The Little Dragons

  Jessa watched her disappear again into the kitchen, completely at a loss. As she tried to imagine what to do next, her eyes fell on the table of soldiers just served with their stew. One of them was staring back, disbelief and confusion written on his rough face.

  Chapter 79: Mother Peg

  “The little minx. The deceptive, lying, sneaky little minx!” Mother Peg banged her stick on the ground in helpless anger. Maida and Liandra stared at her, their faces shocked, by Mother Peg’s language or the betrayal of Liandra’s twin, Maida couldn’t say and didn’t care. “Well, she couldn’t have gone far, unless a Dragon got her.” The two younger women continued to stare, the Little Dragon shifting nervously on Liandra’s shoulder. “Well, go and look for her,” the old Healer shouted. As the two younger women lit their lanterns, she added, speaking to Liandra, “And you, if you encounter anyone, stay out of sight.”

  Maida and Liandra found no sign of Jessa, alive or eaten by a Dragon. It was a grimly silent supper in the little cabin in the woods. When the dishes were washed and put away, Mother Peg cleared her throat. Maida looked up from tidying the kitchen, Liandra from the sewing in her lap. “The King’s Bailiff will come in two, perhaps three, nights. You, Liandra, be ready to hide in the barn, up in Rafe’s room, in the loft behind the hay.”

  “What will you tell him, Mother?” Maida asked.

  “I will have to think of something. Your job, my girl, will be to keep silent.” Maida nodded.

  Chapter 80: Jessa

  Terror opened up like a trap door under Jessa’s feet and she fell into it, kicking, biting, scratching, writhing, anything to tear free from the hands of the soldiers. She got some satisfying yells, winded “oof” sounds and vicious swear words in return. “Careful now,” said one of them, and she suddenly realized they were not actually hurting her. The one that had urged caution maneuvered himself behind her and wrapped his muscular arms around her, pinning her upper body solidly against his chest. Not her feet, though. She slammed her heel into his shin, knocking a cry from him, followed by “Hey now, Your Highness.”

  Your Highness? In a flash she understood.

  “Her feet, Treen, get her feet,” the man said, his voice loud in her ear. Someone grabbed her feet, held them still. The smell of sweaty men rose around her in a foul cloud, choking her. “Get the Captain,” he said, his voice even louder.

  “Maybe she’s gone crazy, like they said,” another voice said from below, the man holding her feet.

  A short, solid bull of a man now appeared in front of her. His massive head seemed to grow right out of his even more massive shoulders. Another soldier held a torch up for him and he looked closely at her face, squinting the weathered skin around his small eyes. “You’re right,” he said to the man who held her. “It’s her.” Then he addressed Jessa directly. “Your Highness, what are you doing here?” His eyes traveled down her body. “And dressed like a servant in the Women’s Retreat House?”

  Since she had no idea what to say, Jessa decided that silence might serve her well. She glared at him. “She’s gone mad, just like they said,” the voice of the man holding her feet rose again.

  “Shut up, Treen,” the Captain snapped. He studied Jessa for a few more moments. “I don’t think so,” he said, “But it’s not our business. It’s the King’s.” By now a crowd had gathered in the tight hallway and the main room beyond. “Innkeeper,” the Captain bellowed over his shoulder. An older man pushed forward toward them. “Do you have a room with no windows, where we can keep this young woman under guard?” The innkeeper nodded that he did. “Good,” said the Captain, “And some food and drink for her.” The innkeeper nodded again.

  Chapter 81: Maida

  On the third night after Jessa’s disappearance, the King’s Bailiff came. They were the noisiest party to approach the cabin since Liandra had been brought to them all those months ago, heavy male feet, quite a few of them, mutters as they stumbled over roots and stones. Maida gave Mother Peg a worried look. The old woman seemed completely composed. She must be confident of her plan, whatever it was. “Quickly,” she snapped, and the two younger women disappeared into the barn, Roxtrianatrix clutching Liandra’s shoulder.

