A Dragonbird in the Fern

by Rueckert, Laura

  crest of the roof, a huge hybrid figure finial looked out over the people gathered in the square. Like at the royal manor, red feathers fluttered in the breeze. The doors were propped open, and inside, there was probably enough space for most of the townspeople. Opposite the meeting place, a narrow monolith of pewter-colored stone reached high into the sky.

  “Freyad!” a woman cried to my right, followed by a loud whooping noise. My guard hopped down from Cloverlily and was swept up in a tight hug from the other woman. She buried her face in Freyad’s neck. They held each other close, and Freyad kissed the woman’s head tenderly.

  A man rushed over to us and laid a cloak around one of Raffar’s shoulders—a cloak made of fur and topped with red feathers around the neck, the same red that adorned the house’s figurehead. A staff-like weapon similar to the ones our guards always carried was pushed into his hands. I’d grown used to Raffar’s shaved head and tattoos, but the fur and the feathers and the weapon turned him into one of the northern strangers from the stories of my childhood. I opened my mouth, forcing myself to breathe evenly and shallowly.

  Aldar ripped my attention from Raffar’s foreign image as he began making introductions. Where I hadn’t even attempted to remember the names in the other towns, here, I’d need to learn them. But after the third jumble of letters ending with R or D, attached to a short-haired or bald person with tattoos, I gave up. Once again, I was all smiles in the middle of a blur of bright, tattooed faces and murmurs of “Welcome, Queen Jiara.”

  Except not everyone was smiling. Under a large tree laden with some kind of nut, three frowning men gestured angrily in my direction.

  “Aldar, what’s wrong there?” I whispered, inconspicuously angling my head to show where I meant. I searched the crowd for more scowling faces.

  He cleared his throat. “Pay them no mind. There are always a few who don’t agree with Raffar’s . . . politics.”

  Of course. If Loftaria attacked Azzaria, Farnskag would be forced into war. For many, the price was too high for fishing and trading rights. I was a symbol of that potential for violence and loss of life.

  Aldar smiled apologetically, then repeated himself: “Really, Queen Jiara, pay them no mind.”

  The next crowd surged forward and Aldar continued with introductions, but now that I knew they were there, the men under the nut tree were all I could think about. I smiled and nodded, murmured my nice to meet yous. Soon there was a fourth man under the tree, and the group grew louder. How angry were these dissidents? Was their rage enough for murder? Had one of them killed Scilla?

  As with every town and village so far, I focused on the facial tattoos of the men. Those under the nut tree all wore leaves, but they were too far away for me to recognize whether there were double, thick, or thin borders.

  The man who’d brought Raffar’s cloak led us to woven mats on the ground at the base of the eighteen-foot-tall monolith. We sat close together, with the warmth of his arm just barely brushing mine as older people, heads of important families all over the country, spoke about good marriages and tying our two nations together. Aldar knelt behind me and tried to keep up with translations and introductions, but the names flew into and out of my head, and every speech sounded the same.

  “Aldar,” I whispered over my shoulder, “you don’t have to work so hard.”

  He smiled gratefully at me, and when I shivered from the cool northern air, Aldar had someone bring a light woolen cloak.

  After each spokesperson, a group from that family performed a dance, waving spears or fern fronds. The music was so different from back home. Drums. One lonesome flute. Occasional singing. But mostly, the groups chanted and clapped. I’d been taken aback the first time I’d heard an entire group chant in the border town we’d visited on that first day in Farnskag. Now the rhythm—the intensity—vibrated in my chest, setting an urgent energy free, and my pulse throbbed in time with the beat.

  Finally, Raffar stood. I leaned back and spoke over my shoulder without letting my husband out of my sight. “Aldar, please tell me everything Raffar says.”

  “Of course, Your Majesty.”

  Raffar stepped a few paces away so he could be seen by the crowd. “Fellow Farnskagers, thank you for the chants and the fern dances, for your inspirational speeches, and for the magnitude of delicious food you prepared to share for this feast. But most of all, thank you for your presence here today. Thank you for your acceptance of the union we have created.”

