Dragon's Keep

by Janet Lee Carey

  “Ah, God!” I cried, my feet swimming in air, my soiled bandage blowing like a battle flag.

  “Shall I release her now?” called the dragon.

  “Don’t toy with her!” commanded Mother, looking small as a poppet from where I hung. “She’s a princess! Take another girl to eat!”

  Hearing this, the village maidens howled and smeared dirt across their faces to look less appealing.

  The dragon drew me in closer. The cliff edge below me now, I flailed and kicked against his golden belly with my unbroken foot. His scaly flesh was hard as the garden wall I’d once kicked in a bad temper.

  “I choose this one,” said the dragon, holding me above the revelers.

  Mother stood like a willow, her green gown billowing. “If it’s royal blood you want,” she called, “take me!”

  I felt the dragon shudder, the whole of him like a quaking mountain.

  “No, Mother!” I screamed. He squeezed me tighter. Mother held out her hands as if to lift a babe.

  “Leave her be! You cannot have the twenty-first princess!”

  “More stink of human prophecy!” roared the dragon. “She’s mine by rights. Shall I show these people why?”

  Mother’s jaw fell. She raised her arm to caution her knights who stood ready with their swords. How I longed for her to scream, “Show all!” I was ready to remove my glove and bare my claw to the stricken revelers on the hill if it would save my life, but Mother stood aloof, and my arms were pinned to my sides by the dragon’s grip.

  Ah, Judas, I saw the war across my mother’s features then. She would have given her own life, or let the dragon feast upon the villagers one by one to spare me, but she could not move against this threat. A cold wave of shame swept through me as I saw my mother’s eyes go hard before the dragon.

  The beast reared back and laughed. All stood below me, fixed as threaded cloth in a tapestry. The queen with her assorted knights, villagers, maidens smeared with soil—and the only thing that moved was the wall of fire crackling behind.

  The dragon pivoted, leaped from the high cliff, and plummeted to the sea. My screams were lost in the breaking of the waves. Lifting like a kestrel, he drew me skyward. Salt wind washed over me, chill and thick as water. I bit my lips against it and turned for one last look at Wilde Island.

  My death was soon and certain; theirs still a shadow stalking. And strangely, as the dragon rushed me from my life, I pitied those left on the hill whose death day still crouched in some unknown place, biding until the hour it would spring out and devour.

  The island grew smaller as we sped over the sea, the wind tearing at my face and blowing my legs backward. But jailed in the dragon’s claw, I was strangely hot. I could feel the heat pounding in his blood, and his scales were like the warming stones Marn used to lay beneath my quilt in winter.

  The dragon’s grip had loosened some, and it pained me less to breathe. Still, my back and hip bones ached in his rough hold. And my broken ankle throbbed as my legs swam in the abyss.

  I worked to free a hand and grip my cross. “Saint George, deliver me,” I called. “Send your angels armed with Heaven’s swords.”

  The creature lifted higher to the clouds. My ears filled with the thunder of his wings. I was like a wee fish caught and dragged under a galleon in a deep red sea.

  It was dawn before we reached the isle of Dragon’s Keep. Gray light spilled on the shore as the dragon flew over the cliffs. Pine trees and rowan swayed beneath his pumping wings. He landed near a waterfall, entered a cave, and flung me down. I lay on the sandy floor panting and cradling my broken ankle as the dragon lit a fire.

  He towered over me, his head swaying to some inner breeze like a great tree in the wind, the green skin ruffles that grew from the sides of his head flapping.

  “Why bring me here to eat?” I said.

  “Did your father not bring his hunt home?”

  I shuddered. Marn had taught me to breathe deep in times of trouble, but with each attempt, pain shot through my bruised chest. Clumsy as a drunkard, I wrapped my soiled bandage around my ankle splint.

  “How did you break yourself?” asked the dragon, his voice deep and grinding as the miller’s wheel.

  “A fall from my horse.”

  “And the gashes down your arm?”

  “Wolves.”

  “Ah, then you have known the feel of teeth!” said the dragon.

  A smile seemed to cross the dragon’s snout. And I saw how yellow his sharp teeth were.

