Wings of Fire

by Jonathan Strahan

  As a storyteller, I have learned that everyone has a story. Not only that, but everyone has a story that they think should be told.

  “I have a few reasons for coming here,” I said carefully. “As a storyteller, I know many tales in which there are dragons. But those are stories about princes. And in every one of them, the dragon dies at the end of the tale. That doesn’t seem right. I thought you might help me to tell a new sort of tale about dragons.”

  “Very tricky,” said the dragon. “You hope to appeal to my vanity. And I notice that you said you had a few reasons and then you told me only one. You hope to intrigue me so that I’ll decide you are interesting enough to spare.”

  When an audience catches you out, I have found it is best to acknowledge that they are right. If you deny it, they’ll turn against you. “Have I succeeded?” I asked.

  “Perhaps.” The dragon continued to study me. “As long as I find you interesting, I will let you live. If I grow bored, I will roast you before I return to sleep. For now, I will spare you because you remind me of a wild girl I once knew.” The dragon blinked slowly. “Would you like to hear about that wild girl? She was a lovely princess, until I destroyed her.”

  Not an entirely promising start. I reminded the dragon of a princess that it had destroyed. But at least the beast was not going to roast me immediately.

  Though the heat radiated by the dragon had warmed me, my legs were trembling with weariness. I took a chance and asked, “Might I come in and sit while you tell the tale?”

  The dragon stared at me, and for a moment I thought all was lost. Then the monster opened its jaws in a terrible grin. “Of course. I have forgotten the duties of a host. Come in. Sit down. There.” The dragon lifted a talon and gestured to a bench beside the chair where the skeleton sat.

  I crossed the room and sat on the bench, putting my pack on the stone floor beside me.

  “You look cold,” the dragon said. “Let me kindle a fire.”

  The beast opened its mouth and a blast of fire shot into the fireplace beside me. The half-burned logs, remnants of a long-dead fire, blazed.

  “Alas, I have no food and drink to offer you,” the dragon said. “The kitchens were crushed by the glacier long ago.”

  I opened my pack and took out a metal flask filled with brandy. “I have a bit of brandy. It’s not the best, but I would be happy to share.”

  The dragon’s toothy grin widened. “You drink and I will talk. I will tell the storyteller a story.”

  I sipped from the flask and felt the warmth of the brandy fill my throat and my chest.

  “The wild girl was a princess,” the dragon said. “A wild mountain princess more likely to be found hunting bandits than working her embroidery.” The beast cocked its head, regarding me thoughtfully. “Tell me, what do you know of this castle, this kingdom?”

  I chose my words carefully. “I know of King Takla, who built this castle and captured an ice woman for his queen.”

  “Very good,” the dragon said. “Then you recognize that horn?”

  I followed the dragon’s gaze and saw a silver hunting horn, lying on the stone floor beside the royal skeleton. “King Takla’s horn?” I asked.

  “The very same. Blow it and the ice woman will grant your wish. But you must be very careful what you wish for.”

  I stared at the instrument in amazement. Though I had often told the story of King Takla, I had never thought about what happened to the horn.

  “The wild princess of my story was the granddaughter of King Takla. Her father, King Rinzen, was the ruler of this mountain kingdom. He was a good king, noble and wise. Do you know of him?”

  “I have heard of him,” I admitted. The stories that I knew all emphasized the wealth of King Rinzen and how unfair his tolls had been.

  “What have you heard?”

  “Far less than I wish to know. Far less than you could tell me.”

  “An evasive answer,” the dragon said, studying me with those great glowing eyes. “You know, I have heard that storytellers are all liars.”

  “Not necessarily liars,” I said. “But careful in choosing the right audience for a tale.”

  “And I am not the right audience for the lowland tales of King Rinzen,” the dragon said.

  I nodded.

  “Very well. Then I will tell you a tale that you don’t hear in the lowlands.”

  I tipped back my flask and took a swallow of brandy, grateful to have survived this long.

