And the dragon would claim a forfeit of his choosing.
That was what Glasog thought of, in her worst nightmares: that the dragon had always meant to have all the kingdoms of the west with very little effort—let her father win all but one and fail, on the smallest letter of the agreement. What was more, all the generals in all the armies they had taken agreed that the kingdom of Ogan could never be taken by force: there were mountains in which resistance could hide and not even dragon‑fire could burn all of them; but most of all there was the fabled Luck of Ogan, which said that no force of arms could defeat the sons of Ogan.
Watch, Madog had said. And certainly her father was astute, and cunning, and knew how to snare a man by his pride. There’s always a way, her father had said, to break a spell. This one has a weakness. The strongest spells most surely have their soft spots.
And Ogan had one son, and that was prince Gwydion.
Now we will fetch him, Madog said to his daughter. Now we will see what his luck is worth.
The generals said, If you would have a chance in war, first be rid of Gwydion.
But Madog said, and Glasog agreed, There are other uses for Gwydion.
“It doesn’t look different,” Owain said as they passed the border stone.
It was true. Nothing looked changed at all. There was no particular odor of evil, or of threat. It might have been last summer, when the two of them had hunted with Rhys. They had used to hunt together every summer, and last autumn they had tracked the bandit Llewellyn to his lair, and caught him with stolen sheep. But in the spring Ban’s sons had gone to seek the hand of Madog’s daughter, and one by one had died, last of them, in early summer, Rhys himself.
Gwydion would have gone, long since, and long before Rhys. A score of times Gwydion had approached his father King Ogan and his mother Queen Belys and begged to try his luck against Madog, from the first time Madog’s messenger had appeared and challenged the kings of Dyfed to war or wedlock. But each time Ogan had refused him, arguing in the first place that other princes, accustomed to warfare on their borders, were better suited, and better armed, and that there were many princes in Dyfed, but he had only one son.
But when Rhys had gone and failed, the last kingdom save that of King Ogan passed into Madog’s hands. And Gwydion, grief-stricken with the loss of his friend, said to his parents, “If we had stood together, we might have defeated this Madog; if we had taken the field then, together, we might have had a chance; if you had let me go with Rhys, one of us might have won and saved the other. But now Rhys is dead and we have Madog for a neighbor. Let me go when he sends to us. Let me try my luck at courting his daughter. A war with him now we may not lose, but we cannot hope to win.”
Even so Ogan had resisted him, saying that they still had their mountains for a shield, difficult going for any army; and arguing that their luck had saved them this far and that it was rash to take matters into their own hands.
Now the nature of that luck was this: that the kingdoms of Dyfed, Ogan’s must always be poorest and plainest. But that luck meant that they could not fail in war nor fail to harvest: it had come down to them from Ogan’s own greatgrandfather Ogan ap Ogan of Llanfynnyd, who had sheltered one of the Faerie unaware; and only faithlessness could break it—so great-grandfather Ogan has said. So: “Our luck will be our defense,” Ogan had argued with his son. “Wait and let Madog come to us. We’ll fight him in the mountains.”
“Will we fight a dragon? Even if we defeat Madog himself, what of our herds, what of our farmers and freeholders? Can we let the land go to waste and let our people feed this dragon, while we hide in the hills and wait for luck to save us? Is that faithfulness?” That was what Gwydion had asked his father, while Madog’s herald was in the hall—a raven black as unrepented sin… or the intentions of a wizard.
“Madog bids you know,” this raven had said, perched on a rafter of Ogan’s hall, beside a moldering basket and string of garlic, “that he has taken every kingdom of Dyfed but this. He offers you what he offered others: if King Ogan has a son worthy to win Madog’s daughter and get an heir, then King Ogan may rule in peace over his kingdom so long as he lives, and that prince will have titles and the third of Madog’s realm besides…
“But if the prince will not or cannot win the princess, then Ogan must swear Madog is his lawful true heir. And if Ogan refuses this, then Ogan must face Madog’s army, which now is the army of four kingdoms each greater than his own. Surely,” the raven had added, fixing all present with a wicked, midnight eye, “it is no great endeavor Madog asks—simply to court his daughter. And will so many die, so much burn? Or will Prince Gwydion win a realm wider than your own? A third of Madog’s lands is no small dowry and inheritance of Madog’s kingdom is no small prize.”
