The Dragon Queen

by Alice Borchardt

  Finally, he answered, “A word from me and you might be nothing—boy.”

  “Another word from you, sorcerer, and I will burn you! And should I not live long enough to do it, depend upon it, my father will,” was Arthur’s reply.

  The two men continued standing there, eyes locked for another few seconds. It was Merlin who broke. He stepped away. Igrane, not looking all that attractive since what was left of her hair looked like a charred haystack, took hold of him and began to pull him toward the rest of the courtiers, who were now lined up three and four deep against the opposite wall of the room, so afraid were they of Torc Trywth.

  But Arthur turned and strode toward us. He was magnificent, and I will never forget that in that moment, I first loved him. And I never stopped loving him. I do now and always will. No one ever brought me more sorrow or pain or joy than he did. No, nothing, not even my sons, has ever outweighed the love I feel and still feel for him. And I believe—had I known what the future held for us: all the trouble, torment, battle, and grief of our lives—I still believe that I would have yielded my heart into his keeping as I did then.

  In a few seconds, he was standing before me. Mael stood at my shoulder. He chuckled when Arthur arrived.

  “I hadn’t thought much of you, my lord, but I do confess that was nicely done,” Mael told him.

  “They forced the quarrel on me,” he said.

  “Aye,” Mael said, “but it’s been a long time coming, hasn’t it, my lord?”

  For a moment Arthur seemed to return to the rather stiff young man I had spoken to in his mother’s garden. He was very controlled, but pain moved somewhere behind his eyes, almost hidden, feared and tinged with shame, but there and very powerful nonetheless. And I knew, not as whatever I was—sorceress, witch, enchantress—but as a woman who loves, that the past was very dark for him and filled with sorrow. But I basked in the warm glow of his eyes when they met mine.

  He took my hand, and I gave it to him willingly. “Go in peace,” he said, “but know you are mine. Wife, concubine, leman, I will have you, one way or another.”

  “I am still a child,” I said.

  He nodded and kissed me on the forehead. Then he turned to Mael and his eyes widened in shock, as did mine.

  “You don’t look as you did,” he said.

  And, in fact, the change was amazing. He had looked impressive seated, but standing he was more so. What I had taken to be worn armor was a dalmatic of golden plates, strung together with golden chains. He wore dark leather trousers, rather like my riding pants, held up by a broad, metal belt. It could be seen clearly through the open-work dalmatic. But the wonder was his armor—and the only way we knew it was armor was that he extended his arm to the boar at that moment, and Talorcan sharpened his curling tusks against his arm. The tattoos, or what I had thought to be tattoos, covering his body leaped out at the boar’s touch, becoming a blue-steel grating covering and protecting every inch of his body. They glowed, shimmering as if part of the living flesh itself. As indeed, I found out later, they were.

  Mael laughed in our faces.

  “Armor,” Arthur said.

  “My delight,” Mael answered, “and that of the smith who made it. His joy of creation is joined to mine, who delights in its beauty. Now, daughter, will you give me your hand?”

  I did, and he took it between his palms. He closed his eyes and spoke. “If you like, I will give you a gift, something of my own, that will protect you forever from suffering through the hand where your passion leaps out to that of the universe, so that no one can strike with evil at your life’s delight as Merlin and Igrane tried to do. The worst of all sins is to use the good rooted in the human spirit against itself; and sadly, it is the most common of all cruelties visited by our kind upon each other.”

  “Are you really my father?” I asked.

  His eyes opened, and I found them green, the sort that goes with red hair, smoky emeralds, translucent, filled with light.

  “What does it matter?” he said. “Am I a creature that must fill itself with pride and vanity by looking at my face in a living glass? She—your mother—was a beauty, and she wore it as the sky wears its mantle of sun, moon, and stars. I love you for the joy I took in her sweet self alone. I need no other reason. Now, be still, for my friends have already set their feet on the path of return.”

  I glanced at the table where they had been sitting, and the bench was empty. I thought they must have slipped out while we were not watching. Arthur was still beside me, and he glanced about, looking for them, and seemed puzzled.

  “Close your eyes,” Mael said.

