Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  The cupboard was also taken. A chest without a lid replaced it and her garments placed in it. All that remained in the room were the wall hangings, which were deemed safe enough, her bed, the chest and the two chairs she had purloined from the great hall.

  Not even a lamp was left for her. Each sunset, Arawn would arrive to light the big lamp hanging from the chain in the ceiling, which was well out of her reach.

  The first night he had stepped into the room to do that service, Ilsa was still curled up in a tight ball in the corner made by the bed and the wall. She looked up, a small hope flaring and watched Arawn reach up with the taper to light the wicks, then blow the taper out.

  As the warm yellow light filled the room, Arawn moved over to a chair. “Will you sit with me?” he asked.

  Ilsa laughed. The sound was strained. “You treat me this way, then expect me to converse civilly with you?”

  “You mistake my intentions.” His voice was low. “Everything we have done this day is only to protect you.”

  “You do it to protect the child. I have no other value in this than the vessel which delivers the child. I see that now.”

  Arawn’s fingers curled over the arm of the chair and dug in. “What I feel, how I feel about you doesn’t matter. It cannot matter. Do you not see that? My sympathy for…the others…it was my undoing.” He leaned forward, his arms on his knees, as if he wanted to emphasize what he was saying and make her understand. “I let them have their freedom, to live normally. Fate found them, every single one of them. Thrown from a horse. Murdered by thieves right here in the market square. Taken by the plague which took so many…oh, they were unexpected tragedies, all of them. Put together, though, they point to an absolute truth—that harm comes from unseen places. I will not risk your exposure to one of those hidden places, Ilsa.”

  Ilsa shivered. “They were not all the victims of unhappy accident, though. Your first wife, the princess. She carried to full term.”

  Arawn’s face shifted. Shadows filled his eyes. “She and the babe both died during the birthing, yes. If you are carrying a child, we will need to face that moment, too. I can’t change that. Accidents, though, I can keep away from you and I will, by whatever means I must.”

  Ilsa did not move.

  Arawn made an impatient movement with his shoulders. “In this, I cannot afford to be kind. My kingdom and the people in it demand I do no less than this. It does not mean I bear you any personal ill will. I have…grown fond of you. I would prefer your confinement be as pleasant as possible. Will you not sit and talk?”

  Ilsa remained where she was.

  Arawn sighed and sat back. “I suppose I would feel as you do, if I were you. Very well. Stay where you are, although it must be cold, sitting on stone as you are. I will have more rugs bought, so you may sit on the floor where you wish and still be warm.”

  Ilsa wrapped her arms around her knees. She was cold, although she would not reward Arawn by moving from where she sat.

  “We tested the large kettle today,” Arawn said. “That is what I was doing when word reached me of your…condition.”

  Ilsa jerked. Questions pressed against her lips. What happened? Did the water-making occur even with a kettle the size of the monster they had found in the bath house? How much water had it made?

  She gritted her teeth together, determined not to ask a single question or even show interest.

  Arawn, though, spoke as if she had asked every single question which throbbed in her mind. The trial had been a success, although the funnel they had formed out of beaten shields was inefficient, for it heated too quickly and turned the water back to steam. Stilicho thought as Ilsa had done, that a clay funnel with a glazed interior would work better. He was consulting with potters.

  Ilsa listened as Arawn described the work and resentment touched her. It should be she directing the efforts and developing the devices. It was her idea.

  After he had described the trial and the outcomes, Arawn got to his feet, picked up the taper and knocked on the door. As the door was unbarred, he said, “If it were possible for you to be involved in the work, I would wish it so. Know that you have begun something which will make a difference in people’s lives and take comfort in it.”

  The door opened.

  Arawn gripped the edge of it. “Staying here in this room will also make a difference to a great many lives, Ilsa. This matter is beyond what you and I want.”

  THE NEXT NIGHT, ARAWN returned with the taper. When Ilsa heard the door being unbarred, she curled herself up on the corner of the bed, refusing to sit upon the rugs which had been installed that day as he had promised.

