A DREAM’S BEGINNING

1

When he saw her in the castle garden, Fourier Lugunica came to a screeching halt.

His large scarlet eyes went wide with curiosity as the wind tugged at his golden locks. One of his pronounced canine teeth poked out like a small fang as the breath rushed from his mouth. The young boy, not even ten years old, leaned out of the open-air gallery to peer into the garden.

Fourier was very much in the middle of running from one of his tutors and had no time to gawk. He could already hear the man’s voice behind him in the hallway. If he was caught, he would be dragged back to his dangerously boring lesson—but even knowing that, Fourier couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene before him.

The gardens at Lugunica’s royal castle were the work of crown gardeners who exercised every bit of skill and knowledge they possessed. The result was a fantastically rich tapestry, dizzy with flowers and different blossoms every season.

The leaves of the trees rustled in the cool breeze, and a shower of petals tumbled through the air, speaking to the world’s transience. It was in that enchanting garden that Fourier found a shimmering bud—a girl.

Her verdant green hair was tied back as she struck a posture both refined and beautiful. Clad in a dress the color of fresh grass, obviously of fine make, the young, self-possessed girl wore it perfectly. Fourier saw little more than her profile from where he stood, but the pale white of her neck and cheek along with the amber of her almond-shaped eyes hinted at her brimming beauty.

And yet, had that been all, she might not have made such a firm impression on Fourier. It would have been no more than a momentary affair, a glimpse of a gorgeous young lady in the castle.

But it did not end there.

“—”

The girl stood in the garden, casting her eyes over the array of colorful flowers. If she had merely been taken with the vibrancy of the blossoms, it would have shown that her disposition was like that of any other. But instead of looking at the flowers in the center of the garden, she was inspecting a single bud in a far corner. Staring at it intently, as though she believed it might open then and there…

“Your Highness Fourier! So you heed me at last!”

His tutor, breathing hard, finally reached the spot where Fourier stood in the hallway. He regarded the boy with relief written on his face, but that was soon replaced with an expression of puzzlement when he noticed how Fourier was staring into the garden.

“Your Highness?” he said. “What has caught your interest ou—?”

“Nothing, sir! Nothing! Not a thing! Surely not something for you to worry about!”

Fourier rushed at the instructor as the man tried to discern what had the boy so intrigued. The hand Fourier held out in hopes of hiding the scene collided with the tutor’s face, and the man stumbled back with a cry of “My eye!,” but Fourier had no time to concern himself with that. He was more worried that the girl by the flowers might have overheard the commotion.

Anxiously, he looked toward the garden. That happened to be the exact same moment the girl, who had heard something going on, turned in his direction. Fourier scrambled to lower his gaze.

“Th-this isn’t good. I feel really weird… Maybe I’m sick or something? My cheeks are all hot, and it’s hard to breathe…”

Noting an ache in his chest and how he had a difficult time breathing, Fourier concluded that this was a bad place for him to be. He grabbed his writhing teacher by the leg and began fleeing back down the hallway in tremendous haste.

“Y-Your Highness! Ouch! That hurts!”

“Just grin and bear it! It’s not like I’m strong enough to pick you up! But I can’t just leave you in such a dangerous place. After all, I’m part of the royal family—pride of the people.”

“I am moved by your concern for me, my prince, but—yow! Perhaps you could stop running and—ouch!” The tutor cried out, his head colliding with every wall and pillar they passed, but Fourier ignored him. He could still see that girl whenever he closed his eyes. She was clearly the cause of his pounding heart, yet for some reason he could not force her image out of his head, no matter how much time went by.

It was a mystery to Fourier why he felt so reluctant to leave as he dashed away from the garden.

2

Fourier Lugunica belonged to the royal family of the Dragonfriend Kingdom of Lugunica, a dynasty with more than a thousand years of history; he was the son of the reigning king, Randohal Lugunica. Consequently, he was a prince with the right of succession, and worthy of the highest honors.

“Yes, but I’m the fourth prince. My brothers all precede me. I don’t see the kingship passing to me anytime soon. Doesn’t it make all this effort, day in and day out, seem a bit pointless?”

“Ho-ho-ho! I see you’ve learned the art of impudence, Your Highness.”