  As he spoke, Raffar’s eyes had traveled over the hundreds of guests. But now, they settled on me. “Jiara Ginevoradaag of Azzaria, welcome to Baaldarstad. We married according to your traditions in Azzaria. Today, here in Baaldarstad, we marry according to mine. Today, I make a promise to you. I, Raffar Perssuun Daggsuun, promise to be a good husband for you and to take care of you always.”

  People all around the square whispered and leaned into their mates, and I smiled.

  “Everyone! Enjoy yourselves! Celebrate with us!” With a wide smile, Raffar raised a hand to the crowd and then came back to me and took his place by my side.

  Another chant began and more poultry, sweet potatoes, beets, and bread were set before us than we could eat in three days. Aldar and the guards didn’t have plates, so I held a platter out to them and waved to show they should take a portion.

  The guards studied the ground below us, and Aldar said, “You and King Raffar have specially prepared wedding food today, specially spiced. It is good for . . . fertility. We cannot share.”

  Fertility? Heat crept into my cheeks. “Sorry,” I said. If only this mistake would be the last one I’d make in Farnskag.

  Chapter 12

  The strong wedding celebration mead was going to my head. Rain sprinkled lightly, so I stood inside the meeting hall. The walls leaned, and the floor dipped, just the tiniest bit. Whew. Enough. Smiling at strange, patterned faces, I set my mead horn down. One leaf after another walked by, but never the one I sought.

  Freyad had the evening off and another guard stood by me. True to his promise to my mother, Raffar had given another woman the job. She smiled brightly at me and steadied my elbow with her palm.

  “Thank you,” I said in Farnskag, and she uttered something that was probably praise for managing the word. She spoke again and waited on a reply. Aldar was nowhere in sight, and despair started crawling up my throat.

  With a raised hand, Raffar caught my eye from across the room. He’d removed his furred cloak at some point. I waved back.

  “Good night,” my guard said. At least, I was fairly certain that was what those words meant. I looked around to see if Freyad was taking over, but then Raffar appeared at my side. The Farnskager drums vibrated in my chest as he bent his head and whispered in my ear.

  The desolation in my throat dug in its heels. “I don’t understand,” I breathed.

  Raffar smiled and took my hand. He led me out of the building, onto the square. Whoops and shouts exploded behind us, and then uncontrollable laughter. I turned back to see them waving us out the door, shooing us away.

  Fire shot to my face. It was time for my wedding night.

  Shallow, even breaths would calm me. In. Out. I may never have been with a man before, but I wasn’t some terrified innocent. Mother had explained everything to me. I knew where babies came from. The palace bred plenty of animals. I knew what would happen.

  My heart stuttered anyway. When it came down to it, would I ask Raffar to wait? Until we knew each other better?

  The square was only a short walk from Raffar’s manor. Three guards followed us at a distance, and we strolled in silence. After dinner, I’d been in the house briefly as I’d washed up after the journey, so I remembered the heavy, intricately carved front door and the massive staircase that led to our suite.

  My palm was damp as my husband ushered me up the polished wooden stairs. It was my wedding night. My slow breaths weren’t so slow anymore.

  A low voice from behind—the guards stood at attention at
the bottom step—and then we were upstairs, alone.

  We navigated the empty, dark-paneled halls of the second floor, until Raffar opened the double doors of our suite. I preceded him into a sitting room with a small forest-green couch, a desk, and two chairs. After that came our dining room. The bathroom was on the left. Woven dark green carpets throughout, as if we were still in a forest. And at the back . . . our bedroom.

  Thick candles flickered on the windowsills and, through the open doors, on the low chests at each side of the bed. The sitting room was so silent, every one of my husband’s breaths was like a sigh in my ear.

  The doors clicked shut behind me. Raffar walked in my direction. He took both of my hands in his and made that mmm noise that seemed to mean everything and nothing. Then he said . . . beautiful. Other words too, but the only word I recognized was beautiful.

  Something tickled my neck.

  Blood on the floor, the walls, the ceiling.

