Dark Magic

by Rebecca York

  Not that the king read them. But he had paid a fortune for the volumes, most of which had been brought in by merchants whose wooden carts rumbled along the trade routes, and he wanted to be able to tell visitors what they were. Devon had pulled open the heavy door of the library and slipped inside. A small lamp burned on a stand by the door. It was always lit—using up precious camber oil. But if the king commanded the indulgence, then it was done.

  In addition to the lamp, daylight filtered in through the tall, lead-paned windows, and Devon felt a rush of awe. The room never ceased to amaze her. It wasn’t as grand as the great hall, with its coffered ceiling depicting scenes from the lives of the gods and goddesses, rich tapestries of battles and hunting parties and ornately carved chairs and tables. Instead, the library was a hidden gem, reserved for only a privileged few people in the castle.

  It was two stories tall, with carved bookshelves lining all the walls. To reach the top ones required ladders that slid along a hidden track.

  A thick carpet with intricate geometric designs softened the stone floor.

  Kencannon sat at a carved desk across from the comfortable chairs on either side of the massive fireplace. His head was bent, and a lock of glossy dark hair fell over his wide forehead.

  He was so absorbed in a book, running his fingers along the lines of text, that he didn’t hear her enter. When he finally realized he wasn’t alone, a look of alarm strained his pale features.

  “It’s just me,” she whispered. “What is that book?”

  “Old legends.”

  “About what?”

  He lowered his voice. “We shouldn’t discuss them.”

  “Magic?”

  “We shouldn’t discuss it,” he repeated.

  Her chest tightened when she thought of Kencannon. He had been a true friend to her. Well, as much as a mere employee could be a friend to a princess, but he had understood her craving to lose herself in the pages of books. Reading of other times and other places, of science and magic and religion, had been one of her few escapes. For all the good that had done her. Or him.

  Besides cataloging the library, he’d been hired to tutor Grantland. Devon had begged to be included, and her father had permitted her to join a few classes. It would be useful if she could read a little, he’d admitted. But she was denied all the interesting subjects like mathematics and history. She’d had to study those for herself—in secret, with Brinna bringing her books at night and taking them away in the morning.

  That day in the library, Kencannon hadn’t told her what was in the slender volume, even though the two of them had been close. He’d only been a few years older than she, and she knew he was attracted to her, but she’d been afraid o reach out to him that way. Afraid that her father would kill him if he found out.

  And soon after the day in the library, her father banished him when he discovered that Grantland wasn’t learning many of his lessons.

  She had mourned Kencannon’s loss. And she had gone searching for the book he had been reading. It was a dangerous act of defiance, all the more risky because it had taken her several trips to the library to locate the volume.

  She was afraid the tutor had taken it with him, but she finally found it pushed back on a high shelf. She slipped it under her gown, feeling it digging into her flesh as she hurried back to her room. But when she opened it, the words on the page made no sense.

  She read a line, then another. The sentences were long and rambling, a collection of disjointed phrases and clauses that seemed to be thrown together in no particular order.

  Disappointment surged through her. She had risked her father’s wrath for this nonsense?

  But Kencannon hadn’t thought it was nonsense. He’d been so absorbed in the text that he hadn’t known she’d entered the room. Remembering the scene, she pictured him running his fingers along the lines of script.

  With a hand she couldn’t quite keep steady, she did the same thing, and felt a little thrill as her finger felt a series of small pinpricks that marred the surface of the paper.

  Stopping, she looked down and saw nothing. But the sensitive tip of her finger confirmed that the invisible pricks were under some of the words and not others.

  She turned back to the first page and slid her hand over the long title, Into the Mountain the Dragon Dancing in the Moonlight River with Young Soldiers and the Maidens. When she stopped at the words with the pinprick under them, she made out the real title of the book.

  The Dragon and the Maidens.

  She kept reading, using the same method.

  Read this tale at your peril. It is a promise and a warning.

  Not long ago, when Arandal was facing invasion, it seemed there was no hope for the kingdom. Until King Varner woke from the same dream for three nights in a row.

  He dreamed of a dark-haired man with a streak of white down the center of his hair who came to his room through a locked door where no human could enter.

  “I am Cragor, and I can save your kingdom,” he told Varner.

  But the king thought it was only a dream that rose from his fear and despair.

  Devon had read the book so many times that she knew the words by heart. Now in the darkness of the hut, she ran her finger along the lines, silently saying the words. Lifting her head, she stared out into the darkness, still feeling as if someone was watching her.

  But the night remained still, and she went back to the tale, touching the lines as she remembered the story.

  On the fourth day, Cragor appeared in the great hall of the castle. He did not enter in the ordinary manner; he flickered into existence in the blink of an eye—by magic.

  Everyone gasped in astonishment. Some people thought he was a demon. Some thought he was sent by the gods. But all cowered before him.

  Except the king. Determined to show no fear in front of his people, King Varner stood and spoke.

  “Sit with me, stranger, and tell me why you have come.”

