The Dragon Book (51 page)

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “Please do this for me.”

She looked away for a moment, then said apologetically, “I have nearly everything I need …”

“
Nearly
everything?” I prompted.

She sighed. “There is one last thing you will have to fetch for me yourself.”

“What is it?” I asked, feeling a tingle of fear simply because of the tone in her voice when she said it.

Nell twisted her hands together, then said apologetically, “As it was your stepmother who cast the spell to begin with, I must have something from her to brew this new one.”

“I believe some of her clothing remains in the tower room that she had made her own,” I said, feeling a bit of relief.

She shook her head. “You misunderstand me, May Margret. I need something from
her
.”

It took longer than it should have for me to realize what the old woman meant, for I had thought of our stepmother as being dead, though of course she was not. “But she’s a
toad
!” I blurted, when I finally did make out her meaning.

“I had caught word of that,” said Nell dryly. “That doesn’t change the fact that I need something of her in order to complete the brew. Do you know where she is?”

“How could I know that? She hopped away after Wynde struck her with the rowan wand and has not been seen since.”

“Well, if you want this change, you’ll have to find her.”

“If I do, what is it that I must seek of her?”

Nell smiled, displaying two or three teeth. “Any part of her would do. Of course, she is unlikely to willingly surrender a foot, or even a toe. You could try bargaining, but I’m not sure what you could offer that would convince her to make such a trade.”

My despair must have shown on my face, for Nell laughed. “Fortunately for you, my dear, I need not even so much as a toe. If you can but run a cloth over her back it will suffice. From that I can draw enough of her essence to brew what you need.” She paused, then said, “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Be careful not to touch her yourself. To do so will muddle the magic.”

I wandered back to Arlesboro Castle, feeling lonely and lost. It seemed impossible to do as Nell had asked, since I had no idea where the queen had gone. However, I did have one hope, and that was the castle servants. I knew them well enough to know that gossip was their gold, as important to them as their daily bread. If word of where the queen might be hiding was to be had, it was among them that it would be found. So the next evening, when the day’s work was done and the castle was quieting, I sat in the kitchen with Cook and her helpers.

For some time I simply listened, waiting for a way to bring up my question without seeming too anxious for an answer. At first their talk was all of local doings, what maid had been caught with what lad doing what she ought not, and other such matters. But finally one of them—a girl named Hannah, who had been a playmate when we were younger—spoke about something that had happened, “back when the lady was a dragon.” She caught herself, and an embarrassed silence fell over the group. But I simply laughed, and said, “That was months ago, Hannah. Though what you say does bring to mind something I’ve been wondering about.”

“What is that, lady?” asked Hannah, clearly relieved not to have offended.

“I often ask myself where the old queen went after Wynde be-toaded her.”

Suddenly the silence was deeper than before, and furtive looks were exchanged among the women.

“Oh, come,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “It’s clear you know. Where is she?”

It was Cook who finally answered. “She haunts the lower depths of the castle, lady. Everyone knows that.”

I did not sleep well that night. I felt a tightness in my heart to think my stepmother had been so near to us all this time.

AS it turned out, the toad queen was not quite so near as Cook thought, something I discovered the night I finally found the courage to go belowground and seek her.

To prepare for my journey, I first made four rushlight torches—one to carry as I started, three to bind at my side for later use. Uncertain of what powers the queen might still possess, I took also a wand of rowan wood. More, I girded myself about with a wide belt I wove from slender rowan twigs. This I wore beneath my kirtle, so that my stepmother would not see it.

I waited till all were asleep, then slipped down to the kitchen, from which there was passage to the lower levels. I went first through the cellars where we stored our ale, and the root vegetables, and the barrels of salted meat. Below those cellars lay the dungeon. This, I suspected, was where the toad queen lurked.

The stone stairs to the dungeon were wet, as slick as if covered with dew. The wall—not brick, but carved from the living rock—was cool and moist to my touch. I heard no sound save the crackle of my rush torch, for I walked in silence, as I had been able to do ever since my time as a dragon.

When I reached the dungeon, a shiver rippled over my flesh. The flickering light of my torch revealed the chains that hung from the walls; the horrid implements of pain, carefully arrayed in a rotting wooden rack; the dark ashes of a long-dead fire where iron was once heated until it was red-hot.

The sight of these things stirred in me an uneasy memory, a memory of an afternoon when I was no more than ten and Wynde and I had crept down these very stairs, each prodding the other on by dares and bets. As we descended, we heard someone sobbing, a sound so filled with pain that I wanted to turn back. But Wynde would not go and—unwilling to give him cause to call me coward—I stayed at his side until, together, we peered around the wall at bottom of the stairs. In that moment, we saw something so horrifying that we both turned and fled.

We never spoke of it afterward.

It was odd to think of such torture being inflicted in the daytime. It seemed it should be a secret, nighttime activity. But in the eternal darkness beneath the castle, I guess, night and day were as one. And it was all too easy now—especially in the weirdly dancing shadows cast by my torch—to imagine anew the screams of the suspected spies and traitors who had been sent here during the days of the war.

