Dragon's Keep

by Janet Lee Carey

  Already I was throwing thistles in the pot. And while I waited for the brew to boil, I gathered all the seeds from the mustard plants. So tiny and so few! And I needed flour to make a paste for a poultice as I’d seen Marn do. No flour here. What then? I crushed the seeds between two stones then added dirt, dampening it with my spit to make a paste. Demetra had used mustard on my claw. The burning paste could heal or harm. My intent was healing.

  Lord Faul opened his eyes. “Come by me, pips,” he said in a rasping voice. The pips gathered by him as I mixed the mustard plaster.

  “Have you felt the stirrings yet?” he asked. “Aye,” said Chawl. “A strange itching in my wings.”

  “That’s the calling,” said Faul. “Soon you’ll fly south to meet your fellows.”

  “Our kith,” said Eetha. “I’ve wanted to go there so long, but with Kadmi drowned and—”

  “Go still.” Faul coughed, the rough and rattle of great fists banging down a door. He wheezed another breath. “You have to go. Promise me.”

  “You’ll take us there,” said Chawl, nodding.

  “You’ll find your way.” Faul closed his eyes.

  I stepped up. “Here is hot mustard paste to ease your cough.”

  “Hot?” said Lord Faul. “It can be nothing to a dragon’s fire.”

  “Aye, you’re right there.” It was good to hear him boasting. With stinging nose and watering eyes I coated his neck and chest, my own hands burning as I spread it. “The heat will grow,” I said. Then wiping my hands on the sandy floor, I went back to the cooking pot.

  “Thistle milk will be ready soon, Father,” said Eetha. “The bitter taste will restore your guile, and your fire will come on strong again.”

  “No,” said Faul, “this death has stolen my fire.”

  My breath caught in my throat. I dropped my stirring stick and went to Faul. “Don’t let Kadmi’s death take away your will to live,” I said. “You still have your daughters and a son.”

  “It’s not only Kadmi’s death that haunts me,” said Faul. His slit eyes opened and he looked so long on me I felt a coldness wrap around my bones.

  “The girl who gave her life for Ore.” He heaved a breath. The sound of his coughing echoed in the cave. “Never did I think . . .” He closed his eyes. I leaned my head against his side and put my clawed hand on his great neck.

  “Kit never thought of herself when a fellow creature was in trouble.” I told him then of Kit’s love for wild creatures. How she’d thrown herself in the moat to save a robin.

  Faul shuddered and I felt the tremble on my hand. Under his breath he said, “How can I not be changed by this?”

  And then I saw them: the shining drops so small and clear that had chilled Lord Faul to the core and doused his inner fire.

  “Don’t cry, Father!” I begged, and as the pips saw the tears they joined me pleading, “Don’t cry, Father! Stop now! It will kill you!”

  More tears rolled down Faul’s blue-green flesh and puddled in the sand beside his talons.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Voice in the Falls

  THE PIPS DUG A GRAVE beside Kadmi’s and set Lord Faul ablaze. The flames burned bright all that day and into the deep of night. We stayed beside the dragon’s death-fire, lifting our screams to the sky, stinging heat and bitter smoke shawling the moon gray.

  At dawn we filled the pit until the grave became a mound of steaming sod. I laid my father’s cross atop then sat in the long wild grass, facing clouds and sun. Covered in dirt and smoke, I was too worn to walk back to the cave. My joints ached; my throat was parched and sore. I was like Job in his grieving pit, having lost all that mattered to me in life and seeing nothing but sickness and sores ahead. Looking out over the sea, the words of Saint Columba came as if on the wind whispering.

  Day of thick clouds and voices,

  Of mighty thundering,

  A day of narrow anguish

  And bitter sorrowing.

  These words described the storm that had come and left us shaken.

  Two nights passed. We ate little and spoke less. On the morn of the third day the pips began to plan their southern flight across the sea. I went to the water’s edge and washed the tears and mud from my cheeks. The woman looking back at me from the quickened pool seemed aged beyond her seventeen years. There was something of Marn in me now, all bone and sinew and stooped with life, though at seventeen, I was half an arm-span taller than Marn.

