Harrowing the Dragon

by Patricia A. Mckillip

  She turned, walked through the darkness to take Lelia’s place at the edge of Forever. Someone had continued to play the cothone through the turmoil and shouting, keeping the ancient ritual of music passed like a flame from bard to bard uninterrupted. She sent him silent gratitude as she took the melody from him. Then she realized, as he lowered his instrument, that it was the Bard of Hekar.

  She played through the dark hours of morning until dawn. Then, at the first slow run of fire across the hills, she changed to the first pipe. She did not know where she found the joy to sing the fifth Song of Changing Fortune, but it was in her somehow, as she watched the light wash across the fragile green of the hills, as she looked through the arch and saw the fronds of new leaves on the ancient, twisted oak boughs.

  After she sang, she sat for a long time in silence, while the crowd dispersed around her to eat and sleep. The barren field was quiet again. The wind rustled across the plain, bringing her the sound of sheep bells. She drew her knees up, rested her face in her arms, and thought of Daghian. She raised her head again finally. The monotonous, unfamiliar hills still ringed her with their silence.

  Hroi Tuel was sitting motionlessly beside her. As she straightened, he put his hand on her shoulder. Then he winced. “That Daghian Lord cracked my ribs.” After a moment, he admitted, “There was some justice in that.”

  Cresce did not answer. But she sensed, through the confusion of despair and faith she had committed herself to, the beginnings of his peace.

  A Troll and Two Roses

  Once upon a time there was an old troll who lived under a bridge. He was an ugly, sloppy old troll named Thorn, who liked to flip fish out of the river with his toes and eat them raw, and to leap out at travelers on the road above and collect whatever valuables they dropped before they ran. Like all trolls, he had a weakness for beautiful things. He kept his treasures in an iron chest hidden under tree roots along the bank. When the moon was high and full, he would open the chest and look at them: all the lovely things he had stolen. He had rings and ribbons, lace handkerchiefs, jeweled knives, delicate veils, pouches of gold, silk flowers, feathered hats, and even a stray velvet shoe that a young girl had lost in her terror. He never harmed anyone; he was too lazy, and so ugly he didn’t need to. One glimpse of his huge, warty, hairy face peering up over the side of the bridge was enough to make anybody drop whatever they had. “Troll toll!” he would bellow, and collect it, laughing, from the dust.

  Almost anybody.

  One night he looked over his treasure box and a restless, discontented feeling stirred through him. It was a familiar feeling: it meant that his eyes were tired of all his old things and wanted something new to delight in. He shut his box and hunkered down under the bridge to wait. He didn’t expect anyone, for it was late and the gates of the city the road led to were long closed. But he heard in the distance solitary hoof-beats, and he grinned a troll grin, making fish dive out of the reflection of his teeth.

  He waited until the hoofbeats thumped and echoed over the center of the bridge. Then he leaped up, all snarled and dank in the moonlight, with his eyes crossed and a frog in his beard. “Troll toll!” he boomed.

  An edge of pure silver sliced out of the dark at him so fast it trimmed his hair as he ducked. He yelped. A black horse with yellow eyes bared its teeth and lunged at him. A voice snapped irritably, “Troll toll, indeed! I’ll give you troll toll, you frog-eater—” The silver whistled about Thorn’s ears again, and he dove into the water and swam away into the night. But not before he had seen what the rider was carrying, and that the moon-shadow in the white dust was crowned.

  He was consumed with longing from that moment. He could not eat, he could not sleep. The fish were safe, the travelers were safe. He sat under his bridge, chewing his beard, smoldering with desire, not, as he had done in his youth, for a troll-woman, but for the rose he had glimpsed in the dark rider’s hand.

  It was white as hoarfrost; it was carved out of winter. Yet it was alive, and the dew clustered on it like diamonds. He knew a little of the world: that kings and princes went on quests for such things, and that they generally gave them away to their true loves, not to untidy trolls. But this prince had been alone, in no great hurry. He had not returned in triumph; he had come back at night, riding slowly, and, even allowing for the unexpected appearance of Thorn, in no good humor. Had his true love not wanted the rose? Well, Thorn did, and finally, at dusk one evening, he dragged himself from under the bridge and went mumbling and thumping through the forest, in no good humor himself, for he hated the world. But there was no other way to possess that rose.

