The Dragon Queen

by J M Sanford

  “All puts me in mind of an old story,” said Percival, sitting down in the chair on the opposite side of the fireplace. He’d spent much of the recent days in a quiet meditative state: without the full magic of his armour, his health was suffering more and more, and he moved like an old man, reliant on his borrowed walking stick. “Do you know the story of the Marches of the Harpies? The harpies had been at war with the goblins of the mountains for… oh, a long time. Losing ground. Desperate.”

  Amelia wanted to tell him that this was hardly the time for history lessons or fairy tales (whichever it would be if harpies were involved) but there had been something of her father about Percival’s quiet, tired voice. It made her feel like a small child again, and with tears brimming in her eyes, she couldn’t bring herself to protest as he continued.

  One night, the sky grew thick with dark wings as the harpies and their crow companions retreated to the highest reaches of their ruined castle. There they stayed for many moons, fiercely defending their last refuge, though they knew that they must either admit defeat or be slaughtered in the end. Their fortunes changed when a half-goblin – said to be more cunning than a goblin, more ruthless than a man – enslaved a Blindwyrm and with it slew the old Lord of the Goblins, taking his place. Under the rule of the new Lord, the goblins made an offer of peace to the harpies, under one condition: the harpies must offer a bride for the new Lord of the Goblins. The two nations would be united as the war ended not in crushing bloody defeat, but in the celebration of a wedding. But when the question was asked “who should the bride be?” a whisper of discontent ran around the assembled harpies, under the rustle of feathers. “Not my daughter,” it went, “Not my precious girl.”

  The harpies went to consult a mage living in the area, in a tower surrounded by thickets of brambles. Harpies and giant crows flew over the thorns, alighting at every window, offering every last coin of treasure they had for some spell to trick the Lord of the Goblins. But “begone!” shouted the mage, for he disliked wars that threatened to spill over his own doorstep. “It’s only good and proper that your two races should unite in marriage. Harpies, goblins, what’s the difference? You’re both nuisances!” Then, annoyed with the constant chatter of crows and jackdaws at his windows, he banished them with storm winds. The mage’s assistant, however, had heard the offers shouted and whispered at every window of the tower. At the end of his day’s work, he spoke the secret word to the brambles around the tower, and they pulled back, clearing a path for him to walk out into the forest, towards the modest cottage that he called his own. The thought of treasure certainly appealed, but more than treasure, the mage’s assistant thought he could make a name for himself if he could find some answer to the harpies’ dilemma… The sound of a girl’s laughter distracted him, and he looked up to see a dryad dancing in her mossy grove, her long golden hair flying about her as she skipped and whirled to the music of the birds. She saw him, bid him dance with her. Kicking off his shoes, the assistant joined her, and the two danced until the sun disappeared beneath the horizon and they both fell down exhausted. With golden tresses and eyes as green as sunshine through new leaves, the dryad would make a bride fit for a Lord, the Archmage’s assistant thought. While she slept, he summoned iron from deep in the rocks, fashioning it into tiny iron chains around her ankles. When the dryad woke, she found she’d lost all her power, and try as she might, she couldn’t turn back into a tree. She fought the assistant…

  “Um.” The knight hesitated, looking as if he’d forgotten where his story was going. “This mage’s assistant appears in many stories, usually named… Alric, that’s it…”

  “Sir Percival, I don’t –”

  “Where was I? Ah, yes:”

  Uprooted from her forest home and the nourishing earth, the dryad couldn’t summon the strength to resist Alric as he dragged her to the highest towers of the harpies’ ruined castle. Excited over this new prize, the harpies invited Alric to the wedding, but he refused, already ashamed of what he’d done, and hurried back to his master’s tower and the thousand thankless chores that awaited him there.

