"I must return to my homeland, King Conchobar," Ivar said, glancing at the chalice where it rested comfortably on the nearby table. "My people have been without the sacred chalice far too long; it is time it was returned to them."
Conchobar nodded, though he looked slightly uncomfortable.
"You will be greatly missed, Prince Ivar," he replied, studying the young man who had matured even in his time in Kells. "You have grown like a son to me," the king admitted, smiling softly at Ivar. The Moorish prince looked up from his study of the floor, his dark brown eyes searching those of the king, finding nothing there but perfect love and honesty.
"Thank you, my king," he said, bowing his head. "I shall return as quickly as I can; you can count on it."
Ivar turned to leave, and Conchobar's voice raised quickly before the man could reach the door.
"Will you stay long enough to enjoy one last meal with your friends, here in the castle?"
Ivar paused. This he could do; it was not so long a journey to his homeland. Yes; proper farewells were in order here. He turned to nod at the king.
"I shall with pleasure, my king."
Ivar watched in amusement as Angus tried to do a cartwheel.
"I don't understand, Angus," he said. "You can do a backward flip off the roof of your hut; but you can't do a simple cartwheel?"
Angus stood, dusting dirt from his back and shoulders.
"I'd like to see you do better," the thief said, stalking back to his bench. Ivar nodded, stood, and took three steps out into the open. With the knights and the villagers watching, he did several cartwheels in a row, coming back to his feet and holding his hands up for applause; feeling slightly woozy because he hadn't done that since he was seven, he returned to his seat.
"I must leave in the morning, princess," he said to Deirdre, eyeing her low-cut gown before turning back to the festivities. "I regret that I shall be gone for some time."
Deirdre's brows drew together in a worried little knot. She hesitated, then reached out to place her hand on his arm. "Must you leave so suddenly?"
"I should have gone sooner; yet I stayed to help Angus retrieve his dragon. The sooner I return the chalice to my homeland, the sooner I may return to Kells."
Deirdre smiled, squeezing his arm gently.
"I hope you will return to us in as good of spirits as you leave," she replied, and Ivar let his gaze fall on her lovely face, eyelids lowering sensually as he studied her luscious red lips. Even though he knew Rohan had kissed her, he realized that it didn't matter to him as much as he thought. In his homeland as king, he would have a whole harem of women, not just a wife; although he did hope to marry one princess, one day, out of love. He wished it could be Deirdre; but she would never consider having him in her bed, let alone as her husband.
"I will return as swift as the wind, Deirdre," he whispered. Deirdre licked lips suddenly gone dry as she recognized the look in Ivar's eyes. Strange, she thought, that she felt no aversion to the idea; and indeed was considering it. Shaking her head, she looked up into Ivar's chocolate brown eyes and smiled softly.
"Yes," she said, standing. "Want to dance?" She asked, offering her hand to him. He nodded, grinning, and the two of them went out into the open, beneath the stars. Ivar pulled the princess close, letting her feel his body through her gown and his Arabic costume. At her sharp intake of breath, he realized that he was having an affect on her, and frowned when she drew away.
"I think I should go see how my father and Queen Maeve are faring," she said, her voice quivering. Ivar nodded, returning to his seat, watching Deirdre hurry away.
"Ivar! Leaving already?" Rohan said, pushing open the door to what had been Ivar's room for the longest time.
Ivar looked up from his packing, threw a glance Rohan's direction, and resumed his work.
"Yes. I should go before dawn if I've any hope at all of catching a boat going my way."
Rohan approached the prince haltingly.
"Deirdre wants a word with you; privately," he added as an afterthought.
"Where is she?" "In the throne-room."
Ivar swallowed and nodded, hefting his pack over one shoulder. He stopped beside the door, half-turned. "Will you say farewell to Garrett and Angus for me, Rohan?" He asked. "And Cathbad and the king; your mother?" He smiled, looked down at the floor, let a little chuckle escape. "Even Torq and Mider, I suppose."
"You expect me to thank Fin Varra as well for giving you your trident, and tell him farewell, I suppose?"
