Fergal sighed, for he suspected he’d reached the part of his tale which would surely irk his supremely practical wife far more than any talk of dragons or magic.
“Not truly, my lady, for any magic our children inherit from me will be but of a borrowed and temporary kind. Magic belongs to dragons, and to the sons and daughters of dragons, and once my sister’s daughters transform from women into dragons, they will claim the magic I bequeathed to my children back as their own. This is why the true descent of my family has always been determined through the female line, and why the rulers of these lands have always come, not from the sons of the fathers, but the sons of their sisters.”
“What?” For the first time there was a real sharpness in his lady’s voice. She put a hand to her belly. “Will my child then not inherit these lands?”
“Only the son of a dragon can rule the Darklands.”
“And what, pray, is to become of my own child?”
“My sister, who is older than I am and unlikely to have more children, has given birth to two girls. Both are infants still, and destined to spend their entire lives in the forest. For this reason, any future son of ours might indeed rule these lands one day, once my own time has passed. However, his true position shall be that of a steward only, for the moment either of my two nieces produce a son, that son shall become the rightful heir to these lands.”
“But that cannot be right! Surely it is against the natural order of things, for a son not to inherit from his father. Are you telling me my children will have nothing?”
He sat down next to his lady and took her hand in his. “Our children will live in a land that is peaceful and plentiful. They will have rank and property and perhaps—–for a time at least—–some magic of their own. Most importantly, they will receive these gifts without ever having to make a true sacrifice, for they will never be exiled to the woods or lose their human form. Be thankful for what we have, my lady, for it is more than most people will ever know.”
Coblaith turned away so that her lord would not see the bitterness on her face. She understood the situation all too well. Her children will be little more than caretakers—–of these lands and of their magic—–until her lord’s nieces and their offspring take it all from them, in time.
The truth, she realized with a sinking heart, was that she had struck a bad bargain for her children, and there was nothing she could do about it.
For now.
Their son, a healthy boy, was born in winter but only named two years later, as was the custom in the Darklands. The winter of his naming was a bitter one, for the dragon in the woods was ailing and could not fully protect the lands from the harshest winter snows any longer.
Or so her lord had told her.
Coblaith could not bear to think of such unnatural things, and in the years since learning her husband’s secret, had continued with her life as always, turning away from Fergal the moment he brought up the subject of magic, or dragons, or peculiar powers. And thus, when the change finally came, she was caught completely unprepared.
“My mother has gone from this world.”
“I regret your loss, my lord.” She did not look up from her needlework.
“It is a path we will all walk someday.”
“I pray that God will have mercy on her soul.” Her words were meant to sting, but the quiet that greeted her response contained such an eerie quality that she could not refrain from looking up. And then she gasped, her needle tinkling to the floor in the thick silence.
The man who stood before her was her husband no longer.
As Coblaith looked into Fergall’s golden-green eyes, a shiver ran down her spine, from fear or excitement, she could not fairly tell. For the man who returned from the forest was as different from the one who had entered as a hawk is to a dove, or a lion to a housecat. There was a fire to him now, a glowing magnetism that made him seem larger than life—– dazzling and magnificent! Coblaith felt her heart swell with all the feelings of a young bride, only a million measures more powerful.
“My lord, you seem much altered.”
“Altered?” He gazed upon her as if he did not know her. “Woman, do you not understand? I am transformed beyond all measure, amplified and enlarged, a mere mortal man no more.”
Despite his harsh words, Coblaith stood up and reached out to her lord, quite helpless with longing. But he merely stroked her cheek abstractedly before he pushed her away. “There is so much to the world! So much more than I’ve ever suspected! How small my life has been until now!”
She quailed to hear the passion in his voice. “Surely there is nothing small about loving a wife or raising a child?”
But it was as if he hadn’t heard her, for he resumed his pacing, as restless as a caged animal. “How pale and tiresome my days have been. How trivial and petty all my dreams. The world is full of untold wonders, and I would know every one of them!”
Coblaith held her arms open to him and soothed his agitation with her body, for she could not resist his pull. But later, when she woke to an empty bed, she wondered whether their love had been part of his tiresome days, and whether the happy family she longed for was one of the petty dreams he now so despised.
*
The high king invaded their lands a few months later, in early spring when the winter snows on the mountains had melted to clear the way for his army.
And indeed, this was an army rather than a mere warband, for the high king had been planning the attack for years—–right from the time when a young lordling had stolen the most beautiful maiden in the kingdom from under his nose. To a pride already battered by years of silent envy, Lord Fergal’s marriage to Coblaith had been the final blow. In the peace and prosperity of the mysterious Darklands, the high king saw a threat to his majesty which weighed so heavily on his heart that he could not rest but to see it completely destroyed.