Fourier had finished his classes and was seeking respite in his personal rooms, where he was conversing with a visitor.

Fourier screwed up his face at the word impudence. The one laughing was an exceptionally old man, his long hair and beard both white from age. Miklotov MacMahon—a representative of the Council of Elders who was considered the brains of the kingdom. Miklotov was the one who wielded all the real power in the government. Truly deserving to be called a wise man. Fourier was well acquainted with the rumors that even if the king were to disappear, the kingdom would continue running smoothly so long as Miklotov was around.

Fourier was not enamored with the rumors that made light of his father, the king, but Miklotov was a loyal subject who served the realm without ambition. And it was true enough that the elder did his utmost serving a royal family that left something to be desired in the way of stewardship—so Fourier was hard-pressed to condemn such talk.

“If my father and brothers aren’t up to the job, why don’t you become king?” Fourier said. “Things would be much simpler that way. Don’t you think?”

“You give this old man quite a shock,” Miklotov replied. “Those are not words that one of Your Highness’s station should speak so lightly. And in any event, it would be in violation of our pact with the dragon.”

“Our pact with the dragon, right.”

Miklotov gave a somber nod. Fourier laid his head on his desk and began to think.

The pact they spoke of was the reason the Kingdom of Lugunica was occasionally referred to as the Dragonfriend Kingdom: An oath sworn with the Holy Dragon Volcanica, whose protection had ensured the kingdom’s prosperity for hundreds of years.

“The dragon handles everything,” Fourier mused. “The kingdom’s harvests and safety. And the only one who can receive its blessings is a blood descendent of the first King Lugunica, who forged a bond of friendship with it. It all seems a bit too good to be true.”

“And yet we do have the dragon’s blessing. This makes His Majesty the King, to say nothing of Your Highness, people of the utmost importance to this kingdom.”

“So I’ve heard, enough times to make my head ache.”

“Mm. And I have said it often enough to make my tongue sore.”

Fourier pursed his lips, but Miklotov stroked his beard nonchalantly.

“That story is the reason I earnestly wish you would have a greater appreciation for your position, Your Highness.”

“Hmm, then I guess I have no—Wait! If it’s only our blood that makes me and my father so important, doesn’t it mean that all this study isn’t really necessary? What about that?”

“Ho-ho, impudence rears its head again. Think of it from your subjects’ point of view. They may be obliged to respect whoever holds the office, but do you think they would rather serve under an ignoramus or brute—when they could have a man of intelligence? And the intellect does not blossom without proper cultivation. Nor does the blood of the Lion King.”

“The Lion King? That dusty old name again?”

An unusual passion had entered Miklotov’s voice, but Fourier regarded him with a wry smile. “Lion King” was a term for the first ruler to make a pact with the dragon—in other words, the first person to establish what was now the Kingdom of Lugunica. He had been called “the last Lion King.”

“I understand how much you expect of the Lion King’s descendants,” Fourier said. “But it’s lot to ask of those of us born so far down the line of succession. The sages are all but unparalleled, whether you search the world over or look back through history. I don’t expect any to be born anytime soon.”

“So you may say, Your Highness, but the blood has not run thin. It is a fact that once every several generations, a true master appears in the royal line. Two generations ago…”

Miklotov had been speaking fluently, but suddenly he stopped. His wrinkled face darkened, and he shook his head and murmured, “No.”

After a moment, he went on: “My apologies. A slip of the tongue. Memory grows unreliable in old age.”

“You losing your memory is about the worst thing that could happen to this kingdom! Quit worrying about a delinquent like me and take care of yourself!”

“I hardly think Your Highness is delinquent…”

Miklotov put up some resistance as Fourier tried to hustle him out of the room. But his old bones were no match for a boy in the prime of youth.

“Now, then…”

Having chased off the garrulous elder, Fourier was alone. He began to strip off his clothes. He changed into whatever he felt like and wrapped his head in a bandanna that would disguise his conspicuous golden hair. Then, having prepared against every eventuality, he snuck out of the room.

No one was in the hall. Fourier set to running through the quiet castle in a great hurry. He was hoping to stay inconspicuous, it would not do for anyone to see him.

He was headed for the same place he had gone to every day recently.

—A gallery, where every day he looked out over the gardens, hoping to see that girl.