Anger was a much better feeling than this cold, nervous fear. I let it warm me, spark me to movement. I threw objects into sacks, hardly seeing them, and carried them down the stairs, where our half dozen horses (the former property of unsuccessful knights) waited to be loaded and led.
And beyond them, Rindargeth. My warming anger crumbled. I could not think of leaving him here—but what option did we have? To bury so vast a creature would require days of taxing effort from us all, and it was surely imperative that we leave before Rindargeth's master could act to prevent it. The more distance we could put between ourselves and the tower by sunset, the better off we would be. I had no time to be staring past the horses, past the trampled remains of my wreath of flowers, at what had been my dearest friend.
How was it possible that the sun had scarcely moved in the sky since we were at breakfast together? How was it possible that I could spend one night reading by the fire with a friend who was nearly a father, and the next make camp somewhere along a strange road, never to see him again?
Suddenly a horse whinnied, then another, and all were scattering, half-fixed packs jostling as they fled in all directions. Gareth clutched my arm, pointing into the sky.
"Ari! Dragon!"
I stared, disbelieving. A shadow against the sky, with wings and long tail, a hundred times too large for a bird—I had not felt such fear of a dragon's form since my twelfth birthday. "Hide," I said, then shouted it. "Hide! Into the tower and hide yourselves! Go now!" Gareth tried to pull me along, but I shook him off. "Go!"
Unreasonable as it seemed to me later, I was at that moment convinced that the approaching dragon was a threat to Rindargeth—intending some dishonor to the body, drawn like a carrion crow to the fallen. Equally unreasonable was my determination to defend him. I had sense enough, at least, to seek a weapon. Metal glinted from one of the packs I had dropped; I ran to it and pulled out a sword, though I had only the vaguest notion how to use it.
The dragon landed some yards off, with an impact like an earthquake. Wings spread, claws ripping into the earth, he let loose a screaming roar that near shook me from my feet. He was like no dragon I had ever imagined, all his scales as white as snow except where touched by palest, gleaming gold, along the tips and ridges, his eyes a brighter, harder gold. When they focused upon me, I felt it like a wave, as waves had been when I first ventured into the sea—which was to say, hell-bent on my death.
I raised the sword, heavy and strange in my hands. "You shall not touch him. Whatever place you came here from, go back to it."
His body settled downward, serpent-like, head swaying from side to side. It was an unmistakable warning of attack, but I would not move. Some enraged voice within me condemned my own stupidity, the uselessness of my errand, but it was on the other side of my grief and I could not hear it properly.
The dragon unleashed another peculiar shrieking roar, nightmarishly close to the cry of a child in agony, and lunged, batting me aside so quickly that I knew not whether I was hit by claw, snout, or wing. I tumbled end over end, losing my grip on the sword—perhaps fortunately, as I might otherwise have impaled myself on it. When I came to rest in the grass, my head was ringing and all my limbs bruised. Slowly I got to my feet, and turned to see what object this white dragon had in attacking my guardian's body.
He was not attacking Rindargeth. He instead had cradled the body against him, making still that screaming roar—only much of the roar had gone out of it, leaving only an anguished keening.
"You!" The dragon turned on me snake-swift, his voice only somewhat less thunderous than Rindargeth's, and distorted with grief. "What trick did you play on my father, vermin? For you could never defeat him fairly!"
"Your father?" Of course. Rindargeth’s son. He takes no part in my current task, Rindargeth had told me once, nor would I wish him to. My fear was but little decreased; son or not, he was a dragon, and neither knew nor cared for me.
"Aye, not seen nor heard from these five years or more, and now—" Another keening, almost a scream, and his next words breathless with pain. "Tell me now what befell my father, filth, or lie dead beside him!"
"He was killed by a knight, sir dragon, one I would willingly hand over to you, for his double sins of murder and cowardice. He killed Rindargeth and fled." I felt tears start, for though in cooler moments I would know that 'murder' was too hot a word for a death in battle, my feelings would be satisfied with nothing less.