And so, in the years since Lord Fergal’s wedding day, the sly old king had used force, threats and promises to compel all who owed him fealty to send their fighting men to his banners. The resulting army was a force bigger than anyone had ever seen: an unending, unstoppable snake of fighting men that streamed down the northern mountains to bring fire, rape, and murder down upon a people who had known only peace and plenty until that moment.
At first Fergall relished the chance to use his newfound powers to defend his lands. After his initial rush of pleasure on inheriting his gift, he had resisted the draw of his magic, for this has always been the way of his family: males used the magic sparingly as it could addict those who were not careful, while females only used it once their lives as women were lost to them forever.
Now that his lands were under threat, however, Fergal felt free to experiment with the power inside him, and he soon found that he could control the winds, the oceans, the rains and anything that grows with a mere flick of his mind, while physically he’d become stronger than a man—–stronger than a giant! —–and faster than the fastest deer.
Moreover, it was not only the physical world that obeyed his will. He soon became aware that there were realities beyond the material plane, existences that twist through one another like snarled strands in a fisherman’s knot, and that by entering these ethereal worlds, he could see further and know more than he’d ever dreamed.
Fergal began to use these new insights and powers with the eagerness of a child discovering a new toy, determined to destroy the foolish king who’d dared to threaten his home. But he soon learned that the magic took a terrible toll, for after each act of power, he would fall into a deep sleep from which he could not be raised, leaving his lands leaderless and unprotected, sometimes for weeks on end.
When Fergal woke from another inexplicable slumber to find his people all but broken, their families raped and murdered and their farms looted and burned to the ground, he knew there was only one thing left for him to do.
And so he swallowed his pride and took the secret path into the woods—–the same path that the lords o
f these lands had always taken in times of trouble.
His sister was waiting for him when he arrived, and when she stepped out of the cave that was her home, he marveled at the change in her. He had not seen his sister since their mother’s death, almost six months ago, and although she was clearly recognizable as the woman he’d always known—–tall and narrow-boned, green-haired and green-eyed—–it seemed as if a kind of glamor had come upon her, one which made her seem a goddess more than a mere mortal woman.
“My sister. The land is under siege and our people need your help.”
“I am much aware of the threat, brother. I have spent these weeks weaving spell upon spell until my body could take no more, even as you have, no doubt.”
“Indeed I have tried, but there is something amiss with the magic I inherited: every time I make use of my power, I fall into a deep slumber from which I cannot be wakened.”
Something moved behind her eyes, and when she answered, her voice was weary. “I was hoping that you knew the truth, and that you had spared me out of kindness.”
“What truth?”
“The slumber you speak of is a natural after-effect of the magic we inherited. I suffer the same affliction, for the flesh and blood of this human form was not designed to wield so much power.”
Fergal nodded at her words, for he had suspected this much himself. But there was one memory that confused him. “Do you recall when my uncle was lord and defended these lands against the Northern raiders? I was a young man at the time, already living in the castle, and I remembered how he fought them off, calmly sitting on his throne, his eyes alight with power and his body glowing with a shine that was beautiful to behold.”
“Yes, brother. I well remember how those ships were crushed against the craggy cliffs not far from here. We heard the dying moans of men all through the night.”
“Then tell me this: why did our uncle not fall into a long slumber afterward? Am I less of a ruler than he was in spite of the great gift my mother left me?”
A melancholy look stole into her eyes for she knew the day she had dreaded for so long had finally arrived. “Our uncle could practice his magic without consequence because our mother carried his exhaustion in her dragon’s body.”
“I do not understand.” But Fergal felt his heart quickening.
“A dragon is made for magic, even as magic is made for dragons. If I claim my true dragon shape, I will be able to wield my magic without pause or rest, the way our mother always did. More than that: once I am truly a dragon, I will be able to carry your exhaustion too, for it is only on this plane of existence that our bodies are separate entities and our powers divided.”
The silence that fell between them then was long and bitter, for he would not ask and she would not offer. In the end, however, he was the first to break.
“We will not win this war if we spend it aslumber. The people need us. The land needs us. We have a duty towards this place, which has been our home, and which will be the home of our children and their children in turn.”
“I know my duty, brother.”
“Then it is time for you to take up your true form.”
She shook her head no, even as her face began to crumple. “My daughters are too young to live with a dragon. They need arms to hold them, and stories to guide them, and the love of a mother to keep them from being swallowed by the power that slumbers inside them.”
Fergal, driven by a deep longing to wield his magic again, was anxious for his sister’s agreement. But he also understood her fears as he remembered full well the change that had come upon his own mother when she finally shed her human skin.
A dragon is a magnificent creature, beautiful and powerful and glorious, wholly without equal in this world. But not, in truth, an ideal parent for a young child.
“If you save us all by becoming a dragon, I promise to care for your daughters as my own.”
“They are creatures of the forest, brother. They cannot flourish in a castle.”
“It will not be for long. Once they are old enough, I will send them back to you so they can live here, surrounded by nature and free to be what they will. In the meanwhile, I shall help them to remember you as you are now, and prepare them to accept you as you will soon become.”
