“Like what?” Bernice asked.
“Like eating the prince!”
“Princess,” Bernice corrected. “Nope. Not gonna do it. Once a princess has been rescued from the place of sacrifice by a sword-carrying hero willing to fight the dragon, she’s off-limits.” She turned to Antirrhinum. “Did I get that right?”
“Perfect.” He nodded approvingly.
“But—but aren’t you allowed to eat the hero who freed her?” Ubri demanded.
“Yeah. So?”
“So there’s your sword-carrying hero.” The Gorgorian jabbed a finger at Arbol. “Eat her!”
Bernice considered this option. “Mmmmnope. Can’t do it.”
“Why not?” Ubri’s face was crimson.
“Because she’s the princess who was rescued from the place of sacrifice and you don’t eat a properly rescued princess.”
Ubri’s scream shattered every glass window for a seven-block radius.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“Clootie!”
“Dunwin!”
“Odo!”
“Wulfrith!”
“Arbol!”
“Aw, Mommmmmmmm!”
The group at the stake didn’t take long to sort out their situation or what had drawn them all there, to stand together against the world. Wulfrith and Dunwin stared at each other for a moment, then shrugged off what was a fuzzy memory and felt like nothing more than a remarkable coincidence. They wasted another few heartbeats staring at Arbol, who stared back, but none of the three had much leisure to swap any questions. Just because the dragons were taking a break didn’t mean they were out of danger yet.
Danger was an ugly thing. So was Lord Bulmuk. He plowed through the crowd, the massed Gorgorian nobility trailing in his wake, and took a stand facing the place of unsuccessful sacrifice.
“Real nice ones,” he said, indicating the princess’s naked legs.
Lady Ubri thrust him aside, then turned to the remaining Gorgorian barons. “Behold!” she declaimed. They beheld. It was quite a striking spectacle, Wulfrith, Dunwin, and Arbol all lined up in a row. One of the nobles rubbed his eyes. Another pulled a small bottle out of his tunic and smashed it against the cobblestones.
A third one, however, demanded, “What in the name of the sacred oxsallet is going on here?”
Queen Artemisia stepped forward. “Oh, what’s the use?” she said. “Once the dragons have settled things, we may all end up as one big happy fricassee, Hydrangeans and Gorgorians both, so why go on pretending? When I think of all that I’ve had to give up just because of a stupid superstition—” She cast a fond, regretful glance over her children, then sighed and prepared herself to face a peril more dire than dragons and Gorgorians combined: telling the truth.
As she spoke, the square grew very quiet. The only thing heard, apart from her voice, was the sound of Antirrhinum still explaining the dragon rules to Bernice and Bernice’s occasional giggle when Antirrhinum tickled her under the chin.
“—and I never knew what became of my sons until recently,” Artemisia concluded. “I missed them so much! I still carry the little talisman that old twerp Ludmilla tied to my daughter’s wrist by accident.” She fished a gold chain out of her neckline and showed everyone the miniature portrait of Prince Helenium the Wise.
The crowd gasped.
“Arrrh, that ain’t nothin’.” Odo came forward. “That’s just one object dirt. I got two of ’em!” Proudly he displayed the naming tokens bearing the likenesses of Lord Helianthus the Law Giver and Queen Avena the Well-Beloved and spoke of what had happened following that last unlucky tryst with old Ludmilla all those years back. Clootie spoke up every now and then to confirm Odo’s tale and make his own additions.
“Helenium?” Wulfrith repeated with some distaste after the queen announced the identities of the people portrayed in the miniatures. “You named me Helenium? Yuck.”
“Helianthus?” Dunwin laughed. “They’d run you out of Stinkberry Village on a rail if you had a prancy name like that!”
“Avena.” Arbol pronounced the name with supreme scorn and tightened her grip on the sword just in case anyone got any ideas about calling her something that stupid.
“You know, none of this would have happened if you Gorgorians would just take the time to look at twins,” Artemisia said. “When two babies are born looking just like each other, how could they possibly have two different fathers? And even when they’re not identical, there’s still a strong family resemblance. Just look at my darlings! You can’t tell one boy from the other, and they look so much like their sister that we were able to substitute Wulfrith for Arbol several times with no one any the wiser, including my late, thank the gods, husband.”
