The Little Dragons

by Rowan Starsmith

  After a few minutes, Ev reached down to wring out her mop and returned to systematically sloshing it across the floor. “So why do you spy on me every time my family comes to visit?”

  “You’ve got some handsome cousins,” Jessa gave her hips a little swish. “Who’s the one with the big, broad shoulders?”

  Ev concentrated on her work. “That’s my cousin Giffe, Marle’s son. He’s a cattle-herd for the Sotta family.”

  “He looks so strong.”

  “He is.”

  “And the one with the long, slim hands, with the red trim on his jerkin?”

  “That’s Rolof, son of Uncle Strond. He probably would have been a musician in the Old Times. He knows hundreds of songs.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a house servant in the Liet family mansion, in Von.” Ev gave Jessa another sharp look. “So, you were looking over my male cousins?” Jessa blushed. “Why, Jessa? Even if you lived outside and had family you would never be married to one of us.”

  “Well, I can wonder, can’t I? What it would be like to be touched by their strong, dark hands? What’s the harm in that?”

  “Oh Jessa! What harm?” Ev stopped mopping and turned to face her friend, her back rigid. “If any of them was caught looking back at you, he’d be out in a field tied to a Dragon stake by sunrise.”

  Abruptly serious, Jessa pushed her mop out of the pool of water that had formed around it and began to sweep it back and forth along the floor next to the swath Ev had already cleaned.

  Chapter 22: Maida

  Rafe and Mother Peg arrived home a couple of hours before dawn. Peg asked Rafe to put her down next to Maida, who was weeding the garden by the lantern light. “I’m glad you’re out here,” she said. “I don’t want to face the ice queen any sooner than absolutely necessary.” Peg glanced in the direction and stopped in amazement. “That’s not … no … surely I don’t see mending in the grand lady’s hands?”

  Maida smiled. “Actually,” she said, “There was just a tiny little bit of melting of the ice queen tonight, and yes, that’s sewing. This evening she suddenly volunteered to work on my growing pile of mending. Apparently she is well trained in fancy stitchwork, and you can imagine what she had to say about our torn clothing! But, she’s been working away at it, doing a far better job than I have ever done!”

  “That wouldn’t be hard,” Peg sniffed. “So what happened?”

  Maida brushed the soil from her tools with her hands, and placed them carefully in the basket beside her. Then she stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. “Rafe,” Maida turned to him. “Take the goats to the stable. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  When he had gathered the goats and gone, Maida smiled triumphantly at Peg. “I told her off.”

  Peg’s face went slack with horror. “You what?”

  “I know I took a big risk, but I just couldn’t take her disrespect any more, and it actually worked. Apparently there’s a little streak of humility in there somewhere.”

  “Surely she didn’t apologize.”

  “Oh no, not that, but she shared some of her food with me.”

  The Healers eyebrows went up. “Well,” she said. “Well then.”

  Chapter 23: Gleve

  Gleve had just helped the patient sit at the table for breakfast when the young man suddenly remembered his name. “Keiran!” he exclaimed. His face, almost returned to its normal shape under the colours of healing bruises, lit up with delight. He looked from Gleve to Father Mallory and back again. “I’m called Keiran!”

  Father Mallory reached across the table to gently pat the bandaged hand. “Good. Your memory is starting to come back. By the time you have healed enough to travel to your home, you will know where it is.”

  In the weeks that followed, Keiran’s body healed steadily. His broken bones knitted well. He could soon stand and walk, bend and lift with less pain every day. He became Gleve’s helper, fetching water, firewood and food, trimming meat and vegetables for cooking, washing clothes and sheets, hanging them to dry on the line in the yard.

  As Father Mallory predicted, his memory began to return, random information surfacing in sudden bursts. One day in the garden, he suddenly remembered the names of all the vegetables he could see around him and then more that were not there, including some that could not be grown this far north. He rhymed off a list of names one evening, apparently people he knew, although he could not say who they were or where he had known them. At bedtime, Gleve would sit on the side of the pallet, carefully smoothing salve on Keiran’s healing wounds, and encourage him to talk. Bits and pieces would come out, moonlight on a multi-paned window under a thatched roof, a new pair of boots made of leather, the smell of flowers he later remembered were roses.

