Ice & Smoke

by Elizabeth Belyeu

  "He and Owain both wished to aid me in whatever way possible, but I left them to remain at camp some ways off. Sir Elaysius has the courage of a lion, I can plainly tell, but not, um…"

  I winced and nodded agreement. Relieved that I was not offended, he continued.

  "My brother was a source of concern as well, for though he is a well-trained knight, he has never faced a dragon. In this most important battle—cold as it may seem, to speak so of my brother—I did not wish to have an untested partner at my back. I would be too distracted with protecting Owain to properly fight, and might get us both killed thereby. I crept away before dawn, that the battle might be done before they could follow."

  Aha. I would give my knight the credit, then, of assuming he had meant to explain the situation more fully in the morning, but was robbed of his opportunity. "Elaysius will be infuriated," I said dryly. "Surely they will approach with care?"

  "Owain is untested, not simple. He will approach with care. Perhaps we may find some way to contact them… I must think on it." He fell silent.

  I bit my lip. "Tristan, I must ask you a thing you will not wish to grant."

  "Anything."

  "I must ask your promise that you will not harm Braith."

  He stared at me blankly for a moment. "I think perhaps you misunderstand my purpose in coming here."

  "You came here to free me, but it is not Braith who holds me prisoner."

  "Is not he the dragon who cast the circle?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "Then his death will free you." He sighed. "I understand, Ariana, that you believe this tale of a far-away master, but I do not."

  "What is your proposed motivation for this alleged lie?"

  "Why, to provoke the very reaction you are exhibiting. He would have you protecting your own captor and enforcing your own imprisonment."

  "But why, if there is no master giving the order, would the dragon take me at all?"

  "Dragons are inscrutable creatures, Ariana. They do not always behave in ways understandable to the human mind. They are creatures of spite and destruction. If killing such a beast is the best and quickest way to get you home again, then it shall be done as soon as possible."

  I nodded, slowly, thoughtfully. "I do understand. Excuse me a moment."

  I left the room, and returned with Gareth and Genevieve.

  "Gareth, you take that end. Genevieve, with me. Carry as smoothly as you can manage, and mind his leg."

  "What? Ariana, whatever are you doing?" Tristan's eyes went wide, his hands gripping the edge of the lounge-chair as we lifted it and carried it toward the stairs. "Ariana, you cannot think to carry this chair up a spiral staircase!"

  "Indeed, I think you are right. We shall have to transport you separately. Gareth, take his upper half. Gently, very gently!"

  Tristan blustered and exclaimed all the while, growing by turns peevish and alarmed, and ever more demanding of my answer, until after a long effort we had him settled in the topmost chamber, in Gareth's bed that he generally scorned in favor of the stable.

  "Tristan, do you think you can manage those stairs on your own?" I asked.

  "With this leg? Are you mad?"

  "Excellent. We will bring you down in the morning, but until then—Genevieve, Gareth, you are not to aid Tristan down these stairs under any circumstances less dire than the burning of the tower. Understood?"

  "Yes, Ari. But how come?"

  "Tristan is a dear friend of mine, Gareth, and we will extend him every courtesy. But he has also stated an intention to kill poor Braith, and I won't have that. So he must stay up here for the night."

  "All right."

  "Ariana!"

  "Yes, Tristan?"

  He only looked at me in utter bafflement for several seconds, then said, "Do you not wish to go home?"

  I swallowed tears. "More than anything, yet I will not murder for it. I had hoped you would not, either. Good night, Tristan."

  I slept ill that night, plagued by uncertainties and nervous dreams. My usual token of comfort at such times, my grandmother's ring, was still missing; I searched my room for it by candlelight, leaving no cranny uninvestigated, but without success. The thought that I might have lost the ring forever drove me into even greater distress. Eventually I forced myself to put the search aside, and stepped out onto the balcony so the night breeze could clear my head.