  Arawn sat in the chair once more, without asking her to sit with him. He told her the news of the day—of Gwen’s recovery and progress in the water-making devices. The new gown Elaine had worn to supper last night and his wonder over what she might wear tonight.

  Ilsa asked no questions and did not speak.

  On the third night when the door opened, Arawn was followed into the room by Stilicho and two slaves, carrying trays and large cushions. While Ilsa watched from the far side of the bed and Arawn stood with his arms crossed, the slaves put the cushions on the floor between the two chairs, where the table had once sat. The trays were placed on top.

  There were bowls and platters of food sitting on the trays, most of them still steaming from the kitchen. The aromas made Ilsa’s mouth water.

  Stilicho gave Ilsa a warm smile. He waved the slaves out of the room. The door shut behind them and Arawn unfolded his arms. “The guards tell me you have refused to eat today.”

  It was true. She’d had no appetite. The day had passed in a blur, her boredom turning her thoughts into a miasmic sludge and draining her of all energy. She had spent the day on the bed, her eyes closed, in a state of mindlessness which helped pass the time.

  Arawn sat in his usual chair. “You must eat, Ilsa. If you do not, I will be forced to make you eat and I would rather not do that.”

  Ilsa didn’t move. It was no longer a matter of defiance. She didn’t have the will needed to shift her limbs.

  Arawn bent and selected a piece of herbed chicken. The chicken was already sliced, she noted dully. Not even Arawn would risk carrying an eating knife into this room.

  He carried the piece of chicken over to the bed and held it out to her. “Here.”

  Ilsa simply looked at him.

  “Open your mouth.” He raised a brow. “I can make you do it, if I must.”

  She opened her mouth. He dropped the morsel inside. Ilsa chewed, her mouth flooding as the rich herbs and flavorful meat registered. It was very good. Her stomach rumbled.

  Arawn went back to his chair and sat. “Come and eat, if you want more.” He leaned and selected a bowl with fried vegetables and lifted it to his lap and ate.

  Ilsa’s belly cramped hard. She eased herself from the bed. Every movement was painful, for she had been sitting in this curled up position for a long time. With stiff limbs, she moved over to the other chair and lowered herself into it.

  “Take more of the chicken,” Arawn suggested.

  It was an effort. She reached and selected a slice of the white meat and ate it. It was as good as the first mouthful. She swallowed and reached for more, movement coming easier, this time.

  Her hunger kept her eating long after Arawn halted and sat back and watched, with a small smile. She didn’t care if he was amused by her. She was ravenous.

  When she was full, she burped and covered her mouth, shocked at the sound.

  Arawn nodded. “That’s better.”

  Ilsa lifted her feet to the front of the chair, put her arms around her knees and hid her face. It felt as if she had given in. Yet the food had been so good.

  Arawn gripped her wrist and detached her hand from her knee. He pressed a wine cup into her hand until her fingers curled around it.

  Then he sat down and told her about his day. When he was finished, he departed.

  He left the foo
d behind, though.

  The next morning, as dawn light filled the grid in the window, Ilsa was woken by the door opening. She sat up, pulling the covers up against her, and watched as Arawn, Stilicho and the same two slaves moved into the room. Last night’s dishes were removed and bowls of shellfish stew and stewed peaches from the summer were laid out beside cups of mulled wine which steamed enticingly.

  Arawn sat in his chair as the door closed. He waved toward the other chair, then ate.

  Ilsa did not think she could possibly be hungry after last night’s huge meal. Yet her belly rumbled, anyway. She rose from the bed and put on the fur robe over her undertunic. She bent to the trays sitting on the cushions and picked a slice of peach from the thick syrup and tried it. It was tart and warm.

  Ilsa sank to the rug, which put the trays at the same height a table would reach, if she were sitting upon a bench. She reached for the wine and drank. She also selected a bowl of the shellfish stew. It had chunks she could select with her fingers, thickly coated with the sauce. It was delicious.

  “We will test the clay funnel today,” Arawn told her.