  I did, and the wings came. Always, always there are wings, soft and dusted with bright color, like those of butterflies, wide and strong like those of an eagle poised to take flight, clear and veined as are those of lacewings and dragonflies, or soft, dark, patterned in gray, white, and black—hidden and astonishing in their complexity when seen, belonging to moths. They passed through my mind’s eye, a shadowed rainbow belonging to the miracle of flight. They floated over the living, glowing green that is earth’s gown. Grasses—the lords over the dunes by the sea; the rocky, unforgiving hills; the stony places caught fast in drought; and the water meadows, dreaming along rivers and streams—are loved and caressed by them, brown and green, living only in their tough-jointed roots, tall at the sea bending at the incantation of the ceaseless wind, fat with roots clasping mud and damp soil by the rivers and at the edges of ponds keeping it from being torn away even by the immortal destroyer of mountains, water.

  My eyes opened and I saw the vine begin at my shoulder. The sleeve of my shirt was gone, dissolved by the nameless power in this man’s hand. Coiling, spreading down my arm, speaking in the statement of design and form of my people’s belief that all is one, an endlessly varied procession of beauty—joining, separating, searching, dreaming, loving—an indestructible and eternal panorama of creation that we can never, never love enough. Both spectator and participant, protector and destroyer, but above all, joined to the everlasting splendor that is it, us, and God.

  The doors to the dining hall burst open as if struck by a mighty wind. I was amazed to see light beyond them. Behind me it seemed every last stick in the fire pit burst into flame. I turned, worried about both Arthur and Talorcan; but the boar, with something that almost sounded like a whoop of joy, dove into the fire pit and disappeared.

  Arthur saluted him.

  “Till we meet again, my heart awaits you,” I said.

  “Till we meet again,” he answered, “you will trouble my dreams.”

  Then I turned and plunged into the dappled green dimness and was gone.

  EIGHT

  HE ROAD WAS A TERRIBLE PLACE. FRIGHTENING, yet beautiful. I found myself wearing the shoes in the same shape that Torc Trywth had given them to me, tough leather bottoms strung with thongs. I needed them.

  It was day, and I knew I was on an island, because I could hear the sea. But beyond that, I had no idea where I was. The island was wrapped in a fog that was mixed with rain. A sea fog that was more like a cloud come to visit earth than a gentle breath of cool moisture that blanketed the rocky coast of Scotland. The fog was warm, moist, white, blinding, and yet very light. The rain that swept over the island was also blood warm when it soaked the shift I was wearing.

  Ahead and above me the wind brushed away the mist and rain. I saw the high, dark volcanic cliffs of what I took to be the mainland. I was at a loss at how to reach it, and once the mist closed in again, I couldn’t be sure what direction to take. The footing was treacherous—slick, very green grass mixed with lichen and tufts of moss. The surrounding bushes and small trees were all dark, their thick stems armored with giant thorns. Within the cages of thorns, they bore flowers.

  How strange, I thought. They reminded me of roses, because some were red—often dark as red velvet—others white, marked with scarlet bars. A few with the biggest flowers I have ever seen were a pure white. Stamens and pistils, usually yellow,
were also white; the petals had the translucent substance of alabaster.

  It was hot here, the muggy heat only a long summer in the wetlands brings. I had begun to perspire. The damp clouds drifting among the thorn bushes wet my face. I didn’t see any other people, and the island felt somehow alien, as though no people lived here anywhere. I tore a strip from the hem and tied it up higher than my knees, the way we do when searching for shellfish on the sand flats. But before I could start downhill, the bird arrived.

  It was a little smaller than Magetsky, Maeniel’s raven, and very different from her. It had teeth. I saw them showing at the front of its beak, protruding slightly, short, sharp, needlelike teeth. It gave a cry, beginning like the sound of a saw slicing into a board, then rising until it finished in sweetness, rather like a silver bell. Its feathers were colored to match the thorn bushes around me, dull brown or black.

