Dragon Kin

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

  “It isn’t supposed to be,” Ilsa said. “It is a lady’s gown suitable for working in.”

  “It can be elegant,” Elaine said, with a decisive tone.

  Three days later, Elaine appeared at supper in her own version of Ilsa’s workmanlike gown and it was elegant. The fine, cream-colored wool trailed behind Elaine yet did not drag in the front. She wore a heavy gold chain about her middle, which sat on her hips and pulled at the front where the heaviest medallion shaped link hung. The edges of the sleeves were worked in gold, too. Over the top of the gown, Elaine wore a necklace which glinted with gold and copper and white.

  She also wore a cloak as fine as the gown itself and of the same color. Instead of furling it about her shoulders to keep it out of the way, she merely pushed it over the back of her shoulders, so it trailed down behind her as the gown did.

  Arawn rubbed his jaw, examining his sister. “I thought the point of such odd garments was practicality,” he muttered. “I cannot see any practical use in your appearance, Elaine.”

  “Thank you,” Elaine said sweetly and settled on the divan to eat. She did not lie on one side as was the custom but sat up, as they had sat at Ambrosius’ table and at Bors’.

  The next morning, Ilsa asked the women to make her another two of the warm gowns, in other shades of green. This time they turned to the work without a murmur of protest.

  That afternoon, which was oddly warm and still for the time of year, Stilicho pushed into the room breathlessly. “The birds are drinking from the helmet,” he gasped.

  THE SHORTNESS OF THE gown allowed Ilsa to tuck it under her as she bent to examine the helmet without disturbing it.

  The seawater pooled in the side of the helmet just as she had left it, although there was less of it than Ilsa remembered. She examined the helmet, frowning, remembering the way the swallows had hopped inside and pecked at the side of the metal. They had ignored the richer pool of water at their feet. Instead, they attacked the sides…

  Ilsa reached and slid her finger over the inside of the helmet. It came away moist.

  Stilicho frowned, standing over her. “Someone must have shaken the helmet and rolled the seawater about.”

  Ilsa sniffed her finger, then licked it. “Just water,” she whispered. She looked up at Stilicho, shading her hand against the sun. “How does seawater turn into normal water?”

  “One needs an enchanter for that,” Stilicho said dryly. “Unfortunately, there are no magicians to be had in all of Brocéliande, or I am sure the king would have demanded they make rain before now.”

  Ilsa rolled her eyes, then turned back to look at the helmet, puzzling it out.

  The sun was warm on her shoulders and pleasant. Ilsa turned to look up at the flat disk in the sky. It was dazzling even at this time of year.

  A memory stirred. She caught her breath and gripped Stilicho’s arm. “Oh! Oh, Stilicho! I know how to make water! I need to speak to the cook. I need her bronze funnel. We will need a cooking pot and a fire to go under it and lots of seawater. Barrels of it, Stilicho!”

  He looked down at her hand, then at her. “Barrels of seawater? You’re a magician now?”

  “No, no, I’m just a woman,” she said quickly, “although I know why the helmet made water!”

  IT TOOK THREE DAYS of trials before Ilsa found a method which would work. It was a variation of something she had seen as a small child that she had nearly forgotten. The mysterious concoction of jars and pipes and fire the village men had put together had made a liquor from oats they had taken from a good harvest. The enormous glass jar they had acquired from some distant place had been the most fascinating part of the process for Ilsa. She had never seen glass before that day.

  Now she remembered watching the brown liquid form as droplets inside the glass, then slide down to merge with the liquor gathering at the bottom.

  On the evening of the third day, Ilsa went back to her chamber after supper, to wait for Arawn. The usual cups and a flask sat upon the low table.

  Arawn strode into the room as he always did, as if he was in a great hurry. Ilsa knew he moved as quickly as he did because he felt enormous pressure to do everything possible to help his people, even if it required more effort than a mere man could squeeze into a single day. If he did not examine every possibility and follow every opportunity, then he felt he had failed them.

