts along the northern border is an honorable profession, and you may one day be given the privilege of doing so, but it must be earned. Earned in skill and knowledge both, and if you want to face the beasts, you must prove your capacity.

Your things no longer sprout legs and run off, but you and some of the knights knit while you trade stories. The steady click of crafting sticks punctuating conversations about government and history, about monster anatomy and what was of value and what wasn't. You knew the medicinal properties of weeds before you learned how to walk in heels.

You knew the fundamentals of archery and swordplay before you knew what lace felt like against your fingers.

For six years you learned about the world from your father's shoulder. For four years after you learned about the world from his side.

At ten, you learned how to adapt to a new world, within the stones and halls of your Uncle's castle. Your father was no longer at your side, but his sword protected the kingdom. His honor protected your freedom, and for six years, you learned all that the tutors and books of your country could teach you.

Until the world became so large that it consumed your father, and then you learned how to live by yourself.

Now, several years after all of that, you were perched carefully in a comfortable chair, pouring a cup of tea into a nearby vase. If the flowers showed no ill effects within the next hour you'd drink it, and if they did, you would not. Carnations were a cheap flower in the eyes of most nobility, but they drank far more quickly than most other blossoms. Dyes and poisons both would affect their petals faster than any other available option.

You were just glad that requesting them each morning was neither denied by the King, nor the butler.

You were equally glad that so far it didn't seem as though they meant to poison you, slowly or otherwise. Three days turned into four, and then into five. The first two days you'd been nervous and anxious, uncertain with every step outside your door if someone was going to come in and simply behead you and be done with it.

After five days you were only pouring tea into the vase out of a strange new habit.

By the sixth day you were getting cabin fever, and frankly felt it wouldn't be so bad for them to just execute you after all. If your days were going to be this dull and you were to be this ignored, the excitement of beheading was almost alluring.

You'd done your best to not be a bother in any measure of the word. You hadn't requested books to read, or so much as pen and paper. Aside from meals and tea you'd been provided nothing else. Your clothes, bed and room were taken care of, and the maids were professional. They aided you in your morning routine and your evening one - given the state of things it wouldn't do for you to be in the midst of anything without someone around to help you hastily dress if need be.

After spending so long looking after your cousin, this much inactivity was almost cruel. At least when you were traveling there had been things to do. The few books hadn't lasted you long, but the scenery changed, and the driver would hum tunes.

Even the reports between the two knights escorting you had been a change and comfort.

Attentive and useful as the maids were, they did not linger, and the knights outside your door - well, you didn't really know if they would have a conversation with you, as you hadn't dared approach the door in days.

By the time the seventh day rolled around you were beginning to think this was simply going to be your new life. The King has forgotten your pathetic existence, and meals only appear in your room because the butler isn't about to have to deal with your corpse when you're remembered in ten years.

Memories of your youth had helped you keep your sanity in the beginning, but the memories of your best years were tinged with bitter pains. You had been denied the right to join the troops by your Uncle's decree only two years ago. It didn't matter how good you were, he had refused.

You'd never see the others again, if they were even still alive, and as warm as the memories were, they were harsh reminders that this world had taken your father from you. If he was still alive you'd be at the northern borders already, nearer to Lulusia and all the parts of her lands that you loved.

Maybe today you'd ask for yarn and knitting needles. If you couldn't leave you could at least fashion a set or two of gloves. Not that Goa's capital knew much of cold. It was even further south than Lulusia's, and the weather there was fairly mild.

You stretch as you greet your eighth day and consider how best to word your request to the maids when they arrive.

It's not just two maids that arrive, a few short minutes after you've woken on your own, but five. The atmosphere is tense, and the butler steps in, careful to keep his eyes on the floor.

"The King has requested your presence after breakfast, Lady of Lulusia."