  Ilsa glanced at him, startled. A dozen questions occurred to her. Instead of asking them, she drank the wine, washing away the taste of shellfish with the rich, thick flavor of the herbed wine.

  “I fully expect the trial will be a success,” Arawn added. “I’m selecting tutors to show the people who live here in Lorient how to operate the devices. When they understand the process, they will be sent to nearby villages to show the people there. Those villages, in turn, can teach the villages around them.”

  Ilsa pressed her lips together. Because he had not told her, the question surged from her. “Will a device be taken to Brandérion?”

  Arawn’s smile was small. “Your family’s village? Yes. They will be among the first.”

  Ilsa relaxed.

  Arawn got to his feet. “I must go. There is much to do, today.”

  He returned when the sun was at its highest and held out a pastry filled with aromatic lamb and vegetables, wrapped in a cloth to protect fingers from the heat. “The trial was a success. The potters will make more funnels, as many as they can manage, as quickly as possible.”

  He left Ilsa sitting on the rug beside the trays, eating the pastry.

  The following days fell into the same pattern. Arawn would arrive, bearing food and news, for every meal. He would share the news, then leave to go about his day.

  One morning, he put aside the hunk of bread he had been dipping in stew and said, “You have a comb, do you not?” His gaze was on her hair.

  Ilsa touched the tangle of knots and curls self-consciously. “I believe so, yes.”

  “Perhaps you might consider using it each morning.” His gaze took in her soiled robe. “Stilicho will have your clothes taken to the fullers, too.”

  After he had left and because there was nothing else to do, Ilsa dug the comb out of the bottom of the chest. Slowly and painstakingly she combed out the knots. She braided her hair and tied it with rags, for there were no thongs.

  She stripped the grubby garments she had been wearing for too many days and selected new ones. Before she could bring herself to put them on, she washed.

  Arawn made no comment about her appearance when he arrived at noon. Stilicho arrived shortly after Arawn had left. He collected her dirty garments without comment. They were returned a day later, clean and folded and smelling of lavender.

  Arawn stayed longer in the evenings, even though Ilsa gave him no encouragement to do so. She rarely asked questions or spoke. Her silence did not seem to discourage him, either.

  They would eat, for Ilsa had learned that refusing to eat gained her nothing. After, Arawn would lean back with a cup in his hands and tell her about his day, much as he had once done after supper in the triclinium.

  Now, though, there was no immediate need for them to couple and his conversations extended, instead. He shared with her more than the news. It wasn’t until he told her about Uther’s campaign against Claudas, that Ilsa realized how much more of his thoughts and feelings Arawn was giving her.

  The facts about Claudas were simple enough. Ilsa had been there when Ambrosius ordered Uther to take his men to Claudas’ kingdom and teach the man a lesson in humility which would discourage him from further invasion attempts.

  The campaign had been viciously successful. Uther called it a good warning, while others said Uther and his men had laid waste to Claudas’ kingdom. The destruction they delivered, using fire and force and salt to sterilize the soil itself, would keep the kingdom destitute for a generation.

  “Uther didn’t kill Claudas, which is a minor miracle, they say,” Arawn added.

  “Ambrosius told him not to,” Ilsa said.

  Arawn raised his brow. “Did he? Uther has shown more control than I realized. The message he sent was brutal and even though I am appalled at the degree, there is a part of me which agrees with the necessity. Nothing would have stopped Claudas from harassing our western borders until he got what he wanted, except for this. Now he will not have the resources to mount more campaigns for many harvests to come. If he fears retribution of this scale, he may lose his taste for conquest altogether.”

  “Would it not have been easier to kill Claudas, instead of making his people suffer this way?” Ilsa asked.

  “Claudas’ sons will have learned at their father’s knee. Remove Claudas and they would take his place and carry on his plundering ways. No, Ambrosius was right. This was the only way.” Arawn frowned. “If Claudas has any care for his people at all, he will learn from this.”

  Uther’s campaign was so thorough everyone in the three western kingdoms called Claudas’ kingdom “The Land Laid Waste.”

