Ice & Smoke

by Elizabeth Belyeu

  No thoughts at all, but warm sun and cool water, and no sound but the flutter of the current over the stones, the chirrup of birds and insects in the tall grass...

  "Ariana!"

  I shrieked and scrambled for deeper water as a huge form fell upon me from the sky, all beating wings and grasping claws.

  "Braith! What the devil—Let me go! Braith, stop this madness at once!"

  "Madness?" He discontinued his attempts to take hold of me and came to a landing in the shallow water. "Fool child, I thought you were drowned!"

  "Drowned? In two feet of water?"

  "You might have fallen and struck your head! Why else would you be lying so?"

  "Is bathing so alien a concept to you? How many remove their clothing before they drown?" I gestured at my dripping body, adorned with my ring on its chain, and nothing else.

  He turned his head quickly away. "And you a princess, with such immodesty?"

  He sounded honestly shocked, and I was dumbfounded. "Your father said it was no matter, between human and dragon, any more than between human and horse."

  "Perhaps he felt so. In any case he never looked at any other creature after my mother." He kept his face averted. "Yet I have lived among humans for a long time now, long enough to... to... to... For heaven's sake, will you not hide yourself in the water at least?"

  Blushing furiously, I sank into the water to my chin. "Very well, then, I am modest once more, as much as I can be when you stand between me and my clothes. Pray fly off again, unless you have more inconvenience to cause me?"

  "Next time I believe your life to be in danger, I will not inconvenience you with rescue," he growled, which was surely a great lie, what with his oath to protect me. With a rush of air he was aloft, and away.

  I dressed, still dripping, and, muttering curses, set to re-washing the clothes Braith had splashed with mud during his attempted rescue.

  That evening I reinstated our after-dinner fireplace gathering, calling Gareth and Genevieve to hear me read a book, if they were inclined, which of course they were. The surprise was that Braith joined us as well, settling into Rindargeth's accustomed chair, whether by accident or design. Surely design—even my sad human nose could recognize the faint fire-and-metal scent still surrounding that chair. It was very strange indeed, to have that familiar scent overlain with Braith's peculiar smell of ice and smoke. It made me want to evict him from the room.

  The book was a collection of old tales, most of them short and silly, and they had us all giggling into our ale before long. Even Braith once or twice cracked a smile, in a distant way; he mostly seemed occupied with staring into the fire.

  "Speaking of fairies," he said, after one story that featured a fairy godmother, "where is that silly little knight of yours, princess?"

  I poked at the fire. "Hiding from you, I expect. It hit him rather hard, being entrapped again so near to his freedom. I would say he has little stomach to speak to either of us, just now."

  "He's little," Gareth said. "Hides real good."

  Braith grunted, but seemed satisfied with this answer.

  I had already found that I missed Elaysius more than I expected. He was the only one, now, that I could truly talk with. Genevieve was a dear companion, sharp-witted and kind, and she had her ways of communicating—yet true conversation was simply not an option. Gareth could speak, of course, but only on the simplest of subjects. With Rindargeth, I had been accustomed to spending long hours debating philosophy, morality, poetry, even the complexities of horse and garden.

  But Rindargeth was gone, and in his place was this pale, glowering individual who might be just as glad if I did drown while doing the laundry.

  Genevieve took herself to bed after a while, but Gareth, heavy-eyed, begged for one more story, which I granted. He was, of course, asleep by the end of it. I smiled at his ungainly figure, curled tight in sleep like a kitten, and set the book aside. The journey upstairs to my room seemed intimidating, and from my seat on the floor I leaned back against the lounge-chair, gathering strength for it.

  Next thing I knew, I was floundering awake, tangled in the shredding remains of a dream of drowning, confused by the water I could still hear pouring around me. A bark of thunder, I realized, had shaken me awake. My surroundings resolved into the sitting room fireplace, burned down to embers, and a rainstorm beating against the walls.

  Groggy, I levered myself upright and leaned against the wall, trying to convince myself to attempt the stairs, and muttered sleepy curses at the rain, mostly for Elaysius's sake.

