Dragon Heart

by Cecelia Holland

  Let it come. Let it come.

  “My lords! Glory to the Empire!” The herald with his red tunic and high black boots swaggered up from his station by the door, rapped his ribboned staff on the floor several times, and called out, “Enter the Imperial Princes, the High Lords Oto Erdhartsson and Broga Erdhartsson. All bow. All!” He banged down his staff again. Erdhart smiled, pleased: his own court, at least, acted properly.

  And after him came Erdhart’s two sons. Tall and stout, with the bearing of true Princes, dressed gorgeously in silver lace and purple silk, bright swords swinging from their hips, they were the finest men in the hall. Half the people around the table stood, bowing, recognizing the golden blood when they saw it. Oto, the elder, came up before his father, swept off his plumed hat, and performed an elaborate obeisance, one leg thrust forward, his arms spread out past his knees.

  Mervaly laughed. Oto, without hesitation, turned and performed for her the same bow, perhaps even more elaborate. “My lady Princess.” But then he faced Erdhart. “My lord, we have tidings from the east, for your ears alone.”

  Erdhart shifted, indecisive. He thought he knew what this was, a closely held, important thing, but he could not order everybody else out, surely not Marioza, who was watching keenly beside him, and who would not leave. And she must not know of it. But if he got up and left, to hear it somewhere private, he appeared smaller. Before he could find some third way through this, the door crashed open and another man strode into the hall, unheralded, and came straight up the room.

  He was taller than either of Erdhart’s sons. His hair was red as carnelian. His long green shirt glittered with salt. He carried no weapon, only a game bag by a strap over his shoulder. The two men who followed on his heels were just as shabby. But suddenly everybody else around the table was standing up, except for Erdhart and Marioza. The newcomer walked up past Oto and Broga as if they were not there and bowed his head to Marioza.

  “Welcome, my son,” Marioza said. “Did you come in through the storm?”

  Luka waved that off. “It’s hardly raining yet. I have brought you a wedding present.” From the game bag he took a casket.

  Oto murmured, moving closer. Erdhart leaned forward. Marioza put out one hand and tipped up the lid of the box.

  “Ah.” She turned the box around, into the torchlight, and tumbled out the heap of sea jewels, coral, pearls, nacre, serpentine, and chrysoprase. “What beauties.” She picked up a bit of green serpentine and licked it, and admired the gleaming surface. Revolted at this gross behavior, Erdhart tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair.

  Luka was taking something else from his game bag.

  “For my sisters.”

  This was a little owlet, still in down, blinking in the bright light. Mervaly cooed and held out her cupped hands; Casea was smiling at Luka. “Thank you.” Mervaly held the little bird against her cheek, and it pecked at her. “She’s cold,” Casea said. Mervaly at once tucked the owlet into the ample bosom of her dress.

  Luka said, “I have heard something about Tirza. Is she truly found? Is that where Jeon is?”

  Erdhart sat forward again, intent. Marioza said, “We have some hopes.”

  Erdhart said, “What is this? The freemartin isn’t dead after all?”

  Luka glanced at him, as if he had just noticed him. “That is my seat,” he said. “The high seat.”

  Oto stepped forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and his voice rang, “Treat the Archduke Erdhart with respect, sir, and sit where you belong.”

  Luka wheeled around toward him. Marioza said sharply, “Stand, Luka. I will not permit it.”

  Luka snorted, looking at her over his shoulder, so his back was to Erdhart. “Then I will take my leave of you, Mother. I will not sit lower than my rightful place.” He strode off, walking straight between Oto and Broga, so he brushed each of them as he went by. Broga started after him and Erdhart said, “Wait. Sit; we will talk later.” He wanted no fighting, with the wedding suddenly within his grasp. He turned to Marioza.

  “What news is this? The girl is found?”

  “We are very hopeful, sir. The sea has been kind to us again.” She had always assigned Jeon’s survival to the goodwill of the sea.

  Erdhart swelled, triumphant. “Then we shall marry at once.”

