by Resa Nelson
Wendill removed the wooden cover from the well and pulled up the dry bucket from its depths. Picking up a pebble from the forest floor, he tossed it into the well, listening intently until he heard it bounce on the bottom. “The well is dry,” he whispered.
“No!” Norah dropped to her hands and knees at the lip of the well, peering down into it. “No!” She ran her hands along the polished stone rim and as far as she could reach down its sides.
Wendill watched in awe. She knew. Somehow, the young dragon knew what was needed, even if she didn’t understand it herself.
Rubbing the dry, polished stones, Norah wept. Where her tears landed on the stone surface, its color faded to pale gray, mottling the surface.
Wendill approached her slowly, not wanting to startle her. Kneeling by her side, he cupped his hand at the line of her jaw and caught the tears that fell.
Too upset to jerk away from his touch, Norah cried harder.
Lifting his cupped hand to his face, Wendill drank her tears, which tasted like spring water.
Startled, Norah watched in silence, still weeping. Her tears kept falling on the stone surface of the well, changing more and more of its color to pale gray. Although the well had gone dry, her tears had the power to fill it again.
She pointed at Wendill. “Better.”
He examined his hands. His skin looked smoother and the color much improved, more vital. He expected his overall appearance made him look stronger and younger. “Yes,” he said. “Because of you.”
Norah cried out in surprise at the touch of a wet flake of snow landing on her nose. She shivered violently.
Wendill stared up at the sky, darkening with imposing, foggy clouds. Soon, the snowflakes would be thick and furious. If Norah had been able to drink from the well, it might have been possible to carry on. But Wendill now realized they’d pushed their luck. Norah seemed too weak to withstand the oncoming storm and the coldness of winter that bore down upon them. Plus, although Norah had the power to replenish the well, it would take months to do so.
“Here,” Wendill said, pushing Norah into the well. “You’ll be safe here.”
Norah cried out when she fell into the depth of the empty well. A soft thud told Wendill that she had landed safely at the bottom.
As a sudden onslaught of snowflakes blinded him with white, Wendill removed his clothes, folded them, and slipped them inside a hollow in a nearby tree trunk. He stretched and breathed deeply while taking one last look at the sky above.
Wendill grew and curled his body around the edge of the Dragon’s Well. Transforming into his dragon shape, his body expanded until it covered the mouth of the well completely. Then, amidst the furry of the snowstorm, Wendill changed his dragon body into stone, sealing the well and protecting it from the cold.
CHAPTER 49
Weeks later, Astrid and Margreet sat next to each other on a wooden bench, watching Vinchi teach a handful of teenage boys how to fight with weapons.
They’d traveled for many days, first through the forest and then through a stretch of low-lying hills. Every morning, the increasingly cold air made Astrid’s skin feel so brittle and stiff that it might break. Every harsh breath numbed the inside of her nose and mouth. But every day they walked south, the sky appeared a bit clearer and the climate warmed slightly. Finally, they came upon a fine stone mansion surrounded by a village twice the size of Guell encircled by a trench barricade filled with brambles.
Vinchi led them to the barricade’s gate, where he spoke with the guards and gained entrance for the three of them. Astrid gazed in wonder at the enormous stone mansion, towering as tall as the treetops of the Forest of Aguille, standing squarely atop the highest hill in the region. Unlike the natural formation of the tower on Tower Island, which had been fashioned by dragons, the stone mansion had the smooth polished lines made by men. The stones were dark, mottled gray, and they fit together like puzzle pieces to form each wall. The simple but enormous structure included a walkway along the perimeter of its pitched roof, constantly patrolled by guards.
Astrid, Vinchi, and Margreet had been escorted from the barricade gate through the village and toward the stone mansion. Astrid stared at the activity surrounding them. Cows and goats grazed on a lawn beside the mansion, while villagers busied themselves around their wattle-and-daub huts, streams of smoke rising from the hole in the center of each thatched roof. The air thickened with the scent of meat being smoked.
