by Ana Mardoll
Innes pursed his mouth, looking away again. "How did you know about yourself?" He'd first met kir when he joined Màiri's school; Niven had introduced kirself by name and pronouns. 'Kie' as in 'key' as in 'lock up your hearts', kie'd said. 'Kir' as in 'peerless' as in 'better than you'. Innes had been skeptical of that last part until kie proved it on the training mats with painful clarity.
Niven laughed, the sound a soft huff of air on the breeze. "How do you know when a shoe doesn't fit quite right? It covers your foot and it's better than nothing at all, because you're not getting burrs stuck in your heel when you walk, and no shoe is perfect. Maybe if you just wear thicker socks, it'll feel right. Maybe all shoes are bad and you just need to accept it and stop complaining that your feet hurt." Kie grinned, shaking kir head. "And then one day you take the shoe off and try on a different one and it's like you're seeing sunshine for the first time. And you realize shoes can be comfortable, you were just wearing the wrong one."
The longing he felt was sharp enough to make him blink back tears, yet he wasn't sure if he wanted to be like kir or to just possess that easy certainty. To know, once and for all, would be the greatest gift in the world. "But you were sure?" he persisted, studying kir face. "You never had any doubts?"
Kie laughed and scooped up the pile of broken arrows to carry back. "Of course I had doubts, Innes. I'd be sure one day and uncertain the next. It took me two years just to use my own pronouns, and I still mix them up sometimes in my head. Not just my own, either; I forgot Graeme's the other day and they had to correct me. I'm sure there are people out there who've never felt an inkling of doubt, but I'm not one of them. Wish I were."
"Then how do you ever know for certain?" Innes could hear the anguish in his voice. "How did you find the answer?"
Niven looked back at him, kir smile gentle under the shade of the trees. "Innes, I'll never know whether I'm right or wrong about what I am. Nobody is going to take me aside after death and give me a self-awareness trophy to lord over all the other ghosts. There's no prophecy that will prove my gender is mine. But I'm happier with my new name and pronouns than I was before, and that's really all that matters. I've got one life to live and I've got an overlord to kill. Why be miserable if I don't have to be?"
"Sìne was here, looking for you." Ainsley looked up from her sewing as Innes walked in. The pins in her mouth made the words come out muffled and garbled, but for once Innes didn't grin. He pulled his boots off at the door in silence, setting them to one side so he wouldn't track mud everywhere. "Innes, did you hear me?" she asked, a little frown of concern creasing her forehead.
"Sorry. Yes, I heard." He shook his head and slumped into his chair across from her seat by the fireplace.
She frowned before returning to her stitching, the worry line settling on her brow just above the nose. "She's only just gone. If you leave now, you could catch her and bring her back for dinner. There'll be enough for a guest."
Innes shook his head and leaned back in his chair, imagining all the tension draining from his body. "No, thanks. I know what she wants; I just don't have an answer for her yet."
Silence stretched between them as Ainsley continued her stitching and waited for an elaboration that never came. "Do you want to talk about it?"
"No." He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and spoke in spite of himself. "She's got this wild plan that she thinks will work. There's a rumor that King Fearghas is planning a stay at a campsite about a day's walk north of here. They want to break ground on a new castle there. You're safer not knowing, but the broad outline calls for several barrels of pitch, some torches, and Graeme's old sheep costume they wear at holiday festivals."
She looked up from her work again, eyebrows raised high. "I like that sheep costume."
"You should; you made it for them."
Heavy silence stretched between them, full of unsaid words. Ainsley kept her eyes on the work in her hands and the careful stab of the needle as it went in and out along the hem. "Sìne wants you to go with her?"
Innes rubbed at the tension spot between his eyes, wishing his headache would go away. "Yes."
His mother nodded. "Do you want to go with her?"
He closed his eyes and leaned back further in his chair. "Yes? I think so." The uncertainty in his voice annoyed him, but he couldn't shake it. "Graeme and Niven are going with her. I think Carbry and Ùna, too. Màiri's been over the plan with a fine-toothed comb and even she thinks it stands a chance. I want to help."