  No. Scilla was not here. Mother had said she wouldn’t come this far.

  I disregarded the sensation and concentrated on the tattooed man before me. He moved slowly and deliberately, like he feared I’d run off if he spooked me.

  The candle nearest us blew out. A quick glance showed me the windows were all shut, and I ignored the smoking candle too. Scilla is not here. Not now.

  I swallowed. After a curious glance at the curling smoke, Raffar repeated himself. I tilted my head to get a better look at him. As attractive as ever—at some point, I’d grown used to the leather and the tattoos and shaved head—but despite the weeks we’d spent with each other, still somehow like a sculpture. Artwork that was appealing to the eye. But not a soul mate, not a person I knew deep in my heart.

  Slowly, as if he were fighting with himself, Raffar’s hand rose to my cheek. He stroked it with a calloused finger. The roughness scraped against my skin, but I felt it deeper. Like he was touching my neck and my backbone and the pit of my stomach. I closed my eyes and leaned into his hand.

  He dipped his head until his nose and forehead almost touched mine the way the Farnskagers did, but we were so close that my back and neck didn’t hurt at all. Raffar’s breath held a hint of the scent of mead. He groaned and gave in to whatever had held him back, his cheek skimming along mine, his lips trailing down the side of my face and onto my neck.

  His arms snaked around my back as my fingers traced the tattooed lines on his face. Warm hands tangled in my hair, and when he urged my hips closer, my core turned hot and achy. How could I have been so wrong? He was nothing like a sculpture to be admired from afar. I pressed against him in response, and any notion of wanting to wait fled. The only thing I wanted was to be with him.

  Raffar stopped moving. He froze for a long moment. Had I made a mistake? My hand fell from his cheek.

  Finally, he took a deep breath against my neck. He said a word I recognized: “No.”

  No?

  With both hands, he pushed gently but firmly against my shoulders until I was two steps away. He ran a hand over his forehead and scalp, and his deep voice began rambling, rambling, rambling, and I had no idea what about. Just that it was my wedding night, and he’d said I was beautiful, and then he said, “No.”

  He paced to the door and back, all the while, foreign words pouring from his lips.

  “Raffar,” I interrupted him. I hid the hands I’d clenched into fists behind my back and shook my head, raised my shoulders to ask what was the matter.

  Sensuality dropped from his frame, and his movements turned efficient as he motioned me to follow him to the bedroom, to the side of the bed. From the top drawer of a small chest, he pulled out that black leather lexicon I remembered from the palace garden in Azzaria. A book? Now? My stomach turned as his finger traveled over the words until it pointed to the translation he required. The letters swam before my eyes until I forced them to stop.

  Wait.

  Wait?

  He wanted to wait? For what?

  Then he flipped more pages and pointed again.

  Eighteen.

  Wait for eighteen? Wait on our wedding night? I remembered his outburst back in Mother’s office, about me not being eighteen yet. It was apparently more important in Farnskag than I’d thought.

  He paged back and forth, showing numerous words, until I understood more. No one in Farnskag knew I was “underage.” No one but Aldar and Freyad and Matid who had been present at the negotiations and wouldn’t tell. My birth date had even been removed from the marriage documents. With me so young, the marriage wouldn’t exactly be invalid, but it would be frowned upon.

  Raffar’s eyes were open and hopeful and pleading. He waited for me to agree.

  What else could I do? Waiting was the intelligent thing to do anyway. We barely knew each other. Just because I was curious and half-melted inside didn’t mean I couldn’t wait.

  I took a deep breath and nodded. With a swallow, I attempted to squelch the tightness in my throat. It would be better anyway. To get to know each other. For me to learn more of the language. Being intimate with a man I’d never even conversed with . . . it was ridiculous, really.

  He took my hand again, and we sat on the edge of the bed together. Neither of us said a word.

  After a while, we both dressed for the night and lay down in the silent room. Only inches of space separated us. In the moonlight, Raffar’s eyes were closed and his jaw hard. The brutal grip on my throat remained.

  After a much longer while, I finally fell asleep.