  "Such language from a princess."

  I gasped and spun, to see gold eyes gleaming out of the dark at me. "Braith, why will you provoke me at every opportunity?"

  "Perhaps for the pleasure of seeing you put off your balance, which seems a rare event."

  Since his arrival I seemed rather to have no balance at all. "Well, now you have had your fun, pray excuse me to my bed."

  "I would know something of you, princess."

  My heart chilled somewhat, fearing he would ask for Elaysius. "You may ask, I suppose. I promise you no answers."

  His response to that was a snort that only intensified the wintry scent of the room.

  "Well? You had a question?" I asked when he did not speak.

  "Was my father happy here?"

  "I... That is a complicated question. I know he hated the circumstances that placed us here, hated my captivity and the necessity of so many deaths. Yet he found joy here, too. Books and games and meals... singing and sea-bathing... Our life here is not so bad, you know. If only it were not forced upon us."

  "Separated from his people. His family."

  "Yes. Yet he comforted me, more than once, with the assurance that this would not go on forever, and we would all return to our homes someday. Five years is... long indeed for one such as I, yet it may be little enough to a dragon, who lives centuries."

  "Who may live centuries," Braith said. "If he is not killed untimely by… external events."

  "How old are you?"

  "Eight and fifty."

  I stared. "But that is older than my father."

  "Indeed, and perhaps your grandfather as well. Yet I am a very young man by the standards of my people."

  "Good heavens. How old was Rindargeth?"

  "One hundred, sixty and three. Only just past the midway point of his life—of what his life should have been." I saw his fist clench, the fist that bore a recent scar.

  "I saw you," I said hesitantly. "When you cut your hand and… bled upon the grave. Is that a custom, among dragons?"

  He glared at me. "May I do nothing at all without being observed? It is a private rite and should not have had an audience."

  "I apologize," I said, and meant it, for once. "I did not mean to spy, only—we were digging, and there you were…"

  Smoke was rolling off his shoulders now, seeping from his skin as I had only rarely seen Rindargeth do, in the extremity of anger. "Because of his entrapment here, my father died. Because of my entrapment in turn, I cannot see him properly burnt, only planted in the mud to molder at best, and be eaten by ghouls at worst. Without the proper rituals and the light of the fire to guide him, his spirit might wander and fade, unable to find his way to the next world. In such cases, it is customary for those who loved the dead to give of their strength—their blood—to keep his spirit strong." He paced before the fire, one hand tearing absently at his braid. "Because of you, little human, my father has not only died but may fade into oblivion, lost to the next world as well as this one."

  "Not I," I snapped, "but the master who sent him to this place. Do you think that I asked for my captivity? Do you think that I even desired Rindargeth's defeat? I told him, the very morning he died, that I would rather remain here forever than win freedom at his cost. I wish he had believed me!"

  "What mean you?"

  "He fought very strangely that day. I know not what he meant by it. Only it seemed he might not have been defeated, had he fou
ght more cautiously. The knight was no better a knight than he had faced before. Oh, I know not what he meant!" I turned away and sat on the hearth, swallowing tears.

  "Tell me of this knight," Braith said, strangely hoarse. "This knight who killed and fled."

  "I do not know his name. Usually they announce themselves, but this one had no opportunity before Rindargeth was upon him, and if he carried a banner, I did not see. I know only that he rode a white charger, and that he and his mount both glittered and shone with as much jewel and plate as armor. He had a charm against fire, as the more intelligent ones do, and a lance rather than a mere sword. His final blow broke the lance, leaving half of it in Rindargeth's flesh, and I think he did not realize that he had won, only that he was now unarmed. In panic he galloped away. Fool of a knight! He could not have fled at all had he not won already—the circle would have stopped him. But I suppose he did not know."

  Braith said nothing, and when I turned to glance at him, he was staring once more into the fire, as if it had some great secret to tell him, if only he could persuade it to speak.