  A missing ring was the least of my problems. The current stalemate between prince and dragon could not hold long. One could not keep bitter enemies within a one-mile circle forever without one finally succeeding in killing the other. And who knew what would happen when Prince Owain came to investigate his brother's fate? He would have no wound to keep him bed-bound, though I supposed I could provide him with one. But I could not simply keep them both prisoner here forever, nor did I wish to stay forever myself. Tristan might go under the circle, if I could persuade him—but he would go only to fetch an army against the dragon.

  Oh, if only Braith would die of his wound, with no blame that heaven or his father could lay on me!

  I felt sick with shame the moment I admitted the thought, and sick as well with a sudden sharp terror that it might, in fact, come to pass. It was a peculiar realization, but I truly did not want Braith to die. He might be moody and bad-tempered, but these were not crimes deserving of death. He was not cruel—not beyond words in a quarrel, at least, and I had done my share of that too. Had he not rescued poor Firefoot from the wolves? Had he not tended me himself, when I was burned? Had he not spared Elaysius's life, despite the pain the fairy had caused him? He had not once raised his voice to Gareth, which was more than I could say of myself. Dragon or not, he seemed a decent enough sort, really.

  And he mourned Rindargeth as keenly as I did.

  It was amid these thoughts of Braith's positive qualities that I caught sight of him on the ground below, making his slow, painful way from the stable with a pitchfork in his hand.

  This time I was wise enough to take a sword with me down the stairs.

  Braith was focused so entirely on keeping himself upright and moving that he did not notice me until he heard the sword leaving its scabbard.

  "You will not lay a hand on Prince Tristan." I was able to say it with perfect, amiable calmness, for in his current condition, Braith was frankly more of a threat to himself than to any other.

  He gave a slow, heavy sigh, leaning on the pitchfork. "Make no mistake, princess, I am fighting for my life in this. If your dear prince had his way, I would be dead already. Unless you, his beloved sweetheart, have changed his mind?"

  "No, not yet."

  "Then you must admit I act in self-defense."

  "And leave me to defend you each against the other." I lifted the sword. "Back to the stable with you."

  "Put that down, Ari," he said wearily, "before you do yourself harm with it."

  "Not until you swear no harm to Tristan."

  "I'll do no such thing."

  "Then I will restrain you."

  "And make me a goat at tether, for him to slaughter at his fancy?"

  "Nay, he is restrained already, for your protection. Such idiots, the both of you! We could perhaps find a way out of our mutual mess if we could stop threatening one another long enough."

  "Unlikely."

  "Talk less, Braith, and walk more. That direction."

  Grumbling and smoking, he obeyed. I was forced eventually to put down the sword and prop him up on one side. By the time we reached the stable, he was in a bad way, trembling and winded. It seemed my betrothed would have been in no danger after all, had I simply gone back to bed. But then Braith would have spent the night collapsed on the open earth.

  In the dark stable, horses shifted and snuffled, made restless by so much dragon-scent in their domain. I wondered if Gareth were asleep in here—no, he would surely have stopped Braith. With his bed taken and a dragon in his stable, Gareth was likely sleeping by the fire in the sitting room.

  Lowering Braith onto
his bed of hay proved tricky. In fact, it proved impossible—once he passed some point of balance, neither of us could control his descent. I yelped, he bellowed, we both fell.

  I foundered in the deep hay, scrambling to get my weight off of Braith and anticipating any manner of snarling and snapping, for I had surely hurt him. To my surprise, however, he was laughing.

  "Do tell me, Ariana, what your betrothed would think of you running to the stable in the night, to tumble in the hay with me."

  I felt my face heat and struck him in the shoulder. "A gentleman does not speak so to a lady!"

  "And who first accused me of gentleness?" he snorted. "But never fear, princess, your virtue is safe with me. I have never understood humankind's... expressions of affection. I have seen many courting pairs kiss, and never without appearing most awkward and ridiculous."

  "I suppose it would seem strange to dragons, who have no lips to speak of. But you surely have your own ways of showing affection."