  __________

  I braced my feet against the floor and let the wooden posts of the chair jab into my back. For what was probably the

  seven-hundredth time, Aldar shook his head across the desk, and that was only counting today. He’d begun tutoring me the day after the wedding banquet. As long as I was new to Farnskag, I’d just attend events that needed a royal face, smiling and greeting. Once I’d learned the language and customs, I could take a more active role. But the language came first, so I had sat in this chair four hours per day, every day since arriving in Baaldarstad.

  That had been one week ago. Now, Aldar leaned forward in the sitting room of my suite, holding up a slate with gibberish printed on it. Giganbaav. My mind conjured up the image of a tree. Aldar said, “rainbow,” and my heart sank again. Then he pronounced the word in a way I would never pronounce the same letters in Azzarian and waited for me to repeat it. Reading was giving me tired eyes and a headache anyway, so I ignored the letters dancing on the slate. But I said the word, over and over. Giganbaav. Rainbow.

  I might never learn to read Farnskag, but I would learn to speak it. If I wanted to figure out who killed Scilla, I had to be able to ask questions. If only the likelihood of needing to interrogate a rainbow were higher.

  Aldar corrected my pronunciation several times. He smiled when I finally had it right. Then he wiped the slate, and we repeated the process with the next word: stul. Chair. I wished we would stick to words that belonged together. But every day, we jumped around to all different topics.

  I stretched my neck and shoulder muscles. When he held up the slate again, I recognized the next word, gehaas, because we’d had it every single day this week. I tried to picture what it meant, but my mind was blank, so I sounded out the letters. Aldar thinned his lips and said, “house.” He repeated the word, but differently than I had said it. I slumped over the tabletop and bit my lip to force the tears down. Staying positive was harder every day. It seemed like the letters were pronounced differently for every word.

  “I really appreciate you trying to teach me to read, but can we please concentrate on speaking?” With a fingertip, I scratched at the dark wood of the table before finally admitting, “I’m not good at reading. Not even in Azzarian.”

  He groaned, a long, soft, drawn-out sigh. “I’m failing you. And King Raffar.”

  Aldar blamed himself? A familiar tightness gripped my throat. “What? No, Aldar, it’s always been this way. It’s my weakness—”

  “No
, no. I am a good translator.” He pounded the table softly with his fist and smiled, his teeth extra white compared to the dark ink on his face. “But I am a terrible teacher. If I weren’t related to Raffar, he wouldn’t have given me this position. There just isn’t much call for someone who speaks Azzarian. There’s hardly anyone else to teach you, and hardly anything else for me to do. Outside diplomatic circles, our countries haven’t had much contact.”

  “I imagine that will change now that Farnskag will increase trade and fishing.”

  He nodded, his lips forming a smile. “Yes, someday soon, and then I’ll be able to fulfill a more meaningful role.” His cheeks turned a little pink. “I’m sorry. Not that teaching you isn’t meaningful.” He rubbed both palms on his thighs. “Of course, it is, but I, uh, I mean, until then . . . please give me another chance. I just need more time.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but he went on. “I don’t want to have to leave court. Please don’t tell Raffar, but I don’t feel comfortable in the university at Gluwfyall. It makes me sound like a child, but it’s far from my family. And Raffar. We grew up together, you know.”

  “You did?”

  He abandoned the slate on the table, and I vowed to keep him talking as long as I could.

  With a nod, he said, “I even lived here in the manor part of the time. My room was right down the hall. Raffar and I were like brothers.”

  I smiled, imagining them terrorizing the manor staff like Zito did at home. The way they acted together also made more sense. Their behavior certainly hadn’t been what I’d expected from a king and his translator.

  “When Raffar’s parents only had the one child, they adopted several others from throughout the province. I wasn’t adopted, but my parents spent so much time in other cities, I lived here for months at a time. There were six of us kids in the royal manor. It could be chaotic at times, especially with the little ones, but at least Indgar wasn’t bad. She was only two years younger and nearly impossible to beat in a footrace. But we usually managed.”