I did not look directly at Braith during this tale, focusing my attention mostly on pleasing Gareth, who loved for me to make lively gestures and voices during a story. I watched Braith only from the corner of my eye, and made no overt reaction as he grew steadily more taut and stiff, his eyes brighter and harder, the room filling with the scent of hot smoke and winter.
"With the war over, the Red Dragon departed, with a promise of friendship between himself and Danvael forevermore, that they might each call on the other at need," I said, "but Gwynhafod fought no further wars in Danvael's lifetime, and so the Dragon was not seen again—except on the flags and seals of the kingdom, which all bear a red dragon to this day."
Gareth sat back with a happy sigh. "Nice story! Right, Braith? Dragons!"
"Who bade you tell this tale tonight, Ariana?" Braith demanded.
"Bade me? No one. It was my own thought entirely—reminded by the presence of Owain, who is Danvael's son. Who, incidentally, is willing to consider helping us, Braith. He wants to speak with you, perhaps tonight—"
"I told you already, I will not speak to either of those dragonslaying worms."
"He only wishes to confirm that you are no ravening monster before he—"
"Leave me in a room with him, princess, and you will discover just what sort of monster I can be."
Frustration burned in my voice. "Braith, this may be our only hope of escape!"
"Then there is no hope at all."
"You would rot here forever, rather than speak to him?"
"It will not come to that. I wish it would."
"What do you mean?"
"I will not do it."
"I will make you do it!"
"How?" His voice dripped scorn. "Wounded or not, I am a dragon, and no easy opponent."
"I will find a way." I turned to leave the room, that I might regain my temper before saying anything truly unfortunate, but he grasped my arm and turned me back.
"Truly," he said, suddenly more frantic than angry, "truly, I beg you will not. We would both regret it. Please, Ariana—let us discuss it further before any action is taken!"
For a long moment I stared at him, frowning in confusion. "Very well," I said, and only then did he release my arm. "Suppose I myself were present for the entirety of this conversation, with sword at hand to ensure none are threatened? Would that be acceptable?"
"It would... it would help, certainly. I will... consider it."
Though baffled by this new hesitancy in him, I decided this was victory enough for the moment, and settled down again to read.
When Gareth's eyes grew heavy, I sent him and Genevieve to their beds. Elaysius had drifted in at some point, and gone to sleep in my lap; cautiously I moved his kitten-weight to a cushion, and began crawling about by the hearth, poking my fingers into every shadow and crack.
"Whatever are you about?" Braith asked.
"I am searching."
"For your lost wits?"
I shot him a glare over my shoulder, all the more annoyed because I knew how undignified a picture I presented. "For my amethyst ring, that I wear always on a chain about my neck. I will swear it is not in my own chamber, so perhaps I dropped it here. Have you seen it?"
"No, I've not seen it since—" He coughed. "I saw it only the once."
When he attempted to rescue me from the laundry. I tried not to let my cheeks color. "I devoutly hope that is not where I lost it, or it will be out to sea by now."
"Cannot your servants help you search?"
"My what?"
"Servants. Are they not so? They do as you tell them, even going to bed at your word."
Distracted from my fruitless searching, I turned to sit on the hearth-stone and face him. "Your words are strangely accusatory in tone. What if they are my servants?"
"Why should you have others wait on you?"
"I am a princess." My cheeks were burning again, for in the face of his skeptical expression the words seemed so arrogant—yet they were nothing more or less than the truth.
"You are a princess of Caibryn," he said. "Is this Caibryn, little Highness?"
Because I was not a dragon, smoke could not come from my nostrils, but not for lack of feeling. "I have no idea where I am, in fact. On account of my being abducted and kept prisoner by a dragon."
"I have even less desire to be here than you do, I assure you."
"No, I don't think that is possible. Speak again after five years' captivity, and perhaps I will find your assurances more believable."
