Dragon's Keep

  “We won that battle sure,” said Faul. “But in that year we lost more of our lands to men.”

  “I hate humans!” said Chawl, adding his fire to the flames in the pit.

  “And I!” said Kadmi, Eetha, and Ore. All were breathing flames. I backed away from the heat.

  “Sit, Briar!” ordered Faul. Down I flopped, grasping my little log for support.

  “It’s good you hate humans,” said Faul proudly to the pips. “Keep your bitterness toward them. Know them for what they are: liars, murderers, and thieves.”

  “What about her?” asked Chawl, pointing to me.

  Faul’s yellow eyes were like a fiery chamber. “Briar is kept honest by her dragon’s blood,” he said.

  “How did she come to be our kind?” asked Eetha.

  “Egg stealing,” said Faul, his words so harsh I dropped my needle. “And think on this, pips,” he said. “If this had not been so, you would have had an older sister.”

  “A sister?” said Eetha, coming to a stand, her bright gold belly catching the light of the fire.

  “Aye! But a witch stole our fertile egg for the queen to drink. Do you see what usurpers humans are? They steal another’s pips if they cannot make their own!”

  Now the pips were all around me, smoke spilling from their snouts.

  “Hold out your claw!” said Eetha.

  “No.” I hid my hand behind my back.

  “Hold it out to me!”

  “What for? You’ve seen it often enough.”

  “Bring it out!” said Ore, and the shock of the smallest one speaking to me so made me draw it out.

  I held out my scaly claw. Uncut by Mother’s knife these long months, the black-nailed talon had grown out full and pointing, sharp as a blacksmith’s nail.

  Eetha flicked out her tongue and kissed my claw.

  “This was our sister,” she said.

  I awoke that night bathed in sweat, having dreamed of Kye. In my sleep I saw him standing on the dock, just as it was the first day we met. In life he had not cut the dragon’s talon as his father had done, but in my dream, a claw hung at his side. Blood congealed about the edge where sword had severed the dragon’s claw. He looked at me, his eyes going from blue to gold, and there was blood upon his lip.

  Lord Faul and pips all asleep, I stirred the fire and watched the wavering flames. I’d known long ago about the egg stealing, but never had I considered its full meaning. Mother and Father were human, yet Faul and Charsha’s egg had prepared my mother’s womb, else I would never have been born.

  My skin flashed hot then cold as I stared across the fire at the great dragon who slept, his scales all silver with the fire. I was human, but also in my veins ran the blood of dragons.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The Scales

  IT WAS NOT LONG AFTER the pips’ first flight that I braved a different sort of leap. Not one from a high place but one in my own heart, though I felt the falling just as much. I faced my hidden book, and filling my quill with blackberry ink, I wrote about my mother.

  In the hollow tree my hand quaked as I lettered Mother’s early years with me. Her dream for me had been my water and sunlight, my evening and my morn, and I grew under her constant gaze as a rose will in a gardener’s care. But was it love? I could not answer this.

  Was it love drove Mother to drown my dear Marn?

  Tears smeared the ink as I wrote of Marn’s death; my heart ached with the memory of her. I’d shut my mind against the thought of murder when first we fished her from the moat but even then a part of me had known.

  Why so driven? Mother had to protect me. Marn had seen my claw, so the threat of witch burning might have driven her to violence. But Marn loved me with all her strength. Wouldn’t my nursemaid have kept silent? Mother never waited to find out.

  I wept many hours as I wrote, and held the skin away from the tears to keep the letters sound as I wrote how Mother knifed Tess, scrawled witchery in blood across her hut, and let the angry crowd rush to Morgesh Mountain to burn Demetra for the crime. Marn, Tess, Demetra. Three deaths I knew of to keep my claw secret; were there more I knew nothing of? Was it only a blizzard killed the midwife on my birthing day?

  My quill broke. I sharpened another. The words scrawling themselves on the dragon scales—my hands holding all the secrets my mind did not yet know.

  Six years my mother had tried to have me, and facing barrenness, she’d gone to Demetra. She would not give in but set two plans in motion—one at least would win out.