Ivar nodded. "I cannot delay a moment longer," he said sadly. Rohan nodded, placing a hand on his friend's shoulder.
"I understand," he said softly, and Ivar turned and walked away. Rohan gave one last glance to the room as he strolled around, blowing out the candles. When he reached the last one, he hesitated before pursing his lips and snuffing out the bright red flame.
"You wanted to see me,princess?" Ivar said. Deirdre turned swiftly on her heel, the knuckles of one hand resting beneath her chin in thought, her blue-green eyes wide.
"Ivar," she said softly. "I wanted to say...goodbye. And to give you my father's regards."
"It is your regard that I value, Princess Deirdre," he replied, reaching out as he stepped up to her, caressing her hair in the palm of one hand.
"Ivar, you know that Rohan and I are most certain to marry one day," she said. "Although I do care for you, I can't...can't..."
"Can't see yourself married to me," he said for her. "Can't imagine sharing my bed."
"No! Not that...I mean...of course I've imagined it. Any sane female would, I suppose. You can be a very handsome man, Ivar; when the mood strikes you. But I have already chosen to love Rohan. At least, I think it's love....oh, I don't know! It's all so confusing. But...really I don't want to choose one of you. My friends; for fear of losing you all."
Ivar looked deep into her eyes.
"Then the idea...it does not repulse you?"
Deirdre paused, then shook her head.
Ivar smiled.
"Good."
Then he was gone, without another word. Deirdre felt a tear stain her cheek, but did not move to wipe it away. By Dagda, did these men all think she was made of stone? That she didn't feel anything for any one of them but Rohan? She may be a princess, but she was still just a woman, after all.
Ivar smiled as the salty oceanic breeze whipped past his face. It was good to be at sea again; nearing the warmer waters off the coast of his homeland. The sun shone brightly down on him, and he sighed as he wondered what Deirdre and the others were doing at this very moment. He supposed he should miss Nadia more; but she had become so elusive since she had learned that there would be a baby from their coupling. Ivar wanted to be home by the time his child was born...odd. Ivar frowned as he realized; he had just referred to Kells as his home. And he supposed in a way it was. Moreso now than ever; he certainly had more friends there than in his homeland.
"Land ho!" Cried one of the sailors from the crow's nest. Ivar rushed to the railing, looking out upon the hot sands of his native North Africa; and he looked forward to the ride to his father's palace in Morocco.
"Good luck, Prince Ivar," said the captain of the vessel, clapping the young man on the back. "And tell your father I said hello."
"I shall, and thank you," Ivar returned as he raced toward the docks, hoping to find a good, sturdy camel; or at least a horse, though he pitied the poor animal that had to be housed in his father's stables. Perhaps King Achmed had changed; after all, Ivar hadn't seen him for quite some time. But, more than likely, things had not grown too different in the months since Ivar had left the palace.
"Announcing Prince Ivar," said the door-guard, pulling back the heavy purple drape that sufficed for a door in the hot Moroccan clime. Ivar walked into the throne-room, his helmet tucked beneath his arm, the chalice in his right hand. He stopped before the cushions on which his father and mother sat, bowing low.
"Father, mother," he said softly. "I have brought back the sacred chalice that has been in our family for generations. The thief who stole it managed to escape me; but nevertheless, our family's sacred chalice has been returned."
King Achmed stood in one fluid movement, ripping the chalice from Ivar's grasp and looking it over.
"Ha. So the thief escaped you, did he, my son? Strange; Turin would have caught him, hung him by his toenails and forced him to give up his reasons for stealing our chalice in the first place. Have you grown soft, boy?"
Ivar looked upset by his father's outburst.
"No, my father," he said. "I merely did not feel it necessary to continue my pursuit when the thief had already given the chalice back." Ivar hung his head. "I'm sorry. I have failed you."
Queen Nepthumae rose from her perfumed cushion, wrapping her slender arms about her son, drawing his head down onto her shoulder as he embraced her.
