Dragon's Keep

by Janet Lee Carey

  I tried to pray for such a wind as would tip Sam Denkle’s boat but could not make myself. Stranger still, alone in my chamber, I dreamed of the dragon’s eggs. Four of them, blue as a robin’s lay. When I drew my knees against my chest I thought of blue-green dragons curled up sleeping in their shells.

  In the days that followed Lord Godrick rode to the castle when he could spare an hour. Busy rebuilding his ship, he’d come after sunset to confer with Mother and Father. It had been the man’s intent to stay but a short time on Wilde Island, to apprise my worth as a princess, and to garner knights to return with him to France. Empress Matilda was mounting another campaign to overthrow King Stephen, and she had hopes of recruiting all our knights.

  Mother and Father were pleased to have the empress’s interest at last. Father whistled as he walked about the castle, and was measured for a new suit of armor. And Mother set the maids to work sewing me new gowns. So every one was a-scuttle: the villagers building new cottages, Lord Godrick and his men restoring their ship, and Father’s journeymen fitting his vessel for war. Soon after the men’s departure I was to sail on Mother’s ship to France. Her vessel was also receiving much attention, for Mother liked to sail in luxury.

  When I could get free from tending those broken and bruised by the dragon, I galloped to the cliffs where I could see the workmen repair the ships in the harbor below. I could tell Lord Godrick and Kye from the others as they milled about on shore. Each wore the red of lordly men, whilst the sailors and journeymen worked in plainer cloth. There on my cliff edge I watched Kye, ax in hand, chipping bark.

  As night came on, I stood at my window and looked through the bars at God’s starry script. Merlin saw my life written in the heavens six hundred years ago. He’d seen a redeemer who would end bloodshed and restore Wilde Island. But I wondered as I looked up at the stars if Merlin saw a woman who would know a man’s love.

  Early one morning, a fortnight after the dragon’s fire had scorched our shore, I was kneeling in the garden gathering winter-green and boneset when Kye stepped up beside me. I knew him by his stance, though I did not look up. I’d longed to speak with him these many days, but now that he had come I was vexed.

  “Why wear gold gloves to pluck the greens?” asked Kye, leaning over me.

  “A princess never bares her hand to any but—” The words her husband caught in my mouth.

  “To any but . . . ? To whom would you show your pretty hands?”

  “Not you,” I said.

  “Don’t you like the feel of daffodils?”

  I squinted up at him. His velvet hat was askew, his eyes playful.

  I cut the boneset an inch above the stem. The small blue flowers bobbed in the breeze.

  “Flowers for the table?”

  “Boneset for the villagers.”

  He tipped his head. “Who taught you the healing arts?”

  My heart dropped. “My nursemaid,” I said, crossing myself.

  “Why cross yourself?” said Kye. “Is she a holy person?”

  “Dead. Drowned. And she was a saint or close to it,” I admitted. Kye must have seen the fervor on my face when I said this. He stepped back a little. A soft wind blew his tunic. I bit my lip and went on plucking.

  “My mother was skilled with herbs,” said Kye. “A Muslim by birth, she secretly read from the Koran and kept her faith until she died. I learned much from her. I wish now she’d taught me more about her herbs.”

  We shared the silence in my garden. Mine for old Marn and Kye for his mother.

  “If one of my father’s men should suddenly take sick?” asked Kye.

  “Mother would send a healer or Sir Magnus, but if they could not come I would. Marn taught me how to cure right well.”

  “And who is the boneset for?”

  “Sheb Kottle.”

  Kye put his hands on his hips. “The man who cursed the dragon.”

  “He was drunk.”

  Kye laughed, his shadow overpowering the patch of winter-berry where I knelt.

  “You’re in my sun.”

  “I thought I might give you shade,” he said, “but I see you want exposure.” He quit the garden for the castle.

  “Wait,” I whispered, and the look of his blue eyes lingered in the air as if he were haunting me behind the bluebells. In the wind his voice still asked, Don’t you like the feel of daffodils?