  Arawn spotted the flask and the cups. “Yes, perhaps a small cup,” he said, with a smile just as small.

  As always, when he agreed to take a drink with her, it felt as though Arawn was humoring her. Yet their conversations over the small cup of wine often lingered for much longer than the wine lasted.

  Ilsa bent and picked up the flask and a cup and poured the liquid. She passed the cup to Arawn. “My lord.” She waited.

  Arawn took a sip…and looked down at the cup, frowning. He swallowed. “Why…that is water!”

  “Pure water,” Ilsa said happily. She put the flask down. “My lord, I made it!”

  “Made it? What nonsense is this, Ilsa?” His smile was the same humoring one as before.

  Ilsa moved around the table. “I will show you. Will you come with me?”

  “To where?”

  “The kitchen, my lord.”

  “Is this something to do with that silly helmet which washed up on the banks?”

  “Yes.”

  Arawn hesitated.

  “Please, my lord,” she added.

  Arawn sighed. “Very well.” He moved out of the chamber, bringing the two guards scrambling to attention. Ilsa followed him as he moved with his usual great pace through the house to the kitchen.

  The kitchen hands were just finishing their scouring of the pans before going to bed for the night. The apparatus Isla had been adjusting for three days stood on the sturdy table in the corner, out of the way of the cooks. “It is only a small device,” she told Arawn as she walked up to it. “A larger one could easily be made, especially if it was outside.” She touched the copper funnel. “I thought the funnel needed to be heated like the helmet but I was wrong. It is the water which must be heated, and the funnel must stay cold. That is why it would work outside.”

  Arawn moved about the table, examining the thing from all three sides.

  A metal tray with high sides held wood chips, twigs and small branches which, when burnt, heated the underside of a flat-bottomed iron kettle. The kettle sat on a trivet over the flames.

  “The seawater goes in the kettle,” Ilsa explained.

  “Seawater?” Arawn said, startled.

  She nodded. “It is heated until it boils. This—” She touched the inverted copper funnel which hung over the kettle. The end of the funnel was sealed off and bent over so nothing, not even air, could get through. “This makes the water,” Ilsa said. “It is what the helmet was doing.”

  “Making water,” Arawn said flatly, studying the thing. His tone was not one of disbelief, but of deep interest.

  “Yes,” Ilsa said, encouraged. “It was a bright day. The sun beat down on the helmet all day, heating the seawater inside it, so it…” She paused. “Have you ever seen the air shimmer over a puddle after a summer rainstorm, my lord?”

  “Many times,” he replied. Then he added dryly, “Not in the last three years, though.”

  “You know what I mean when I say the sun draws the puddle up into the air?”

  He nodded.

  “And when you walk outside in a mist or a fog, have you noticed how rain drops gather on your clothes even though it isn’t raining?”

  He scowled. “This is what you are doing? Drawing the water up into the air, then making it come out again?”

  “On the inside of the funnel,” Ilsa said, nodding. “Although if the funnel gets too warm, it stops working. I think a clay funnel would work better, if there is such a thing—one with glazing, to let the drops slide down to the edge.” She drew her finger down the sloping side of the funnel, to the edge. “When the drops reach here, they drop to this s
econd tray…” She touched the large, shallow tray which sat beneath the tray holding the firewood. “The funnel is wider than the fire box, so the water falls into the bigger tray beneath, then runs out through this hole and into a jar beneath.”

  “Using seawater,” Arawn murmured, looking at it once more. “This is what studying the birds drinking in the helmet told you?”

  Ilsa bit her lip. She could not fathom what his tone meant. Was he angry? Intrigued? She glanced at the kitchen helps, who monitored them with more interest than they gave the plates they were cleaning.

  “Back to the chamber,” Arawn said softly. “We can talk there.”

  Ilsa followed him back to the bed chamber and shut the door, her heart skittering and lurching.

