Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  The remaining two ladies were the most beautiful women Ilsa had ever seen. They had raven black hair and black eyes and pale skin. Ilsa could see they were related, for they both had fine, pointed chins and large eyes fringed with heavy black lashes beneath strong brows.

  They were both young. Sisters, Ilsa guessed, and barely into womanhood. Their hair was as curly as Ilsa’s, only they seemed to know the secret to keeping their curls tamed and under control, for their hair dropped in uniform waves down their backs. Jewelry glittered at their ears and throat and high on their slender arms.

  They were staring at Ilsa.

  “Who are you?” the older of the two asked. Her voice was low and refined.

  “What is that smell?” the other asked, looking around the room.

  The older woman wrinkled her nose. “I believe it is her.”

  Ilsa gripped the string of her bow. Her cheeks heated. “I…fell in a puddle.”

  The younger of the two sisters had been lying propped on one elbow on the divan. She sat up, bringing her shoes to the floor. The sea green tunic slithered off the divan and fell about her ankles. Her mantle was a darker green. “Evaine asks a good question. Who are you?”

  “Ilsa.”

  All four of the women looked at each other. The older sister, Evaine, who had already been sitting, picked up a metal cup from the table. Her fingers were long and graceful. They wrapped about the stem of the cup. Her gaze was direct. “Why are you here, Ilsa?” She sipped.

  “You don’t know? I thought the king sent word ahead of us. He did not tell you?”

  “No one disturbs us in this room,” Evaine said, her tone cold. “The message, if there is one, will be waiting for us in the triclinium.”

  Ilsa blinked. She didn’t know what a triclinium was. “Then I suppose I must tell you.”

  “Yes,” Evaine said.

  “What sort of name is Ilsa?” the other sister asked. Her tone was curious rather than cold. “I’ve never heard it before.”

  “It’s Saxon,” the blond woman said, her voice low. “From the land of the Angles,” she added. “It is not a common name there, either.”

  Ilsa stared at her, surprised. No one, not even her mother, could explain where her name came from. Was what this woman said true? She bore a Saxon name? Surely not… She shifted on her feet, discomfort writhing through her.

  The younger sister pressed her fingers to her nose. “Perhaps you should tell us why you are here, Ilsa, then leave. With every movement you make…”

  “Is that a bow over your shoulder?” the blonde woman asked.

  “And arrows, too,” Evaine said, leaning back to peer behind Ilsa.

  “I was hunting when the king found me—”

  “You hunt?” both sisters asked together. Their eyes widened and horror filled them.

  Ilsa’s heart hurt with the to-and-fro swings from calm to wildness. Now it beat at its cage with heavy fists. “When I want my family to eat, yes, I hunt,” she replied. Her voice was stiffer than she wanted it to be, for she sensed she could not afford to offend these women. They were high born and likely relatives of the king’s. Arawn had no children. Sisters, perhaps, or close cousins.

  The sisters exchanged glances again. Evaine put her hands together on her knees. “Yes, I imagine one must do whatever one must to live, these days. You are to be commended. It does not explain why you stand in our chamber as you are.”

  Ilsa squeezed her hand around the bow string. Now she must speak the words, she hesitated. Once they were spoken, then this… Madness, Arawn had called it, and it was a good word. Once Ilsa said the words aloud this madness would be known to others. It would be real.

  Only there was no going back, now. She had given her word, as had the king.

  “I am to marry Arawn,” Ilsa said, speaking each word carefully.

  The Saracen woman’s lips parted. The servants and slaves at the back of the room stopped what they were doing to turn and gaze at Ilsa.

  The two sisters remained motionless, their faces like marble. Not a hint of reaction showed even in their eyes. It was impossible to tell what they were feeling.

  Ilsa had never met anyone who hid their emotions that way, except for Arawn. The villagers she knew, the children she had grown up with, their parents, her parents…everyone said exactly what was in their minds, at the moment it occurred to them. They swore or cried or screamed their anger. They laughed, too.

  The room stayed still and silent for five long heart beats as the sisters stared at her.

