Ember and the Ice Dragons

by Heather Fawcett

  “Fish!” she said suddenly, interrupting Nisha’s muttering. “Fish breathe water, so if they leave it, they die. The answer is fish in a river!”

  Ah! Rose Gold said. Well done, child, well done. He turned the stone slab over, and scratched at it with his talon.

  “Of course!” Nisha said, grinning. Moss clapped Ember on the shoulder.

  The dragon retreated into the shadows, filing the stone slab away on another shelf.

  “Don’t get too excited,” Ember warned. “We still have to answer two more.”

  Most visitors don’t even answer one, Rose Gold said. He selected another stone slab from those scattered atop his desk. Ah . . . this one is very fine. Very fine indeed. In fact, the king was just working on it. He would be ever so pleased if you found the answer.

  Ember grimaced. “Let’s hear it, then.”

  Rose Gold read:

  My home is forest, mountain, heath.

  I wear bells that cannot sound,

  And gloves that witches made.

  I am weaker than the smallest child,

  Yet with one finger, I have slain mighty warriors.

  Ember, Nisha, and Moss were silent. Outside, the wind huffed over the ice city.

  “Er,” Nisha said. “All right.” She rubbed at her temples again, her eyes narrowing in frustration. Ember realized, with a sinking feeling, that Nisha was stumped again, and was angry at herself about it. If Nisha, by far the cleverest among them, was stumped, what hope did they have?

  “What wears gloves and bells?” Ember said, stumbling over the contrary clues. “And is weaker than a child?”

  “Weak but strong,” Nisha said. “It kills warriors, after all.”

  “Gloves that witches made . . . ,” Ember repeated.

  “It must be a metaphor for something,” Nisha said distractedly. “Unless ‘witches’ means Stormancers.”

  “Scientists used to call them that,” Ember said. “Centuries ago. It was an insult—do you think that’s it?”

  Nisha began to pace. She kept up a steady stream of muttering. Ember interrupted now and again with her own ideas. Moss kept mostly silent—his attention seemed far away. Each guess they gave the dragon was wrong.

  “How many do we get?” Ember said.

  Ten, the dragon said.

  Ember frowned. “Ten guesses?”

  Ten years, the dragon said. That is the maximum. Mind you, most people give up before then.

  Ember swallowed.

  No shame in not knowing, children, the dragon said. This particular riddle has been with us since before the Great Exodus, when our people first came to this place. We lived in the mountains then. Green in summer, snowbound in winter. It was a beautiful place, the stories say.

  The old dragon’s eyes were misty. Nisha glowered at him. “Thank you, but I’m not sure a history lesson is helpful.”

  Moss’s eyes widened. “Foxgloves!”

  Ember and Nisha stared at him. He hadn’t spoken once in the last twenty minutes. Moss rushed on. “They’re shaped like bells. Another name for them is ‘witches’ gloves’—that’s because they’re poisonous. They could kill anyone. But children pick them, so they’re also weak, I guess.”

  “What about the last line?” Ember said.

  “Well, the Latin name for foxglove is ‘digitalis,’” Moss said. “That means ‘like a finger.’”

  There was a long silence.

  Most impressive, Rose Gold said finally. There was something close to reverence in his voice.

  “I’ll say,” Nisha said. She was staring at Moss as if she’d never seen him before. “I never would have figured that out!”

  “Professor Maylie has lots of books about flowers,” Moss said. He was mumbling now as everyone stared at him. “I’ve never seen any foxgloves myself. But I—I like to read about them.”

  Ember shook her head. She recalled how quick she had been to leave Nisha and Moss behind after the prince had been stolen. But where would she be now without them? She smiled at Moss, and he gave her a small, flustered smile back.

  She turned back to Rose Gold. “What’s the final riddle? It is the final one? If we answer it, we can see the king?”

  Oh, yes, Rose Gold said. Just one riddle left . . . one little riddle. Ah, here we are. He bent to remove a slab from one of the lowest shelves in the cave. And then he read:

  I have two arms, two legs,

  One neck, one eye,

  Three hands,

  And twelve hundred heads.

