by Olivia Myers
Gwythn paused to admire the castle. She thought about the words her father had told her the first time he took her to see it. “I am no master architect,” he’d claimed with his characteristic modesty. “I will never have the ability to contribute anything to so wonderful a creation. And that fills me with joy. What else is joy than being content to admire something perfect?”
There was no denying that the castle was perfection, but it was antique. In the times of the old kings, no one would have imagined that the days of dragons were numbered: that soon not only the huge dragons that roamed the wilds but also the tribes of dragon shifters would be no more.
Gwythn felt a surge of pride, but she didn’t dally long. She scrambled further down the road and into the main square. A few tradesmen and buyers remained scattered and there was one man in the stockades, hanging his head, but otherwise the place was empty.
“Well, Faffy,” Gwythn patted the shaggy, silver-grey coat of the husky and looked up at what she’d come to see.
A stage, raised about twenty feet, dominated the center. Through it protruded the torso of a massive statute, veiled with a white sheet. The statue stood about fifty feet and was, apart from the mountainous castle, the tallest thing Gwythn has ever laid her eyes on.
“Have you ever seen anything like it?”
Fafiny, perturbed that his master had ceased petting, closed his mouth and nudged her with a soggy cold nose. But Gwythn couldn’t disguise her pride or the incredible sensation moving within her, the excitement that began in her stomach and rose to her throat, as she looked at the veiled masterpiece. Of course being the sculptor’s daughter, it was overwhelming pride that she experienced burning deep. A part of her, however small, felt a certain responsibility for the great artwork. However, most of her pride rested in the sculpture itself.
In all the kingdoms in all of Gythry, in every family in every house of Araf, not one citizen could be found who didn’t recognize the magnificent figure of King Blethen the Redeemer, even if it was veiled. Sent by Heaven to vanquish evil and its far-reaching corruption, he was the king whose lengthy and tumultuous reign ended in the destruction of every trace of the dragon infestation that had haunted and destroyed the kingdom. Neither man nor God, King Blethen was the divinity that separated them: a savior.
The light in Gwythn’s eyes was fiery and bright. Not the enthusiasm some feel for great leaders and great reformers, but the brilliance of a fervent, religious conviction burnt there. For Gwythn, King Blethen was everything, every man: King, Redeemer, Savior, Protector, second father. Or, she sometimes thought in a moment of fancy, her true father. A man whose example, if she could follow it, would open to her the gates of salvation and paradise.
Tears streamed down her face as she gazed at her ruler. Her thoughts swirled. She thought about tomorrow, about King Blethen’s visit to her city all the way from the capital to see her father’s work. She tried to imagine the look on his glorious face and grew so happy at the thought that a smile blossomed, turning her cheeks into little apples. Then, her thoughts turned, and in her mind she was a young girl again. Young and frightened.
She was four, maybe five, and it was her first time in Araf. She had been with her father, destitute and living in a hovel that smelled of piss and cabbage. In her mouth she tossed around like a chicken bone that uncomfortable word home, wondering how she would ever learn to apply it to the muddy, cold city. She turned to her father who held her in his arms, warming her, and asked when she will see her mother again. Her father said nothing, but bowed his head. A moment later, she felt him sobbing.
She learned all the details about the raid years later; that not just her mother but most of the village had died in the attack. She learned that the village was burnt to the ground and that even the stones were pulverized to dust, and that she was indescribably lucky to escape. She learned the name of the attackers—Tribe wyt Dune, famous for their cruelty—and for the first time in her young life she learned the word dragon, and she knew at once just how cruel and devilish the creatures were.
Fresh from the massacre, deprived of her mother, her friends and her home, and given only the name of her enemy, Gwythn vowed revenge. She swore that she would always hate dragons and daily curse their name, and that if ever she met a member of Tribe wyt Dune, nothing except death would stop her from sticking a knife into his guts. But her vows turned out to be unnecessary.