  Then Evaine brushed her hair back over her shoulder and twisted an earring back into place. Her fingers rested against her throat. Her gaze did not meet Ilsa’s eyes. “You know my brother is cursed?”

  Ilsa couldn’t speak. Her throat ached, her chest was too tight. She nodded, instead.

  The other sister, the younger one, plucked at a fold of the beautiful sea green gown. “Arawn has had four wives,” she said. “Princess Bethan, Lunid the Mad, Mabyn and Mair.” She almost chanted the names, as if she had said them the same way many times before. “They all died,” she added. “You know that?”

  Ilsa nodded again.

  “Yet you still agreed to marry him?” Evaine asked, her voice even lower than before, with a husky note.

  “I may be the one to break the curse,” Ilsa said. “If I do, then not just your people will be saved. My own people suffer from the lack of rain. My parents are ill from it. I should not take the chance your brother offers me to make life better for all those people?”

  Again, the astonished silence filled the room.

  Ilse’s face was glowing with the outward revelation of her acute self-consciousness. She had spoken nothing but the truth, however. She lifted her chin.

  “My, you are brave, aren’t you?” the younger sister murmured.

  Ilsa shook her head. “Your brother is the brave one. He will do anything to break the curse and save his people. He is doing anything. He is marrying me. Look at me.” She spread her cloak. “I am not like you. Is it not bravery, to seize any opportunity, no matter what it looks like?”

  The younger girl smiled. “You have an uncommon way of thinking, Ilsa the Hunter. Is that why Arawn wants to marry you, among the many women he could have chosen?”

  “I don’t know why he chose me,” Ilsa admitted. “I was the first suitable woman he came across, I suppose.”

  “Arawn went looking for the spring this morning,” the blonde woman murmured.

  Evaine’s brows came together. “I do not understand. My brother has remained unmarried since Mair died. Why did he rise from his bed this morning and decide he would ask the first suitable woman he found?”

  Ilsa recalled the quick snatches of conversation she had heard pass between Uther and Arawn, before Arawn had told her he intended to marry her. “I believe it was Prince Uther’s idea that Arawn should propose to the first woman he found. I don’t think they were expecting to find me, though.”

  Every woman was watching her now. All pretense of work had halted.

  The Saracen woman groaned. “Uther. That explains much. The man thinks with…something other than his brain.”

  Laughter fluttered around the room.

  Evaine smiled. “He thinks well enough to find you as beautiful as you truly are, Yasmine. How long was it?”

  “She kept him coming back for nearly a year,” the Saxon woman said, sounding proud.

  Evaine held up a hand. “A moment. Ilsa…that is your name, you said?”

  Ilsa nodded.

  “You are telling us you tripped in the mud and it caused my brother to propose he marry you?”

  “He stole my deer, first.”

  A blink of surprised silence, then they laughed again, this time louder and longer.

  Then Evaine clapped her hands. “Yasmine, Frida, we cannot have Arawn’s new bride attend supper looking as she does.” Evaine glanced at Ilsa. “Did he give you even a moment to pack? Or do you stand with all you brought?”
>
  “This is all I thought worth bringing,” Ilsa said. “I am the daughter of…” She cleared her throat. “I am no one. Nothing I have is worthy of a king’s house.”

  Yasmine and Frida were rising to their feet. They were both tall and slender, their dresses only slightly less elaborate than those of Evaine and her sister.

  “She looks to be your height and the same waist, Elaine,” Evaine said. “Would you mind?”

  The younger sister shook her head. “Not at all. Yasmine, my brown dress would suit her hair color. And the copper jewelry.”

  Jasmine nodded.

  Frida picked up a light blue cloak from the end of the divan where she had been sitting and wrapped it around her bare shoulders. “Come,” she told Ilsa.

  “To where?” Ilsa asked.

  “The bath house,” Frida told her. “To wash the mud away.”

  “And that is just the start,” Yasmine added, stepping up beside her and wrapping a dull yellow mantle around her own shoulders. “Bridget, would you collect the gown and the jewelry? Shoes and a mantle, too. It doesn’t matter which for right now.”

