by Alex Irvine
It was obligation that brought him to the seneschal’s chamber after word of the merchant’s commendation circulated through the court. Mario Tremano had once been the king’s tutor. Now much of the court’s business was quietly transacted by means of his approval. He was a careful man, an educated man, and a cruel man. Paulus feared him the way he feared all men who loved subtlety. It was tradition in The Fells for scholars to wield influence, but it was also tradition for them to overreach; as Piero often joked, the scholar’s stooped posture cried out for straightening on the gallows. Paulus went to Mario Tremano’s chamber wondering if Jan Destrier’s commendation had made him useful, or doomed him. The only way to find out was to go.
Nearing seventy years of age, Mario cultivated the appearance of a scholar despite his wealth and the raw unspoken fact of his power. He wore a scholar’s simple gown and black cap, and did not braid his beard or hair. “Paulus,” he said as his footman escorted Paulus into his study. “You have attracted attention from powerful friends of the King.”
“I have always tried to serve the King,” Paulus said.
“And serve the King you have,” Mario said with a smirk. Paulus noted the insult and folded into his understanding of his situation. It was hardly the first time he had heard cutting remarks about the part of his life he’d spent as a dog. The more venomous ladies of the court still occasionally yipped when they passed him in the castle’s corridors. Eleven years had done little to dull the appeal of the joke. The seneschal paused, as if waiting for Paulus to react to the slight. “Now, in our monarch’s autumn years, you have a glorious chance to perform a most unusual service,” he went on.
“However I may,” Paulus said. He had heard that the king was unwell, but Mario’s open acknowledgment suggested that the royal health was on unsteadier footing than Paulus had known. He was ten years older than Paulus, and should still have been in the graying end of his prime.
“Your willingness speaks well of you, Captain.” Mario spread a map on a table below a window that faced out over The Fells and weighted its edges with candlesticks. Paulus saw the broad estuary of the Black River, with The Fells on its western side. The great Cape of Thirst swept away to the southwest, ending in a curl sheltering Averon. To the north and west, Paulus saw names of places where he had fought in the king’s wars: Kiriano, Ie Fure, the Valley of Caves. This was the first time he had ever seen such a map. It made the world seem at once larger, because so much of it Paulus had never seen, and smaller, because it could be encompassed on a sheet of vellum.
The seneschal tapped a location far to the north. Mare Ultima, Paulus read. “How long do you think it would take you to get there?”
Paulus looked at the distance between The Fells and Averon, which was twelve days on horse. Then he gauged the distance from The Fells to Mario’s fingertip, taking into account the two ranges of mountains. “Six weeks,” he guessed. “Or as much as eight if the weather is bad.”
“The weather will be bad,” Mario said. “Of that you can be sure. Winter falls in September in that country.”
It was late in June. Paulus waited for the seneschal to continue his geography lesson, but a sharp question from the chamber door interrupted them. “What have you told him?”
Paulus was kneeling as he turned, the rich tones of the queen’s voice acting on his muscles before his brain registered what had been said. He dared not look at her, for fear that he would fall in love as his brother had. This fear had accompanied him for the past eleven years, since he had reawakened into humanity. She had done it, bought the magic to restore his human form, as a reward to his brother for his long service as the king’s fool. His brother was blind now, and loved the queen for her voice and her scent and the sound of her gown sweeping along the stone floors. Paulus carried a mosaic of her in his head: the fall of her hair, caught in a thin shaft of sunlight; a line at the corner of her mouth, which had taught Paulus much about the passage of years; a time when an ermine stole slipped from her shoulder and Paulus caught his breath at the sight of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. He believed that if he ever looked her full in the face, and held her gaze for a heartbeat, that love would consume him.
“Your Majesty,” Mario said. “He has as yet only heard a bit about the seasons in the north.”
“Rise, Captain,” the queen said. Paulus did, keeping his eyes low. To the seneschal, the queen said, “Well. Perhaps you should tell him what we are about to ask him to do.”
“Of course, Your Majesty. Captain, what stories have you heard about dragons?”
Paulus looked up at the seneschal. “Of dragons? The same stories as any child, Excellency. I think.”
Mario retrieved a book from a shelf behind his desk. He set it on the map and opened it. “A natural history,” he said. “Written by the only man I know who has ever seen a dragon. A source we can trust. Can you write?”
Paulus nodded.
“Then you must copy this,” Mario said, “while we instruct you in the details of your task.”
Paulus took up a quill and began to write. Dragons are solitary beasts, powerful as whales and cunning as an ape. They mate in flight only, and the females are never seen except at these moments. Where they nest and brood, no man knows… At some point during the lesson that followed, the queen touched Paulus on the shoulder. It felt like a blessing, an expression of faith. His unattainable lady who had given him back the shape of a man was now setting him a quest, and though he would probably die, he would undertake the quest feeling that she had offered him a destiny.