  A swirl of smoke rose above his twitching nostrils. “Tasty,” he said, closing his eyes and flicking out his tongue.

  I crawled into the shadows near a large sand mound.

  “You cannot hide from me.” The dragon laughed, his eyes still closed. “I can smell human flesh from a hundred wing-spans.” He licked his jaws and sniffed.

  Blood sang in my ears. Was there no way out? Quick, I patted about in the shadows, feeling the coldness of the sand through my gloves. If there were a sharp stone, or . . . Here was something. Heart pounding, I pulled it closer: a fish spine.

  The dragon’s laughter rang like the stonemason’s hammer. “There are no weapons here,” he said, “but the one you were born with.”

  He inched closer, his golden belly glinting in the firelight.

  I crept backward past a great tall mound. “How do you know of my mark?”

  “I saw the gash beneath Lady Charsha’s eye the night you met on Morgesh Mountain. She told me of your sign.”

  Sign? I’d never heard my curse called that before. But Marn had warned me that dragons twisted everything. I could say it was a lie, that there was no sign, but all he had to do was strip my glove to see the claw. And if there had been nothing but a maiden’s hand under the gold, would my mother have let him abduct me without a fight? The dragon knew. And this was why he had delayed in eating me: He planned to gloat on my affliction first.

  Now my flesh burned. I interlocked my fingers. He’d have to tear the gloves off if he had a mind to gloat.

  “Remove your gloves,” said the dragon, flexing his claws in the sand.

  I said no word but looked into the fire.

  “Show me your sign.”

  “Nearly all those who have seen what lies beneath my glove have died,” I said.

  “I have no fear of that,” he growled. “Your mother is not here.”

  I looked into his eyes, which were like molten honey. He was twisting things again. “She has nothing to do with death,” I said.

  He blinked. “Twice when I hunted in the night my prey was murdered by another’s hand. I smelled the one who stole my meals, and I never forget a smell.”

  “What murders?” I choked.

  “The first? Midsummer’s Eve. I like to taste human flesh after some fool stuffs himself at the fair. It adds a certain sweetness.” He flicked his tongue. “So I crouched in Witch’s Hollow where a drunkard was sure to pass until a red-haired woman came up the path. She was nearly in my jaws when the queen rushed out from behind a willow tree and knifed her in the—”

  “Stop! You lie!”

  “Why lie when the truth is sharper?”

  I hugged my knees and shuddered, remembering Bram’s words concerning Tess. There were dragon signs there. Aye, the beast had come to Witch’s Hollow, but this killing was not his.

  The dragon shook his head, the ruffles behind his ears rattling. “So I waited for dawn and made do with a drunkard.” He flicked a stray log into the fire. “Again your mother took my meal: an old woman walking near the moat. Bony-armed, but plump about the middle—”

  “No more!” I screamed.

  The wall I’d built between myself and the truth about my mother crumbled. I threw myself against the one who’d told me, howling like a death wraith. My screams echoed through the cave as I bashed my fists against the dragon’s belly. I would beat the devil until he swallowed me!

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Burningstone

  SAND STUNG MY FACE.
I awoke from my faint, brushed the grit away, and looked about. The smell of rotting hide and the earthy smoke of burningstone filled my nose.

  Spitting grit and blinking in the firelight, I ducked as another clawful of sand flew over. The dragon turned and snatched a piece of burningstone from the flames, pinching the glowing orb in his black talons then dropping it in a small pit by the sand mound. Covering it with sand, he patted here and there the way a mother pats a babe. Crouching low, he dug again.

  Dark outside. I’d been unconscious a long while. Seeing me awake, the dragon assessed my huddled form, his slit eyes like uplifted swords at sunset.

  “Fetch more burningstones while I dig.”

  “I cannot lift a glowing stone,” I said hoarsely.

  “Such weak flesh,” he sneered. “And nails flimsy as rose petals. Dig, then!” he snorted, his flaring nostrils sending out twirls of smoke.

  Beneath his towering shadow, I crawled over to the sand mound and looked about for a stick.