  They made their way quickly and quietly up to Rafe’s room, where he grinned at them, pleased to have visitors. “Shhh,” Maida cautioned him, forgetting how many times he had hidden there before. He sat crosslegged on the floor. Roxtrianatrix left Liandra’s shoulder and crawled into his lap, curling up and closing his eyes. Good, thought Maida. Not that he would make much noise anyway, but if he were lively there could be bumps or scratches, something knocked over. The two young women sat side by side on the edge of Rafe’s wooden bed, holding hands and listening.

  The party of King’s men made their noisy way into the courtyard. Maida listened for the rattling and clunk as they set down the sedan chair, but only heard the softer clatter of lanterns. “Greetings,” said Aden’s voice.

  “Greetings in return,” said Mother Peg. Followed by “Sir, I have very bad news.”

  “I know,” he said.

  After a moment’s silence, Mother Peg said, “You know?”

  “We met a group of soldiers traveling west. They have captured her. They are on their way to take her back to the King.”

  “Oh,” said Mother Peg.

  “What happened? They seem to think she’s gone mad,” Aden said. “And all she did was scowl at me, and I’ve known her since she was a child.”

  “Well, it’s been very hard, what she’s been through. She ran off into the woods. We couldn’t find her. I’m just glad she’s safe.”

  “And can you explain why she was dressed like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like a servant from the Women’s Retreat House.”

  There was a suitable pause. “A servant? From the Women’s Retreat House? Are you sure?” He must have nodded, because she continued. “I have no idea. Could she have met someone? Traded clothes?”

  “A servant from the Women’s Retreat House? Travelling alone? Out here in the Eastlands? I don’t think so,” Aden responded.

  “Could she have had it with her all along, planning an escape?” Another silence. Maida could picture them, the tall, white haired King’s man, the tiny, dark Healer, shaking her head in puzzlement. “Well, however she laid her hands on such clothing, I am relieved that she is safe. They will take care of her, the soldiers?”

  “Yes of course. She is the King’s daughter. They will take her to him. And the child? All was done as we asked?” Again Mother Peg must have nodded, because there was no reply.

  When they were gone, Liandra and Maida returned to the cottage. Mother Peg was in a good mood. “That was easier than I thought,” she said. “Now we must depend on the young twin’s acting skills.”

  “I hope she’ll be all right,” Liandra said.

  “That, child, is out of our hands,” Mother Peg told her. “Our task, yours and mine, is to get you and that precious Little Dragon of yours as quickly as possible to the Healer’s School.” Maida’s hopes flared, only to be doused again. “And you, my dear,” Mother Peg addressed her, will keep the place here, with Rafe.

  Chapter 82: Anglewart

  The young woman in front of him jerked the King’s heart in a way he would not have expected. Dressed humbly, in a ragged grey servant’s dress from the Women’s Retreat House, her eyes fixed to the floor, she was so like Liandra, yet so unlike. His princess daughter was plump and soft, spoiled by her life in the Palace. This child was strong, reared on hard work. He took a step towards her and held out his hand. She started slightly, controlled it, frightened and brave. Then she stole a questioning glance at his face. He smiled, and she hesitantly put her hand in his, calloused and hard, as he knew it would be. “Will you walk with me?” he asked her. Her eyes sought his face again, questioning, just for a moment before bowing again. He dropped her hand and turned, walking toward the door, knowing she would follow.

  He was gratef
ul that Ermin was busy elsewhere. The Head Bailiff did not know about the second-twin, born as she was in his days of privacy and love, before the battle for the Crown but, Spymaster that he was, he would notice every detail that separated this strong young servant woman from his soft Princess daughter.

  In the hallway he turned toward the tower steps. He would walk with her on the battlements. One would think more readily of the garden for walking with a young daughter, but this time he wanted to be sure no one was listening. The battlements were one of the few places that offered a clear view of anyone nearby.

