The Dragons' Chosen

by Gwen Dandridge

  The whispers became louder, resolving into a heated discussion between Rauf and Tristan.

  “Why is this so important to you, Rauf? Really, why are you pursuing Genevieve?”

  “She’s pretty and smart enough not to be a burden. Hugh has power and the crown. Piers has years to prove himself. You’re the one everyone has looked to for greatness: gallant, smart and politically savvy. The perfect ‘spare.’ No one ever expected much from me. This is my chance.”

  “Rauf, you’re a duke, you have lands to rule, as we all do.”

  Rauf gave a low laugh. “My lands are small and mountainous. A human princess could make winters much warmer. I wouldn’t have the worry that my children would have your unfortunate dragon problem.”

  No sound came from outside my doorway except a low rumbling growl, though my heart was beating so loudly I was afraid they must hear.

  “Tristan. I didn’t mean to say that.” Rauf sounded genuinely remorseful. “I’m helping to make it a fair contest, no more than that.”

  Tristan voice dropped even quieter. “She’s alone here, with only Chris to stand for her. You’re muddying her decision.”

  Rauf chuckled. “Jealous?”

  My body was still in anticipation of his answer.

  Tristan didn’t respond to the bait, saying instead, “Every time I see you, you’re standing at her shoulder, pushing yourself forward.”

  “Come now, Cousin, I’ve watched how you look at her. You aim high; you’re not usually willing to sit upon a lower mountain.”

  Silence again.

  “Well, she asked for choices.” Rauf’s voice grew defiant. “I’m a choice, and I’m happy to push myself forward.”

  “You always are, Rauf.”

  “Can’t you be pleased for me? I have a good chance of winning.”

  I could hear the frown in Tristan’s voice. “How are you going to win? Hugh bested you with swords and none of us can beat him at chess.”

  Rauf’s voice lowered then. “There is the last contest. I have a trump card up my sleeve.”

  “Rauf, don’t do anything rash.”

  In the quiet that followed, I heard boots scuffle as if one of them had moved closer.

  I heard Tristan’s voice, barely—he was speaking so softly. “Perhaps I should reconsider entering. To even things out.”

  “Not because you have affection for her?”

  Though I strained forward, I couldn’t hear what Tristan replied. Rauf left then in a clatter of footsteps. I knew Tristan was still there. He wouldn’t leave his post. That wasn’t who he was.

  After a seemly amount of time, I faked waking, making noises as if I were stretching, got to my feet, pulled a blanket about my shoulders and stepped out to where Tristan remained on guard.

  “Where is Chris?” I asked, my face carefully composed. He didn’t answer for a heartbeat. I guessed he wasn’t eager to parley with me.

  “She wanted to go outside. Hugh’s attending her.” We stood there like a socially backward couple, neither of us willing to make a move.

  I was unsure how to broach the subject of the contests without seeming brazen. “What happened to Denston IV? The one whose problem started all of this? I never heard the end of that tale.”

  Tristan tilted his head like he was trying to see inside me. “You heard. He was locked each year into dragon form, from the first snowfall to the last snowfall before spring—same as I am.”

  “What happened? He spent his years alone and isolated?”

  “No, he ruled. He was known as Denston the Determined. He was one of the first three dragons who married a human princess.”

  I searched his face, waiting for the answer. “You said they were all happily married.”

  “So I did.”

  “And his children?”

  He stared at me, saying it slowly. “Four healthy boys.”

  I couldn’t stop myself. “And are you less than he?”

  He started forward and then caught himself. “I’m less than no one.”

  Tristan looked away. “Perhaps you heard Rauf and me speaking. Is that what has brought about these questions?”

  I stared at him, neither acknowledging nor denying.

  He spoke carefully as if every word needed to be perfect. “All of us want your happiness. You deserve to be queen.”

  I gave a derisive snort. “You say this as if you know me well. Perhaps I don’t see it so. Perhaps I see your meddling as yet another example of how you are restricting my choices.”

