"I wish only that I could swear again what I have sworn already," he said once, "which is to see thee free and safely home. Whatever service thou askest of me, princess, it shall be done."
I regarded him with sleepy fondness, thinking how seldom it was that he stood so still, and could be seen clearly. Somehow it was always a surprise that he looked very much like any knight—straight and muscular, even handsome, with well-made and sturdy armor—only on a miniature scale, and his voice not nearly the squeak one might expect.
"To be honest, my friend, all this nonsense with dragons and their debts has quite put me off the idea of such obligations," I said with a yawn. "Only be my friend, as you always have been, and we will call the debt settled."
I lost no small amount of hair to the flames, when the blackened bits were cut away, and the rest trimmed to match. I made a show of giving some to everyone, long ash-blonde locks tied off with ribbon. Genevieve accepting hers with quiet amusement, Elaysius with an overdecorative speech, Gareth with an uncertain smile. Braith was flatly baffled.
"Whyever would I want your hair?"
"It is but a jest, Braith. In Caibryn one might receive a lock of hair from one's sweetheart, or a dear one on their deathbed."
"Ah. Well, seeing as you are neither of those things, I believe I shall decline." And he tossed the lock of hair into the fire as he left the room.
It was one of our few conversations that did not end in shouts.
By the morning of the third day, I felt well enough to be peevish and restless, but not yet well enough to leave the lounge-chair. Braith would have been an ideal target for venting my spleen, had he been nearby, but he seemed—for a wonder!—to prefer escaping me outdoors. I therefore had Gareth carry my chair outside, while I limped and minced along on Genevieve's arm.
I had only just settled onto the lounge-chair when Braith fluttered down from the parapet.
"What are you about?" he growled. "Inside with you."
"I shall die of boredom and stifling air, should I spend another day within stone walls," I said, not moving one inch.
He snorted. "You shall die of infection and overexertion if you venture out."
"You underestimate my constitution, dragon. I assure you, I am quite sturdy. In either case, what is it to you? Should I die, you are relieved of a burden."
"My oath compels me to your protection."
Ah. I felt a slight drooping within me, as of a half-bloomed flower. Still, this was new information about my situation at the tower; perhaps he could give me more. "What else does your oath compel? Who compels it?"
He cocked his head, as if surprised by the change in topic. "Must an oath be compelled to be kept?"
"No, but you are the one who spoke of compulsion. And it is hardly a secret that you would be gone from here if you could."
"There is an honest truth." He huffed a mouthful of smoke. "I cannot speak of—curse it, I cannot even tell you what I cannot speak of!"
"Your father's task was to guard me here. You inherited that command. That much I know. But how came it to be your father's task? Who tasked him? Why?"
He glared at me with a loathing in his hard yellow eyes that I thought was not, perhaps, intended for me at all. I was merely the reminder, always nearby for easy blame. "If I had any taskmaster, I could not tell you of him. If I owed any man a debt that gave him the right to demand my true name and thus command me, I could not tell you of it. If such a man existed, I would be unable to disobey him or offer him harm, however much I wished it, is that clear enough for you?"
"It is," I said, quiet in the face of his anger, and judging it unwise to push further for now. I settled back against the lounge-chair. "Well, at least it is pleasant out here. If I must waste my time abed, I intend to waste it in sunshine at least."
"You would do better to go inside."
"If so, we will never prove it, for I will stay here."
Smoke wreathed him. "I daresay you did not so defy my father!"
"Rindargeth was too wise to give me commands."
"He raised you poorly, then."
"He seemed to do little better with you. Perhaps he simply did not care enough."
"You dare—You know nothing of my father."
"I spent a third of my life with your father. He never spoke of you."
The moment the words sounded, I wished them unsaid. Braith's expression would have given me shame even had the words been true, but they were a lie. Rindargeth had indeed mentioned his son. Rarely, but I rather thought that a compliment in its way. Did not dragons hoard up what they loved most?