His task was this: in the broken hills between the northernmost range of mountains and the icy Mare Ultima, there lived a dragon. Extremes of heat and cold are the dragon’s love. In caves of ice and on the shoulders of volcanoes, there may they be found in numbers. Once, before ascending the throne, the king had hunted it, and survived the failure of the hunt. It was the queen’s wish that before he died, her husband should know that he had outlived the dragon. A dragon might live hundreds of years. No man can be certain, because no man lives as long as a dragon. It was to be her death-gift to him, in thanks for the years they had spent as man and wife. “He has lived a life as full as mortal might wish,” she said. “Yet this memory hounds him, and I would not have it hound him when he is in his grave.”
“Your Majesty, it will not,” Paulus said. Whether he meant that he believed he would kill the dragon, or meant only that worldly desires did not accompany spirits, he could not have said. Many tales and falsehoods exist regarding magical properties of the dragon’s blood. These include…
“How are we to know it is done?” the seneschal said.
“What token would His Majesty wish, as proof of the deed?” Paulus asked the queen. He kept his eyes on the page, and the nib of the quill wet. …language of birds, which some believe to derive their origin from a lost race of smaller dragons quite gone from the world.
“On the king’s thigh is a scar from the dragon’s teeth,” she said, “and under his hair a scar from its tail. I would have its long teeth and the tip of its tail. The rest you may keep. I care not for whatever treasure it might hoard.”
In fact, according to the seneschal’s book, dragons did not hoard treasure. They care not for gold or jewels, but such may be found in their dens if left by those who try to kill a dragon and fail. It is said that such treasure grows cursed from being in the dragon’s presence, but place no faith in this superstition. Paulus copied this information down without relaying it to the queen. “Captain,” Mario said. “Jan Destrier spoke well enough of you that you perhaps should visit him before you embark. He certainly would have something to assist you.”
“Many thanks, Excellency,” Paulus said. “Would it be possible to put something in writing, that there is no confusion on the merchant’s part?”
“I hope you do not express doubt as to my word,” the seneschal said.
Although the dragon is said to speak, it does not. Some are said to mimic sounds made in th
eir presence, as do parrots and other talking birds, but I do not know if this is true. Paulus was almost done copying the pages. His hand hurt. He could not remember ever having written three pages at once. “Beg pardon, no, Excellency,” he said. “I doubt only the merchant’s memory and attachment to his wares, and I have no gold to buy what he refuses to give.”
This was a carefully shaded truth. Gold Paulus had; whether it was enough to buy any useful magic, he did not know.
“Well said, Captain,” the queen commented.
The seneschal was silent. Out of the corner of his eye, Paulus could see that he was absolutely still. Paulus’ soldier instinct began to prickle on the back of his neck and he hesitated in his copying as his hand reflexively began to reach for his sword. There was bad blood in the room. It is said that a dragon recognizes the man who will kill it, and this is the only man it will flee. Contrary to this saying, I have never observed a fleeing dragon, nor expect to. Paulus would never be able to prove it, but in that instant he knew that when the king passed from this world, Mario Tremano would attempt to send his widow quickly after. He resolved without a second thought to kill the seneschal when he returned from his errand to the Mare Ultima. The dragon’s scale is fearsome strong, and will deflect nearly any blade or bolt, but its weaknesses are: inside the joints of the legs, near the anus, the eyes, under the hinges of the jaw.
“Yes. Apparently being around the court has taught you some tricks, Captain. You must leave immediately,” Mario said when Paulus finished copying. He handed Paulus a folded and sealed letter. It could have been a death warrant for all Paulus knew. “Our king must know that this is done, and his time is short.”
Paulus rose to leave, rolling the copied pages into a tight scroll that he slid under his belt. Twice now, the seneschal had slighted him. “You may choose any horse,” the queen said. “And the armory is yours.”
“Your Majesty’s generosity humbles me,” Paulus said.
“Apparently so much that you act the peasant in my presence,” she said, a bit archly. “Will you not look me in the face, Captain Paulus of the King’s Guard?”
I would, Paulus thought. How I would. “Your Majesty,” he said, “I fear that if I did, I would be unable to go from you, and would prove myself unworthy of your faith in me.”
“He certainly is loyal,” said Mario the seneschal. Paulus took his leave, right hand throbbing, slighted a third time in front of his queen. One day it would come to blades between him and the seneschal.
That was a battle that could not yet be fought. First, he must survive a long trip to the north and a battle with a dragon. It was said that only a king or a hero could kill a dragon. Paulus was not a king and he did not know if he was a hero. He had fought eleven years of wars, had killed men of every color in every territorial hinterland and provincial capital claimed by The Fells, had survived wounds that he had seen kill other men. Perhaps he had performed heroic deeds. If he survived the encounter with the dragon, the question would be put to rest.
He chose a steel-gray stallion from the stable, young but proven in the Ie Fure campaign the summer before. Andrew, emerging from the workshop where he repaired tack, said, “Paulus, you can’t mean it. That one’s Mikal’s favorite.”
“Andrew, friend, if the horse doesn’t come back, I won’t be coming, either. And if both of us do come back, I’ll have the court at my feet. So I have nothing to worry about from Mikal either way.”
“Court at your feet,” Andrew repeated. “How’s that?”
“The queen has sent me to kill a dragon.” Paulus said.
“There’s no such thing as dragons,” Andrew said.
