The Dragon Queen

by Alice Borchardt

  Maeniel sighed, rose, and walked away into the forest. I could see more people were gathering, waiting to talk to me. I started to get up, but Kyra hissed, “No,” and straightened my dress and hair.

  “There are well-worked-out ways to do these things,” Gray said.

  “I know,” I told him. “Think you and the rest can be ready soon?”

  “Very likely in a few days. But how are we going to find out which ones are ripe for plucking?”

  “Need you ask?” I said.

  He looked over the ocean. The sun was well up, but caught in a cloudy haze. There would be fog tonight.

  “No!” he answered. “No, I don’t suppose I do.”

  The row started as soon as I got back to the tent. It was getting crowded in there. Five heads—the men Maeniel and I killed—were slung from the ridgepole in leather sacks, soaking in cedar oil. The gifts included two wolfhounds—I didn’t need those, but they got along fine with Maeniel. He confuses them so much they don’t do anything. Besides, they weren’t much more than big puppies. He grinned and said he’d train them.

  It turned into one of those four-cornered fights we often have when everyone takes up a different position and argues it vigorously.

  “You have not yet been accepted as a royal,” Maeniel said, “and already you are planning a war.”

  I opened my mouth, but Gray answered, “If you can think of any other way to stop these raids—I’d like to hear it.”

  Now, I must tell you, these raids are serious. I suppose most people have always lived at the edge of survival. I know we certainly did. The coastal and island communities of the Painted People are fragile. In a raid, they lose women, livestock, and sometimes—often—all their food reserves. Those women and children not taken as slaves are often killed out of hand, and the survivors are left with nothing to maintain themselves. Often they must sell their bodies to labor in other villages for their bread.

  Taking the women is sometimes worst of all. What good is a farm if there is no wife to do the dairying? Or a fishing boat if there is no one to salt or smoke the catch? And the community itself suffers when the sheep and cattle are neglected. Women protect them against predators.

  Our sheep are not sheared, but the wool is combed out by the women, cleaned, dyed, spun, and woven. It is wonderful wool, but without women to turn it into cloth, it falls into the heather and thorn, and the wealth of the community is washed away by the rain and wind.

  “No, the raids are very dangerous and getting worse, and I’m pretty sure I’m where I am and Mondig is dining with Dis because the people have grown weary of his neglectful ways.” I know I spoke sharply to my elders and betters, but I felt I needed to have it out with them now. If I qualified for the position of Dragon Queen, I would refuse to be a mere figurehead. I intended to face up to my responsibilities.

  “I can’t disagree with you,” Dugald said. “But why this unseemly haste? I think you should visit the important chiefly households. Feast your strongest supporters, curry favor with the rest, and judiciously sound out the more mature and intelligent—”

  “I haven’t got the time,” I told him. “Another year of these raids and the stones that landed on Mondig will be aimed at me.”

  Maeniel and Gray looked at each other in a certain sort of way.

  “She’s right,” Maeniel said. “Much as I hate to admit anyone is smarter than I, in this instance I believe she has a better grip on the problem than any of the rest of us have.”

  “But she has no experience with—” Dugald began.

  “No, but we do,” Maeniel said.

  He and Gray exchanged looks again. They both caught Dugald’s eye, and he said, “Hmm.”

  I looked over at Kyra. Her gray eye looked like granite and her face was set.

  “I would forget the villages, and the villas are fortified,” Maeniel said.

  Gray nodded.

  “Usually the pirates camp on the beach and the crews live under the boats.”

  Gray nodded, listening intently.

  “Usually, in fact always, there is a strong point nearby, where they can keep prisoners and loot,” Maeniel continued.

  “A lot of them are more than half ruined,” Gray said.

  “Doesn’t matter.” Maeniel shook his head. “The idea is to have walls. Slingers can stand behind them and drive off anyone who tries to bother the ships. Usually they don’t leave them in the water. As I said, the crews use them as houses until they want to make a raid.”

  “We take the strong point first,” Gray said.

