Ice & Smoke Read online

  ICE & SMOKE

  by Elizabeth Belyeu

  Copyright © 2018 by Elizabeth Belyeu

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2018

  www.ElizabethBelyeu.wordpress.com

  Covert art © 2018 by Christopher Belyeu

  This book is dedicated to:

  my parents and siblings,

  whose love for this story kept me moving forward;

  my friends Deni and Joanna,

  whose support and critique were absolutely

  crucial in whipping this story into shape;

  and especially my brother,

  whose sculpture of baby Braith often stared at me accusingly,

  and whose incredible art graces this cover.

  PART ONE

  Prologue

  My court finery was stifling in the autumn sun, but I kept my back straight and my chin level. This was the most important day of my life thus far, and if I couldn't look much like a princess—tall and square and knock-kneed as I was, rather than dainty and graceful—I could at least act like one.

  Prince Tristan glanced over his shoulder at me, teeth flashing in a grin, and I smiled back. It was never hard to smile at Tristan, so sweet and brave and open-hearted, not to mention handsome with his dark curls and golden armor. We'd grown up knowing we were betrothed, but only today, on my twelfth birthday, was a formal contract signed.

  My betrothal official, my household separated from my mother's, and myself received by the Court as part of the government of Caibryn; as I said, an important day. Possibly not all of the sweat gathering in the small of my back was due to the sun.

  I should be smiling at the people, I remembered; they gathered on all sides to wave and cheer, throwing flowers in our path as we made our ceremonial way around the village and back to the castle. The people love you, Ariana, my nurse Tegwen had said, they always have, and as for the Court, they're the same duchesses we gossiped with last week, the same counts who taught you chess and took you hawking. You have nothing to be nervous about.

  I turned my head to look for Tegwen in the retinue behind me. She walked beside my mother's horse, a picture of cheerful, rounded, pug-nosed sturdiness next to my mother's pale delicacy. Mama was seldom well enough to attend court, but had insisted only death itself could keep her away today. Had Mama been strong enough to bear more children, this birthday would be a much less important event; as it was, however, I was not merely a princess, but a princess who would one day be queen.

  Mama was holding up well, I saw with relief, her eyes clear and cheeks flushed with excitement. Papa rode beside her, dressed with unusual elegance even for a king—crown, ornamental armor, and his best cloak, royal blue embroidered with the white hound of our House. He winked when he saw me looking.

  We started on the incline back toward the castle, our circuit of the village nearly completed, and my horse tossed her head—in displeasure, perhaps, at the steep road. I clucked at her and patted her neck. She'd been a betrothal gift from Tristan only an hour before, and I'd made quite a fool of myself cooing over her. I couldn't help it; she was gorgeous, a dainty palfrey as white as starlight, with dark, soulful eyes, roses and ribbons in her mane and tail. She was as close as a mortal creature could come to being a unicorn. How could any girl resist?

  I comforted myself that no one would mind my being silly over the horse; after all, it was considered a good omen for the marriage, that the betrothal gift be well-received.

  Once we'd returned to the castle, it would be time for me to walk formally into the Court for the first time. I'd been in and out of the throne room since I was a baby, but this was different. This time my presence would count. I swallowed and began rehearsing in my head, for the hundredth time, all the things I ought to say and do, the way to stand, the way to speak. I had to be perfect.

  I reached for the silver chain around my neck, and touched the ring that hung from it. Like the horse, it was a gift from that morning, silver with a stone of deep violet.

  "It was my mother's favorite ring," Papa had told me, "given to her by her father on her own twelfth birthday. Yes, I know it's too big for your fingers now—it didn't fit my mother either, when it was first given. It is sized for the hand of a queen, you see, not a princess. You will know when it's time to wear it."

  I hoped I would. I hoped one day I would look down at my own hands and know they were ready to be the hands of a queen, someone who could rule with wisdom and strength.