  The rest of Father Mallory’s prediction, that by the time he could travel he would remember where he lived, seemed just as far off as it had the day it was spoken. When Father Mallory fetched the clothes Keiran had been wearing when he came, carefully unrolling the small bundle of tattered fabric, Keiran brightened and said, “King Anglewart. I serve King Anglewart.”

  “Do you live in the castle, then?” the Old Healer asked him.

  Keiran’s face clouded over again. “I must.”

  “Not necessarily. The King has servants in many places.”

  “I suppose. I’m sorry, I can’t remember.”

  Later, in his own bed, Gleve shut his eyes and imagined that he was still smoothing salve on that fair, fine skin, his hands tingling with a warmth that slowly spread through his whole body.

  “I’ll be glad when we don’t have to be so careful about what we say to one another at home,” Father Mallory told Gleve as they walked along a narrow road deep in the Northern forest. They had received an urgent message the night before. Both Healers were needed in this out-of-the-way place.

  “I know. There’s so much we must not let him know. When he remembers who he is, and goes back …”

  “You don’t want him to go, do you?”

  Gleve looked into his Teacher’s eyes, twinkling in the faint light of the travelling lantern. He sighed, then blushed, then smiled. “You Old Ones,” he said. “How do you read minds like that?”

  The Old Man laughed. “Sometimes it’s not that difficult.”

  Gleve blushed harder. “I’m trying not to be attracted to him. He is King Anglewart’s man. I know it’s just not …right … possible even.”

  “Dear boy,” Father Mallory said, his eyes radiating love and respect for his co-Healer. “I shouldn’t tease. I know it’s not easy.”

  Chapter 24: Melisande

  Imelda sat on the edge of the bed as Melisande sipped a cup of strong herb tea. She had not sent for the King’s Healers, but for a lowly chambermaid, a Woman of the People. The small, dark servant came running with the knowledge she had picked up as a child from her mother, a Healer, and a packet of herbs secreted in her apron pocket.

  “Perhaps you will soon feel like eating again,” Imelda remarked.

  “Mmm. I think so, soon.”

  “But now you are tired,” Imelda crooned to her charge, setting the cup on the table beside the bed. “You must sleep again.”

  Melisande’s eyes began to close and then shot open. “No, not this time. Imelda, there is something I must do.” She pushed the covers away, shifted herself until she was sitting tentatively on the side of the bed.

  “No, dear Mel, whatever it is, surely it can wait until you are better.”

  “No, it must be now, while everyone thinks I hover near death.”

  “You do hover near death.”

  “Not quite so close now. Please, Imelda, help me dress. I must look very much like a Queen.”

  Imelda opened her mouth to object again, but then took in the determination on Melisande’s face, a look she had seen there since the Queen was a toddler. There were moments when no one stood in this woman’s way. Imelda sighed, lingered another moment in protest, and then went to select
a dress.

  Robed in yards of carefully crafted blue silk, her husband’s favourite colour, and hung with jewels, When Melisande checked herself in the mirror, she did look every inch a Queen, despite her deathly pale face. She had to move very slowly, but she could still manage the regal posture that made her look taller than she actually was. She accepted Imelda’s arm for a visit to the chapel and knelt in front of the Warrior God while Imelda sat, head bowed, on the bench behind her.

  The Warrior God towered above the altar, fully armoured and standing on a Dragon with his spear through its neck. His handsome marble face was bearded and fierce. He looked a little like Anglewart, although given its age, the figure must have been meant to suggest Anglewart’s great-great-grandfather.

  In silence Melisande walked slowly, leaning still on Imelda’s arm, to the door of the passageway that joined the King’s and Queen’s rooms. Only four people were allowed to use this secretive hallway, the King, the Queen, Imelda and the King’s Head Bailiff, Ermin.