  "Goodnight, then," I said, and, stepping over Gareth's still-sleeping form, made my way to my chamber.

  I rose at dawn, my customary time, which seemed almost strange after so many days of lingering late or, sleepless, rising early. Most unusually, I could not find my grandmother's amethyst ring, could not even remember if I had taken off the chain before going to bed the night before. I was searching for it, half-dressed with my bodice unlaced and sleeves unbuttoned, when a noise near shook me off my feet—the roar of our resident dragon, with its screaming quality that made his roar even more terrifying than Rindargeth's.

  It terrified me, right enough. I knew there were but a very few things that might be causing Braith to trumpet so, none of them good. And foremost on the list was the arrival of a knight.

  When I reached the top of the tower, Braith was standing on the very edge of it, wings high, blowing great quantities of smoke with every breath. He was shaking all over, a subtle tremor that might have been anger, excitement, or fear. I wondered if he himself knew which it was.

  I could see the rider now, a mounted figure with gleaming armor, holding a lance and banner. I could even hear the hoofbeats of his horse, pattering over the hillside straight toward us.

  "Braith," I said, and he turned his head to me.

  What could I say? I could wish him neither victory nor defeat with full sincerity. Only one thing could I say with real truth.

  "I'm sorry." I touched a trembling hand to the hot, white scales of his shoulder. "I am sorry this debt fell upon you."

  He gazed at me expressionless, like a dumb beast, then with a rush of air that knocked me to my knees he was away, his shadow gliding across the grass toward the knight, as fast as the wind itself.

  Only then did I take notice of the banner the knight carried, a field of red with a rearing horse of gold. And with the horse, a five-pointed star, signifying the heir to the throne.

  My heart went to ice in my chest.

  The banner was Dewgent. And the man on the horse was its prince.

  Tristan.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 5

  Prince and dragon had already engaged, jets of flame splashing bright against Tristan's shield as I crossed the dooryard at a dead run. Tristan would surely be charmed against fire, he was not an imbecile. I had proof of it when the next blast dodged his shield, and still he did not flinch. His horse, too, was unimpressed—both charmed and trained to know it, unlike the last one whose mount had panicked in the anticipation of pain.

  Tristan had been a strong and intelligent fighter, even in childhood. Today, this meant he could keep himself alive long enough for me to call Braith off of him.

  Somehow.

  Braith, I saw quickly, was not like his father, reluctant in the discharge of his dutiful murders, nor was he concerned with sparing the horse. Nor was Tristan an idiot in armor as we so often saw, all hot determination and no skill. He spun his horse away from every strike of Braith's, whether flame or claw or tail, and turned every dodge into a counterattack, sending the gleaming point of his lance ever closer to the dragon's scales, aiming always at the weak points—throat, belly, eyes, wings.

  I came to a stop, panting and wide-eyed, watching this dance of whirling hooves and weapons, beating wings and raking claws, shouts and roars and flame and flashing metal. I began to wonder if I were hastening to the wrong party's defense. Braith did not appear to be winning.

  No matter. Neither of these two was going to kill the other if I could prevent it.

  "Hold!" I shouted. "Braith, Tristan, both of you cease this immediately!"

  Neither paid any mind. It was likely they could not hear me at all.

  I, being by all accounts a great fool, had run out of the tower unarmed, not that any weapon would have done me much good. Was I fool enough to run betwixt them? In such a fray? It was unlikely to accomplish anything greater than my death.

  Gareth's birthday stone, I realized, was in my pocket. I pulled it out, bounced it in my hand, then lobbed it into Braith's face.

  It hit truer than I aimed—full in his eye, causing a cry that shook the earth and sent him reeling back.

  Tristan charged into this advantage with lance raised high. Braith turned away from the attack, shielding himself with a wing that knocked Tristan from his horse and the lance from his hand. Dragon then pounced on downed knight—but Tristan had already drawn his sword to replace the lance, and Braith realized it too late. My scream was lost in Braith's as the sword parted the snow-white scales of his chest, blood pouring in all directions.