Ainsley set her sewing down in her lap and looked at him, her eyes gentle. "So what's the problem?"
Innes couldn't look at her. "I'm afraid of messing it up." His voice was soft under the crackle of the fire. "No man can kill King Fearghas; everyone knows that much is true. Sìne, Graeme, Niven, Carbry, and Ùna: none of them is a man. But me? I don't know. I keep asking myself, over and over again, and I don't have an answer. Maybe I'd have one if the question wasn't so loaded by the prophecy."
"Mmm." Without looking at her, he imagined her fingers moving absently over her stitching as she chose her words; Ainsley was always careful when she spoke. "You think any one of those five could be the hero, but not you. You think you aren't good enough but they are."
He shook his head, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. "I don't know if one of them is the hero. Sìne doesn't have two living parents, unless there's a different father she doesn't know about somewhere, and Ùna has never known her birth parents at all. If adoptive parents don't count, then she's probably out of the running as well." He sighed. "But if I came along, I feel I might taint the whole thing with my presence. Whatever I did could be chalked up to a man's effort, so it couldn't succeed. If I even am a man; I still don't know."
Ainsley let him sit in silence for a long while as the fire crackled down. She stood, stretching her legs, and moved to put another log on the pile, poking with the long iron to stir the embers into fresh life. "Innes, you say no man can defeat Fearghas, but the prophecy is 'no man of woman born'. If you weren't born of a woman, then it wouldn't matter whether you were a man or not. You'd satisfy the condition through birth."
Innes snorted. "Yes, if you'd found me under a cabbage patch, I'd be all set." Silence stretched between them and he opened his eyes to find her staring at him, one eyebrow raised. He frowned. "Did I miss something? You're my birth mother. Everyone says I look just like you; I'm not a fairy-born foundling."
She sighed and sat down opposite him, taking his hand in hers. Her smile was gentle but tinged with amusement, the way she looked when life took an unexpected turn without consulting her first. "You know, you've done so well with Graeme. I remember when they first asked us all to use 'they' and 'them'. You got it wrong for weeks, falling over yourself to apologize each time and just making it worse."
He winced in recollection. "In my defense, I hadn't met Niven yet," he pointed out, feeling sheepish. "And we still thought Ùna was a boy, because she hadn't corrected us. It was all very new to me."
Ainsley nodded, her hands warm and comforting on his. "I'm very proud of you. You've dealt so well with it all, and that's why I think—I hope—I can give you one more new concept to embrace. Innes, I'm a man."
Innes' first reaction was as unhelpful as it was automatic, unable to believe what he was hearing. "You're a man? Since when?" He stared at her as if he could divine her purpose from the lines on her face; was she saying this just to make him feel better about the prophecy? This wasn't like Graeme or Niven or Ùna, who were all his age or a little older. His mother was in her late forties, a time by which gender surely ought to be a settled matter.
Ainsley laughed, the sound soft over the crackle of the fire. "All my life, I think. I didn't always have the words for it, and for a long time I thought it was just my imagination or that everyone felt the way I did. I'm quite certain now that I'm male and always have been, but I was told otherwise for so long that I accepted I couldn't be."
"Does Father know?" Eoghan was powerful in the forg
e but gentle with people, soft and quiet-spoken; Innes couldn't imagine Ainsley wouldn't want to tell him something like this, but what if she'd been afraid of his reaction? What if Innes were the first person she'd told? He didn't want to keep secrets from Eoghan, but he knew as soon as the words left his mouth that this story wasn't his to tell.
She dispelled those fears with a level gaze. "Young man, have you ever known me to hold back from sharing my thoughts with your father?" He shook his head and she smiled, her eyes softening. "Sorry. I shouldn't call you a young man. Not until you tell me you are one."
