The Dragons of Olyra
A book of Doyle Story

Sir Ormand Quinlin hung his graying head and exited the King's well appointed chambers. As a tall and brawney warrior, cutting a path through his youth, he'd faced down mand and monster to help wrest Olyra from the corrupt imperial family, the Biards. In the nigh fifty years since, he had continued to serve his King as well as he humanly could. First in his army, then as his councel, and now, at the grand age of two and seven tens, as good King Auguste's Lord Chamberlain. He'd always done what the King had asked of him without hesitation, as any loyal subject would.

Now, he hesitated.

The golden afternoon light fell through the western floor to ceiling windows, reflecting off the silver door latches, glinting off the polished, white marble floors and walls. This part of the castle was all light and airy. Flying butresses supported the high arching ceilings, the hanging chadeliers, the cream and rose carpets. Not even the grand abbey or the Order of the Ninns at San Gurrells, could boast such oppulent and godly carvings. A castle of love, laughter, and light.

None of it lifted Sir Quinlin's lagging spirits however. His beloved King Auguste, the good and honourable man he would gladly lay down his life for, was not going to recover from this latest illness. The King was dying.

Down the hall, coming from his appartments in the east wing, Sir Quinlin spied the outlandishly garbed man approaching and suffered a shamefull flash of wanting to hide. He wore the blue and scarlet tunic and hose of the Horseguards, the crest emblazoned across his broad chest said as much. Yet still Sir Quinlin turned from him in disgust, moving reluctantly as far away from the King's private chambers as possible before meeting the eyesore.

"Sir Quinlin." he said stridently, "My father lives?"

Sir Quinlin bowed respectfully to the younger man, dutifully hiding his aversion behind an experessionless mask. "He lives Prince Egan."

"And his illness?" the haughty prince prompted.

"His illness has done naught but slowed." Sir Quinlin's studious gray eyes flicked over the prince's handsome features, sapphire eyes, and perfectly coiffed blonde hair. This Prince was most popular in Southern Olyra, many a maiden having had already fallen to his guil laden tongue and many a potential scandal already having been swept beneath the carpet.

"Arrange the coronation." Prince Egan declared, flipping his cloak as he spun on his heel to leave. "I would be crowned before the end of the week."

Sir Quinlin smiled bitterly at the impudent pup's back. "I regret your highness, that I can not. There is the matter of your brother..."

Prince Egan froze in mid step. "I am the elder Sir Quinlin."

Again Ormand found himself bowing and scraping to retain the young man's good favour and wonder why. "I regret to inform you, your highness, but according to Olyra law, there is no distinction made between elder and younger twins. The law is very clear. You must rule jointly."

After the briefest moment's pause, Prince Egan's posture relaxed and he did so much as chuckle a bit before continuing on.

"Very well Sir Lord Chamberlain. Inform Edan if you must, but the coronation shall take place, with or without him."

Sir Quinlin bowed once more to the prince's back, dread siezing his heart. "As you wish your highness."


CHAPTER ONE: CLANWOMAN
The Polers of Lake Silvius were legendary. Once, five hundred years ago, twin towns flourished at either end of the lake, the townspeoople naught but simple marsh folk who made their livings in trade. Civil war soon wiped out both towns however, each taking a differing side of the conflict, each killing off the other in swift brutality, and giving rise to the rumours of the soil being cursed. Campfire stories abounded now about vengefull ghosts who preyed on hapless travellers who dared stray too near the lake.

To get to Lanalay City however, you had to cross the treacherous lake.

The Polers were the only ones who could safely traverse the lake, ferrying customers across for the right amount of coin and allowing weary travellars to trim four otherwise hazardous days from their journey.

Or course, the Plers did not live in either ghost town. They were scattered through the forrests which surrounded the marsh, and they rarely poled the lake at night. The Polers may fly at the face of fears living so close to haunted ground, but they did not like to outright challenge it.

Crouching low in the prow of the boat, Draper peered over the side as it sliced cleanly through the black waters. Mist parted before them, dancing and clinging about the cold surface. Draper gathered the folds of her thick, green cloak about her, and smoothed back her dark hair from her oval face. An almost unnatural coldness was creeping up from the inky surface, chilling her bones. It wasn't hard to imagine icy hands reaching up from beyond the barrier of Death to snatch the living into the murky depths of the underworld.

As if to assure herself that such a feat had indeed not taken place, Draper turned and studied the stern of the boat.

Danil was there, his matching green cloak wrapped around him like a cocoon and his tow head slumped against his chest. The impudent Doyle heir, the boy the Great Doyle of Angevia was predicting great things about. Draper's private burden as for some reason the Great Doyle decided that she of all people should take on his training.