"But what do I care if you believe me? I have no obligation to you whatsoever, except what—" His voice choked itself off, and he clenched his teeth in momentary rage. What my master compels me to, I fancied he would have finished. "I hope you do not consider yourself in any position of royal authority over me, that is all."
"No," I said quietly. "I suppose not. Your father humored me, I am sure, giving me the comfort of my royal status. He treated me as a guest instead of a prisoner. If you wish to do otherwise, I'm sure there is nothing I can do to stop you."
Braith gave a long sigh, visibly struggling for patience. "You would have me feel ashamed of myself, but you will not succeed, when nothing about my presence here was by my own will. And I know that the others did not volunteer to be trapped here either! I would have thought the situation would give all of you a sort of equality. Long have I labored to understand the hierarchies of human communities, and each time I think I grasp it…" He shook his head. "Call this a request for information, if you must."
"Well… you are correct about our equality, in a way. I think of them much more as my companions than as my subjects." I gestured with my hands, searching for the words to explain. "Over Elaysius I have no official authority—he answers to the queen of the Sidhe—but he sees himself as a guest of my court and so subject to my commands, if only as a matter of courtesy. Gareth comes from the servant class right enough, yet we have raised him from a child, and his mind is not sharp enough to grasp finer points of etiquette, so much is tolerated from him here that might not be elsewhere. And Genevieve… well, we know nothing whatsoever about her origin, so it is hard to place her in the hierarchy, as you put it. But in truth I have no doubt that she is of noble blood; she is too beautiful, too pure and good and generous, to be anything else."
Braith laughed, loud and rude. "'Noble blood' may well be the most useless and absurd of humanity's many useless and absurd ideas. I fervently hope Genevieve is discovered to be a scullery maid. What will you say then?"
"We will more likely discover she is a princess in her own right," I said, indignant at the insult to my kind friend, "but in either case I have taken her as my lady-in-waiting, which is the highest rank I have to bestow. She makes no complaint." I turned and began to jab the fire with the poker and feed it more wood.
"I assure you, I do not need the fire," Braith said.
"Perhaps not, but I do."
"The hour grows late. I had rather hoped you were going to bed soon."
"And leave you unguarded, the better to creep to the stable with a sword? Indeed not."
His sigh was heavy with exasperation, whether at my suspicion or at having his plan foiled, I could not guess. "You plan to sit awake all night, then?"
"I do."
"You will regret it on the morrow."
"Not half so much as I should regret the loss of my betrothed and his brother."
He merely shook his head.
"You could provide entertainment, if you chose," I said. "I have told stories tonight until my voice near faded—tell me a tale, if you will. A story of your people."
He pursed his lips, then, seeming to decide this could have no harm in it, spoke. "You would like a tale of Torendelgar and Sharramalis, I think. The founders of my clan, Deyontaer."
It was too much dragon-tongue thrown at me at once; I could not have repeated any of the names. But I nodded, eager to hear the story.
"Both were banished from their clans of birth—Torendelgar
for the death of his brother, though it were accidental—that is a tale in itself—and Sharramalis for desecrating a holy place, in the irreverence of youth. Her banishment was for ten years only, but for that decade she was without home, kin, or aid. Life was hard. The two of them met… and that, too, is a tale in itself." He shook his head. "I hardly knew how long and complex a story this was. I have grown up on it, you see. Every child of Clan Deyontaer, and many more besides, know the story—all the stories—of Torendelgar and Sharramalis.
"The part I mean to tell comes when they have been mated for many years, with two clutches of children. The banishment of Sharramalis, you recall, was intended to be temporary, but when the time was accomplished, she did not return, knowing they would not accept her mate. So her father sought her, and found her, and demanded that she leave her shameful banished mate, and their shameful clanless hatchlings, and return to her kin. She would not. Her father went away sorrowing, or pretended to—but he returned by night, to... eliminate the problem."
"He would kill his son-in-law? His grandchildren?"