  One slave, wearing a simple tunic, put down the bowl she was holding and hurried away.

  “Come along,” Yasmine told Ilsa.

  As shedding her filthy clothes and removing the stench was just as attractive to Ilsa, she turned and followed them out of the room. She heard the sisters, Evaine and Elaine, whispering behind her, but didn’t care. To be clean, truly clean, was compensation enough for the moment.

  WHEN THEY EMERGED ONTO the verandah, one guard plucked the torch from the sconce on the wall. He withdrew his sword, then walked in front of them, leading the way.

  The bath house was a tall building detached from the main house. There were multiple doors, yet the guard led them to a portal on the far side of the building.

  “The women’s entrance,” Yasmine told Ilsa. “When you are permitted to bathe, then make sure you use this door, or you will find yourself among a lot of naked, sweating men. Unless you want to end up that way!” She laughed as she pushed open the door.

  “This one time, we won’t ask for permission,” Frida added, as she waved Ilsa into the room. “Your state is such that nothing short of a bath will do.” The bath house door closed behind them, leaving the guard outside.

  The room was covered in tiles. Not just the floor, but the walls and the roof were plastered with decorative, colorful tiles in pleasing patterns of blue and green and white.

  The air was warm and moist. Instantly, Ilsa’s skin prickled. The dried mud and dirt itched.

  Both Yasmine and Frida were removing their jewelry, unwinding their mantles and unclipping their gowns. They dropped everything on to the wooden bench against the wall.

  Frida paused, her belt in her hand. “You’ve been to a bathhouse, yes?”

  Ilsa shook her head.

  Yasmine raised a dark brow. It was the only surprise either of them showed.

  “You are fortunate no one is using the bath at the moment,” Yasmine said with a crisp tone. “My first time, there were dozens more women.”

  “It’s the lack of rain,” Frida said. “Here, let me help with that…those things.” She pulled the bow off Ilsa’s shoulder and laid it on the bench. “Arawn insists that we in the house preserve the water supply and live as everyone else in the kingdom must live right now. So, little water to drink, even less water to bathe and we are only permitted to use the bathhouse when the king gives his consent.”

  “I used to bathe every single day,” Yasmine added. She was naked except for her sandals. She bent to untie them, as unconcerned as she would be if she was clothed.

  Frida and Yasmine between them helped Ilsa remove her clothes, too. She stretched and wriggled her toes against the mosaics under her feet. They were warm, which she had not expected.

  “The hypocaust runs under here, too,” Yasmine said, in response to Ilsa’s startled glance at the tiles.

  “I do believe there is mud in your hair where the thong is tied, too,” Frida said, the end of Ilsa’s braid in her hands.

  “Cut the thong,” Yasmine said. “Leather is easy to get.” She picked up her sandals and took a small knife out of one of them and held it out to Frida.

  “Oh, and the mud has clumped the hair into a hard lump, too,” Frida said.

  “Leave it. The caldarium will take care of that.” Yasmine moved toward one of two inner doors, her skin gleaming as she walked.

  Thankful for the lack of people, Ilsa followed her. She stepped into a long room with pillars around all four edges. Between the pillars was another man-made pool of water. The still water steamed. Torches flickered along the walls, making the surface of the water glint redly. Through the water, Ilsa could see more tiles, most of them white. Black tiles were laid in a border pattern around the edges of the pool.

  Ilsa’s face and neck itched even harder. It was hot in the room. There were more wooden benches along the walls, between the sconces. Yasmine and Frida sat on one. Frida patted the bench. “Relax. You cannot jump into the water just yet.”

  “We have to get you clean, first. It takes time,” Yasmine added. She leaned back and closed her eyes.

  Bewildered, Ilsa sat. She gripped her hands together. Sweat slicked between them. Her skin prickled all over and her face and the back of her neck was damp. It was the heat. She had never experienced such heat before.

  “You really intend to marry Arawn?” Yasmine asked.

  Ilsa swallowed. “I must.”

  “Because you think you can break the curse?”

  “Because I might break the curse. I must try, at least.”