  Tristan acted like I had thrown water at him, but I continued, my voice rising. “What you’re protecting me from is the ability to make my own decisions.”

  He stepped forward, grabbing my shoulders. He held himself very still, as if undecided whether to shake me, let me go or fold me into an embrace.

  My face flushed. Which did I want? Slowly, he released me, dragging his hands gently down my arms before putting some distance between us. I quivered, still feeling the heat from his fingers on my arms.

  Uncertain, I retreated into my quarters, lobbing a parting shot. “Remember, I did not disqualify you from the contests—you did that yourself.”

  Chapter 38

  It was the morning of the third day since my reprieve. The sun had been up for hours when I finally awoke. Chris lay sprawled next to me, deep asleep. I hadn’t heard her return.

  I quietly dressed and walked outside into the clearing, leaving Chris to her dreams and leaving mine behind. I’d done everything but throw myself at Tristan last night and my dreams woke me with the intensity of longing.

  I sat outside in a flat, sheltered coppice beyond the cave entrance, where gray cliffs mottled with green lichens stretched up to the sky.

  Tristan walked out, gave me a single unreadable look and started warming up as if for the duel.

  My world spun. I looked to James standing at my left, as I tried to understand what was happening.

  He shrugged, whispering, “Tristan changed his mind. He spoke with our kinsmen soon after dawn.” He blinked twice before he spoke again. “Hugh is annoyed, Rauf looks disgruntled and Piers is anxious as he must face Tristan in the ring. But this is as it should be. I told Tristan not to withdraw.”

  Something fluttered inside me. This had to be about last night. I recalled the conversation. Maybe I was fooling myself. Maybe he wasn’t really contending for me, but making a point to Rauf.

  Maybe…Chris slid in beside me, her eyes shadowed with dark circles, and I tried to separate myself from those thoughts.

  Before I could speak to her, Piers came over and greeted us. He left just as quickly to talk with Hugh and James.

  “Chris, are you unwell? We’ve been waiting for you before resuming the contests,” I asked, grabbing her hand to comfort her. Or perhaps it was for my comfort, so tense was I at Tristan’s change of heart.

  “Sorry,” Chris muttered. “I slept badly last night.”

  As did I, I thought.

  Piers and Tristan faced off in the small flat space, within the rough area that had been marked off with ash. The two men sidled around facing each other, swords drawn, waiting for the other to make his move. As in the first contest, the remaining man-dragons stood around the periphery. I caught Hugh’s eyes on me. James focused on the fight, calling out encouragement. Rauf watched with undisguised disappointment.

  Tristan had all the advantage in this contest, longer reach and greater skill. It was over almost before it began. Piers leapt forward into a lunge that Tristan easily sidestepped. Tristan feinted to his left and followed through with an impressive swing of his blade. It slammed against Piers’s sword arm, dislodging his sword. The sword was flung to the ground and the match ended.

  Impulsive and fast as he was, Piers hadn’t stood a chance against Tristan’s fluid skill and strength. He crouched on the ground, clutching his wrist. Tristan moved aside, awaiting my verdict. I nodded. Tristan bowed and then helped Piers up, carefully examining his arm.

  Hugh st
rode over. “How is he?”

  “Only a bruise,” Tristan said, releasing Piers’s arm.

  Hugh frowned as he bent to retrieve Piers’s sword. “How many times have I told you not to rush your lunge?”

  Piers’s protest was hidden beneath the others’ voices. I no longer listened to their discussion.

  My mind was wrapped around Tristan. Why had he entered? Duty, pride or love? Or something else entirely. And why should I care, when I had every expectation of being Hugh’s queen? Or had that now changed?

  Chris poked me in the side—there was no training the woman. The trial was barely over, and she was unable to concentrate. My head turned of itself toward Tristan. Our eyes met and both of us quickly looked away. Ah yes, she wasn’t the only one who was distracted.

  “Remember what I was saying yesterday?” Chris asked, pushing the glass ovals up on her nose. “Here’s the crazy part. I don’t know if this is just my imagination or something real. But I feel odd in this place, like something is about to happen. That something is all out of whack. My insides feel weird.”