  “The men and women of King Rinzen’s court hunted in the hills—sometimes for wild goat for the king’s table, and sometimes for the bandits who sought to prey on merchant caravans. Decades before, King Takla had driven away the worst of the bandit gangs. But keeping the pass free of robbers and rogues required constant vigilance. You know of all this, of course.”

  I shook my head. None of the stories told in the lowlands talked about the bandits that King Takla and King Rinzen had driven off. In the lowland tales, these two kings were accounted as no better than bandits themselves.

  “I could tell you many fine stories about bandits, about their hidden treasures, their secret caves. But that will have to wait. Just now, I was telling you about King Rinzen’s court. The king was fond of musicians and storytellers. Many came to the castle to perform for the court. In this very hall, minstrels played and bards told tales of adventure, while the king listened and rewarded them handsomely for their art.”

  The dragon paused and I thought the beast might have lost the thread of the story. “What about the princess?” I asked.

  The dragon turned its gaze back to me, eyes narrowing. “I suggest that you let me tell this story in my own way,” the beast growled.

  “Of course,” I said hastily. “As you wish. I just wondered about the princess.”

  “Yes, Princess Tara. One summer evening, Princess Tara came home late from an afternoon of hawking. She knew that a troupe of performers from the lowlands had come to entertain the king. They had come from the court of King Belen, sent by him to King Rinzen. That evening, there was to be a gala performance, but Tara was weary from the hunt. She sent her apologies to her father the king and she did not go to the court that evening. She dined on bread and cheese in her chambers, and went to her bed early.

  “That night she woke to the screams of women and the clash of steel.” The dragon’s eyes were wide open now, glowing more brightly than before. “She pulled on her clothes and ran into the corridor. It was dark except for the glow of smoldering straw. A torch had fallen, igniting the straw that was strewn on the stone floor.”

  “What did she do?” I asked.

  “She listened in the darkness. Someone was running toward her, scattering the burning straw beneath his feet. In the dim light, she recognized a young bard who had come to the castle a week before. His eyes were wild; he was bleeding from a cut over his eye.

  “‘What is happening?’ Tara called to him.”

  “‘Treachery,’ he gasped. ‘Belen’s men are in the castle. There is fighting in the great hall.’ Then he ran on, and he was gone.

  “Tara rushed through the darkness, hurrying toward the great hall. There, the torches cast a crimson light over a terrible scene. The air was thick with the stench of newly spilled blood. Her father was slumped in the big oak chair by the fire. He had been stabbed in the back. By the door were more dead men—some were castle guards, some were men clad in minstrel garb. The festive cloak of one of the minstrels had been torn by a sword stroke, and Tara could see armor beneath the velvet.”

  The dragon fell silent. I stared at the skeleton in the chair by the fireplace. King Rinzen, still wearing his crown in death.

  “What had happened?” I asked at last.

  “Belen’s troupe of performers was a troop of assassins. They had killed the king, fought the guard, and opened the gates to the soldiers outside.

  “Tara ran to her father’s side. She kissed his cold cheek and vowed that she would take revenge for what had happen
ed that night. On the wall above the fireplace hung King Takla’s great silver hunting horn, the gift of the ice woman. It had fallen from King Takla’s hand when he turned to stone. No one had been bold enough to risk blowing it again. An object of beauty, power, and danger, it hung on the wall above the fireplace.

  “Tara could hear the tramping of boots and the rattle of armor in the corridor. Her father was dead and Belen’s men had taken the castle. Tara pushed a bench to a spot near the fire and stood on the bench to take down the horn.”

  I nodded, realizing with a shiver that I was sitting on that very bench.

  The dragon continued, its voice low. “Tara put the horn to her lips and blew, sounding a high clear note that echoed from the stone walls. The wall of the tower cracked and crumbled. A wind from the ice fields blew through the breach in the wall. Through the opening, Tara could see the dark sky above and the pale ice below. A blue light rose from the glacier and flew to the tower. A tall woman with flowing white hair appeared before Tara. ‘Why have you awakened me?’ the woman asked.”

  “The ice woman,” I said.

