The Little Dragons

by Rowan Starsmith

  Chapter 112: Keiran

  Keiran and Aymeric made good time across the Barrens. They reached the Healer’s School before midnight. Maida had instructed them not to approach, but to wave their lantern back and forth until someone came to find out their business.

  Keiran had dared to imagine that somehow Gleve had made it to the School before them and would be the one sent out to see who they were. He knew it was an image with no reality, invented to give himself comfort, but still he was disappointed when the young man who came was a stranger. His curious face closed in suspicion when he saw, first, that they were Kings’ men and, second, that Aymeric was different. He seemed nervous of Aymeric, probably because of his size.

  Yes, the young Healer said, Mother Peg was here. Yes he would fetch her.

  A long time later a lantern appeared again, coming toward them on the path, very slowly. They could hear the Old One grumbling before they could see her. “…pull me away from my studies …” “…all this way out…” “…slowly, Dawkin, I’m not young like you.”

  “Hold the lantern up,” she said to Dawkin as they approached. Surprise was obvious on her face when she saw Aymeric, immediately replaced by displeasure. “Rafe,” she said, “What on earth are you doing here?”

  Aymeric, who would once have physically cowered away from her sharp tone, said, “Kee!” and pointed at Keiran.

  Mother Peg was already studying him. “I don’t know you,” she said.

  “Mother Peg…”

  “How do you know me?”

  “Maida sent me.”

  “What does the girl want?”

  “She said I should show you something, some sketches…”

  “Whose sketches?”

  “Mine, they …”

  Mother Peg lost patience. “I have no time for this,” she barked. “I was doing important work in the Library and this young fool dragged me all the way out here on my old legs for a King’s man and an idiot.” She turned and began hobbling back toward the School. “Bring that lantern,” she barked over her shoulder at Dawkin.

  Dawkin shrugged apologetically. “There’s a cabin just across the Barrens,” he said.

  “We stayed there on the way here,” Keiran said before Mother Peg interrupted with another demand that Dawkin bring the lantern.

  Chapter 113: Anglewart

  Before the Challenge battle, King Anglewart warmed up carefully, bringing himself gradually to his mental and physical peak. Before going to the field, however, he took a few minutes in the chapel. He knelt before the Warrior God, so like himself, and prayed to continue ruling the Westlands. “He is young yet,” the King told the God, “And rash. He will make a ruler one day, but not yet.” In return he promised to try his best to win the fight by injury rather than death.

  The field had been roped off and surrounded by torches burning in high stands. There were rows of benches and chairs for the nobles, open spaces for the peasants to watch. The crowd was huge and noisy, excited by the possibility of blood, spilled from the King, the Heir, or both, excited by witnessing history.

  Early in the fight, experience ruled. Anglewart worked carefully, defensively, watching sharply for openings. He put his sword through one gap in Torrie’s guard and drew blood from the boy’s shoulder, although not, unfortunately, on his sword side. The Heir, too, was playing it defensively, attacking only enough to keep the fight moving, more often staying out of sword range. The strategy was clearly intended to wear out the older man, but Anglewart knew he was in peak condition.

  The fight went on and on. Every hour the referee, Anglewart’s Head Swordmaster, called a break and the combatants retreated to opposite sides of the field where they could sit while servants washed their faces and offered them sips of warm, sweet juice. After each break they took the field again, renewed.

  As they entered the third hour, Anglewart’s muscles were sore. He had not fought this hard, this long, with his life at stake, for many years. He made an error, left an opening, and Torrie caught it, driving the point of his sword into his father’s thigh. The wound bled freely, spilling blood on the grass and forcing Anglewart to mistrust his footing on that side.

  His leg began to fail him, his speed and agility compromised by a limp. The crowd roared. Anglewart began to feel lightheaded. It must be the loss of blood. He asked for a break, a sign of weakness, but he had no choice.

  After the break, he rallied, caught his opponent with a nasty cut in the ribs. It was not deep, but the blood flowed crimson over the young man’s armour, drawing a huge shout from the crowd. Torrie came back wildly, and Anglewart hoped the boy had lost his cool thinking. It was the Heir’s greatest weakness as a fighter, and if he gave in to his rage, the King would win. But this did not happen. Torrie kept on fighting, quickly but with thought, and Anglewart could feel himself tiring.

