The Dragon Queen

by Alice Borchardt

  So he, her son, and her baby had been killed. In my nightmares—and I am visited by many of these she-beasts from time to time—I see Kyra’s breasts the way they ran milk for some months after she came to us. Her dress was sticky with it, and when she and I went down to the stream near the sea to wash, she wept and wept and wouldn’t be consoled. No, I would never become one of these people. No, I would never sign that contract.

  I jerked my hand away from Igrane’s by timing my movement when she was deep in conversation with one of the ladies. I said, “I think I’ll go visit my kin.”

  I thought I might as well see if they were good for anything. She looked annoyed, and I felt pain in my right hand and arm, as I had before; but this time I wouldn’t yield to it and walked through it toward the table. The three men glanced at one another with amusement as I drew closer, defiance set on my face. I had expected them to look worse and worse the closer I got, but oddly, that didn’t happen. The closer I got, the better looking they appeared. First, the unhealthy color of the center man’s face wasn’t color at all. Well, it was, but it didn’t stem from ill health. He was tattooed. As I said, he was red-haired and very fair skinned; the tattoos were Celtic swirls of blue, running from his hairline down his face and neck, chest and arms. The effect was striking and oddly beautiful, and for the first time I could see the art in all its glory on a warrior.

  Such decorations could inspire terror in battle and respect in other men. Something a man like him would wish. As I approached, I realized he’d begun to stare at me the same way I looked at him, with intense seriousness. The man on his left had looked lean and rather unhealthy from a distance, and I judged him some pathetic hanger-on here for food. But again, as I drew closer, the first impression faded. He was dark with fair skin, tattooed like his friend. His tattoos were gray, black, and tawny, the same outlining marks and spirals covering his face and neck and seeming to extend to his whole body. His leanness didn’t seem now that of ill health but rather feline. His slightest movement was an expression of grace and power.

  The third on the right was even more of a shock than the other two had been. He had seemed fat and his skin mottled with red, but on closer examination I could see what seemed fat was rather massive power. He was as strongly muscled as any man I have ever seen. His hair, skin, and beard were dark, but his tattoos were in red. Even his ears were tattooed red. This puzzled me. I paused about five feet from the table and realized that my first impression had been right. These men didn’t belong here. None of them were civilized enough for this room.

  Were warriors at the Irish courts really like this? Did even they show this degree of ferocity and battle hunger? I studied the red-haired man in the center.

  “You say you are my kin?” I asked.

  “You are not alone in having your doubts. When they said you were her daughter, I didn’t believe it,” he replied. Then he turned to the lean, dark one. “I told you that, did I not, Kiernan?”

  Kiernan stroked his long mustache. “Yes, Mael, my dearest love, you did. Indeed you did, but I think you might be wrong. It is her to the life.”

  “Aye,” Mael mused, then spoke to me. “You are thirteen, they say. I never knew her at thirteen. My loss that, indeed. God help me, I never knew her at thirty. Again my loss, my dire loss. But unless I am mistaken, and most often I will tell you I am not mistaken, girl, you are her to the life. What say you, Eoan?” He addressed the bull-like one. “Is she not like my own angel, my spirit of springtime, my adored one? To the life she is.

  “Come to me, girl. Place your hand in mine. Perhaps it is that I am your father.”

  Eoan gave a snort of derision. “And perhaps it is that you are not, Mael. I believe there are four or five other strong fellows who are in close competition with you for the honor.”

  I was stricken with anger. “You mock me,” I said.

  “Ha!” the one called Kiernan said. “It is not you we mock, but this—” he elbowed Mael’s ribs “—lout’s pretensions.”

  “My mother’s virtue—”

  “Girl, Guynifar, is it? Your mother’s great virtues have nothing to do with the matter.” He grinned at Mael. “It’s her taste we find questionable. But I believe if you want him for a father—” he elbowed Mael again “—you may claim him at present. Later, upon better acquaintance, you may want to change your mind.”