Bulmuk rubbed his stubbly chin. “Got to admit, they do look a lot like old Gudge.”
“Are you mad?” Lady Ubri cried. “Three children at a birth means three different fathers. You know that!”
“But they all look like Gudge,” Bulmuk repeated.
Ubri snorted. “Hardly any resemblance at all. You’d have to be a fool not to be able to tell them apart.”
“Oh, really?” Wulfrith and Arbol said together, giving the lady matching smiles that spoke volumes, most of them volumes from the library. Knowing whispers darted through the crowd. Details of the circumstances surrounding Ubri’s abbreviated engagement to the prince were common barrackroom and marketplace gossip. The lady blushed and retreated.
“So they’re all three of ’em Gudge’s brats. That don’t mean dog droppings,” said Lord Ingruk. “What we’ve got to settle on is which of ’em’s Gudge’s rightful heir!” The other nobles agreed.
Wulfrith looked at Dunwin. “You want to be king?”
Dunwin looked at Wulfrith. “Nah. I’m the outdoors type. You?”
Wulfrith shook his head. “I wouldn’t have time to do the job right. There’s still a lot of magic I’d like to learn, and there’s all those books in the library I haven’t even started to explore.”
“I’ll do it,” Arbol said, holding her sword at an aggressive angle. “Or else.”
The brothers shrugged. “Okay.”
“No, it is not okay!” Lord Ingruk roared. “For as long as I am a Gorgorian and have the fighting men who will stand with me, I refuse to be ruled by a woman!”
“Oh, come on, Ingruk,” Bulmuk wheedled. “Try it. Remember how Gudge used to be with the women? She’s his daughter, so maybe she’ll be the same with the men. And brother, has she got some nice ones!”
The eldest of the Gorgorian barons, Lord Vomgup, raised his own objection. “If you let a woman rule us, soon we shall become as soft and degenerate as the abominable Hydries!”
“Who’s soft?” Pentstemon yelled. “I’m a Hydrie and I bet I can lick you, old man!”
“And can you also defeat my household troops?” Vomgup shouted back. “I swear that as long as my hand can close around the hilt of my sword, I will not allow this wench to sit on the throne! Who is with me?” He reached for his sword.
“I am, and all of my household troops!” Lord Ingruk cried, reaching for his.
Clootie gestured, accompanying it with a few simple words. Lord Vomgup turned into an armadillo. “His hand can’t close around the hilt of his sword now, can it?” he said, pleased to have been of help.
“My men to me!” Lord Ingruk bellowed.
“Bernice!” Dunwin bellowed louder.
Bernice looked at Antirrhinum. “Can I, honey?”
“Oh, go ahead, sweetie-scales.”
Lord Ingruk got the chance to make one last wild swing with his sword before Bernice ate him.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Your Majesty,” the Minister of Protocol whined, in a final, last-ditch effort to maintain some of the traditions, “can’t we at least enter you in the archives as Queen Avena? It isn’t as if anyone reads them…”
The new monarch of Hydrangea glared at him. “My name’s Arbol,” she said coldly.
“But Your Maje
sty…”
The new queen glowered. “Don’t you people realize that all your rituals and ceremonies and rigamarole almost got you all killed? If you’d paid more attention to reality, instead of rules, maybe my father’s men wouldn’t have been able to march in here and take over!”
The minister was scandalized. “Oh, but a proper respect for tradition…” he began.
“Tradition be damned!” the queen replied. “I’ll go along when it makes sense, or at least doesn’t get in the way or confuse anybody, but no further than that! Is that clear?” She dropped a hand to where her sword hilt would have been, if she hadn’t let her mother convince her not to come armed to the coronation.
The minister trembled at the royal anger, but he persisted. “Your Majesty, please,” he said. “We’ve set aside the claims of your brothers and your uncle Mimulus and even your own mother, we’ve eliminated the Ceremony of the Bath, we’ve incorporated the Gorgorian ritual breakfast, we’ve moved the coronation out of the palace to accommodate the…um…the dragon—isn’t that practicality enough? Must we enter you in the official records with a masculine name? Your brothers allowed us to list them as Helenium and Helianthus…”
“They did?” the queen said, startled.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the minister said, nodding vigorously. “So could we…”
“That was stupid of them,” Arbol said.
