Dragon Castle (3 page)

From that spot, he knew, St'astie Dom would come into view. He could see what happened. Perhaps it would not be that bad. Then, when it was safe again, he could return to his home and his family.

A tall ancient pine rose from the top of the hill. The stubs of its dead lower limbs were like a ladder. He had climbed it often before. Despite his fatigue he struggled his way up it again. More than once he almost lost his grip and came close to a deadly fall. He paid no heed as his clothes caught and tore on sharp branches, as his fingernails broke and his bleeding palms were blackened by resin and bark.

His breathing was ragged and painful as he reached the top, wrapped one arm around the trunk, and parted the green-needled branches aside so that he could see. His home lay there in the heart of the valley. It seemed, from this distance, a small structure made from a child's blocks. But the black cloud that now loomed overhead was still large. It glowed and flickered as if it were a living thing threaded with fire.

In front of the castle a mass of black ants seemed to have gathered, waiting behind one mounted figure that stood a long spear cast ahead of them.

“The Dark Lord,” the boy whispered. Far as it was from him, that figure was amazingly clear. Though it was impossible from his great distance, it seemed as if the boy could make out the arrogant features of the man's face, see the sneer on his lips.

Now, the boy thought, he will call for our surrender and it will be over. Perhaps he and his parents would have to live as peasants or servants to their new ruler. But that would not be so bad if they could just be together.

However, such was not to be.

The Dark Lord raised his hand, his palm glowing as if it were a burning brand. He lowered it and great gouts of lightning came pouring down from the black cloud.

Every bolt struck the castle. By the time the great roar of thunder reached the shocked boy in his tree, it was over. St'astie Dom was gone, obliterated, wiped from the face of the earth along with every living being within its walls.

The boy let go his grip and fell.

ON TOP OF my father's dresser?

As I start to rush away I think I hear Georgi mumble under his breath.

It stops me in my tracks. “What was that?” I ask.

“Nothing, young sir,” he replies, “just clearing my throat.”

Georgi's face is composed, devoid of any expression other than his usual readiness to please. I believe, though, that he did say something. Was it that old proverb I've never understood? “Pity the one whose heart is bigger than his eyes”?

I hardly pause as I pass the great tapestry that tells the story of our mighty ancestor Pavol. Usually, whenever I start to walk past it, it stops me and I study it for long minutes, feeling that somehow its mysterious weave holds a special message meant for me alone in its images of Pavol, the mighty dragon he defeated, his magical pouch, and all the other rather curious figures—including armed men, revelers at a feast, and some sort of fair with Gypsy jugglers and the like.

But not today.

I pound up the four flights of stairs, reach the open door that leads into the royal chamber. The first thing I notice is that the bed is still unmade. Then, as I take a few steps into the room, I see, just beyond the bed, a dust cloth left in the middle of the floor. Strange. Though they come from overly devout and underly imaginative parents, Grace, Grace, Grace, and Charity, the four sisters who are our chambermaids, are neat as pins. They never fail to make our beds and would not dream of leaving cleaning things lying about.

Then my eyes discern something stranger. It shimmers from atop the largest chest of drawers to the left of the bed. It's a smooth subtle effulgence of light. None of the flickering one would see from a candle. I step slowly toward it.

Why am I thinking of a moth being attracted by a flame?

I stop short, lean forward to study it.

Though I've peered in their bedroom at least twice in the last two days, I've not noticed it till now. Of course, I'd not been seeking a shimmering scroll small enough to fit into one's palm. I'd been looking about for two wayward adults. Why would I have looked atop the highest dresser? Was it a place where I might have found either of my parents perched? Well, perhaps.

I resist the urge to trace its golden script with my fingertips. Where have I seen writing like this before?

I lift my left hand slowly toward the edge of the thing. The card quivers in my hand as I pluck it up gingerly between my thumb and forefinger. Best not to grasp things of magic too hard or too long, for only magic has this look and feel. I flip it onto the bed.

I read it—but only once, and silently at that. Speaking words scribed in such a script might cast a glamour over me as strong as that which I now believe bemisted the already foggy minds of my dear parents. I close my eyes, but I still see those lines.

Though I kept this perilously seductive card in my grasp for no more than a heartbeat, I feel its effect on me. True, I don't pack an overnight bag, saddle up my horse, and ride unceremoniously away as did my parents. However, its magic works another way. Suddenly, as I think of my parents, I am actually able to see them.

It's as if I am looking through a window in the midst of the air. Before me is a landscape of fantastically beautiful trees and flowers, graceful arching towers, and frozen fountains of shimmering, singing waters. A fair field of folk are there, all heartbreakingly gorgeous. My parents are in their company. Father and Mother are, I note with a bit of pride, nearly as physically attractive as any of the Faerie. Further, they are so solid, so self-contained that they stand out in that crowd. They look regal. I can understand why they would be welcome as ornaments at any party, even one thrown by Fair Folk.

It's clear to me in this moment that, unlike other mortal beings enchanted by the Faerie Lands and unwilling to leave them, my parents will certainly come back home. After all, we are of Pavol's blood, a lineage favored by those of the Silver Lands.

I can imagine my father's reaction as he read that invitation. Rather than being ensorcelled and glamoured, he felt honored. I can imagine him saying to Mother as he showed it to her: “What a nice invitation. Shall we accept?”

And then her response: “Well, dear, it would be the neighborly thing to do.”

I'm guessing that its only undue effect on them was to hasten their departure, make them absentminded about letting their worried son know where they were going.

I breathe a sigh of relief. They'll not be seduced by drink or gluttony or the pleasures of the flesh that have proven so ruinous to other mere humans who've entered the silvery realm to either never return or drift wanly back as withered shells of their former selves.