  I wrenched my thoughts away from Tristan and studied her face again; she did look flushed.

  She dragged a stick in the ground, tracing little circles, not looking at me. “Maybe it’s just the power of suggestion. You know, like I’m starting to believe that this place has magic or something.”

  Chris’s eye-pieces stood out from the white of her skin as she continued. “There’s one more thing.”

  I sat, trying to listen.

  “Last winter I visited Nana in the nursing home. She was pretty much out of it by then; her mind couldn’t hold on to much. Her eyes were closed, but the nurses encouraged me to talk to her as she rested. I was rambling on about a demonstration on women’s rights I had helped organize.

  “Nana rallied and snorted, ‘You wouldn’t understand choice. You young folks now think you understand politics and bravery in the face of overwhelming odds. There were choices that I had to make, hard choices. I’ve often wondered if I made the right one.’ She drifted off again and I thought she had fallen asleep.”

  I put my hand over Chris’s, hoping to make her pause. Nothing she was saying made sense. But Chris soldiered on.

  “She mumbled to herself then, something about centuries. About ‘some unfortunate girl…’

  “Then Nana’s eyes snapped open and she leaned forward, stronger than I had seen her in months. ‘You want to be part of a demonstration? To make a difference to women? If you want to prove your point, my dear, you should try to demonstrate to dragons. Remind me sometime.’

  “She stared deep into my eyes. ‘Then we shall see who you are. If you have the backbone to stand by your words when there is true need for change.’

  “She sank back down, exhausted. ‘You’re so much like my husband, your great-grandfather, same hair, same intensity and fire, even the same birthmark. Reminding me, always reminding me…’”

  I felt my eyebrows come together and a chill ran through me. The birthmark that looked like scales.

  “Nana’s voice had quavered. ‘I’d like to know, does your blood run more to my family or his? Perhaps…we shall see.’ And then she fell asleep and didn’t say another word.”

  Chris continued, “I didn’t understand. She died the next month. And this golden card was tucked into that enamel box, with a note saying it was for me alone.

  “And here I am. Whisked to your side each time I use it like Tonto to the Lone Ranger. It has to be connected with her, to this place. But why? What is the tie?”

  My mind whirled. This seemed important, yet the concepts again were beyond me. Chris was from another world; there was no reasonable connection to these caves. I decided to venture a question, to see if I could better understand.

  “So who are Tonto and the single ranger? And what is a demonstration?”

  Chris tilted her head toward me, rolling her eyes in exasperation. “It isn’t important, just two people who were pals in my world. And demonstration, well, it’s a peaceful way of standing up to those in power for something important.”

  I narrowed my eyes, trying to imagine a demonstration before my father.

  Chapter 39

  By midafternoon gray clouds glided over us, combining and recombining in darker and darker bundles, heavy with rain. Rauf and James had “changed” and flown into them, returning to say it was only a light rain coming, nothing more.

  Hugh and Tristan walked across the ground, each ignoring the other, the air so thick between them that one could almost see it.

  They stepped into the circle and faced each other. At a signal from James, they drew their swords and saluted each other, their eyes never wavering. The two men circled, step by wary step. Chris and I leaned against each other. No one breathed, or so it seemed, in the silence that encapsulated this match.

  They tested each other, swords conversing, meeting with a metallic tic. Neither was willing to commit to a blow. Cautiously, they each slid sun-wise, step by step around. Tic, tic, tic, again and again the swords tapped. Hugh, confident; Tristan, watching for opportunity.

  Hugh leapt forward, his sword thrusting. Tristan danced a breath away even as his sword whipped into action, a quick parry before retreating. The fighting began in earnest; Tristan darted in like a snake with a snap of his sword on Hugh’s. Then Hugh parried, but was pushed back by Tristan’s advance—two steps, then three, though Tristan failed to penetrate Hugh’s guard.