Less than five years after the attack, the mighty Tribe wyt Dune was reduced to a few scattered marauders. King Blethen’s campaign against dragons was at its strongest, and it had acquired the ability to vanquish an entire tribe in less than a few years.
Gwythn first heard the news in a kind of stupor. What kind of man or king was this, whose justice was so swift and so perfect? At her tender age, she knew nothing about King Blethen’s divinity, yet by his acts alone she knew that his powers were beyond a normal man’s. She recognized at once his strength, his justice, and his greatness, and from the moment she learned his name she determined that her life would be spent trying to pay him back for the debt he’d settled.
The man in the stockades next to the stage groaned and tried to move his arms, but they hung limply like cracked branches, stiff from the cold. It was not an uncommon sight in the city to see a man punished as he was. In the last ten years of King Blethen’s campaign, the reform of ‘Fugitives’ was introduced to the purpose of rooting out all dragon shifters trying to disguise themselves as regular humans.
Fugitives were like a weed that, untended, would soon grow to choke all life out of the garden. Their eradication could not be more important. Nothing frightened Gwythn more than the idea that a dragon might be lurking around town without ever being noticed. The reform gave her comfort, even though it had led to so many false claims of people being shifters that King Blethen declared the charge of ‘False Fugitive’ a capital offense punished in the severest manner possible.
‘Severest’ in King Blethen’s reign was no idle threat, now that his campaign was officially over. Talk of dragons was vilified in order to make sure that their unwelcome history was forgotten as soon as possible, and it was looked upon as a kind of treason to introduce the topic unless one was making a valid claim against a Fugitive. But the man in the stockade had not made a valid claim. He’d tried to convince the Watch that his landlord was really a disguised Tribe leader, but his evidence had been weak and the trial had determined in the favor of his neighbor.
In two days he would lose his head.
It never crossed Gwythn’s mind that these measures might be considered excessive. Much worse was the possibility that dragons would be as they once were, unbound, unchecked, and free to terrorize. Justice was bloody, and righteousness must be ruthless if it was to persist. King Blethen’s campaign had ingrained these laws into the canon of common knowledge.
“Well,” a voice came from behind Gwythn. “That’s either a wood nymph a long way from home or a pretty girl, also a long way from home.”
Gwythn whirled around. Voices that snuck up on her from behind always frightened her, and this voice and its loathsome irony was particularly gruesome.
“Better run along, missy. The streets are dangerous at night.”
There was only one person in the city with a voice as dripping with mockery as this. Gwythn knew by the first word that it was the young man from out of town, Rhythion. He’d arrived in Araf a little less than a year ago from a village in the north where, he claimed, his grandfather taught him the ancient languages by making him learn huge portions of ancient poetry by heart whenever be misbehaved. Gwythn didn’t know if she believed the story, but his talent was real enough. She’d heard him once in a tavern recite an ancient epic in four different languages until after an hour he collapsed, stone drunk.
If his talent was incredible, his appearance was no less so. He had a regal nose adorning his sculpted face, under which his mockery dribbled out through the cruel, thin line of his mouth. His body was thick with muscle, and his
hair was as thick as a bird’s nest and as ashy as coal. His eyes were so wide and so marble blue that their unblinking stillness gave the impression that she was drowning if she spent too much time staring into them. It was almost unfair that he had been blessed with such good looks, when his personality was so distasteful.
“I…I was,” Gwythn tried to speak before she realized that she’d fallen into those eyes and was lost, trying to find the surface.
“You’re going to be a chew toy for the Watch if you want to stay longer,” said Rhythion. “Don’t think they wouldn’t jump at the chance to put you into the stocks.” The blue eyes widened. The slender mouth cracked a crooked smile. “Or to put their stocks into you.”
“You’re a beast,” Gwythn found her tongue at last. “And you’ll live to regret every slimy thing you’ve said once I’m married to a prince and can do whatever I want with you.” She was going out on a leap. Her father had done no more than casually mention the possibility of a marriage to one of the king’s sons, but it was ammunition and Gwythn was going to use it for all it was worth.
