The warriors emerged from the south wing, escorting the children and mothers to the catacombs beneath the monastery.
Melisande hurried past the west wing that would be empty now. Here were classrooms, where the sisters were taught the sacred magic that kept their kingdom safe. This wing also housed the kitchen and dining hall, the schoolrooms and playrooms for the little girls.
The fourth wing, the north wing, belonged to the Mistress. Here were her chambers. Beneath this wing was the Sanctuary of the Eye.
The Mistress of Dragons lived apart from the Sisterhood, as was right and proper for a goddess. She came among them only rarely. Her life was devoted to the magic and she spent a large part of every day in the Sanctuary, working her powerful magicks that kept the kingdom safe. Two bronze doors barred entry to everyone in the monastery except the High Priestess and chosen members of the Sisterhood, and even they could enter only by invitation. The elite of the warrior women stood guard.
The warrior women saluted as Melisande approached. They had heard the silver gong and, although they had not received direct orders from the Mistress, this was an emergency and they had standing orders to allow the High Priestess to pass. Melisande was not strong enough to shove open the huge bronze doors; the warrior women performed that office for her.
“Good hunting, High Priestess,” said one, as Melisande entered the Mistress’s residence.
Daylight entered with her, shining down a long narrow corridor of wood and painted murals. The eyes of the dragons portrayed in murals gleamed with borrowed life in the sunlight. The light vanished as the bronze doors closed with a dull boom, stealing away the life briefly granted them. Windowless, the corridor was lit only by small cresset lights placed at intervals along the wall. Part of the task of the warrior women was to lower the lights, fill them with the oil that kept them burning. The darkness was redolent with the scent of incense, and had a thick, warm, comforting feel.
Running was not permitted in the chambers of the Mistress. Nor was shouting or talking. One was expected to enter with bowed head and sacred thoughts, move with seemly decorum. Melisande had to force herself to slow her steps. She wished that she had not forgotten her shoes. The Mistress would think she lacked discipline. Calming herself with prayer and the thought that the dragon was yet far distant, she decorously walked the shadowy corridors to the Mistress’s bedchamber.
She was surprised to find the Mistress’s door closed. The opening of the bronze doors tripped a wire that rang a bell in the chambers of the Mistress, alerting her to the presence of a visitor. Ordinarily, she would open the door in preparation of receiving a guest. Finding the door still closed, Melisande assumed that the elderly Mistress was still sleeping and had not heard the bell’s clang. Melisande raised her hand to the bronze knocker, which was in the shape of a dragon, but at that moment, the door swung open.
The Mistress stood within. The golden threads embroidered into her ceremonial robes shone in the light of an oil lamp that stood upon a richly carved wooden table. Her seventy years had sapped the strength of her body. Her hair was snowy white, her face wizened and deeply lined, her thin body bent and stooped. Her voice was strong, however; eagerness flickered in her dark eyes.
“You have seen a dragon,” she said.
“I have, Mistress,” said Melisande, ashamed to be unable to control a tremor in her voice.
In this sacred place, the enormity of the situation, the danger and the peril for her people, and her own responsibility fell suddenly upon her and she faltered beneath the crushing weight. For a brief moment, she wished fervently that she was once again that eight-year-old girl, being carried to safety in the strong arms of a warrior.
“How many?”
“Just one, Mistress.”
“The dragon is coming here? Are you certain?”
“The beast was still very small within the Eye, Mistress. But he grew larger as I watched. He is coming closer. And his gaze looked straight at me.”
The Mistress smiled. Her smiles were rare and always inward, so that Melisande was never certain if the Mistress was pleased with something she had done or if her joy rose from some secret held within.
“I knew you would be among the blessed,” said the Mistress. She moved toward the door, grasped hold of Melisande’s wrist. “I knew when you were small. I could see the magic dancing in your mind. You must describe the dragon to me.”