Once at the door of the mansion, they’d waited outside for so long that Astrid wondered if they’d been forgotten. Finally, a servant girl led them inside. The sudden cool, dank atmosphere inside the mansion startled Astrid. She noticed its walls were covered in gigantic, musty tapestries and there seemed to be at least one fireplace in every room. Astrid imagined that’s how they kept the place warm once the weather turned. The muffled hush of the bottoms of their soft leather shoes against the cold stone floor echoed all around them like scampering mice. The air smelled stale, and Astrid suspected it had been hanging in the same room for decades.
The servant girl had led them to a chamber full of carved wooden chairs, more tapestries, and the musky dark furs of bears spread on the floor. A middle-aged man sat alone in the room, leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed. Under normal circumstances, Astrid would have taken him for a farmer from the look of his plain, weathered face. But when they approached, she noticed a faint scar running diagonally across his forehead. It was a clean, straight line—the type a sword would likely leave in its wake.
The servant girl spoke, her brow creased with worry at the peril of waking him.
The man covered his face with his hands, waking up from a deep sleep and shielding the light from his eyes. He snapped a short complaint at the girl.
The servant girl scampered from the chamber room, not one who needed to be told once, much less twice.
Letting his hands fall from his face and opening his eyes, the master smiled. “Vinchi.”
Astrid soon learned that the man owned not only the mansion and the village but all the surrounding land. Worried about invasion, he’d told Vinchi to come teach his sons how to fight once trading season had ended. That’s what Vinchi had done every day since they’d arrived, but Astrid and Margreet were subjected to the gentler activities of proper women, which apparently boiled down to wasted time doing nothing of importance. Astrid’s protests and rejection of such gentler activities had been ignored. No matter what she said or did, Astrid found herself supervised very closely every day.
It relieved Astrid to see Margreet grow bored so quickly, too. She’d wondered if Margreet would enjoy the opportunity to huddle out of sight with other women and was glad to see Margreet had no more stomach for that kind of thing than Astrid.
Although no one would tell Astrid the details, Margreet had said something offensive enough to banish her to the hall where the boys learned weapons skills. Insisting that she needed to stick by Margreet’s side, Astrid beamed at the thought of getting her hands on a sword again, even if it wasn’t Starlight. She missed the heft of a sword’s grip in her hands as much as she missed the heat and smoke of her smithery back in Guell.
Striding along the wall to stay out of range of the boys’ sword blows while Vinchi trained them, Astrid knelt by Vinchi’s bag of weapons. Sorting through them, she withdrew a metal practice weapon. Somewhat shorter than a dragonslayer’s sword, it sported a two-handed grip, dull edges, and a dull point. However, the blade itself was thicker and the weight felt solid in her hands.
“Put that back!” Vinchi shouted from across the hall.
Pretending she hadn’t heard, Astrid took a few practice swings.
Vinchi dashed toward her, grabbing the blade in his gloved hands and yanking it away. “I’m earning our keep by teaching the boys, not you.” He put the practice sword back in his bag of weapons like a father putting a sleeping infant in its bed. “And you and your errant friend are here for punishment, not study. So sit down and behave yourselves!
”
Astrid crossed her arms. “And if I refuse?”
“I’ll have you sent back to the Northlands.”
“But the mountains won’t be passable for months. How would I get back to Guell?”
“That is not my problem.” Vinchi smiled sweetly. “It is yours.”
Astrid recognized his tone of voice. Vinchi meant every word he uttered. What good would it do for Astrid to head back toward the Northlands now?
Arms crossed, she paced back to join Margreet. They sat on the wooden bench in the practice hall, and Astrid spoke her mind. “I think you’re glad we took you from your husband. I think maybe you took being his wife to heart so much that you forgot who you are, and now you’re beginning to remember.”
Of course, Margreet still spoke none of Astrid’s language and therefore had no idea what she’d said. “You remind me of my friend Lenore,” Astrid continued. “She once had a wealthy husband who truly loved her, but the only way she believed she could succeed as his wife was to become like him. And then the only way she could become herself again was to cut off her feet.”
