The Whim of the Dragon

by PAMELA DEAN

  They had eaten their supper, such as it was, at teatime, and gone to bed at suppertime, so they were able to make such an early start that even Andrew didn’t complain. There was a line of red on the western horizon; the morning star glared at them like the beacon of a lighthouse; the huddled mountains were dark. It was chilly.

  Randolph took the lead, without consulting anybody. Ted was so sleepy that it was not until the sun had risen and transformed the fantastic landscape of dawn into something more ordinary that he realized how far they had come. The mountains were gone. They were in a hilly country pocked with little lakes, riding on a good road under a sky filled with birds. There was a tower on almost every hill, and the rolling country was crossed like a chessboard with the lumpy white lines of drystone walls. It was a much homier and pleasanter-looking place than the Hidden Land; but something about it made Ted nervous.

  He persuaded the mare to move up next to Ruth’s horse. “What’s wrong with this place?” he said.

  Ruth looked at him out of the corner of her eye, her wild hair blowing. “There’s something paranoid about those towers.”

  “At least nobody’s shooting arrows out of them,” said Ted.

  Not long after, they overtook another party traveling in the same direction, a party cumbered with wagons, whose outriders, their plain cloaks abandoned in the warm morning, could clearly be seen to be wearing tunics appliquéd with the running fox of High Castle.

  Stephen, Dittany, Jerome, Julian; the four they had left behind when they went to brave the Gray Lake. Ted had completely forgotten about them. What prior arrangements, what arcane communications, what good planning or timing had brought about this rendezvous, he neither knew nor cared. The remote voice that was not Edward’s said, Why, what a king is this!

  And that, of course, was fair. He ought to care. Ted smiled at the four of them and let the chatter of reunion divide around him and flow on behind. Not only did he not care, but nobody had consulted him. Randolph, of course, had known all along that he was not the true heir; although for the beginning of the journey he had treated him as a proper king-in-training. Andrew had never had a high opinion of Edward, and now knew that Ted had not even Edward’s claim to authority. This was a bad precedent; as was the fact that Ted didn’t want to think about it.

  The reassembled embassy to the Dragon King rode on down the good, broad road. Ted made himself think about it. If the Lords of the Dead had been doing their jobs, instead of gallivanting about nobody knew where, Edward might even now be restored to his rightful place. Ted would be able to drop back and be a piece of baggage. He didn’t like that thought as much as he would have expected.

  Nor did he like at all the thought of, sometime today, or tomorrow, or when they arrived at the house of the Dragon King and began their work, asserting what authority he had. It had probably not occurred to Andrew yet, among all the shocks recently administered to him, that he had in sober fact sworn Edward Carroll an oath that must be honored. Ted did not relish reminding him of it; but Ted’s oath too would have to be kept: to deal lightly in the exercise of his privileges and straitly in the fulfillment of his obligations; to reward valor with honor, service with service, oath-breaking with vengeance.

  All right, thought Ted. All right. But not just yet.

  They reached the dwelling of the Dragon King just before sunset. It sat in the middle of a flat sheet of water. The water was a blinding gold on the right-hand side where the departing sun laid a path of light across, and dark green on the other. The castle was not the gray-white of High Castle’s alternating walls, but a smooth, pure, unnatural white. And it was enormous. It was probably, thought Ted, smaller than High Castle. But High Castle was a hodgepodge, and only its inmost structure had been seriously intended as a fortress. This castle had been built all of a piece. Where High Castle rambled, this one was perfectly symmetrical. It had an eight-sided curtain wall that bristled with towers, each matched by its fellow on the opposite side. There were four drum towers, each with its own small turret towers sprouting from it; two massive D-shaped towers; dusky blue slate roofs capping the outer towers and sunk behind the crenellations of the inner ones. Ted could not begin, from this distance and in the flat red light of sunset, to tell how big it was.

  Edward said, It is sixty feet to the top of the towers, and twenty-seven to the top of the outer wall, but forty to the top of the inner. A hundred archers could hold this place against any force thou shalt name for longer than thou or I have lived.