“A young male by his bright coloring, golden green on his back and shoulders and mane, tending to blue scales on his belly and his legs and tail. Should I summon the sisters—”
“Yes, summon them.” The Mistress’s hand was skin and sinew and bone. She clasped Melisande’s wrist tightly. “Send them to the Sanctuary. Alert the warriors—”
“I have already done that, Mistress.”
“Ah, yes, you would.” The Mistress smiled again. “Then it seems you have done what is needful, Melisande. I will go to the Sanctuary to prepare. You return to the Eye to keep watch. When the dragon’s head fills the bowl and it seems that you cannot hide from his sight, the beast will be nearly upon us. Come to the Sanctuary, for we will have need of you.”
The Mistress did not let loose her grip. She kept fast hold of her with her hand and her dark, bright eyes.
“This will be your test, Melisande. I have faith in you. Have faith in yourself.”
“I will try, Mistress. I have much yet to learn.” The Mistress’s hand relaxed, her touch grew gentle, caressing. “Your time will be soon, Melisande.”
“No, Mistress, do not say so,” Melisande said, truly grieved. “You will be with us many years—”
The Mistress’s smile grew sad, poignant. She shook her head. “We are always given to know our time, Melisande. So it will be with you, when your hour comes.”
The Mistress gave Melisande’s hand a brisk pat. “Still, that hour will not come today. Now we must prepare to meet our foe. Go do your duty, Daughter. I will take up mine. And remember, as you can see the dragon, so he can use his magic to see you. Do not let him intimidate you.”
The Mistress gave a gesture of dismissal. Melisande bowed her way out and the Mistress shut the door behind her.
Melisande paused a moment in the fragrant darkness. As she closed her eyes and prayed silently to the Mistress for courage, the thought came to her that soon she would have no one to pray to. She would be the Mistress and all prayers would come to her. The thought was startling, daunting. She wondered why it had never occurred to her until that moment.
“Probably because I assumed the Mistress must live forever.”
Her prayer ended suddenly, half-spoken. If her time to be a goddess was coming soon, she had best get used to acting on her own.
She pulled the bell rope to alert the guards to throw open the bronze doors. Blinking in the bright sunlight, she drew in a deep breath of fresh air. The warriors had manned the battlements that ran along the tops of all four walls. Other warriors were carrying the last of the children to safety. Melisande saw the little girls clinging to the warriors, their arms clasped around them tightly, their sleep-drenched eyes wide with the novelty of it all, and she smiled at them reassuringly. The “cows” followed closely, soothing those children who were fearful, telling them to pray to the Mistress.
The members of the Sisterhood were waiting outside to be admitted to the Sanctuary. At Melisande’s nod, they filed past her, out of the sun, into the darkness. They wore their white robes, their cowls cast over their heads, their eyes lowered, their hands clasped in prayer.
Absorbed in their prayers, they did not speak to Melisande, nor did she speak to them. She continued on her way, hastening back to the Chamber of the Eye. As she passed out the wicket gate, she saw Bellona, walking the battlements, inspecting every warrior, making certain that all were ready. Glancing down, Bellona caught sight of Melisande and the two shared a smile and a loving glance, then each went back to her duties.
Walking the path in the sunlight, Melisande looked back a
t that little girl, who had summoned the magic in the darkness. She looked back at the little girl and her self-doubt vanished. She sent her blessing to that far distant child, and went with confidence to face the dragon.
2
MELISANDE KNELT DOWN AGAIN BESIDE THE BOWL that was the Watchful Eye. She paused a moment before she looked into the water to try to calm herself and focus her thoughts—a difficult task. Her thoughts refused to stay in this quiet, sacred place, but ran away back up the mountain, to Bellona, to the Mistress, to the sisters, wondering how they were faring, wondering if there was anything she should have done that she had left undone, wondering if the little girls were safe . . .
“Stop it!” Melisande commanded herself sternly. “The Mistress is with us. She has matters well in hand. My duty is to watch the dragon.”
She put her hands on the rim of the enormous stone bowl and bent over it, looking into the still water.
Two eyes looked back. Living eyes.