She could not stop her tears. “I am not ready to leave them. My love for them is as much a part of me as my magic.”
“I would not ask this, had we another choice.”
“I dread the coldness of my dragon nature. A dragon is not made to love a child.”
Brother and sister looked at each other, remembering. But there was no other way.
“Do you solemnly promise to love them as your own?”
“I do.”
“Then come for them tomorrow. I need one last night to say goodbye.”
And so Fergall’s sister gave up her human form and took on the shape of a dragon to protect the land, and the people who lived there, and the future of her children. And because she could carry her brother’s exhaustion on his behalf, they were both free to wield as much magic as they wanted without needing any period of rest afterward.
Immediately, the tide of the war began to turn.
First, the snows returned to the mountain passes, cutting off the supply line that kept the high king’s army clothed and fed. Next, one of the enemy’s main campsites burnt down, and then another, and then another. Raiding parties sent to steal food from farmers got lost in the woods, never to return. A team of the king’s best scouts drowned in a shallow puddle, seemingly convinced they had fallen into the ocean. And a group of knights, the high king’s most trusted advisors and seasoned warriors all, fell to fighting amongst themselves one night, and in the morning only one remained without his throat slit.
Lord Fergall anticipated every move his enemy made, avoided every trap he set, and, within days, succeeded in changing his great, disciplined army into a hungry, scared and dissatisfied rabble.
But the high king had one last ace up his sleeve.
Along with his army he had brought a young man, slight of build and dark of skin, who carried a weapon of skin and bone and hair in his tattooed hand. It was said that this young man had sought the high king out, for the legends of Lord Fergal’s mysterious Darklands had reached even the faraway empire he hailed from.
This young man’s purpose was so clear and his heart so pure that his presence rang out like a bell, penetrating the many worlds and dimensions Fergal and his sister now inhabited. But despite this clear warning, neither of them felt any true fear at his unexpected arrival. After all, what harm could one man, armed with nothing but a crude sword, do to a dragon?
Plenty, it turned out.
He could take her very life from her with that terrible weapon of hide and bone, and watch with stern, dark eyes as the last drop of blood drained from her great dragon’s body.
“My brother! I am dying!”
In a plane of existence high above the one where his body sat on a throne in a well-lit hall, Fergal heard his sister cry out to him.
“The dark-skinned man has a weapon I cannot fight. He has wounded me gravely. I do not have much time left.”
“I shall rush to your aid immediately.”
“It is too late; my life-force is spent. Best not to let him know what you are to me.”
“My sister!”
“Remember the promise you made, brother. Love my daughters as your own, and return them to the forest the moment they are old enough, so that they do not suffocate in your castle of dead wood and iron and stone.”
“I will.”
“And tell them how much their mother loved them. And that I never meant to leave them.”
“I promise.”
“And tell them goodbye. The shadows call to me now. My time in the sun is over.”
Without his sister to carry his exhaustion for him, Fergal knew that he would not be able to use his magic freely any longer, as it would take weeks for him to recover each time he used his po
wer. And so he focused all his efforts on creating one final, terrible spell, determined to revenge his sister’s death and to end this ridiculous war once and for all.
*
Lord Fergal’s nieces were six and eight years old respectively, two scruffy and unruly little creatures who knew almost nothing of the world outside the green walls of the forest.
In the years that followed the war, Coblaith did her best to raise them in the proper Christian way, as she herself had been raised, but she found the girls to be so headstrong and unmanageable that her patience was sorely tested almost daily. Take the question of their names, for instance. The older girl called herself Leaf and the younger Moss, and they simply would not answer to anything else.
“You must take your nieces in hand. They are making a laughingstock of me.”
“They mean no harm, my love.”
“How can I be expected to address them by those preposterous names? Leaf! Moss! Am I to sound like a crone who has lost her faculties?”
“A dragon never shares its true name, my lady. It is her deepest secret and only vulnerability.”
“They are little girls, my lord, not dragons.”
“Do not let their appearance deceive you. They have inherited the entirety of my sister’s power, and are as different from ordinary girls as the ocean to a glass of water.” Then he smiled at her, his strange golden eyes unfocused and distracted, as they always seemed to be these days. “But you are a sensible woman—–I doubt there could be anyone better to look after little Leaf and Moss.”
In this, however, he was terribly mistaken, for Coblaith’s practical nature clashed brutally with the girls’ wild romanticism. Where Coblaith appreciated order, the girls reveled in chaos. Where Coblaith prized calm productivity, the girls treasured frenzied joy. Where Coblaith valued discipline and hard work, the girls cherished hours of lazy contemplation. And so, in spite of the best intentions of both parties, every day soon became a battle of wills between the good lady and her husband’s young nieces, especially after Coblaith gave birth to their second child, a little girl upon whom she doted.
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