  Ted recognized the enthusiasm of a genuine obsession. Thanks, he said inwardly. For the first time, he respected the Dragon King, and feared him, instead of taking on trust Fence and Randolph’s—and the game’s—assessment. Then he said, Edward? Is that you? And Edward, for the first time, answered him and said, Aye.

  How comes this communion of thought? asked Ted. Ask Melanie, when you meet her, said Edward.

  Andrew’s voice calling, “Edward!” startled Ted and sent Edward back to wherever he had come from.

  Ted rode forward and joined Andrew.

  “Here’s a party to ask our business,” said Andrew. “’Twere best I spoke with them, but you must be near at hand.”

  “As you will,” said Ted.

  As it turned out, he did not have to say anything, though he did sustain a number of alert and curious glances; not from the herald himself, who confined his attention to Andrew, but from both the soldiers and the horses that made up the herald’s escort. The herald challenged them courteously enough, and on being informed that King Edward of the Hidden Land had ridden forth for the sole purpose of showering his brother monarch the Dragon King with diverse rich presents, and to consult with him touching the future of their several states, the herald of the Dragon King invited them to slake their weariness and hunger, and have audience of the Dragon King the following morning.

  After an impressive progress through several layers of fortifications, past a number of very grim-looking guards, during all of which time Edward poured into Ted’s ears a hundred details of the castle’s structure and defenses, they were relieved of their horses and guided across the soft grass of the inner bailey to the left-hand D-shaped tower. They trailed, all eight of them, bedraggled, behind the gorgeously dressed herald, through a sort of storeroom smelling strongly of cheese and smoked meat, up a narrow winding stair, and into a large room lit by a good fire.

  The herald said something gracious; Andrew answered him properly; the herald departed, closing behind him the heavy door to the staircase. Ted sat down on his bedroll. The dragging tiredness was still with him. Randolph looked beat too; he was leaning on the doorpost with his eyes closed. Ruth sat down on the four-poster bed. It was Andrew who found a taper, lit it from the fire, and walked from sconce to sconce, setting the fat red candles to burn.

  It was a beautiful room. The walls were plastered and painted with deep, clear colors; hunting scenes, mostly, and landscapes. The arch of the window was filled with stone tracery. The floor was tiled in blue and rust. So was the fireplace. Ted began to feel that perhaps High Castle was a little rustic, a little haphazard, a little neglected.

  “Now,” said Andrew, blowing out his taper, replacing it, and sitting down in one of the chairs by the fire, “let’s have it clear how we’ll conduct this embassy.”

  Ruth stood up. Randolph pushed himself away from the door and walked to the center of the room. He looked down at Ted, and then at the empty chair.

  “Yours,” said Ted.

  Randolph sat down across from Andrew and said, “We made all clear in council. What would you now?”

  “In the light of all the knowledge I have gained, by your most gracious provision,” said Andrew, “stands it not upon us to alter the terms of this embassy?”

  “In what regard?” said Randolph. Ted saw that he was perturbed, but did not intend to waste his energy, or perhaps give Andrew any satisfaction, by raising his voice.

  “In several,” said Andrew. “First, neither the true
King nor a suitable Regent of the Hidden Land is present in this party.”

  Ruth made an abrupt movement; Ted looked at her, and their crossed glances said to each other, here it comes. Andrew’s eyes were bright on Randolph. Randolph only leaned his head back in the luxurious chair and said, “Neither imputation is fair.”

  “Look you,” said Andrew, closing his hands on the arms of his chair. “I have promised King William to hold my tongue, and by that word will I abide. But I have not promised to sit idle while such as you do finish the wreck of my country.”

  “Ted,” said Randolph, still quietly, “hath sworn the oath of kingship.” Andrew let his breath out scornfully and brought his fists down on his knees. “And you,” said Randolph, in a stronger voice, “did swear to him, in his own name that is in truth Edward, truth and faith would you bear unto him, against all manner of folk.”