  His sword arm slowing, the King left an opening, and his son’s weapon cut through the muscle on the back of the other thigh. To his horror, the King discovered he could not lift that leg off the ground. He must fight in one spot. He could no longer attack, so he turned his attention to defence. He parried a swing aimed at his upper body, then shifted to catch a vicious upward stroke. Torrie danced to a position behind his father. Anglewart spun to face him, dragging his useless leg. The noise of the crowd battered his ears. His vision wavered and then he caught the flash of Torrie’s sword at the edge of it. The last thing he knew was the crunch of his wounded body meeting the ground.

  Chapter 114: Mother Peg

  Mother Peg leaned heavily on her stick and frowned at the length of the hallway in the guest wing of the School residences. The Librarian had told her another of the Old Ones had arrived, her old friend Tess. Last room on the right, a Sister just outside had told her. “Why is always the last room?” she grumbled. “I swear the point is to make an old Healer walk as far as possible.”

  “Is that you growling out there, you old coot?” Mother Tess was suddenly in front of her in the hallway, as bent as Peg and leaning on her own stick.

  “My dear,” Mother Peg greeted her old friend, taking Tess’s statement as affectionate teasing. However, Tess’s face did not display affection. It was, in fact, clouded with anger.

  A young Apprentice emerged from the room just behind Tess. It was the one who had found Rena’s journal, that great-granddaughter--or was it great-great-granddaughter?—of Mother Calla. “Peg, you’ll remember Ev,” she said.

  “Of course,” Mother Peg said. “Are you an Apprentice now?”

  Ev flashed a smile at Tess. “Yes, Mother Tess has taken me on.”

  “Ev, my dear, will you go back to the kitchen and get pitchers of hot water? We would both benefit from less road dirt.”

  “Certainly, Mother,” Ev gave a little curtsy, then blushed. “Sorry.”

  After she left, Tess explained that Ev had yet to unlearn the habit of curtsying to her “betters,” learned as a Servant in the Women’s Retreat House. “And now come in here and sit down,” she said, indicating her room. “We have some things to talk about.”

  Peg was annoyed by Tess’s tone, but entered the room and took a chair beside the fire. Tess sat in another chair, facing her. “I’m sorry you lost your Little Dragon along the way, with his Priestess.”

  “If that’s what you’re angry about, I couldn’t help that. I’m hardly able to fight off a Great Dragon.”

  “I know, I know. I’m not blaming you, just sorry. But as for some other things that have happened lately, what are you thinking, you arrogant old woman?”

  “I’ll not take that kind of talk,” Peg said, thinking about making a grand exit, but before she could get her old knees to lift her out of the chair, there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” Tess said. The door opened to admit an unsmiling Mother Sarah. Peg’s brow creased. Something was afoot. However, there was nothing to do but greet the oldest of the Old Ones. Tess rose and pulled up a third chair for Sarah.

  Once they were settled in
to their uncomfortable circle, Tess addressed Peg again. “I’ve asked Sarah to come because there are some things you need to answer for. First, what did you think you were doing sending young Ev back to the Women’s Retreat House without even a thought for her future? She is a great-granddaughter of Mother Calla, one of the best, and her Aunt Marle has strong Healing gifts, although her circumstances denied her the training that was her due. Instead, she has taught herself by watching and listening.”

  “There is no such thing as a self-taught Healer,” Peg spat out.

  Tess ignored her. “Did it not even occur to you to bring Ev here?”

  “But the Queen …”

  “Shhhh! She’s the Lady Merrit, and she was quite happy to arrange things so that Ev could accept an Apprenticeship as soon as I offered. I gather you didn’t even think to ask.” Tess paused and glared at Peg, but Peg was too busy huffing to come up with a response, so Tess went on. “Second, where is Maida?”

  “Why, back at the cottage.”

  Now Sarah spoke. “Did it not even occur to you to bring her here?”

  “Someone has to take care of the place.”

