One.

It was another hot and sulky day in the blessed principality of Vanimar and Lady Darya flapped her fan languidly as her litter carried her through the gates into the coolness of the fortress. She sighed. It was always hot in Vanimar but sometimes she wished decorum and custom allowed her to dress more appropriately for the inclemently warm weather. Instead, she was stuck in an admittedly very elegant long sleeved gown of pale cream silk that brushed the floor and complimented her olive skin and deep blue eyes. A gauzy veil really didn't conceal her lower face though it tipped a cheeky nod at the sensibilities of the founding fathers and was fastened to the intricate pile of coiled chestnut hair of her head.

She sat up instantly as the litter was lowered and she stood without giving the bearers a chance to help her down, to the scandal of her gentlewoman, who accepted the helping hands delicately. She fastidiously tipped each of the bearers: she could appreciate how hot and thankless the task was and she was grateful for their efforts. All meekly lowered their eyes: she was high nobility, closely related to the ruling Prince and the rules were clear. She smiled and gestured to Lois and the gentlewoman followed her, scandalised. Darya walked for a few yards until they were out of earshot of the tired litter bearers and then she turned.

"I can literally hear you scowling, Lois. You know it'll give you lines." The other woman paused: her own family was not poor but she had three older and prettier sisters and the family fortune did not stretch to four dowries. Her future had been secured by a post in the palace and though she was now in the capitol, she had come from very conservative stock. Her milky brown skin darkened with embarrassment and dark eyes flicked up.

"Milady, you know you overtip them," she said reproachfully. "It gives them ideas." Dara snorted and spun on her heel, pacing urgently for the marble coolness of the cloister and the inner garden. As they passed through the archway, the sounds of the city cut off and all suddenly felt cooler and calmer. The trickle of water and the gentle plucking of a harp were just discernible as Darya sighed.

"And they work hard, Lois," she said. "I am grateful I don't have to walk in the scorching sun. They do-and they carry me! I am wealthy and can afford a few coins to brighten their day. Have you never wondered why we never have to wait for a litter? They all know I tip and the bargain is I get a litter whenever I want." Lois sighed: it was true that Darya had long since understood the principle that treating servants as people secured better service and far deeper loyalty but her brother, Prince Darian was very conservative and believed in strict hierarchy. He adored his older sister but sometimes privately despaired at her lack of decorum.

"As long as they don't take advantage of your ladyship," she sighed and followed her mistress and friend. Darya strode ahead, her steps quick and purposeful, nowhere near the imperceptible glide expected of a noblewoman. And then she stopped and pulled Lois back, huddling behind the smooth, blue marble columns of the cloister. Beyond them, a thickset man with shaven head and cruel dark eyes was talking to another man in similar leather and linen uniform. The shaven man, though, had a gold-embossed sword on his hip and his left hand was dripping with rings.

"Prepare the chamber. Is the beast settled in?" he asked, his voice deep and cold.

"Restrained tightly. It's a feisty creature."

"Hmm. And the device?"

"Removed. It won't fly off any time soon."

"Is the boy here?" The shaven-headed man's voice sent shivers down Darya's spine. She knew what he was capable of. The other man bowed then snapped his fingers. Two men entered from the other door, dragging another between them. Darya stole a glance at the unfortunate victim of his machinations and her eyes widened in surprise.

The victim was a young man, maybe eighteen or nineteen at most. He was thin and lanky, his shape toned but lacking any real mass. He was wearing a tattered red tunic and deep olive leggings that had seen better days. His right foot wore some kind of bulky leather boot and the other...was missing, replaced by a metal and wood contraption that clicked slightly and gave him a slight limp. His head was bowed, a messy auburn mop half-hiding his face. One of his guards fisted his hair and hauled the head up, revealing a pale face with sharp cheek bones and angular jaw. His pale skin was scattered with freckles-Darya had heard of them in northern slaves but had never seen them, since the natives' skins were far too dark for such things. And his eyes were a brilliant forest-green, curious and a little fearful as he was dragged in front of the shaven-headed man.

"Are you feeling more talkative now?" Darya heard the man switch to a harsh northern tongue-Norse, she reckoned-and listened in. Her education had been wide because Vanimar traded with all comers and her future could literally lie in any corner of the world. The boy stared at his captor and his eyes hardened slightly, the green depths glittering. He had courage, at least, though she knew it would avail him little before the nobles of Vanimar, who despised north men as uncouth heathens.

"Let me go," he said gently but firmly. "I meant no harm in landing here. We were blown here by a storm and I just need to mend my dragon's tail..."

"Ah yes. The dragon. You claim to control him. We will let you go if you share your knowledge."

The boy inspected him slowly and he gave an exaggerated sigh.