  He moved his foot, under the table, and ground his heel into the toe of her shoe. She said nothing, did nothing, although he saw the blood leave her cheek.

  “I suppose we must.” But her voice shook.

  The servants were moving around them, and a great platter of fish slid onto the table, dishes of fruit, of bread. Erdhart’s page came up to serve him. “Attend my lady first.” Left to herself, she would dig her own hands into the food, like a slave. The girls were already crumbling cheese in their fingers. The page laid a slab of salmon on Marioza’s plate. Erdhart watched her carefully, and when she ate at once and avidly of the fish he nodded to the page to fill his own plate.

  “We should send Luka to court in the Holy City. Let him learn proper address, how to bear himself, how to fight. He lacks the manners of a Prince.” This would also remove an important obstacle to Erdhart’s progress. He picked at the succulent pink meat before him.

  Marioza gave a throaty laugh. “If you find him so biddable, my lord, I beg you, propose it to him.” She turned to share some mirth with her daughters.

  It passed through Erdhart’s mind that perhaps something poisonous to man might not hurt such as these he was marrying into. But he would not starve. Carefully he began to put the salmon into his mouth, a little at a time.

  * * *

  Lord Oto Erdhartsson considered himself to be two men: the courtier—polished, elegant, impenetrable—and the inner man—where all his thoughts could be hidden well from the world. He paced impatiently up and down the little bare waiting room; they had sent out the guard and the pages. His brother had gone to kneel down at the little prie-dieu in the corner of the room; now he signed himself and rose.

  “We should make a chapel here. Bring the truth of God here to this place.”

  Oto said, “In time, probably. You may have charge of that.” Broga understood nothing about this, the great fool, drunk on God. Oto swung his arms as he walked, impatient; he disliked waiting. It came into his mind that his father might have gotten lost on the way here.

  The castle baffled Oto. He had lived here now, off and on, for almost six months, and he still could not find his way around. This room where he stood now, this entire tower, in fact, was different from the rest, made of grey worked stone; here, he felt sure. He had worked out the way from his apartments here to the cave-heart of the whole place, where stairs went up and down and through a heavy doorway the great hall faced the sea. Oto could confidently go from the hall to his father’s apartments in another tower, but he was constantly finding corridors and doors along the way that he had not seen before. He had sent out two men to map the castle for him. They were gone for two days and, when they came back, said they would go no farther down, although the tunnels and shafts continued down, and they could hear the sound of the sea below. They each made a map, but the maps did not agree. The third man Oto sent did not come back at all.

  Broga said, “Papa is here,” and the door grated open. A page came in and, after him, the Archduke.

  “At last.” Oto gave Erdhart the grandest of bows. In fact, Oto thought the old man was doing this all wrong and often wished he could tell him so, straight to his face, but he kept that inside the shining case of himself.

  His father said, “Yes, you may rise.” With a glance he sent out the man behind him and, the door shut, he faced his sons.

  “Well? What is this you have to tell me? Has there been a message from the Holy City? Is he sending more men?”

  They both spoke at once, “No, not that, but—” and Broga fell still and Oto went on.

  “Nothing so momentous, sir, but a good thing. We have found the place for the new fortress you spoke of—on the co
ast, east of here. It controls the coast road and there’s a lot of rock around to build with. There’s a fine little harbor with a good approach, and it’s only five days away.”

  “Excellent. You’ve kept this secret.”

  “Oh, yes,” Broga said. “When we came in, we told everybody we had been off to hunt in the mountains.”

  Erdhart folded his hands together, smiling. “We shall need to send most of the men down there. But now she must marry me, and the need to keep them all here is over, I think. Take three squadrons. They can build the fortress.” His hands stroked and fondled each other, his habit when he was pleased. Oto spent a moment enjoying his contempt for anybody so easily read. At the same time Oto kept his face perfectly smooth, respectful, filial.

  Broga said, “My lord, who shall command this?”

  “Well,” Erdhart said, and for a moment his voice hung there, between them both, ripe with possibility. Then he faced Oto. “You shall oversee this. Do it properly. It will not be an easy task.”