  “And could that not have been arranged? With neighbours perhaps?”

  “We’ve been through this before, Sarah. She is not a Healer!”

  “Yes she is. I won’t repeat it all here, but I’m appalled you didn’t even think about bringing her.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do with my own servant.”

  Tess spoke again. “Third, you don’t even know where Maida is and what has happened to her.”

  Mother Peg stopped growling, looked at Tess in surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “There is no one at your cottage. It is closed up. Even the goats are gone.”

  “What? Well that faithless girl.”

  “Maida is not faithless. If she is gone, something has happened to her, and if you were determined to leave her there, you should at least have seen to her safety, asked someone to keep an eye on her, and asked a Healer from here at the School to go back and stay with her, seeing to the needs of the People in your area.”

  “I can’t imagine what has become of her. I left the hired hand …” Mother Peg stopped, shock on her face. “The hired hand!” she said.

  “What now?”

  “He turned up here, and I didn’t even think …”

  “That is point number four. I met him and his brother …”

  “His brother?”

  “…at the Barrens cabin on my way here. They did not know what has become of Maida--she was there when they left your cottage—but they have an important document with them, one that I suspect will help fill in more pieces of the Dragon Priestess mystery, one Maida told them to bring here. And you sent them away! Did you not respect Maida’s judgement enough to at least find out what they had come to say? And I see you didn’t even think to ask why Maida’s hired man was here without her.”

  “I couldn’t bring a King’s man here to the School, and certainly not that idiot.”

  Sarah entered the conversation again. “The task of piecing together the Dragon Priestess mystery is important for all the peoples of the Land. If a King’s man has something to contribute, or even an ‘idiot,’ as you insist on calling him, we need everything. It was you who pushed us all to collect information and now it is you who is closed to some important tidbits that have drifted our way.”

  Peg began beating her walking stick rhythmically on the floor in front of her chair. “I’ll not listen to this, I’ll not listen, I’ll not listen.”

  “Now you’re being childish,” Sarah told her.

  “I’m leaving.” And with that, Peg stumbled to her feet, not caring how ungraceful the movement was, and made her way into the hall and away, back to her own room. There she slammed the door and dropped to the side of her bed, furious and ashamed in equal measure.

  Chapter 115: Melisande

  In a small bedchamber in the Men’s Retreat House, Melisande sat beside the dying King. Her eyes were fixed on his profile outlined in the light of the lantern on the other side of the bed, so painfully familiar. She had been given special permission by Head Mother Mabonne and the Head Father of the Men’s Retreat House to be here. Shortly after beginning her vigil, she had sent a note to the Head Mother, asking a favour. She wondered if Mabonne would think her request mad.

  She studied the lifeless hand resting on the blanket, calloused and bloody, but still the long, artist’s hand of the young man she had fallen madly in love with so long ago. She picked it up and held it. It was cold.

  There was a soft knock on the door. “Come in,”she said, and it opened to reveal a young Brother. He did not step in, but stood back to allow a hooded figure to enter the room. As soon as he left, closing the door behind him, a capable hand reached up to drop the hood. Melisande set Anglewart’s hand on the side of the bed and rose to her feet. Her request had been honoured. “Marle!” she said, as she crossed the floor to hug Ev’s aunt.

  The attending Brother brought the hot water and clean cloths that Marle requested. “Do you think we can ask him to wash the King’s wounds?” she asked, nodding at the door as it closed behind him.

  “No,” Melisande said, dropping a cloth into the steaming water and rolling her sleeves out of the way. “I would rather assist you myself.”

  Together they stripped the King of the last remnants of his fighting clothes and the dirty bandages wrapped around his wounds by the palace doctors. “What are they thinking?” Marle hissed. “All this dirt!” They washed the wounds in a tea Marle made from herbs she had with her, and Melisande held the edges of the worst gashes together while Marle stitched them with a slender needle and silk so fine it could have been spun by a spider. They smoothed a thick layer of healing cream over the injuries and wrapped them in fresh bandages, then washed the rest of the Kings body. They even did the best they could with the blood and dirt caked in his hair. Between them they managed to put a clean flannel nightshirt on him and settled him under blankets warmed by the fire.