  "Oh, certainly. Tail-twining, most often, or wing-linking. Neck-twining in more... private moments."

  "All quite impossible for humans."

  He grunted a neutral sort of agreement. "This betrothal of yours is another human oddity. To let some other choose your mate? It would not be thought of among dragons."

  "To be sure, not every human is betrothed from birth, as I was. Commoners mostly choose for themselves, for it little matters to anyone whom they marry. But among the nobility, a marriage involves not simply two people, but two families, two Houses, even two kingdoms. It must be considered most carefully, by those with knowledge of the workings of the world, not by half-grown children who cannot be trusted to get a good deal on a horse."

  "Which is yet another madness. If one is too young to look after oneself in the world, one is certainly too young to marry."

  For once, no response to his argument came to my tongue; I was distracted by thoughts of my own marriage, and my own kingdom, and how the existence of little Prince Edric turned all on its head.

  Braith said archly, "No contradiction from the princess? Are you unwell?"

  "Not unwell," I said softly, "only… displaced. Tristan brings news that…" I trailed off, uncertain how to say what I felt.

  "Unpleasant news?" He did not sound arch now. Had I known no better, I might have thought him concerned.

  "Unpleasant? No! How could it be unpleasant, to have a brother? I daresay, if I knew him, he would be quite precious to me. But as of yet he is only an idea… an idea that… quite upsets everything about my life!" I gave a disparaging little laugh, as if I were exaggerating. But I was not.

  "This brother is heir, I suppose," he said. "It is the custom of Caibryn, is it not, for the daughter to inherit only if there is no son?"

  "Precisely." I examined a bit of straw much more closely than it deserved. "I was but five or six years of age when the physicians told my parents to give up hope of another child. Since that time I have been… not merely secure in the knowledge—defined by the knowledge—that I would be queen of Caibryn, that my marriage to Tristan would unite our kingdoms, that on me rested… every hope."

  "You do not marry Tristan after all, then?"

  "On the contrary, Tristan says naught has changed between the two of us. I shall be queen of Dewgent only, that is all."

  "One kingdom should be enough for any, I would think. And if you were betrothed from birth, and only viewed as heir some six years later, then alliance, rather than combination, must have been the original intent of the betrothal."

  "You are right, of course. Yet I do feel… off-balance."

  "Off-balance indeed, if you are calling me right on any point."

  I chuckled. "Another statement with which I cannot argue. Perhaps a sign that madness has come upon me."

  "You will be back to your naturally shrewish self, I am sure, once you have slept."

  "A heavenly thought, sleep." This hay, in fact, was not uncomfortable, and even the drafty stable was quite warm, this close to Braith…

  "Sleep, then," he said, "and do not distress yourself with thoughts of a brother. He is young yet; you do not know but he may yet die and leave you heir after all."

  "Do not even jest of that!" I was suddenly wide-awake with fury. "You would wish such a pain upon my poor mother, who has lost a half-dozen children that never drew breath?"

  "I? I have no wish one way or the other, it is you who pines for rule of two kingdoms."

  "At the cost of a child's life? This is what you think of me?"

  "I think," said he, "that the very strength of your indignation speaks of guilt."

  "Says one whose last words to his father expressed a preference for his death!"

  He flinched as if I had directly struck his wound, and we stared at each other in blazing-eyed silence.

  "Why is it, I wonder," he said softly, "that we two can hardly converse without cruelty? I think perhaps it is not good for the state of your soul or mine, to be much in each other's company."

  "Thrice in one night I am unable to argue with you," I said, and left the stable.

  Chapter 6

  In the morning, I rather regretted my offhand promise to bring Tristan down again; keeping him upstairs indefinitely would have been much more convenient. But promise I had, and Tristan begged for it besides, pledging his word for good behavior and peaceful intentions. "I shall go mad, alone and confined to a bed," he said. "I have spent too much of my life so already."

  With a sigh, I permitted him to come along while I did my morning chores. He hobbled behind me on a crutch fashioned from rag padding and a stout tree branch.