  “It gives Bors and Ban peace for a time,” Arawn told her, on another occasion. “They can settle the land, instead of waging war. They can raise families.” He smiled. “Ban has written to me. He wants to discuss a secondary liaison of our kingdoms and families.”

  “Elaine…!” Ilsa breathed, delight touching her. “Will you consider it?”

  “He is not a king,” Arawn said slowly. “Through Evaine, we already have a formal alliance with Guannes.”

  “Ban is the son of a great king and a large kingdom,” Ilsa pressed.

  “The second son,” Arawn replied.

  “The first is already a king. If Ambrosius wins back Britain, Benoic will be in need of a king once more,” Ilsa pointed out.

  Arawn raised his brow. His eyes widened. “A good point. I will think on it.”

  Ilsa realized with surprise that Arawn had not thought of the future in that way, until now, when she had said it.

  Some days later, Arawn shared the outcome. “I have told Ban to petition Ambrosius. If Ambrosius promises Benoic will be Ban’s when Britain is returned to us, I will agree to the marriage.”

  Ilsa wished she could see Elaine’s face when Arawn shared the news with her. She would not learn what Elaine’s reaction had been for many more days, though, for the next morning it was established beyond doubt she was with child.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Arawn arrived with breakfast the same as usual, stirring Ilsa from her slumber and forcing her to rise and face another day in the stifling confines of the chamber. She shifted to the side of the bed and reached for her robe.

  The room tilted and swung around her. Ilsa clutched at the bed and moaned. Her throat worked and copper-tasting spit filled her mouth. Her belly lurched.

  There was no time to do more than lean forward to clear her feet. The contents of her stomach belched upon the rug Arawn had put there and she continued to heave afterwards, her throat straining.

  Before she was finished, hands lifted her hair out of the way and soothed her back.

  Ilsa sat back and wiped her mouth with a shaking hand. Stilicho stood beside her, wrinkling his nose with disgust while keeping her hair out of the way. Arawn gripped his chin with one big hand. His expression was a wild mix of e
motions—hope, pleasure and panic.

  “Get rid of the mess,” Arawn told Stilicho. He moved to the bed and helped Ilsa to her feet and moved her to the chair, in front of the breakfast bowls.

  She moaned. “No, I’ll be sick again.”

  “Food will help,” Arawn told her. “Trust me. Not the fish, though. Here.” He handed her a piece of still-warm bread. “Dip it in the oil. Go on.”

  Behind them, Stilicho was moaning and rolling up the spoiled rug. Then, with more muttering, he left, holding the offending rug out in front of him.

  Even though it was the last thing she wanted to do, Ilsa took a bite of the bread.

  Arawn sat in the other chair, his hands gripped together. “There are no women here to ask you, so I must. Besides,” he added, his mouth turning down, “I know the signs well enough. Do your breasts hurt to touch them? Are they swollen?”

  Ilsa lowered the bread, looking at him. She had not noticed until this moment, although now she realized they were heavier. She put her hand to her belly, as if she might feel the child there already.

  Arawn nodded. “Yes, you are with child,” he said, as if she had spoken. He threw himself to his feet and walked in a tight circle, then dropped in front of her and looked up at her face. “We must be more careful now than ever before,” he said, his voice low. Then, shockingly, he reached out and tucked her hair back behind her shoulder and cupped her jaw. “I will have no harm come to you,” he whispered.

  Abruptly, tears she had not known were building spilled down her cheeks.

  Arawn frowned and brushed them away. “I know you’re frightened—”

  She shook her head. “No, I’m not.”

  “You’re not?” Surprise colored his voice and lifted his brows. “Then, why do you cry?”

  “It’s just…” She dashed away more tears as they fell. “I cannot stand staying in this room another day, let alone the time it takes to carry a child! I’m going mad, Arawn! I want to see trees! I want to breathe the air outside and listen to the birds and…and I want to bathe. I want…” She dropped the bread back on the tray and covered her face. “I want to be out in the world, not here,” she said into her hands.