The Dragon Queen

by Alice Borchardt

  “How’s that?” she asked.

  “Fine,” I said, looking down at myself. “Someone washed them.”

  She directed a dark look at me. “They needed it,” she said. Then looked away at nothingness and said, “Thank you.”

  I looked around the dim workshop and whispered, “I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.” I didn’t see anything, but then, who knows?

  I resumed my struggles with the bow and almost decided I had given it too strong a pull. When she touched my arm, strength poured into it, the way the new sun fills a darkened room with light.

  “That is all I can give you,” she said, “but if you survive this day, you will carry great strength in your arm for the rest of your life. My gifts don’t fade or disappear.”

  The bow strung easily, and the sinew ties that held wood to horn and the larger pieces of sinew were firm.

  I lifted my four arrows—Cretan arrowheads, Maeniel would have called them—and placed them in the small quiver I had improvised the day before. I handed the bow to her. Beginning at the end, she ran her fingers along its curves, from the end, over the arch that led to the grip at the center, then up over the second arch to the bottom.

  “I am putting it into my memory,” she said, “and seeing if it is somehow flawed.”

  She shook her head. “No! The glue is dried, the parts are firm, the sinew is tight. The bow will serve for at least four shots. But I can tell this is a terrible weapon.”

  Suddenly I felt dizzy and had to sit down. I did, right there on the floor. The world wavered before my eyes.

  Her face took on a look of intense concentration.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She strode toward the open door. The breeze ruffled her gown. She took a deep breath, then turned and looked at me. “Someone, some thing, is trying very hard to pull you back.”

  I thought of Kyra, hunched over the fire, staring at Cymry. She was toasting him just over the flame. He was whimpering like a sick dog.

  “She … she … my nurse, my mother. No, Mother was … my … Kyra wants me,” I finally finished up in a rush.

  “She is very strong, this Kyra!”

  “I—I’m sorry,” I stammered. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, you have your choice,” she snapped. “You can’t fight with her interfering like that. If you must, I will let you go.”

  “No!” I answered loudly.

  A second later, I was looking out through Cymry’s dead eyes at Kyra. Her face was suffused with anger, her teeth bare.

  “Kyra,” I said. “Kyra, it’s me. Pull the head away from the flames … please!”

  She did. She had it on the end of a string like a landed fish, hanging from a pole.

  “Who are you?” Kyra said. “This filth never said please to anyone in his entire life.”

  “Guinevere,” I said.

  “My dear.” Kyra’s agitation turned to sorrow. “Where are you? We have been trying to find you for weeks, Dugald and I. The wolves have ranged all along the coast, down as far as Tintigal. But that cursed, arrogant bird Magetsky says you are no longer a prisoner of the queen. And the dragons say that the one sent to fetch you disappeared along with you. Tell me what happened.”

  “I’m not sure,” I answered, “just exactly where I am. But wherever it is, I must perform a task for her.”

  “Her?” Kyra replied, sounding mystified. “Her?” she repeated.

  “Oh.” She sounded enlightened. “Oh! Her!”

  “Yes. Now, let me go!” I insisted.

  “She can be …” Kyra began.

  “She’s standing right here,” I said frantically.

  A second later, Kyra was gone. And she was laughing.

  “I believe everything is all right now,” I said as I pulled myself together.

  She nodded. “Poor Kyra, whoever she is, has a lot of power. To get here, she had to traverse time and space. She was trying to warn you that for a mortal to become involved with the business of immortals can be very dangerous. That’s what she was about to tell you.”

  I gave her a look with a lot of feeling in it. “I think I know that,” I told her.

  “Would you like to go back?” she asked. “The line your Kyra created is still open. You may leave, if you like. I won’t compel you.”

  “Please!” I said, thinking of Risderd and his family, and especially, for some reason, Treise. “I’m in too deep to back out now, and besides, I belong to you.”

  She chuckled. “An oath woman.”