  The queen would quicken her womb with Demetra’s magic. If that should fail Aliss would have a babe for her. A pillow wedged under Mother’s gown would guise pregnancy while she waited for Aliss to give birth in Demetra’s cave. Ah, but it never came to that. The dragon’s egg sparked her womb and Father planted a sturdy seed that stayed and grew. So Aliss was abandoned, her girl raised as a bastard and a servant.

  I’d kenned Mother’s plan for Aliss using scraps of memory from things she’d said, from the pleas Aliss had made the day she’d begged us to take Kit, and from Demetra’s words that had long haunted me: She might have walked in your shoes.

  Indeed what a princess Kit would have made if I had not been born. Still, Mother had condemned her childhood friend to life with the hag, so I was glad that Kit and I had risked our lives to save Aliss.

  Stiff from huddling in my hollow, I stood, stretched, and made a little pile of sticks in the clearing for a fire. Mother’s mirror was scratched but not broken. Pearls and emeralds still encircled the rim. The day she gave it to me, I’d bid her look inside and spy her angelic face. How her lip had trembled then, and she’d covered the mirror with her hand saying, “There’s no angel in the glass unless it faces you.” After that she’d pushed me into the hall and, though I heard her crying through the door, I did not go back inside. All her deeds were upon her that day. She’d seen them in the glass darkly. I’d not known then what made her weep. But I knew now.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Hunt

  LORD FAUL HAD ME WORK the pips each day until their wings were strengthened. I was to ensure they stayed within the wilds of Dragon’s Keep but keep them hours in the air to build the muscles in their wings. Neither Faul nor the pips knew I’d overheard their plan to meet the others on an isle across the sea, but I knew by strengthening their wings I was numbering my days on Dragon’s Keep.

  I had little time to work on my boat. It was nearly finished, but weeks went by when I could not even make it to the hill. From mid-March through early April when the sky was clear of rain, we soared over Dragon’s Keep, following the river through the hills or visiting the cliffs on the far side of the island. On land Ore was the least of the pips, but once lifted to the sky she was queen to it. Ah, she was like the sparrow that swoops and twirls with easy grace, darting in and out of trees too tangled for the other pips.

  I took to riding Kadmi’s back, as I had in our hunting days on the ground. Once in the air I knew my childhood dreams were some strange chanting of my dragon’s blood. A beast memory passed on from dragon to pip. I’d had the same flying dream so many times, though in it I’d thought myself an angel or a bird. Yet always I’d seen a great shadow on the earth below me, cast by my own mighty wingspan. I was full of power in these dreams and always happy. Now as I flew on dragon’s back, the dream became flesh.

  “Lower down,” I called up to Kadmi. We were trying a new trick. He was dangling me over a petra tree, where I was picking fruit. A little grove grew on the isle, though I’d not seen such trees at home. My hair hung down and my gown was askew.

  “Lower still. I cannot reach them!”

  Chawl swooped past and tore a branch from the top.

  “Not like that!” I shouted. Chawl hissed and circled round us as Kadmi lowered me closer to the treetop. I plucked the egg-shaped fruit, which was larger than my fist and bright red. Ripening here in spring, it was bitter and sour at once. I could not eat of it but the pips adored it. I gathered twe
lve in my woven sack, dropped three as Kadmi bashed me into a branch, and we counted it a victory.

  On the ground Eetha and Ore joined us for the snack. They gobbled the fruit, their jaws bloodred. A robin sang from the high branch and it put me in mind of Kit. “Did I tell you,” I asked, “about the time Kit threw herself in the moat to rescue a robin?”

  “More than once,” said Eetha, popping another petra fruit in her mouth. Faul had his history lessons. I had my stories to combat them. These were not history but tales of my childhood told in English to ease my mouth from DragonTongue a while. I’d begun to share them with the pips when they rested between flights. The DragonLord was far away and he did not have to know. I’d sworn the pips to secrecy, though Eetha had taken some convincing.

  “Tell a battle story,” said Chawl. These were the only tales he cared about and the more blood the better, but I didn’t want to talk of war.

  “I’ll tell you what happened to Demetra.”