  Before he left, he’d warned the harpies that more than a few days in a darkness would kill a dryad, and so they kept her in a room with a sunny window, open to the rain, but there was nowhere amongst the dead stones of the ruined castle for the dryad to put down roots. Only the humblest of weeds could find shelter in the cracks, and even they hardly thrived, with the cold high winds tearing at their leaves. The dryad, hoping to win kindness from her captors, caused strange and wonderful fruits to grow from every plant she could touch: fruits as intoxicating as wine, fruits that healed the sick… The harpies were tempted to keep her for themselves, but hadn’t forgotten they needed a bride to appease the Lord. They locked her in a windowless cell, warned her to make no more fruit, taught her what she must say… and then they summoned the Lord of the Goblins to their castle.

  He arrived riding his captive Blindwyrm, the great beast enslaved with a heavy collar of iron, a hundred goblin soldiers marching at his back. The harpies and their crows fluttered from the Blindwyrm and the goblins like scraps of shadow, but the bravest of the harpies stood her ground, wings spread, an imposing figure. “We have selected a bride for you! The most beautiful amongst us, as fair as we are dark, a diamond amongst coals. Ever since she blossomed into such beauty, we’ve kept her hidden. Now we bring her forth.”

  “Why does the precious princess always have to be fair as milk and sunshine anyway?” said Bessie, impatient to be planning.

  “’Now we bring her forth,” said Percival, pointedly. “Her name is Brambleheart.’”

  The dryad was led out, the iron chains that bound her as fine as silk threads, hidden beneath the hem of her dress. She’d been warned to do as she was told or suffer the consequences, and she kept quiet, avoiding the gaze of the Lord of the Goblins. It so happened that the goblins (living deep underground as goblins did) had never seen a dryad before, and believed the harpies’ lies completely. The half-goblin Lord, though, scrutinized the offered bride.

  “She is fair,” said he. “And she has no wings.”

  “Her father, like your mother, was human,” said the bravest of the harpies.

  Captivity had weakened Brambleheart, body and soul. Had she known she was destined for dark dank caves beneath the mountains, she would never have consented to marry the Lord of the Goblins. She would have fought tooth and nail, down to her last breath. “My mother was a crow,” she said, “dark as midnight.” Just as she had been told by the harpies.

  The half-goblin Lord nodded, satisfied with what he took to be a half-harpy, and a beautiful one at that.

  Brambleheart walked to the altar with nameless terror in her heart. The eyeless Blindwyrm and the quick grey goblins were subterranean creatures, foreign and repulsive to a dryad whose only purpose in life was to strive ever towards the sun, but as she gazed at the heavy collar of the Blindwyrm she thought of the iron chains about her own ankles and felt a stirring of dreadful sympathy. Did the Goblin Lord mean to keep her as nothing more than a slave, as he kept that beast? The day was overcast, but even the slightest sight of the sun filtering through the grey clouds strengthened her. The first drops of rain on her skin awakened her from her sleepwalking. Harpies and goblins alike took shelter where they could, but Brambleheart stood still as the rain ran down her face and tumbled through the twinings of her hair. The thunder rolling across the sky quickened the pace of her heart. She had no roots to hold fast against the storm, but she had two legs… and the suddenness and swiftness with which she ran took everyone by surprise. She ran like a leaf blown on the wind; ran for the familiar refuge of the forest. The trees recognised their own kin, parting to allow her passage and closing behind her, hiding her from her pursuers. But with the iron chains about her ankles, she could not take root and turn back into a tree. Footsore, haunted by the cawing of crows above the trees, terrified that goblins would find her, she continued to run until she came upon a cott
age in a clearing. She hammered on the door with all that remained of her strength, and when the door opened she collapsed, falling into the arms of the man who had traded her to the harpies: Alric, the mage’s assistant. Overcome with remorse, he cut the iron chains.

  The dryad put down roots at once, tearing through the floorboards. She burst the walls, she tore the roof, and Alric was hardly in a position to berate her for it. He stood and stared up at the canopy of green leaves against the dark purple of storm clouds. Strange fruits, red as heart’s blood, hung heavy amongst the branches. “Daughter of the trees, what happened?” Alric asked, but the dryad refused to answer – not so much as a whisper of her branches. Rain dripped on his head through the ruined roof. What was he to do with such a creature? When he heard the goblin soldiers approaching down the narrow path, he had to make up his mind quickly. In an instant, he cast a glamour on himself and the cottage. He answered the door in the guise of a withered old peasant man, hunchbacked and tangle-bearded.

