Authors: Margaret Weis
He had once seen a face, a woman’s face, made out of the colors. The face
looked upon him with such love and understanding that he reached out his hand
to touch hers and another hand, like his, reached out of the colors to him.
The face splintered. Sharp fragments of pain lanced his mind, so that the
colors could not protect him. Everything went dark— a cool and soothing
darkness. For a long time, he’d been afraid to leave. And then a mote of
vibrant orange flitted into this darkness, and with it new-leaf green and
goldfinch yellow, and the colors enticed him out once again to play. He did not
see the face or the hand again.
He sometimes heard voices from the world outside, a world that was gray and
colorless compared with his world. He had once listened to the voices, but now
they grew more remote and distant every day. He had long ago forgotten what it
was to touch an object, to taste food, or smell a flower. His mind brought to
him the only world he wanted, the only world in which he was happy.
He looked on the vibrant, sparkling, dazzling
colors and he knew that one day, very soon, he would dissolve into a drop of
rainbow brilliance and shine brightly among them for a single breathless
moment, and then fade away forever.
“He sits like that,” said Ermintrude, her voice choked with pain. “For hours
on end. Not moving. Just staring at nothing.”
“Most of the time, Marcus is quiet and docile, as he is now,” added Edward. “But
sometimes he grows violent and flings himself about and screams in terror. If
anyone tries to touch him, he goes berserk. He has hurt himself, on more than
one occasion, and hurt others in his wild frenzies.”
“He doesn’t mean to,” Ermintrude said defensively. “He doesn’t know what he’s
doing, poor lamb. Once, he tried to climb through a stone wall. His little
hands were bruised and bleeding and he broke several toes kicking at it. Two
strong manservants had to restrain him—”
“—and they came out of it looking as if they’d been battling wolves,”
finished Edward grimly. “What else could we do but lock the child up? We feared
one day he might throw himself off the parapet or seriously injure someone and
then we could not keep the matter quiet.”
“He will no longer eat, Draconas,” said Ermintrude. “We have been feeding
him as one would feed a babe, and he used to take food willingly, though it was
plain he had no care what he was given, and would have eaten sawdust as readily
as chocolate. But now, he turns his head away or spits it out. He grows thinner
every day and I fear ... I fear . . .”
She could say no more, but clasped tight hold of Edward’s hand. Her tears
fell silently, unchecked, down her cheeks.
“Marcus will die of starvation,” said Edward bluntly. “Unless we can find
some way to reach him.”
Draconas looked through a small window set in the heavy wooden door to see a
six-year-old boy, sitting on a stool in the middle of the turret room, staring
at nothing. His too-thin arms rested on spindly legs. His hands hung flaccid.
He sat quite still. The only part of him that moved was his wide-open eyes, and
they roved constantly, shifting from one point to another, bright with awe and
wonder. He had bruises on his wrists. His caretaker was forced to bind his
hands in order to feed him.
The boy was kept as clean as they could manage, for he took no care of
himself. The woman who had nursed him as a child tended to his needs. She
remained in the room with him constantly, watching over him, cleaning him and
feeding him, making certain he did not hurt himself when the fits of violence
came over him.
“Those have been less frequent,” Edward said. “We used to thank God for
that, but now I consider it an ominous sign. I fear he is slipping away from us
and we can do nothing to stop him.”
“When did this lunacy begin?” Draconas asked.
Edward winced at the word. He looked to his wife to answer.
“Marcus was a normal child, or at least almost normal, up until the age of
five,” said Ermintrude, resolutely wiping away her tears.
“What do you mean by ‘almost normal’?”
“He would sometimes stop playing and stare at nothing for long periods of
time, wearing a rapt smile, as if he were witness to some incredibly beautiful
sight. He would say, ‘Don’t you see it, Mother? Don’t you see the colors? How
wonderful they are!’ I would look, but all I would see would be sunlight on the
stone floor or a sparrow on the window ledge. I would say I did see it, just to
please him. I think he knew I was lying, though, for his smile would fade. He
drifted in and out of this world and whatever world he sees inside his head,
until the day came a month ago when something happened to him, something
horrible.”