  “Be still, fools,” Mael snapped. “Whatever may be found about who sired her, she is the mare’s true foal. Besides, she may think you speak slightingly of her mother, who was the faithful, honest, hardworking wife of that mean, grasping brother of mine for thirty years. You see, girl, when the king died and went—” He broke off. “Where do the dead go?” he asked Kiernan.

  “I cannot say,” Kiernan answered, “but I think it is unimportant in this discussion. Wherever the dead go, it is not here, or should I say, they are not here. Which is all that truly matters for the purposes of your explanation.”

  “In any case,” Mael continued, “when my brother died, Riona—your mother—needed a bit of a departure from too much respectability, so she chose me.”

  “You do fit that description, Mael. You are a departure from respectability, all right. That I’ll believe,” Eoan said.

  “Come, girl,” Mael said, leaning toward me. “Give me your hand.”

  I tightened my right hand into a fist and pressed it against my stomach. “Oh, why?” I asked. “So you can sell me to Merlin and Igrane?”

  They laughed and exchanged speaking glances.

  “You don’t like the boy?” Mael asked. He glanced over at Arthur. Now, since the table was circular and we were near the doors, Arthur and Igrane were standing across the room from us. Even a round table has a head and foot, I realized. Arthur and Merlin were at the head in the warmest, most comfortable part of the room, while I and my relatives were at the foot, near the door, the coldest, least comfortable side of the room.

  Arthur was handsome. Just the sight of him stirred strange longings in me.

  “No!” I answered Mael boldly. “I like him well enough—too much, in fact. I just don’t care for some of his friends.”

  Mael nodded.

  I could feel Igrane’s eyes on me. I was standing half turned, so I could look from her to Mael. The pain lashed me; it hit without warning in my right hand and forearm. It was savage. I knew I made some sound of distress and the room darkened around me. Perspiration broke out all over my face and body. I could just barely see Igrane jerk her head at me in an arrogant, summoning gesture. Come now or suffer the consequences, she seemed to say.

  Mael’s voice penetrated my consciousness. “Give me your hand,” he said again.

  Hand? What hand? I could barely breathe, the pain was so terrible. She eyed me across the distance between us with veiled, cold, malicious satisfaction, but I stood my ground; and then the pain ceased, leaving me limp, almost staggering, with relief.

  No, I thought stubbornly. No, I am not signing that contract. Nor am I allowing it to be signed. I glanced back at my new “relations.” They looked amused. I couldn’t think why. How could they know what a battle was going on?

  “It appears,” Kiernan said, “that the queen wants you.”

  “Yes,” I answered. “I believe she does, but she may be sorry when she gets me.”

  Then I turned on my heel and started toward the three of them. As I did, the whisper of part of a conversation between my three new relatives came to me so dimly heard that I almost couldn’t be sure that the voice wasn’t in my mind.

  “I wouldn’t miss this particular encounter for anything in the world.” The speaker was Mael.

  Most of the guests were seated now, and so I had to run a gauntlet of disapproving stares as I walked around the fire pit toward Merlin and Igrane. They were standing together before the high seat, with Arthur a little bit to one side. Merlin held a piece of vellum in his hand. I tried to consider my choices dispassionately. I could sign the contract, but why bother? If I did, it wou
ld look as if I were going along with their plans. I might do that and hope to slip away when one of them was distracted by other matters. That might be my best chance; but in yielding to coercion, often one compromise leads to another and then another, until you find yourself in too deep to back away.

  No, if I wanted the opportunity to lead my life, instead of the one they planned for me, then I must take a stand now. I might well fail, but real freedom is worth almost any sacrifice, or at least so Dugald and the Gray Watcher taught me to believe; and most of all, I wanted my freedom and my life back. So thinking, I reached the part of the feasting hall where Merlin, Igrane, and Arthur stood.

  Merlin asked the same thing my ostensible father had. “Give me your hand,” he said.

  “No,” I answered.

  His very handsome face flushed and then paled. He hitched up his sword belt. Then suddenly, without warning, he leaned forward, his face inches from mine. Behind him, I saw his guard, all black armor and gleaming metal, shift and surround him.