  He reached the walls of the city before dawn. He dragged himself up over them and wound through the cobblestone streets, shambling and snorting and giving city folk bad dreams. He found another wall and went over that, and another and went over that. And another—and then he dropped onto a smooth velvety lawn that was covered with rose trees.

  A hundred peacock eyes stared at him and folded; the birds went screeching away. He stood in the dawn, smelling of river water, looking, with his little muddy eyes and his clumsy bulk, like something not even a dog would bite. But his thoughts and eyes were full of roses. He walked among the trees, finding roses but never the rose he wanted. Scarlet roses, gold, pink, orange, lavender, blue-white, ivory-white, snow-white, but never crystal-white, ice-white, so white he could have buried his big nose in it and smelled the wintry peaks of his birthplace. He stood beside the last tree, scratching his head and wondering where to go next. He heard a sigh.

  It was the prince, standing in the garden gate with the magic rose in his hand.

  Thorn studied him a moment, wanly. He was a burly young man, unarmed and barefoot, with tousled yellow hair, a morning beard, and black, black eyes. His shirt was loose, his crown was off; he had apparently just gotten out of bed. Thorn ducked behind a row of bushes and crept silently, step by step, up to the prince’s back. It hadn’t worked the first time, but it might a second. He raised himself on his toes and yelled at the top of his lungs, “Troll toll!”

  The prince dropped the rose.

  He gave Thorn a furious chase through the rose garden, but Thorn batted at him once with his huge hand, and the prince tumbled among the flowers. Thorn climbed back over the walls faster than he had come. When the sun rose, he was outside the city gates; when the sun set, he was back under his bridge, gazing with utter delight at his rose.

  It was whiter than the moon, it was more delicate than an elvish smile. It had no root, but it was alive, caught in some spell that kept it always perfect, with no sign on its tender petals of decay. It smelled of snow and apple blossoms. A diamond of moistness balanced on the very tip of one petal. Thorn touched it with his horny finger and it dropped, dissolving. As he berated himself for his clumsiness, another diamond formed at the heart of the flower and rolled slowly across its crystal petals like a tear.

  Then Thorn heard the galloping.

  The prince was not alone this time. Thorn winced at the clatter of hooves over his head. He was just wise enough to duck himself down, instead of demanding a toll, and move a little faster than he had ever moved in his life. The dusk enveloped him, blurred his swift bulky form among the river reeds and trees. The prince sighted him, but his army had hard going along the soft, tangled banks. The prince’s horse, the black, wicked-eyed mount, seemed to melt like night through brambles and thickets. Thorn, glancing back, could see its yellow eyes burning in the dark long after the shouts and splashes of the prince’s army had faded away.

  Thorn was fast and tireless. His feet gobbled miles the way he gobbled fish. His leathery soles never felt a sharp stone; they could flatten a wall of brambles without hesitation. The prince’s horse followed like a bolt of black lightning. It could never quite catch up with Thorn, but it never fell behind, and all night long its baleful, sulfurous eyes smoldered into Thorn’s back. Finally, near morning, Thorn began to tire a little. He wanted to sit down quietly and contemplate the rose in his h
and. He wanted breakfast. A dawn wind rose, puffed the last stars out. The sky turned gray as iron. In front of Thorn, massive gray peaks of stones began to separate themselves from the sky.

  Thorn ran toward them with relief. He could find an opening, duck inside, and hide himself in the meandering veinwork of caves through which the lifeblood of the mountains flowed. Thorn had been born in a cave; he could see in the dark. He was no more afraid of a mountain than he was of a minnow. So when he bolted into one dark crevice among the boulders, he wasn’t prepared to hear the mountain speak with a roar like a thousand cannon. The dark tore away in front of him like a curtain. Light hurt his eyes. He stumbled on wet grass. He stopped, bewildered, blinking. The mountains had vanished. He was standing on a flat plain, watching the sun rise from the wrong side of the world. There was another thunderclap. The prince and his horse leaped out of a slit in the air into the wrong morning.

