Mistress of Dragons

EVERY
MORNING, BEFORE THE SUN ROSE TO GILD THE white marble columns of the monastery
with flecks of gold, the High Priestess went to the Chamber of the Watchful Eye
to perform the Rite of Seeing. She alone could conduct the ancient ritual—that
was her duty, her privilege.

As
the other priestesses murmured morning prayers in their cells, Melisande, the
High Priestess, walked the chill, dark pathways that led from the monastery
proper to the small temple where she would perform the rite. Built out on a
promontory overlooking the valley and the city below, the Chamber of the
Watchful Eye was circular in shape, constructed of black marble, its domed roof
supported by black marble columns. The temple had no walls. Standing within its
columns, Melisande could look out to the fir and cedar and hemlock trees that
formed a natural wall around the monastery.

Another
wall—this one of stone, man-made—surrounded the monastery, its extensive
grounds, and outbuildings. The Chamber of the Watchful Eye lay outside this
wall. Melisande let herself out through a wicket gate every morning to perform
the ceremony. Female warriors atop the wall kept close watch on their priestess,
prepared to hasten to her defense, should that be needful.

The
temple housed one sacred object—an enormous, white marble bowl. Inside the
bowl, lapis lazuli had been inlaid into the marble to form the iris of an Eye.
The Eye’s pupil, in the very center of the bowl, was jet. Every day at noon,
the youngest acolytes, virgins in both mind and body, came to wash and polish
the marble Eye. Every dawn, before the sunrise, the High Priestess came to see
what the Eye saw.

Though
the sun’s dawn colors smeared the eastern sky with pink, those colors had not
yet driven away night’s shadows that clustered thick and heavy, tangled in the
boughs of the fir trees. Melisande brought no lamp with her, however, but
walked the path in darkness. She had no need for lamplight. She had walked this
path every morning for the past ten years, ever since she was eighteen. She
knew every crack in the flagstone, every dip and rise of the hillside, every
twist and turning of the ridge along which the path led. When she stepped out
of the shadow and into the fading starlight, she was close to the temple. Four
more steps along the path, round a small coppice of pine, and she could see it
silhouetted against the gradually lightening sky.

Melisande
wore her ceremonial gown, put on in the morning to perform the ritual and
removed on her return, to be smoothed and neatly folded and laid at the bottom
of the bed in her small cell, in readiness for the morrow. Handwoven of angora
yarn, the gown was dyed black, then dipped in purple. Melisande was one with
the night when she wore the gown, another reason she preferred not to carry a
light. When she removed the sumptuous gown every day, exchanging it for her
daily garb, she shed the sacred mysteries of the night and took on the mundane
chores of the day.

Arriving
at the temple, Melisande slipped her feet out of the leather sandals before
entering. The marble was cold, but she had grown used to treading on it
barefoot, even enjoying the thrill that went through her body as her flesh
touched the chill stone. Whispering prayers, she ascended the three steps that
led to the dais on which stood the Eye. Melisande knelt before the bowl, said
the ritual prayer, then lifted up the flagon of holy water that rested on the
floor beside the Eye.

She
poured the water into the bowl. The blue iris shimmered in the expanding light
of the dawn. The Eye shimmered with unshed tears.

Melisande
waited until the ripples ceased, the water was still and smooth, to say the
ritual words, taught to her by the Mistress of Dragons on the day Melisande had
been named High Priestess.

“Open
wide, you that guard our realm, and let my eye see what you see.”

Every
morning for ten years, Melisande had looked into the lapis lazuli iris and
every morning she had seen what the Eye saw: the valley in which nestled their
realm; the mountains that surrounded and guarded and sheltered it; the city of
Seth at the northern end of the valley; the farmlands that surrounded and
supported it; the castle of the king built in the foothills of the mountain;
and ruling over all, the monastery of the Sacred Order of the Eye, perched atop
the mountain known as the Sentinel.

This
morning, Melisande saw all that and more. She saw the dragon.

Melisande
gasped, stared in disbelief. Though the daily ritual was designed to keep watch
for dragons, she herself had never see one. Twenty years had passed since the
previous High Priestess had looked into the bowl and seen eight dragons
descending on the valley. Melisande recalled that event clearly. She had been
eight years old at the time and she could still recall the thrilling terror and
excitement as the warriors carried all the little girls to the catacombs
beneath the monastery, to keep them safe and out of the way.

The
other girls had been in tears. Melisande had not cried. She had crouched in
that whimpering, stifling darkness, feeling the ground shake from the powerful
forces being unleashed above, and in her mind she was in the Sanctuary of the
Eye, alongside the sisters, using her magic to drive away the ferocious beasts
bent on destruction. She had not been formally taught the magic; her
instruction in that would not begin until she was twelve. But she knew the
words from listening to the sisters’ daily chants and she had repeated them
then, whispering them to herself. The colors of the magic spread in vibrant
sheets across her mind—luminous reds and flaring orange, meant to
dazzle
and
confuse the dragons, lure them into range of spear and arrow, or send them
crashing into the mountainside.

The
battle of the Sacred Order against the invading dragons had been hard fought.
Eventually, the powerful magicks of the Mistress and her priestesses and the
arrows and spears of the warriors had driven the dragons away from Seth.
Emerging from the catacombs that night, Melisande saw splotches of gore being
cleansed from the flagstones. Reaching down, she dipped her fingers in
it—dragon’s blood.