  “Where is my bride?” demanded the Lord of the Goblins.

  “No bride here,” said Alric. “Nobody’s wife here since long these years…”

  The Lord of the Goblins looked around at the rainwater pooling on the floor, the single chair by the fireplace. No, nobody here but a poor old widower with nothing to his name but this broken cottage. The goblins left, intent on their hunt. After a time, Alric dropped his disguise, and looked hopefully up at the tall, proud tree. “Forgive me,” he said.

  “Eat this fruit and die of it,” whispered the dryad, through the patter of raindrops like tears upon her leaves.

  Alric gazed around at the ruined cottage in despair. He would have to go cap in hand to his master.

  The Goblin Lord, thwarted, vowed to wipe out the last of the harpies in revenge. Before the moon turned again, only a handful of scattered and hunted survivors remained…

  “Oh,” said Percival. “Rude of Meg to fall asleep in the middle of my story like that.” Meg was indeed snoring softly in her chair, and on closer inspection Master Greyfell had also fallen asleep. Bryn, making sincere apologies in between vast lion yawns, curled up in front of the fire. Harold and Bessie were whispering plans on the other side of the room, and Percival leaned forward to lay a hand gently on Amelia’s arm. “Do you understand?”

  “You’re saying you don’t think I could bear it,” said Amelia. “Being married to a dragon. That I’d be like Brambleheart married to the Goblin Lord, except I wouldn’t have anywhere to run away to. But sometimes ladies have to make sacrifices for the good of others.”

  “Amelia, the fact that the White Prince is a dragon is no mere unfortunate flaw. It is not something a wife should have to live with in exchange for his better qualities.” His wealth, his power, his princely glamour. “The dragon may offer you the world. Be careful to consider what kind of world he can give.” Percival yawned. “I do apologise. Must be the waning of my armour’s powers. I shall… sleep… tonight…”

  Amelia stared into the fire. It was up to her what she did now that she’d finally met the White Prince – Meg had said as much. But then she told me not to let myself be tamed by a man, so when was it ever really up to me?

  28: QUEEN OF SPIDERS

  Bessie’s voice intruded on pleasant dreams of sun-dappled green glades: “I have a plan.”

  Amelia groaned. “Oh, please no.”

  “It’ll work this time, I swear,” Bessie promised.

  “It’s not that; just…” Amelia let her head fall back against the heavily upholstered chair, and her eyelids slid closed. The world receded at once into dark distance, and when she spoke again, even her own voice sounded as if it came from far, far away. “Just let me sleep on it,” she mumbled. Tomorrow would be the last day before the wedding and as far as she could tell that must be when Regeltheus would challenge his brother… stake his claim on the Dragon Lands and marry her… turn her into a dragoness and set her life on an entirely new course, for better or for worse… in sickness and in health, ‘til death…

  “No!” Bessie protested, shaking her forcefully by the shoulder, “We don’t have time for sleeping.”

  “Then I’ll just close my eyes for…” even speaking was an effort, drawing breath and forcing it back out again, “just a few minutes longer…”

  “No! Get up!” Bessie shouted in her ear, shaking her even more roughly. “You’ve been drugged. You all have, apart from me and Harold.”

  “What?” Amelia opened her eyes. Meg, Greyfell and Perce were all asleep in their chairs, Bryn curled up like a cat before the fireplace. There was no danger… There was nothing to be afraid of…

  “There must have been something in the wine,” said Bessie. “I really hope it’s just making you sleepy.”

  Amelia glanced at the clock. “It’s gone two in the morning! And if you want me using magic for this, this marvellous plan of yours, I can’t –”

  “You can’t do spells properly in the middle of the night, apparently,” Bessie finished impatiently. “But I have an idea.”