  Maeniel smiled. “Exactly! The very early hours of the morning, just before first light. Dugald, can you think up a few things to do to a sloppy bunch of thieves?”

  Dugald’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, my, yes.”

  “What’s my part?” I asked.

  “You stay here,” Gray said.

  “I can fight …” I began indignantly.

  “I know,” Maeniel said. “And as viciously as a wounded boar. But there’s no point in your risking your valuable neck in these small-time cleanup jobs. No, what you do is give a feast for the chiefs who supply us with men and ships. Give each one an expensive present. Those are sureties that they won’t lose if the fighting goes against us. It won’t, but they will want guarantees.”

  “Naturally,” I said. “Who picks our targets?”

  “I will,” Maeniel said.

  “The dragons …” I began.

  “No,” Maeniel said. “They have always remained neutral in human quarrels. I think things had best remain that way.” I did agree it was best.

  Gray said, “You will tell us where to go—I’ve never seen anything you couldn’t find out if you wanted to. We’ll clean up.”

  “I think that’s quite likely,” Dugald said. “One thing though. The loot? What do we …?”

  “Farry’s people,” I said. “I’ll sound him on it. The Veneti make a parade of their neutrality, but I’ll bet they will buy anything you care to sell them, no questions asked.”

  “The slaves?” Kyra asked.

  “That’s a thorny one,” Gray answered. “But most of them will be young women, and the boys with us will be young, unmarried men. I think they will form … connections. Any from among the Painted People we can send back via Farry. Most of the rest will probably melt away into the countryside if we give them the chance. Aside from not caring for the slave trade, I think it would be dangerous for us to try to transport people in our ships. We’re going to use small, fast ones, paint them, and dress the rowers so they will be hard to see. In blue or gray they will look like the water. I’ve been talking to a cousin I have, and he said it worked against the Romans.”

  “Anything that worked against the Romans will work doubly well against these fools,” Maeniel said.

  “Disreputable!” Dugald said. “Very disreputable, but likely very lucrative.”

  “Disreputable!” Gray took exception to Dugald’s characterization of our plans. “The king of the Franks in Gaul doesn’t think so. Clovis sinks money into the Saxon treasury every year. He thinks it’s a good investment.”

  “Serves two purposes,” Maeniel said to me. “It will put a bad crimp in their plans to steal from the coastal folks, and probably incidentally make you rich. An eighth share of—”

  “An eighth share?” I snapped. “I want a fourth!”

  “A fourth!” Gray moaned.

  “I’m putting up the money,” I said.

  “A sixth,” Maeniel said.

  “Done!” I told him. “But only because you’re an old friend. And besides, you gave me your sword.”

  Maeniel grinned wolfishly. “I think you will do very well as a queen. A lot of women would just want to hang that gold and silver around their necks and impress everyone.”

  “Money is a tool,” I said. “The lot of you taught me that when I was growing up.”

  Kyra nodded. “Not greedy,” she said.

  “Greedy for power,” Dugald said.


  “Maybe,” I said. “But this is my job. These people are putting me in a position of trust. I don’t plan to let them down, if at all possible.”

  Kyra went to the door and looked at the sun. “It’s almost time. Go, all of you. She has to bathe and prepare herself for the dance. When the sun reaches the horizon, she won’t be able to speak again until the dance is finished.”

  Maeniel came to me, put his hands on my shoulders, and then hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. Dugald embraced me, also. I held him close, the smell of his old woolen ceremonial robe strong in my nostrils. I was trembling. I’m sure he could feel it.

  “I would spare you this, if I could,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “This is what my mother wanted. She gave her life to bear me. I owe her a debt I can never repay. Without your protection, I would have perished.”

  “Ah, God!” he whispered. “Did I do right? I might have left you to Merlin and Igrane. They would have seen to it you were reared in a more civilized manner.”

  “That pair of horrors?” I answered. “Arthur barely survived them with his mind intact. And I’m as civilized as I care to be. If I have any shortcomings, I blame myself for them. All my virtues are the result of your teachings.”