  “Tara’s great-grandmother, the mother of the maiden that Takla had stolen,” the dragon said. “Tara met the woman’s icy gaze. ‘I need your aid,’ the princess said. ‘Belen’s men have killed my father.’

  “‘What do you want of me?’ the ice woman said.

  “‘I want the power to kill my enemies and drive them from our land. I want the strength to avenge my father.’

  “‘Power and strength and passion,’ the woman murmured. ‘Death and vengeance. These are dangerous things and you are so young.’

  “‘Tara fell to her knees before the woman. ‘You must help me.’

  “The woman touched Tara’s cheek. Tara could feel her tears freezing at the ice woman’s touch.

  “‘I will grant your wish,’ the ice woman said. ‘Your heart will become ice; your passion, fire. And then you will have the power you need. But it troubles me to cast this spell on one so young. So I will also tell you how to break the spell and return to yourself. When the tears of your enemy melt the ice of your heart, you will become yourself once again. Until then, you will have your wish.’

  “The woman’s cold touch moved to Tara’s breast, a searing chill that took her breath away. The woman stepped back. ‘Now you will take the shape you need. You are filled with fire and passion, anger and pain. Let those dictate your form. You will have the power you seek and I will return to sleep.’

  “The sorrow that had filled Tara at her father’s death left her when her heart froze at the woman’s touch. Rage and the desire for vengeance filled her.

  “Transformation came with burning pain—a searing at her shoulders as wings formed; a blazing spasm as her back stretched, the bones creaking as they changed shape. Her jaws lengthened; her teeth grew sharp. Hands became claws.” The dragon stretched its wings. Its claws flexed, making new tears in the carpet on which it lay. “Tara became a dragon,” the beast said.

  I stared at the dragon.

  “Her breath was flame,” Tara said. “Her scales shone like the coals of a fire, shifting and changing with each passing breeze. Now deep red, brighter than fresh blood; now flickering gold; now shining blue-white, like the heart of a flame.” As the dragon spoke, her scales flickered and glowed.

  “She spread her wings and flew, swooping low over the soldiers in the road. She opened her terrible jaws and her rage became a blast of fire. The men broke and ran. The horses, mad with fear, trampled the men as they fled. The soldiers died—so many died. In her rage, she did not distinguish between one fleeing figure and another. Belen’s men burned in her flames, but so did people of her own castle. Stableboys and chambermaids, peasants and noblemen, fleeing Belen’s men, fleeing the monster in the sky.”

  The dragon fell silent for a moment, then continued softly. “Now I live here in the castle. For a hundred years, I have lived here. Sometimes, heroes come to slay me—and I kill them instead.” The dragon studied me with glowing eyes. I stared back, imagining what it would be like to be imprisoned in the body of a monster.

  “Sometimes, my rage dies down, like a fire that is banked. But then someone filled with hate and fear stirs those ashes and the fire returns, as hot as ever.

  “Now it is your turn, humble storyteller. Tell me a story and I will decide what to do with you.”

  I met the dragon’s steady gaze. “I will tell you why I am here,” I said. “This is not a story I would ordinarily tell, since most audiences favor stories about princes and dragons over stories about storytellers. But I think you will find it interesting. This story begins in a mountain town, one week ago. The town was having its harvest festival, and I traveled there with my mother.”

  I told her the story that you have already heard—about the inn on the edge of the glacier, about my mother’s illness, about the healer who explained that three drops of dragon’s blood would cure my mother of the illness inflicted by the ice woman. “Hope is what brings me here,” I said. “Hope is what keeps me from fear and hatred.”

  The dragon’s glowing eyes did not waver. “So you hope to slay me and take my blood?” the dragon rumbled.

  “Slay you?” I laughed. The dragon stared at me, but it had been a long night. I had finished the flask of brandy and the dragon hadn’t killed me yet. The idea that I planned to slay the dragon was so ridiculous that I couldn’t help laughing. I pulled my dagger from my belt. The blade was half as long as one of the dragon’s talons. “I suppose I planned to chop off your head with this?” I shook my head. “I’m no dragon slayer.”

