Dragons and Witches

by Madeline Smoot

  Silence.

  Pitch dark.

  She opened her eyes to find the dragon at her feet, as though this last demonstration had spent all its energy. She raised the bludgeon, but a dragon wasn’t a melon. Suppose she killed it or it killed her or—

  She jabbed the contraption into the dragon’s back, trying to stay well away from its head. It twitched, and she got ready to flee but continued to stand there, holding the siphon and the jar steady with one hand, still clutching the bludgeon in the other. She was being a fool, she needed to knock it out, needed to—

  The dragon turned and she raised the bludgeon, trying to reposition herself to get at the base of its neck, trying to get out of range of any flames. The angle really was impossible.

  The dragon looked right at her. She shifted again, but it didn’t do anything.

  The first jar was spilling over with blood, and Corliss forgot about the bludgeon for a moment as she switched jars. The dragon was barely moving now, just the heaving of its sides as it breathed and the slight twitch of its head as it seemed to follow her with its eyes in a way that she found unnerving.

  No, more than unnerving.

  Familiar.

  She knew those eyes.

  She knew those—

  The impossibility of it crashed into the certainty of it and hit her in a wave of fear so cold she shook all over.

  The dragon had Ezry’s eyes.

  She lunged, pulling the contraption out as the second jar filled, and then staring in horror at the blood continuing to pour out of its—his—back. She ripped off her cloak and pressed it against the wound. How could he—why hadn’t he—

  She locked her eyes on his, the only part of him she knew.

  “I’ll get help,” she said, her voice coming from somewhere far away, a place where things seemed less impossible.

  In the past year, Corliss had done many difficult things, but nothing had been harder than standing in front of Kerwin and giving her report.

  “It got away,” she repeated, trying to achieve the perfect tone for this complicated lie.

  “We’ll send a patrol,” Kerwin said. “It must be weak.”

  “It didn’t look weak,” she insisted. “I doubt we’ll see it before the next full moon.”

  “Still, we’ll search at first light. Which direction did it fly?”

  “Southwest,” she said, putting all the certainty she could into the word.

  Kerwin nodded, then put a hand on her shoulder. “This jar is the first dragon’s blood we’ve gotten in four years. You did a fine job tonight.”

  Just a few hours ago his words would have sent her soaring, but now they were meaningless. “Thank you, sir.”

  He gave her a nod and sent her to bed, and she went so as not to rouse suspicion. She didn’t sleep, could hardly hold herself together during breakfast. Kerwin organized a patrol of the southwest woods, and she volunteered because it was the only thing she could think to do. It wasn’t until midday that she got away, forcing herself to walk even though her legs itched to run, trying to empty her mind with every step and failing. What if Adira hadn’t gotten there in time? What if he’d killed Adira, or—

  Ezry wasn’t where she’d left him, but before she could panic Adira motioned to her from the forest’s edge. Her face was a mask of all the fear and worry Corliss could feel clawing at her own stomach.

  “I dragged him in here,” Adira said, voice low but still panicked.

  Corliss could see him now, just a boy covered by her cloak. He looked so tiny. “Is he …”

  “He’s not good. He changed at sunrise. It was …” Adira shook her head. “I did what I could, but he needs a physician.”

  “We could take him back,” she suggested, even though she knew they couldn’t. “He’s not a dragon anymore; we could—”

  “What? He’s got three arrow wounds! They’ll figure it out, they’ll ….”

  Adira didn’t finish, but Corliss could well imagine what they’d do. Kill him. Or cage him, wait for the next full moon, and then drain him dry.

  Like she had tried to do.

  Something was breaking within her, and she clenched it back together. “We need to get him somewhere safe.”

  Adira nodded. “There’s a cave up ahead. The two of us should be able to carry him.”

  They managed. “Has he been awake at all?” Corliss asked.

  “A little, when I first got here. When he was still a dragon. I was ….”

  “What?” Corliss prompted.

  “Scared. I was scared. I didn’t go to him till he passed out.”