Astrid made a chopping motion at her own feet, and Margreet’s eyes widened in horror. “But she’s fine now,” Astrid said. “Another man loves her just the way she is. And she walks on spirit feet that come from her belief in them.” Astrid paused. “If you believe you can be happy without your husband, then you can fashion a new life out of that belief. Just like Lenore.”
Margreet pointed at the boys, scowling and unleashing a tirade of gibberish. Astrid now recognized a few words of Margreet’s language: “sword,” “dragon,” and “incompetent,” which seemed to be Margreet’s favorite word.
The master of the mansion had twelve children, ten of whom were boys, ranging from a toddler to the eldest who sported a light beard that did little more than hug the edge of his jaw. Vinchi trained eight of those boys, giving most of his attention to the four oldest. Mostly, he kept an eye on the younger ones to make sure they didn’t hurt themselves or each other, even though all the boys trained with wasters, wooden versions of swords that bore the same shape and weight.
Suddenly, Margreet jabbed her elbow into Astrid’s side, pointing with fury and passion at the oldest boy, who had just fallen to the ground after aiming a missed blow at his brother and being carried to the floor by its momentum.
Speaking rapidly, Margreet pantomimed the worst-case scenario: Margreet gestured a stabbing motion at the boy on the ground, grabbed her own neck with both hands, and let her tongue hang out the side of her mouth while she acted out a slow and painful death. Carrying out the death scene to its conclusion, she made loud choking noises as she deliberately fell off the bench, rolled on the floor a few times, and finally came to a tragic halt, her eyes staring vacantly at the high ceiling.
Vinchi’s youngest student, who looked to be about eight years old, giggled wildly. He dashed toward Margreet and stabbed her lightly with the waster.
With the scream of a vengeful ghost, Margreet sat up wild-eyed and reached with tickling fingertips toward the boy’s belly.
Shrieking with glee, he raced to hide behind Vinchi.
The weapons practice came to a silent halt, and everyone stared at Margreet.
The oldest boy turned to Vinchi, complaint in his voice when he pointed first at Margreet and then at the door.
“No!” Astrid said, jumping to her feet. Even though she knew only Vinchi could understand her, Astrid shouted, “We’re not leaving. Watching you is all we have to do!”
Margreet rose slowly, again talking so rapidly that Astrid suspected she couldn’t have understood the woman even if they spoke the same language. Venting frustration, Margreet continued for a few minutes without pausing to breathe.
The four oldest boys surrounded Vinchi, all of them speaking at once.
Vinchi closed his eyes, his face sagging with the despair of wishing to be someplace else.
Finally, the youngest approached Margreet, his eyes large and round with sorrow. He dragged the wooden sword, its point clacking against the floor.
Margreet grew silent as the youngest boy drew near. Without a word, he handed his own sword to her.
Margreet smiled, and Astrid felt entranced, realizing Margreet looked happy for the first time.
The youngest boy spoke solemnly to Margreet. He stared longingly at the door leading to a bright sunny day outside the practice hall.
Equally solemn, Margreet accepted the waster from him. He squealed for joy and raced out the door. Moments later, his young brothers dropped their own wasters and followed suit.
Wooden sword in hand, Margreet mimicked everything she’d watched the boys learn for the past few weeks.
Of course! Just because Vinchi refuses to teach us doesn’t mean we can’t learn.
Astrid often peppered Vinchi with questions at the end of each day out of curiosity. The techniques Vinchi taught were nothing like her dragonslaying skills, which were specific in their own right.
From what Vinchi told her, Astrid recognized Margreet’s actions. First, Margreet adopted every guard, a starting position for a fight, which was often a position one took at the end of a given blow. Margreet called out the name of each guard as she took it. Then Margreet delivered a precise version of every blow Vinchi taught, again calling out the name of each blow as she made it.
Actually, Astrid realized, she’s quite good.