  It was windy when they emerged from the tower. The guard, startled, saluted both King and then, with a slight hesitation, the small figure following him. The King nodded and went well past him, out of hearing, before turning. She had clearly been looking down into the torchlit courtyard, but stopped when he did and dropped her eyes again. “No need to be so humble here, child,” he said to her. “We are alone, not King and subject, but father and daughter.” She raised her face to him, pale and tense, but curious. “What is your name?” He watched shock pass through her expression. Her lips began to form the name Liandra. “I know who you are,” he told her, “But I do not know your name.”

  She hesitated. He could almost see her mind racing behind her eyes. “Jessa,” she finally said, in a tiny voice.

  “Jessa,” he repeated. “And do you know who you are, Jessa?”

  “I know I am second-twin to your daughter Liandra.” She dropped her eyes again to the dark stones of the walkway.

  “And how long have you known this?”

  “A few days, Your Highness.”

  “And who told you?”

  “The Lady Merrit.”

  “And what do you know about her?”

  “She is a Widow who came to the Women’s Retreat House this spring.”

  “How did it come that she told you who you are?”

  The young woman looked up at him again--gauging or puzzling? “She took me to the Eastlands with her-- I have been her servant since she came to the Retreat House. She left me in an inn in Tummel and went somewhere. When she returned, she told me who I am and said that I must come south and present myself to you as my sister.”

  “And you agreed to come?”

  “No. I ran away.”

  “And my soldiers caught you before you even left the inn in Tummel.”

  “Yes, Your Highness.”

  Anglewart studied her. She may know more than she was saying she did, but it might be better to wait until she was less on her guard. And clearly it was time for another interview with Melisande. What was she up to? And where was Liandra? Whatever her use to Melisande, however, this young one would be of use to him as well. This may even be what Melisande was thinking. “Jessa,” he said, “Look at me.” She did, her eyes shining a bit in the starlight with tears held back. “Tell me truthfully, are you a virgin?” She gave that tiny start again, but recovered and nodded, solemn and without hesitation. “And can you keep secrets?” She nodded again. “All right,” he went on. “No one besides you and me can know that you are not Liandra. To my closest advisors, I will say that you tried to run away and switched clothes with a servant from the Women’s Retreat House who was also running away. For everyone else, it will be a mystery, where you have been and how you came to be dressed this way. There will be rumours, of course, but silence is always best. Do you understand?” She nodded again. “And meanwhile,” he said, and reached out to cup his hand under the chin of her serious young face, “Welcome home.” The tears that leaped into his own eyes caught him by surprise. In part to cover them, in part because he wanted to do it anyway, he stepped forward and folded her into his chest.

  Chapter 83: Liandra

  The trail was endless. Liandra followed the bent figure of Mother Peg through trees so huge they disappeared into the night sky, far beyond the piddling circles of light cast by their travel lanterns. They whispered out there in the dark, though, and sometimes reached down to brush Liandra’s face with twig fingers. There was a chorus of singing voices in the dark, too, the insects that serenaded them in the clearing where Mother Peg’s cottage stood, only louder and more sinister. Their lights flickered and bounced, picking up a root here, a stone there, casting weird, dancing shadows.

  Mother Peg hobbled along, the tread of her soft leather-clad feet followed by the click of the wooden stick she used to balance herself—pad, pad, click, pad, pad, click. Every now and then she would catch her foot on something, grumble her annoyance. If it hadn’t been for Roxtriantrix, clinging tightly to her shoulder, exchanging thoughts, she would have either lost patience or given into terror.

  What’s that? she would ask him.

  Little, harmless, good to eat, he would answer her.

  Will this old woman even make it where we are going?

  She’s tough, the Little Dragon would say.

  Liandra stopped herself just in time to avoid crashing into Mother Peg, who stood looking at an oddly-shaped stone standing at the side of the trail. “This is the marker,” the old woman said. When Liandra did not respond, Mother Peg frowned at her. “This marks the trail to the last Dragonstone remaining in the Eastlands. We must make a thank offering there.”