  “If you like,” I answered, trying to keep my dignity. “I suppose it’s the same thing.”

  “Yes,” she said, turning to gaze into the misty, gray dawn outside. “Many of the warriors have been and will be women. Though men would often not care to acknowledge it.”

  Then she turned back again and gazed into my eyes. “Soon you will bleed and cease to be mine any longer.”

  “No,” I said, and extended my hands pressed against each other toward her palms. Her hands enfolded mine in the age-old gesture of one who accepts the homage of a house carl.

  “I am,” she said, “Inanna, Diana, Mother Holle, the Hag of the Mill. I have had so many names, I have forgotten them all. But I will remember yours, Gwynaver. And so will all mankind. Men have died for everlasting fame, but I can’t think of any woman who ever has.”

  “Yes,” I replied. “You’re making fun of me. Besides, there was that girl who buried her brother. What was her name?”

  “Antigone,” she answered. “But I don’t think she had everlasting fame in mind. Only her own sorrow. He was her brother.”

  “Yes,” I said, thinking of Black Leg. “Love is important, and women being shrewd bargainers probably know fame is not worth much. I’d much rather have something I can spend, eat, or love, thank you very much.”

  “And you will, my daughter. So you will,” she promised. “But I think you will need the food first.” Then she let go of my hands. “I’ll fetch you some breakfast,” she said as she left the workshop.

  I sat down cross-legged on the floor. Treise stumbled in. She had been crying. She walked over to me, climbed into my lap, and began to cry some more.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “Everything! Ardal is dead, and now Father wants to go where the monster is. I could hear him and Mother talking about it last night. She begged him not to go.”

  “Hush!” I said, and began to stroke the fine, soft hair that curled everywhere. I cradled her and crooned. “I’ll be with him, and he will come back safe, I promise.”

  She stiffened and drew back. “You? Protect him? How?”

  “Hush!” I said. I reached out and got a handful of shavings that had been part of my bed. I held them in front of Treise. They formed a light clump of yellow in my cupped palm.

  I called the fire.

  I don’t know how I do this. It is as simple and natural as the flight of a bird, and I probably understand it as little as birds understand flight or the Gray Watcher how he changes from wolf to man and back again.

  The wood shavings stank, smoked, and then burst into flame, flared, then fell to black ash before they even had time to warm my skin.

  When I looked back at Treise, she was gazing at me wide-eyed with awe.

  “Is that what you did to it the last time?” she asked. “When it screamed and ran away?”

  “Yes. And I can protect your father the same way I protected you. Now, don’t worry,” I said, and bedded her down on my abandoned nest.

  She stuck her thumb in her mouth, closed her eyes, and lay quiet. In a few moments, I heard her breathing change. She slept.

  My lady returned with porridge and bread. I ate it standing near the door, gazing into the misty forest. “The dragon?” I asked.

  She closed her eyes. “He is dining on a small shark. It was shadowing a school of dolphins with several pregnant females. They do go after the babies. The sharks, that is. The mothers asked his help, and quite obviously receive
d it. He likes shark. I will alert him to your needs.”

  I nodded. I was dry-mouthed. “I doubt if there’s much he can do.”

  “True,” she whispered. “The dragons are clumsy on land. Helpless, really. I don’t think he will be much help.”

  “Well and good,” I said. “It also means he won’t come to any harm. If it should happen that I don’t return, thank him for his help. Now, if possible, can you tell me where the fish eater is?”

  She closed her eyes and touched her temples with both forefingers. “He is hidden from my eyes by a cloud of magic, but I can narrow it down and tell you where the cloud is.” A second later, she whispered, “Predictable. He has concealed himself near the well, to … to … ah, yes, to the landward side. He is watching the Flower Bride.”

  “Near the path?” I asked.

  “Yes. Near the path. For that is the way Risderd will come.”

  “Fine. Then I’ll—”

  “Shush,” she said. “Other ears than mine may hear you.”