Clearly, Margreet had been doing far more than just complaining about the boys’ mediocre skills and calling them incompetent. She’d been paying close attention to everything Vinchi had said.
Just like Astrid.
Astrid noticed Vinchi’s gaze settle on Margreet. She practiced each guard and blow until the remaining brothers clamored for his attention. Only then did he turn his back on Margreet, who methodically went through her paces at the opposite end of the practice hall.
Once the boys were fully engrossed again in their own drills with each other, Astrid walked to the corner where the younger boys had dropped their wasters. She picked one up. Like Margreet, she mimicked everything she’d learned by watching the boys.
Margreet approached, pointing her own waster at Astrid. The dragonslayer smiled, surprised not only by the smirk on Margreet’s face but the wicked expression in her eyes.
CHAPTER 50
“No, that’s not right at all,” Margreet said. She gestured for Astrid to freeze in place, while Margreet put her own waster on the floor of the practice hall. Knowing that Astrid Scalding understood nothing she said, Margreet was convinced she could still convey her meaning. She took a few steps back, studying Astrid’s position: wide stance, one leg forward, arms extended as she delivered a blow meant to cleave an opponent’s head in half.
Astrid wobbled for a moment, and suddenly everything became clear to Margreet. “Of course,” Margreet said. “Your balance is bad because your feet need to be wider apart.” Kneeling by Astrid’s front foot, Margreet pushed against the inside of the woman’s foot. “Move this foot.”
But the Scalding woman didn’t budge. Instead, her face reflected confusion.
Honestly, Margreet thought. This is a woman who kills dragons?
Finally, the Scalding woman asked a question, but Margreet had no idea what she said. Standing, Margreet decided the best way to communicate. Margreet would act like a mirror image and demonstrate correct form.
Now standing directly in front of Astrid, Margreet placed her feet exactly like hers. Pointing at her own feet, Margreet said, “You stand with one foot far ahead of the other but look like you’re walking on top of a fallen log. That is why you have poor balance.” For emphasis, Margreet leaned slightly to one side, having to wave her arms wildly to keep from falling down.
Astrid frowned. Clearly, she understood none of Margreet’s meaning.
But Margreet wouldn’t allow herself to feel discouraged. “Now,” Margreet said, “imagine that instead of trying to keep your balance on top of a fallen log, you now straddle it w
ith your feet on solid ground. That means one foot is still stepping far ahead of the other, but your feet are now wider apart.”
Margreet demonstrated by widening her feet a bit. “And now, think about taking an even wider stance.” Margreet widened her feet a little bit more. “Now, look how steady I am. I can lean this way and that way, and I’m in no danger of falling over.” The width of her stance resulted in Margreet’s knees bending deeply. To make her point, she leaned to either side and showed no danger of wobbling.
Frowning and looking unsure, Astrid struggled to widen her own feet, keeping her knees bent.
“Now, raise your sword and bring it down again.” Empty-handed, Margreet raised an imaginary weapon above her head and brought it straight down, taking a forward but wide step as she delivered the blow. When her front foot landed, she pointed at it, saying, “See where my foot is.” Standing straight up as she brought her feet together, Margreet took a step back and gestured toward Astrid. “Now you try.”
Slowly, Astrid raised the point of the waster above her head and then took a step forward and to the side as she slowly brought the sword back down, landing with her knees bent and with every sign that she stood her ground, stable and solid.
“Good!” Margreet said. “And again.” She gestured for Astrid to deliver the same blow while taking another step forward.
This time, the Scalding woman took less time and showed more confidence as she maintained her wide stance while delivering the next blow at the air in front of her.
Margreet smiled. She found this far more enjoyable than sitting on a hard wooden bench watching the boys or—far worse—sitting in some dreadful, musty room listening to excruciatingly boring and privileged women complain about their riches. “Now,” Margreet said, “we will train in the same way as the boys. Let’s begin side by side. We will deliver the same blow from above the head across our end of the practice hall.”