  Liandra raised her lantern higher and studied the woods. When she looked closely, she could barely make out what might have been a path. “How far is it out of our way?” she asked.

  “Not far,” Mother Peg answered.

  “That’s what you always say.”

  Mother Peg pushed the brush aside, set her foot on the faint side-trail. “Come,” she said.

  “No,” said Liandra.

  Mother Peg raised her own lantern, studying Liandra’s face. Her own in its light was glowering. “You will,” she said.

  “I won’t.”

  “This is a holy place and, because of you, a holy time. What will the Great Mother think if we don’t make a Journey-Prayer?”

  “You can barely walk. We are traveling only a few miles a day. We can’t afford any side-trips.”

  Mother Peg banged the ground with her walking stick, glared at Liandra as if the fierceness of her expression could force the Princess to bend to her will. Liandra crossed her arms, her lantern dangling low by her side. Roxtrianatrix stirred on her shoulder.

  “Ask your Little Dragon then,” Mother Peg said. “What does he say?”

  Roxtrianatrix immediately spoke in her mind. You should go, speak to the Dragons. Whatever you say to a Dragonstone, they will hear you.

  But, the journey, it’s so long, she’s so slow.

  You would make better time in the daylight.

  Liandra turned her head to look at him in surprise. “What?” said Mother Peg.

  You have me with you. The Dragons will not harm you.

  She said aloud. “Roxtrianatrix says we should go to the Dragonstone.”

  “Well,” Mother Peg looked smug. “Well then.”

  “And he says we should travel in daylight, that because of him we’re safe from the Dragons.”

  Mother Peg’s expression changed to surprise, became thoughtful, then folded into a frown. She turned and began to feel out the almost-invisible trail with her stick. “Let us go and make our prayer. We can talk about this further when we stop to rest.”

  Chapter 84: Maida

  The goat Maida was milking bleated and kicked the bucket. It clattered aside, a pool of milk spreading across the milking stand, pouring over the edge into Maida’s lap. Maida leaped to her feet, holding her skirt out in front of her, and abruptly burst into tears. Rafe dropped his hayfork and shambled to her side, his big, round face a comic mask of concern. Maida did not see the humour, though. She dropped onto a hay bale and buried her face in her hands. Rafe shuffled from foot to foot in front of her. She could hear his big, clumsy feet, feel his panic. Wiping her eyes with a last, dry corner of her apron, she tried to reassure him. “It’s alright. I’m alright, Rafe. I just … miss them is all.”


  Rafe seemed to calm down a bit. He sat on another bale beside hers, clutched his big, red hands between his knees and stared at her. When she looked up, big tears gathering at the corners of his blue eyes.

  Chapter 85: Anglewart

  Daylight would be well advanced over the distant mountains by now. All of the servants, even Ermin, had been sent to bed, and still the King sat in the Chapel of the Warrior God.

  His last business of the day with Ermin was to review the wedding arrangements. He was pleased to see that Jessa’s was well advanced. Must get her married quickly, he thought, before she makes a slip and someone guesses that she is not Liandra, before Ermin sees her and figures out that something is amiss, before some wretched servant seduces her. He had never found out who fathered Liandra’s child, despite questioning, spying, even a little torture in the ranks of the servants. He knew Ermin was as frustrated as he was with their failure to uncover that information, a slap in the face of Ermin’s professional pride as well as a maddening puzzle.

  Then there was his own wedding, which seemed to be running into one mysterious delay after another. He had begun to wonder if the Warrior God himself was displeased.

  He studied the face of the Diety, portrayed as his ancestor, so much like his own face. Some claimed they could hear the Warrior God speak to them when they prayed. Probably just a story, or imagination, something desired so strongly it became real. He fervently wished it were true, that a two-way conversation were possible with the God.

  Bending, he set the kneeler on the floor and, sliding forward, lowered his knees to its padded surface. For the first time in many months, in fact, since the terrible grief of losing Ortrude, he propped his elbows on the wooden wall in front of him, folded his hands, rested his forehead on them and prayed from his heart.