  I was alone, well hid behind my walls. Keeping my eye to the door, I stripped off my right glove, ran my fingers along the bobbing lilies, tickled my palm with the daffodils, and felt the sweetness of the roses in first bloom. Kye’s gaze and his laugh must have stirred a madness in me or I would not have been so bold. But with my right hand free, I flew about the yard, arms outstretched and fluttering like the yarrow moths.

  Before sunrise the next morning I rode up to Twister’s Hill. At the top I halted Rollo and gazed out to sea. A stone flew past me and arced over the cliff. I gripped my reins and looked behind. “What fool tosses a stone so near his princess!”

  “The simpkin Kye.”

  Kye rode out from the shadowy willow, whose greenery was still dark to the day. “Come,” he called. “There’s something you must see.”

  “Is one of your sailors ill? Shall I bring herbs?” Kye did not reply but kicked his horse and galloped down the hill.

  “I take it you have good purpose for this ride?” I shouted as I rode in his wake.

  Kye took a narrow path at the edge of the woods that ran alongside Kingsway, but passed the turnoff for the harbor and for Dentsmore.

  “Tell me where you’re taking me.”

  “I take you nowhere, Princess,” he called back. “It’s you who follows me.”

  All honor and dignity schooled me to quit the ride then, but I warred against my better mind and followed him. We came to Witch’s Hollow. From my saddle I could see foxgloves and wild iris all dew-covered in the green grass. But the ground of Witch’s Hollow had been watered with blood and the seeming innocence of the grass made the place twice deadly.

  I was grateful when Kye turned his back on the meadow and rode toward Lake Ailleann. Cautious, I urged Rollo on. Near the shore Kye stopped and gazed out over the water to the isle of God’s Eye, where it’s said Merlin once took his year of silence. “It’s there I’ll go,” he said more to himself than to me.

  “God’s Eye is forbidden.”

  “Why?” asked Kye.

  “My father, the king, protects it.” Then thinking what Cook said once I added, “Some say Merlin’s ghost walks there.”

  “All the more reason to go.” Kye gave his horse a kick and galloped through the long grass. I followed, more confused than ever. In half an hour’s time we reached the beach. Kye dismounted, tied his sorrel mare to the upturned roots of a bleached log, and looked out to sea.

  The rising sun spilled a golden road across the water. Kye stood silent while the surf pounded and a choir of blackbirds sang in the cord grass. I leaned forward in my saddle. “Why have you brought me here?”

  “You know we sail in four days’ time?”

  “Aye, and my father makes ready to follow you to war.”

  Kye gripped his hilt. “War calls.”

  “Does it call to you?”

  “To my father.”

  “And to mine,” I said, downing from my horse.

  We stood beside a pile of driftwood, the sun and salt wind having bleached the wood bone white. Kye kicked a stone. “Before I go to war . . .” He looked at me, his eyes moist with sea wind, then turned away. I thought in my deeper self that Kye was caught in love’s sorrow, and my heart beat in answer to it. If this dark sea-bound boy should love me . . . Wouldn’t I give my kingdom for that?

  “There’s something you must see,” Kye said at last.

  “What have you?”

  Kye would not say.

  “If you brought me here to tease—”

  “Come. This is for your eyes alone.”

  “Why? Are my eyes better than another’s?�
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  Kye’s jaw tightened. “I saw the way you looked at the dead she-dragon.”

  “As I did you.”

  This seemed to startle him. He stepped back, crossed his arms, and glared at Morgesh Mountain, the peak washed pink in morning light.

  I could not seem to speak with him. Every word was an offense, every silence a harm.

  I touched Kit’s silver pin. “Show me what you want me to see.”

  Kye led me up the beach to a small cave, where he crouched low and entered.

  “You’ve not found a corpse?” I asked before going in. “No. Don’t be afraid, Rose.”

  I entered the damp cave. There on the tawny sand lay the thing Kye could not speak of.

  The broken shell of a dragon’s egg. It was but half the shell, empty of its pip, the outside blue speckled, and what I could see of the inside was milky white. And broken in this way, it stirred my memory to the half shell crammed with bones I’d seen in Demetra’s cave.

  “I found the shell washed ashore last night and brought it here,” said Kye. Then like a father to a cradle, he knelt down beside the shell and ran his hand along a jagged crack. “There’s no telling what would become of this if my father should see.” He looked up. “Do you . . . like it?” he whispered.