"And imagined that his daughter would then smilingly rejoin his clan. Indeed, he was a fool, or simply vengeful. Fortunately, Sharramalis knew her father well, and was waiting when he entered the cave. Their battle woke Torendelgar, and between them they put the evil father to flight. Not until his shape had disappeared against the dark sky did Sharramalis turn to her mate, and see that he was wounded. Most grievous wounded, his throat torn by her father's teeth. He had moments only. Sharramalis could do nothing but hold him and weep."
"I do not think I like this tale."
"It is not finished yet. The tears Sharramalis dropped onto her dying mate's face were not clear water, but dark red blood. Holy tears, the Gods' Gift of Healing Blood which is granted not once a generation. With her claws she painted the three holy signs..." Here he moved from his seat to the hearth beside me, and drew his finger through the ashes. Three symbols he drew—a circle with four straight spokes, a sort of Y-shape with curled ends, and an oval with a blot in its wider end. To my surprise, I recognized them from Rindargeth's tombstone. "Sun, flame, and egg, the three signs of the gods, drawn in holy blood-tears on his forehead, throat, and heart. Then she touched the blood to his wound... and watched it heal before her eyes, and her mate was made whole again, as if he had never been hurt.
"From that time, Torendelgar and Sharramalis were not merely mates but heartmates, their hearts beating as one, and no harm could befall him as long as she lived. Had she died early, of course, so he would have too, but she did not. In fact, although he reached his three hundred some dozen years before her, the heartmate link preserved him until she had reached hers as well. When the time came their hearts stopped as one, and they journeyed to the next world together."
"Braith, that—that is truly beautiful."
"I am told it was my father's favorite story," he said, "though he himself never spoke of it to me. I think perhaps he felt it was some failing in him, that he was not granted the same gift. That he could not save my mother."
"But you yourself said it was most rare."
"Logic and grief keep little company among dragons."
"Humans either," I admitted. "But what is this three hundred you spoke of?"
"You do not know? Dragons live three hundred years to the day, to the hour even, from when they are hatched. Unless they are killed untimely."
I was quiet a moment, absorbing this idea. "It must be strange, to know the very hour of your demise."
"As I said, events can intervene," he said grimly, perhaps thinking of both his lost parents. "But on the whole, I choose to find it comforting. There will be no wondering when my time comes. I will have every opportunity to be prepared. To meet death with dignity and faith, like a true dragon." His gaze was not on me, but on the flames in the fireplace, his face set with both determination and bleak fear, acknowledged and contained.
I knew then that I would do ten times what had been done thus far, to ensure that he saw all three hundred of his years.
"Tell me more," I said, "of Tor—Torenda—"
"Torendelgar."
I frowned. "Is this not somewhat like your own name? As well as I can remember it."
"Braithandelgar. Torendelgar. Both contain the dragon-tongue for 'son.' His name you might translate as 'son of a stony place.'"
"And your own?"
A hesitation. "'Son of a sorrowful day.'"
Easy enough, to imagine why his father chose such a name. I would not burden him with the question. "And her name? Shamma...?"
"Sharramalis. It refers to a bee-hive built in the bole of a tree."
"Curious name."
"Not especially, for a dragon."
"Sharramalis." I said the name slowly, carefully. "Torendelgar. Braithandelgar."
He chuckled. "One might almost declare you capable of civilized speech."
I scowled, and declined to reply. "Tell me more of them," I said instead. "Of Torendelgar and Sharramalis."
He did, his voice a steady counterpoint to the hot crackle of the fire. An hour inched by, two hours, perhaps three. Despite all my intentions I found myself sinking comfortably against the cushions, and again and again I jerked myself awake. Must not sleep... For Tristan's sake... must not...
But I was so comfortable now, so warm...
Only in retrospect would I realize that the warm, comfortable thing I could not draw away from was Braith, who had never returned to his seat but remained on the hearthside floor with me. My struggle to wake manifested only as a twitch and a mutter.
