Chapter Seventeen
Robert knew the instant they crossed into Corvinia by the nearly immediate change in the terrain. Bellemontagne took its name from the rich hills and peaks he and his companions had crossed on their way; Corvinia leveled out within his sight into flat, hard country, suitable for marching large numbers of troops around, but as far as Robert could see, unwelcoming to any but soldiers. Even color seemed to leach out at the frontier: it was a pale, sandy land under a pale sky. Robert said aloud, forgetting Prince Reginald’s presence, “No wonder Krije keeps snapping up other people’s territory. Who wouldn’t, living here?”
Strangely, it was Prince Reginald who chuckled, for perhaps the first time since they had met him on the road after his encounter with the wizard Dahr. “Corvinia might be the only thing in the world my father actually loves. He’s convinced everyone else loves it too, and they’re all plotting to steal it from him, so he has to take their land first. What else can he do?”
Robert and the Princess Cerise both looked at him in some astonishment; it was as much as he had said at one time on the entire journey. Maddeningly, to Robert, the Prince’s accumulated grime and general grubbiness managed to make him look even more craggily valiant, valiantly weathered—something on that order, anyway. Yet he continued quiet, helpful, yielding leadership completely to the two of them, behaving neither like Robert’s superior nor even his equal, but more like a willingly docile servant. Robert found this increasingly unsettling, especially since he himself had not entirely given up his vision of one day serving as Prince Reginald’s personal valet. Dream or not, it was still more real and much more attractive to him than any notion of heroism. Heroes kill dragons. I don’t want to kill dragons. Heroes marry princesses….
The Princess asked, “How far is your father’s city? What is it called?”
“Haults-Rivages,” Prince Reginald said, “A day’s ride if we push the horses. A day and a half or so if we don’t.”
“And a good bit less if you fly.” Unlike Ostvald, Robert had not seen the dragons passing over, but he had no doubt that they were on their way, and that Dahr might already be savoring his revenge on King Krije. “Highness, what size of an army does your father maintain?” He could not keep from asking, lower but yet audibly, “For what it’s worth.”
Prince Reginald did bridle slightly at the implication. “The largest and best-armed by far in this part of the world. We have a saying in Corvinia: ‘We grow soldiers as others grow grains of rice.’ Alas, you can’t eat soldiers, but my father doesn’t appear to have found that out.”
“He may,” Robert said, still quietly. “He may.”
They tried hard not to push the horses, but restraint was impossible for any of them. Alternating between a strict trot and an easy canter, inevitably one or another rider—usually, but not always, Prince Reginald—would urge his mare into a gallop, and inevitably the others would follow on at the same pace. This, in turn, would lead to halting altogether to rest and water their mounts, costing them, in the end, more time than they gained. But all three were remembering a wood in another land, and the dragons devouring horses as greedy children gobble gumdrops and peppermints, and there seemed no other way to treat their three.
They spoke little, each straining eyes and mind ahead, expecting every moment to see the horizon splintered with fire, the sallow, empty sky clouded with greasy black smoke. Ironically, the land itself was growing oddly appealing, to Robert’s eye at least: flat still, flat in every direction, but laced with subtle, shadowy hints of real color, and dotted with actual trees and bushes, tracing the courses of real streams. Nor was the countryside as totally uninhabited as he had first supposed—he caught sight of rabbits, and of deer colored like smoke over a winter landscape. There were ducks as well, and something like a short-legged flamingo; and he began to see, at least a little, how someone like King Krije might imagine other rulers lusting after his realm as much as he did.
There was still no sign of dragons’ presence in the land when they camped that night in a grove of tall, thin trees that Prince Reginald directed them to, saying that he had played outlaw there with his friends many times as a boy. His spirits seemed to have improved steadily through the day, as he recognized favorite landmarks and told stories out of his childhood about almost every one. His long-exhausted charm reasserted itself in full force, and he dominated the conversation effortlessly, riding stirrup to stirrup with Princess Cerise to point out this or that historic location. Most of them commemorated one or another of King Krije’s famous victories, or those of his ancestors. As Prince Reginald said, in some embarrassment, “It’s what we do, my family. Fight people. We’ve never been good at anything else.”
“But you’re good at other things,” the Princess said. “Lots of other things. You’re a very good cook—I’d never have thought to do what you did with those squirrels. And you’re a much better rider than I am, and… and you have such a nice speaking voice. I’ll bet your father doesn’t have a voice anything like yours.”
“No,” Prince Reginald said quietly. “Just a really good collection of heads on spikes outside the castle gates.”
In the morning he and his mare were gone. Robert and the Princess hunted for him in increasing alarm, both making wider and wider casts in every direction. When Robert said in frustration, “A note—why couldn’t he have left a note?” Princess Cerise reminded him tartly, “Because he can’t read or write. He’s royal.”
