Dragonswood (26 page)

Mud and rain and glorious shouting all around, still we were yards apart. Stepping up, Lord Kahlil drew us closer together with his wing. Under this broad tent, Bion cupped my face. His wrists were raw with rope burns. I encircled them with my fingers to cool the sores. His sleeves were rolled back. I kissed the dragon scales on his left arm. He drew me closer. His hands cupped my cheeks. Open hands. The front and not the back.

K
ING
A
RDEN AND
Lady Adela were wed a few months later and there was much celebration all over Wilde Island for the new king and queen. But Prince Bion chose another way.

In the enchanted woodland wild,

The Prince shall wed a Fairy child.

In the woodland we were wed, surrounded by the fey folk and three dragons: Eetha, Ore, and Lord Kahlil. Lord Kahlil himself married us. A night wedding in the glow of bonfires set by dragons. The pearl ring set in gold was the one Bion first showed me at the window, the one Ore swung over a carpet of blue fire, the smallest jewel in the king’s treasure that was his mother’s pearl and mine.

Dragon, Human, and Fairy,

Their union will be bound by three.

If the prophecy came true that night, our union binding three races together at last, I could only wonder at it. Vows said in such a magical place are binding. But the true moment of union for me was a silent one when Bion held my chin, his thumb resting lightly on my scar; a hand I knew would never strike, but gently touch a scarred girl both human and fey. Lifting my chin he gave his kiss both long and sweet.

Epilogue

D
RAGON’S
K
EEP

Month of August AD 1195

T
ESS?”
B
ASH CALLS
from below my tree. “Will you come down? The birthday feast is almost ready.”

The last light of the summer’s day spreads tangerine across the cliffs and ocean. I am reluctant to climb down my favorite pine, but I see the blankets and food baskets on the beach to celebrate our son’s second birthday, the bobbing wine casks chilling in the river. Jackrun toddles up to the base of my pine. He tugs his father’s hand, wanting him to come back to the beach and play.

“I’ll join you soon,” I call down.

Bash takes Jackrun up in his arms and crosses the sand to meet the fey folk who have stepped out of the wood to join our celebration. I breathe the tangy sea air. Far off on the flat rocks dragons bask alongside seals in the fading sun. Lord Kahlil used to summer here when my husband was a boy and live the rest of the year on God’s Eye; by this he stayed close to the princes as they were growing up. Now Lord Kahlil lives with us on Dragon’s Keep year-round. Jackrun’s birth brought him here, contention between him and the Wilde Island fey keeps him here.

Elixis and Onadon know he supported my love for Bion, and Poppy’s choice in Jyro, and didn’t press either of us to fulfill the prophecy as the fey envisioned it. They are angry, firmly unforgiving. They mislike Queen Adela and do not trust her. In that one thing, I’m in agreement with my father, Onadon. My suspicions of her remain, but so far she’s kept her promise, the boundary walls have not been breached.

The sun’s warmth fades. Near the old dragon, Eetha’s orange-scaled mate, Shiraz, sleeps on the flat rocks with their pips.

The back steps running from our castle to the beach are overgrown. I spy Jyro bounding down them with a wooden cradle. Poppy follows more slowly, their infant son snugly wrapped in her arms, and Tupkin, as ever, at her heels. I climb down the tree barefoot, race through sand, take up my son, and swing him around, shouting his name aloud. He screams with delight. I hug him close to my chest. The feisty little boy protests. Jackrun thinks he is getting too old for such cuddling. This saddens me some, but another child is growing in me and will, by God’s grace, be here by winter’s snow.

Princess Augusta races up the beach in her little copper-colored party dress made of shed pip scales and tugs my son from my arms. She is seven, just five years older than her nephew, Jackrun. He is heavy for her and she stumbles a little. But I stand very still now that my child is in her arms.

A wonder comes on me.
Here is my fire-sight come to pass.
Long ago in the flames I’d seen myself on a beach, holding a child, seen the dragon-faced girl snatch the child from my arms. I stand so still my feet root deeper in the sand as the waves suck away from my ankles.

So many things I feared have come true. They have not destroyed me. Princess Augusta shows Jackrun the sack of walnuts Cook gave her for our feast. Her scaled forehead and golden dragon eyes have never bothered Jackrun in the least. My son takes a walnut and throws it in the sea.

“No, they’re not to throw, Jackrun!” Augusta scolds. Both laugh as they try to fetch the walnut tumbling shoreward on a fresh wave. I splash in, catch it, and give it to the princess. Her dragon eyes are even more golden in the fading daylight reflecting up from the water. Taking the walnut from me, she races back to Jackrun. King Arden’s come just once to meet his little sister. He and Adela haven’t sailed to Dragon’s Keep since the birth of their first child. If they shy away from our rough life here, Bion and I revel in it.

We lived in the lodge when we were first wed, but try as I might, I couldn’t stay in Dragonswood. The fey shunned us for going against them. I felt the blacksmith’s anger all my life; I will not live under Onadon’s. Some fairy folk left to join us on Dragon’s Keep. No boundary wall around us but the sea.