"It is no mystery to me now," Braith said, "why my father would not summon me to his aid in this task. He did not wish my own life made as miserable as his by the presence of a cold, selfish, spoiled little earthbound. Stay out here if you will, and die if you can manage it."
With a great rush of wind, he was aloft, and away over the hills before I could draw a deep breath.
I settled down onto my chair as if I had no more worries than absorbing as much sun as the day would provide, and would not admit, even to myself, if his barbs had stung. He did not know Rindargeth's motives any more than I did. And if I was accustomed to getting my own way—well, I was a princess, was I not? And would one day be a queen. It was my lot in life to get my own way. The true test of character, as Papa had told me, would not be in ensuring my decisions were carried out, as that was a given, but ensuring that my decisions were responsible and correct.
Allowing my temper to be goaded into cruelty was not responsible or correct.
Abruptly exhausted, I permitted my chair to be carried inside once more, and spent the rest of the day by the fire.
Elaysius, who had been away gathering three-stars at the time of the quarrel, achieved new heights of indignation and loquacity when Gareth told him of it, on his return.
"To insult thee so, who art a thousand times his better! Would that I could jab him again with a better dagger, and show him the price of discourtesy to a princess! If we were of a size, then could I show him the meaning of wrath, and make him rue the day he stooped to pay insult to the beloved friend of a fairy knight!"
"Sir Elaysius," I said when he stopped for breath. "What do you know about this manner of circle?"
"Eh?" Successfully distracted, he settled onto my shoulder to consider. "Alas, lady, 'tis dragon-magic, and none of my ken. A fairy might construct a circle, out of toadstools, briars, or enchanted dew—but what things a flame can do, that is not for fairies. Had I need of a circle—"
"But can you tell, Elaysius, the shape of it? By which I mean, is it a circle only, or a sphere?"
"Half-sphere, at least, for well I know it meets overhead. Even wings as small as mine can scale a great height, with sufficient time, and many a night were they tested to their utmost, confirming this thing."
"Half-sphere at least," I said, "or half-sphere at most?"
I watched him frown, puzzling out my meaning—watched his brow clear with wonder as he perceived it. "Thou thinkest to dig beneath?"
"It is something we have not tried."
"True… It is unwise to hope extravagantly," he said, with careful self-restraint, "yet it should be tried."
"It shall be, if you can find us shovels."
"Thou canst not dig, princess! Thine injury—"
"Will be all but healed with another application of that miraculous salve. Already it itches more than aches. Do not argue with me, Elaysius. I would be away from this place as soon as I might, and I know you would as well."
We all went to our beds in the evening as usual, or at least what was usual since Braith's arrival—prior to that we had been accustomed to spending some time reading and playing games by the fire in the evening. Oh, how I missed Rindargeth! But his son knew nothing of our old routine, and saw nothing strange in our going directly to our beds after a strained and quiet dinner.
I had thought it might be difficult to remain awake in my chamber, waiting until an hou
r so late that we could be sure of Braith's slumber. It was not difficult at all—the tension and anticipation would have kept my eyes open twice as long. At length, when the fire had burned down in the grate and the moon was just past its peak in the sky, I rose and woke Elaysius, then Genevieve, and together, moving with breathless quiet, we left the tower to gather Gareth and the digging tools from the stable.
I chose for our digging site a place where the crest of a hill blocked our view of the tower. I hoped it would likewise block Braith's view of us, should he wake, but I could not be certain. I therefore installed Elaysius, who was too small to handle a shovel in any case, to keep watch, pressed against the dirt to peer over the top of the hill.
Five years ago, my captivity as yet unaccustomed, I had spent a great deal of time trying to move, destroy or bypass the tiny, fire-colored flowers that marked the edge of the circle. It could not be done. They could not be walked, jumped nor swum past, and nothing touched them, not wind or water and certainly not angry young girls. That night we discovered that the flowers' roots extended underground thrice the length of their stems, tangled skeins of orange and scarlet that our shovels could not penetrate. The digging was harder work, and my back less able to bear it, than I had foreseen. Frequently I found I must stop and rest, for though it pained me to see my friends working when I sat idle, I did not think it helpful for me to push myself until I collapsed.