  A thrill raced up my back. “It is the blue of cornflowers.”

  “Or robin’s eggs,” he added.

  Or your eyes, I nearly said, but I bit my tongue.

  Kye motioned to me. “Come round here and see this.”

  I crossed the sand, stepping soft as a cat, and knelt beside Kye. Such a sharpness cut into my heart as I looked on. There, etched on the white shell, was the pale green outline of the dragon pip. The sea had torn the pip from the shell and nothing was left now but the etching of her curled form. I saw in the outline how the tip of the pip’s tail came to her mouth, as if she’d thought to suckle it. The sea had left three blue-green scales behind. Stuck to the shell, they were the size and shape of rose petals.

  Outside the waves crashed. Kye leaned forward. “See the wing shadows?” he whispered, tracing the wing outlines on the shell.

  I felt an aching in my throat as I looked on. Ah, how that shadow troubled me, the poor pip dead now in the stirring water.

  “Rosalind?” Kye touched my cheek with the back of his hand.

  I tipped my head back. But his lips did not brush mine.

  He stepped outside the cave and I followed. Kye crossed his arms and leaned against the rock wall. A gull flew past, casting a shadow across his brow. “Since coming to Wilde Island, I’ve heard talk of a prophecy about you.”

  “Ah,” I said, disappointed. “Merlin saw my fate writ in the stars.”

  “I’d not heard of it before.”

  “You wouldn’t have. Our side of the family was erased from history when they were banished. But before Arthur’s younger sister, Evaine, was sent here to Wilde Island, Merlin promised her there would be one to reclaim her family name.”

  “Merlin read much in the stars,” whispered Kye, “but this.” His eyes met mine and for a breath I was lost in the cloudless sky of each.

  A wave hissed up near his boots. Kye crouched and drew a spiral in the sand. “I’m confused by this prophecy as I’ve been about another.”

  “Another?”

  Kye glanced up. “Merlin saw it in the stars. A day when the dragon wars would end and there would be peace between men and dragons.”

  “Like the childish rhyme?”

  “Aye, only they butchered his words.”

  “It will never happen.”

  “Merlin spoke truth. I’ve been his pupil all my life.”

  “How can you be his pupil when he’s been dead six hundred years?”

  “I’ve studied the prophets from east to west. Merlin’s teaching never failed me.”

  “It may be Merlin misconstrued the stars this once.”

  Kye stood and held my shoulders but his touch was gentle. “Why did you warn the dragon about his lost egg, Rose? Why should you care if all his brood was drowned at sea?”

  “I . . . I warned him to save us. If I hadn’t called to him about the eggs we would all have died that night.”

  Silence. I felt Kye’s breath wash across my forehead in warm waves.

  “And . . . that was all?”

  “Aye. That was all.”

  He dropped his hands to his sides, brushed past me, and marched down the beach.

  “Don’t go,” I called, but Kye mounted his horse with a grunt. “I thought you would be truthful,” he said. “I see that I was wrong.” He turned his mount and sped off.

  I stumbled back to the little cave. A surge of anger empowered me. Godlike, I used great strength to roll a large stone before the entrance until the dragon shell was well entombed.

  Let it rest where no one else would see it, touch the blue of it, nor trace the pip’s outline inside the shell. Burial done, I mounted Rollo and rode homeward. Salt wind slapped against my cheek in the place where Kye had touched me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  If Wolves Should Come

  TWO DAYS BEFORE sailing off to war, my father, having grown tired of Cook’s eel pie, called for a hunt. Knowing Lord Godrick and his son would join the hunting party, I wrapped Marn’s cloak about my shoulders and hid in the chapel. There I prayed for strength. I must look to the future of our island and set my heart on Henry.

  I was deep in prayer for Kye and Father’s future battle, humbly addressing Saint George, protector of soldiers, when Father came mouse-silent up the aisle.

  “Rollo is saddled,” he whispered.

  “I’m praying,” I said, not looking up.

  “I’ve taught you how to hunt, and by the saints, Rose, the trumpet’s about to sound.” He crossed himself for raising his voice in God’s house.