The dragon was unexpectedly silent, then, and I watched him look about himself, as if he had noticed nothing of his surroundings previously. His voice, when next he spoke, was calmer, in the way that dread is calmer than panic, though no more pleasant. "My father guarded you, then? Is this how he spent these years?"
"You knew nothing of it? Yes, he guarded me, on the will of some master he would not speak of."
"This is the debt, then." He seemed to speak to himself, now, more than me. "The debt he spoke of, that now passes to me—augh, I feel it on my skin like iron chains!"
I did not like the sound of this. "Your father's task is done. He himself told me I was free to go." Go quickly, he had said…
"He thought you would be safely escaped before my arrival, I suppose." His bright gaze seemed hard against my skin. "I must take up my father's debt."
"No. I am free to go."
"Only if you can run faster than a circle can fall." He laid Rindargeth's body back to earth, spread his wings, and leapt for the top of the tower.
"Gareth, Elaysius, Genevieve, run!" I shouted. "Run for the edge of the circle, and wait for nothing!"
One horse had wandered back near—fearless Winifred. I leaped into her saddle, and kicked her to a gallop, making for the border of ash along the seashore—a faster ride than over the hills. My heart screamed against abandoning my comrades, but waiting would only ensure failure for us all. I alone had a horse and any chance of outrunning a dragon's fire. If I could escape, I could bring all my father's army to the others' aid—but only if I escaped.
Winifred fairly flew along the sand, understanding my terror if not my cause. Behind us I heard a great roar, and looked back to see the white dragon at the top of the tower with his head thrown back, a column of sparks pouring from his throat. The column seemed to shatter against a dome overhead, sparks spreading outward in all directions, streaming toward the earth. Within moments, I did not have to look backward to see them, for they streaked overhead and down before me, racing us to the line of ash that had been the circle.
I would not go back. I would not be prisoner for another endless time, awaiting some loathsome master's whim. Rindargeth had died that I might go home, and I would do so, whatever the cost.
I goaded Winifred as sharply as I knew how, shouting and kicking, but she was already giving all she had. The red sparks fell swiftly—we had only steps to go—
Winifred skidded and reared, nearly unseating me, as the curtain of fire cut off her path, and settled to the ground as tiny, fire-colored flowers. Once set in place, they would be impassable, untouchable even by water or wind.
Winifred stood lathered and blowing as I dropped from the saddle and cast myself against an invisible wall, smooth and hard as glass, a place in the air where I simply could go no further.
No. No. No.
For the space of several breaths, I felt only despair, cold and empty as the abyss. The feeling itself was as terrifying as the event it heralded—I flinched from it, sought safer ground, sought the strengthening heat of fury.
And found it.
Back into the saddle, and we were galloping again, back toward the tower. It seemed a much shorter ride this time, yet I was breathless with exertion when we reached the dooryard. I dismounted almost before the horse could stop, ran past Genevieve with her arm around a weeping Gareth, ran up the stairs—I could not breathe but it did not matter—gained the top of the tower, and the white dragon waiting there in perfect calmness.
"Curse you for the bastard son of the devil!" I screa
med. "You cannot keep me here, you cannot do it!"
"I can, as you've already seen."
"I will be free or see you dead, spiteful creature—"
"Enough!" He spread his wings, a threatening enough gesture that I stepped back. "I have inherited my father's debt, little earthbound. That is the way of it, whether it's to our liking or not."
He took flight, the rush of air from his wings knocking me down to the stone. I flung myself up and toward him, as if to bring him down—of course he was already far out of reach, gliding away over the hills. Free, of course, to leave the circle that trapped the rest of us.
I clutched at the stone of the parapet, chest heaving, my face wet with tears of mingled rage and panic. On wild impulse I pulled myself up onto the parapet, standing between the merlons. One step would take me off the top of the tower. I, too, could fly away—only once, and only downward, but I would be free once and for all.