  Twenty

  The Prisoner

  The fire dragon was well known in antiquity. The Roman emperor Nero attempted to domesticate the beasts, hoping to put them to use in battle. This ill-advised endeavor led to the Great Fire of Rome in AD 64, after which further efforts were abandoned.

  —TAKAGI’S COMPENDIUM OF EXOTIC CREATURES

  Ember waited, but Rose Gold was silent. “Well?” she said impatiently. “What’s the rest?”

  That is all, the dragon said. Bright skies.

  Ember swallowed. The other riddles had been difficult, but this one . . . it made no sense at all.

  “Two arms and two legs,” Nisha murmured. “A person, then.”

  “What sort of person has twelve hundred heads?” Ember said. “Maybe it’s a hydra.”

  “Aren’t hydras snakes?” Nisha said.

  Moss chewed his lip. “It must be some sort of monster.”

  Most likely, the dragon agreed. This riddle has been in the king’s library for centuries. No one has been able to solve it. We suspect it refers to a creature that has long since gone extinct.

  “But—” Ember sputtered. “But how are we supposed to know the answer, then?”

  How indeed? Rose Gold said. It is vexing in the most delightful way, isn’t it?

  Ember folded her arms. “That’s not fair.”

  The best riddles generally aren’t.

  Moss made an exasperated sound. “Now I know why he can’t remember the last visitor who got to see the king.”

  “Three hands,” Nisha muttered.

  “You might as well give up,” Moss said. “It’s pointless. They won’t let us see him.”

  “Could we try a different riddle?” Ember asked Rose Gold.

  No, the dragon said calmly.

  “Come on,” Nisha said. “We can get this. Just like the last one. Let’s just go over it again.”

  So they did. Nisha muttered and paced, going back and forth so many times that Ember worried she would wear a groove in the stone floor. Moss stood in the shadows, pale and quiet as a wisp, his gaze bleak. Ember tried to recall every encyclopedia she had ever read, going through them one by one. She drummed her fingers against the stone, then tapped her foot, then joined Nisha in her pacing. Nothing helped.

  “Nisha,” Moss said finally. At least an hour had passed, and Nisha’s muttering had grown hoarse. Moss’s candles had gone out, so Ember summoned fire into the palm of her hand, which sputtered fitfully. “I don’t think—”

  Nisha stamped her foot. “We are not giving up!”

  “But . . . I don’t think it’s possible,” Moss said. “We can’t find the answer if the answer doesn’t exist anymore.”

  The frustration Ember had been suppressing surged like a wave. Moss was right. They had come all this way for nothing. Everything they had been through—the magical storm, the grimlings, the long, dark hours on the sled—it had all been pointless, because of one stupid riddle. The king wouldn’t see them, which meant they would never have a chance to plead for the prince’s release. He would remain the dragons’ captive until his father came and razed their glittering city to the ground.

  She stormed out of the cave without a word. She didn’t know where she was going. The icy wind spiraled about her as she stepped out into the starlight, and the fire she carried went out. She didn’t bother to relight it—she just kept walking.

  Nisha and Moss caught up to her eventually. Nisha grabbed her arm and spun her around.


  “You can’t just storm off like that,” Nisha said.

  Ember shook off her hand. She wanted to be alone, to think, to fume. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re in this together.” Nisha’s voice was stubborn. “We either succeed together, or we fail together.”

  Ember threw up her hands. “What does it matter? They’ll never let us see the king. We have no way to get Prince Gideon back.”

  “There must be more than one way into the palace,” Moss said. “Maybe we can sneak in somewhere else.”

  “More than one way,” Nisha repeated. She turned back to the palace, her expression growing distant.

  Ember watched her. She had seen that look, usually just before Nisha reeled off the answer to an impossible math problem. “What is it? Do you know another way in?”

  “No,” Nisha murmured. “More than one way in . . .” She looked up and announced, suddenly and imperiously, “Follow me.”

  “Nisha?” Moss said.

  She ignored him. “Light, please.”

  Ember blinked. “What?”