“Why wait until then, missy? You can tell me what you want to do right now.”
“I want—” Gwythn tried to be defiant, but the blue eyes clapped to her again. Her words scattered like crickets. Damn him! Those eyes, their hypnosis. It wasn’t natural.
“You’ll tell me when you’re married to the king’s fairy,” Rhythion said, and narrowed his eyes.
Gwythn felt the tension within her go out, almost as though he’d released her from a physical hold.
“But right now,” he continued, “I don’t have time for you.”
“He’s not a fairy, you—you dog!” Gwythn cried.
Rhythion ignored her and moved past, dragging something covered in dirty cloths behind him and up the scaffolding.
“Is that for the monument?” she asked eagerly. Rhythion worked as a translator and also as an engraver of foreign languages, and he’d been commissioned by the king for an inscription to accompany the statue. What he’d decided to write had been left to his discretion and would remain a mystery until the unveiling tomorrow.
“Use your head.”
“What did you choose? Will you tell me? Is it a verse from the Lay of Canniculus? Or maybe a lyric from the Seventy Songs?”
Rhythion dropped the large object at the foot of the scaffolding and looked as though he was going to round on Gwythn. Instead, he stretched, keeping his back to her, and then gave Fafiny a pat on the head. The dog let loose its thick tongue, and then tried to rub its head against Rhythion’s thigh.
“Nice pup.”
But the sight of her faithful dog with this detestable man was too much for Gwythn. “Faffy!” she cried.
The husky ignored her. Humiliated, she took him by the scruff and started back in the direction home. She’d have her opportunity tomorrow to view the statue in all its glory. Tomorrow, she wouldn’t have to put up with any unwanted company. Tomorrow, her father would be honored by the king himself. Tomorrow, things would change.
“Until tomorrow,” Rhythions’s voice came, echoing her very thoughts. She felt a tingle in her back, and sped her step.
*
The night passed Gwythn by like a happy blur, curving towards the promise of tomorrow. Before she knew it, the first thin frays of sunlight had come through the window.
She lay in bed until she could hear her father wake in the room adjacent to hers and then she began to prepare herself. Two hours later, she emerged, regal as a princess.
Artyr, her father, sat at the table, picking at a quail egg with his spoon. He was dressed for the occasion as finely as his modesty would allow, in a simple coat with fur at the collar, and with his greying hair parted and wetted by a dragon-bone comb.
He stood when he caught sight of her. “My,” he exclaimed. A string of quail egg dribbled on to the floor from his open mouth. “You look all grown up, daughter, in that fancy dress of yours.”
Ever since the idea that she would meet King Blethen in person had taken form in Gwythn’s mind, she’d determined that she would greet him as a true lady. And so, for months, she’d waded through mud holes and bog heaps in the pursuit of wildflowers she could sell at market. She’d spent days hunting rabbits and stags, had shot them, stripped them, cleaned them and sold them, all by herself and all in order to earn a few coins to buy a few yards of silk for a dress she would wear only once.
But her efforts hadn’t been in vain. All the scratches and all the scars, all the mud clots caught in her hair and all the hours spent excavating the innards of dead animals were forgotten. Not just forgotten. It was as though they’d never existed, so perfect was Gwythn’s change.
Her dress was as dark and as softly rippling as a lake seen at night. It was cut low and tight across her chest so that the deep curves of her breasts shown amply, and over her shoulders she wore a tight fur coat. Her hair was thick and luscious and the dark almond of rich soil. Her eyes were broad and beautiful with anticipation, and glistered with light.
“I’ve never been happier to be a father,” Artyr said, still standing, “nor as saddened by the knowledge that one day, I’ll have to give this beautiful creature away.”
“Oh, Daddy!” She flung herself into his arms. “Is it true? Tell me it’s true!”
“Nothing more than a few words, child. Don’t throw yourself too much into a hope.”