  “It’s all right,” Corliss said.

  Adira shook her head. “He lost a lot of blood. The arrows weren’t lodged deep, but the other wound…”

  The wound she had made. “Did you use the blood I gave you?”

  Adira nodded. “But I’m not sure dragon’s blood works miracles on a dragon.”

  “He’s not a dragon now.”

  “No.”

  Corliss looked at Ezry’s still form. They had laid him on his belly, and Adira had pulled back the cloak so Corliss could see all the bandages on his shoulder and back. All the blood.

  “He could have told me,” she said, letting anger rise within her. Anything to dull the fear. “He should have told me.”

  “The book I read, about the dragon woman? It said she didn’t know. When she was a woman, she didn’t remember being a dragon.”

  “But all this time ….”

  “I think this was just the second time he changed. The book said it doesn’t happen till a person reaches maturity.”

  So he hadn’t known. Of course he hadn’t known. He would have told her. Her certainty over that only made her feel sadder.

  They sat there for a long time. Ezry didn’t move. Corliss didn’t move. Every now and then Adira checked Ezry’s bandages, but that was all.

  Finally Adira said, “You need to go fetch me some more bandages and blankets and herbs. Food, too.”

  “You go,” Corliss said.

  “You’re sneakier. I’ll tell you where everything is.”

  The next few days were a blur of fear and subterfuge. Corliss did what she needed to do as a squire, and then sneaked back to the cave at night with supplies. The dragon’s blood seemed to be working, or so Adira claimed.

  On the third night, Adira met her outside the cave. “He’s awake.”

  Joy spread within Corliss. “Good.”

  “Go see him.”

  She nodded but didn’t move, changing the subject instead. “Don’t you need to go back?” She wasn’t sure if physician apprentices were kept track of as closely as squires. “Your first year test must be soon.”

  Adira looked away. “It was two days ago.”

  Her words hit Corliss in the gut. “You should have ….”

  “What? Said, ‘Sorry, I can’t save Ezry’s life, I have a test to take?’”

  “Maybe they’d let you take it later?”

  “You know that’s not how it works.”

  Corliss tried to find something to make it right, but she already knew there was nothing.

  “Stop looking like my life has ended,” Adira said. “I

  don’t obsess over my future in the kingdom like you do. Sometimes I’m more than happy to let fate intervene. Or at least happy enough to avoid the fever wards.”

  “Where will you go?”

  Adira shrugged. “I’ll stay here as long as Ezry needs me. Then … well, there are other kingdoms. Or perhaps there’s a village that could use a half-trained physician.”

  “They’d be lucky to get you,” Corliss murmured. The words seemed inadequate.

  Adira shrugged. “Go see Ezry.”

  Inside the cave, Ezry was sitting up, pale in the lantern light but definitely alive. Before she could say anything, he said, “Thank you.”

  She stared at him. “Why are you thanking me? I nearly killed you.”

  “Adira says you saved my life.”

&
nbsp; “She saved your life.”

  “But you’re the one who sneaked back and fetched her. You’re the one who gave her the blood to use.”

  She shook her head, words sticking in her throat.

  Ezry said, “I’m sorry. For leaving and not telling you.”

  He sounded like he was having trouble talking, too. At least he had said something. She should be the one apologizing. She should—

  “Did I ever tell you how I came to the orphanage?” Ezry asked, not quite looking at her.

  “You were a baby,” she said. Why was he changing the subject?

  “Yes.” He didn’t say anything else for a long moment, but Corliss could feel the words crowding in, and at last they spilled over. “I was found in a cave. By Kerwin.”

  Corliss tried to fit these facts together. “Kerwin?”

  “He was hunting a dragon, him and his mates. They killed it, and then they found me. They figured the dragon must’ve killed my mother.”

  The words sank into Corliss like talons.

  “Kerwin said it was a nice little home in that cave. My mother’s things neat and clean, and a cradle …. I thought that’s why I was having the dreams, about the dragon that killed my mother. That’s why I left, to see if I could find that cave. Finally get over that fear. I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d talk me out of going.”