“It was on his birthday,” said Edward. “We wanted to make the day so happy.
. . .”
“You don’t know what this something was?” Draconas asked sharply.
Ermintrude shook her head. “He began to scream in terror and pain. He
clutched at his head, tearing his hair out by the roots so that his scalp bled.
Then he collapsed and was unconscious for many hours. When he came around, he
appeared to have no idea where he was. He seemed to have left this world
completely.”
“Before that, was he happy?”
“Yes,” Ermintrude answered, a little too promptly. “Marcus was always a
quiet child, not rambunctious, like most boys his age. He didn’t like the rough
games his brothers played. He preferred to go off by himself.”
“What about his brothers? How did they treat him?”
“They loved him as a little brother. They were kind to him and treated him
well, but they had their own interests,” said Edward. “They couldn’t always
have Marcus tagging along and, in truth, he didn’t seem disappointed that he
wasn’t included.”
Draconas noted that they both spoke of the boy in the past tense.
“People know he’s your bastard, Edward,” said Draconas bluntly. “Did adults
or children tease him, taunt him?”
Edward’s face darkened. His brows furrowed in a frown.
“No,” said Ermintrude firmly. “No one would dare.” She placed her hand on
her husband’s arm. “Marcus was my child from the moment I held him in my arms.
I loved him as I loved my natural-born children.”
Her tone faltered. “You seem to be implying that this is our fault, but I
don’t know what more we could have done! We don’t understand what is happening
to him. We thought you might.”
Draconas peered again through the iron grate. Turning away, he shook his
head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blame you. You are, in truth, blameless.
There is nothing you could have done differently. The dragon magic in his blood
is the cause of this madness.”
Edward glanced uncertainly at Ermintrude, as if he would say something, but
feared it might pain her.
She smiled at him reassuringly and pressed his hand. “Speak freely, Ned. You
do not hurt me. Especially if it can help our son.”
Edward brought her hand to his lips, kissed her palm, and kept fast hold of
her. “The boy’s mother was not like this, Draconas, and you said the dragon
magic was very strong in her.”
“The magic manifests itself differently in males and in females, or at least
so I believe,” Draconas replied. “Do you remember that false monk who attacked
us on the road to Bramfell?”
“The fellow with the wild look in his eye who pointed his finger at you and
sent you flying halfway across the road. Yes, I remember,” said Edward with an
edge in his voice. “You passed it off, but I wondered at the time how he
managed such a feat.”
“If I had told you the truth then, Your Majesty, you would have thought
me
a raving lunatic. And, to be honest, I myself didn’t know what was going
on. What I know now, I’ve learned over the past few years. The dragon magic in
women such as Melisande affects the woman only when she wields the magic and
even then the effect is relatively mild. The magic acts like a fever in the
blood, making the woman weak and sick for the moment, but the illness lasts
only a short time. The women of Seth call it ‘the blood bane.’ In men, however,
the effect of the dragon magic is much different, much more drastic, probably
because men can use the magic to kill, whereas women cannot.”
Edward glanced through the grate at his son. His expression grew troubled. “As
I recall, that poor monk looked to have been beaten and half-starved.”
“Yes, I wondered about that at the time,” said Draconas. “Do you remember
the baby smugglers?”
“The women disguised as nuns we saw carrying babies out of that cave? Yes, I
remember,” said Edward darkly.
“Melisande told us they were stealing away male babies born to the women who
served the Mistress of Dragons—the women with the dragon magic in their blood.
The dragon in Seth used the women with dragon magic to guard her and her
kingdom. The male babies were taken away to be raised to use their magic in
much the same way. Only the plans of the dragons went awry. The magic in the
blood of human males drove them insane.”
“But why mistreat the wretches?” Edward asked. “Especially if you’ve gone to
all the trouble to steal them and raise them. For that reason alone, it seems
to me you would take care of them.”
“Unless you couldn’t,” said Draconas, struck by a new thought. “Unless
circumstances forced you to . . .”
His voice trailed off. He stared through the grate at the child, who stared
through his mind at wonders only he could see. Draconas made his decision.