“But Daddy! Haven’t you seen him? He’s so handsome! And just think—you’d have a princess for a daughter! A princess of King Blethen!”
“I already have a princess for a daughter,” her old father smiled and then motioned her to sit down. “But child, if it does happen, if you marry Prince Alwen—you must love him, and love him fully. Do you understand?”
“Daddy!” Gwythn cried, indignant. She didn’t like how serious her father had asked, as if there was anything else she could do with her husband, a son of King Blethen, except love him fully!
“You’re a fearful old man if you’re asking that of me. But I forgive you. I don’t think you mean it at all. I think you’re simply nervous.”
“I’ve been a fearful old man ever since I gained something precious I was afraid of losing. But I am cautious as well. Alwen is certainly a beautiful boy—” Gwythn didn’t particularly like that he used this adjective to describe her future husband, but she kept quiet “—but beauty is not everything in a relationship. I need to know if I speak with any emissaries today, that you will agree to love him completely and absolutely.”
“On my soul, I swear,” Gwythn said promptly, and then dragged Artyr from his chair. “But you can’t waste any more time sitting around here! The square will be crammed soon! You don’t want to be late for your own unveiling!”
Artyr let himself be led to the door. No, he was not really worried that his daughter would lack the spirit, the devotion, the love, or the energy to make a good wife and a fine princess. If there was anything that caused him fear, it was concern for the boy she would marry. Even so, things had worked out well so far, Artyr thought. He’d put his life in the hands of fate, and fate had led him to where he needed to go. Today more than any other day, he would remember this.
With a last few touches to her appearance, Gwythn opened the door and led them away, down to the crowded square.
*
The revelry was already in full swing by the time Gwythn and Artyr (and Fafiny, wagging behind) made it to the scaffolding, where a member of the Watch recognized Artyr and let him pass up to the stage. He joined Rhythion between two other guards. There wouldn’t be enough room for the king and his retinue had anyone else gotten on stage, so Gwythn had to be content remaining below, her skirts delicately lifted to keep the mud off, her neck craned to see the people she admired most.
Nothing less than pandemonium swirled around her. The sheer bulk of so many people—hundreds, if not thousands, were packed into the mid-sized square—contributed to a feeling of immensity. The fumes were so dense as to be a ki
nd of dizzying fog, wrapping around Gwythn, sticking its tongue into her ears, her nose, her mouth. She smelled boiled cabbage, burnt meat, dark beer and the sweet beer from the east called kras. She smelled a fair waft of perfume from the wildflowers ladies (like Gwythn) wore in their hair, and she also smelled piss, horseshit, wine and too many other scents to name. The sights were no less overwhelming, and the sounds—the varied accents, the languages—mingled together into a kind of orchestra.
It was wonderful, but Gwythn soon grew anxious waiting for the approach of the king. After all, what were these delights of the senses compared to the appearance of one so good, so divine and pure? She bowed her head and closed her eyes, shutting the world out and entering the intense concentration of prayer.
Oh Father in the Nine Heavens, her lips moved without sound. Grant us strength today. Grant us strength to receive the welcome of your prophet the Redeemer Blethen. Grant me strength to do my duty.
And then there rose a cry of joy, just one, followed by a smattering of cheers. Hundreds of eager heads turned in the direction of the noise. Suddenly, the crowd was in full force, bodies pressing against one another, moving in slow but ecstatic surge towards the sound of the voice. Hands were put in the air. Ladies threw off their caps and tossed their thick hair about in ecstasy. Men raised their fists and hailed the distant figure moving into the center, their eyes glassy with the tears of hope and promise.
King Blethen’s carriage trundled into the center, drawn by a team of eight horses—fine, glossy animals with muscles carved like statues, bred in the distant lands of the north specifically for the purpose of servicing the king. The Watch surrounded the carriage with halberds raised and gleaming in the sunlight. It was a capital offense to purposely touch a member of the Watch, but the peoples’ excitement was so great that their bodies swarmed the carriage, hailing it, throwing wildflowers and silk streamers.