“But you can write,” Robert protested. “You teach yourself every night—maybe he could have—”
Both saw it at the same time: the corner of the Princess’s wax tablet protruding slightly from her open saddlebag. She seized the block, held it up in the dawn light, and slowly read it. FOGIVE GO. MI DA MI FITE. In place of a signature, there were only the two words, MI FRENS.
Princess Cerise dropped the tablet. She did not cry, but she put both hands to her mouth.
Robert said the bleakly obvious. “He went alone. He went off to face Dahr and the dragons alone. To protect us.”
“He went alone because he’s stupid!” the Princess responded furiously. “He wants to rescue his stupid father all by his stupid self, to prove he’s really brave, really a prince….” She was literally turning in circles, unable to contain her anger. “I am so sick of heroes! I don’t want anything to do with heroes—I wouldn’t have one if you gave him to me with half a pound of tea!” Startled, Robert laughed in spite of himself, and she promptly wheeled on him. “And that means you too! Definitely you too!”
The two of them stood staring at each other in a moment suddenly different from any since he had burst into her room at the age of nine. Robert felt overheated, and more than a little dizzy; but one part of him was entirely aware that in the books and ballads that had begun to take up all of his sister Rosamonde’s free time—Patience being still too young to be interested in such things—at this point the boy usually swept the girl up in his arms and practically devoured her with flaming kisses. But the moment passed in mutual confusion. He said only, “Well, if you don’t think it’s being too heroic, let’s go get him. Again.”
The Princess nodded. Robert joined her in cleaning up their camp and repacking their saddlebags and blankets, all without a word on either side. But when Robert put a hand under the Princess’s foot to help her into the saddle, she touched his hair, so lightly that he thought he might have imagined it. She said, “I am glad you are with me.”
They set a quicker pace this time, but there was no sign of Prince Reginald anywhere ahead. What both of them did feel was a darkening: an intense awareness of shadows on their road heralding a coming storm; of the air drawing tighter and tighter around them until they could almost see the strain in the fabric of the sky itself, and sense it in their own drumhead skins. The horses seemed to be breathing with difficulty, and they themselves could only bow their heads and struggle on, wanderers helpless against a rising wind. And yet the sky was clear, the sun ripely warm, and it was absurd for Robert to envision the two of them as a pair of skeletons jog-trotting to nowhere on dead horses. Yet he did see them so, as though from very far away, and the image would not leave him.
“Hurry,” he said, more than once, and they did press the horses; but even when the towers of Haults-Rivages began to show their tips on the horizon, Prince Reginald was nowhere in view. They scanned the roadside for any sign that he might have been injured—or worse—but saw no hoofprints leading away, nor any shrubbery suspiciously bent or broken. Prince Reginald might as well have turned into one of the stumpy-legged flamingos of this land and flown away.
“He had two hours’ start of us, no more,” Robert said through his teeth. “I woke before dawn, and he was still there, still asleep. He must have driven the mare to death to have already reached Haults-Rivages.”
The Princess was—unconsciously, Robert thought—bending more and more over the neck of her horse, urging it on like a jockey. Speaking in short, breathless bursts, she said, “If I were Dahr… if I were a bad, bad wizard, with a score to settle… with a score to settle with a king who killed me… who destroyed me… I would go after his son before I ever touched him….” She suddenly flashed a conspiratorial smile at Robert, such as he had never seen before. “Of course, Dahr may not be nearly as mercilessly vengeful as I am.”
Very quietly, so low that Princess Cerise had to lean from her saddle, straining to hear him, Robert said, “I think he might be. Look behind us.”
Seemingly between one minute and the next, the sky was full of dragons. Red, black, and green, for the most part—though Robert noticed an ice-white one to the rear, and another almost turquoise—they swarmed over the horizon, a dozen at a time, a score at a time, with the abandon of kittens scrambling up the sky. Horrifying visions out of the oldest nightmares, with their long jaws stretched wide and their great wings thundering, there was even so a ravenous joy about them, as though they could only barely contain their pride and pleasure in being what they were. And Robert, fleeing before them, as the Princess did, could not pretend not to feel the fearful surge of wonder in his heart, and his own strangely insistent sense of being one, somehow, with these terrible creatures. He felt himself glowing with it, in the midst of his dread, and was actually surprised that the Princess failed to notice.
Drawing a little ahead of him, she called back, “We must get to the city! Reginald must be there, somehow—and Krije will surely have his defenses ready—”
“Defenses? Defenses?” Robert could feel the first warning lurch in his horse’s gait, and yet did not dare to slacken the pace. “How do you defend a kingdom against all the dragons in the bloody world?” He could not remember ever having felt so utterly lost and helpless; yet at the same time his entire body was thrumming with the equally helpless passion of being close to monsters, cousin to monsters. “What bloody defenses?”