The dragon’s head filled the bowl; his red eyes with their pupils, narrow slits like murder holes, staring unblinking into hers. The sight was unnerving and Melisande jerked away, unwilling to let those terrible eyes see into hers.
And remember, as you can see the dragon, so he can use his magic to see you. Do not let him intimidate you.
The Mistress’s final command came back to Melisande. She must defy the dragon, show him she was not afraid . . . yet she hesitated. She could see again the intelligence and the guile in the dragon’s eyes, as they had looked up at her from the calm water. If he penetrated her mental barriers, he would be able to see clearly the doubts and fears that crouched there in the darkness.
“Let him,” she thought. “I am not afraid. I am High Priestess and he is but a monster.” She looked back into the water, looked directly into the dragon’s eyes.
“I am the High Priestess of the Temple of the Watchful Eye,” she said to him, her courage growing. “I give you fair warning, Dragon. Do not trouble us and we will not trouble you.”
“We?” the dragon asked. “Who is this ‘we’ who threatens me? I see only one and a puny one at that. Summon your Mistress. I will speak with no one but her.”
The dragon did not speak aloud, or at least his mouth did not move. His words were brightly colored visions in Melisande’s mind, so that she saw his meaning more than heard it. The sight was unnerving, for the colors were too bright, jarring, and vivid, with sharp points that jabbed at her painfully. She flinched and longed to turn away, but she held steadfast to her duty, held the dragon’s gaze.
“My Mistress does not deign to speak to the likes of you. We are the Sisters of the Dragon and we await your coming with powerful magicks. Be warned and turn back.”
The dragon’s eyes glinted. “Do what you must. I will speak to your Mistress. I come for that purpose and that purpose alone.”
The dragon’s eyes shifted away from her; the colors smeared and ran and •washed away, leaving her gray and exhausted. The dragon had no more use for her. She was a human, a lower form of life. Melisande searched behind the lone dragon for others of his kind, but saw none and she began to understand. This was no well-thought-out, planned assault by a troop of dragons. This was an attack by a single dragon—a young male—out to test himself.
Melisande was angered. This dragon was here for self-aggrandizement, attacking them to make himself look good in the eyes of his superiors or perhaps gain the approval of some female of his species. His demand to speak to the Mistress was a ruse, a trap.
Melisande sat back on her heels, stared into the Eye, concentrating on the dragon, for the Mistress would want to know as much as Melisande could tell.
Part of the training of the Sisterhood was devoted to studying dragons. “Know your enemy,” was the dictum of the Mistress and she had taught them all she knew, including what she had leaned from the Mistress before her, and so on back to the very first Mistress of Dragons.
Like humans, dragons vary in shape and size, in height and weight, in coloration of their scales and their manes and eyes, in temperament and personality. Bellona had dusky skin, black hair, and brown eyes, whereas Melisande was blonde and pale with eyes the color of the lapis lazuli in the bowl. The current Mistress was dark-skinned, like Bellona, but the one before her had been as fair as Melisande. The same was true of dragons.
Within the classrooms were stone jars filled with the scales of the dragons who had sought to invade the kingdom. That same little girl who had whispered the magic had been fascinated by the scales. While the other girls were playing, Melisande had often gone to the classrooms to watch the dragon scales glitter and sparkle in the sunlight.
The scales in one jar were blue-black, like the juice of blueberries. Another jar held scales that shimmered green-yellow as new leaves in springtime, and yet another jar held scales that were red as blood or flame, and still another amethyst. She had found it hard then to equate creatures of such beauty and magnificence with evil, but she had only to look at the paintings on the walls of the Mistress’s chamber to see represented in vivid detail the destruction that dragons wrought on humans.
“The scales of young dragons,” said the Mistress, “are brighter in hue than the scales of elder dragons, for a dragon’s color deepens over time. This is one way to tell a dragon’s age. The scales of very elder dragons may have darkened to the point where they appear almost black, no matter what color they were born with.”