He puffed out his cheeks and released a long, slow breath. He'd asked himself daily for years: man or not? The question was still important to him and he was no closer to an answer, but for the first time the weight behind it had shifted. He didn't need to know right now; he could take all the time he needed to find out.
"When I know, I'll tell you," he promised, feeling light-headed. "And... should I use 'he' for you? Are you my father? I mean, another one?"
Ainsley's smile was gentle. "I'll admit I haven't worked through all that yet. Maybe you could use it around the house? I'm not quite ready to come out and tell everyone in town. Mind you, if you do make a hero of yourself, I'll have to come out to satisfy everyone's curiosity." He chuckled at the idea.
"You know this doesn't necessarily make me the chosen one," Innes pointed out, raising an eyebrow. "It just means I'm not out of the running." He paused. "Is Father—I mean, Eoghan—a woman?"
His father laughed and leaned forward to kiss his forehead. "He is not. You are born of two men, sweetheart, whether or not you turn out to be one yourself, and we're both very much alive and very proud of you. Of course, you're more than welcome to double-check and ask him his gender over dinner. But, Innes, I want you to do something for me."
Innes looked up at him, searching eyes he'd known all his life: full of warmth and love for him, overflowing with confidence and pride in whatever he might do. "What's that?"
Ainsley squeezed his hands with gentle affection. "I won't tell you to go with your friends; only you can make that decision for yourself, Innes. What I want is for you to promise me you'll base your decision on the strength of Sìne's plan and your faith in the others to carry it out. Consider everything relevant, but don't doubt yourself and your value. You are my child, and you are special and loved. Whether you're a boy, or a girl, or both, or neither, or something else entirely, Eoghan and I will love you as we always have and always will."
The lump that constricted his throat was worth the pain for the relief he felt, the depth of which surprised him. Lunging forward, he almost fell from his chair in the rush to hug his father. His sweet, beautiful father, whose clever hands made such good clothes and who always had a joke to lighten Innes' spirits whenever he was down. Innes clung to him and his father embraced him back and he knew what he'd somehow known all along: they wouldn't love him any less if he didn't grow up to become a man. It felt so good to hear Ainsley say so.
His father held him for more heartbeats than he could count, stroking his hair and letting him weep. When Ainsley finally broke the silence, his voice was thick with tears of his own. "Does that mean you'll be going to find Sìne?"
Innes laughed a wet little cough of a laugh, sniffing as he wiped tears from his cheeks. "After dinner," he promised, looking up at his father with a wide grin. "I still want to check with Eoghan first, just to be sure. But afterwards, yes." He leaned up to kiss his father's cheek, memorizing the scent of tailor's chalk and smoke which always hung about Ainsley no matter how much he washed. Innes might lose his life trying to make the world better, but right now he had this moment to savor and it was enough.
"I love you, Father. I always will."
A gentle kiss ruffled his hair. "I love you, too. Fight well, and remember that I couldn't be more proud of you."
The Wish-Giver
Everyone in the kingdom knew about the wish-giver. The mother of all dragons had lived in her den on the hill as long as anyone could recall and was older than the most aged elders in the land. Her hill rose just high enough to overlook the nearby walled capital and the sprawling farmlands which surrounded the city. Some said the city itself, the shining jewel of the kingdom and its pride and joy, had been the first wish she granted to mankind.
For that was what the dragon did: she granted wishes. Those who were brave enough to take the path up the hill, face her outside her den, and call her out to battle could, if they defeated her in honorable combat, obtain their heart's dearest desire. From all corners of the kingdom challengers came, brave or foolhardy or both, undeterred by the knowledge that few won the day against the immortal beast.
Battling the dragon was not a risk to be taken lightly. Some knights limped home after their defeat, bloodied and broken. Many were devoured whole by the creature or, if they brought no squire to witness their defeat, were simply never seen or heard of again. Perhaps one in a thousand challengers were clever enough or strong enough or quick enough to best the dragon, and these rare winners were the stuff of legends.