"If you were honest about your peaceful intentions, then I would happily do so," he said, his voice light and pleasant. "But we both know you intend to use them as weapons. And you have dragon products on the stalls of your markets. Zippleback skin boots and belts. Nadder spine jewellery. Gronckle tongue sandwiches. You trade with the Dragon Trappers I fight: I cannot help you. I can't help you when you only see dragons as prey, not the amazing, gentle loyal creatures they are."

"You are a fool, boy. I have been gentle so far because I didn't want to break you too soon but now I am back in Vanimar, my men have far more tools at their disposal to break your body and force you to talk." The young man's breaths accelerated and it was clear he was alarmed but he lifted his chin.

"You have no idea how many people have tried that," he sighed as he was dragged away.

oOo

Darya rested, bathed and ate sparingly then dressed in a loose and elegant gown of pale green silk. Lois was gossiping urgently with the other gentlewomen in the next chamber and Darya listened behind the screen in amusement as she described the scene. It was always instructive to listen to her version of events because her gentlewoman sometimes picked up details she had missed.

"...and Lord Lugor had him taken off to his Pain Chambers. He didn't even struggle."

"Honourless, the lot of them. Gods curse the Barbarian northerners," Elgerta spat, combing her long dark hair languidly. She was very pretty and knew it but her father was very poor and her only chance of advancement was through servitude at the palace.

"Barbarian?" Nadiya echoed. "I heard Lugor captured a Northman on some kind of flying beast, just south of the Eternal Storm. He was struggling and crashed on his flagship. The beast fought bravely but they were both captured. He's brought that uncouth here?"

"Yes. Saw him this noon. Tall, thin, pale skin and reddish hair. He's got rather nice green eyes."

"Lugor'll have them put out sooner rather than later." Elgerta said with conviction.

"Not if he wants the boy to do something. And he seemed to be seeking information from him. No, he'll take his time in breaking the boy." Lois was firm. Her Norse was poor-though Darya had taught her a few useful words-but she had gathered the gist of the encounter, though not the detail.

"And after? Do you think he'll hand him round?" Nadiya's dark eyes glittered with eagerness.

"Do you think he'll have anything left worth handing around after Lugor and his torturers have finished breaking him?" Elgerta sneered.

"He'd better," Darya told her, stepping forward. "My half-sister will be expecting his duty to her." The others fell silent-partly because all were shamed to be found gossiping like fishwives and partly because no one like Iliona, Darian's full-blooded sister. Her skills at using and discarding slaves and servants were legendary. Darya gave a shudder: she had rescued some of her half-sister's discards but not all could be saved from her vindictive temper. She grabbed her veil and beckoned Lois. "Up, girl. There is no time for gossip. Get my formal veil: I need to see my brother!"

oOo

The guards, clothed in the red and gold livery of Darian, Prince of Vanimar, bowed respectfully as Darya glided up meekly, to the Audience Chamber her head swathed discreetly in a gold gauze veil, a small tiara perched on her elegant head. She stood meekly, awaiting her call. She was instantly admitted and she moved forward with the flowing elegance of a royal, the arched gold marble roof gleaming in the light penetrating the latticed shutters across the long windows. She walked right to the front of the throne and dropped softly to her knees, her head bowed until he rose and grasped her shoulders, raising her to her feet.

"Sister," Prince Darian said, his deep voice warm. He was her height, his build stocky and face handsome and calm. His eyes were her own deep blue but his skin was a shade darker, his hair cut short and goatee neat and manicured. His was dressed in cloth of gold, a red sash around his waist. A simple gold circlet sat on his hair. Darya smiled.

"Brother," she said gently. Her eyes inspected his calm face. He usually listened to his sister-as long as she did not overstep the invisible boundary he placed around her. "I hear Lord Luger has returned." Darian smirked and returned to his throne.

"I believe my Vizier has made a great discovery," he said with a sigh.

"The Viking?"

"His dragon!" Darian told his sister, unsurprised by her intelligence. "The beasts are apparently trainable. And that Barbarian seems to be capable of taming them. But he refuses."

"An unwise choice," Darya noted softly. She imagined that lanky, thin shape writhing under the guards' ministrations and felt a surge of pity.

"Luger is renowned. He'll torture the information from that boy in a few days and he'll still have him fit to earn his keep-in whatever capacity he chooses," Darian reminded her.

"So do you trust Luger if he has control of these demon beasts?" she asked him. "The man burns with ambition. He is secretive and underhand. He is supremely self-centred. He may decide that he prefers a different Prince on your throne?"

"And how would he become such a Prince?" Darian asked her lightly. She sighed and folded her hands together to stop her fists bunching.

"Darian, we both know that you have two sisters and treachery runs in the blood of our line," she reminded him gently. "A Prince may be born or he may be come a Prince by marrying a Princess. Our father wiped out all competition and the internecine war took my mother as well, leaving father free to marry your mother and produce both you and Iliona. I have no desire or claim, Darian: my path was set when I was small. After all-I am not a Princess only a Lady! But our younger sister-who is-has manifested all the worst traits of our blood and I have no doubts she would align with a more powerful or appealing claimant." She paced back and forth, her soft slippers soundless on the deep red and gold rug that lay at the foot of the throne. The hall was huge, the air cool and laden with the scent of cypresses. The guards all stood back as the Prince eyed his sister.