In the damp sand, Bion and Jackrun are building a sandcastle with Augusta. My grandfather comes slowly down the beach steps, leaving his map room to join us for his great-grandson’s birthday. I walk along the shore to where Eetha stands at the water’s edge. She flicks her tail in worried irritation as her most daring pip, Babak, wades in the water. Everyone knows dragons hate to get wet, so she is endlessly surprised by Babak’s interest in the sea.

“He is only in knee-deep, Eetha. He won’t drown.”

“I cannot understand it,” she says, cocking one eye my way and keeping the other firmly on her son, who splashes happily in the shallows. “His brother and sisters are sensible dragons. They do not like the water any more than their father or I do. Where does Babak get this fixation?”

We watch Babak, whose scales are a complex pattern of copper and green patchwork like a calico cat’s. His unique coloring differs from his brother and sisters, who are all copper-scaled like their father.

Eetha’s brother Chawl spirals down with Ore. The rest of our feast has arrived. Lord Kahlil and Shiraz light the bonfires. The dragons roast wild boar on their talons to share with all. I back away from the smoke. Bash runs his finger down my neck. I feel a brushfire cross my skin. We never tire of touching each other. I run the back of my hand across the dragon scales along his arm. We will sneak off to our tree house when the feast is over.

The fey have brought fine cakes with elaborate icing all on shimmering glass trays. Will-o’-the-wisps flit overhead. Tupkin leaps up trying to capture one. I hear their laughter, flying down lower and lower to tease Tupkin, only to flit away.

Babak shakes sea water from his scales and joins his brother and sisters, cracking walnuts between their tiny black talons. Jackrun tries to do the same with his pudgy fingers and screams with frustration.

“Try this,” Grandfather says, smashing a walnut against a rock. He hands Jackrun another walnut. Jackrun hammers. Bang. Bang. Bang. The nut will not crack, but he does not give up. Bang. Bang.

Grandfather raises his tufted brows, giving Bash and me a quizzical look. We laugh at our determined son and shake our heads. Poppy nurses her babe under her shawl.

“This is what you have to look forward to, Poppy.” Her son’s head pokes out from under the wool, revealing a shock of hair as fiery red as Jyro’s. I think of Alice’s curls and ache. Meg died last winter. Tom said she passed a week after the fever took her. I try to imagine Tom and Cackle raising Alice alone at the lodge. It isn’t right. The child should have women about her, a playmate in Princess Augusta, who is just a year older than Alice. I invited Tom to bring his daughter here. No word back yet.

Mother too won’t visit. I’ve sent her invitations and a sound ship to escort her. The blacksmith will not let her go. Poppy places her sleeping babe in the wooden cradle. She hums as she rocks him. I painted vines and will-o’-the-wisps around the cradle’s top, and a dragon encircling it.

Most of my gowns are splattered with shades of yellow, green, and crimson. I painted murals on the inner castle walls, and adorned furniture like this cradle, but I like working on dragon scales the best. We are in good supply here, since the dragons shed them often.

A short letter from my mother was tucked inside the cradle along with a handmade blanket. I read it again and again, and know the words by heart.

My Dearest Tess,

How good to hear that you are well and happy. Our son, Paul, is two years old now and a blessing to us. John Blacksmith has crafted him a small hammer. Paul pounds everything with it. He dents our pans and furniture and makes his father laugh. Your Jackrun sounds a strong lad too. We cannot journey to Dragon’s Keep this year, but hearing your good news that you expect a second child, we send this cradle.

God’s Blessing, your mother

No words from the blacksmith, but was this cradle word enough?

We sing a song to Jackrun. After the meal we all partake of the birthday confections, trying the fine sweets the fairies brought. Jackrun chooses a little round cake, shoves the entire thing into his mouth, and laughs, spewing crumbs. After a few more pieces, Jackrun’s clothing is smudged in decorative icing as colorfully patterned as his friend Babak’s scales.

My son strips off his shirt and trousers. I see the familiar dragon scales running down the back of his plump right leg.

And when these lovers intertwine, three races in one child combine.
I wonder this part of the prophecy should come to pass in our son. He is not a king’s son as the fey had hoped. Nonetheless, he is the first to combine dragon, human, and fairy in his small frame. Lord Kahlil says our story is not over. I’ve seen his thousand-year-old eyes taking in our little boy. There is pleasure and concern in his look, but when I ask him what he sees, he does not speak.

Jackrun races down the beach after Babak. Eetha follows them, her long tail making serpentine marks in the sand. Babak trots up to a smooth driftwood log and shows his newest dragon power, blowing a small orange flame. The flame is too short-lived to light the log, but his mother slaps her tail in approval. I shout, “Good for you, Babak,” and clap alongside Bion. Not wanting to be outdone, our son roars at the log as if to produce his own fire. We laugh at his attempt, but I swallow my laughter seeing a small, bright flame shoot out of Jackrun’s mouth.

Poppy screams. The rest of us stand silent, stunned as Jackrun proudly roars flame again alongside Babak.

“Jackrun!” I race across the sand.