  The horse snorted and restrained, in its astonishment, from biting Thorn’s ear off. The prince slid off its back slowly. The three stood silently, troll, horse, and prince, all with the same expression on their faces. Then, faster than a fish sliding out of Thorn’s fingers, the prince’s sword was out of its sheath and threatening to burrow into Thorn’s troll heart.

  “Give me that rose.”

  There was something in the black eyes more compelling than the meager blade. Visions of an endless chase made Thorn yield the rose. His small eyes blinked; he sighed. The rose passed out of his grasp.

  The deadliness faded from the prince’s eyes. He held the rose gently to his cheek and said, with a tired, angry sorrow, “It is my wife.”

  Then Thorn wanted the rose back. The dream-woman entrapped within such a wondrous form made him snort with longing; he took a step toward it, his hand outstretched. The horse’s big yellow teeth snapped at his nose. The prince ignored him.

  “Look, she’s crying. She never cries.” He coaxed a tear onto his fingertip and touched it to his lips. Then he became aware of Thorn, his troll chest heaving, his eyes tiny and red with yearning. The prince’s hands enfolded the rose, held it closer to his heart.

  “She loves me” he said coldly. Then he glanced around the empty, cloud-tossed sky. “Look what you did.”

  “I didn’t!” Thorn protested.

  “Where are we?”

  Thorn’s feet shuffled among the grass. He was hungry, he wanted the rose, he wished the prince with his bad-tempered eyes and tidy, gleaming armor would leave him alone to dangle his feet in a river and nibble toads. He was half again as tall as the prince and twice as burly, and he was bewildered by his own submission. He said pleadingly, “I have a secret treasure box of beautiful things; if you give me the rose—”

  “Forget it,” the prince said brusquely. “She is a highborn lady, she is not for you. You would make her miserable, and then she would make you even more miserable.”

  “She could never make me miserable.”

  “She’d find a way.” He looked around the plain again then, and added briskly, “You led us here. Lead us back.”

  Thorn scowled. “If I knew how to get back to my bridge, prince, I’d be there now.” He felt cold and grumpy, for the spell of the rose was aching in his heart. Yet even as he glanced at it again, his throat swelled and his eyes softened. Then at last he thought to ask, “What turned the lady into a rose?”

  The prince slid his helm back and scratched his head. “I don’t know. An evil spell, but who the sorcerer is, I can’t guess. We were up in the mountains alone; she was sitting in my lap, we were dallying among the wildflowers, counting birds, making up riddles—and suddenly she was this rose. I waited, I searched. I shouted, and pleaded, and argued with the wind. She was still a rose. I came back home. Whereupon,” he added dourly, “I was assailed by an ugly old troll.” Thorn snorted. “And now, I’m here with the troll and the weeping rose in the middle of nowhere.” He turned suddenly and mounted. “Well. You can stay here picking at grass with your toes, but I’m going to find the door back.” The great black mount whirled.

  Thorn cried, “Wait! Wait for me!”

  And then the entire plain rumbled. Darkness fell over it, thick and murky, until Thorn could not even see the horse’s yellow eyes. The rose began to glow. It was a piercing, ice-white light in the utter black. The plain was shrieking now. Or was it wind? Thorn couldn’t tell. He squeezed his eyes shut, put his hands over his ears, and wished with all his heart he were back under his bridge. The wish didn’t work. He heard a startled, anguished cry from the prince. Then the plain burned with daylight and Thorn opened his eyes.

  He stood staring stupidly, his mind working very slowly. The white rose was now red. The prince was now a princess. The horse was still a horse. The princess was sitting on the ground with the red rose against her cheek. Her brown hair was braided, her cheeks were freckled like apples, she was still crying. It was by her tears that Thorn finally realized who she was.

  He fell in love. He forgot his visions of a frosty maiden with diamonds on her smooth, pale skin. He wanted to braid and unbraid the honey-brown hair; he wanted to count all the freckles on the princess’s round cheeks. He wanted to catch her tears and carry them in his pocket. His finger moved tentatively toward her face. She noticed him finally.