At twelve, Danil Doyle was good intentioned but blinded by the arrogance of his "apparent" destiny, predicted by none other than the Archmage Soren himself. At two and twenty, Draper was deemed fit- or unimportant, it depended how one looked at the situation- enough to act as teacher, chaperone, and body guard in the heir's travels. After all, more than being Danil's cousin from the vein of magic, Draper was also a peculiarity further. She was a foundling. Left on the doorstep of Darrella the elder, (Danil's Aunt and the Great Doyle's daughter) when just a babe and subsequently raised as a Doyle. Draper understood family duty, mayhaps more than most. To be a Doyle, even an adopted one, was a great honor. One to be repeatedly earned.

Mayhaps it was that knowledge that the Great Doyle wanted her to intsill within the brash boy.

"Aye." the nearest Poler grunted, a big burly man who struck Draper as not being the talkative type. "The Ghosts will not be laying their hands on any of our passengers this eve."

His words were spoken low, as if he was afraid someone would overhear his attempt at reassurance. Draper merely met his dark eyed gaze with her own solemn one and gave a concise nod of understanding. She was not one to normally become unravelled by impending danger or the threat of monsters, and she was not going to become undone now. Despite the eerie silence of the lake and the creepy hush of the reverent Polers.

"Have you ever lost a passenger?" she asked almost inspite of herself.

The burly Poler's grin spread from ear to ear, clearly encouraged by Draper's impromptu question and dispelling some of the gloom.

"Aye, aye," the Poler agreed a little too enthusiastically for Draper's taste, "Every once in awhile, a passenger will lean too far over the side and the blackness will just suck them in, dragging them down to the deep."

"Matanzi." Draper whispered the ancient Druidic bessing to dispell the specter of death.

"Wennabab." the Poler returned stollidly, uttering his own benediction and the traditional Druidic reply.

"You are Angevian, nay?" the Poler braved after a moment, switching sides in aperfect rhythm with the two others employed.

"Aye."

"You wear the mark of Doyle." he murmured, dropping his eyes almost bashfully.

"Aye, we serve the Doyle." was the curious reply. Draper was curious as to what was on the big man's mind.

"The Doyle... He has business in Olyra?" There was something about the Poler's hesitant question that made Draper instantly suspicious. It was as if he was searching for some specific piece of information. Draper determined that the best course of action was to be baldly truthfull.

"I, nor my companion, are on any diplomatic mission from the Doyle. Our business in Olyra is of a purely personal nature."

"In these ages, it is not a diplomatic mission that concerns me."

Feeling a stab of compassion for the man, Draper inevitably noted that his simple tunic and hose had seen much better times long before. "Angevia is not in the practice of invading our neighbours. I can assure you of that."

The Poler looked openly relieved. "Olyra is not by nature a Kingdom of Peace and lately there has been... rumours."

"Such as...?"

"The King ails worse every day, there is talk of civil war impending, the Kingdom torn in two by the plotting of the twin Princes, a report has it that argent is poised to invade in the North-east, and the ordr of the Ninn's land taxes are causing whispers of open revolt. These are not good days to be travelling abroad in Olyra, Doyle or no."

"Indeed." Draper agreed. "We have no interest in getting involved with any Olyra politics. We are only travelling to meet an acquaintence. Sir Gower Renshaw."

"Sir Renshaw?" The poler's heavy brows descended over his eyes as he switched sides of the boat once more. "Sir Gower Renshaw is back in Olyra?"

Draper couldn't help but smile at the outpouring of joyous disbelief this little tidbit seemed to ellicit. sir Gower was obviously loved at home as he was abroad, his adventures and crusades on behalf of the poorer classes recounted until they became distorted legends.

"Sir Gower is currently in residence at Serenity Cliffs."



The Poler's eyes rounded at mention of the mythical, medieval castle seat of the Renshaw family, set high on the steep cliffs of the Teranel River Valley. The castle itself spanned the narrow width of the valley, an ingenious contraption of bleached marble and gleaming glass which defied the natural laws of the world.

"You have a long and difficult journey ahead of you then. The roads to Serenity Cliffs have fallen into disrepair in recent years."

Beaming, Draper adjusted the folds of her cloak to try and seal in her escaping body heat. "The lad and I are used to the rough. It has not exactly been an easy journey this far."

The Poler returned her easy smile. "Did you come straight from Angevia?"

"The lad, aye, though our route to Sir Gower has been regretfully long and circulous. We had to journey north east through the Kingdom of Ty, due to the untimely appearance of a fire dragon in Western Raiste."

"Delanlea." The Poler clarified. "The dragon of the prophecy."