The image shimmers, bringing them closer. Now I can hear their conversation.

“Would you not like a cup of this punch?” a tall, graceful lord in shimmering robes is asking Father.

“
Vd'aka,
thank you, gentle sir,” my father replies. “But I'm not thirsty now, y' know.”

Then I hear my mother. She is politely chatting with a group of women whose effulgent beauty is striking. Yet Mother's gentle loveliness still stands out. One of them proffers her a tray of sweets.

“How kind, but I am not at all hungry. Ah, those little golden snakes do such a lovely job of holding up your hair, my lady. Their hissing is rather musical.”

My father's voice draws my attention again. He's swapping hunting yarns as a group of broad-shouldered Faerie lords lean in to listen.

“
Ano, ano,
yes, yes. I am sure that a griffin is challenging game to go after, but there was this great black boar in our woods.”

I've heard such conversations a hundred times before. All is well. But then I suddenly remember what I have been told about the Realm by Baba Anya. Time passes differently there for mere mortals. The Fair Folk, it is said, are untouched by the ravages of years. They are like us in some ways. In fact, legend says, a mortal man or woman may even marry one of the Fair Folk. Their children, neither fully Faerie nor mere mortal, may choose to live in one land or the other. According to one of Baba Anya's more fanciful tales, such offspring of the two peoples are benevolent and seek to do good—though usually in hidden ways. Also, if they choose to live among humans, those doubly heritaged ones are unusually long-lived.

However, when any normal human ventures into the Silver Lands, that unfortunate mortal is pulled out of time. A week there may be a year here. Mortals who enter the Realm for what seems a brief visit may return home to find that everyone they know has grown old and died.

I cannot imagine my parents making that mistake. But even a brief stay at a party such as this may mean they'll be gone for a fortnight. Time for far too much to happen in their absence.

I look more intently at the picture in that airy window.

My father is speaking again, this time to the tallest of the Fair Folk, one who wears a diadem of diamonds.

“
Vd'aka
,” Father says, “thank you for inviting us to this party.”

A frown furrows the brow of the Faerie lord. “I sent no invitation.”

What? A terrible thought comes to me. “
Nie!
” I shout. “No!”

My father and my mother start to turn their heads in my direction.

The scene vanishes. For a moment the room around me seems to spin as I try to regain my bearings.

I close my eyes, trying to see them again at the Faerie ball. I hear the music faintly, smell the delicious delicate odor of the food and wine of the Fair Folk. Then, like smoke blown away by a sudden breeze, it's gone.

I quickly open my eyes, brace my hands to keep from falling. I'm leaning over the bed, my face almost touching the treacherous surface of that false invitation. Its pull dizzies me.

I force my legs to move, backing away until I feel the edge of the open window with my outstretched hand. I turn and lean over the sill. The wind that touches my face rises up from the moat.

Dank, odiferous, vile. Excellent. Just what I need.

I breathe its disgusting stench in and out several times until the allure no longer overwhelms my senses.

Thank the lucky stars that my brother was not the one to find that card first. Then there would have been three missing members of our family.

“Rashko!”

My brother's feet thudding up the stairs accompany his voice. He'll be here in a heartbeat. I grab the dust rag and toss it on top of the bed just as Paulek enters the room. The cloth covers the card. Paulek will not see it. The day when pigs can fly will arrive long before the time when my brother picks up a soiled cloth.

“Bratcek!”
His big hand slams affectionately into my arm. Paulek has never known his own strength. If I were not as big and muscular as he is—despite the fact that he calls me “small brother”—that friendly blow might have dislocated my shoulder.

“Rashko,” he continues, “I've come to tell you that . . .”

He pauses. My brother's sky blue eyes are glazing over more than they usually do when he tries to form four sentences in a row. Even from its place of concealment beneath the dust rag, that treacherous invitation card is attempting to exert its pull upon him. I grasp him by the elbow, steering him out of the room and shutting the door behind me.

Georgi is waiting in the corridor. The apologetic look on his face tells me he tried without success to head my brother off before he reached the room. I wonder how Georgi, who also saw that treacherous invitation, was able to resist its pull. That dust rag was probably dropped in the room by Grace or Grace or Grace or Charity as Georgi hustled her out before the spell could claim her.

Good thing, that. I shudder at the thought of a mere chambermaid, enthralled by enchantment, attempting to enter the Silver Lands. The Fair Ones have been said to express their displeasure at such uninvited intruders by turning them into uglier-thanusual toads.

I nod at Georgi over my brother's shoulder. I saw it.

Georgi nods and holds up his ring of keys.

Zamkni to!
“Lock it,” I mouth.

Georgi nods again.

I probably do not need to be secretive. Paulek is oblivious to subtlety. He hardly notices Georgi's presence unless he needs something. It's not that my brother is unkind. He simply accepts that he's privileged.

“Just the way it is, y'know,” he would probably say.

Then he'd quote one of Father's silly proverbs.

“Tradition and law are sisters,” or something of that sort.

I groan inwardly. Why am I the only one in our family with any common sense?

As we make our way down the stairs Paulek remembers why he was seeking me out.

“Our company is almost here.” He grins. “I've seen the dust cloud from their horses coming down the road!”

“Nie.”
I groan. Out loud this time. I thought it would still be hours before they arrived. Did those brief seconds I spent gazing into the Realm make time pass more quickly for me?

Unfortunately, I pause just a little too long to ponder that question. My brother's friendly elbow not only comes close to cracking a rib, it nearly knocks me down the stairs.

“Come, brother,” Paulek laughs, reaching to grab my wrist. “You know what Father says. Visitors always bring new tales.”

Yes, I think as I allow him to drag me down the stairs. No doubt about that. But will they be stories with happy endings?