"And you are certain you wouldn't make a grab for the throne yourself?" he asked. She cast him an exasperated glare and ripped her veil off.

"Darian!" she scolded him like the little brother he once was. "My training ensures I am loyal to death. But Luger is a violent and ruthless man. He will use dragons if he gets his hands on them."

"Or maybe he will use them for my purposes," Darian suggested coolly. She smiled.

"I would be happy if that were so but I would prefer to confirm his intentions myself," she admitted. "I do not seek power, because in our land, I am not permitted to wield any. I just seek travel and knowledge." Darian rose swiftly, took her face in her hands and kissed her on the cheek.

"And I am blessed that you are my strong right arm, sister," he murmured. "I will inform Lord Luger that you will observe his interrogations of the Viking boy. Report what he learns to me. I wish to retain control of this situation." She bowed and pulled her veil up.

"You command is my life, my Prince," she replied formally, bowed and spun on her heel, then walked away. Only his sisters were permitted to turn their backs on the Prince and Darian always smiled at her brusqueness she exercised in using the privilege. Then he sat back in his throne and waved for his next supplicant to be brought in.

oOo

The heat was oppressive and sweltering as Darya strode across the courtyard, Lois skipping to keep up. The gentlewoman was grumbling and utilising some more colourful language than Darya gave her credit for. She knew Elgerta would already have reported her audience with Darian to Luger-the girl was as treacherous as a snake-so she had no doubt the Vizier was expecting her. Darya wanted the meeting to be known. It was a subtle warning. Less subtle warning were options if the man didn't get the message. She marched up to the door of his house on the far side of the Fortress and wasn't disappointed when the heavy yew door swung open as she approached. She inclined her head in acknowledgement as she swept in, her green skirts swirling as she passed and Lois trotting, red-faced-at her heels.

"Lady Darya-to what do I owe such a picturesque honour?" Luger asked, bowing low. He had shed his leather and linen armour and was dragged in a loose orange silk robe over a deep copper tunic and trousers and short soft boots. His shaven head was beaded with sweat in the oppressive afternoon, despite the coolness of his stone-built house. She twitched a smile and examined the intricate mosaic on the floor.

"Lord Luger, my brother requested I observe your examinations of the northern Barbarian," she said smoothly. "Such visitors are vanishingly rare and he desires my opinion on the...guest."

"Slave." The word was cold and final. Darya raised an eyebrow. "He only speaks the heathen Norse tongue. I fear your time here will be unenlightening."

"My observations do not just include words," she reminded him. "I wish to inspect him, since I assume my sister will also demand his services. And, of course, Darian wants me to see the beast." Luger smirked.

"I fear your delicate sensibilities will be disturbed by such a demon creature!" he warned her. "The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, I believe it is claimed." She raised a delicate eyebrow.

"Then show me," she invited him and he ground his teeth and then took her to the back of the house and into a dark room. The guards raised the shutters and the white-gold sunlight spilled into the oppressive space. Within, a black scaly creature was chained. Unmistakably a dragon, it had a flattened, rounded head with large green eyes, tightly furled bat-like wings and short, sturdy legs on a lithe, streamlined body. A long, tapering tail with a missing fin swished back and forth as it writhed in its cage. She paced around it, inclining her head. "Hmm, doesn't look as fearsome as I had been led to believe," she commented.

"Without the muzzle, he is devastating!" Luger said with forced politeness. She could hear the anger bubbling in his gravelly voice and she smiled inwardly. "It shoots purple fire and killed ten of my men before it was overwhelmed. It fought like a demon to try to free its human rider." She cast the dragon one last look then turned away.

"Then let's see him," she suggested. Luger mockingly gestured for her to walk first and she glided elegantly back into the corridor, awaiting his lead deeper into his home, down to the cellar where the heat was almost unbearable. Darya took a slow breath and calmed herself, willing her body to ignore the heat and focus only on the mission. Braziers glowed in each corner with instruments dipped into the fires. In the centre of the room, watched by half a dozen guards, was the boy, seated on a wooden stool.

Darya walked slowly round and inspected the boy. Shirtless, he was lean but there were muscles, defined but wiry. His skin was very pale, scattered with freckles and now smeared with bruises and burns. His head was bowed and he was breathing hard, though whether in pain or fear, she was unsure. Luger fisted his hair and wrenched his head up, showing the bruises on his face and the blood smeared on his chin. The young prisoner fixed his clear green gaze on the Vizier and took a quick breath.

"Where's my bud?" he asked sharply. "My dragon: where's Toothless?"