  “What,” said Andrew, and his voice was now quieter than Randolph’s, “shall my word be more to me, my lord counselor, than was yours to you?”

  Ruth jumped to her feet and plunged across the room; Ted reached up and grabbed hard at her skirt, and she came down on her knees beside him and was silent. Ted heard a dog barking in the courtyard, and a bucket being lowered down a well, and, faintly, the lapping of lake water against the outer walls.

  “If it be not more to you than that,” said Randolph, “by what right do you assume the power of this embassy?”

  “What would you have altered, Andrew?” said Ruth, so placidly that Ted stared at her.

  “I would alter the whole tune of this approach,” said Andrew. “Let our note be not chastisement, but true alliance.”

  “Shan’s mercy, against what?” said Randolph, furiously, jerking his head up and coming half out of his chair. “E’en granting we might trust this adder to bite some other breast than ours, what neighbor doth threaten us save this alone? Against what scatheless state doth Dragon King spout mischief, save ours? Hateth he the Outer Isles? Do the Cavernous Domains trouble his sleep? Doth he agitate him what danger awaiteth in the Dubious Hills? What double-directed malice is there, to unite us?”

  “Melanie’s,” said Andrew.

  Randolph fell back into the chair as if somebody had pushed him, clutched his head in both hands, and began to laugh. Andrew sat stony-faced, waiting for him to stop. Ted, since nobody else seemed likely to enlighten him, looked at Ruth and discovered that she, too, was laughing.

  “Andrew,” said Randolph, gasping. “My lord. That is excellently well reasoned, with every fact that lards it false as hemp nettle to the ropemaker. Melanie did serve the Dragon King in her youth; over the continuance of that service did she fall out so fatally with Shan. Why should she quit him now, or he believe her aught but his good friend?”

  “Magic may be true,” said Andrew, “and wizards yet be false.”

  Randolph pushed his hand back over his hair and said, “Andrew. You cannot unravel these matters in the space of a night, or of a year. Keep this embassy in its intended form. If later it seems good to you that we and the Dragon King make common cause ’gainst Melanie, then make your case with true tales, and it shall be heard by whate’er King we have.”

  “That’s a pretty speech,” said Andrew, “but how if there be no time? She hath her agents in every corner of our councils; she’s killed our royal children and our King; within a year, shall not this canker swallow us?”

  “This canker will swallow us tomorrow an you represent us to the Dragon King as Melanie’s enemies.”

  “Or as her victims?” said Andrew.

  “We’re not her victims save we make us so,” said Randolph.

  “What!” said Andrew. “The blame so ready to hand, and you’ll fling it not at her? Your deed was not her doing; you were not helpless in your own despite?”

  “Andrew,” said Ted, desperately, “by your oath I do abjure you, abide by the agreed terms of this embassy and admit no other matter to it.”

  “I hear you,” said Andrew.

  That was not an acquiescence. Ted took a deep breath, and the door opened. A fresh-faced girl in a black dress said, “My lords and ladies, you are bid to supper.”

  CHAPTER 28

  THE unicorn was not made like a horse. The coat of the unicorn was not like the coat of a horse, or of a goat. The smell of the unicorn was not like the smell of a horse, or of a goat. So much for appearances, thought Patrick, his hands clenched in a mane hardly more substantial than a cobweb, and his knees trying to grip a body that slid aside from him as a cat does when it prefers not to be picked up.

  Nor did a unicorn proceed, foot placed in front of foot, as a horse might go over the ground. He could not feel or hear its hooves hit anything. He felt a great wind in his face; he saw before him a gray mist and on either side a blurring of colors, as if somebody had made a chalk drawing of a forest in autumn and then swept the side of his hand carelessly across it.

  The wind stopped; the unicorn stood still. Patrick had been straining his eyes for just this moment; but he learned no more from the motion’s cessation than he had from its inception. One moment he saw blurred colors, and the next everything was sharp, crisp, and ordinary. They were by the Well of the White Witch, facing uphill to where the Secret House rose untidily out of the trees.