The scales of this dragon were a bright, iridescent green. His eyes were red, as are the eyes of all dragons, but the eyes of this dragon had an orange glint to them that bespoke youth, rash courage, reckless bravado. The spiky mane was a deeper shade of green, darkening to turquoise. Melisande could not see the wings now, for the beast’s head filled the bowl, but she remembered them as being a light green, leathery, like a bat’s. The beast had four legs—the front two smaller, used in a manner similar to a human’s arms; the back two large and muscular, used to propel the dragon’s massive body into the air. The tail was long, as long as the body, stabilizing the dragon on land and acting as a rudder during flight. The spiky mane ran the length of the tail.
The dragon’s head was sleek and graceful and reptilian. The shining scales formed a V-pattern with the darker colors of the mane slanting down between the eyes, giving way gradually to brighter green scales that covered the snout and the powerful jaws. Four of the dragon’s fangs protruded from the mouth— two upper and two lower; the rest of the sharp teeth were hidden.
Melisande rose to her feet. She no longer saw the dragon’s beauty. She saw only the beast’s careless cruelty, which could sport with human life. She had no doubt that the dragon was coming to attack Seth, the only kingdom in Dragonvarld that dared stand up to the dragons who terrorized and dominated the rest of the world. Hidden in their valley, the people of Seth cut themselves off from the rest of the world, barring admittance to their realm.
“For if the rest of the people of Dragonvarld knew about the peace and the prosperity of Seth, they would flock here by the thousands and we would lose all that we have fought so long to gain,” the Mistress warned.
Her anger burning away her fear, Melisande left the Eye. She knew all she needed to know. The dragon was coming to do battle. She was calm enough to remember to retrieve her shoes and she ran back to the monastery, eager as a young warrior for her first battle.
The women on the wall cried out to her as she came within sight, demanding to know if the dragon was coming. Furious at such a breach of discipline, Bellona shouted them to silence. Melisande entered the wicket gate, ran across the courtyard. Two soldiers stood beside the great iron gong.
“Sound the alarm,” said Melisande, and as the first booming notes rang out over the valley, the warrior women cheered and clashed their spears on their shields.
Melisande flashed a quick glance at Bellona, pacing up and down the wall, exhorting her warriors to fight bravely, die gloriously, and add more scales to the stone jars.
&nbs
p; As Bellona’s words “die gloriously” rang out, Melisande faltered. She felt a pang of fear—not for herself, but for Bellona. Melisande had never before imagined losing her beloved and she now knew that possibility was very real, for if the magic failed and the dragon succeeded in his attack, Bellona would be in the front of the fray, the first to attack, the first to fall.
“Blessed Mistress, do not let it come to that,” Melisande prayed.
Her resolve hardening, she hastened to the Sanctuary.
The bronze doors to the north wing stood open and unguarded. The Mistress had ordered the warriors to the walls to aid in the defense of the monastery. The sisters would be inside the Sanctuary now, preparing their powerful magicks to fight the dragon.
Never mind decorum. Melisande ran through the dark corridor. The door that led to the Sanctuary of the Eye stood near the Mistress’s chambers, so that she might have easy access at any time. Usually the door was closed and locked. The Mistress was the only person in possession of the key. This day, the door was open. Firelight streamed out into the corridor, shining bright on the evil faces of the dragons in the murals.
Entering the door, Melisande descended a long flight of stone stairs and ran the length of another corridor that delved deep into the mountain. Carved out of the mountain’s bones, the corridor’s walls were rough and irregular, the air chill. The smell of the earth mingled with the fragrance of incense and perfume wafting down the corridor from the Sanctuary that lay ahead.
A cavernous chamber, crudely built, the Sanctuary looked as if it had been dug out of the rock by a single swiping scoop performed by a gigantic hand. The chamber was oval in shape, its walls and domed ceiling formed of jagged, broken, and crumbling rock. The stone floor was smooth, worn by the feet of the countless numbers of sisters.
Mistress of Dragons Page 2