  Again they circled, leaping forward with the power and force of long-horned sheep. The resulting clash of steel filled the air. Tristan and Hugh engaged shoulder to shoulder, as if in an embrace, their swords pressing together over their heads, both of them trembling with effort. They pushed apart and the swords were once more free, silver metal pulsing. The whisk of swords clashing so near their heads caused me to shrink away. I heard myself gasp.

  Hugh stepped back, and they faced each other, eyes intent. Hugh attacked, advancing so fast that I was unable to discern each thrust, riposte and counterthrust. But Tristan gave no quarter. The silver of their swords flashed over and over. I could see no change until a thin line of blood splotched Hugh’s shirt.

  Chris grabbed my hand, whispering, “I think he’s hurt. Did he just get hurt?”

  She asked after Hugh, not Tristan. I couldn’t take my eyes off the match to question this. I couldn’t look away. Whose blood was it? Why didn’t they stop? They should have stopped at first blood.

  They circled again, leaping back into the fight, parrying and feinting back and forth across the bounded circle, edge to edge. Tic, tic, slash. They separated and with renewed zeal leapt forward again. Tic, tic, slash. And again. Tic, tic, slash.

  How long had I been watching? Their movements now slowed, straining with the effort to meet clash with clash.

  Both men looked exhausted, the only noise their ragged breathing. Blood now stained both their clothes. I thought there was a small cut on Tristan’s forearm and another on Hugh’s shoulder, but they never were still enough for me to be sure. Hugh attacked, his stance no longer quite as precise. Tristan retreated, his movement fluid still. He’s watching, I thought. Watching and waiting, wearing him down.

  James and the others had grown silent as this struggle continued.

  Sweat beaded on the warriors’ foreheads, hesitating at their eyebrows before dripping down across their eyes. Blood trickled down both of their arms from the myriad nicks and scratches.

  This was unlike any of the other fights, like no tournament I had ever seen. Certainly not like anything at my father’s court. The other men were silent, none of the cheering and joking that had accompanied the previous contests. I should call it off, end this now before one of them was seriously hurt. But I feared any distraction might cause one or the other to be harmed.

  They clashed again, close and tight, Hugh grappling against Tristan, swords unable to move. They fell apart, staggered back from one another. Tristan’s shirt slipped downward and a flash
of something small, dark and shiny, lay upon his collarbone before it vanished beneath his shirt…a birthmark, a scar? I looked to Chris, but she must not have noticed, her eyes centered on Hugh.

  Once more they came together, blades meeting with a jar and sliding off as they recovered. Hugh lunged forward with a powerful thrust, which slid past the guard of Tristan’s sword, and missed piercing Tristan’s side by but a hair’s breadth.

  Sweat stuck their shirts to their bodies. Hugh’s sleeve hung loose, ripped above the elbow, Tristan’s shirt torn about the cuff. All around them nothing sounded but their footfalls, the harsh intake of controlled breath and the ever-present snick of metal. Shadows of both dragon and man interwove as they circled, their strength flagging. Eyes burning, smoke slithering out from nostrils, they slowed, each sword parry arduous, their movements labored. Step by step, both men drank in gulps of air, waiting for a break, an unchecked moment when they could leap again, like two dogs fighting for dominance.

  As the fight proceeded, the shadows of their dragon shapes grew more substantive, surrounding each. I watched, awed and frightened.

  Piers, his voice in a whisper, said, “I’ve never seen anything like this. They both risk losing control. They can’t go much longer. No one could.”

  Tristan turned, exposing his flank to Hugh’s blade. But just as Hugh stretched forward with his sword pressing hard, his body slightly off balance, Tristan advanced, and with a backstroke from the flat of his blade, swung, connecting solidly against his brother’s hip. Hugh tried to step away, but his hip seemed unable to bear the weight. He caught himself, but too late. Tristan stood, his sword point at Hugh’s neck, as Hugh, arms down, gulped in deep breaths of air. Hugh’s head lifted as he looked my way, his eyes sliding over to Chris. She held my arm as if to keep herself from rushing forward.

  Tristan turned to me, saluted, and then moved to help Hugh off the arena. My heart pounded as if I too had been in that ring.