So the raven had said. And Gwydion had said to his mother, “Give me your blessing,” and to his father Ogan: “Swear the oath Madog asks. If our luck can save us, it will save me and win this bride; but if it fails me in this, it would have failed us in any case.”
Maybe, Gwydion thought as they passed the border, Owain was a necessary part of that luck Maybe even Mili was. It seemed to him now that he dared reject nothing that loved him and favored him, even if it was foolish and even if it broke his heart: his luck seemed so perilous and stretched so thin already he dared not bargain with his fate.
“No signs of a dragon, either,” Owain said, looking about them at the rolling hills.
Gwydion looked about him too, and at the sky, which showed only the lazy flight of a single bird.
Might it be a raven? It was too far to tell.
“I’d think,” said Owain, “it would seem grimmer than it does.”
Gwydion shivered as if a cold wind had blown. But Blaze plodded his heavy-footed way with no semblance of concern, and Mili trotted ahead, tongue lolling, occasionally sniffing along some trail that crossed theirs.
“Mili would smell a dragon, “ Owain said.
“Are you sure?” Gwydion asked. He was not. If Madog’s younger daughter could be a raven at her whim, he was not sure what a dragon might be at its pleasure.
That night they had a supper of brown bread and sausages that Gwydion’s mother had sent, and ale that Owain had with him.
“My mother’s brewing,” Owain said. “My father’s store.” And Owain sighed and said: “By now they must surely guess I’m not off hunting.”
“You didn’t tell them?” Gwydion asked. “You got no blessing in this?”
Owain shrugged, and fed a bit of sausage to Mili, who gulped it down and sat looking at them worshipfully.
Owain’s omission of duty worried Gwydion. He imagined how Owain’s parents would first wonder where he had gone, then guess, and fear for Owain’s life, for which he held himself entirely accountable. In the morning he said, “Owain, go back. This is far enough.”
But Owain shrugged and said, “Not I. Not without you.” Owain rubbed Mili’s ears. “No more than Mili, without me.”
Gwydion had no least idea now what was faithfulness and what was a young man’s foolish pride. Everything seemed tangled. But Owain seemed not in the least distressed.
Owain said, “We’ll be there by noon tomorrow.”
Gwydion wondered, Where is this dragon? and distrusted the rocks around them and the sky over their heads. He felt a presence in the earth—or thought he felt it. But Blaze and Swallow grazed at their leisure. Only Mili looked worried—Mili pricked up her ears, such as those long ears could prick, wondering, perhaps, if they were going to get to bandits soon, and whether they were, after all, going to eat that last bit of breakfast sausage.
“He’s on his way,” Glasog said. “He’s passed the border.”
“Good,” said Madog. And to his generals: “Didn’t I tell you?”
The generals still looked worried.
But Glasog went and stood on the walk of the castle that had been Ban’s, looking out over the countryside and wondering what the dragon was thinking tonight, whether
the dragon had foreseen this as he had foreseen the rest, or whether he was even yet keeping some secret from them, scheming all along for their downfall.
She launched herself quite suddenly from the crest of the wall, swooped out over the yard and beyond, over the seared fields.
The dragon, one could imagine, knew about Ogan’s Luck. The dragon was too canny to face it—and doubtless was chuckling in his den in the hills.
Glasog flew that way, but saw nothing from that cave but a little curl of smoke—there was almost always smoke. And Glasog leaned toward the west, following the ribbon of a road, curious, and wagering that the dragon this time would not bestir himself.
Her father wagered the same. And she knew very well what he wagered, indeed she did: duplicity for duplicity—if not the old serpent’s aid, then human guile; if treachery from the dragon, then put at risk the dragon’s prize.
Gwydion and Owain came to a burned farmstead along the road. Mili sniffed about the blackened timbers and bristled at the shoulders, and came running back to Owain’s whistle, not without mistrustful looks behind her.