  “I am Cragor, and I can save your kingdom.” The man sat at the king’s table, but he refused food and drink. Instead he began to talk of a fearsome dragon living in the northern mountains between Arandal and Caladon, mountains where few dared to venture.

  “The dragon will help Arandal defeat the enemy marching toward the castle.”

  “And what does he want in return?” the king asked.

  “Your men must bring a young woman to the beast as a living sacrifice. If she is acceptable to him, he will drink her blood—then throw his power to Arandal. But the woman must be a beautiful virgin or she will not be good enough for the dragon’s use.”

  With that, Cragor walked to the far end of the room and vanished in a flash of green flames. Everyone in the hall was terrified, but King Varner was desperate, because he knew his troops were not strong enough to defeat the enemy massing on his borders. So he sent soldiers through the kingdom, searching for a woman of high virtue.

  His men brought several maidens to him, and he talked with each of them. One seemed to be the best candidate. When Varner told her she had been chosen to save the kingdom, she pleaded to go back to her village, but he said that she and her family would be honored by her sacrifice.

  Before she could flee, he had her bound and put into a cart for the three-day journey to the northern mountains. When the cart could go no farther, soldiers carried her up the mountain to a place where a pure stream ran down from the rocks.

  As the dragon had requested, they clothed her in a white gown and took her at twilight as close as they dared to the place where the dragon lived, a cave where the ground outside was burned black. Then they tied her to a stake, made cuts in her flesh to draw the beast to her and hid behind giant boulders to watch.

  The dragon smelled her blood and came to that place, gathered her up and carried her into his cave. She was never seen again, but when the invading army drew near the castle, the great winged creature swooped down on Arandal’s enemies, spraying them with fire. All the invaders were wiped out or fl
ed in terror, and King Varner knew the sacrifice had been successful.

  In celebration, he bought many rich goods from far lands and many delicate foods.

  Six moons later, when the royal treasury was dwindling, the king sent his soldiers out looking for another young woman who was pure of heart. Once again they found an excellent candidate and had her brought to the dragon as a living sacrifice. And this time the king was rewarded by the dragon with a great treasure of gold and jewels.

  But Varner was greedy, and half a year later, he decided to bring another sacrifice to the beast. This time, it was more difficult to find a beautiful virgin. But how would a dragon know she was not worthy? He chose a beautiful woman and sent her to the mountains as before. The soldiers cut her flesh, tied her to a stake and left her for the dragon.

  But the dragon knew the king had tried to trick him. Instead of accepting the sacrifice, the dragon came flying to Arandal, roaring his rage from the sky. He flew low over the castle, and smote it with fire, reducing one of the great towers to ruins.

  King Varner was killed by the falling rock. And his son, Prince Sorak, who had watched it all, stood trembling in fear.

  The dragon landed and approached him.

  “Your father trifled with me. Do not make the same mistake. Not you or the next generation, or the generations to come. I am magic. I will be in the mountains for centuries. If you need my help again, you must send a beautiful virgin. But I have another requirement now. She must come to me willingly.”

  With that, he rose into the air and flew away.

  Devon closed the book and sat trembling, her fingers digging into the stiff boards of the cover.

  Since she’d first read the story, it had captivated her. She had read it so many times that it had burned itself into her brain. Magic had been the downfall of the kingdom. Was that the reason the spells and powers of the mind had been forbidden by her father and kings before him? There had been no one she could ask. But she had tried to study it on her own.

  In the histories of Arandal, there was no King Varner or Prince Sorak. Not long ago and not in the recent past. But about two hundred years previously, part of the castle had fallen on a King Balwin, killing him. His son, Prince Albar, had succeeded to the throne. Could that be the time of the story? Had the writer of the book disguised the names to make the story seem like a legend?

  She had puzzled over the tale. Although she knew she should return the book to the library, she had hidden it at the bottom of her marriage chest.

  Then disaster had struck the kingdom, and she had started thinking about it again. What if she could use the forbidden magic to save the people of Arandal?

  She was still a virgin. She had been told she was beautiful. And she was coming to the monster of her own free will. Almost to her surprise, she had escaped from the castle and survived the attack by the barbarians. Wasn’t that proof that the gods looked with favor on her journey? In the morning she would continue north, toward the magic mountains.

  In the story, the dragon had promised he would be waiting. But suppose it was too late for the dragon?

  No. She believed in him. Believed in the story. She had to.

  Chapter Nine

  Bright sunlight woke Devon. Sitting up, she ran a shaky hand through her tangled hair, the little darts of pain, souvenirs from her escape the day before, helping to ground her.

  As she looked around the hut, she remembered everything that had happened since she’d left the castle. It was like a dream. Too much for one day. But it was all true, and now she must continue her journey.

  Or did she have choices she had never imagined?

  She was free of her father’s power now. She could make her own decisions. And what if she was making the wrong one? She had read the book and thought she could seek help from the dragon. That was before she had met Galladar. What if she called him to her? Would he come back?