  Then she kissed me on the forehead. “Daughter mine, good fortune attend you.”

  And I went, hurrying into the misty, green gloom under the trees.

  The early morning forest was hushed, and the soft sea mist blurred the edges of everything. The place I chose to pass through was trackless. Most deer and other beasts didn’t venture here. I followed the slope of the ground as it began to turn down toward the sea.

  There were a lot of trees, but most of them were small pines, and the fallen needles formed a thick carpet that blunted the edges of the rocky ground. The wind blew softly, but constantly, driving the sea fog among the slender, brown, rough-barked trunks. Above, the green needles were brilliant as polished stone with moisture.

  I moved first down, blessing Talorcan’s shoes because they seemed able to adapt to every surface I crossed, from spongy drifts of brown needles to slippery, wet, gray granite boulders that poked up through the trees to form strange, open spaces walled by fog at this hour. When I had to climb, I did, clutching the bow and arrows tightly in my left hand. Moving downward all the while, until a moment came when I paused and saw the huge pile of driftwood stranded in the angle where the node of rock that would become Tintigal projected into the sea.

  The driftwood gave me an idea. It was a risky one, but it might work.

  I skirted the top of the pile, half walking, half crawling across bare rock, feeling very exposed and vulnerable until I reached the forest clothing the slope on the other side. The sun was rising by then out over the water, the orange disk still half obscured by the night fog. I pushed myself hard, knowing that Risderd would take the path to the well at sunrise.

  I couldn’t go very fast, though, because I had to take care lest I alert the creature by making too much noise. It would be hell, I thought, if I reached the well only to find the bridegroom killed and eaten by that monster.

  I climbed frantically up through the trees again as the pines gave way to a lighter growth of birch and poplar that clothed the knob of rock near the well. At length, I saw the glint of the pool near the spring through the trees.

  I slowed and moved as silently as I could, until I was in the thick brush on the side where I had seen the monster take the deer that had come down to drink. I knelt, concealed at the edge of the wood.

  I saw the first sunlight strike the pool, turning the water flowing from the spring to crystal and the pool to a shimmering gem. I could sense the beauty of the place but couldn’t really see it because I was too busy looking for the serpent in this Eden.

  And then, almost at the same moment, I saw the monster and the Flower Bride.

  She was waiting upright for her lover, near the small waterfall that fed into the pool. She was one with the water itself. The tall flowers of the poisonous hemlock and the drape of falling water were her skirt. Above her bare breasts were the shadows thrown by a clump of white birch on the dark rock, and her face glowed in the new sun just clearing the horizon.

  You don’t see her, not really. She only suggests herself to you. Your mind fills in the details.

  That is why she is always so beautiful. She forms herself from the transient but eternal glories that fill the world around us everywhere. Look at new leaves, bursting out from the rough buds on a branch, you see her. Alike and equally her are the orchards both in bloom and with branches laden with the heavy autumn fruit. She creates herself anew in desert, swamp, forest, or heath. In summer, winter, spring, and fall, she is eternal and yet ever new, as is a flower.

  For a moment, I envied her lover, and wondered what such a union would be like. And then I saw it.

  The monster showed himself to me. At the end of the path at the spring was an ancient oak. The thick, black trunk was dappled with gold by the morning sun. No doubt the creature thought it was being clever. It stood to one side in the black shadow cast by the tree. I picked it out by its silhouette against the brightening sky.

  Did it see me? I remained very still.

  No, the big-toothed head was turned, looking down the path.

  Should I try for a shot? I have always wondered since if I might not have ended it here, had I dared. But the problem was, I couldn’t judge the location of the creature. I could see its outline, but how far back was it?

  Four arrows. I had only four. The forest was damp, damp and cold. I couldn’t be sure the bow would hold together for four shots.

  I hesitated. And then it was too late. I heard Risderd walking, without any attempt at concealment, up the path.