The minister’s mouth came open, but nothing came out. Arbol pushed past him, and marched up the steps onto the hastily erected dais that now stood at one end of the Square of Munificent Blessings from Those Gods Worthy of Our Attention.
The crowd gathered before the platform burst into spontaneous applause—or at any rate, most of it did. A few portions had to be coaxed.
But then, there were plenty of people ready to do the coaxing. Quite aside from the anticipated benefits of a queen who was both Gorgorian and Old Hydrangean, who had proclaimed that she would favor neither group over the other, nobody particularly wanted to anger a monarch who had demonstrated that she had not just one, but two dragons on her side; not just one, but two powerful wizards working for her; and who was, despite her sex, probably the best swordsman in the kingdom—all this, in addition to the more usual partisans and advocates.
It must be admitted that not everyone was clear on just how Arbol had gone from being a royal sacrifice to a sword-wielding hero, and then from fighting a dragon to befriending it, but then, not everyone had yet gotten straight how the prince had turned out to be a girl, either.
“Never know where you are with these people,” a peasant muttered. “Half girl, half boy, half Hydrie, half ox-lover, can’t make up her mind whether to kill the dragon or kiss it…”
“Oh, shut up and cheer,” his wife said, jabbing him in the ribs. Her own applause was loud and enthusiastic.
At the back of the crowd, Bernice lounged comfortably against an outer wall; a large area around her was understandably vacant, save for Dunwin, perched atop the battlement, who leaned over and scratched at the itchy spot behind the ears that even a dragon can’t quite reach for herself.
“I think it’s going to be fun, having a sister,” Dunwin remarked. “Especially one who’s queen. I’m glad you didn’t eat her, Bernice.”
“I’m glad, too,” Bernice said. “She’d probably taste even worse than that Ingruk character. It was partly the sword and those muddy boots, I suppose, but Antirrhinum’s right, you people aren’t half as tasty as crabgrass, let alone a good buttercup or a clump of clover. Only good for sport, the lot of you.”
Dunwin hesitated, unsure how to bring up the subject most on his mind, then asked unhappily. “Are …are you sure you won’t stay here? I’m sure Arbol won’t mind.”
Bernice snorted, and the rearmost row of the coronation audience flinched in near-perfect unison. “What would I do here?” she said. “No, Antirrhinum’s got a lovely little cave—we flew out there and he gave me a tour, while you people were getting all this set up. We’ll be married next week, and the honeymoon—well, Rhiney says dragons take their time about these things; it could be a few years before you see me again.”
“That’s a pretty quick courtship, isn’t it?” Dunwin asked hopelessly. He blinked away tears at the thought of losing his precious companion.
Bernice shrugged, which involved moving several square yards of scales. “Why wait? It’s not as if there are many dragons around here; Tirrhi thought he was the last one in all Hydrangea. That’s why he came to find me.” She added, with a bit of a simper, “I’m glad he did.”
“But what about me?” Dunwin asked, with a bit of a snivel. “Bernice, I’ll miss you so!”
Berniec let out a draconic sigh, and a few people decided to find other places entirely. “Dunwin,” she said, as quietly as a dragon could, “there comes a time when everybody grows up. I’m not a sheep any more, and you’re not a little boy. You were lonely up there on the mountain, and we were friends—but now I’ve found someone else, one of my own kind. And you’re a prince now, here in the palace—isn’t it time you found one of your own kind?”
“But I love you, Bernice…”
“Dunwin, I’m a dragon, you’re a prince—it just wouldn’t work.”
“I know, but…” He sniffled.
“Try to be brace, Dunwin. Aren’t there any human women who catch your fancy? I know they have those odd bumps, and aren’t as pretty as sheep, but couldn’t you perhaps find some distraction?”
“I don’t know,” Dunwin said—but he stopped suffling. The thought of meeting women did have a certain appeal to it. He had noticed his long-lost brother with that Ubri person.
“Well, think about it, Dunwin. Because I am going away with Antirrhinum, and you don’t want me to ruin my honeymoon by spending it worrying about you, do you?”