  “Princess Bethan, Lunid the Mad, Mabyn and Mair,” Frida said, in the same sing-song voice tone Elaine had used. “Arawn was twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-nine and thirty years old. Four sons, he has lost. Even without the curse, it is a burden no man should have to bear. Yet, he tries again.” She shook her head.

  “Because he believes in the curse and the cure,” Yasmine said.

  “He believed Rhonwen,” Frida added. “Only, now she has gone and the girl-child leads the underworld.”

  “Nimue is older than Evaine,” Yasmine pointed out with a kind tone. “She performed a miracle just as they all must to be chosen.”

  Frida closed her eyes, too. “I suppose the Lady will come to inspect you, too, Ilsa, and pass judgment.”

  Ilsa jumped.

  “The Lady has been a guide and mentor to the king of Brocéliande for hundreds of years,” Yasmine said. “She will want to meet you. Frida makes Nimue sound like an ogre when none of us know her well. She was only appointed last year and she has not spent much time in Lorient.”

  “Rhonwen visited Lorient all the time, I’m told,” Frida said. “Arawn’s father might have had something to do with that.” Her smile was wicked.

  “Or his mother?” Yasmine asked, her smile just as mischievous. “The queen was a great beauty. Consider Evaine and Elaine.”

  “They are like Arawn,” Frida said and laughed.

  “He is a great beauty, too,” Yasmine said, her tone calm. “No one notices because all they can see when they look at him is the curse and what it is doing to their kingdom.”

  Ilsa hung her head. The heat was sapping all her strength. She pressed her hands against the edge of the bench, propping herself up while she listened to the two woman. She learned much about Arawn’s household in those few short minutes.

  Evaine was fifteen and promised to Bors, the King of Guannes, the kingdom lying by the southern borders of Morbihan. The wedding would take place soon. Elaine, the younger sister, was nearly fourteen but not yet promised to any man, while most men already made fools of themselves over her. Her beauty would outshine Evaine’s, it was judged. Arawn was taking his time finding the most advantageous match for her.

  Rhonwen the Great, the previous Lady of the Lake, was considered to be the most powerful Lady who had ever lived. Many years ago, on the eve of Arawn’s first
marriage, she had predicted with her Sight how Arawn would break the curse on his land.

  Everyone in Brocéliande seemed to believe the curse and that it could be lifted. None knew if Arawn believed it because he had not instantly taken another wife the moment Mair died. The news that he was to be married once more would bring instant relief to the entire kingdom.

  Ilsa’s eyes stung as sweat ran into them. She used it as an excuse to wipe at her face and hide her expression as Yasmine finished speaking her guess about how everyone felt about Arawn marrying again.

  If everyone was so relieved by the news, wouldn’t they watch Ilsa with close concentration, waiting for her to deliver the child who would break the curse?

  She shuddered, despite the heat.

  Her fingers came away from her face coated in the black mud she had acquired at the watering hole. The heat and moisture in this room had turned the dust on her face back into mud.

  Ilsa grimaced again. There was nowhere to wipe it.

  “I think that should be sufficient time,” Frida said. “Ilsa isn’t used to this.”

  Yasmine stood and moved over to a small table in the corner. She picked up a stoppered jar and a silver implement that looked like a knife curved into the shape of a crescent moon.

  Frida worked on Ilsa’s braid. “Yes, the soil has loosened.” She unraveled the braid with quick movements and exclaimed. “Why, your hair is actually this curly!”

  “Isn’t yours?” Ilsa asked, putting her hand to her hair.

  “No,” Frida said. “Yasmine’s is, far more than yours. Mine is straight and flat. See?” She turned her shoulder so Ilsa could see her flaxen locks. They laid against her back, limp and straight, all the wavy curls gone.

  “You make the curls?” Ilsa breathed, astonished.

  “Over and over again,” Frida said ruefully and untangled the last of Ilsa’s hair and let it drop. “Normally you would pin your hair to keep it dry while you are in the bath. Not this time, though. Hold it up for now, until the dirt is gone. Then you can let it drop again.”