  “With your hands! And over there next to my last pit!”

  “But my gloves will be torn if I—”

  “Dig!” roared the beast.

  I bent to the task like a dog.

  “Deeper!” said the dragon, holding the burningstone so close to me I could feel the heat of it at the base of my neck. I scooped out the sand and reached in again.

  “Stop now,” he ordered and dropped the burningstone down as I pulled my hand away. “Cover it and begin a new pit there!”

  “What ritual is this?” I asked, but knew before the asking. Here was a mound of sand warming to the task of sacrifice. He would not eat me quickly as a creature in the wild, but truss me as Cook would a peacock on Saint Crispin’s day. It was my own slaughter-mound I was warming.

  My fingers, tender to the task, ached beneath my gloves, but I dug the pits.

  The dragon dropped a burningstone into my pit. “Cover it,” he growled. “And start another.”

  I buried the red, hot stone, feeling its warmth through my gloves as I patted down the sand. The heat spread beneath me, burning my knees through my soiled May Day gown. I crawled to the next spot, cupped my gloved hand, scooped, and tossed the sand behind me.

  We had encircled the sand mound with burningstone. Now, damp with sweat, I rubbed my pounding ankle and checked my gloves. The right one was torn. How Mother would have scolded me if she’d seen the tear, shutting me in my solar, and ordering the weaver to make another pair. I brushed away the flecks of sand embedded in the golden weave.

  “You will remove the gloves now,” said the dragon, his head swaying above me.

  I was on my knees, unable to stand and bear weight on my splint. It was clear he wished the gloves removed before devouring me.

  “It is the gold of them you seek?” I said. “I have gold of my own,” he growled. “Aye, stolen from Queen Evaine.”

  The dragon blinked; his tongue slid out and in, bright red as the ribbon on the Maypole.

  “Let me die as I am with my pride,” I said with chattering teeth. “My family would wish it so.”

  The dragon lifted his head and breathed a silky stream of fire. The top of the cave turned the blue of a summer’s day. And as the heat of the flames spread across my flesh, sweat rolled down my neck and back and soaked into my gown.

  I rocked and prayed and held the cross Father had given me. The glittering threads of my gloves shone blue in the strange light. The beast lowered his great head. “Take them off,” he ordered.

  My heart pounded in my throat. So many years I’d dreamed of destroying my gloves, but never had I thought I’d give them to a dragon.

  The beast was not used to waiting, it seemed. He opened his jaw, the more to show the sharpness of his teeth. Trembling, I pulled off the right glove. My fingers were raw and pink as cherry blossoms from digging in the sand.

  The dragon licked his jaws but did not move from his place. He hung over me like a great cliff rock over the shore as, finger by finger, I tugged on my left glove.

  I dropped the gold glove and held out my naked hand, the fourth finger cursed as ever. The scales on my claw shone in the firelight, and my clipped black talon reflected the flames as a shiny rook’s wing will answer to the sun.

  As the dragon looked on it I saw his eyes soften the way a candle flame softens when there’s no wind about. He did not blink nor move as I held up my hand. I’d seen this trance before when I’d bared my hand to the female dragon on the cliff, though at the time I’d thought my hand wielded some magic power against her. Now I saw the moment stripped of wizardry. The dragon gazed at my talon, small, but in all other ways, very like his own. And he saw it with delight.

  “Lovely,” he said.

  Tears stung my eyes. He loved my hideous claw. He thought it beautiful! It had always been my secret hope that my hand would one day be looked upon with love. And by that one look, my curse might be broken.

  I shook there in his gaze, like a small shadow under a great lamp. Outside the waterfall tumbled, and my ears rang with the sound.

  “Pity,” said the dragon.

  A cold blade split me with the word.

  “A thing so beautiful growing from a putrid form. Like a flower growing from a crippled branch.”

  “A crippled branch?” I said. “This is how I look to you?”

  “All humans are detestable to dragons: soft skinned, colorless, snoutless, flat-toothed, hairy, wingless, tailless, graceless, and foul smelling.”

  “I disgust you, then.”

  The dragon’s nostrils twitched. “Not all of you.”