  Then again, if he took her away she might be safe, but what about her people?

  Devon leaned against the wall, trembling, her heart racing in her chest. Pressing her face into her hands, she struggled to cope with her roiling emotions.

  She had felt so alone. So different from the daughter her father wanted. From all other women that she knew. The girls in town who had been her friends had never been her equal. Because she was the princess, she had always been a little apart from them and from the women of the court. Some of them envied her. But Lady Ellena and the other mature women treated her like a child too ignorant to know her place or learn her duties.

  Trying to focus on physical necessities, she ate the porridge she found in the kettle at the fireplace, then drank water from a gourd hanging on the wall. Finally she searched through the clothing in the hut and took a loose shirt and britches that looked as if they belonged to a young man.

  Outside, she checked the position of the sun before starting off, making her way through the forest. She encountered no living people, but the first time she walked into a hut and almost tripped over rotting bodies, she gagged and went running in the other direction.

  She was more cautious after that, sniffing the air before she approached any dwellings. All of them were empty of living people. In some she found food. More porridge. Stale bread. Cheese. And deer meat that had been preserved.

  She took some of the meat and cheese with her. When she found a water skin, she took that along, too.

  The country grew rougher, more rocky, the slopes more pronounced. In the distance, she could see the northern mountains.

  She continued on, keeping up her spirits by remembering the songs of her people. She didn’t sing them aloud, but she ran them through her head. Songs of love. Of battles. Of death. Of courage. And of the gods.

  They comforted her and kept her mind occupied—except when she thought of Galladar. He had taught her the secrets of her womanhood. If anything could turn her from her purpose, it was him, but she struggled to put him out of her mind.

  She traveled for three days, meeting no one, eating the food she had found in several huts and also a few sweet mountain berries that she found. She drank from clear mountain streams where the water was cold and pure. Sometimes she wished Galladar would appear and stop her. But he never came, and she pressed onward.

  Other times she let her mind turn back to her parents and her brother. Grantland was no scholar, but if he survived, perhaps he would make a better king than her father.

  When she let herself think about the monster, she almost lost her nerve, but somehow she kept walking into the mountains.

  Gradually the trees grew shorter and more scraggly and the low vegetation more compact. The sun was dipping behind a tall peak when she came to a place where the ground was scorched and rocky. Beyond that was the mouth of a cave.

  This must be the place she had read about.

  Now she must make herself acceptable to the dragon.

  She retraced her steps to a fast running stream she had crossed. Waiting until twilight, she pulled off her travel clothing and washed her body in the cold water, using a bit of soap she had brought along. Then she dried herself with the shirt.

  When she was clean, she opened her bag again. With trembling hands, she took out the garment she had hidden in the lining. A thin white gown that Brinna had sewed for her wedding night.

  She pulled it over her head, feeling the silky fabric cup her breasts. The waist was snug, with the skirt flaring out over her hips. She had seen herself in this gown. She knew her nipples showed indecently through the cups of the bodice. And the skirt did nothing to hide the golden triangle of hair at the top of her legs. Only her husband and her serving women should see her like this, but here she was, out in the open air.

  She reminded herself that Galladar had seen her with less. He had seen her naked. Although she squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to banish him from her mind, she couldn’t forget him. He had brought her pleasure beyond her imagining, and she had given that up—because she must.

  Ne
xt she took out the gold chain with the Arandal crest of a laurel branch and a sword worked onto a flat disk. Quickly she slipped the token around her neck, so that the crest lay flat against her chest.

  Would she please the monster?

  Would he accept her as a sacrifice?

  She wasn’t going to cut her own flesh with a knife. But she knew how to do something similar.

  Her heart pounding wildly inside her chest, she went back to the scorched earth and continued on to an open field where the rocks were small and sharply pointed, covering the ground like a treacherous carpet.

  Her hands were trembling as she unbuckled the straps of her sandals and tossed them away.

  Teeth clenched, she took a tentative step onto the shifting surface.

  A sharp rock dug into her sole, but she took another step, and another, ignoring the pain. She was halfway across the terrible field when a voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “Who dares approach this place?”

  She looked up and saw a man standing rigidly at the opposite side of the rocks, about twenty yards away, his back to a mountain cliff.

  He was tall, with dark hair and dark eyes fixed on her like a hawk watching a rabbit. He wore black leggings and a black shirt open at the neck.

  It was Galladar.

  Shock rolled over her, but she managed to ask, “What are you doing here? Where is Cragor, the dragon?”

  “I killed him,” he said in a flat voice.

  “No,” she gasped.

  Chapter Ten

  Galladar’s gaze drilled into her. “Princess Devon, you should not be here—dressed like that.”

  A wave of anger rolled over her. “I came here in good faith. And you have ruined everything.”

  “In good faith? Following an old legend.”

  “You talked about the dragon.”

  “In a moment of weakness.”

  “And…and you told me that perhaps the dragon could save my people, as in the legend.”

  “The dragon is dead.”

  She balled her hands into fists.