  The pips would leave this day or the next. I’d thought to stay on Dragon’s Keep and, like a sexton, tend the three graves here. But in the night, Kit’s spirit hovered over in a dream and the single word she whispered, Alissandra.

  “Ali,” I said to the woman in the water, “Aliss.” And I felt the smallest stirring in my chest: a sign of one last fleck of love. Mother’s dearest friend. She’d borne a girl child out of wedlock for the queen. Lived in Demetra’s cave because of it. Now Magnus had her jailed in the dungeon.

  I stirred the water, distorting my reflection. My mouth widened in the pool, my eyes floated outward. I could not go. I felt all but dead.

  Do you love only dragons now? Kit had shouted from her boat.

  She was right. I was more dragon than princess now. I’d grown into my dragon’s part more fully in the past year, and castle life seemed foreign.

  I brought my head down to the earth, no heart left, my soul and body wanting ease. “God, release me,” I whispered. Still, I felt the grip of Kit’s song, and the waterfall above seemed to take up her mother’s name, till all the tumbling water sang, Aliss.

  At dawn Chawl took me on his back, and together with Eetha and Ore, we left Dragon’s Keep. As we sped across the water, Dragon’s Keep grew small as a dust mote in the great eye of the sea. Between sky and water we flew, the stinging wind blowing back my cloak. The early sun spilled across the water. And far across the sea, I thought a show of white might be a ship sailing for Dragon’s Keep. Looking again, I lost the image in a spray of mist.

  It was nightfall by the time we neared Wilde Island. I saw the land ahead as I clung to Chawl’s broad neck. The heavy sound of his pumping wings was nothing to my heartbeat as I saw Pendragon Castle. Suddenly I wanted to scream, “Turn back!” but thoughts of Ali curled up in the dungeon straw—dirty, hungry, and left to the dark—kept me to my course.

  We landed by the Pendragon tomb. All was dark about us, and the blowing of the maple trees accompanied the rustling of dragon wings. Climbing from Chawl’s back, I said good-bye to the pips.

  “You will rule in power,” said Eetha. I smiled at this, thinking how little she knew of humankind.

  “Don’t forget your inner fire,” said Chawl, breathing a bit of flame to me. And I used his fire to light a candle from the sexton’s box near the tomb. Then I kissed the pips, which they did not like but took with dignity. Last, Ore licked my cheek with her rough tongue and said, “Briar.”

  They rose into the night. My candle flickered in their wings’ wind. Turning for the musty tomb, I crossed myself and entered, descending the narrow steps. The chamber to the right housed Mother’s parents and brother, who had all died the same week from the pox. How small Prince Bion’s effigy seemed as I passed. He was younger than I when he died. Mother must have come here alone as a girl—released from Saint Brigid’s to mourn her family and be crowned queen all within a month. Now I would kneel before my parents as she had done. How the world turns back on itself and we travel on the byways our parents strove along whether we wish it or no.

  An hour passed, two. As I prayed I saw through tears a yarrow moth fly in and flit about my candle. I thought on the day Father and I rode to the lake and saw the moths birth from their waxen tombs. “Look ye, Rosie,” he’d said. “Out of death to life.”

  I gave thanks for the sending of the moth, for in the darkest times it is the small things, a bit of bread or a flitting moth, that can bring a body hope.

  Night was passing. I descended the twisting steps that led to the undergr
ound passage and pried open the wall. Raising my candle and stepping into the damp passage, I was greeted by scores of spiders. I bit my lip and journeyed in, taking the full length of the passage under yard and moat.

  My plan was simple as a sailor’s knot. I would present myself on the morrow, acting the part of queen. With regal bearing as my mother had of old, I’d order Sir Magnus to the dungeon, free sweet Ali, and claim my rightful throne.

  At the far end of the tunnel, I opened the hidden door and slipped into the wine cellar. Up the servants’ stairs I fled, crept down the narrow hall, and stole round the corner. Seeing Mother’s door unchallenged, I went in.

  Her scent greeted me as I entered the solar. It came across me in a ripple as if my entrance had disturbed the very pool of air inside. I closed my eyes and took in the sweet odor.