  Marle studied Melisande’s face for a moment. “Do you still love him?” she asked. Melisande creased her brow, questioning. “I mean, are you still angry with him, after what he did to you?”

  Melisande felt her heart for a moment. “No,” she said. “I was angry, but now, seeing him broken like this, it has flown.” And then she had a sudden thought. “In fact, the anger has moved on, to another.”

  “Oh? And who would that be?”

  “My son, Torrie. What arrogance, challenging his father like this. What is he thinking? He broke the Rule of Challenge by doing it before being married and fathering an heir, although I think I know why he was in such a hurry. He’s much too young to rule, and too rash.”

  “I understand, don’t think about that now. It will interfere with our Healing. Think about the man lying here, needing our help. I return to my question: do you love him still?” Melisande’s eyes filled, and a moment later there were tears working their way down her cheeks. “I see you do,” said Marle. “All right, I need you to love him now.” Melisande nodded, unable to speak.

  Marle pulled a chair to the foot of Anglewart’s bed and showed Melisande how to cup her hands around his feet but not touch them. The Healer instructed the former Queen to think about the earth under the floor of the building. “Think of rock,” she said, “Think of roots and little streams carving their way through total darkness. Think of creatures that burrow, long twisting tunnels under trees.”

  Marle sat at the head of the bed and cupped her hands around the King’s head, not touching, just as she had instructed Melisande to do at his feet. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes and became very still. Her breathing slowed and became shallow, in counterpoint to the struggling gasps of the wounded man. Melisande felt her own breathing matching Marle’s. The tears dried on her cheeks, ignored.

  In a few minutes she felt warmth between her hands, flowing into her. When she remembered to think about things un
der the earth, it flowed through her, warming, soothing, healing. How did the Earth People learn to do these mysterious things? But it felt good, and right. She remembered Marle healing her after the King’s attempt to poison her. She had no doubt the servant had saved her life, and now she hoped fervently that she could also save Anglewart’s. What the future would hold after that, who knew? She wasn’t about to worry about it just now. Her task at this moment was to think of the earth and love her husband, and this she found easy to do.

  Chapter 116: Keiran

  Aymeric sat perfectly still at a table in the dining hall of the Healer’s School. He looked around with big eyes, a puzzled frown on his face, as Healers bustled around him. Every few moments, he would check Keiran, who sat in one of the big chairs by the fireplace, as if afraid his brother might disappear again if he took his eyes off of him for too long. Mother Tess and the ancient Mother Sarah sat in the chairs beside Keiran, silently studying the sketchbook.

  A young Apprentice came from the kitchen with a bowl of stew and a biscuit on a plate. She set it in front of Aymeric. Suddenly his broad, delighted smile broke out, like the moon after the passing of storm clouds. Food was something he knew what to do with. He picked up the bowl and tilted it, slurping some of the stew. Keiran grimaced at him. He stopped, looking apologetic, set the bowl down and picked up a spoon, making no less mess, but imitating the manners both Keiran and Maida had tried to teach him. The young girl laughed. Keiran, too, could not resist smiling. “Perhaps a napkin,” he said to the young girl, who went to get one.

  Mothers Tess and Sarah did not notice this exchange. They turned the pages of the sketchbook, studied them, reverently. Finally Sarah looked up at Keiran, her eyes shining. “This is it,” she said. “This is the secret of the Dragon Priestesses. Bless you for bringing it to us. Perhaps we can even draw Peg out of her room with this.”

  “Is Mother Peg still here then?” Keiran asked

  “Oh yes,” said Tess, “But hiding in her room.” She chuckled.

  Chapter 117: Anglewart

  The King floated through something heavy, dark and cold, air or water, he could not tell. It was deathly still around him, and as his eyes cleared, he began to make out men, standing in ragged rows, fully armoured and staring blankly into space. At least those with eyes stared, for every man among them was horribly wounded. There were gashes and ragged holes, limbs missing, faces missing, flesh torn. Blood flowed everywhere, soaking the men, their armour, their broken weapons, the ground around them. Why did they not scream and cry? Dead, they must be, but why did they not fall?