No, there had to be a better solution than that. I closed my eyes, leaning against cool stone, and struggled to control my heaving breath. One hand found the amethyst ring on its chain around my neck. The ring from my father, and his mother, passed from eldest child to eldest child. The legends of Caibryn said that amethysts always came back home.
I would find a way to make it back home.
Chapter 2
Most of our belongings were either in packs upon the horses, or strewn on the ground where such packs had fallen; in silence, my companions and I gathered everything and brought it back inside. In my chamber, I looked at the tumbled sacks, exhausted by the idea of unpacking them.
No, there was no need to unpack, at least no further than items I used every day. We would be leaving soon. Somehow.
I had half-feared and half-hoped that our new dragon would simply fly away and never return, leaving us in the circle like sheep in a pen. He had not; I could see him from the east window, clawing furiously at the ground on the hillside where we buried the knights. Only after watching him for some time did I realize he must be digging a grave for Rindargeth.
My breath caught, but I ruthlessly swallowed back the tears. I had wept enough today. It was time for more useful measures.
"Genevieve," I called, knowing that if she were in her chamber below me, she would hear; the spiral stair allowed sound to pass easily between floors of the tower, for good or ill. For a moment the word was merely an echoing bit of noise inside my head, syllables of nonsense. Zhaun-vee-ev. The day had been hard enough to reduce everything to nonsense, and it was not even noon.
I heard Genevieve's steps on the stairs, and focused my fraying thoughts. She stepped into view and cocked her head, a silent Yes? Only our years of close acquaintance led me to notice the subtle flush and softness of her face; she'd been crying.
"Pray help me dress, Genevieve, and put up my hair." A service I had every right to request, as Genevieve was essentially my lady-in-waiting, but I asked for help so seldom that I felt a need to explain. "I would like to look as close to a princess today as I may, for the… occasion." The funeral, I meant, but could not bring myself to say. I trusted she understood.
It took time, for I could not begin to be respectable until the seawater was washed from my hair and skin. I tried not to dwell on the thought that I was removing the last trace of my morning swim with Rindargeth. It was salt, nothing more, like any other salt from any other swim.
At great length, I stood before the looking-glass, a gray-eyed mystery to myself in such finery—ribbons braided into my hair and wearing a green velvet gown scattered with pearls. Rindargeth had brought me the dress, of course, as he brought everything our farming could not provide. It was beautiful, but far too elegant to be useful in my daily tasks. Other than trying it on when it first arrived, I had never worn it.
"Thank you, Genevieve," I said. "Can I be of any use to you in return?"
She shook her head, mostly, I suspected, from a desire to be alone. I squeezed her hand, then made my way down the stairs.
I stopped in surprise when I reached the bottom. An unfamiliar man sat at the dining table, toying with a bit of bread.
"Are you the dragon, then?" I asked.
"I am," he said, and nothing further. We regarded each other with mutual coldness.
His skin was startlingly pale, yet he did not look sickly, any more than snow or starlight was sickly, but pale because nature intended it so. His hair, gathered in a singularly ineffective braid that left wisps to fall over his face and shoulders, was the very palest gold; in fact skin and hair were nearly the same shade, giving him a curious white-on-white appearance, like Genevieve's best embroidery. The clothing he wore was sturdy leather, but not true armor like his father's had been, and done in shades of white and tan rather than red and brown. He had Rindargeth's aquiline nose and high cheekbones, but I could not see that at first through the utter absence of Rindargeth's scars and creases. Only in the eyes, I thought, did he look much like his father; the same slit-pupiled eyes of clear, hot gold, bright as flame in the dim room.
"You are called Ariana, I am told," he said at last, expressionlessly.
"Princess," I corrected, my voice but one shade below a snap. "Princess Ariana Miniver Maud Eurolwyn Caradoc, daughter of King Edmund and Queen Miniver of Caibryn."