  I felt a tingle in my right arm and hand. The tingle swept up to my shoulder. I stretched out my arm to the bird, and it hopped onto my wrist. For a moment, I wondered why I did that. I wasn’t that trusting. I had seen Magetsky when she was feeling insulted or just in a bad mood go for Maeniel’s eyes with that nasty black beak of hers. But he was, after all, a wolf and he would slap her right out of the air, turning her into a screeching ball of feathers and leaving her stunned and staggering on the ground, yelling insults at him for a long time. He would reply to the insults—most so obscene that I didn’t understand them—by saying only, “Shut up or I will feed you to a fox. I wouldn’t bother to eat you myself.” Then she would fly into a tree and sulk, until some sort of food appeared and we got ready to eat. Then she forgot the quarrel entirely.

  So you can see why I am not especially trusting with birds. But then his mind touched mine. No, I could not read his thoughts. They were so utterly different from mine. The dragons could speak directly to me, and I perceived their thoughts as words. But this being was … was … you grope for the expressions to describe those adventures in communication. He would have had no use for my food. Instead, he hunted dragonflies; beetles; big, naked, brightly colored caterpillars and big, hairy, dark ones; worms; snails; lizards; snakes; and even fish, if he could get them.

  He was respectable, intelligent, and had a family of his own in a niche on the cliffs. When he opened his wings, I saw the claws in the middle. I studied the big claws on his feet and those on his wings and decided he must be a wonderful climber. They were not talons like a hawk has, but soft, agile, and with blunt nails. I also learned in passing that he had been asked to do a favor for a friend. He wanted to show me the best way to the sea.

  I thanked him as well as I could, and he spread his wings and tail. He had a rather long tail for a bird; and like the rest of him, it appeared nondescript until he flew, and then you were aware of how beautiful he was. When his wings opened and his tail spread as he flew, you could see the dark covering feathers were set off by scarlet, orange, and iridescent blue-green plumage. The tail gave him balance in the air, assisted him in climbing. He was incredibly swift, and between wing and claw he could cover an entire tree, taking all manner of prey in a few minutes. I know, because I watched him hunt.

  “A moment, bird,” I said when I felt he wanted to draw me to the shore. I tore off more of the shift and began as much as I could to gather the flowers blooming among the thorns.

  The bird sawed. No trill this time. “I have business, bird business. Don’t keep me waiting.”

  “Only a moment, bird,” I said.

  He did whatever birds do in place of a shrug and began to hunt. The thorny branch he was on was covered with red flowers. Caterpillars were eating them, dark caterpillars with orange spots. They were very hard to see among the wicked thorns, but he found them, and for a time he lost interest in me as he stuffed his crop. And, indeed, he was a marvel to watch, his wide, dark body accented by the rainbow colors of his primaries, his tail balancing him as he ran up the trunk and in and out among branches as he stripped the tree of its pests.

  I took flowers, white ones—I wasn’t sure why, only that I knew somehow they were important and powerful. The air was drenched with their fragrance, and I saw no insects troubled them. Nothing did. Even the bird avoided the pendant canes of the white thorn tree. I plucked flower after flower, and I knew the only reason I was able to reach out to them among the thorns was because of the curving green marks on my right arm. Whenever a thorn touched one, it leaped up like the blue armor had on my father and turned the sharp point.

  You have seen our art. It makes some uneasy, an endless, nonrepeating design—sometimes purely abstract, a thing of circles, curves, winding and twisting, like the climbing tendrils of some eternal vine but seeming somehow to enshrine all creation from the mollusk to the star. It’s a mutable design, able to form itself into any shape, to represent any living thing.

  So were the marks on my arm. They moved to the position I most needed them to protect my fingers as I delved among the thorns. At length, my improvised bag was full, and the bird reappeared, his crop bulging. He flashed before me, a glowing pastiche of black, brown, red, orange, and flaming green tail spread like a magnificent fan, dark above a rainbow below.

  “Come.”

  I nodded and followed; indeed, this forest was a maze, clear paths rare. And as we moved lower and lower toward the sea, the rain went from an intermittent nuisance to an almost constant obstruction. I was soaked, my shift a dripping weight on my body, a sloppy mass, running water down my neck and back.

  The bird was able to function well enough; something about his feathers reminded me of a duck. They repelled water, but I thought that even he was relieved when we reached the beach, and I saw in the ocean, hazed by rain, the dragon floating on the water just beyond the surf … waiting.

  Igrane wept. She could not stop weeping.