  “I’ve had about as much of you as I care to take,” he whispered.

  Pain lanced through my arm. This time it was really bad. My first thought was I’m going to ruin my dress and shift. Perspiration broke out again all over me. My hand and arm felt like they had been thrust into a fire.

  “Stop,” I said hoarsely. “Stop, or I’m going to piss on myself in front of the whole room.”

  “Yes, stop.” The voice echoing my own was Arthur’s. “How in the hell is it going to look if she collapses in front of every important family in the kingdom? Stop. Now.”

  The words poured out in a rush. I almost lost my footing as the abrupt cessation of pain staggered me.

  Arthur reached over the table and caught my arm to steady me, and went on speaking.

  “Maybe the two of you aren’t afraid of the taint of scandal, but I am. I won’t have my name on every tongue as a torturer and murderer of children. Do you hear me? Stop!” Then he turned to me. “I told you not to say no. I warned you.”

  I’d gotten both my breath and my footing back. I twisted and jerked my arm out of his grasp. “They have kin of mine here to make it legal,” I said. “But the answer is no. I will not become your legal concubine. No!” I spat at him.

  Merlin turned to Igrane. The great sorcerer, archdruid of Britain, looked petulant. “I thought you told me you had given her enough pain to render her compliant?”

  Igrane was staring at me, her face pale, lips white with fury. They are lovers, I thought. I don’t know why it came to me then, but I knew it was so.

  “I thought I had,” she whispered in a voice hoarse with rage. “But I’m better at it than you are. I’ll use a little glamour, dear Arthur, so they don’t see … truly, my sweet, we will only seem to be deep in conversation, but in a very short time …” Her hand was rising toward me. “She will do anything I tell her to do.”

  “No!” I shrieked. My hand shot out as though it had a life of its own.

  It snapped shut on Igrane’s wrist. Her sleeve burst into flame. She twisted away from me, hissing like an infuriated serpent.

  “Fire,” Merlin whispered. “I’ll give you fire—”

  And my silk dress went up with a roar. All around us, the guests were on their feet, screaming, trying to flee. Merlin and Igrane were shadows behind a veil of flame. Death, I thought, and then, as I had in the halls of Dis, A compact with thee, Fire: do not harm me. I don’t know if the incantation worked or if the dress was simply too fragile to be an instrument of Merlin’s revenge, but the silk was ash in an instant, leaving me wearing the linen shift underneath, smudged but intact. My heart was filled with rage and my hand with fire. Pain—yes. Jesus God! It hurt. I thought they were still attacking me; something like coal filled my palm. I hurled it at Merlin. It struck him, I swear, like a splash in the center of his chest and spread from there out and around the dalmatic he was wearing. All that silk and metallic thread … too bad. In a moment he was as busy as a sorcerer can possibly be.

  Igrane’s sleeve was wet and smoldering now. She’d doused it with wine. She was still holding the pitcher in her hand. She whispered something and the pitcher flew at me like a sling stone. Magic? This is magic? I ducked.

  The pain in my hand hit hard again. I felt the coal in my clenched fist. Were they doing it, or was I? Igrane had one of those elaborate hair creations so favored by Roman and Greek women. Yes, they set the standard even here. The coal spun out of my hand like an angry bee and landed smack in the middle of that rat’s nest of braid, phony hair, wires, flowers, and I don’t know what on top of her head. It must have been lacquered with something, because for a moment it looked as though she were wearing a five-foot sheet of fire. I think she went for another wine pitcher, but I can’t say, because by then I was running. I rounded the fire pit and saw Merlin’s men drawn up like a wall between me and the door.

  Not a hope. I’d never get past them. But I had one weapon left, and I had no idea if it would work. I stopped running and said, “Talorcan, help me.” Merlin’s guard began advancing. They had their shields and spears up as they began crowding me toward the fire pit. Nothing. Oh, well … I thought.

  The boar exploded out of the heart of the blaze. Logs, flaming brands, hot coals rose like a fountain into the air, showering the room and everyone in it. But by then most of the guests were under the table. But the screaming redoubled for a moment, and then absolute silence fell as everyone in the room took in what was standing at my side.