  In the flickering candlelight I sought the washing bowl, and finding it empty, tiptoed to the laver to fill it. Back in Mother’s chamber I stripped away my dragon skin and washed a year of dragon smell from my person. I’d grown used to the scent on Dragon’s Keep, but I knew my fellows would think it rank. The soap ball, which Mother had especially made for her, smelled of rose oil. It brought to mind her soft cheek when she kissed me, the brush of her cool fingers when, alone, she’d taken off her gloves. My eyes welled up.

  I wrapped up in a coverlet and stood before the wardrobe. My naked fingers wandered across a stiff lace, a gathered sleeve. The red velvet was soft as a petal. Mother had worn this gown the night we celebrated Kye’s victory over the dragon at the great banquet on the shore. And kneeling, I found still some grains of sand about the hem. I donned the gown, slipped on my mother’s shoes, and took up her comb to battle my tangled hair.

  A war ensued, which left my head aching with a thousand pricks. When my scalp felt needled as a pincushion, I gave in to the tangles, twisted my hair into a mass and pinned it on top of my head. “Done!” I said. Now and only now did I turn for the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.

  Before the glass I took in the slender woman dressed in red. Mother used to bring me here. Ah, she opened her wardrobe door for me at ages six and nine, ten and fourteen. But always we viewed the glass together gloved so she could face me smiling, willing with her heart that I was whole. She’d say, “Queen Rosalind Pendragon. Know who you are.”

  “Know who you are,” I whispered. “Rosalind.” I held up my naked hands. “Queen Briar.”

  The talon had grown a full two inches on Dragon’s Keep; the blue-green scales had brightened in the fresh air. Never had I seen my claw in Mother’s glass. I could hold my naked hands out now and take in all I saw without shame. The dragons had given me that. I marveled at the gift.

  Lord Faul would have roared out fire if he’d seen me prune my “pretty part,” as he had called it. Still, I knew the people here would burn me for a witch if they saw it so I knifed the talon, peeling it slowly as a carver whittles wood. Black pieces clattered to the floor, smoke curled, warming me with a familiar dragon smell. When the talon was cut to the nub, I hid the shavings behind the logs in the hearth. No fire to burn the leavings as Mother used to do. I knew better than to light one and announce my presence here. In the chill room I sheathed the knife and shuddered as I donned a pair of Mother’s golden gloves.

  Stars still burned outside the castle walls, so I said a prayer to Saint Brigid, asking for her blessing of witty speech against Sir Magnus on the morrow, then I lay on Mother’s bed, where sleep encompassed me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Discovered

  AFTER DAWN THE CHAMBERMAID came in, saw me abed in Mother’s gown, and fled screaming, “The queen’s ghost! God save us!” Quick the castle guard clattered up the stairs, tore me from my bed, and led me down the hall.

  “Let go!” I said. “I order you!”

  Servants peeked around doors, eyes wide, mouths agape. In the Great Hall the sight of Sir Magnus at his breakfast fairly twisted my spleen. The mage sat in crimson robes with soft fur slippers on his feet and golden gloves upon his hands! Mary and Joseph! Nothing I’d seen on Dragon’s Keep had insulted me as much as this! I was used to the women of high rank wearing gloves, though never golden as Mother’s and mine. But for him to don golden gloves, wearing them as a sign of power as a whore wears silk, this offended me more than Lord Faul’s power, which had been real and his anger pure.

  “Bring her forward,” he ordered. The guard shoved me to the floor. I tried to stand but Sir Kent, whom I knew well from childhood, booted my spine. Thus I lay in supplication to the mage.

  “Who are you that you creep into the queen’s chamber in the middle of the night?”

  “I am Princess Rosalind.”

  “Rosalind is dead,” said Sir Magnus.

  “No, I live. Let me stand, and you’ll see for yourself.”

  Sir Magnus nodded. Boot removed, I stood, rubbed the small of my spine, and brushed the straw from Mother’s gown. Fire filled me now. Sir Magnus would be punished for this.

  “There is some likeness,” admitted Magnus. “But a witch can guise herself.”

  “I’m no witch!”

  Sir Magnus speared his sausage and held it up. “If you are Rosalind tell us how you entered the castle unnoticed by the guards. I know myself the drawbridge was not lowered yestereve.”