  She nodded. She would have tried.

  “But now I know the dragon didn’t kill my mother.” He sounded desperate for her to catch on.

  She did. “The dragon was your mother.”

  He nodded, eyes clouded over with tears. “I really did want to be a knight. I thought I could be a good one, too, even if I didn’t have your skills, your confidence. But after those dreams … I knew I couldn’t be. I was too scared. And then it turned out I’m a monster.”

  “You’re not.”

  “I could’ve killed you!”

  “You didn’t.” She paused. “You kept looking at me. I think you knew me.”

  He shut his eyes. “I don’t remember.”

  She wanted to tell him that was good. She didn’t want him to remember the pain she’d inflicted. She wanted to tell him she still knew him, no matter what he was. She wanted to say so much.

  “You’ll be a good knight,” he said. “You were meant for that. There’s nothing I wanted more than to be side by side with you, but … let’s say good-bye now.”

  “What?”

  “You might get caught if you keep sneaking out here. And I have to leave as soon as I’m able. I have to be long gone by the next full moon.” He shoved something into her hand, a tiny vial of red. “In case you ever need it, when you’re a knight.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  He nodded, then turned his head away. She left without saying anything else to him or Adira. She didn’t know how to say good-bye.

  The following evening Corliss stood in her place on the green, except it didn’t feel like her place without Ezry next to her. She’d imagined the Second Year list a thousand times and with multiple outcomes, but all of those scenarios included Ezry.

  Kerwin was speaking, but for the first time Corliss didn’t fully listen until he started reading the names, from the bottom of the list to the top. Shoulders began to sag while others grew tenser, expectant. And then the list was over and hers was the last name, the one left ringing in everyone’s ears.

  “You are one year closer to being knights,” Kerwin said. “To taking the oath to the kingdom you love above all, to pledging your loyalty and honor.”

  The words hit her in the heart. She thought of Adira going into the woods without question when she’d asked her to, of Ezry thanking her and giving her the vial of his blood. Everything she thought she knew seemed to be sliding beneath her feet.

  “Tomorrow, your first task as second year squires will be a patrol of the eastern forest. I mean to discover where the dragon’s hiding so we’ll know exactly where to look next full moon. Or you might catch it napping and take care of it tomorrow. Dismissed.”

  They trooped off the green and then dissolved, celebrating and sobbing. Corliss didn’t listen to any of it. Even if she went now to warn them, Ezry was still too weak to get far with just Adira to help him—

  Rayla tugged on the arm. “I’ll help you drain the dragon this time. It’s not getting away again. Not after what it did to Wati.”

  “How is he?” Corliss asked, distracted.

  “Still with the physicians. They think his arm’s crippled for good.”

  “Can’t they use dragon’s blood on it?”

  Rayla snorted. “They’re not wasting dragon’s blood on a squire.” Her expression was so fierce and sad that Corliss realized Wati was her Ezry.

  You had to be fierce for the people you loved. You had to protect them.

  Corliss went back to the barrack, found everything she needed, and arranged her bed to make it look like someone was sleeping in it. She’d done it before. No one had ever noticed or cared.

  She walked to the physician’s ward, trying not to think about the precious minutes she was wasting. Wati looked surprised to see her. “I suppose you made first name?”

  She nodded.

  “You deserve it,” he said in his grudging way.

  She knew better than to thank him. She fingered the vial in her pocket, thinking of all the awful things Wati had done and said to her and Ezry over the past year. Besides, what if he told, sounded the alarm—

  Wati’s voice interrupted her thoughts. For once it wasn’t grudging or sarcastic; it was just sad. “I would’ve been a good knight.”

  “Maybe you still can be,” she said, shoving the vial into his hand. Because he might be awful, but he wasn’t a snitch. And he would make a good knight.

  “What’s this?” he asked, but she could tell he already knew.

  “Use it,” she whispered. She didn’t need it. The forest was waiting, and Ezry and Adira. If she went, too, they could get him safely away.