  The shouts of the crowd, pointing behind me, did not seem out of the ordinary to me at first. I supposed they were exclaiming over the king and queen. But the cries rose in volume, drowning out the drums and pipes that accompanied our progress. Tristan, frowning, looked over his shoulder—and blanched.

  I turned my head. A dark shape moved in the sky, rising from the hills beyond the village. Its wide, leathery wings gleamed blood-red where the sunlight shone through them.

  "Dragon!" Tristan cried, the word already spreading like fire through the crowd.

  "Dragon! Dragon!"

  Villagers and courtiers ran in every direction, shouting, some praying or weeping in fear, others grabbing swords, pikes, and farming implements. I stared at the approaching shape, willing it to be something else, anything else—

  "Tristan, get Ariana back to the castle!" Papa drew his sword, casting his rich, confining cloak aside. He would stay and defend the village, or at least evacuate it—the village must be the dragon's target, for the castle was stone and would be immune to flame.

  "But Mama—" I cried, the horse prancing uneasily as I wheeled around. There was my mother, dead white and collapsing from her horse into Tegwen's arms.

  "She and Tegwen will follow after. Go!" Papa slapped my palfrey's flank and she leaped into motion, Tristan running ahead with her lead. I clung to her mane with numb fingers.

  The dragon grew swiftly larger in the sky. I choked back my tears—the people didn't need to see their princess in hysterics. In my head I heard everything Tegwen had told me about dragons. She had seen with her own eyes what a dragon could do—her entire village burned; every cow, pony, and sheep devoured in a single night; and when the dragon was still hungry come morning, and the people not fled far enough…

  I watched the dragon over my shoulder, trusting Tristan to lead the horse. Any moment now, flames would pour from the dragon's mouth, devouring the town, the people—

  But they didn't. In fact, even when a volley of arrows came up from the streets, the dragon only veered slightly to one side without even glancing down. Like a bird skimming the water, he passed over the village, and continued straight down the road to the castle. Toward us.

  "He's too fast," Tristan said, and I knew he was right. The dragon would catch up to us long before we reached the castle—if we continued at a pace Tristan could run.

  "Get on the horse, Tristan," I cried, but he shook his head, looking from me, to the dragon, to the flimsy ornamental sword at his hip—useless.

  "She'll go faster with one," he said, and dropped the lead, slapping the horse into a gallop, shouting to urge her on.

  "Tristan!" I screamed, but he was already dropping far behind.

  For a few moments, it seemed the extra speed might be enough to get me to the gates—but the dragon caught up, and suddenly he was dropping like a mountain into the street ahead of me.

  Talons ripped into cobblestone, wings crushed the rooftops on either side, and hot, smoky, metallic air like the inside of a smithy blasted my hair back
from my face.

  My poor horse screamed, twisting and skidding, and I fell from her back to the cobbles, lying stunned as she galloped away. I saw flame-yellow eyes above me, and claws descending, each talon as long as I was tall. Gasping, I scrambled across the cobbles, feeling my dress and the skin of my knees tear. The claws missed their first grab, but caught me on the second, too tangled in my own skirts to get to my feet. I kicked and thrashed, pulled a shattered cobblestone from the street and struck at the dragon's fingers—scaly, red-brown things as big as tree limbs. If it hurt him, he gave no sign. He only shifted his grip on me, trapping my arms against my body, and lifted me.

  Air roared around his flapping wings, and then we were rising. The village spun dizzily below me. I could see Tristan on his knees in the street, clutching his side—wounded?—while my father and a dozen others rode toward us, much too late. They grew smaller, and smaller… and then were out of sight completely.

  I kept my eyes closed at first, terrified of seeing either the ground so far below, or the teeth that would surely be tearing me any moment. But minutes passed; surely, if eating me had been the goal, the dragon would have done it already. I eased my eyes open, and saw only clouds below us, a dizzying sight. I began trying to wriggle into a more comfortable position—cautiously, because the last thing I wanted, at this height, was to provoke the dragon into dropping me.