“I can
try
to help him,” he said, laying emphasis on the word. “I
warn you that we may be too late. If you agree, I will take him with me this
night.”
“Why must you take him?” Ermintrude demanded.
Draconas shook his head. “You have to trust my judgment. I have to take him
away from the palace, somewhere far away.”
“No,” said Ermintrude immediately and Edward spoke in the same breath, “No,
I won’t permit it.”
Draconas shrugged. “Then you may as well measure him for his coffin.”
Ermintrude moaned and Edward gave a slight gasp, but neither said a word.
Turning, Draconas left them holding onto each other outside their son’s
prison. He walked over to where Gunderson stood silent guard at the head of the
spiral stairs leading up to the turret room.
Gunderson regarded him with enmity, his gnarled hand fiddling longingly with
the hilt of his sword. The old seneschal would obviously have dearly loved to
bury his blade deep between Draconas’s shoulder blades.
Draconas didn’t much blame him. He had given Marcus’s unhappy parents a
choice that was no choice. They had an agonizing decision to make.
“Wait, Draconas,” called Edward.
Draconas waited.
“Where will you take him?” Edward asked bleakly. “What will you do with him?”
“Save him, I hope.”
“How? What is this magic doing to him?” Ermintrude wrung her hands, helpless
and bewildered. “If we understood, perhaps we could help him.”
“I am the only person who can help him,” said Draconas. “And I make no
guarantees. He may die anyway.”
Ermintrude covered her face with her hands. Edward put his arm around her.
He said something to her, spoke to her quietly. She murmured brokenly, shook
her head.
“If it was up to me,” said Gunderson in a savage undertone, his single eye
glittering, “I’d run you through the gut and let you die by inches, just like
you’re doing to them.”
“If it was up to me,” Draconas replied, “I’d let you.”
“Very well,” said Edward, his voice thick with unshed tears. “You can take
him. How . . . What arrangements. . .”
“Dress him warmly,” said Draconas, brisk and businesslike. “Dose him with
wine laced with honey and poppy. That will cause him to sleep. Fill a wagon
with straw and put him in the wagon bed. He’ll slumber through the journey.”
“When he wakes, he’ll be alone in a strange place,” said Ermintrude, her
voice quavering.
Draconas thought back to the child, his eyes shifting from one dazzlingly
beautiful image to the next.
“He is already in a strange place,” Draconas said. “He
needs to find his way home.”
They did as Draconas ordered. When night fell, Ermintrude dismissed the
nursemaid—not an unusual procedure, she told Draconas. Ermintrude often stayed
with Marcus at night, for sometimes, by holding him and rocking him, she was
able to coax him out of his trancelike state. She swaddled him in blankets and,
in the dead of night, when everyone in the palace was asleep, Edward smuggled
Marcus out of his tower chamber. Edward carried his child through a series of
secret passages that had been built hundreds of years back, when the castle had
been little more than a fortress for a barbaric chieftain with many enemies.
The tunnels led beneath the outer walls, emerged some distance from the palace.
Here Gunderson waited with a horse and wagon.
Horses did not like Draconas, for they sensed the dragon in him. For
Draconas, the feeling was mutual. He would have dispensed with the wagon, but
he needed to take supplies with him, for the boy must be fed and clothed.
Draconas and the horse eyed each other. The horse flattened its ears and
snapped at him, but it did not immediately bolt and dash off, which he took for
a good sign. At least driving a horse would be preferable to riding one.
Edward carried Marcus in his arms, with Ermintrude walking closely
alongside, holding fast to the boy’s limp hand. Edward placed the child gently
into the wagon. Ermintrude fussed over the blankets, and piled the dry straw
about him. Both parents leaned over the wagon’s side to kiss the child’s
forehead.
The boy was drowsy, but still stirring. The poppy had yet to take full
effect. He even opened his eyes a little, stared about him.
“Go with God, son,” Edward said softly.
Draconas, mounted on the wagon’s seat, saw Gunderson’s eye glint and his
mouth twist. Clearly Gunderson considered that the child was going off with God’s
opposite. Both parents drew away from the wagon, holding tightly to each other.