There was nothing but a black ruin beside a charred, brittle orchard.
“I wonder,” Owain said, “what became of the old man and his wife.”
“I don’t,” said Gwydion, worrying for his own parents, and seeing in this example how they would fare in any retreat into the hills.
The burned farm was the first sign they had seen of the dragon, but it was not the last. There were many other ruins, and sad and terrible sights. One was a skull sitting on a fence row. And on it sat a raven.
“This was a brave man,” it said, and pecked the skull, which rang hollowly, and inclined its head toward the field beyond. “That was his wife. And farther still his young daughter.”
“Don’t speak to it,” Gwydion said to Owain. They rode past, at Blaze’s plodding pace, and did not look back.
But the raven flitted ahead of them and waited for them on the stone fence. “If you die,” the raven said, “then your father will no longer believe in his luck. Then it will leave him. It happened to all the others.”
“There’s always a first,” said Gwydion.
Owain said, reaching for his bow: “Shall I shoot it?”
But Gwydion said: “Kill the messenger for the message? No. It’s a foolish creature. Let it be.”
It left them. Gwydion saw it sometimes in the sky ahead of them. He said nothing to Owain, who had lost his cheerfulness, and Mili stayed close by them, sore of foot and suspicious of every breeze.
There were more skulls. They saw gibbets and stakes in the middle of a burned orchard. There was scorched grass, recent and powdery under the horses’ hooves. Blaze, who loved to snatch a bite now and again as he went, moved uneasily, snorting with dislike of the smell, and Swallow started as shadows.
Then the turning of the road showed them a familiar brook, and around another hill and beyond, the walled holding that had been King Ban’s, in what had once been a green valley. Now it was burned, black bare hillsides and the ruin of hedges and orchards.
So the trial they had come to find must be here, Gwydion thought and uneasily took up his bow and picked several of his best arrows, which he held against his knee as he rode. Owain did the same.
But they reached the gate of the low-walled keep unchallenged until they came on the raven sitting, whetting its beak on the stone. It looked at them solemnly, saying, “Welcome, Prince Gwydion. You’ve won your bride. Now how will you fare, I wonder.”
Men were coming from the keep, running toward them, others, under arms, in slower advance.
“What now?” Owain asked, with his bow across his knee; and Gwydion lifted his bow and bent it, aiming at the foremost.
The crowd stopped, but a black-haired man in gray robes and a king’s gold chain came alone, holding up his arms in a gesture of welcome and of peace. Madog himself? Gwydion wondered, while Gwydion’s arm shook and the string trembled in his grip. “Is it Gwydion ap Ogan?” the man asked—surely no one else but Madog would wear that much gold. “My son-in-law to be! Welcome!”
Gwydion, with great misgivings, slacked the string and let down the bow, while fat Blaze, better trained than seemed, finally shifted feet. Owain lowered his bow too, as King Madog’s men opened up the gate. Some of the crowd cheered as they rode in, and more took it up, as if they had only then gained the courage or understood it was expected. Blaze and Swallow snorted and threw their heads at the racket, as Gwydion and Owain put away their arrows, unstrung their bows and hung them on their saddles.
But Mili stayed close by Owain’s legs as they dismounted, growling low in her throat, and barked one sharp warning when Madog came close. “Hush,” Owain bade her, and knelt down more for respect, keeping one hand on Mili’s muzzle and the other in her collar, whispering to her. “Hush, hush, there’s a good dog.”
Gwydion made the bow a prince owed to a king and prospective father-in-law, all the while thinking that there had to be a trap in this place. He was entirely sorry to see grooms lead Blaze and Swallow away, and kept Owain and Mili constantly in the tail of his eye as Madog took him by the arms and hugged him. Then Madog said, catching all his attention, eye to eye with him for a moment, “What a well-favored young man you are. The last is always best.—So you’ve killed the dragon.”
Gwydion thought, Somehow we’ve ridden right past the trial we should have met. If I say no, he will find cause to disallow me; and he’ll kill me and Owain and all our kin.
But lies were not the kind of dealing his father had taught him; faithfulness was the rule of the house of Ogan; so Gwydion looked the king squarely in they eyes and said, “I met no dragon.”