  Nisha made an exasperated sound. “Maybe dragons can see in the dark, but humans can’t.”

  “Oh.” Ember held out her hand, summoning another flame. Nisha grabbed Ember’s other hand, and one of Moss’s, and dragged them back to the cave.

  Rose Gold looked up in surprise when they entered—Nisha was stomping so determinedly that she reminded Ember of Aunt Myra. Children, is everything—

  “I know the answer,” Nisha interrupted. “A garlic farmer.”

  Everyone stared at her.

  “It explains the three hands,” she said. “One of the hands could be a spade. And the twelve hundred heads—heads of garlic, you know? Two arms and two legs—”

  And one eye, Rose Gold said. I am sorry, child, but that doesn’t work.

  Ember’s heart sank. She opened her mouth to tell Nisha that it had been a good try, but they were going to have to figure out another way to the prince, as unlikely as that was. But to her surprise, Nisha was smiling.

  “You didn’t let me finish,” she said. “‘Garlic farmer’ does work—if it’s a one-eyed garlic farmer.”

  Rose Gold was silent. Then he let out a snort.

  A good effort, he said. But I do not believe that is the answer, child.

  “But it is an answer,” Nisha said. Her face was flushed with triumph, her eyes gleaming. “Riddles can have more than one, can’t they?”

  The dragon’s tail swished slowly back and forth. I—

  “Nisha’s right,” Moss said. A slow smile spread across his face. “You said we had to answer each riddle. Well, we have.”

  Rose Gold was quiet for a long time. Ember waited for him to apologize again, to remind them that they still had another ten years, minus a few hours, to come up with the answer.

  I suppose you’re right, he said.

  Ember couldn’t believe it. “We are? So . . . we can speak to the king?”

  The dragon lifted his tail and pointed into the darkness, where Ember could just make out the hollow of a passage leading into the mountain.

  That way, the dragon said.

  They clung to each other as they walked. Ember’s head was spinning—she half expected Rose Gold to come chasing after them, to say that he’d changed his mind. Nisha was beside herself with triumph, giggling in the darkness and muttering, “We did it!” over and over again. It was infectious—Ember found herself laughing along with her. Even Moss was grinning.

  To Ember’s relief, after winding around and around, the passage ended in another towering cavern lit with a flickering glow. She could see the edge of it, light spilling over the threshold.

  “Where do you think the dragon king is?” Nisha murmured. “And where is he keeping the prince?” Her voice echoed strangely, and Ember wished she could draw the echoes back. The place was too still, too quiet. She tried not to dwell on the fact that they were deep inside a mountain with a massive weight of rock above them.

  “I don’t know,” Ember said. “I suppose we should just keep going.”

  “Maybe he’s out,” Moss said. “If so, and if we can find the prince, we can make a break for it.”

  Something rustled in the cavern at the end of the passage. Ember’s steps slowed, and her thoughts ran immediately to grimlings. But surely not here? She drew a shaky breath.

  They entered the cavern, which was enormous, even larger than the reception room. Pillars of rock curved from the roof and walls like twisted arms, and smaller rooms or passages beckoned from the shadows. The room was bright—or bright compared to everywhere else. Dozens of stone oil lamps had been placed in natural crevices and upon rock shelves. A peat fire burned in a fireplace cut into the stone wall. Nisha rushed over to it, warming her hands.

  “Oh, that’s much better,” she sighed.

  Ember made to follow her, but all of a sudden, a messy green shape hurtled out of the shadows, colliding with her with a thump.

  Ember went sprawling across the ground, and the shape landed on top of her. Ember caught a flash of green cape and furious tawny eyes before the figure slammed her shoulder into the ground, pinning her in place. It was Gideon!

  Ember struggled. The prince was off-balance, and she rolled him onto his back. His head struck a stone, and he let out a vicious curse. He reached for one of her wings, likely to twist it as he’d done during their scuffle back at camp.

  “No you don’t!” Ember grabbed a handful of brown-gold curls and yanked them as hard as she could. The prince cried out, then slammed his elbow into her stomach.