  Merlin was unsympathetic. He paced up and down in her chamber, raging. “You told me,” he roared, “that you tried her, that she was a whimpering, sniveling brat and would—if sufficiently punished—do as she was told!”

  “I thought she would,” Igrane moaned in answer to his wrath. “I had no reason to believe otherwise. She gave me no reason. I swear to you. I tried.” She became incoherent with weeping.

  Arthur entered the darkened room. “It would seem you were both wrong.”

  Igrane glided toward him. She placed an arm around her strong son’s neck and rested her head on his chest, her cheek on the silken tunic he wore. He put one arm around her, as though to comfort her, but the look he gave both her and then Merlin was opaque and unfeeling.

  “It’s noon,” he said. “Why is the room so dark?”

  Merlin gave a harsh, impatient bark of laughter. “I don’t think your mother wants anyone to see her in a strong light right now.”

  Igrane drew in a ragged breath. “Oh, God,” she whispered. “That horrible child might have killed me. She could have killed me.”

  Arthur eased away from Igrane. “Mother, I don’t think she would have done—”

  “Oh, be quiet,” she said with a sort of anguished anger. “What do you know of magic?”

  He eased even farther away from her, his face still. A dispassionate observer might have thought he seemed frightened. “Almost nothing,” he answered.

  “You couldn’t protect me!” she screamed at him, then turned to Merlin. “You couldn’t protect me. Why didn’t either of you do anything to help me?”

  Merlin made the bad mistake of laughing. A low fire burned in the hearth at the center of the room. A piece of flaming wood leaped into the air and flew right toward his face. He made an impatient gesture, and it shattered in mid-flight into a flock of glowing embers and fell to the floor.

  “Mother,” Arthur snapped. “You lost some hair. It will grow back.”

  “Hair!” she screamed. “Hair. This has nothing to do with my hair.”

  “He doesn’t understand,” Merlin said quietly. “Show him.”

  “No,” Igrane cried. “No!”


  “Show him!” Merlin’s voice, while low, was one that brooked no disobedience. “Show him, or I’ll leave you to your troubles and you may deal with them as best you can.”

  “No,” she whispered. “No, I can’t.”

  But Igrane positively scurried toward the mirror. “Look! Look!” she said to Arthur. “Look at my—my deformity, my despair.”

  The surface of the mirror began to glow, casting a pale, white light on Igrane’s face. Very little of her hair was left, and what little remained was pure white. She was almost toothless, and her cheeks were wrinkled and sunken. In less than a day, she had gone from appearing a woman of less than thirty years to the semblance of a hag rising seventy. The light in the mirror faded, and Igrane sank to her knees, sobbing.

  “Now, now are you satisfied? You’ve humiliated me in front of my own son, and—”

  “My sweet, my fair,” Merlin said. He walked toward her.

  “Don’t mock me!” Her voice was a shrill cry of pain, but he reached down and caught her by the hand, raising her to her feet.

  “Don’t be a fool, Igrane.” Merlin’s voice was harsh but almost kind. “I have never abandoned you, and I never will. Tonight. Tonight the moon is full.”

  Arthur slipped out through the heavy curtains at the door. He walked through the garden that was still called Vareen’s garden to the marble rail and stared out to sea. He was sixteen, and his eyes might have belonged to a sixty-year-old. A passing servant met the prince’s enigmatic gaze for a moment, then quickly looked away. Arthur saw him shiver. People sometimes did when they looked into his eyes after he’d visited his mother. Tonight, he thought, remembering the words. Tonight the moon is full. Another servant approached. The summer king turned and pointedly stared into the misty distance, where the horizon met the ocean.

  I have, he thought, no magic. Merlin was right. There is a full moon tonight. Then he heard a clatter, and a shout went up, one loud enough to be heard at the highest point of the fortress. The winter king, Uther, had arrived. He had only a small party with him, his oath men, but they were a wild and dangerous crew, worth ten times their number on any battlefield. His father’s personal guard, sworn to form a wall of steel and flesh around him, no matter what the circumstances. And not to leave the battlefield alive if he fell but to die to a man, mingling their blood with his on the thirsty earth. Some men know from birth that they are expendable. Uther was one, his oath men others, and Arthur another. They fought to win. If you did not win, you did not run, either.