  “Ah, God!” Dugald said. “I would that were so.” He raised his hand to bless me.

  Kyra said, “No! I doubt if Christ would sanction this rite. It was many thousand years old when Mother Mary wrapped his swaddling clothes around him. Don’t you put Christ’s seal on her tonight.”

  “She’s right,” Maeniel said, and led him away.

  Gray kissed my hand, wished me good fortune, and then Kyra and I were alone together. We went to look at the sun. It was touching the horizon.

  “Time now for silence,” she told me. “Turn your thoughts away from worldly things. Look inward and ready yourself for a visitation of the divine.”

  TWENTY-FIVE

  HEN HE REACHED THE SEA, IT WAS SUNSET. He walked out of the jungle and across the almost perfectly white beach to look at the water. His heart was nearly stilled by its beauty. The water was green as the combers began to break into white foam, then the green faded to crystal transparency as the wave came up the shore, until the water sank down into the alabaster sand and vanished.

  Out from the shore the deep water was a clear rich blue. The sun was already high in the clouds on the horizon, and the wind, still warm, had begun slightly to chill. Not like the seas of his own land, though it wouldn’t be difficult to learn to love this almost too perfect beauty as well. He and Cai had hunted near the ocean when they were boys. Often they swam out to offshore islands of rock to try to hook the deep-water giants that came by night to feed on squid in the shallows. Twice they had managed to hook fish almost as big as themselves, and the other youngsters tried to worm the secret of their success out of them. But they wouldn’t tell, not only because they wouldn’t give them the satisfaction but also because they were afraid if Morgana knew the risks they were taking, she would put a stop to their expeditions.

  But Cai knew no fear of water, and Arthur refused to allow any companion of his to show more courage than he did. So one evening they dove in and swam to a small, rocky isle almost out of sight of land. While they were setting their lines, deep-water fog rolled in, trapping them there. Cai was frightened, not for himself but for Arthur, if the truth be known. For the young prince. The air held a damp chill, and the thin, light-skinned Arthur had no fat to keep off the cold.

  One of Cai’s strongest traits was his sense of responsibility. He pulled off his clothing, put it on his smaller companion, and dove in, searching for a way back to the mainland. But the water was too cold to make a long search practical, night was coming on, and it was clear they were stranded. So he returned to the rock, found the most sheltered spot, and embraced the younger boy.

  No one had ever before embraced Arthur in love and protection since he could remember. Arthur stiffened and bit Cai on the arm, savagely, drawing blood. Cai was still scarred by the bite. It left a semicircle of white dots on his right forearm.

  The fight was brief and ugly, but Arthur was cold and frightened of the sea, if the truth be known—and Cai and reason prevailed.

  “Why are you such a fool that you won’t let me keep you warm?” Cai snapped, and his charge subsided.

  After a time the warmth crept through Arthur’s body. They were both far too young for even a dream of passion, but Arthur found in Cai’s arms what he had never found in his mother’s, his father’s, or even Morgana’s. He couldn’t put a name to it, except that it created a rich silence within him and he encountered for the first time in his brief, tormented life a sense of peace. He lay quiet in body and spirit for a long time.

  He had woken still warm near dawn. He sat up in the hollow in the rocks where they had taken refuge and saw the seal by starlight. It lifted its dark head from the water and gazed at him with large, gentle dark eyes, then turned and began to slowly swim away.

  Arthur slid into the cold water and followed, and in a short time reached land. Their weapons, mantles, packs, and the bow drill were wrapped up under a tree. When Arthur turned and got his footing and looked back, the seal was gone and Cai was climbing out of the water behind him.

  Sleep was like a drug to Cai. He embraced it, went down the way a seal does in water, and rode it the way a seal does waves, diving deep into its silences, blessedly without dreams. Arthur woke from frequent nightmares, struggling, gasping, panting, perspiring, his heart pounding. Sometimes he could remember what they were about, but he was thankful when he couldn’t. They slept in the same room; he would rise, climb into Cai’s bed, press his back against Cai’s warm body and drift off again. He was conscious that something in Cai’s personality bolstered his confidence and allowed him to rest, to seek peace and find it. He never gave a name to it, and never spoke of it. And never, never would he have allowed himself or anyone else to call it—love.