  That was where her loyalty and honor belonged. That was where she wanted to be.

  Valerie Hunter is a high school English teacher as well as a graduate student at Vermont College of Fine Arts’ Writing for Children and Young Adults program. Her short stories have appeared in anthologies including Real Girls Don’t Rust, Cleavage: Real Fiction for Real Girls, One Thousand Words for War, Brave New Girls, and (Re)Sisters.

  What Hands Cannot Hold

  J.G. Formato

  Nothing tangible was ever placed in her cauldron, the Wood-Witch explained. Only charlatans and amateurs brew potions with herbs and newts. Magic is intangible, as is its creation.

  A sunbeam, distorted by the dirt of the window pane, bent and crashed into the recesses of her pot. Its small light undulated in the curve of darkness, waiting. Her hands, lined with age and scars, grasped a coolness in the air. She wrestled a curious wayward ghost, trapping it in those powerful hands and bending it over her vessel until it exhaled. The shade’s breath mixed with the sunbeam’s glow, and a steady steam began to rise.

  Iris didn’t see the sunbeam, nor was she aware of the spirit. She saw a wave of hands, a flash of black eyes, and a toss of tangled grey hair. A timid vapor crept out of the cauldron and settled over its wide mouth, awaiting instruction.

  “You are certain?” the Wood-Witch asked.

  “I left with nothing. I have nothing but myself to give. I am certain.” Iris’s journey was defined by certainty, by the conviction that she would never return to her home.

  The witch smiled, she had the final ingredient—consent.

  Old hands grasped young ones, twisting the white palms upright. In her mind’s eye, the witch threaded a binding needle. A golden thread, corded with strands of magic, commitment, and debt slipped easily through its waiting eye. Iris didn’t see the needle, but she felt the pricks and punctures as the witch did her work, stitching their hands together with an invisible thread until she was fully bound. Half in mumble, half in song, the o
ld woman recited her spell.

  “Your hands are mine, you work for me

  Your days are mine, you shall not flee.”

  “364 of my days are yours,” Iris reminded her. She didn’t need a spell to make her keep her word. The promise of that one day was enough.

  “That’s right. 364 are mine. 1 is yours, from sun-up to sundown. Which day do you choose? Tomorrow, I suppose?”

  Iris was surprised. She hadn’t expected the witch to be so forthcoming with her part of the exchange. Her heart swelled, crushing the air from her lungs, and she opened her mouth for a joyful yes.

  The wind howled at the window, battering the panes and fighting for entry. The smudged glass had darkened as the sun slipped away, deserting the land to escape the frigid gusts. The days were so short now. Iris contemplated the darkness.

  “No. I’ll wait,” she decided. “I choose the longest day. I choose the Summer Solstice.”

  The Wood-Witch shrugged. “Suit yourself, Princess.” But when she turned to stoke the fire, Iris swore she heard her mumble something about brains over ball gowns.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said, that cauldron is not going to clean itself.” A scrub brush sailed through the air and pegged Iris squarely in the chest.

  Iris worked faithfully, from dawn to dusk, each and every day. The Wood-Witch was a demanding, but not a cruel, mistress. Iris swept and mopped, cooked and carried. She fed the familiars and tended the herb garden. She led love-struck girls, childless wives, and anxious mothers through the wooded maze of the forest to the creaking, shadowed hut. She handled the payment, so that the witch’s hands would not be sullied with such ‘uncouth and earthly’ matters, leaving her free to pour herself into her art.

  Iris became the witch’s hands as her own changed. Blisters raised, erupted, and fell until a range of callouses dotted Iris’s previously unmarred skin. Skin that had never seen a day’s work or toil, not until she had begged the Wood-Witch to take her.

  The nights were hers. To rest or to dream—mostly to dream. And the nights were getting shorter.

  She woke the Wood-Witch just before dawn. At sunrise, the Solstice would begin, and she would not lose one precious moment. Gripping the leathered skin, she whispered,