Melisande
placed her hands on the rim of the stone bowl, stared into the center. The Eye
vanished. The blue iris was blue sky, clear and cloudless. The dragon’s green
scales glittered in the newly risen sun; the eyes, set on either side of the
massive head, seemed to look straight at her, though Melisande knew that this
was a trick of the Eye. The dragon was still far distant.

He
could see the mountains of Seth, perhaps, but nothing more. Not yet.

Melisande
sat back on her heels and drew in a deep breath to stop herself from trembling.
She was not afraid, for there was nothing to fear. The trembling came from the
shock of seeing what she had not expected to see. Rising swiftly, she left the
temple, running back up the narrow, flagstone path that led to the monastery.
As she ran, she went over in her mind what she must do. There were many actions
to be performed and she could not do all of them at once. She had to
prioritize, determine the order of importance of each, and this she did as she
hastened up the path.

Reaching
the gray stone wall that surrounded the monastery, Melisande drew forth the
iron key that hung from a silken cord around her waist and used it to open the
lock in the wicket gate. She was pleased to see that she had so far disciplined
herself that she had stopped trembling. She opened the gate with a steady hand,
shut it behind her, and ran through the garden. She could hear a stir on the
battlements.

The
warriors had been standing guard all night. Their shift was almost over and
they yawned as they walked their beat, looking forward to a meal and then their
beds. The astonishing sight of their normally dignified High Priestess running
barefoot through the wicket gate (she had forgotten her shoes), startled them
into wakefulness. An officer called down to her, demanding to know what was
wrong, but Melisande did not take time to answer.

She
did not enter the monastery. She continued at a run through the garden that
completely encircled the four white marble buildings and passed through another
iron gate that led to the barracks—a large block house made of the same gray
stone as the protective wall that surrounded the monastery. The flagstone path
between the monastery and the barracks had been worn smooth by centuries of
booted feet. Reaching the barracks, Melisande pushed open the huge wooden
doors, and entered into darkness that smelled of leather and steel and the
almond oil the women rubbed onto their bodies. Bellona, as commander, was the
only warrior to have a private chamber, located in the front of the barracks,
so that she could be wakened quickly at need.

The
room was small, square, furnished with a wooden bed on which was laid a
goose-down mattress. The mattress was a present from Melisande; warriors
usually made do with straw. Bellona’s polished steel cuirass and helm had been
hung neatly on a wooden stand near the bed, her sword and shield placed
alongside. A table and two chairs beneath a slit window were so placed as to
catch the first rays of the sun.

Bellona
was still asleep. She would not waken until the bells rang the end of night,
the beginning of the day. She lay on her back, her head turned sideways, her
dark hair mussed and tousled. A restless sleeper, she had kicked off the light
woolen blanket that had also been a present from Melisande. As usual, the
blanket had slithered to the floor. Bellona slept naked, for at any moment the
alarm might sound and she must be up and armed and armored.

“Bellona,”
Melisande called softly from the doorway. She entered the room, shut the door
carefully behind her. She had not wanted to startle Bellona, but the timber of
her voice must have given her away.

Bellona
jolted awake, sat bolt upright, her hand already reaching for her sword. “Melisande?
What is it? What is the matter?”

Drawn
to strength, drawn to warmth, Melisande sank down on the bed beside the
warrior, who regarded her with concern that was starting to deepen into alarm.

“By
the rod, you are shivering!” Bellona put her arm around Melisande, held her
close. “And your feet! They’re bleeding. Where are your shoes?”

“Never
mind my shoes. Bellona,”—Melisande drew back to look into the woman’s dark
eyes—”a dragon is coming. I saw it.”

“Melis!”
Bellona gasped, gripping her arm tensely. “Are you certain?”

“I
am,” said Melisande firmly. “Have you told the Mistress?”

“No,
I came to tell you first. I knew you would need time to ready your defense.”

Bellona
smiled, her dark eyes warmed. “I thank you for thinking of us. Not many of your
sisters would have.”

“None
of my sisters have been instructed by the commander,” Melisande answered. She
slid reluctantly from the warrior’s warm, strong, and reassuring embrace. “I
must rouse the Sisterhood, then go to the Mistress.”

“Tell
her we will be ready,” said Bellona, reaching for her armor.

“You
must make certain that the little girls are safely removed to the catacombs,”
said Melisande, still feeling close to those memories.

Bellona
nodded absently, her thoughts on all she needed to do. “You can count upon me,
Melis.”

“I
do,” said Melisande, squeezing her hand. “Always.” The two exchanged a parting
kiss.

“Should
I send a messenger to the king?” Melisande asked, turning back as she reached
the door. “I hate to disturb him. His youngest child is ill, they say, and not
doing well. Both he and the queen are frantic with worry.”

“His
Majesty should be informed, nevertheless. I will send a runner,” said Bellona,
lacing up her boots.

“Reassure
His Majesty that he need not be concerned,”

Melisande
said. “We are well prepared to deal with the dragon.”

“Of
course,” said Bellona, matter-of-factly.

“I
will not ring the great gong, though,” Melisande continued, thinking aloud. “Not
unless something goes wrong. The people in the valley will still have time to
flee if we fail.”

“Nothing
will go wrong,” said Bellona, standing up. “You will not fail.”

Her
brown-skinned body was all muscle, lithe and powerful, with small, tight
breasts. Her body differed from Melisande’s, whose was soft and delicate, with
the pale skin of one who spends her days inside walls among her books, working
her mind, not her muscles.

“You
and the Mistress hold us in your care, Melis,” Bellona added. “Our trust is in
you.”

Hastening
off to summon the Sisterhood and wake the Mistress, Melisande wished she had as
much confidence in herself as her lover had in her.