  Arawn picked up the mug she had poured for him and sampled the water once more. He held up the mug, staring at it. “Completely tasteless and quite pure,” he said. “It is extraordinary.” He put the cup down. “Tomorrow, I want you to make more water and show me how it works.”

  Ilsa nodded. “I would like to do that.”

  “I have no doubt it will work,” Arawn said, “although I must see it for myself. Then, we will make a bigger device, which can make more water and see how that goes and if it works just as well…” He pondered. “It won’t save us, but it will provide water for those in direst need.” He spoke softly, staring at the mug.

  Ilsa twined her hands together. “Are you angry, my lord?” she asked, the question spilling from her, driven by her worry.

  “Why would you think I am angry?” Arawn asked her, lifting his head to look at her.

  “Because you are frowning and because you are speaking quietly, the way you do when you are angry. Because you do not seem pleased.” She spoke the list quickly.

  “I am…” He drew in a breath and let it out. “I don’t know what I am. Anger is not what I am feeling, though. Do you have any idea how much this will help us, Ilsa?”

  “Of course I do. As you say, it will not supply a whole kingdom with all the water it needs. Only, anyone can set up something like I have and make their own water if they are near the sea, or even the tidal rivers.”

  Arawn moved around the table to stand in front of her, studying her. “You did say the animals and the trees could teach us everything we need to know. It appears you may have been right after all.”

  Ilsa’s breath caught, for there was a light in his eyes. Warmth. Happiness.

  He bent and kissed her. It was a soft touch of his lips against her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her. Isla drew in her breath, startled. Her heart thudded against her chest, aching with the movement.

  Arawn did not lift his head away. His mouth hovered just over hers. His gaze met hers.

  For the first time Ilsa consciously noted how full his lips were. How dark his eyes were.

  Arawn’s lips met hers once more, and this time, it was a proper kiss. He held her head as he pressed himself against her. Ilsa caught at his robe, holding herself steady, as he plundered her mouth. She was breathless and weak and her heart fluttered with desperate need.

  She breathed aloud her pleasure. It emerged as a soft moan.

  Arawn jerked away from her as if she had burned him.

  Her heart thudding painfully again, Ilsa lifted her hand. “What is wrong?”

  Arawn licked his lips. His gaze moved over her face and her body. He swallowed. She watched his throat work. “Nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse and gathered her up against him once more.

  Then he lifted her and carried her to the big bed, while his mouth caressed her face and throat.

  That night, Arawn did not stop kissing her, even as he took her in a stormy rage of passion. For the first time, Ilsa found herself arching and yearning for more and she realized with a startled leap of her pulse that she liked this. She wanted more of Arawn’s kisses and touches and the feel of his lips against her.

  She could not keep still beneath him. Rather than dissuade him, her shifting seemed to urge him into deeper and heavier movements. Sweat beaded at his temples as he growled and drove himself into her, every muscle in his body straining.

  It was a glorious night of revelation and pleasure.

  Two weeks later, her courses failed to arrive.

  Chapter Seventeen

  This is ridiculous!” Ilsa declared to the stoutly fastened chamber door. She raised her fist and hammered on it. “Let me out! I demand you release me!”

  Silence.

  “I want food! Water! You cannot keep me in here!” She raised her other fist and pummeled the wood with both, making the door shiver and rattle.

  She tried the handle once more, even though she knew nothing would have changed in the last two hours. The door would still be barred against her.

  With a barely contained scream, she threw her shoulder at the door, with her full weight behind it. The deep booming sound she made was satisfying, although her shoulder creaked and throbbed.

  Ilsa put her hand against the door, then her head. “Let me out,” she whispered, knowing no one would hear her.

  Silence.

  This morning after breaking her fast in the triclinium, Ilsa had told her four companions her courses had failed to arrive as usual and then sworn them to silence. “It may be nothing,” she added. “They may still occur. I would rather not raise my lord’s hopes, or anyone else’s, only to have them dashed—where are you going, Merryn?” she said sharply.