At length, our shovels reached the end of the roots, and we received our first hopeful sign—that we could now dig beneath them without resistance. Several minutes passed still before we could conclude anything for certain, until Elaysius, with his sapphire light, came to illuminate our progress, and found that he could pass a foot or more beyond the roots.
I was almost too overcome with emotion to continue the dig. We could escape! We could go home!
Elaysius, returning to his watching post, suddenly hissed and ducked away from the hill top. "Princess! Look!"
I dropped my shovel and climbed after him.
Peering carefully, I saw a great white shape settling to the earth but a stone's-throw away, at the edge of the graveyard. Braith, come to pay honor to his father. Of all the times for it!
"Tell them to cease digging, and await my command!" I hissed to Elaysius, who fluttered off instantly.
I watched Braith, hardly breathing for fear he would turn, but his attention was all for his father's grave. I could hear his voice, a deep whisper on the night air, murmuring in dragon-tongue. It had the cadence of a chant, and at the end of it he raised one clawed hand and raked his own talons across it, letting blood flow from him onto the soil. When he had spilled more blood than I likely held in my entire body, he sighed fire onto his hand to cauterize the wound, and settled onto the earth, wings folded and neck curled, in an attitude that spoke somehow of sleep without rest, stillness without peace.
Slowly, cautiously, I made my way back down to my comrades.
"I do not think he intends to depart soon," I whispered. "He will surely hear if we continue to dig. I think our best choice is to retreat, and dig again tomorrow." There was no particular reason for him to notice so small a disruption in the dirt—surely that risk was better than being caught in the act. "Back to the tower, then—Gareth to the stable, can you carry the shovels without clanking? Good fellow." Were one of us caught, then, it might not be one who carried evidence of our activities. "Elaysius, hide your light in Genevieve's skirts—this is no time for modesty, I fear. Stay behind this ridge as much as you can. Let us go."
We made it some halfway, keeping the curves of the hills between us and the dragon, before Gareth, clumsy with his burdens, stepped awry, and caused a small shower of stones down the hillside.
All froze in our places, listening. Had he heard?
A snort, the flap of a wing. The sound of breath questing for scent, and scales rustling in our direction.
He had heard.
"Go, as quickly as silence will let you!" I hissed. "I will stay. Go!"
I hauled myself up over the ridge, one ear tuned to my friends' fleeing footsteps, and walked toward Braith.
The moment he perceived me, his stance shifted in a way that seemed to speak equally of relief and irritation, before being obscured by sparks and smoke that left his human shape in their wake.
"Princess. What are you up to in the dead of night?"
"I fancied some air."
"Your windows open, I believe."
Indeed, onto a balcony. This excuse held no water at all. "Have we not established my right to do as I like?"
"Established? Not nearly." He rubbed at his neck, as if it ached. "Princess, I have no energy nor inclination for another quarrel tonight. Pray go back to bed, and we shall quarrel in the morning."
I glanced back toward the tower—where shadowy forms were still stealing along, only just visible to me, but very much so to a dragon. No, I could not have him watch my retreat in that direction. I drew a deep breath.
"In fact, Braith, my purpose in venturing out… Well, I wished to make peace with you." Of course it had not been my purpose, yet I realized I would nevertheless like to do so, if I could. "I have… I hope we both have said things and not meant them. Truly, my shafts seem to have sunk further than I aimed them."
He looked so surprised at my words that I thought at first he would disbelieve me entirely. It was long moments before he answered me, looking back toward the grave.