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't doubt you are a princess. It is always so, in these cases."
"It is customary," I said, when a beat had passed with no further word from him, "after an introduction, for the other party to reciprocate."
"My people have no elaborate titles as yours do," he said. "The most I can tell you is that I am of the clan Deyontaer and that my call-name is Braithandelgar." The two dragon words, particularly the last, were said not as words so much as growls, snarls.
"Bray... Braithdel..."
"Braithandelgar."
"You will have to forgive my unfamiliarity with your language," I said frostily, "as it does not seem designed for the human tongue to manage."
"One of many good reasons it is called dragon-tongue, and not human-tongue."
I exhaled sharply through my nose. "Braith, then."
He seemed faintly amused. "It will do."
"Why have you come here, Braith?"
"With my father's death, his debt passed to me. Not in a merely theoretical way, as you humans observe, but in a quite tangible manner. However did my father stand this?" He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, as if to dislodge a weight.
"To whom do you owe this debt?"
He opened his mouth, but looked startled, then viciously amused, when no sound emerged. "It appears I am forbidden to speak of that. A condition of the task."
I cursed inwardly. It had been worth testing.
"Why does this task fall to you? Because your father left it uncompleted?"
"Indeed." His voice dropped. "My father left many things uncompleted."
"Since you are in here, I presume you have finished the grave. Are you qualified to perform whatever sort of funeral service dragons prefer?"
"No, but I have done what I could in any case, as there is no one else."
"You have done…? Do you mean to say you have buried him already?"
"Of course."
I could not hide my distress. "Did it not occur to you that his friends might like to attend?"
"Friends?" He seemed honestly baffled, then angry as he understood my meaning. "You count yourself a friend, you who caused his death?"
"I did nothing of the sort! You think I stay here by own will?"
He rubbed his eyes, hair falling across his face. "No," he said, abruptly more weary than angered. "I'm sure you do not. It did not occur to me that you would care, for which I suppose I must apologize."
Deflated by his sudden surrender, I had to fight all the harder not to weep. "H-he did have a service, then?"
"He should have had a pyre, but I do not know the proper ritual... To go without a pyre invites ghouls, they love nothing better than to raid the grave of a dragon, but ghoul
s do not venture this far north. Burial it must be, for now, and the bones be burned later, perhaps by a grandson. The grave must not be disturbed until then if he is to find his way…" He shook his head. "And now I will ask questions, princess. Why was my father tasked with guarding you here?"
"You ask me this?" I laughed bitterly. "I had rather hoped to hear you explain it."
He gazed at me with dark frustration. My stomach growled.
"Go ahead, eat," he said, with just enough amusement to annoy. "I know well that you have had a taxing day."
How dare he, how dare he poke fun—his own father—I swallowed my anger, with difficulty, and sat down at the table, stacking my plate with bread, cheese... and what fish was left from this morning. My hand faltered there, my head suddenly filled with the image of Rindargeth laughing, complimenting Genevieve's culinary achievement, raising a glass to my birthday fish.
"You have been here five years?" Braith asked.
"Exactly five years today." I forced myself to take a bite of the fish. I was hungry enough to eat much worse things.
"How came all these others? The fairy, the simpleton—"
"Do not call him that."
He checked, bemused. "The stableboy, then. And the woman who is too shy to speak. How came they here? Did you bring them? It is not usual, in these situations, to bring along a retinue."
"Genevieve is not shy, or not merely shy, but mute." I did not wish to see this dragon grow irritated with her 'refusal' to speak. "And I brought no one. They came in various ways, mostly accidental, and once here, of course, could not leave."
"I suppose things of that sort are inevitable, with such a circle—only most do not last long enough... Why have your kin not come for you, in five years?"
"I don't know," I said, and did not let on that he touched a bruise. "Perhaps they will come tomorrow, and my father will carry your head home to be mounted in the dining hall."
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