  Patrick slid to the ground, saying, “What next?”

  “I may not come under a roof,” said Chryse.

  Patrick looked at it. He might have known. “What part of the roof do you want me to come under,” he said, “and what should I do when I get there?”

  “Go up into the smaller tower,” said Chryse, “the which you may do by keeping always to the left. Consider the globe that you find there. If it be small, you may bring it out; if it be too large, you must speak to it, naming Belaparthalion.”

  “I always did think,” said Patrick, “that the heroes in fairy tales must feel extremely stupid. I guess I’ll get to find out.” He bowed to the unicorn, because being rude to them got you nowhere, and walked up the hill to the house.

  The globe in the tower room was much too large to bring out. Its unhealthy gray bulge filled the room; Patrick wondered if it would burst the walls when it grew larger still; or just expand into some other dimension; or just stop, the way things happened here. He leaned on the wall, because his legs were tired from the climb, and said, “Belaparthalion.”

  There was no reply. Patrick did not feel stupid. He felt apprehensive. It was clear to him, through what sense he could not have said, that there was somebody else in this room. He said again, “Belaparthalion,” and then, since he appeared to be in a fairy tale and it was best to use what rules you could, he said it a third time.

  “Who goes there?” said a raspy voice, with a background like static.

  “Patrick Carroll,” said Patrick, “temporary prince of the Hidden Land.”

  The middle point of the globe turned from gray to red; the point swelled to a circle; the circle turned slowly and became a sphere; the sphere grew larger, and suddenly reassembled itself into a curved, red, reptilian shape, whiskered and tendriled, with a long head like a collie’s, and pointed ears, and a gaping mouth full of carnivorous teeth. There were too many incisors, thought Patrick. What did it eat that it had evolved so many of them; and how did it keep them from shredding its mouth? He thought of the sabertoothed tiger, and shrugged.

  The creature said, “What do you here?”

  “I’m just the errand-boy,” said Patrick. “Chryse waits below, but will not come under a roof. She said that if your globe were small enough I should carry it out, and that otherwise I should speak to you. I don’t suppose you could shrink it?”

  “I am very well where I am,” said the creature. It might or might not, he supposed, be a dragon; but it certainly thought it was called Belaparthalion.

  “Chryse doesn’t think you are,” he said.

  “What wisheth Chryse?”

  “She wants you to come and help her seal a bargain for the good of the Hidden L
and.”

  “What bargain?”

  “That in return for the swords of Shan and Melanie, you two prevent the Dragon King from bothering the Hidden Land. They’re tired of scurrying around to their borders to repel invaders.”

  “Oho,” said Belaparthalion, in an altered voice. “Sits the wind in that quarter? The swords of Shan and Melanie? Both?”

  “I wouldn’t know, myself,” said Patrick, “but Fence and Randolph think so, and Chryse seemed satisfied.”

  “I pray you,” said Belaparthalion, “break me this crystal.” Patrick’s stomach lurched. The last time he had broken a crystal had been very unpleasant. Besides, Chryse had not told him to break it, only to speak to its occupant. Between Chryse and Belaparthalion, Patrick did not know where he would put his money. Three things might destroy the Secret Country: the Border Magic, the Crystal of Earth, the Whim of the Dragon. This was probably a dragon; and with a dragon, how did you know what was whim and what was reasonable? If you did destroy the Secret Country, exactly what were you risking, whom were you hurting? How did you judge such a deed? Decision without data, thought Patrick. That’s the curse of this place.

  “With what should I break it, my lord?” he said.

  “Your hand sufficeth, an you have no sword,” said Belaparthalion.

  Patrick looked doubtfully at his medium-sized, square-knuckled hand, with the writing-bump on the second finger, and the grime under the nails. “If my hand will suffice from the outside,” he said, “why won’t your teeth suffice from inside?”

  “Because,” said Belaparthalion, in a tone of enormous amusement, “the crystal was made to keep dragons in, and not the children of men out.”