  “There is another way inside,” I offered, but I said no more, having promised Father I would never show the tunnel to another soul.

  “A way into Pendragon Castle? Not unless you swam the moat or used a spell to fly across on crow’s back.”

  “I did nothing of the sort. I heard about my mother’s death and came home to claim my crown.”

  “Your crown?” he scoffed.

  “And,” I continued, “my first command is to send you to the dungeon for poisoning my—”

  “Make commands?” shouted Sir Magnus, coming to a stand. The sausage dropped to the floor to the delight of the dogs, but the breadth of his belt showed how little Magnus needed meat. “You may call yourself Rosalind, but we all know it cannot be so. We saw the dragon swoop her away last May Day.”

  The guards’ faces were stone; the servants—all but Mouser, who was dumb to the proceedings—cowered at my stare. Cook, cheeks red and chin aquiver, crushed the corners of her smeared apron.

  “The dragon spared me.”

  “The dragon showed you mercy? Never. But entertain us with more lies.” He sat and speared another sausage. “And tell us why he did not eat you.” He jammed the sausage in his mouth. The room rang with laughter.

  This I could not answer. Sir Magnus smacked his lips loudly as I looked at the floor. I’d vowed to keep the pips secret. The last of the world’s dragons must have their chance at life.

  “Answer,” demanded Magnus.

  “I cannot,” I said. “But I can say this! My mother died because you filled her with—”

  “Sorcery!” shouted Magnus. “It must be by the devil’s sorcery you lived with the dragon.”

  “No!”

  “I say he spared you because you are a witch and the dragon your kith-beast.”

  I screamed and rushed for the mage. Before I reached the table I was caught by two guards and held at bay like a wild cur.

  “My lord, a word,” called Sir Winston from behind. Sir Magnus waved him forward. The knight’s gray hair fell across his brow as he whispered in the mage’s ear.

  I looked about the room for help and found none. Indeed, my mother’s gown and shoes could not hide the wild girl I’d become on Dragon’s Keep. And though I’d bathed, I knew there was a stench about my person, and everyone seemed afraid to look at me. Another thing I saw as I looked about for help: All the women were wearing gloves woven of the best material each could find. In years past only women of high standing donned gloves. Now I saw my mother’s fashion had extended even to the servants.

  At the high table Sir Winston hissed in Sir Magnus’s ear. The mage stood then and frowned. “As I suspected we have evidence of witchery he
re,” he said. “We’ll hold a trial in three days’ time. Take her to the dungeon.”

  “Poisoner!” I screamed, but the crowd paid my words no more mind than they would the ravings of a mad woman. “Let me go!” I shouted. “I’m your queen!” The guards dragged me from the room. All along the halls the servants covered their noses and looked away. Down the steps we went, the sounds of our feet like the clatter of spilled pebbles. Sir Winston threw me in a cell and slammed the metal door.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Witch Trial

  THE CELL WAS DARK but for a narrow stream of light from a high slit in the stone wall. I crept to it fearing what might lurk in the shadows.

  “Ali?”

  No answer. Our dungeon had twelve cells and a large torture chamber besides. I hoped Alissandra’s cell was not far down the hall. “Ali?”

  What light I had showed me two dead things: a crow and a rat. Black feathers were neatly arranged in a pattern of spreading circles. Small to large, they rayed outward like a sun. It seemed a woman’s hand had done this. Beside the crow’s bones lay the half-eaten body of the rat. I wrapped my arms about my knees and rocked, the foul smell and the chill making me long for the clean spill of my waterfall on Dragon’s Keep.

  Late in the day the cell door opened.

  I leaped to a stand. “Sir. Have you come to free me?” The old man flung a bit of bread on the floor and left, slamming the heavy door shut. Two rats from the dark corner raced for my meal.

  “Stay back!” I grabbed my bit of bread and ate standing, the rats at my feet making do with their brother’s carcass.

  Black flies buzzed about my head. I swatted, and planned what I would say at my witch trial. I must turn away the sharp words meant to cut me from the throne, shield myself, and somehow reflect them back on the mage so they’d sever Magnus.