These heroes and heroines whose tales were sung by the bards were frequently gentle people with good hearts and pure intentions. One wish saved a small village from starvation when its fields were set upon by a locust swarm. Another wish released a girl from marriage to a man who held her family's home as forfeit in a debt, so that she might be free to marry the bonny maiden whose wish released her. The most popular tale in the taverns was of a retired soldier who took up his sword one last time to wish for peace in his homeland. The dragon granted him a silver tongue with a talent for diplomacy; within a month after his battle with the wyrm a solution pleasing to both sides had been reached, ending a blood feud which had ravaged the land and its inhabitants for generations.
Drunken arguments raged cheerfully over the soldier's wish and the dragon's definition of 'peace', but that was what the dragon did: she looked into the hearts of mankind and gave what was desired, regardless of the wording. No victor ever complained about the outcome of their wish, and this was a comfort to the audiences of their stories; the creature wouldn't wriggle out of a fair defeat through word trickery. The dragon was lethal but fair, playing by rules she had set herself many centuries ago.
The path to the dragon's den was not a difficult one. The hill formed a gentle slope to the top, the track worn by so many boots taking that final march to dream or death. Farms sprawled between the hill and the city walls, supplying the capital with grain for their bread and grapes for their wine, and a small but thriving line of businesses catering to prospective wish-seekers abutted the foot of the hill. There were artists to sketch a final likeness, scribes to take down last words or a will and testament, and pleasure-workers to grant one night of bliss to men and women who might not see another sunset. Such were the good people who lived in the shadow of the wish-giving dragon, content to ply their trades, raise their families, and leave wild dreams to others.
Children played at the base of the hill on sunny days when their guardians washed and dried the family laundry and let the little ones out to play. They ran and shouted and laughed together, the children of the farmers and artisans mingling without reservation in their shared games. No one noticed the little fat-cheeked child who moved away from the larger group and toddled determinedly up the hillside.
The child was barely more than a baby, four summers old at most. They toddled easily up the hill, little legs propelling them up the soft earthen path without hesitation. Unruly hair sprang in every direction on their head and spilled down their back in beautiful frizzy waves, making the child seem younger than the length of their chubby limbs implied; no doubt the mother had resisted taming the child's hair out of a fond desire to keep them a baby for just a little longer. Soon the child's hair would be cut or braided, according to their gender.
Their gender was obvious at a glance, of course; the parents had swathed the child in yellow, the color of the sun, to set them apart from those ch
ildren clothed in green, the color of grass and growing things. The colors determined how others interacted with the child, how the child was raised and educated, and which careers the child would be best suited to in life. Few positions were completely barred to a child because of their color—the yellow children could teach, nurse, or train warriors if they so chose, just as the green children could enter the army, bake, or run a shop if they wanted—but the colors would always guide them. Stories were sometimes told in the kingdom of other countries and other colors, or of countries with no colors at all, or places where colors could change at a whim, but few paid heed to such tales. Yellow and green made sense, having been set down as the standard as far back as anyone could remember.
Yellow was the color, too, of the dirt path leading to the dragon's den; a sandy yellow-brown where wish-seekers had trodden the earth until it was no longer suitable for growing things. The yellow-clothed child faded into the path as they approached their goal, unnoticed by the humans below as they raised the little wooden sword they had brought with them. Only when the shining dragon emerged from her cave at the sound of a shout, the sun glinting from her polished emerald scales, did the adults at the foot of the hill finally notice the tiny warrior. Far below a woman screamed, her reedy voice carried away on the wind.
The queen of all dragons, the huge and majestic wish-giver, stood on four legs the size of tree trunks in the dazzling morning sunlight and gazed down upon the soft round child standing at the foot of her den. The little thing, barely more than a mouthful to the great beast, waved their toy in the air and howled what they must have surely thought sounded like a battle cry. Running forward, stumbling, correcting themselves and running again, the child eventually reached the left forefoot of the creature. A stab of the wooden sword at the massive leathery paw, and the blade stuck between talons the size of the child's torso.