“No, of course not…”
“Then find some other friends. Meet some girls, and just try not to look at those silly bumps.”
Dunwin looked down from his perch on the battlement at the crowd below—and more particularly, at some of the younger females in the crowd. The view from above had certain interesting features—appropriate wear for coronations ran to low-cut necklines.
“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he said slowly, considering the view. “You know, I think I kind of like those bumps, actually.”
“Well, there you go,” Bernice said, relieved. “Take a good look at a few after the ceremony, why don’t you?”
Dunwin nodded thoughtfully, still looking over the crowd, and not only were his eyes drying quickly, but for a moment he even forgot to scratch Bernice’s head.
The cheering was dying down now, and the participants were taking their places for the ceremony. Arbol was at the center, of course, with a half-ring of Hydrangean functionaries around and behind her. Artemisia, the Queen Mother, had a place of honor on the new queen’s right; Prince Wulfrith, newly-appointed court wizard, stood to the left.
Beside and a step behind Wulfrith, Lady Ubri whispered, “I still think you shouldn’t have given up the crown so easily, Wulfie. I mean, love, a man like you deserves to be king…”
“Ubbie,” Wulfrith whispered back, “I’d sooner cut my throat than try to be king, and if you ever mention it again I’ll turn you into a warthog.”
Ubri sniffed and flung back her head. “Warthog, indeed! If that’s all you think of me…”
“Oh, it’s not all,” Wulfrith said, smiling. “Have you ever seen a book called One Hundred and One Intriguing Amatory Alternatives that’s in the library here? It was banned by three kings in succession, and condemned by the Midwives’ Guild. I think you’ll like Number Seventy-One…”
Across the dais, Artemisia spotted Clootie in the front row of the audience.
“You’re sure you won’t stay?” she called. She did not entirely trust Wulfrith’s magic—her son was still just a boy, after all—and she certainly didn’t trust anyone’s loyalty to her daughter; a backup wizard would be handy to have around
.
“I’m sure,” Clootie called back. “I’ve gotten used to the old cave, you know. It’s so much simpler than city life ever was.” He smiled. “But now that I’m not hiding, you’d be welcome to visit, Your Highness.”
Beside him, Odo called, “I’ll be stayin’, Yer Gracious Goodness.” He grinned toothlessly.
Artemisia shut her eyes for a moment, then opened them and concentrated her entire attention on her daughter.
Lord Bulmuk, whom Arbol had named Commander of the Palace Guard, and Prince Mimulus, perhaps better known as the Black Weasel, were bringing out the double crown—the simple Gorgorian band of kingship had been welded onto the Holy Royal and Ancient Crown of Volnirius the Oblique, just above the band of oxhide. The spindly frame of the Volnirian crown had begun to sag rather badly out of shape a century or two back, and had finally given way completely after being kicked around at the Disaster of the Bath; this addition served to restore its shape rather nicely, while adding considerable decorative panache to the rather plain and unconvincing Gorgorian crown.
Lord Bulmuk, while holding his side of the supporting cushion, was watching Prince Mimulus closely. “You’re sure you’re not planning anything?” he muttered. “Haven’t got a knife tucked away under all that fancy embroidery you’re wearing?”
Prince Mimulus sighed. “No, my good Bulmuk,” he said, “I am not planning anything. I am quite content to see my niece crowned.”
“That’s good. I’ve taken a fancy to the girl, you know; wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. You’re sure?”
“Absolutely sure,” Mimulus replied. “After fifteen years in the forest, I don’t think I’m up to ruling this place—particularly since it would take a miracle for me to survive assassinating Queen Avena.”
“Arbol,” Bulmuk corrected him.
Mimulus sighed. “Arbol,” he agreed. “No, Bulmuk, when this ceremony is over, I’ll be glad to settle into my natural role as my niece’s advisor.”
Bulmuk continued to eye him suspiciously, and the quondam Black Weasel did his best to look bored and innocent as the pair placed the pillow and crown upon the table behind Arbol. Mimulus understood the suspicion, though he doubted that the Gorgorian realized that the “natural role” for a Hydrangean prince was to skulk about the palace looking for an opportunity to shorten the line of inheritance.
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