"Be easy, Ari," murmured the familiar voice, quite close to my ear. "Sleep."
"No… Tristan…"
"If I promise not to harm your precious princes this night, unless they come through that door seeking me, will you sleep?"
"...Yes."
"I so promise, then. Sleep."
Chapter 8
Iwoke early, alone by a cold fire, and walked to the stream, where in the rosy dawn light I admired the bruises I had gained in the fray with Owain. I elected to wash only my exposed skin, rather than take a full bath, for the morning was startlingly cool. A flock of geese called as they passed overhead, adding to the autumnal air, and I almost wished for my mittens. Only days ago it had been unseasonably hot; now I wondered if we steered toward an early winter.
Winter. The sea-wind would keep snow at bay, but the days would be dark and bitter cold, with even Rindargeth... even dragons likely to stay in by the fire. It would be cruel, surely, to confine prince or dragon to the stable in winter, where no fire could be lit—yet how could I keep them from killing each other when pressed into a single room?
No. This would not persist into winter. I would not permit it. I would not permit it.
I stayed some minutes more at the stream, deep in thought, tugging absently at a hole in my skirt-hem. My eyes wandered up the hillside, to the grave the size of a house, with its stone bearing the three holy signs of the dragons.
If you did surrender your life, I will not believe this was the intended result. You wished me to be free, and your son as well.
This will not continue.
At a pace very near a march, I returned to the tower, in search of breakfast, a fresh dress, and a sword.
The feat required some measure of bullying, hurrying, and the selective withholding of information, but in the end I maneuvered our entire party to the breakfast table at one time.
"Sit, every one of you," I snapped, when Braith and the princes of Dewgent caught sight of each other and simultaneously turned to leave. "We shall discuss our current situation like adults, not storm away like sulky boys. Nor shall any of you offer violence to any other. I will enforce this rule." I drew the sword and let it gleam a moment in the sunlight through the windows, then returned it to its scabbard at my waist. "Are there any reasonable questions before we begin?"
None spoke. I let my eyes move over my audience, noting reactions. Tristan indeed seemed sulky,
his brother more obviously furious; both looked dirty and tired, but had survived their night in the stable well enough. Gareth and Elaysius looked cowed, Genevieve quietly amused. Braith's face was stony as he glared across the table at Owain and Tristan.
"Good. You may take your seats. And eat as we talk, there is no sense letting the porridge go cold." I took my own seat between Braith and Genevieve, careful to keep my sword in easy reach, and began passing around ale in the pitcher Genevieve had painted so prettily. Owain lowered his brother cautiously into a chair.
"Very well, Ariana, you have your captive audience," Tristan said. "What will you tell us?"
"Nothing you have not heard, but much to which you have not listened. Here is the dragon Braithandelgar, who guards this tower and cast its imprisoning circle. Braith, do you do these things because it pleases you?"
"What other reason could I have?"
What? This was no time for Braith to get difficult. "You might," I said with a warning glare, "have been ordered to do so by another."
"What an absurd idea," said Braith flatly.
I struggled for patience. "Perhaps I am being too direct. One of the conditions of his orders, you see, is that he is not permitted to speak of them, or of the master who gave them."
"How convenient," Tristan observed.
I rolled my eyes. "There is nothing convenient, to any of us, about our entrapment here."
"Indeed," Elaysius said, frowning at Braith, "the dragon himself hath expressed only the greatest displeasure concerning our situation."
"I don't know what you mean," Braith said, his expression unchanging. "I am having the adventure of my life in this place. I hope I may stay forever."
Tristan's eyes had narrowed. "Yet you were not the beginning of this enterprise you so enjoy. Ariana mentioned another dragon, your father, now dead—"
"Yes." This, at last, won a change in Braith's expression. "One knight among dozens, doubtless through luck more than skill, struck my father a fatal blow. Finding even a dying dragon too much for his knightly courage, he then in rank cowardice fled."
Ice & Smoke Page 14
