The Dragon settled himself comfortably, adjusting his vast wings to wall her in on both sides, intensifying the heat. “Now, little mouthful,” he said, “tell me about your jester-prince. Yes, I have met him, but he revealed only so much of himself to one such as I.” He smiled, and flames flickered behind his eyes. “I am curious to know what this Lionheart showed you. Speak, Una. Why should we have secrets from each other?”
Una felt her throat was too parched to utter a word, but when she opened her mouth the words poured out of her like the sudden rush of water from a crumbling dam. She forgot herself and to whom she spoke in the relief of letting her thoughts flow freely. She scarcely noticed the Dragon’s prompting questions, for each direction he prodded her speech seemed so natural, exactly what she wished most to speak of next. Trivial details slipped in with the most poignant moments, yet all seemed equally important. As she spoke, Una found she could picture Leonard’s dear face almost as clearly as if he stood before her, and she never once wondered whether that might be the Dragon’s work.
“He was so fine,” she found herself saying over and over. “Unlike any other young man I’ve met. He knows the meaning of hard work, yet does not run from it like other princes might. His is a life of purpose and direction. Who can compare to him? Prince Gervais? That silly fop with whom I fancied myself in love? Not likely! I see now how cheap was his suit and how cheap was my affection for him. How can a charming personality compare with a noble character? Like my plump parade pony with my father’s war horse.”
“So you loved Lionheart’s princely soul, eh?” the Dragon asked.
“No, not at first,” Una said. “At first I did not even notice it. But I loved him anyway, perhaps even from the first day I met him. He . . . he made me laugh so! He was self-deprecating yet proud, foolish yet witty. I never laughed so much as when I was with him. I was never so happy before.”
“You loved him for making you laugh?” The Dragon chuckled. “How delightful.”
“I did,” she said, “but I did not realize it until later. No, when I began to think of him at all, I stifled those thoughts as foolish. Not until he spoke to me on the night he left . . . spoke to me in a voice I had heard only once or twice from him, altogether unlike his jolly self. . . .” She lost herself in reverie, and although her skin gleamed with sweat in the dragon heat, Una felt cool and distant.
“He spoke of his trials, of the dangers he had endured and had yet to endure. He spoke of his quest to kill . . . ”
“To kill me,” the Dragon said.
“Yes, to kill you. To kill you, to reclaim his kingdom, to put things right for his people . . . So brave, so good is he! But you see, with such a vision before him, how could he let himself be distracted?”
“Not even by you, little princess,” the Dragon murmured.
“Not even by me.”
“His goals were far greater than his love for you.”
“Of course, as it should be.”
“You wouldn’t want to get in his way.”
“Never. He would not be the man I loved if he were to turn aside for me.”
“And so he asked you to trust him.”
“Yes, and I do trust him.”
“And you gave him your heart.”
“My heart is his.”
“But he never gave his in return.”
Una’s lips parted. No words came out.
The Dragon lifted his head and barked a great laugh. “Foolish girl, what kind of exchange was that? You gave him your heart for nothing, and now you have nothing, do you?”
She bowed her head, her hair hanging down to her lap. “I required no promise from him.”
“But he took one from you. Such a noble soul, wouldn’t you say, this Prince Lionheart of yours?”
“He is,” she said. The air was thick and bitter in her nostrils.
“Then that leaves only one alternative,” the Dragon said. “You, little mouthful, are not worth a promise. You are not worth his heart.”
“I – ”
“Either he is not what you thought, or you aren’t,” the Dragon said. “What other choice could there be?”
“I trust him.”
“Then your trust is misplaced, for he has forgotten you. He no longer owns his own heart, for he gave it to another and keeps hers in return. Did I tell you how lovely his betrothed is? I saw her the day I first met your prince. She came from the gardens to drag him away when he fainted for dread of me. Plucky little thing, she was. Beautiful too.”
“I – ”
“You know what I think?” The Dragon snapped his wings, and Una cowered down before him. “I think you are worth far less than you fancied yourself. Not what he mistook you for, are you? Look at you – a crying, sniveling wretch, dirty and ugly. A princess? Hardly.”
Una pressed her forehead to the stones, squeezing her eyes shut.
“He probably realized his mistake the moment he was away. ‘Foolish fellow,’ he said to himself. ‘Why, you don’t even know that girl! What made you think such a passing fancy could be real love?’ ”
“I trust him,” Una whispered.
“As soon as he saw that lovely girl in Southlands, one of his own people, his old friend . . . Ah! Then he knew what love was meant to be. He could trust her. She would not be so stupid as to give her heart to a stranger.”
“He – ”
“A stranger who would dispose of it as soon as it best convenienced him.”
Una gathered herself together, clenching her hands against the burning pain that pulsed from her fingers, up through her arms, and into her head. She tried to stand, couldn’t, so instead she forced herself to look up into the Dragon’s huge face.
“I don’t believe you,” she said.
“Don’t you?” The Dragon leaned down until his breath whipped her hair across the stones. “But what would you say in the face of proof?”
“You have no proof. You are a liar.”
“Am I?” His voice dropped to a low, insidious hiss. “Be that as it may. But look you here and then tell me if I lie.”