  She scrambled to her feet, staring at him in horror. “Troll,” she breathed. “What have you done to my husband?”

  He broke grass stems between his toes. “I have a nice bridge,” he said shyly, looking hard at the end of his nose. “I can catch fat red salamanders for you to eat. I’ll give you a box of beautiful things.” He had to wait a little, then, while she shouted and wept and commanded the reluctant horse to consume various parts of Thorn. When she finally ran out of breath, Thorn continued enticingly, “I’ll bathe your feet every day myself among the water lilies. I’ll bring you little furry bats for pets—” He stopped, for the princess was now on the back of the horse. “Wait! He’s nothing more than a rose now; I’ll bring you a vase to stick him in. You’ll like me—truly. Wait for me!”

  He began to run again, only this time it was he in pursuit of the horse.

  The horse led him across the plain, up low lumpy hills, into a deep and shining forest. The forest was ancient, dark; the trees were tall and hoary. Their tangled branches linked to net the sun; their trunks were knotted with burls. Occasionally, within a burl, an eye would flick. A thick root would gesture and be still. Spiderwebs gleamed in the shadows as though they were woven of white fire. The shadowy air itself seemed to glint with an eerie brightness. Thorn, preoccupied with catching the horse, didn’t notice the forest until the horse slowed. Then he leaped forward, caught the black tail, and yelled, “Ha!”

  He picked himself out of a bramble bush a moment later, hearing little sniggers of derision all around him. He scowled, but there was nothing to scowl at. The princess was gazing at him expressionlessly. Her eyes, he saw then, were green as the rose stem.

  “Troll,” she said, “where are we?”

  He looked around. He sighed deeply, for he was very far from his bridge.

  “I would think,” he said glumly, “in an enchanted forest. Inside a magic land. No place I’ve ever seen before. Where,” he added, “there’s enchantment, there’s always an enchanter. I don’t like them, myself. I prefer being comfortable. Now, take my bridge, that’s—” The princess told him what he could do with his bridge. “Oh. Well,” he explained, “it’s a bit big to stick in my ear.”

  “Troll,” she said loftily, waving the prince like a scepter, “you will lead me to this enchanter.”

  “I don’t know where one is.”

  “You will find one.”

  His eyes grew a little smaller. “What will you give me if I do? I’d rather go home and eat breakfast. What will you give me?”

  “My embroidered shoes.”

  “No good.”

  “The twelve gold ribbons in my hair.”

  “No.”

  “My lace petticoat.”
/>   “What’s that?”

  “Never mind,” she said crossly. “I’ll give you all the jewels I’m wearing. My earrings, my silver swan pin, my gold-and-sapphire chains, my six rings—”

  “I count seven.”

  “All but one.”

  “That,” he said shrewdly, “is the one I want. That, and your hair, and a kiss.”

  She was silent. She touched her hair, swallowing. “All of it?”

  “I want your shiny braids to put into my box.”

  “You can have that,” she said unhappily. “And my wedding ring. But no kiss.”

  “Yes.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “All right,” she said, while the color ran like wine into her face. “Ouch!” She sucked her thumb, glowering at the rose. Thorn smiled a great yellow smile and nodded happily.

  He plodded in front of the horse, tearing down giant luminous spiderwebs and mumbling to himself. “Enchanter…where enchanter? Who? Witch? Wizard? Fairy? First princess into rose, then prince into rose. Prince with princess-rose, then princess with prince-rose. Why not both together? Rose, rose. Then I put both in my box.” He lifted his head suddenly, scenting the wind like a horse. “Troll? No. Troll magic small, small…this is a complicated magic.” He stopped mumbling then and listened. Then he bent toward the great old hollow root of a tree and yelled, “Ha!”

  “Shut up,” a voice hissed.

  “Little troll in the tree roots, I see you. Where is the enchanter of this forest?”

  “Sh!” The voice in the roots sank to a breath. “Sh…”

  “Where?” Thorn whispered. “I have a present for you.”

  “I want that red rose.”

  “You don’t want that. It’s an enchanted prince with a bad temper.”

  “Oh. Then what present?”

  “Twelve gold ribbons to weave together into a soft bright hammock for you among the roots.”