  I had seen Rindargeth withstand such blows with little damage. But Braith was younger, and his scales, I recalled, did not translate into human armor as his father's had. What had I done?

  Even as he collapsed to the ground, Braith's long neck snaked outward, jaws catching the knight who had wounded him. He snatched Tristan up to shake him in the air with an audible snap before tossing him aside.

  Tristan landed not ten feet from me, and I ran to him, hardly breathing or aware of the tears coursing down my cheeks. With shaking hands, I fumbled the gleaming helmet off his head, to see if he breathed—

  Not only breathed, but cursed, heaving himself upright—or attempting to, and aborting with a cry of pain. It was his leg that was snapped, bloody and wrong-angled, his leg and not his spine. I gave a sob of relief, and he turned his face to me in astonishment.

  "Ariana?"

  I had last seen his face when he was but fourteen years old, leading my horse on my birthday procession—seen it twisted with fear as the attacking dragon skimmed village streets like a bird over the water, pursuing the two of us, separating us from the rest.

  "Tristan, get on the horse!"

  "She will go faster with one." He dropped the lead, slapping the horse into a gallop and shouting to urge her on.

  He had strengthened and broadened with the years, but there was the same black hair, all untidy curls and wet through with sweat, the same brilliant blue eyes and serious mouth, nearly comical on a child but well befitting a prince. It was Tristan, my Tristan.

  "You're alive!" I said, and pressed a hard kiss to his brow, then stood and ran for Braith. "Attend him!" I shouted to Genevieve and Gareth, now approaching from the tower with stricken faces. "Attend the prince!"

  Braith was churning the earth around him to red mud, shriek-roaring and flapping his wings unevenly, trying to get to his feet. With every movement he bled more.

  "Braith! You must change shape. Look at me." I took hold of his muzzle, but he jerked free and snapped at me, his teeth coming away with part of my sleeve. I felt a hot pain in my shoulder but paid it no mind, taking hold again of his head and forcing his gaze to mine. "Braith, you must take human shape that I may treat your wound. You will bleed to death else. Do you understand me? Change shape now."

  After a long, terrifying moment, sense sparked in his pain- and panic-fogg
ed eyes. I let go his muzzle and leaped back as hot smoke and trembling bits of flame swirled around him. Almost before it cleared, I was peeling back his torn and blood-soaked tunic, pulling off whatever parts of my clothes would easily come—overskirt, half-laced bodice, the tooth-ripped sleeve of the shirt beneath—and pressing them to the wound. It was a bad gash, deep and longer than my arm. His breath came fast and shallow, constricted with pain—or rage, I realized, for his eyes were still locked on his enemy.

  "Dragonslayer," he snarled.

  "Lie still, or he will be," I snapped, pressing harder as the wound continued to pump scorching blood around my fingers.

  "Prince is bleeding lots," Gareth called.

  I gave a growl of frustration. "He'll want a tourniquet. Gareth, come here! Hold this down. Do not let him up." Leaving Braith in Gareth's strong hands, I ran back to Tristan.

  "You are a physician now, Ariana?" Tristan asked with a weak smile. Oh, his voice was so good to hear! I had forgotten his voice, I realized now, and hearing it again—deeper now, rough with pain, but surprisingly recognizable—opened my memory to a hundred other forgotten things.

  "Sadly, I am the nearest thing in this tower," I said. "Genevieve, your belt."

  I tied the belt tightly, just above the wound—or rather, above the topmost part of the wound, for the jagged rips of teeth extended down nearly the entire leg. I felt Tristan's body catch and shudder with pain as I tightened the knot, for I could not help jostling the leg, and if it was not twice broken I was not princess of Caibryn. Genevieve and Gareth had removed the lower parts of his armor, at least. He looked strange indeed, still clad in its top half.

  "We cannot carry you," I said. "Even Gareth is not strong enough."

  He nodded. "I can walk, if supported. My horse will help."

  "Gen, you and Gareth get Tristan back to the tower. You know how to clean this? I think I can set it…"