If the Princess answered him, Robert could not hear her reply over the frenzied clamor now almost directly overhead. The unforgettable reek of cold ashes filled his nostrils, so that he seemed to be inhaling the dragons themselves: half choking on their ancient rage, halfway yearning to surge up out of his saddle and fuse with their pride and their power. His horse was plainly on the edge of foundering; only terror kept it on its feet, lunging along toward the approaching walls of Haults-Rivages. Princess Cerise, looking back, reined her own mount in sharply, slapping the animal’s rump to indicate her intention. Robert took the deepest breath of his life, apologized softly, but aloud, to his horse, and leaped as strongly as he could to land behind the Princess, clutching her waist desperately to keep from toppling under flying hoofs. The horse staggered momentarily at the impact, but kept galloping as Robert righted himself. The Princess’s hair smelled like warm wild honey, and he had not the courage to turn and see what had become of his own horse. Ahead of them, the gates of Haults-Rivages were swinging ponderously open to receive them.
Disoriented as he was, Robert could not help being impressed, less by the size of the place than by its massive fortifications. Krije, or some ancestor, had plainly decided that its walls were thick enough and its dominance of the surrounding landscape complete enough that it could have held off an army without ringing it with a moat or any stake-studded ditches. Against a normal army, he would have been quite right.
The walls were filling up with archers and crossbowmen, all with weapons cocked toward the dragon-cluttered heavens. Some novices were already loosing off—Robert could see their shafts clattering futilely off bony crests and naturally armored bellies—but most were professionals, waiting the command to let their first volley fly. Most of those undoubtedly knew, with Robert, that their arrows would be useless, but they held their positions all the same, and they waited as the dragons neared.
Robert saw a crowned man on the castle walls then. He seemed huge, even at a distance: wide-shouldered and deep-chested, and he strode from one group of bowmen to the next, brandishing a great shining spear, his purple cloak flaring out constantly with his movements, his bellowing voice audible as he rallied the castle’s defenders. “Courage, you Godforsworn drunkards! We’ll make pincushions of them all for our ladies’ embroidery! Courage, I tell you! Who wants to live forever?”
He held them back dramatically with one upraised hand for an endless moment, until the vast, blazing flight seemed to hang motionless above the walls and the towers and the bright banners. Then he roared, so that every one of the dragons must have heard him, “Now!” and the arrows flew by the hundred, one whistling flight after another. And even on the ground, passing through the gates, with his own heart and the Princess’s wildly pounding heart and her horse’s stumbling breath the loudest sounds in the world, even so Robert could hear the shafts rattling futilely back to earth. Not a single dragon so much as veered or faltered before the barrage; rather, they banked as one to circle the castle—then, as one, settled themselves comfortably on the roofs and parapets, suddenly silent, folding their wings and cocking their heads attentively like so many parrots or canaries. King Krije’s men, courageous as they were, scrambled away from them, dropping their weapons and clustering together, clutching one another for comfort. And even Krije himself, suddenly standing alone on the walls of his besieged castle—King Krije, whose overwhelming presence made Robert understand a great many things about Prince Reginald—Krije himself lowered his spear and his voice. “Dahr? Here I am, Dahr!”
Robert, sliding sideways off the lathered horse, caught Cerise as she tumbled out of the saddle. She ran instinctively toward the battlement stairs, with Robert following. Winded and panting, they reached the huge castle roof just as the uncannily white dragon opened its icy wings, allowing the wizard to step from their shelter. Robert thought that he had never seen so grandly commanding a figure. He looks more of a king than Antoine, or this one either. Anyone who didn’t know…
“Well, Krije,” the wizard said. “Well. Here we are.”
The King’s voice was like the first slow grumble of a landslide. “Here I am, anyway. Are you sure you’re not another of your own filthy illusions?”
“Quite sure. Touch me if you doubt.”
Dahr opened his arms invitingly, as though to embrace Krije. Even from where he stood, Robert could see the King rising to the bait, literally licking his lips. “If I ever do get my hands on you…”
“It should be interesting,” Dahr replied thoughtfully. “Let’s try it, shall we?”
King Krije took a single stride forward. The dragons lining his battlements never moved, but their long, angled eyes came wide open, making a sound together that licked pins along the back of Robert’s neck. King Krije did not take a second step. Dahr said, “Perhaps not.”
“What do you want?” Now Krije’s voice had a hoarse, hesitant quality, as though he were strangling on his own rage. “Foul thing, what do you want of me?”