Too easy to imagine that their shades still lurked in the darkened corners, waiting to reach out for me.

Yet it was those very corners I must explore if I were to find the queen.

The smell of fungus and wet stone and something worse, something foul, filling my nostrils, I began my search. To my dismay, an hour of looking yielded no sign of the toad queen. What I did finally find was another door. I was about to open it when my torch began to gutter. I took the second from my waist and quickly used the last sparks of the one I held to light it. When it was safely ablaze, I opened the door. It seemed a foolish thing to do—surely the toad queen could not have managed this door. Yet I had searched every inch of the dungeon.

Perhaps someone opened it for her,
I thought with a shudder. I wanted to turn back, a want like a hunger. But another part of me, stronger even, was caught by my obsession.

Wondering how deep the world beneath the castle went, I passed through the door to a narrow, winding stair. Its curve was so tight that I could see but a few feet ahead of me, and the moisture on the stone steps was so treacherous—I slipped more than once—that it slowed my pace.

After what seemed like several minutes, my second torch began to flicker.

“Not now!” I whispered fiercely, shaking it.

The flame strengthened, but not by much. I scowled. Surely this torch had not lasted as long as the first.

Reminding myself that I had spent a great deal of time searching the dungeon and would need but moments to pass through it on my return trip, I lit the third torch and continued my journey.

When the stairs came, at last, to an end I found myself standing at the edge of some water, though whether a tiny pond or a vast lake, I had no way of telling, for my light did not reach far enough.

Raising my torch, I saw that the stony ledge on which I stood was, perhaps, five feet wide, and that the water extended in both directions. I walked, first, to my right, but soon came to a place where the water and the side of the cavern came together. Turning, I walked the other way. As I passed the entry to the stairwell, I realized it might be easy to miss coming back, so I slipped out of my shoes, leaving them on the floor as a marker.

When I had gone another thirty paces, the stone cold and wet beneath my bare feet, I came to a small boat. Who had brought it here, and from where? Should I use it to cross the water? I walked on, but soon came to another place where wall and water converged. Turning back, I climbed into the boat. Praying that my torch would last, telling myself I could always make the last part of the return trip in the dark, I thrust the base of the torch between two strips of wood at the front of the boat and began to row. Wynde and I had pottered about often enough on the nearby loch when we were young that I had some skill with oars, though my mother had been scandalized when she discovered it.

After only a few strokes, I could no longer see the strand of rock from which I had departed. I turned to look over my shoulder.

The void ahead of me seemed to have no end.

Every ounce of common sense I had left was shrieking for me to turn the boat around. But I was in the grip of a passion; turning back was simply not possible. On I rowed. My torch continued to burn steady, which was both a relief and a bit frightening, for I knew my final torch might not last as long.

Just as I was wondering if I should yield to the small voice inside that was begging me to turn back, I glanced over my shoulder again and saw a light not far ahead. Despite my aching arms, I redoubled my efforts, pulling strongly across the black water. The distance was hard to gauge, for in that great, oppressive darkness, even a small bit of light stretched a fair distance. I rowed farther than I had expected, growing ever more fearful of finding my way, yet too close now to turn back. I glanced constantly over my shoulder, and at last saw that I was close to my goal. A moment later, my oars struck a rocky bottom; a moment after that, I felt the scrape of the little boat’s keel against the stone.

In that instant, my torch went out.

I could have lit the last, I think; there was spark enough to make it go. But I decided to take the chance that I would be able to light it from whatever provided the glow that had drawn me on. Perhaps better, I told myself, to proceed in darkness. No need to draw attention to my presence until necessary.

I drew in the oars, then hiked up my robe and slipped from the boat into the cold, shallow water. Cautiously, silently, I drew the boat onto the shore. Some ten feet ahead, I saw an opening in a rocky wall. From this opening came the glow that had drawn me the last of the way across the water.

I approached with dragon silence, pressed myself to the wall, peered around, and breathed a sigh of relief. I had found the queen!

A brown and bloated toad as large as my head, my stepmother crouched upon a flat stone about three feet high. Around her—some standing, some lounging on the floor, still more squatting in niches in the wall—was a group of small, humanlike creatures who stood no taller than the stone on which the toad queen sat. Their skin—they were all naked—was a pallid gray, their eyes huge, their hands and feet oddly elongated.

The light that had drawn me came from a small fire burning in a pit carved in the floor.

I backed away, my courage wavering. But one of the imps had spotted me. It cried out, and several of the creatures rushed through the opening. Seizing me, they dragged me before their queen. I thought of beating at them with my rowan wand, which was hidden in my sleeve, to drive them off, but I did not want my stepmother to know I had it. So I did not resist.

The imps dropped me in front of the stone pillar where the toad queen crouched. When I had gained my feet again, she said, “Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. Did you miss your loving stepmother, May Margret?”

Then her broad face split in a grin that made it even more horrible.