  “The one who stole the egg?” asked Ore.

  “Aye, the one who stole it long ago.”

  Eetha blew out a flame. “She should burn for that.”

  “She did burn.” I twirled a stick as if I didn’t care whether I should recount the tale or not.

  “Tell us!” they cried in DragonTongue.

  I twirled the stick again. “Say it in English.”

  They begged again and this time in my favored tongue.

  “Very well.” I sighed as if I cared little for the story. Now they were all within my power, begging me to tell. I recounted Demetra’s death. The pips all cheered when the villagers threw their torches in the hag’s cave and cocked their heads when I told them of the shadow wraith climbing out of Kit’s mouth. In the weeks to come this became their favorite story. In this way Demetra burned again and again as if she were caught in the devil’s eternal fire. I liked that right well.

  The pips and I were rich in sky that spring. And all of us were coming into our power. I looked the part of a dragon’s maid by then. My onetime May Day gown had gone to so many holes that now it was completely patched with the pips’ moltings. It shimmered blue-green as I soared over the isle. Hands round Kadmi’s neck, I sped with them over the hills, my red hair blowing back, my face and hands brown from the sun, my talon full exposed.

  I could no more play the part of the pretty princess than a warty frog could sport a queen’s bright crown. But the pips were not ashamed of me. Indeed, they seemed to tolerate me better now. It may be the familiar smell of my dragon gown appealed to their snouts. Even Faul seemed less sickened by my form, his broad green nostrils twitching less at my approach.

  The pure joy of flying drove us on, as did our hunger. Spying a wild boar in the woods below, Kadmi circled above the trees. I could feel his body pulsing under mine as the boar raced for cover.

  “Stay back, Chawl,” warned Eetha. “I see your blood!”

  Chawl wheeled lower, ignoring his sister’s warning. Wind sang in my ears and a fearsome cry rang throughout the wood as all the pips but Eetha dove for the prey. The attack was swift but the boar gored Chawl’s back leg before Kadmi finished it off.

  Chawl roared fire as his blood spattered the body of the boar. Eetha landed near me. I tore my cloak with her help and together we bound Chawl’s leg.

  “You should have listened, Chawl,” I scolded. “Eetha has the sight.”

  Chawl only bellowed more fire.

  The pips ate roasted boar that night in the lair, but Faul was angry with me over Chawl’s injury and would not let me eat. I nibbled bones after all were asleep, but they didn’t touch my hunger.

  In late April a sudden rainstorm swept over Dragon’s Keep. We ceased our flying lessons as the Ashath River swelled beside our cave. I’d borne the closeness of the lair two days straight, staying within for warmth, but the dragons’ chief occupation on rainy days was sleep and the sounds of their heavy snoring fairly rattled my bones. At last I quit the lair to brave the storm.

  My teeth chattered as I scurried for my hollow tree and the comfort of my little book. Huddled in the cold, I stitched more scales to the booklet, took up my quill and penned my life with Faul and the pips, the joy of flight on Kadmi’s back, and my discovery of treasure behind the falls. How I slipped the sapphire ring over my claw, found Evaine’s scepter, discovered Lord Broderick’s ink bottle.

  I scripted all Lord Faul said about the dragon wars (fitting to write dragon history on dragon skin), and worried the scales with my ink over the dwindling of the dragons. A year ago I might have been glad of this dwindling, but not now.

  Two pages filled, I shivered in the belly of the willow. The wind was fierce that day and the trees all about were losing branches to it. I wondered then how Kye would see me if he returned just now. Could he love a girl wrapped in dragon scales? It may be fighting in a war would make him bother less with skin than soul. And like the threshers of the grain, he’d see the heart of wheat beneath the husk.

  Taking up my quill, I tried a new verse on the matter, but my scrawl did not conform to the beauty of my thoughts. So I washed the ink off the dragon scale with wet weeds, bit my tongue, and tried again.

