The Dragon of Despair Read Online Free PDF Page A

Derian made his way to the king’s audience hall. The herald to whom Derian gave his name was a stranger, but she didn’t ask to be shown the counselor’s ring or any other form of identification.
    “You are expected,” she said. “I’ll send a message in to His Majesty’s secretary, Lady Farand, and I am certain that the king will see you as soon as he finishes with his current meeting.”
    “That quickly?” Derian replied, surprised.
    “The king said he was to be interrupted in the course of his usual appointments,” the herald explained, “the moment you arrived. You were to be offered refreshments while you waited.”
    Derian nodded.
    “Will there be a long wait?” he asked. “Because I can just run down to the kitchens myself. No need to bother anyone.”
    The herald looked a touch startled at his lack of formality.
    “If that is your wish,” she said. “A runner can be sent for you there as easily as to the kitchen to bring you a tray.”
    Derian nodded and went. The truth was he didn’t want to stand fidgeting in a foyer. Fetching his own bread and beer would be a distraction.
    He was finishing up the good-sized meal of cold meats, cheese, and sundry other dainties that a friendly cook had brought him, when a runner came from the herald.
    “The king will see you,” the boy announced, sliding across the polished stone flags of the kitchen floor and deftly snatching a chunk of cheese from under Derian’s fingers.
    Derian rose and headed out, nodding his thanks to the cook. She waved her free hand—the other was pinched tightly around the lobe of the runner’s ear—and the rest of her attention was given to scolding the boy.
    Running up the stone stairs two at a time, mortified that he might have kept the king waiting, Derian was relieved to find the herald standing watch before the still closed doors of the king’s chamber, but she stepped aside as he came up.
    “His Majesty sent a message out to me,” the herald said. “His current meeting will be over momentarily. Did you happen to see Lady Blysse in the kitchen?”
    Derian shook his head.
    “His Majesty requested her presence as well,” the herald said with a sigh. “I just hope the runners I sent can find her.”
    “Did you send one to Holly Gardener’s cottage?” Derian suggested.
    “And to the gardens,” the herald confirmed, her slight, wry smile showing that this wasn’t the first time she’d been asked to locate the wolf-woman, “even though for most people today’s weather would be excuse enough to stay in by the fire.”
    “So Firekeeper might have done,” Derian said. “She’s seen enough bad weather to appreciate comfort.”
    But Firekeeper hadn’t been located when the doors swung outward and those who had been meeting with the king streamed out, arms loaded with books and papers, most still chattering about whatever matter had been under discussion. A few noticed the tall red-haired youth standing to one side, but Derian had practiced effacing himself, and most overlooked him.
    “Go on in,” the herald said. “The king said I need not bother to announce you.”
    She looked neither scandalized nor puzzled by this informality and Derian decided that whatever training the castle’s heralds received must include a high amount of tolerance for their aging monarch’s eccentricities.
    To his slight surprise, when Derian entered the conference room, he found it empty but for a single uniformed guard. He recognized him at once as Sir Dirkin Eastbranch, captain of the king’s personal guard. Sir Dirkin was a tall man whose square chin and high cheekbones seemed chiseled from his weathered brown skin.
    “King Tedric,” Sir Dirkin said without preamble, “has requested that you wait upon him in his sitting room.”
    His studiously calm expression broke into a smile so slight Derian might have overlooked it if he hadn’t come to know the man somewhat the summer before.
    “The last meeting ran overlong,” Dirkin