  He lowered his snout and clashed his teeth with a snorting sound. Did you know pigs can talk? I didn’t. But this one did. The voice was snuffling and grating. As he swung his head back and forth, studying the room, he said, “Dea-a-a-ath!”

  The word rang in the silence.

  Merlin’s guard abruptly seemed to want to be somewhere else.

  “Get out of my way,” I said.

  They rushed to obey. Sections of the table began crashing to the floor all around the room, as the few men with presence of mind began to try to put a shield before themselves and their women to protect them from the dreadful thing at my side. All except for the three at the table near the door—my relatives. They seemed to be in spasms over something. Then I realized they were laughing.

  “Oh, how right you are, dear brother,” I heard Kiernan say. “ ‘Tis priceless!”

  “Is it now?” I asked, irritated. “You might at least stop laughing and offer me some help.”

  The red-haired one, Mael, vaulted the table and hurried toward me. At my side, Talorcan the boar snorted and danced, his shiny cloven hooves clicking against the polished floor. He turned toward Mael.

  “Torc Trywth,” Mael addressed him, “eldest servant of Dis, I mean her no harm. To you—meat, oil, and wine I will pour at my next feast that you may bask in the delights of prosperity.”

  “Torc Trywth?” I asked Mael, who had reached my side.

  At the sound of that name, I noticed Merlin’s guard duck behind the tables and hide. Not so Arthur. He vaulted the table, boar spear in hand, and took up a position in front of his mother.

  “All I want to do is leave,” I quavered. Then, glancing down at the boar, I said, “Please, please don’t hurt anyone if they don’t try to stop me. Please.”

  I received a deep grunt that seemed drawn from his belly, which I took for assent. He was beautiful, the boar. As beautiful in his own way as Mael was when he drew near me. Beautiful as the young summer king as he stood, spear in hand, ready to protect his guests and his mother.

  Merlin stood, composed, his finery hanging in rags. His mantle was wrapped around Igrane, who was sobbing in his arms. “Bitch.” His voice rang out across the room. “How dare you flout me and insult my lady?”

  “You’re lucky,” I flared back, “that I only insulted her. I could have done worse, much worse.”

  He shook Igrane off, sending her spinning, and raised his right hand. I was really afraid. I had no idea how powerful he was, but from the force of the st
orm, I knew he must be very dangerous. And I knew little or nothing of real magic and had no idea how to counter a spell cast by a sorcerer so awesome that he was feared not only in Britain but also in Ireland and Gaul.

  “Don’t be a fool, man,” Mael cried out beside me. “Harm her and the death pig’s tusks will rip out your bowels seconds later.”

  But I don’t think even the threat of imminent death would have stopped him. The spear Arthur was holding was sheathed in iron, and before Merlin could begin his incantation, the shaft came down with a crack across his upraised arm. Merlin roared a curse that was half rage, half cry of pain. His skin hissed and stank where the iron touched it.

  “Stop,” Arthur said. “No more. I am the king, and I will do what is necessary here. And you will obey!”

  Merlin’s and Arthur’s eyes locked, Merlin clutching his arm. “You are the summer king,” Merlin said, meaning by this that since the winter king, Uther, was still alive, he was only the heir apparent.

  “He is not here,” Arthur replied, “and in his absence, I am king and your lord. And yours, also, Mother. And I will say what will be done and not one bit less—or more—than I say will be accomplished.”

  “King,” Merlin scoffed. “King.”

  The spear spun around in Arthur’s hand and suddenly, without any warning, the tip was only inches from Merlin’s throat. The blade was sharp, as only old, filed steel is sharp—and ragged to boot. The slightest movement of the young king’s hand would have put it through the sorcerer’s throat.

  “Yes, king!” Arthur answered. “And I will be king or I will be nothing.”

  The two men might have been alone in the room, for all that the rest of us mattered at this moment. Merlin took in one visible and audible breath, then another.