  The Queen turned to Imelda, gathering all the strength she had. “I’ll go alone.”

  Imelda opened her mouth to object but Melisande shook her head. The Waiting Woman bowed her head and stood back.

  The Queen moved slowly through the narrow hallway, her silk skirts rustling quietly around her feet. It was dank, made of grey stone like the rest of the castle. Once, when they were young, it was the passageway to love and sensual pleasure. It used to beckon to Melisande with its promise of warm reward in the light of morning. For the past nine years, ever since Farrell’s birth, it had been deserted except for the occasional message carried by Imelda or Ermin.

  The door at the King’s side was now locked, probably to prevent Melisande or Imelda interrupting the King’s new pleasures. Melisande listened. She could hear Anglewart’s voice and that of Torrie, their eldest son and heir to the throne. She waited. She did not want Torrie to see her, much as she would like to see him. She could not hear the words, but their voices were angry. Fortunately Torrie was soon dismissed and Melisande heard the door close as he left the King’s chamber. Now she heard only Anglewart’s voice and Ermin’s. She shivered. Ermin was a cool, menacing man with quick, calculating eyes. Melisande knocked.

  “Who is there?” It was Anglewart who responded.

  “Melisande.”

  There was abrupt and total silence on the other side of the door, then footsteps and the sound of the key in the lock. Ermin opened the door, his face shocked and almost as pale as her own. The King had risen to his feet, his face an echo of Ermin’s.

  Melisande gave them a moment to hide their surprise, then addressed the King. “I wish to speak with you my Lord.” She cast her eyes in Ermin’s direction. “In private.”

  Anglewart nodded to Ermin and he quietly left by the main door. He probably turned around immediately on the other side and put his ear to the wooden panel, but that was a chance Melisande would have to take.

  “My Lady, please be seated. You are not well.” Anglewart moved a chair forward and held it for her. She seated herself with great dignity. He took a chair facing her. “I hope your recovery progresses …”

  “Anglie, let’s not pretend with one another in private. We have done enough pretending in public to fill three lifetimes.” The King fell silent. “I don’t want to make any comments about my ‘illness,’ as you call it …”

  Anglewart began to sputter. “I don’t know what you mean. I …”

  Melisande held up her hand. “Stop. That’s not what I came to talk about.” She waited until he calmed and gave her his full attention. “I know you want to marry a woman with more noble standing than I have. It probably would have been the right thing to do in the first place, if we hadn’t been so much in love.” She studied his face for a moment, still handsome but creased now with worried lines, the burden of his power. “But that’s not what I came to talk about either. I know I am worn out, and have no further use here. Farrell will go to the barracks in a year or so. The other boys are doing well there. Liandra is gone, and when she returns she will be married to Prince Lochiel and go to live with him in the Southlands.”

  To her surprise, Melisande noticed a small frown of pain cross her husband’s weathered face at the mention of Liandra. So, he still felt something for her, their first-born, their love-child, the one he held and played with before the weight of leadership fell unexpectedly on his shoulders.

  “And Ortrude …” She was glad to see the pain in his eyes deepen. He did, then, feel something about losing his lively second daughter to that failed experiment with the Dragon egg. She allowed him a second to feel it before she went on.

  “I would like to leave the role of Queen behind me as much as you would like to see me gone from it. No, don’t interrupt!” She cut short his sound of protest, a daring move given the kind of cold and ruthless ruler he had become.

  “I know you would have sent me to the Women’s Retreat House long ago if you were a lesser man, and not so much in the public light.” She paused for effect. “And you know I would be happy there, don’t you?” She raised her eyebrows and waited until he gave her a small nod. “So now there is an opportunity. Everyone knows I am very ill and will surmise that I could die, which may well happen yet. Who would question you sending me to the Women’s Retreat House for nursing care?”

  The King threw his head back and laughed. The little signs of feeling she had seen earlier fled from his eyes. “Foolish woman. The priests have ultimate control of the Retreat Houses. If you live, how long do you think it would be before they realize that you are there under false pretenses? Even if you lingered on as an invalid, they would never condone my marrying another woman until they knew you were dead.” He rose and looked down at her with complete disdain. “Now go.”