  He started for the cave entrance then turned to look back. “You will call me Lord Faul. All your life you have been Rose, but here your thorn’s exposed so I will call you Briar.” He snorted at his little joke, then added, “Crawl outside to relieve yourself, Briar. I keep my dwelling clean.” With a flick of his tail he left me in the cave, the roaring of the waterfall outside echoing against the rocks.

  I was not to die straightaway as I had thought but stay on Dragon’s Keep awhile and live with one who scorned me. Lord Faul had delayed his kill, though his reasons were a shadow game to me.

  After a time I crawled outside the cave to relieve myself in the grass. Squatting in the dark woods, I heard the pine trees above swaying in the night’s wind. Before me the waterfall tumbled black as ink.

  There was no sign of Lord Faul, but I did not try escape. Even if I could cross miles of roots, stones, and bracken to the sea, there would be no ship there yet to rescue me. I must stay alive till Mother’s knights came. It would take them three days at least to sail to Dragon’s Keep.

  I crept toward the water, bent to drink, and saw my face reflected there. In the night’s pool shone the beauty of my mother’s high forehead, her cheekbones, and her firm chin. Mother killed to keep my beauty and hide my beast mark from men’s eyes. If I’d been born here, hatched from an egg, suckled by Faul’s lady, would they have covered me in golden sacking? In secret and disgust would they have wrapped all but my claw against their dark-slit eyes?

  I sobbed and laughed in turn until the night’s chill brought me back to the fire in the cave. In came Lord Faul not long after with a trout impaled upon a stick.

  “Eat,” he growled. I sat up, took the stick he offered, and held the trout above the fire till the flesh was scorched.

  Lord Faul looked on, all approving of my meal. He had not offered me a knife to pick the flesh away, so I supped like a wild beast.

  Morning brought a ray of sunlight to my sandy bed. I crawled outside and saw Lord Faul sunning on the hill beside the cave. From there he watched me creeping round the forest floor. Finding a pine bough, I stripped the foliage from it, fashioning a cruel crutch.

  Hopping like a one-legged beggar, and in full view of the dragon, I set out on a hunger-hunt. I must have looked a sight in my rose cloak and torn blue gown, hobbling about the forest, using Marn’s woodland lore to forage food. But I found wild onions growing in a patch near
a willow tree. Digging plump white bulbs from the darkened soil, I feasted on them raw.

  Later in the day I gathered mushrooms. Still, after a full day’s foraging, I limped to the cave hungry and was grateful for the trout the dragon tossed. With the falling of the dark I sought my sleep but found little. Lord Faul shook me awake and bid me dig more pits for his burningstones. I worked the sand, my flesh rubbed raw with digging, but Faul would not let me rest until the mound was encircled with hot stones again.

  While I dug the pits I came up with a plan. If the dragon should try to eat me before my rescue came, I would use my father’s cross to cut my way out of his belly, as brave Saint Margaret had in times of old. I shuddered thinking on this. To achieve the feat I must avoid his fire and sharp teeth and leap down his throat. The dragon must swallow me whole.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Breaking

  IT RAINED MY THIRD DAY on Dragon’s Keep and Lord Faul kept well inside the cave. I knew dragons hated rain. Never had we heard of dragon attacks in the rainy months, and some said it was because the water downed them. I hoped that this was true as I planned my escape.

  I waited until the dragon fell asleep, his snores rattling my ears like a hundred sawyers in the forest. Heart pounding in my mouth, I slipped on my cloak and grabbed my gloves. Here was my chance to try for the shore. I might find a cave to hide in there and await my rescue.

  In stealth I crept past the sleeping beast. Outside the cold wind splashed rain across my face. Crutch wedged in my armpit, I hobbled on the soggy ground, following the trail that ran beside the river. I must somehow make it to the shore and win my freedom.

  God’s bones, my progress was slow! I fought against the wind, battling mud and roots with every step. The trail climbed higher, a steep ravine extending from the edge down to the rushing river. I pressed on, knowing I would at some time meet the shore. Soaked and worn, I reached the top of the trail at last.