"When last we spoke, my father and I quarreled. I knew somewhat of his debt and wished to help him fulfill it, but he would not let me. He desired that I remain clear of the mess. He always worked for my protection, as a loving father should—yet I would have had him see me as dragon, not hatchling." He shook his head in an old frustration that had nowhere, now, to hang. "I accused him of wishing my dead sisters alive in my place, and when that failed to prick him sufficiently, continued that I might have rather had a mother..." He seemed to flinch suddenly, as if reminded of my presence, and spoke stiffly. "Darkness has made me too free with my words. I beg you will forget them."
Hesitantly, I touched his arm. "I was a most cruel liar this morning, Braith. Your father did speak of you now and again, and always it was with tenderness. There was a song he would sing, a lullaby that he used to sing to you…"
For a moment I thought his eyes glittered, but he turned away, breaking my hold on his arm. "Go to bed, princess. Sweet dreams to you."
"You as well," I said after a long moment, and walked away.
The following day was an agony of secret hope and fear. So close were we to freedom, and yet so far! Every moment Braith spent sunning atop the tower, I lived two seasons of terror that he would notice the disturbed earth at the edge of the circle. Elaysius was more irritating than usual, swooping about in nervous giddy excitement. Gareth wore a face of woe, too worried and uncertain to join in the diminutive knight's anticipation. Even serene Genevieve carried unusual tension in her hands and mouth and spine. I wanted to shake them all. Did they not understand the vital importance of carrying on as if it were a usual day? I went about my own tasks with a determined air of cheer and normalcy.
I was partway through milking Bessie when I realized I had utterly forgotten to include the livestock in our plans. Bessie could not simply be left to languish unfed and unmilked—I would not put it past our draconic guard to eat her out of pure frustration and spite. He might have the chickens, I supposed—I had been careful not to grow attached to them, as one of their purposes was to fill our stew-pot—but Bessie was a friend, and the horses, we simply could not leave the horses. It would be not only unkind, but inefficient; why travel on foot when we had so many horses at hand?
I spent several minutes dithering over the impossibilities of coaxing horses and a milk-cow through our hole in the ground before I remembered the obvious—that animals could and did pass effortlessly through the circle. It was a block to thinking creatures only. If we could but lead the animals quietly, they could escape much more easily than
we!
Braith did not join us for any meal that day, or assume human shape at all. I was grateful; his presence might have been too much for my companions' strained nerves. His absence permitted us to gather some few of our things, safely away from windows. Much of it was still packed from our first attempted departure days before. More important than our personal effects, though, was supplies—food, water, blankets. Rindargeth had flown all day and half the night to get me here; I could not even guess how long it might take to travel the same distance on foot.
I hoped it was not hypocritical of me, after issuing strict orders to pack lightly, to take such care in packing a pair of mittens when there was only the faintest breath of autumn in the air.
Evening was long in coming, but at last I watched from my balcony as the sea pulled the sun down to its watery rest. Would this be the last sunset I watched from this tower? I told myself that it was only the cool breeze that brought tears to my eyes, not the thought of leaving this place that had been my home for so long. The thought of the sun rising tomorrow on an empty kitchen and stable, light filling a room I would not see again, its heat withering the garden I had so carefully nurtured—
My fingers went to the amethyst ring on its chain about my neck, Papa's birthday gift on the very day I was taken away. I closed my eyes and saw his face again, strong and leonine and laughing in the sun. My mother, so frail, but with the kind and luminous smile of an angel. My nurse, Tegwen, blunt and sturdy and warm. Tristan, my best friend and betrothed, all dark curls and brave, happy, open heart.
This is why we must go. For all those who loved me. I cannot abandon them.
I retreated indoors and curled up on the bed, burrowing into the pillows to block out sight and sound of what I was abandoning.
Leading six horses and a milk-cow, many of them laden with packs, over near a mile of rough ground in the dark—it was not fated to be a silent endeavor. Each of us glanced up at the tower continually, to check that the snow-white form of Braith, gleaming in the moonlight, had not stirred.
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