  Melisande kept her straight back and her dignity until the passageway door closed behind her, then managed a few more steps before she crumpled. Imelda, anxiously listening from the other door, rushed in to help her back into her room and her bed, where she could hold her and receive her tears.

  Chapter 25: Anglewart

  As soon as the heavy wood and iron of the door thudded into its frame, cutting off the glimmer of blue silk skirts, the official door opened and Ermin, silent as ever in his deerskin-clad feet, stood before the King. Anglewart studied the narrow pale face before him, the eyes flicking here and there even in this tense moment. He let his Head Bailiff stew for a few moments, watching fear, anger, worry, determination pass through the servant’s eyes. He knew Ermin well. They had been together since they were noble-born boys struggling over their lessons and clashing wooden swords in the practice yard. He had shared more of his life’s hours with Ermin than with his wife, probably even more than he had spent alone in his own company.

  Ermin, of course, knew his master too. What did he see in the King’s dark eyes at this moment? The tangle of anger, fear and old love that had been triggered by Melisande’s surprise visit? He had heard everything, of course, through the door. Ermin’s ears heard almost everything in the Kingdom. He was the capable and clever head of the King’s spy network. Did he see weakness in his Master, his Monarch, his old friend?

  Before Melisande, they had had an encounter with Torrie, strong and headstrong eldest son. Anglewart sometimes had to shake his head in Torrie’s presence, blink his eyes hard to erase the image of a bright-eyed young lad dogging his father’s steps, so keen to learn everything he could about being King. Now it was an impatient young man who stood before him, one who would judge the King’s thoughts at this moment to be weakness.

  Torrie wanted his father to give him permission to rally the young warriors and challenge the Dragons in their mountain lair, as Anglewart’s generation had done, as his father’s and grandfather’s generations had done before that. What had it gained them except a shallow glory in the eyes of their sons? Along with terrible pictures burned into their memories for life, their friends, brave, skillful young warriors, lying mangled on
the battlefield, dead or screaming in pain, blood red or burned black, or worse, their screams fading as the scmitar claws of a Dragon carried them away. Torrie knew nothing of his father’s scarred memories, or his growing regret for the destruction of the Dragon Priestesses, his persistent suspicion that it had been a mistake. The Heir would surely see such doubts as weakness. And what would he do, if he did know?

  If Anglewart continued to live and rule, he imagined that his heir would someday issue a Challenge. Rarely used in the Kingdoms, a Challenge allowed an older son to take on his father in single combat. If he won, he would take over rulership of his father’s lands. The father, if he survived, would live on as a dependent in his son’s household, or live out his days in the Men’s Retreat House.

  Torrie, however, did not yet meet the conditions for a Challenge. He would have to marry and have a son of his own. He was moving in this direction, and the Warrior God knew, it was time to be thinking about a wife for him. Unfortunately his eye had come to rest on a young woman whose hand in marriage would be another kind of challenge for his father. He wanted to marry into the Rodolphs, the house his father should have married into, if he had been more attentive to power and less to love in his youth. He wanted to marry his father’s mistress. Did he know the King was bedding the beautiful, young Thalassa Rodolph? It had not been more than a few months. Was it that obvious? Did Torrie already have his own spy network? Surely nothing like that could get by the ever-watchful Ermin, unless, of course, Ermin shifted his loyalty from father to son. That would make a quick end to the rule of King Anglewart of the Eastlands.

  Speaking of the ever-watchful Ermin, his eyes were on the King, a slight sheen of sweat broken out on his brow. Time to let him off the hook, renew his loyalty. “So,” said the King, “She lives.”

  “Shall I have the agent executed?” Ermin’s eyebrows rose in question. The King nodded assent. Ermin went on. “That serving woman, Imelda, had one of her witch friends treat the Queen, sire. I didn’t think the woman could possibly have enough skill. Shall I send another agent?”

  “They will be doubly on guard.”