He raised his gnarled hand, turning it upward, clutching something. Slowly his claws uncurled, and Una saw what he held in its center.
An opal ring, the stones gleaming with inner fire, reflected the light from the Dragon’s eyes.
Una could not speak.
“Oh, princess,” said the Dragon, “if he could only see you now. How he would count himself blessed to have escaped so weak, so puny a creature as you! How he would congratulate himself on having made the right choice. Your heart or his life. Some men might have dithered, but your Lionheart is a man of resolve. Isn’t he, Una? Strong and steadfast of purpose.”
The great hand closed once more, and Una’s vision filled with smoke. She closed her eyes, her knotted fists scraping against the stones beneath her.
“Poor little Una,” said the Dragon. “You are heartless now, aren’t you? No better than a dragon yourself.”
She crawled backward, and he let her go. She inched her way from his looming presence until she could stand again. Then, shoulders rounded, she retreated to her dark bedroom, closing and latching the window behind herself. The dragon poison whirled in her brain, dizzying and horrible; Una could not think and could not breathe.
“Leonard,” she whispered. “Why don’t you come?”
She fell upon her bed and cried as she had never cried before. With each tear that fell, Una felt her soul shrivel.
–––––––
Fidel surveyed his troops in the gray of early dawn. Hardly more than one hundred men remained from the garrison at Ramgrip. Combined with the regiment from Dompstead, they made a brave front as they lined up for battle on the hills outside Sondhold. General Argus sat on a big horse beside the king, disapproval etched in every line of his face. They were no match for the forces from Shippening.
A messenger rode up and saluted his king and commanding officer.
“The duke’s men are gath
ered just over the next rise,” he said.
Argus nodded. The information was not new. He turned to the king and said in a low voice, “We’ll be routed, sire.”
“Perhaps,” Fidel said.
“They are more than twice our numbers,” Argus said. “Sire, you know we cannot hope to win.”
Fidel did not reply. Winning a battle was not foremost on his mind. If they could but distract the duke long enough, that was all he asked. A group of five men, hand-selected by him, were to slip into Oriana Palace while the attention of the duke – and hopefully of the Dragon – was diverted. Perhaps they could find the princess and steal her away.
Argus knew the plan but hated it, for he could see no hope of success. “Please, Your Majesty,” he said one last time even as the sun gleamed on the horizon, desperately trying to break through the atmosphere of smoke. “Please accept your loss and run while you still can. We can gather our resources, given enough time, and come back to punish this dog as he deserves! But not today.”
“Felix is safe,” Fidel said. “I must see my daughter now as well.”
He spurred his horse, trotting away from the general down to the front line of soldiers. There he nodded to a lieutenant, who raised a golden horn to his lips. The clear note rose in the thick air, and as one man, the troops stepped forward to meet the duke.
–––––––
Una woke from bitter dreams to see the beam of sunlight break through the ash and smoke and shine upon her floor. She sat up in bed and looked at it glittering on the dust.
In her breast something burned.
“No more,” she whispered.
She climbed from her grayed blankets and left the room. The long, silent corridor seemed like a great throat swallowing her down and down. She stumbled twice on the stairway, gripping the rail for support. At last she reached the entry hall. The door swung open at the slightest pressure, and she stepped into the courtyard.
All was ruin and rubble. Stones, charred black, piled where once had been graceful walls and statues. The trees were burned to smoldering stumps, and the smoke rising from them was venomous.
Una walked amid the ruins, and the ash swirled about her feet. She walked as in a dream, slowly but surely, guided by some unknown force.
The Dragon met her at the gate.
“Yes, princess,” he said, breathing smoke upon her. “Your fire is right.
You are one of my kin.”
“Yes,” she said, her eyes tearless and sad.
“But not completely.” He smiled. “Come closer, and I shall finish the work for you. Come here, mouthful. Your heart belongs to me.”
The princess stepped toward him, her face upraised.
“Lean closer,” he said. “Let me kiss you.”
The blood rushed in her veins, throbbing in sudden panic, but the princess stood on her toes, reaching up to the Dragon. She felt the brand of his kiss on her forehead.
She fell back, crying out in agony, but the cry changed to a roar, hideous and deep, bursting from her breast and out her throat in flames and smoke. Her hands hit the ground, but instead of hands, terrible scales and claws scratched and tore the stone to pebbles. Ebony wings beat from her shoulders, and more flames burned her mouth, burned the ground, scorching everything around her black.
“What have you done to me?” she cried. Her voice was harsh with fire.
23
The Dragon watched the young dragon roll upon the ground, slapping her wings against the burning rubble. He said nothing, only watched while furnaces smoldered in his eyes.
At last Una lay exhausted, her sides heaving, her fire momentarily spent. The Dragon approached her, his fangs gleaming in a monstrous smile.
“My daughter,” he said, “what a fine fire you have inside! Five years now I’ve searched for you, and I might have passed you by, such a puny creature you are. But I pride myself on having recognized you at last.”
The dragon that had been a princess opened an eye. It glowed dully, though fear rimmed the edges and dilated the pupil. “What have you done to me?” Her voice was rough as gravel underfoot.