Madog’s eyes showed surprise, and Madog said: “Met no dragon?”
“Not a shadow of a dragon.”
Madog grinned and clapped him on the shoulder and showed him to the crowd, saying, “This is your true prince!”
Then the crowd cheered in earnest, and even Owain and Mili looked heartened. Owain rose with Mili’s collar firmly in hand.
Madog said then to Gwydion, under his breath, “If you had lied, you would have met the dragon here and now. Do you know you’re the first one who’s gotten this far?”
“I saw nothing,” Gwydion said again, as if Madog had not understood him. “Only burned farms. Only skulls and bones.”
Madog turned a wide smile toward him, showing teeth. “Then it was your destiny to win. Was it not?” And Madog faced him about toward the doors of the keep. “Daughter, daughter, come out!”
Gwydion hesitated a step, expecting he knew not what—the dragon itself, perhaps: his wits went scattering toward the gate, the horses being led away, Mili barking in alarm—and a slender figure standing in the doorway, all white and gold. “My elder daughter,” Madog said. “Eri.”
Gwydion went ahead as he was led, telling himself it must be true, after so much dread of this journey and so many friends’ lives lost—obstacles must have fallen down for him, Ogan’s Luck must still be working…
The young bride waiting for him was so beautiful, so young and so—kind—was the first word that came to him—Eri smiled and immediately it seemed to him she was innocent of all the grief around her, innocent and good as her sister was reputed cruel and foul.
He took her hand, and the folk of the keep all cheered, calling him their prince; and if any were Ban’s people, those wishes might well come from the heart, with fervent hopes of rescue. Pipers began to play, gentle hands urged them both inside, and in the desolate land some woman found flowers to give to Eri.
“Owain?” Gwydion cried, looking back, suddenly seeing no sign of him or Mili: “Owain!”
He refused to go farther until Owain could part the crowd and reach his side, Mili firmly in hand. Owain looked breathless and frightened. Gwydion felt the same. But the crowd pushed and pulled at them, the pipers piped and the dancers danced, and they brought them into a hall smelling of food and ale.
It can’t
be this simple, Gwydion thought, and made up his mind that no one should part him from Owain, Mili, or their swords. He looked about him, bedazzled, at a wedding feast that must have taken days to prepare.
But how could they know I’d get here? he wondered. Did they do this for all the suitors that failed—and celebrate their funerals, then… with their wedding feast?
At which thought he felt cold through and through, and found Eri’s hand on his arm disquieting; but Madog himself waited to receive them in the hall, and joined their hands and plighted them their vows, to make them man and wife, come what might—
“So long at you both shall live,” Madog said, pressing their hands together. “And when there is an heir, Prince Gwydion shall have the third of my lands, and his father shall rule in peace so long as he shall live.”
Gwydion misliked the last—Gwydion thought in alarm: As long as he lives.
But Madog went on, saying, “—be you wed, be you wed, be you wed,” three times, as if it were a spell—then: “Kiss your bride, son-in-law.”
The well-wishes from the guests roared like the sea. The sea was in Eri’s eyes, deep and blue and drowning. He heard Mili growl as he kissed Eri’s lips once, twice, three times.
The pipers played, the people cheered, no few of whom indeed might have been King Ban’s, or Lugh’s, or Lughdan’s. Perhaps, Gwydion dared think, perhaps it was hope he brought to them, perhaps he truly had won, after all, and the dreadful thread Madog posed was lifted, so that Madog would be their neighbor, no worse than the worst they had had, and perhaps, if well-disposed, better than one or two.
Perhaps, he thought, sitting at Madog’s right hand with his bride at his right and with Owain just beyond, perhaps there truly was cause to hope, and he could ride away from here alive—though he feared he could find no cause to do so tonight, with so much prepared, with an anxious young bride and King Madog determined to indulge his beautiful daughter. Women hurried about with flowers and torches, with linens and brooms and platters and plates, tumblers ran riot, dancers leaped and cavorted—one of whom came to grief against an ale-server. Both went down, in Madog’s very face, and the hall grew still and dangerous.
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