  Yet he had from that day forward been drawn to the sea, to its ever-changing, changeless face, to the eternal sound: silence, sound of the breaking wave, its deep-held secret of eternities, peace.

  He sat on a log. The fading light lit a spire of cloud in gold as a rainstorm moved over the jungle miles away. She would come, he thought. And try to do what? Destroy him?

  No! Had she wanted that, it would have been easily accomplished as he climbed the long stair. The accomplishment this place represented was clear to him. If sorcery, it was of a kind he had never seen. Merlin’s evil tricks and Igrane’s manipulations were nothing to this.

  No—this greeted him with a philosophical grandeur beyond imagining. The form of the tower bespoke a thinking other than human but possessed of accomplishments that men—mankind, humankind—might admire, try to study, and ultimately emulate. Possibly he might perish in trying to yield to the Queen of Death the fruits of her desire, but then, there are many worse ways to die. And he was well acquainted with most of them, having been considered a man since his eleventh year when he made his first kill, a vandal brigand who sold his sword to a slave trader working the coast of Morgana’s realm.

  The warrior societies had surprised the man’s ship run aground on a sand spit near her stronghold. It carried an illegal cargo, one of Morgana’s women. They were highly prized in Constantinople for their fighting ability, and this devil had taken great pains to acquire this one. None but women and boys had been present, none older than fourteen. Arthur, already a Bear, was one of the ones who drew the burned cake.

  The memory was a dark one. They hadn’t had much time. When they received word of the abduction of a girl from the Hawk society, the Bears found their group was the closest one to the coast. Honor demanded the girl be retrieved at once, even though the young Bears might perish in the attempt.

  Their captain and leader was their weapons instructor: Shela-na-gig. They ran for the coast.

  The slaver captain might have shown his erstwhile hosts a clean pair of heels had he not mi
sjudged the speed of the falling tide in the bay where he’d anchored. It stranded his heavy vessel at the mouth of the bay, near the sea. He had a full cargo of slaves. If he unchained them to see if he could lighten the ship, some would certainly try to break away across the tidal flats. Left chained, they might drown if one went under—they were chained neck to neck. She might drag the rest down with her.

  He didn’t think his hosts could muster an armed party between one tide and the next. He reckoned without the Bears.

  They covered thirty miles in just a few hours on foot. They paused only long enough to form the cake, the flour specially mixed by their priestess leader. It contained oat, barley, wheat, and as many of the other plants and flowers of cropland and wild meadow as could be gathered and stored at one time. It was cut, separated into as many sections as there were men in the war party. Secretly, the priestess burned one section with a broken bit of firewood.

  The boys crouched around the fire while she baked the flat bread on a hot rock. Each boy took a section. Arthur tasted the char in his mouth when he bit down. He chewed and swallowed without giving any indication of distress.

  Shela crouched near the cooking rock and gazed at the boys sitting in a circle around her.

  “I am the one!” Arthur said immediately. He remembered her savage smile, the gleam of perfect white teeth in her scarified and tattooed face. Without further ado, he began to strip.

  Cai objected. Shela had Cai disarmed and tied to a tree.

  “You are to be a king. You are the only heir. We can’t spare you!” Cai cried in anguish, then began openly to weep.

  “Your love,” Shela said, “does you credit, but if ‘they’ want him, he must go.” Then she began to mix the preparation of charcoal, fat, wood, and yellow ocher used to dedicate the sacrifice. Eros, desire, lust, her hands were all of these things when she marked his bare skin.

  He was virgin. He had never known a woman—not a human one. He had no idea if the creature who had chosen him and drew his body into fire at his initiation was truly female or not, but Shela’s hands and body were obviously those of a woman.