"Enough, Achmed," she said softly, turning a harsh gaze on her husband. "Ivar brought back that accursed chalice for love of you and his people. You could at least give him your thanks, and not howl at him like a wolf-hound."
King Achmed half-shook, half-nodded his head at Nepthumae.
"Perhaps you are right," he said. That woman could always get him to agree with her. "Thank you, Ivar. You've done good." And he patted Ivar on the head like a dog. "I still say your brother could have done far better."
"And would have, I suspect, had my dear baby brother not run off to defend his kingdom against all wrongs done her," said a deep voice from the doorway. Ivar turned to gaze at Turin; his older brother by three years. The man stood with his elbow leaning against the doorjamb, a grin on his face a mile wide; a sarcastic grin, Ivar thought, meant for poking fun at his baby brother.
"Turin," Ivar grumbled, forcing a false smile to his lips as he reached out to shake his brother's hand. Turin looked at the outstretched palm and turned up his nose, walking right past Ivar and studying his father.
"Too bad you missed all the excitement, Ivar," Turin said, hoping to stir up some trouble. "Seems we've a dragon problem here in Morocco."
Ivar looked interested suddenly.
"A dragon?" He asked incredulously.
"Yes," Turin said with all the fiendishly bored enthusiasm he could manage. "It's been flying over the city by cover of dark, breathing off some form of poison that kills our fruits and vegetables. It doesn't do much more to our cattle than simply sicken them. They are mostly recovered by the next afternoon; then the dragon strikes again."
Ivar thought for a moment before replying.
"When is the dragon due to strike next," he asked.
"Tomorrow night," Turin said, stifling a yawn with the back of his hand. "Why?"
Ivar shrugged widely.
"Just curious, I suppose."
Ivar watched the skies over Morocco impatiently, waiting for darkness to fall over the deserts beyond the small oasis that was the great city, the kingdom over which his father ruled.
There was a shriek above him; a roaring squeal that caused the townspeople to run for their very lives, closing their windows and doors upon the night-time city. Ivar looked up, nearly snapping his neck as he did so. For a moment all he could see was a brilliant white light; then absolute darkness. The dragon had swooped down low enough that its Ivar could nearly reach out and touch one of its wings.
The prince stood on the hilltop where he had been lying in wait for hours, watching the dragon soar over his kingdom. It opened its maw and released a spray of greenish smoke, and as Ivar watched all of the fruits and vegetables in the marketplace turned brown, withered and died. When the dragon made its pass over the fields and pastures where the cattle and horses were kept, each animal fell ill one by one, dropping to their knees on the sun-dried grass. Ivar wished he could do something to stop this madness; but what could he do? He was no druid, had no powers like Cathbad; or Rohan, though he would gladly give up all his kingdom to be able to speak with the dragon. Well, it was worth a try.
"Hear me, you slithery winged serpent!" Ivar cried, lifting his arms above his head. The dragon paused, flapping its wings and hovering in mid-air as though trying to decide whether to have Ivar for dinner or breakfast. Ivar ignored the hungry look the creature gave him. "Why do you do this to my people? My people who never harmed one of yours since the dawn of time!"
The dragon flapped its way down to settle on the grassy hillock before Ivar, cocking its head, blinking great, pinkish eyes at the knight. It made a trilling sound in its throat, like the purr of a curious kitten. Ivar let his arms fall back to his sides as he studied the dragon. Its hide was pure white; purer than the snow at the Ice Cell, where Rohan had gotten his mystic armor. It wore a crest of royal appearance over its breast; a crest in gold, blue, and red. Its face was long, delicate in appearance, with two smooth white whiskers falling to either side of its nose. This was no ordinary dragon, Ivar realized; this was an albino dragon. Those pinkish eyes said it all. And such an exquisitely beautiful dragon, too.
"Are you the one who has been named the Mystic Knight of Air?" The dragon asked, startling Ivar so that he jumped back a few paces. Its voice was soft, as delicate as its build. Definately feminine. And the language was his own native tongue; certainly an unexpected occurence.
"No," Ivar said, his voice equally soft. "I am Prince Ivar; the Mystic Knight of Water."