  I think there was no dishonor in screaming like a child when the clawed paw loosened its grip and juggled me about—shifting me neatly into a new position. I was now fully inside the cage of his fingers, which was large enough for me to lie but not stand. It was much more comfortable, and the heat of his scaly skin was surprisingly welcome in the chilly wind that roared between his fingers, buffeting my hair and skirts. I was more unsettled than grateful.

  All right then, you are not his dinner, I said to myself, pulling my knees up to my chest, torn skirts and all. What could he want with you?

  In addition to destroying towns, dragons were also known for hoarding. In the tales it was usually gold and jewels, but occasionally maidens. Was I to be part of a collection? Or perhaps he did want gold; both Caibryn and Tristan's country of Dewgent would pay hefty amounts for my return. I hoped that was it. I hoped he only wanted gold, and this time tomorrow I would be safe at home again.

  We stayed in the clouds, the air growing colder as the daylight faded; eventually, boredom overcame terror, and I slept.

  I woke when we landed with a scraping thump, and I was released from the dragon's claws, tumbling across a rough stone surface.

  Stiff and sore after so many hours in the dragon's grip, I slowly got to my feet and took a look at my surroundings. Cool stone underfoot, nothing but stars overhead, and a ring of torches fluttering in a harsh breeze, along parapets that seemed to drop away to nothing. The top of a tower?

  And there was the dragon, gazing down at me from three times the height of a man, his eyes burning gold in the darkness.

  "Are you going to kill me?" I asked, my voice croaking a little; my throat was dry after the long, windy flight.

  "No," the dragon said. He had a growling voice, almost too deep to hear, and between that and my surprise at hearing him actually speak, I could not understand any of his next words.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," I said hesitantly, "b-but I cannot understand you. Could you talk more slowly?"

  The dragon fell silent, and for a moment we just looked at each other, giant scaly monster and tiny bedraggled princess. Then he sighed, smoke streaming from his mouth with sparks flickering in it. The smoke didn't dissipate, but grew, winding around the dragon faster and faster, a swirl of sparks and darkness—and then it cleared, faster than the wind could have carried it, and the dragon was gone.

  No, not gone, I realized—only changed. Where the dragon had been stood a man. He was tall still, but only a man-sized tallness, and his skin was leathery as a sailor's, but not scaled; he looked perhaps a little older than my father. He wore scarred leather armor the same red-brown color as his scales had been, and hair of about the same shade was tied back from his face. Only his eyes betrayed his true nature, slit-pupiled and glowing yellow.

  "I will not harm you," he said, his voice still deep and gravelly, but comprehensible now. He walked closer to me, boots ringing on the stones, but didn't touch me.

  "Why have you brought me here?"

  He paused before answering. "You will live here with me until a knight wins your freedom by defeating me in battle."

  "If all you wanted was a fight, my father and my betrothed would have been happy to—"

  "I don't want to fight. But knights will come, and I will defend myself."

  "Or you could release me, and save yourself the trouble."

  "I cannot."

  "Why not?"

  He rubbed his head wearily. "While you are here, you may do as you like. Don't bother trying to leave—there is an enchanted circle around this tower, one mile from end to end. I am the only one who can cross it."

  "What would happen if I tried?"

  "Nothing more than if you tried to walk through a stone wall. You cannot pass, that is all. Now come, I will show you to your room."

  He took a torch from the edge of the parapet, led the way to a trapdoor, and down the stairway beneath it. The room below contained only cobwebs and grime, and I felt my throat close—this was to be my chamber? But no, the dragon walked on, down another twist in the spiral stair.

  "Here," he said. "There is bread, cheese and ale by the window."

  A bed with red velvet hangings, a fur rug, a water basin, a chair and small table by the window, and a fireplace, unlit. Not much, certainly, compared to my chamber at home, but it satisfied the necessities.