“The queen thinks there are, and she wants me to kill one of them.” Paulus swung up onto the horse. “So I will. Now come with me to the armory.”
Paulus had never fought with a lance, but he had thrown his share of spears. He took three, and a great sword with a blade twice as wide and a foot longer than the long sword he’d carried these past six years. He added a short butchering knife with a curve near the tip of its blade, which he imagined to be a better tool for digging out a dragon’s teeth than his dagger. A sling, for hunting along the way, and a helmet, greaves, and gauntlets to go over the suit of mail that lay oiled and wrapped in canvas in one of Paulus’ saddlebags. The book had said nothing about whether dragons could breathe fire. If they could, none of his preparations would make any difference.
“Two swords, spears, knives,” Andrew said. “I’ll wager a bottle you can kill it just with the sling.”
“That’s not a bet you make with a man you think is going to survive,” Paulus said. Andrew didn’t argue the point.
“If I’m not back by the first of November, I won’t be back,” Paulus said. He clasped hands with Andrew and rode out of the keep into the stinking bustle of The Fells. The sun was sinking toward the desert that began a half-day’s ride west from the Black River’s banks. Paulus thought of the tomb, and the spirit, and grew uncertain about the plan that was already forming in his head. Twenty minutes’ ride through the city brought him to Jan Destrier’s door. He tied the horse and went inside.
The spell broker was cleaning a tightly curled copper tube. “Ah, the bearer of spirits is returned,” he said. “To purchase, no doubt.”
Paulus held out the letter from Mario Tremano. After reading it, the broker said, “I see. I am to assist you.”
“I am leaving on a quest given by the queen Herself,” Paulus said.
“A quest. Oh my,” Destrier said. “For what?”
“For something I will not be able to get without help from your stores.”
“Specificity, O Captain of the Guard,” Destrier said. “What is it you want? Luck? Do you wish not to feel cold, or fire? Thirst? Do you wish to be invisible, or to go nine days without sleep?”
“I wish the essence of the spirit I brought back to you,” Paulus said.
Destrier laughed. “I might as well wish the queen’s ankles locked around the back of my neck,” he said. “We’re both going to be disappointed.”
It was not Paulus’ life that mattered. Not his success or failure at killing the dragon. It was the murderous guile he had sensed in the presence of Mario Tremano and what that meant for the life of the queen after her husband was no longer there to be a useful asset to the seneschal. For her, Paulus would do anything. He stole nothing after killing Jan Destrier; he used the fetish of the dead king’s hair to find the essence of the spirit, which was an inch of clear fluid in a brass bulb the size of a fig. He tied it around his neck with a piece of leather, threading the binding of the fetish into the knot that held the bulb.
There would be consequences. If Paulus brought back the teeth and tail of the dragon, he would survive them; if he did not, it would not matter. On the street, he made no effort to hurry. Most of those who had heard Jan Destrier die would be more interested in plundering his expensive wares than in reporting that the killer was dressed in the livery of the King’s Guard. He rode for the North River Gate and out into the world beyond The Fells.
He did not know how much power was in the spirit’s essence, or of what kind. He did not know whether any of its soul survived inside the brass bulb. But he had a token of the body it had once animated, and he had six weeks to find out.
III: THE QUEST
With ten days left in August, Paulus came down out of the mountains into the land that on Mario Tremano’s map looked like a thin layer of fat between the mountains and the Mare Ultima. He had seen snow three times in the mountains already and heard an avalanche on a warm day after a heavy storm. He had been traveling fifty days. Twice he had cut his beard with the butchering knife. He had killed one man so far, for trying to steal his horse. Mikal’s horse. He had hunted well, and so eaten well, and even traded some of his game for cheese and bread and the occasional piece of fruit at farmsteads and villages along the way.
He had also learned something of the nature of the spirit in the brass bulb that hung ne
xt to the fetish around his neck. If there was anything Paulus mistrusted more than magic, it was dreams, but nevertheless it was through dreams that he had begun to learn. He was sitting in front of a campfire built in the ribcage of a dragon, listening to the bones speak, telling him he knew nothing of dragons. Your book is full of lies, the voice said.
The Book is about faith and learning, Paulus replied, touching two fingers to his throat. The Journey and the Lesson. It was what his mother had taught him.
Idiot, the voice said. Your book about dragons is what I mean.
It may be, Paulus said.
It is.
He awoke from that first dream with the brass bulb unstoppered and held to his lips. “No,” he said, and stoppered it again. “So you do know me.”
He would have to be careful, he thought. Something of the spirit remained and he could not know whether it wished him good or ill. He would learn, and when the time came to face the dragon, he would hope he had learned enough.
The second dream took him after he rose in the night to piss into a creek in the foothills of the first mountain range that lay between him and the Mare Ultima. As he drifted back into sleep, he dreamed of walking out into that creek, trying to wash something from his skin that burned and sickened him. This is what you will feel, said the voice of the water over the rocks. This and much worse.
Paulus stopped and stood, dripping and naked, letting the feeling inhabit him, imagining what it would be like to withstand it and fight through it. How much worse? He asked…and woke screaming in a predawn fog, with the gray stallion a shadow rearing at the agony in his voice.