"My name is Khamsin; at least, that is what they told me when I was a drageen; when King Achmed found me as a boy and took me to the rookery in Egypt. So far away; I feared I would never return. I am meant for the one whose strength is that of air."
"Your name...it means air in our tongue. My father must have known somehow about the prophecy...but how?" Ivar tilted his head to the side, then shook it. "You are Princess Deirdre's dragon..."
"Dragoness, Prince Ivar," Khamsin said. Ivar noticed something else about her voice. It sounded so sad, almost as though Khamsin were a very old woman who missed all of her children very much.
"Dragoness," he corrected himself, bowing his head. "So if you are not my dragon; why can we speak to one another?"
Khamsin cocked her head, her pink eyes blinking several times, but so slowly that Ivar could see every movement of muscle in her eyelids.
"I do not know, Prince Ivar. I assume it is only temporary. I could speak to your father, as well; but only for a few days. Then we lost contact; I could understand his human tongue, but my dragon tongue became somehow jumbled back. So for now I believe our main concern should be getting to my mistress before our languages falter again."
Ivar nodded sagely. "May I climb onto your back? We can leave now, if you wish."
Khamsin stared at him.
"Won't you need to say your farewells to your family?"
Ivar thought.
"Only to my mother," he said at last. "She is the only one who cares about my destiny."
Nepthumae gazed out the window, knowing that her son had gone to see the dragon, the scourge of Morocco. Her fears showed plainly in her darkly bronzed face, her brow wrinkled as she resumed pacing the hot marble floor.
"Mother?"
Nepthumae turned, her eyes wide, her face broken into a smile as she held out her arms to receive her son, much as she had on the day of his birth twenty-four years ago.
"Ivar; the dragon? Has it been destroyed?"
Ivar shook his head as his mother smoothed her dainty hands over his cheeks.
"No. I am taking her back to Eire; she is the dragon of Princess Deirdre. My destiny lies there now, mama, not here." He paused; he hadn't called her mama since he was very small. "I knew you would understand; but I can't face father. Not now. Not when he has clearly chosen Turin over me."
"You are my son, Ivar. Turin is a bastard; that is not only his rank in life, it is his personality. He has always been such, and will still be so on the day of his death. Though he may become king here, he will never be king in his heart. Or in mine."
Ivar kissed his mother on the cheek gently, lingering to smell her scent. She smelled the same, even after all these years. Like curry, and saffron, and all of the wonderful spices of the desert.
"Farewell, mother." Ivar said, squeezing her tiny fingers gently as he turned to leave. Nepthumae grasped him, pulling him back to look deep into his eyes.
"Take me with you!" She begged. "I have never been outside of these palace walls; not even to the market. Please; let me join you!"
Ivar studied her face; he could see that she was determined to go with him, no matter what he might have to say about it. Slowly he nodded.
"Alright. But bring some warm clothes; it gets quite chilly there."
That was the understatement of the century, but he knew she'd have plenty of proper clothes when they reached Kells Castle.
In moments Nepthumae was packed and ready to leave; she clung tightly to Ivar as Khamsin leapt into the air, flapping her broad, blue-backed wings, her shimmering scales catching the moonlight and throwing it back upon the prince and the queen. Ivar was relieved to be going back to Kells so soon; going back to bestow such a wonderful gift on the princess; his princess. Sweet, gentle Deirdre; the woman with the fire inside her that could melt even his calm, cool exterior.
He wondered for a moment; just for a moment, mind you; what Deirdre would have to go through to tame her dragoness. Although Khamsin appeared quite shy and gentle to him, he believed that within her beat the heart of a warrior; she would certainly be some match to Pyre and Terran, Angus' dragon. He wondered if they would be able to understand her; did dragon-language have the many different dialects of humans, or was their language one and the same? She would probably give both of the dragons they had now what for, after she learned their language and vice-versa. Ivar grinned as he piloted Khamsin toward the tiny island that was his home. Ah, yes. There was quite a future waiting for him in Ireland; no matter which road his destiny took.