  The dragon stepped past me and bent to light the fireplace with his torch, which he then blew out. I hadn't known it was possible to blow out a torch with one breath.

  "Goodnight, Princess."

  There was no point, I supposed, in being rude. "Goodnight, Sir Dragon."

  "Rindargeth."

  "What?"

  He said the word again, slowly and carefully. "Rindargeth. That is my call-name."

  "Rin-dar-geth," I repeated. "Goodnight, Rindargeth."

  He closed the door behind him, leaving me alone in the dim, sparse chamber that would be my home for now.

  Just for now, I told myself. Not forever. Not for very long at all.

  ◆◆◆

  I delayed opening my eyes when I woke, hoping it had all been a dream—but on opening them at last, admitted that the circular chamber with its sparse and battered furnishings could not be mistaken for my home. I rose, firmly reminding myself that tears would serve no purpose.

  I found clothing in a chest—plain and ill-fitting, but clean—and more bread and cheese left for my breakfast. And then, opening what I had taken for a tall shuttered window, I found a balcony.

  And below it, the sea.

  I had seen lakes, rivers, and millponds aplenty, and despite all the sailors' songs had not thought the sea could be much more impressive than they. I was wrong. The sea was to a millpond what a dragon was to a house-lizard. It stretched away to the edge of the sky, a great plain of glittering blue, and below my balcony it did not meet the shore so much as attack it, great fists of water pummeling the sand and rocks at the foot of the cliff where the tower stood. I realized I had been hearing the rhythmic sound of the waves for some time without noticing, waves and a constant salt-scented rush of wind that pushed white birds in circles above the water, and rippled patterns across the tall grasses that edged the sand.

  I was a very long way from home.

  I descended the stairs, finding more dirty and abandoned chambers, but the bottom floor was intact. Mismatched chairs and tables sat before a grand but unlit fireplace. Still no sign of the dragon.

  I ventured out of doors.

  With salt wind tangling my hair and the pounding of waves louder than ever, I found grassy hills, a few hunched and twisted tre
es, two half-fallen outbuildings—one I figured for a kitchen, and the other a stable. This place had surely been abandoned for many, many years. Beyond that, the grass flowed unimpeded to a dark ridge of forest at the crest of the furthest hill.

  Rindargeth had spoken of a circle that would keep me in. How far did it extend? Could I escape it while he was away? I began walking toward the forest, keeping an eye on the sky for any dark-winged shape, but other than the occasional bird or rustling rodent, I was quite alone.

  In fact, I realized as I walked, the sun hot on my back, I had seldom been so alone in my life. A princess always had attendants—Tegwen, servants, tutors, playmates, the castle guards. Now I had no one.

  I tried to keep my breath calm, and moved faster toward the line of trees.

  I made it just into the shade of the trees—winded and sweating, my delicate royal slippers torn by the rough ground—before I walked headlong into a wall.

  I couldn't see it at all. The air was perfectly clear. But my aching forehead was proof that it was there, and when I reached out my hands I could feel it clearly, smooth and hard as glass. I couldn't break it, not by kicking it, or ramming it with my shoulder. Trying to move softly and gently through it, as if hoping it wouldn't notice me, did not work either.

  Along the ground where the invisible wall began, I realized, was a line of red-and-orange flowers, tiny but brilliantly colored. I couldn't touch them through the wall, and neither could the wind, since they didn't move no matter how hard it blew—yet in all other ways air seemed to move through the wall without difficulty, grass and leaves on the other side moving as naturally as ever.

  The flowers, I had to assume, were the circle.

  I followed the wall, my right hand gliding along its invisible surface, hoping for a gap, a crack, anything.

  And what would I do if I found one? It had taken the dragon the better part of a day and night to fly here. Would I walk back to Caibryn, all alone and barefoot (these slippers wouldn't last the day), with no food or water, no weapons, no idea even which way to go?