"'Delanlea appear, there is much to be feared.' Aye. I know the prophecy and it portents, though I can hardly claim a dragon in Raiste is an omen of doom." Draper shrugged indifferently. "There is not much we can do either way but pray the Fire Dragon is not Delanlea, but some other foul beast."

The Poler lifted his long, slender ole from th e water as the boat ran aground. Further down the lake bank the water emtpied out wildly into the rushing water of Silvius River, a phenomenon that any traveller would hope to avoid. The entire endeavour to cross the lake had taken over three hours, and the Polers still had to make their way back to their beds.

It was with grateful acknowledgement that Draper added an extra twenty coins to the purse she handed over. It was a well earned fee.

The burly Poler took the money with near tears in his eyes, tucking the leather pouch into the larger one at his belt.

"A piece of advice miss." he interjected as the second boat slid to a stop next to them. "Stay to the western paths and you should find yourself upon the safer routes to Serentity Cliffs. Prince Edan's estates are near and you will be less likely to meet up with bandits."

"Thank you and may the Gods speed your journey home." Draper moved pas the Poler to wake the now loudly snoring Danil.

"Miss?"

Draper turned towards the man once more, brows raised in wordless inquiry.

"I am Seamus Bryant. If you ever need an ally, send for me and my brothers. We will heed your call."

Draper paused in the midst of her attempt at her waking of danil, glancing over her shoulder at the solemn Poler.

"I thank you Seamus Bryant, and will pray daily that we will not need to callupon you or your brothers."

Draper gently slung one of Danil's limp arms about her neck and forced him to his feet. The Polers watched in wry amusement as she drug the heavy boy single handedly from the boat and into the knee deep lake water. At the icy coldnee creeping up his legs, Danil's eyse flew wide and an ungentlemanly oath bolted past his dazed lips. It was with great happiness that Draper let Danil go, the withdrawing of her support sending him to his knees with a splash. She had far more important things to do than drag his sleeping body all the way to Serenity cliffs.

In the second boat, her old paint whickered, drawing Draper to his side so she could run a comforting hand over his warm coat. The mustang instantly turned towards his mistress and nuzzled her face. DRaper u nhooked his reigns from the secured iron ring and led him off the boat. Danil's horse, a silver gelding, obiediantly followed the older stallion off.

Having recovered fromt he water, Danil retrieved his pack off the cargo boat, making a great sullen show of seccuring it to his horse Adain. Draper, not in the least put out by his bad humour, followed suit, much more subdued in her movements as she allowed the Polers to shove off.

"Easy Leath," she soothed, "easy old boy."

Draper swung up into the plain, unadorned saddle and pointed her horse towards the western paths, waiting with surprising patience for Danil to do the same. Adain was one of the legendary silver stallikons, although still young as of yet, said to have descended from the unicorns, and known to have descended from the Great Doyle's own steed Meier. Accoridingly, Adain could be too much to handle at times, his own actions not always falling into accord with those of his inexperienced rider.

If it was any other than Danil was attempting to ride him, Draper was certain Adain would make the feat impossible. Silver stallions were the moutns of great Kings and Paladins, both of which Danil had all the promiss of becoming in time. For now, the lad was still mastering the basics of squiring, a training ordeal which had put them on the road ot Sir Gower Renshaw and his able bodied, able witted ways.

Surely Sir Gower would have some idea of what to do with the boy.

With a smile of the purest nostalgia, Draper nudged Leath onwards. Her own tenure as a Squire not more than four or five years past, had been spent in Sir Gower's capable hands., Sheer, unmitigated Hell had been the best way to describe her training at the hands of Sir Gower. He had taken great delight nin pushing her past her very limits, both physically and mentally. Draper in turn, had taken great delight in turning down all the subsequent offers she had been given to enter knighthood shortly after completing her training. A knighthood, earned or otherwise, was not what she wanted out of life. To be completely truthfull, Draper did not know what she wanted.

Maybe a part of her would always wonder who she really was, where she really came from. That would always be a part of her greater desire as a whole. another part of her wanted a soft bed, warm food, and a life of leisure in a mannor someplace. Maybe a good husband and children to go with that house. Unfortunately that did not appear to be her lot in life either.

And yet another part of her wanted to be still chasing after Sir Gower as she had in her youth. Following him on all his great and exciting journeys, though admittedly at the time of her squiring, Draper had far from relished the endless mountains climbed, swamps mucked through, stale meals cooked, and monsters thwarted for the greater good. It was a tiring job to be a hero, and she was at least thankful that she was not that.

Who and what she was remained, even after two and two tens years, a great mystery, and at that moment in time, Draper wasn't sure if it was a mystery she'd ever solve.



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