  Though the leg clearly pained him, he seemed to feel well enough—cheerful and clear-eyed, as if his mind were somewhat divorced from the tribulations of his body. I wondered if it were an effect of the unicorn's healing, or simply Tristan's nature. Unwilling to let him near the stable, however good his mood, I took our visiting prince out to the garden.

  "It must take a great deal of effort to support yourselves here," Tristan said, settling onto a stool I had dragged along for his use, as I knelt to weed the radishes. "Even the lowliest peasant might grow two radishes and trade one for bread, but here you must be entirely self-sufficient."

  "Not entirely," I said. "Rindargeth would take things to market, now and again—fish, vegetables, wood from the forest—and return with cloth, crockery, shoe-leather, whatever we could not make for ourselves."

  "Rindargeth? The dragon?"

  "Yes," I said, and waited, grim-mouthed, for him to remark further.

  The silence stretched.

  "I mentioned before that I have been hunting dragons ever since my recovery," he said at last.

  "You did. Braith says there are two dragon claws on your saddle, though I did not notice them."

  "The first belonged to a dragon who had abducted more than a dozen young girls to hold captive in a cave. They were… not well-treated. Not all of them lived to be rescued."

  I said nothing.

  "The second destroyed three villages in a day and a night, killing every creature in his path. It took a dozen knights and twice as many soldiers to bring him down."

  "Yet men and women do terrible things as well. Should they all be exterminated?"

  "Show me one dragon who has done good in the world."

  "He is right before you!"

  "He who holds you prisoner? Who tore you with his teeth as you fought to save his life?"

  My hand went to my shoulder, where Genevieve had finally put a bandage over the wound.

  "What good has he done you?" Tristan demanded.

  To say that he had rescued a horse seemed laughably insufficient. And to say he had tended me when I was burned would require admitting that he burned me. Tristan would not care that it had been an accident.

  "He has done me no evil, at least," I said instead, "except by keeping me here, which is no fault of his own."

  Tristan sighed heavily. "Very well, let us speak of other things. How
came your companions to be here?"

  "Sir Elaysius came to rescue me, like any other knight, only Rindargeth refused to fight such an unequal battle." I shot Tristan a look, making sure he noted that dragons, too, could have honor. "Poor Gareth was squire to one Sir Marcus, who of course was defeated, leaving his squire trapped here. And Genevieve, we presume, was shipwrecked; she washed up on our beach."

  "You presume?"

  "Well, she cannot tell us. And we never saw any other sign of a ship—no wood or flotsam or bodies. Rindargeth thought it strange, but after all, many ships are lost to the waves and never seen again."

  "I suppose... And she does not speak at all?"

  "Never a word. At first I thought her merely unfamiliar with the language, and truly I think she was. But that time is long past, and still she says nothing, only communicates by looks and gestures. I tried to teach her to write, but she was never able to grasp it."

  "There is a problem with which I can sympathize! Truly a king, or future king, should be able to read and write for himself, and not depend utterly on his scribes—yet I confess I find it an onerous duty. Hours shut up in a stuffy room, bent and squinting, when one might be on a horse in the sunshine!"

  I laughed; here indeed was the Tristan I knew. "Yet one cannot be always out of doors, you know. What better than a book by the fire, of an evening, or when shut up by snow or rain?"

  "Still I would rather be read to than read."

  "Well, you are in luck, for it is longstanding custom here for me to read aloud after supper."

  "I shall look forward to it."

  I moved to another patch of garden, and he hobbled after, his stool hooked in his arm.

  "Where is the dragon at present?" he asked, looking about as if fearing to find him at his elbow.

  "His name is Braith," I said.

  "His name is not Braith. Dragons do not have such short names. Give me credit for making a study of my enemy."

  "Well, you are right, his name is something longer, but I could not pronounce it. Braith is the first part, and he deigns to answer to it."

  "The long name he gave to you, that is not his true name either. Dragons tell their true names to no one, for any that have it may use it to control them."