  Head bowed and eyes to the script, I did not attend the noise outside. But when a gust of wind shook my tree with violence, I looked up and saw a figure. At first she seemed an apparition, rain and fog befuddling my sight, but on she came, black-caped and soaked with rain. The girl moved past the brambles, and closer still, I saw who she was.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Messenger

  KIT! MY KIT! SMALL AND WEAPONLESS. Wearing the rough brown garb of a novice, she was wandering lost, it seemed, but heading toward the curl of smoke that came from Lord Faul’s lair.

  Quick, I tore from my book the scale I’d been writing on and wrapped it round my claw. She’d never seen my beast mark and I couldn’t risk shocking her with it now. Silence was needed and haste. Bolting outside, I grabbed her from behind and covered her mouth.

  Kit screamed into my palm, but when I turned her around we held each other weeping. Holding my dearest friend so close again, my body shook with joy. But fear for her life soon had me pulling her farther from the dragons’ cave. Faul had said he would not eat human flesh, but his vow rested on my promise not to speak to my kind. If he should spy Kit here with me, wouldn’t he think I’d broken my vow? And if I’d broken mine what was to stop him from eating Kit? These thoughts made me run all the faster.

  Rain pelted our backs and wind battered us as we fled over the steep hill. To our right a great tree swayed low and lower in the heavy gusts, then with a crack it broke in two and came crashing down. We slid down the muddy hill and reached a small cave beneath an overhanging rock.

  “Rosie,” said Kit, and “Rosie” again as if she could not say my name enough. I knew I had to push her away from Dragon’s Keep without speaking a word or she would be dragon’s meat. Still, I couldn’t let her go just yet. I’d longed so for her company.

  We stayed close in our little cave. With luck the smoke from the fire in the dragons’ den mingled with the heavy rain would befuddle Faul’s nose and keep Kit’s scent from his nostrils, if only for a time.

  “I came to bring you home, Rosie,” said Kit. “Things have gone wrong since you . . .” She bit her lip, her cropped hair such as novices wear dripping rain down her cheeks. I placed her hand on my pin, her pin, to encourage her. I could not say the message aloud but she knew well enough what was etched there.

  Slowly she drew back. “I wish . . .” she said. “I don’t want to . . .” She was fighting with her words. I could not help her.

  “Rosie, your mother—”

  I covered her lips with my fingers and shook my head.

  Dead. I knew by Kit’s look and I would not let her speak it. Kit took my hand away. “Your mother mourned after you were taken, and worse still after your father’s death. In her grief she sent word to Saint Brigid’s Abbey asking for my mother to come. They’d known each othe
r when they were young,” she added.

  I nodded. Mother would want Aliss, her oldest and dearest friend with her, I knew.

  “My mother arrived to find the queen slender as a stem and failing. Sir Magnus had made her crave the poppy potion, and though my mother tried to keep the drug away, the queen took more and more. She dreamed though she did not sleep. Times she saw things that were not there, screamed and fought with shadows.” Kit frowned saying this. “Other times she did not know what was before her. She was lost, Rosie, do you see? And then one day she took so much potion . . .”

  Hot tears flowed down my cheeks. My breath came fast as a startled creature.

  “My mother’s sure it was the poppy potion killed her, and that this was Sir Magnus’s intent, though she was clever enough not to say this to his face. But as soon as the queen was laid in the tomb, Magnus locked my mother in the dungeon.” Kit grabbed my arms. “You have to come home, Rosie. You’re the only one can free my mother and stop Sir Magnus before he’s crowned king.”

  Kit said these last things panting, her words spilling out sharp and quick. And I heard them like the pelting of stones. Mother dead. Kit’s mother locked away. The murderer, Sir Magnus, about to be crowned.

  My head swirled. My vow of silence had kept Faul from feasting on my people, but I hadn’t kept them safe at all. Treachery, murder, and deceit. I couldn’t let Magnus sit on my father’s throne. Yet how could I go home?

  I wept on Kit’s shoulder as quietly as I could, knowing Lord Faul slept less than a league away. I was trapped as hawk to the tether. Go with Kit, promise broken and the dragon was released to kill again. Stay, send Kit away and the kingdom was lost to Sir Magnus.

  “Tell me,” said Kit softly. “What will you do?”

  I drew back and shook my head.

  Kit frowned. “A silence is upon you?”