  “I’ll not have you seem disobedient as Lord Godrick’s son,” he added.

  This intrigued me. “How has he disobeyed?”

  “He went to God’s Eye without my permission and spent the night alone there.”

  “Has he returned?”

  “Aye. He’s come back with his head full of visions. If he were my son, I’d show him the whip!” He crossed himself again for shouting a second time in chapel.

  “Come, Rosie,” he said more softly. “Hunt one last time with me before I leave.”

  “Don’t go.”

  He wrapped his arms around me. “I go to win you a kingdom, Rosie, so you can marry Henry.”

  “And if I should love another?” Father pulled back. “Do you love another?”

  “No,” I said, standing suddenly.

  “Then join us. Let’s show Lord Godrick how a Wilde Island princess handles a horse!”

  Thus challenged, I ended my prayers, and went to the stable yard. Mother arrived soon after, crimson cloaked and regal on her chestnut mare. Lady Broderick and her son, Niles, rode up beside her. Duke Headley joined the castle knights, and Lord Godrick came with Kye.

  Kye was brown-capped and brown-caped, like the muddy ground about us, but his eyes were like a clear sky after much rain. I made excuse to check my saddle and turned my back to him. Still I felt the power of his glance warming my shoulder.

  Trumpets sounded. The hounds were loosed and we were off. The hunting party galloped up the grassy hill. Hooves pounded, dirt and grass flew, people shouted. With all the noise we made, it’s a wonder we didn’t frighten all the animals off the island. Once surrounded by tall redwood trees, I rode behind Father, whose image changed from man to ghost as he raced into the clutching fog. The dogs ahead of us all howled. “They’ve picked up the scent!” called Father, and he galloped through the mist.

  I urged Rollo onward, but my horse slowed, the fog about us thick as porridge. Rollo was as fine a horse as ever cantered up a trail, but fog had always put him past his mettle, and he would not quicken in the midst of it.

  Down the trail behind me I heard Lord Godrick boast, “Hunting a stag be little sport when
I have downed a dragon!” Not wishing to meet Kye, who was riding abreast of his father, I peered about and, seeing a small trail, turned from the broader path. I rode there until the fog breathed gray about me. Rollo and I seemed the only stirring creatures in the wood.

  I’d left the sound of hunters’ calls, the howling dogs, and in the cold embrace of fog, I trailed on for an hour. As I passed under the swaying trees, an eastern wind sang in my ears. Marn used to say, “When the wind is in the east, ’tis neither good for man nor beast.” I shook the warning off and rode on. The path narrowed. So deep and gray the forest was, it seemed as if I rode my steed at the bottom of the sea. And the moaning wind all round was like the swirling of the water.

  Lost, hungry, cold, and pushing against fear, I kept on going, sure my small path would meet the main trail once again. My heart lifted when at last I heard the howling of the hounds. Turning left where the path forked, I headed for the sound.

  “Come, Rollo,” I said. “We’ve found the hunters.” With a swift kick from me Rollo bolted forward. We raced into the mist, the woods taking shape as we passed. Faster, faster. Then Rollo slipped. The earth fell away as we hurtled over the edge of a ravine. I was thrown from Rollo’s back. My ankle broke with a loud crack as I hit the steep side of the hill. I screamed with pain as I tumbled through fallen branches and thick bracken and came to a muddy halt at the bottom of the gorge.

  I cradled my ankle, which was already swelling around the break. My arms and legs were scratched and bruised and blood filled my mouth where I’d bit my lip, but it was nothing to the ankle pain. I looked through the mist. “Rollo?” No sight of him. “Come, boy!” I licked my bloody lip, panting against the pain, and dizzily watched the forest floor tipping up to meet the sky as if all were on a tilted platter.

  “Rollo?”

  A crow screeched in the pine trees above and I felt for my charm pouch. Gone. I had no wolf’s bane or sorrel to protect me from the evils of the forest. The sound of crunching leaves came from behind. I turned and shouted, “Rollo? Good boy! Good—” My heart clutched. There was a stirring and a panting in the bushes, but it wasn’t Rollo or the hunting dogs.