  THIRTEEN

  AM BEING TORTURED, HE THOUGHT, IN the shadow land we all visit just before waking.

  He remembered her. No longer young but still beautiful. The helmet of tawny hair that shadowed her face and rested like a small cape at her shoulders. The fair, strongly marked face with a straight nose and generous mouth. Alabaster, finegrained skin, highlighted with a roseate flush.

  He was afraid of women. Had been afraid of women. But this one was nothing like the bitter witch that cast such a dark shadow over his mind. He was conscious of those past encounters that made his body shake when she touched him. Still, his father was there and had promised nothing would happen to him. So he allowed her to place him on her lap, while he glared defiance up at her face.

  She stroked his cheek lightly with one finger, and the anger and fear dissolved and vanished, the way salt does in water, leaving the memory of both anger and fear behind, changing the nature of experience in the same way salt changes the taste of water.

  “What a dreadful, dreadful thing,” the magnificent woman whispered. And he knew the words went unheard by the others gathered around the big carved chair where she sat before the fire.

  Then she spoke up and called, “Cai! Cai! Come here to me!”

  The boy who approached the chair was just a little older than he was. But unlike him, this child was swarthy in complexion, with thick hair that grew straight back from a pronounced widow’s peak on his forehead. He was thickset, with a sturdy build.

  “Cai,” she said, “long have you reproached me for giving you no brother in the comitatus, among the young lions. You are training to learn the warrior way. And bitterly have you complained to me of your solitude. I told you that it was foreordained that you stand isolated. That you were not chosen for fellowship. And you have borne your hardship well and have no peer among your age mates.”

  She extended her hand to the boy. He knelt and kissed it.

  “But now the one who is to be your brother has come.”

  Looking down, he had seen happiness fill the child’s face. They were both too young for any artifice. He knew he was the cause of that happiness and even then wondered if he deserved to be the cause of such happiness for anyone.

  But he clambered down from her lap and embraced his new brother. And from that day forward, they hunted, played, studied, and fought together. And neither had any secrets from the other.

  He felt a piercing sense of grief, so painful that it was almost
intolerable. So how, then, did he find himself so alone?

  Her face came back to him then. She would have said, “Think.”

  Torture. Why go to such elaborate lengths to cause him pain? The torturer always wants something, even if only to derive satisfaction from the struggles of his victim. His suffering was desired. The less he suffered, the more futile the torture was. And if he could find out what, if any, other satisfactions were wanted, he could study how to deny his captors those also.

  He opened his eyes. His pursuer must still be dormant, since the sun wasn’t up yet. The air was clear, but with a slight touch of frost in it.

  He had no idea what season it was here. He and Cai had wandered in the mountains, and this had all the indications of a high-altitude place. But did it get very cold here? And, if so, when and how cold?

  He crawled out from under the holly bush and went to drink at the pool. He saluted the skulls staring up at him. They were beginning to acquire personalities. The structure beneath the skin is, after all, as distinctive as the envelope of flesh it supports. This one, the one closest to the place he drank, was likely male and young. He had all his teeth, and the bones were robust and powerful.

  Arthur shivered. The air was as cold as the water. He went to his cache and ate some of the dry deer meat, then folded several lengths of the jerky and hooked them around his belt.

  The sun poured its new light through the trees. Now, he thought. Now, just stay alive.

  He heard the thing yammering beyond the trees. He didn’t run, just began walking. He thought he heard distant laughter, but now he schooled himself to indifference and allowed no expression of fear or disgust to cross his face.

  I need a yew.

  The thing seemed to be gaining on him, so he broke into a jog, wondering if it were refreshed by its rest also. I need a yew, he thought, for the fire drill.

  Hunted as usual, he crisscrossed the plateau that day. But he couldn’t find the sort of tree he wanted.

  The task of evading the creature was now routine. When he reached the swamp, he kicked another rotten log to pieces and ate what he found inside. Again he heard the laughter, and as before, he steeled himself to pretend he hadn’t.