“What have I done?” The Dragon flared the black crest on his head in pride. “I’ve released you, my sister, my child! I’ve allowed you to become what you truly are, what you have been all this time. Now you may embrace the freedom of your spirit unbound!”
Una moaned, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
“You know it is true,” the Dragon said. “You’ve known all along, deep inside.”
“What am I to do?” the young dragon asked, pushing herself upright.
The Dragon opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment a horn sounded not far off, beyond the gate, across the fields, and over a hill. Its golden note broke clear through the heavy air, and both dragons turned to the sound, the elder with a snarl and a burst of flame, the younger with a new light in her eye.
“My father!” she rasped in her burning throat.
The Dragon hissed and raised himself to see over the high stone wall.
“The fool,” he growled. “I warned him, didn’t I?”
The young dragon, wings flailing, struggled to her feet and also peered over the wall. Through a haze of red, she saw the lines of King Fidel’s army advancing, armor and weapons gleaming dully in the light of torches, for the sun could not pierce the Dragon’s gloom.
“So be it,” the Dragon said. “Wait here, little sister, until I’ve dealt with these gnats.”
He drew himself together; his powerful haunches propelled him upward and his great wings struck the air until, catching a current of wind, he soared high into the smoke-filled sky. Down below, the Duke of Shippening’s army lined up just outside the city, while Fidel’s men marched stoutly forward. It was a pathetic sight, the ragtag troops of Parumvir in the weak advancing position against the larger and more securely stationed men of Shippening. There was no need for the Dragon to become involved. But the furnace was hot in him now.
He rose like a black sun, fire pouring from his gaping mouth, and the army halted. Screams filled the air, both from Parumvir’s men and those of Shippening. King Fidel’s horn sounded again, and the army moved forward once more, but the Dragon’s shadow fell upon their hearts.
The Dragon circled them, a vast vulture, as the fire grew inside him that his black scales glowed red and flames leapt from the corners of his eyes. He opened his mouth, aiming at the front line of soldiers.
But another fire struck him in the face, harmless yet startling. He turned, surprised, in time to see the young dragon hurtling toward him on frantic wings. She collided into him, her talons clawing into his side. His tail whipped around at the impact and lashed her closer to him, and the two fell, grappling together. The Dragon, too taken aback to fight, pushed her away before they hit the ground, and caught himself on an updraft. She, unskilled with her wings, struck the earth and lay dazed.
“Foolish sister!” the Dragon barked, flames shooting out the sides of his mouth and curling over his head as horns. “What insanity was that?”
Una lurched up, breathing heavily. “My father!” she gasped.
“Idiot!” The Dragon spat at her. “I am your Father!”
“No!”
“Yes, dragon!” he cried. “I am your Father. I am your brother, your mother, all your kinfolk now!”
“No!” She leapt into the air again and flew at him. He knocked her aside with a single stroke. The young dragon recovered herself in the air and charged again, spitting fire and sparks. The Dragon caught her in his strong forelegs and bit her neck fiercely. She roared and clawed at him, but he worried her, shaking his head back and forth, then flung her from him. She hit the ground, her wings beating the earth into clouds of dust.
The Dragon settled nearby, slithered up to her, and cuffed her across her face. She rolled away, and he cuffed her a second and a third time.
“There, little sister!” he roared, his fire reddening her scales. “Test my authority, eh? Test
it again!”
He lunged at her and tore into her already bleeding neck. The young dragon screamed, blue flames spewing from between her teeth. With strength she did not know she possessed, she broke away and took to the air. This time she fled as fast as her wings could carry her, higher and farther into the sky.
The Dragon raised his head and bellowed a roar that shook the earth for miles. Then he lowered himself on all fours and looked around. The king’s army was in retreat, leaving the land behind calm, black, and deserted.
The Dragon looked over his shoulder and watched the young dragon disappear south into the haze of his smoke. He smiled and licked his lips. “Perfect.”
“To the king! To the king!” Argus cried.
Few listened to him; most of the men fell back in the ranks, running over each other in their haste to flee what they’d already known to be a hopeless battle. The sight of the Dragon had been enough to destroy what courage remained in them, but two dragons were beyond reason. They fled in terror while King Fidel sat on his horse as though frozen in the middle of a sea of running men.
Cursing, Argus spurred his horse forward, cutting through the flood of screaming soldiers until he reached the king’s side. “Sire!” he cried.
Fidel did not answer. Argus grabbed the bridle of the king’s mount and dragged the champing horse over the hill after the routed army. Fidel sagged in his saddle, his face expressionless. They had no sooner passed out of sight of the Duke of Shippening’s army than the king toppled from his saddle and landed heavily in the dirt. Argus reined in his horse, leapt down, and ran back to catch up his king.
“Una,” Fidel moaned as Argus wrapped his arm over his shoulders.
“She’s lost.”
“But you’re not lost yet, sire!” Argus growled through gritted teeth. He barked to a passing lieutenant, “Are there no loyal men left in Parumvir?”
The lieutenant stopped in his flight and called some of his own men back to him. Together, they bore the king from the deserted field.