  Oto bowed. “My lord, I am gratified.”

  “Of course if I need you, you must come at once.”

  “My lord,” Oto said.

  Broga said, “Papa, give me a task to do. Test me, also.”

  Erdhart smiled on him, clapped him on the back. “You shall always find your challenges, my boy. I waste no worry over you.” He slapped Broga’s back again and nodded to Oto. “You must leave at once. Keep me constantly advised.”

  “Of course,” said Oto, hating him.

  “Very well, then. You’ve done well; I am pleased with you.” Erdhart went to the door and Oto moved swiftly to hold it open for him, but it was Broga who got Erdhart’s damned smile. The old man left.

  Oto said, “Three squadrons.” Sixty men. That was more than the cohort Erdhart would have under him here. And a castle of his own, if he could build it properly. The ground was unstable there, but the fort did not have to be large. Once they could bring ships here from the east it would be vital.

  Broga said, “I will plan my chapel.” He picked up his hat from the table. “Good day, Brother.” Going out, he left the door open, and Oto followed him, hoping he remembered the way back to the hall.

  3

  All through the storm, Jeon followed the high road east, going all the way to Santomalo, but did not find his sister. He heard about her; even with the rain pounding and the wind blowing he met a traveler, a lone tinker, who carried rumors with his pots and pans and even claimed he had seen her, shrieking and howling from the trees. All the while looking eagerly at Jeon’s purse. When he asked the tinker what she looked like he could not remember. Jeon paid him nothing.

  Santomalo was busy, smelly, crowded, and Tirza was not there. Jeon rode west again, this time taking the way along the beach until the impassible sea cliffs forced him up onto the marine terrace above. Out here, with the mountains rising just inland and the high road well beyond that, the land was empty of people. The rain ended and the sun shone on a brilliant green world. The road he followed was hardly more than a goat track, pounded deep into the ground, rushing with the runoff of the storm, and on all the brush around him the flowers were opening. He saw no travelers, no goats or cattle, only wild things, the bees in the flowers, the birds in the sky.

  After a hundred miles following along the foot of the mountains the road dropped down again to the coast and he went west along the shelving beach. Sea cattle flopped and barked on the offshore rocks, and the surf broke over long black reefs like rows of teeth, gashing the constant white slosh of the waves. Above the high-tide line the wind had blown the sand up into billowing dunes. Grey bones of driftwood poked up out of the matted seaweed and shells that covered the wave slope. A flock of seagulls clamored into the air as he came, rising away from a half-eaten seal carcass. The tide was coming in. Out to sea, another storm blurred the western horizon.

  Where a stream ran down into the sea and its banks made a wide, sheltered place, he came on a fishing village too small to have a name. He stopped to water his horse at the well.

  He wondered what he should do next—where else he could look for her. He was running out of food and he was tired of sleeping on the ground. He might never find her. He might never go home again but wander, always, looking for her. The four little huts of the village were quiet, everybody gone, only a few old people sleeping in the sun. He had to ask someone, and he was thinking of waking one of these elders when two boys ran into the common around the well, shouting.

  “They’ve caught the witch. Come on!”

  He reached his horse in a single step, bounded into the saddle, and galloped inland, back the way the boys had come, up the stream; he heard screaming and shouts ahead. Thickets of willow and brambles closed down around him, but the path was deep and wide and he followed the racket ahead of him. People were running after him from the village—the two boys, the elders.

  “Burn the witch!”

  Up ahead the trail came out on a clearing. At the stream bank an enormous old tree rose, something dark huddled in its branches. Beneath the leafy crown several people stood, shouting up, and one cocked his arm back and threw a rock. Another was poking a rake into the branches and two women in aprons were heaping brush against the trunk of the tree. On the path right in front of Jeon, another man knelt in the dust, lighting a torch with his tinderbox.