  Ember, gasping, felt herself rolled onto her back. Gideon had gained the upper hand and was pressing her into the stone floor.

  “You’re on their side,” the prince snarled. “You are! Admit it. You planned this, you monster! Is it ransom you want? Is that it?”

  Ember wheezed. She knew she should hit him, or perhaps burn him—both were appealing options—but she could barely focus on anything beyond her stomach. Hands closed around Gideon’s shoulders, and then Nisha and Moss were hauling him off her and shoving him hard against the wall.

  “You . . . you . . .” Nisha didn’t seem able to find the words to adequately describe Prince Gideon. She kicked him in the knee.

  The prince howled. “Nisha!” Moss exclaimed. Then he seemed to reconsider. He drew his foot back and slammed it into Gideon’s other knee.

  “Stop,” Ember said. Nisha paused midkick, glaring. She and Moss kept the prince pinned to the wall.

  Ember drew herself slowly to her feet, holding her stomach. The prince glared at her. At some point during their scuffle, her hand or elbow must have struck him, for his lower lip was bleeding. His hair stuck up and his fine clothes were in disarray. Ember had never seen him look less princelike, and it made her smile.

  “That’s right, laugh,” Gideon spat. “I’m sure it’s funny to a creature like you to see the Crown Prince of Antarctica held captive.”

  “I didn’t come here to laugh at you, you dolt,” Ember said. “I came to rescue you.”

  “Not that you deserve it,” Nisha growled.

  “Rescue me?” The prince stared at her in cold disbelief. “How ridiculous. You wanted something like this to happen. You probably lured those dragons to our camp and told them to kidnap me. You’re a liar as well as a monster. When I get back to my palace, I will hire a dozen Stormancers to transform you back into your true shape. Then I will see you locked in a cage for the rest of your life.”

  Moss’s hand curled into a fist. Nisha’s cheeks reddened. “Why, you—”

  Ember held up a hand, and they both stilled, watching her mutinously. She came forward, very slowly, until she was standing only a breath away from Gideon. He was barely two inches taller than her, and she hardly had to look up to meet his eyes.

  “You listen to me,” she said quietly. “The three of us risked our lives to follow you here. We only survived because another dragon—one of those monsters you hate so muc
h—brought us to this place. I don’t know why they kidnapped you instead of killing you, but I guess everyone makes mistakes. And in case you were wondering: I’m not here for you. I’m here for them. I would love to watch them turn you into a giant icicle, or throw you off the side of this mountain, but if they do, Queen Victoria will tell your father to hunt them all down. So you can shut up and let us save your sorry neck, or you can spend the rest of your life—which may be very short—with ‘I’M A DOLT’ burned into your forehead.”

  She summoned a flame into her palm, and the prince jumped. He stared at her for a long moment.

  “Why should I believe a word of this?” he said finally. “You tried to sabotage the hunt.”

  Nisha groaned. “Yes, and I’d do it again,” Ember said. “I told you—I’m not here for you.”

  She glared at him fiercely. Gideon looked as if he was the one who’d been punched in the stomach. His face was pale, his eyes underscored with dark circles.

  “I won’t come with you,” he said. “Go. Leave me here.”

  Ember gaped. The prince shook off Nisha and Moss and paced away from them.

  “Are you—” she began.

  “You heard me.” He stopped by the fire, leaning a hand against it. “Go. I . . . I understand that you came here to rescue me. But I have no intention of going with you.” He spat over his shoulder, “You can burn me if you like. I won’t change my mind.”

  “You insufferable snob,” Nisha snapped. “Are you really too proud to accept our help? You’d rather stay here and risk the dragons freezing you to death when they get sick of looking at you?”

  The prince said nothing. He continued to stare into the fire. His back was straight, but the hand that leaned against the wall shook. Nisha opened her mouth again, but Ember shook her head, and she fell silent.

  Ember went to stand beside the prince. “Here,” she said roughly, holding out a handkerchief from her pocket.

  The prince frowned at it. But then his manners kicked in, and he said, in his irritatingly polished way, “Thank you.” He took it and pressed it to his lip.