  Merryn shut the chamber door behind her without answering.

  Eseld considered the door for a moment, then she, too got to her feet and moved out of the room.

  Rigantona and Dilas followed her with hurried footsteps.

  Ilsa stared at the closed door, indignant.

  Heavy scraping sounded outside the door, followed by a solid thud. The door shifted.

  Ilsa could feel her mouth dropping open. Surely...no, they would not have locked her in here, would they?

  She got to her feet and tried the handle. The door didn’t budge. She rattled the handle harder. Even though the latch raised, the door did not open.

  Ilsa stepped back away from the door, staring at it, her heart thudding. Yes, they had barred her in here.

  That had been two hours ago. She had protested and shaken and knocked upon the door in waves of determination, since. Her anger and fright and puzzlement drove her to it.

  Why was she locked here? It made no sense. She had done nothing to deserve such treatment.

  Another heavy scraping sounded. The door shifted under her forehead. Ilsa stepped back, staring at the door, her heart speeding along. Had she imagined the sound?

  Then more scraping and the thud of heavy wood against the tiles, outside the door.

  The door opened and Ilsa drew in a shaky breath as Arawn stepped in. The door closed behind him.

  “Arawn! I mean…my lord! I do not underst—”

  “Is it true?” His voice was strained.

  Ilsa’s lips parted. She looked at him again, this time seeing the tension around his eyes and the hard line of his jaw. His hands were fisted.

  The fear rushed back, filling her chest and making her shake. What had she done? “Is what true?”

  “Your courses…” Faint redness touched his cheeks. He cleared his throat.

  Ilsa realized she was pressing her hand to her belly. She dropped it. “That they have not occurred when they should? Yes, although I warned Merryn…did she come to you straight away?” Bitterness touched her. “I know now where their loyalties truly lie, all of them.” Oh, how she wished Gwen were here. Gwen, at least might have warned her of this. Only, Gwen laid ill in her bed and had been for days.

  Arawn made a short, flat motion with his hand. “Your women are loyal to their king as they should be. They serve their kingdom, as they are required to do.”

  “And now I have been reminded of it,” Ilsa finished. “Does serving their kingdom encompass locking their queen in her chamber?”

  “I ordered it,” Ara
wn replied.

  Ilsa drew in a shuddering breath. “You? But…” She pressed her hand to her belly once more. “Does the news displease you? I thought…” She bit her lip.

  Arawn shook his head. “Nothing is certain yet. I am well familiar with the early stages.” His tone was dry. “If there is even a chance you carry a child, though, I would be a fool to allow the slightest risk to approach you. I am not a fool. You will remain here in this room where it is safe. The only person allowed through the door is me. The guards will bring you food and water. They will not step farther than a pace into the room. There will be guards beyond the door at all times, to keep any danger away from you.”

  The air in the room chilled. Ilsa’s heart thudded in her temples. “For how long?” she breathed.

  Arawn moved to the door and knocked on it. “Remember the day we met, Ilsa? Remember I said I would do anything to break this curse?”

  Horror spilled through her, turning her bowels to water. She sat on the table, her strength draining, and watched him leave and the door thud shut once more. She understood the answer he had not given.

  He would do anything to break the curse, including keeping her captive in this room until the child was born.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Ilsa scraped her hands to shreds on the door. She shredded her fingernails and the flesh of her fingertips scrabbling at the screens over the high windows. The screens, which kept marauders out, also worked to keep her in.

  The walls of the now tiny room were mortared stone covered with daub…not even a spoon would dig through them, if she had one. Her food arrived without implements and her knives and bow and arrows were removed.

  The same day Arawn had told her she was a prisoner until she delivered a child, all four of the women she considered her companions and two armed guards came into the room and stripped it of everything which might aide her escape or present even the mildest danger to her. They even removed the table with its sharp corners and the stools with their iron legs.