  “There’s no need for you to go having ideas,” said Amelia, yawning. “My prince will –” She stopped there. She’d sounded exactly like Rose. Was she ready to depend solely on her prince, who she’d first met mere hours ago? She sat forward, resting her elbows on her knees as she endeavoured to scrub the sleepiness from her eyes. “Oh, go on then.” It wouldn’t hurt to hear Bessie out.

  Bessie still showed no real signs of fatigue, but for the faintest of bruising under her eyes. Almost bouncing on the spot with nervous energy, she spoke animatedly, “Harold and I have confirmed it: everything’s here; everything’s within arm’s reach. The throne room, the crown, the wedding ring. This is our last, best chance to win the contest and defeat Ar–” – she stumbled over his name in her enthusiasm – “defeat him once and for all. If one of us two is crowned Queen of the Dragon Lands, we could spare the loser, and order our safe return to the real world.”

  Amelia raised her eyebrows. That had been exactly what she’d had in mind, though she didn’t dare think what would become of them all if she failed again. “I think we’d do better with a dragon on our side. Don’t forget our dear host killed his own brother.”

  “Yes, so I was thinking that I’d better be the one to take the crown, because I’m the only one who wouldn’t be saddled with a dragon for a husband. I know you’ve been making progress with your White Prince, but I’m not sure –”

  “Did you know the wedding ring will turn you into a dragoness?” interrupted Amelia.

  Bessie stared at her, her mouth open but finally lost for words.

  “You didn’t know that, did you?” But Amelia could almost see the planning and plotting in Bessie’s eyes, the scramble for a solution. How will you graduate then?” Amelia pushed. “Somehow I can’t imagine your Antwin Academy allowing a dragon in the classroom.”

  “The ring might be the same as the crown,” Bessie said, voicing the option to see how it sounded, “I might be able to take it off and turn back –”

  “And you might not.”

  Bessie fell silent, calculating the risks. Then she sagged into the chair opposite Amelia. “Fine,” she said, defeated. “Then we do as Harold suggested: tell the dragon you don’t want to marry him, and pray that he’ll destroy the ring and the crown just to spite his brother.”

  Amelia fidgeted. “But I… I said that if only Harold would come back, I’d happily marry a dragon.”

  “Said to who?”

  “Um. Fate.” This was the first time Amelia had spoken of it aloud, and she didn’t like the way it sounded, or the suspicious way Bessie looked at her. “I made a bargain with fate, so I can’t –”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Bessie, sternly. “You love Harold; I want to finish school. Neither one of us is going to marry a dragon. Agreed?”

  Amelia blushed. “I– I don’t… I just want him to be safe, that’s all…”

  “Whatever, the first part of my plan stands,”
said Bessie, ignoring Amelia’s stammered denial, “we have to get the crown away from Rose.”

  “Well,” said Amelia, still hot pink, “how do you plan to do that?”

  ~

  Harold had his part to play in Bessie’s plan. By dawn, she’d armed him with half a dozen spellpapers, instructions on what to do with them, and a stern warning not to handle them too roughly. With the fire sprite in his cage lighting the way, Harold scouted the rooms and corridors surrounding the courtyard where the iron dragon lay. Stupid’s light flickered blue and purple, puddling and flaring in the gloom, impossible to mistake for the light of a candle or an oil lamp. He’d been bearing up better lately, becoming accustomed to the strange magic. Harold wished the same could be said for Sir Percival, who would only be able to play the small but important role of supporting Bessie’s alibi later on.

  Four separate doors led to the courtyard, one at each point of the compass. At one of the doors, listening to the ring of metal on metal, the sound of golems at work, Harold spat into his palm and used the spit to wet the ends of the spellpaper. Then he paused. Bessie had instructed him to paste her spellpapers across the space between a doorknob and doorframe, but their bright orange colour would give the game away if someone opened the door from this side. He could just about reach to paste one of the papers between the top of the door and the lintel. There: not much chance of anybody glancing up and seeing it there. He had more spellpapers than doors, so he doubled up the papers on a couple of the doors, hoping for a bigger effect. Bessie hadn’t been clear on the exact workings of these things. After pasting the last of the orange spellpapers at the top of the last door, Harold retreated into the shadows to wait. Just a little longer…