Drage sends forth his minion

Everyone said, “Amen” – almost. Five-​​year-​​old Prince Drage did not say it at all, for he always missed the cue, and whenever he hastened to say it before the echoes had quite died, everyone laughed at him.

He also knew that was a tricky word. It came at the end of prayers, but there could be many prayers in a Mass, and almost every time he thought the Mass was over, it was not, except the last time, when it was.

However, after this Amen everyone was shifting and stretching in their seats as if it was done. Nevertheless, no one moved to rise.

“Old-​​Papa!” he whispered to his grandfather. “Is it over?”

“That was the wedding part. Now the Mass starts.”

Drage’s face crumpled in dismay. “It’s just starting?”

“Hush up, runt,” Old-​​Papa whispered. “If you behave I shall make you glad, and if you don’t, you shall be sorry.”

“Did you get me a present?” he beamed.

“If you behave. If you don’t, I shall give your present to your baby brother.”

“What is it?”

“Hush! Whispering in Mass counts as misbehaving.”

“It must not be a very good present if Stephan would like it,” Drage pouted.

“Do you care to risk it?” Old-​​Papa menaced.

Drage did not. Indeed, he had declared that morning that he was willing to get married at the earliest convenience, for he had been amazed at the array of presents that his sister’s marriage had earned her. It was like ten birthdays and Christmases in one week.

Most of the presents were not to Drage’s tastes – silk hangings, silver bowls, jewelry, and the like – but Britamund had also received several fine horses, including a pretty, dish-​​faced Moorish mare whom Drage thought rather too small for a grown girl and just the right height for a big boy such as he.

More magnificent still was the trained owl the Pirate King had sent to her from his island in the sea. Because he was a boy, Drage already had a finer hawk than his sister, but no one in the valley had an owl.

Brother Myrddin had told him he would not be ready for owls for many years yet. He did not think it fair that his sister should get an owl when she had not even learned to talk to spiders.

Fortunately, Drage had, and he had even thought to so arm himself before leaving the castle this morning, in the event the wedding would prove exceptionally boring. A wedding that felt like it should have been over when it had scarcely begun was clearly exceptionally boring.

Drage peeked into his pocket. Nestling in the bottom, attempting to shelter itself in the seam, was a small, gray spider. It was the sort with robust legs and a slender, pointed abdomen, built for running and jumping: a hunter, not a web-​​weaving trapper.

He tapped it awake, and it crawled out onto his lap.

The trappers were easier to manage, but they were skittish, and they often disobeyed him merely out of fear. The hunters had their pride, but once won, they were fearless and loyal. Like the bravest knights, they would march even into the jaws of death – hitherto manifested by the mouths of cats, dogs, and even his snoring grandfather. But he had other, hopefully less fatal plans for this one.

With a few subtle gestures of his fingers, he gave it its orders.

Someday he would not even need the gestures – the unblinking spider looked elsewhere – but for now they helped him to focus his mind on the spider’s.

The little beast lifted its feelers in acknowledgement. It then scurried down his leg, spun itself a short rope from the tip of his shoe, and lowered itself to the floor.

Drage’s amusement was on its way. He would not be the one misbehaving in Mass.