  I thought of my mother’s warm smile, of her honest heart. If only she could be here instead of me. She would smile and the dragon would know that this was a woman worth helping. “I had hoped that you might help my mother. That was all I hoped.”

  “Hope,” the dragon repeated, her voice softening. “I remember feeling hope when I was human.” The dragon’s gaze moved from my face to the gap in the wall. “As a lowlander, you are my enemy. But it has been interesting talking with you this long night. It has reminded me of much that I had forgotten, over the passing years.”

  I glanced through the breach in the wall. A thin crescent Moon had risen over the glacier. The crackling fire in the fireplace beside me had burned to embers. While drinking brandy and talking with the dragon, I had lost track of time. It was nearly dawn.

  “You came to me for help,” she said. “What more will you do to save your mother? What will you give me in return for three drops of precious blood?”

  I spread my hands. “What would you have me do?”

  The dragon did not blink. “In memory of the wild girl that I once was, I will give you three drops of blood. But you must return after you take my blood to your mother. You must come back and keep me company for a time. Will you do that?”

  “Yes,” I said, without hesitation. “It’s a bargain. As soon as my mother is well, I will return.”

  “Very well then,” the dragon said, holding out a taloned paw.

  I took a small metal vial from my pack. I reached out and took the dragon’s talon in my hand. The scales burned against my skin. With my dagger, I pierced the scaly hide and let three drops of blood fall into the vial. They sizzled as they struck the metal.

  “You have a long journey ahead of you,” the dragon said. “You’d do well to rest before you begin.”

  As if I could sleep with a dragon at my side. Still, it did not seem wise to argue. I lay down on the carpet between the dragon and the embers of the fire. I pillowed my head on my pack, and closed my eyes. Weary from my long journey, drunk with brandy and success, I slept for a time.

  When I woke, the Sun had risen over the glacier. The dragon was sleeping. As quietly as I could, I left the great hall and headed down the mountain.

  I will spare you the account of my journey back to my mother’s side. Suffice it to say that everyone along the trail was startled to see me, amazed to hear that I had succeede
d in my quest.

  At last, I reached the inn where my mother slept. Sarasri was astonished to see me. Though she had never believed that I would return, the good woman had been true to her promise. She had taken care of my mother. Pale and thin, my mother slept peacefully in the room where she had been stricken with the ice sickness.

  Sarasri summoned the healer, and the old woman came to my mother’s chambers. The healer smiled when she saw me.

  “Three drops of dragon’s blood,” I said, holding out the vial.

  “Very good,” she said.

  “Did you slay the dragon?” Sarasri asked, her eyes wide.

  I shook my head. “The dragon told me a story and I told the dragon a story. The dragon gave me this blood on the condition that I return to Dragon’s Gate when my mother is well.”

  The healer nodded. “Ah,” she said, “you may very well have slain the dragon then.”

  I stared at the old woman. “I did not. She gave me this blood freely.”

  “Indeed—she gave it to you as an act of friendship. And that itself may slay the dragon. Dragons feed on hatred and fear. Acting out of love will weaken the beast.”

  “This act of kindness weakened the dragon?” I said. “That’s not fair.”

  “Hate and fear nourish and strengthen a dragon. Love and friendship erode that strength. Fair or not, it’s the way things work.” She shrugged. “The next hero may find an easy kill. I have heard that Prince Dexter of Erland will soon be going to Dragon’s Gate. But that is no concern of yours.”

  The old woman took the vial of blood. Her touch was cold on my hand. Gently, she stroked my mother’s hair, then wet my mother’s lips with the dragon’s blood.

  As I watched, the color returned to my mother’s cheeks. My mother parted her lips, sighed, then opened her eyes and blinked at me. “Al,” she murmured. “It must be past breakfast time. I’m ravenous.”

  Sarasri clapped her hands together and hurried off to fetch food. I held my mother’s hands, cold in my grip at first, then warming—and I told her all that had happened. She feasted on scones and fresh milk. And when I thought to look around for the healer, the old woman was gone.