  Jeon charged his horse straight over the man with the tinderbox, knocking him flat, and rushed the mob under the tree. There were six or seven of them, all on foot. Jeon had no time to draw his sword and anyway he was no good with a sword, but he was good with a horse. He ran down one woman, wheeled the horse around on its hocks, and chased another, who ran shrieking out toward the path. Now he managed to get his sword out of the sheath. Under the tree the man with the rake was set, ready to fight, and beside him another man flung a rock, but when Jeon launched the horse at them, the sword high, they whirled and fled. All the others were already running. The horse was enjoying this and fought against stopping, and when Jeon wrestled it down by the tree it reared and neighed and clashed the air with its hooves.

  “Tirza!” Jeon shouted. He backed the snorting horse underneath the branches.

  She slid down out of the tree to the ground. She was filthy, her hair matted and full of burrs and leaves, her face black with dirt, out of which her blue eyes shone startlingly clear and bright. He ran his sword back into its sheath. The villagers stood around them at a good distance, wary. A surge of power filled him. He had saved his sister. He glared around him at the crowd, suddenly longing for them to jump forward and take him on. None of them moved. He reached down his arm for her, drew her up behind him on the horse, and rode away.

  * * *

  They went far down the beach until Jeon found a little overhang of rock where they could sit out of the wind. He built them a fire and divided the last of his food between them. She sat in the firelight with her back to the rock cliff, her knees drawn to her chest, her arms crossed on top, and her chin on her wrist. She was thinner than he had ever seen her. Above her hollow cheeks her eyes seemed to float in her face, haunted. But when he turned to her, she burst into the broadest smile he had ever seen.

  He put one hand on her arm, and she came to him and hugged him again, muttering gibberish. He held her tight, grateful for this love, known from the womb. She settled back again, smiling at him, and he said, “Where were you, all this time? Just wandering around?”

  She made sounds; she twitched from side to side, something urgent, which she could not tell him; her hands moved in the air. Her face crinkled up, baffled, and she shrugged, and set one hand in her lap and with the other made the circling gesture he knew meant, “And you?”

  “Back at home, most of the time. Until I heard about you.” He shrugged. “Then looking for you. I don’t remember anything about the shipwreck. All I remember is the storm, the lightning. Then floating a long way.”

  He wiped his jaw with his hand, still burdened with the memory, like something
ahead, an ambush. He was clenching his teeth. She shook her head at him, her face puckered with worry.

  He said, “I was so thirsty I drank seawater. When they found me I was raving. I still have horrible dreams.”

  She shook her head at him. Her eyes filled with tears. She made those shapes in the air again, uttering senseless noises.

  “It’s all right,” he said. He did not have to know. They would go home now. Good beds, food, wine, the family around, the common life. “Casea and Mervaly will help me keep you out of Santomalo. Mother loves you; she wants you back, whatever she says. And we need help against Erdhart.”

  At that, Tirza pushed away from him and sat there straight upright, the rags of her clothes hanging around her like molting. She said something, a low growl, staring off into the woods. He gave a little shake of his head. She was angry about something, not Erdhart and not Mother. The old longing gripped him, to understand her, hear her voice. Yet she was here now, he had found her, and he had saved her, when no one else had really thought he would, and he sat smiling into the fire, enjoying that.

  * * *

  Just before she fell asleep, she thought, They will send me back to Santomalo.

  She fell into a fitful sleep, into a dark, obscure place, moving and shifting around her. She seemed to be standing on a shore, looking up at a hillside layered with the red roofs and awnings of a town. At the top a white ledge of a building was the monastery. The sun was rising, away to the side of her. Behind her, people were screaming. Then a roar began that turned her bones to ice.

  She burst with sweat. She could not move. A man ran by her, up the hill, and another, and then some women, looking back as they ran, but she was stuck in her place. A flickering baleful light, darker than the sunrise, shone all around her. The smoke burned her nostrils. The shrieking people ran by her and from above them the dragon struck and caught them in his teeth. She saw them sticking out between his jaws, their legs waving. He strode past her, the light glowing on his scales. He let out a blast of his breath and the houses before her burst into flame.