Bash runs ahead and sweeps our son up in his arms. Jackrun is coughing smoke. His face is red. We bring him back to our gathering and give him water. He drinks two cups, then laughs. I am frightened, but I try and smile before I take Bash aside. “Have any other Pendragons ever breathed fire?” I whisper.

“Mixing bloodlines always brings some risk.”

“Tell me.”

Bash shakes his head. “It seems our son is the first.”

“What does it mean, Bash? What will it mean?”

“Don’t let it frighten you, Tess,” he whispers into my ear. “He’s our son. He will learn to control it.”

But I’m trembling now and he can feel it. “A boy who’s dragon, human, and fairy: What other strange powers might he have?” My power set me apart. Hidden as it was, the midwife still caught me enthralled by the fire, the witch hunter tortured me, my own townsfolk called me a witch. I won’t punish my son for breathing fire. But I am afraid for him, for us.

Bion lifts my hand. Kisses my pearl ring. “Whatever powers come, we’ll raise him here on Dragon’s Keep. Our son, Tess. Ours together.”

“Yes, ours together.” I feel his strength as he lightly runs his fingers along my chin.

Babak and his sibling dragons tumble snout over tail in the sand. Jackrun jumps up. I think he will run after Babak and the others, but he goes to Lord Kahlil, who has just finished eating and is still licking meat juices off his talons. Jackrun thrusts out his small hands, lifts his bare foot, and begins to climb the dragon’s tail.

I call, “Leave him be, Jackrun.” But the dragonlord is used to this game. Beside me my husband sighs.

When Jackrun slides down the long tail, Kahlil grabs the sliding boy, coiling him in the tip. He throws him into the air and catches him.

Jackrun squeals with delight. “Again! Go again!”

Bion puts his arm around me. This son of the prophecy has a long life ahead of him. We watch our boy together.

Lord Kahlil flicks his tail.

Jackrun flies.

Acknowledgments

I’
M INDEBTED TO
the many friends, colleagues, and mentors who helped with this book. Warmest thanks to my intrepid editor, Kathy Dawson, whose editorial genius and clear vision helped guide Tess’s tale from first to last. Thanks also to the people at Dial Books, who are committed to excellence, and to my agent, Irene Kraas.

Fellow authors Justina Chen and Indu Sundaresan gave unswerving advice on the manuscript, as did Sarah Bond. Thanks also to the Diviners: Peggy King Anderson, Judy Bodmer, Katherine Grace Bond, Dawn Knight, Holly Cupala, Molly Blaisdell, and Nancy Carlstrom, critiquers who shore up my weaknesses and add to my strengths; to gifted photographer Heidi Pettit, for the festive book launch party photos (http://litart-photography.smugmug.com/), and ongoing gratitude to the librarians and independent booksellers who offer voracious readers delicious books.

Speaking of books, my shelves are crammed with informative and sometimes alarming titles necessary to writing this medieval fantasy with an eye to historical authenticity. I have far too many reference books to list here, but these few I found invaluable.

Nigel Cawthorne.
Witches History of a Persecution.
Edison, New Jersey: Chartwell Books, Inc., 2004.

Karen Farrington.
Dark Justice: A History of Punishment and Torture.
New York: Smithmark Publishers, 1996.

Joseph & Frances Gies.
Life in a Medieval Castle.
New York: Harper & Row, 1974.

Vicki Leon.
Uppity Women of Medieval Times.
New York: MJF Books, 1997.

Sherrilyn Kenyon.
The Writer’s Guide to Everyday Life in the Middle Ages: The British Isles from 500–1500.
Cincinnati, Ohio: Writer’s Digest Books, 1995.

Roger Virgoe, editor.
Illustrated Letters of the Paston Family: Private Life in the Fifteenth Century.
New York: Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 1989.

David Macaulay.
Castle.
New York: Houghton Mifflin, 1977.

Christopher Tyerman.
Who’s Who in Early Medieval England.
London: Shepheard-Walwyn Publishers Ltd., 1996.

Lady Wilde.
Irish Cures, Mystic Charms & Superstitions.
New York: Sterling Publishing, 1991. Note: Lady Wilde, 1826–1896, Oscar Wilde’s mother.

Annette Sandoval.
The Directory of Saints: A Concise Guide to Patron Saints.
New York: Signet, Penguin Group, 1997.

Madeleine Pelner Cosman.
Medieval Wordbook: More than 4,000 Terms and Expressions from Medieval Culture.
New York: Barnes & Noble, 2007.

Scott Cunningham.
Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs.
St. Paul, Minnesota: Llewellyn Publications, 1987.

A. C. Cawley, editor.
Everyman and Medieval Miracle Plays.
London: Orion Publishing Group, 1993.

A special thanks to fellow novelists who bring medieval life and times alive in their historical fiction, mystery, and fantasy books. For Karen Cushman’s excellent medieval novels for young readers, Ellis Peters’s wonderful Brother Cadfael mystery series, Barry Unsworth’s
Morality Play,
and Juliet Marillier’s Sevenwaters series and Bridei Chronicles. Without these reference books and novels within arm’s reach, I could not have delved so deeply into Tess’s world.