The wizard looked mockingly reproachful. “Oh, that is not nice, old friend. Do I call you names because of what you did to me? Do I so much as raise my voice to you? No, instead I go out of my way to prove that I hold no grudges, bear no ill will—more, I even rescue and shelter someone mightily important to you. At least, I assume he is—”
The Princess drew a single breath, and Robert whispered, “Oh, dear gods…”
The King said, “Where is he?” Robert thought he had never heard deeper despair crowded into three quiet, toneless words.
Only Robert saw the change in Dahr’s eyes. But a second dragon unfolded its wings, with a sound like sails filling in the wind. Prince Reginald tumbled out of the freezing embrace, face forward, and lay where he had fallen.
King Krije did not move or speak, but only looked toward Dahr. Not until the wizard’s eyes had cleared, and he nodded graciously, did Krije go to his son, kneeling beside him, the purple cloak trailing over Prince Reginald’s body. Robert and Princess Cerise could not hear the king’s words; nor could they tell whether the Prince was alive or dead, until the hoarse cheer—half cry of joy, half defiant growl at the fangs and wings that hemmed them in—went up from Krije’s men, and several, valiantly ignoring the dragons, ran to assist Prince Reginald. Dazed, unable to rise without support, he seemed otherwise unharmed.
No one, including Prince Reginald, took any notice of either Robert or the Princess. All attention was focused on three figures: the Prince himself, the plainly anguished and helpless King Krije, and the wizard Dahr, looking on placidly. Clearly enough for all to hear, he said, “There, Krije. Bear witness how some people return good for evil.”
Prince Reginald was on his feet now, standing alone, except for his father’s powerful hands on his shoulders. Krije inquired, his voice uncommonly gentle and concerned, “Boy, how do you fare? Can you stay up if I take my hands away?”
Prince Reginald’s voice was barely audible. “I think so, Father.”
“Good,” King Krije said. He stepped away then, drew his arm back deliberately, and slapped Prince Reginald across the face hard enough that he would have fallen again, had not several onlookers leaped to support him. A shocked gasp went up all around the scene, but it was drowned by Krije’s bellow of contemptuous rage. “Idiot! Only an idiot like you—if there could ever be such a thing—only a stone-headed idiot like you could get himself captured by my worst, my most evil enemy in the whole world! Now I suppose I’ll have to ransom you back, when what I really feel like doing is throwing you from the topmost tower of this castle. Bloody idiot—I might have known it!” He wheeled to face Dahr, who was laughing softly, almost silently, to himself. “All right, then, you. How much?”
With no eyes on them, Robert and Princess Cerise had inched their way close enough for Prince Reginald to see them. His eyes widened slightly, but he gave no other sign of recognition. Dahr did not reply immediately—so visibly was he savoring the situation—and King Krije repeated, louder, “How much for the idiot?”
For all the terror that the dragons and their lord woke in him, Robert found a strange and paradoxical comfort in observing the great creatures perched on the battlements, so motionless that they might have been stone gargoyles, except for their eyes. His glance passed over them slowly, one by one—raw-red, storm-green, deep sea-black, glacier-white—and each, as he studied it, turned its terrible gaze on him and saw him. He felt them seeing him, and he should have been frightened—and he was frightened… only not as he should have been.
The wizard Dahr, still chuckling, spoke kindly and patiently, “No, no, my good Krije, you mistake me. The boy is not for sale.” And there was something in that warm, amused voice that chilled Robert far more than the piercing glares of all the dragons.
“Not for sale.” King Krije scratched his head, then folded his arms belligerently. “Not for ransom, you mean? Nonsense—anybody can be ransomed!”
“Not this one, I’m afraid.” Dahr moved closer to the king, patting his shoulder—almost caressing it, as one might do with a cherished friend. “No, my question regarding your son is whether I ought to have these colleagues of mine roast him crisp before your eyes, or simply take him up to rather a height and leave him to find his way back down. It’s a delicate decision, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate”—the amusement turned as hard as the walls of Haults-Rivages itself—“having made so many, many similar choices in your time. I would greatly value your opinion—perhaps you can advise me?”
The gasp from the onlookers this time was of horror, mingled not only with tears, but with cries of outrage and protest as King Krije’s soldiers moved to their Prince’s defense. But the dragons stretched themselves lazily on the parapets, rumbling so deeply that the sound was less heard than felt in the stones underfoot. People looked down, looked anywhere but at Krije and his son, looked desperately ashamed of their fear; but Robert felt nothing but sympathy for them all. I can’t help any more than they can. Prince Reginald’s going to die, and Krije too, and maybe everybody up here, and there’s nothing in the world I can do.
In the silence—a sad abyss of shuffling feet and wordless mumbling—King Krije said calmly, “Take me.”