Dragonheart (20 page)

The dragon ignored her, still staring at the stars peeking through the misty veil of night. “Look at your cluster of stars, Bowen.” Good old Draco. Only he would think of reducing Gilbert and Kara’s futile rebellion to hopeless stargazing. Bowen wondered what the dragon had up his sleeve and played along.

“The ones I named you after,” Bowen said, looking up at the dragon constellation. It sparkled through the haze, brilliant in the black sky.

“More than mere stars,” Draco replied, and Bowen instinctively shivered at the solemnity in his voice. “Long ago, when man was young and the dragon already old, the wisest of our race took pity on man and shared with him our secrets. And when this Wise One was dying, he gathered together all the dragons, making them vow to watch over man always. Even as he would watch, once he was gone. And at the moment of his death the night became alive with those stars.”

Bowen heard the dragon’s words in a daze. As though they crept toward him through the mist of the tor like slow-moving shadows . . . strange and foreboding shapes that so fascinated him he was helpless to stop the doom he knew they brought. He could only listen in fearful silence as the dragon continued.

“Through the years, the Wise One’s shimmering soul was joined by others as the dragons kept their pledge to serve man . . . until the heavens were aglow with stars. But then man grew arrogant with the gift of our power and shunned our guidance. And fewer stars ascended the sky to hold back black night.”

Bowen followed the dragon’s forlorn gaze to the constellation once more. It seemed to pulsate with a glittering glow. Draco sighed. And that sigh seemed to encompass all the sadness of the world.

“All my life I’ve longed to perform one deed worthy of those forever shining above. Finally my chance came. A great sacrifice that would reunite man and dragon as of old and ensure my place among my ancient brothers of the sky . . . But my sacrifice became my sin.”

And Bowen knew. He turned to the dragon. “It was you. Your half-heart beats in Einon’s breast.”

Draco bared the scales on his breast, revealing the jagged crimson scar over his heart. “Yes. My
half
-heart, that cost
all
my soul. Even then I knew his bloodthirsty nature, but I thought the heart could change him. I was . . . naive.”

Bowen barked a short, savage laugh; then he felt surging melancholy overwhelm the bitterness within him.

“Naive? No more than I . . .” The knight’s voice sounded different somehow, quiet and hollow and small. “Always I dreamed of serving noble kings and nobler ideals. The Old Code was already a creaking relic when I became a squire. But dreams die hard. And you hold them in your hands long after they’ve crumbled to dust. And in your heart long after they’ve soured to bitter poison . . . I will not be that naive again.”

Draco descended into the circle of stone and Bowen turned from the pity he saw in his large eyes. Pity, but not solace.

“Too long I’ve been afraid,” Draco explained. “Afraid to die. Afraid to confront the evil I have wrought.”

Bowen could not face him. He stared into the night. Up at Draco’s stars . . . now obscured behind dark scudding clouds. Somewhere in the distance thunder rumbled. He heard the dragon turn to the others. “I will go with you.”

Bowen walked from the circle. He sought the shadows of the stones. He was alone now. Draco’s voice called after him above the roll of thunder. “So be it, Bowen. Farewell.”

Farewell. So be it. He was alone now. Alone.

Twenty-Four

PENDRAGON AND EPIPHANY

“A knight is sworn to valor.”

The rain came in a big, bellicose torrent. Kara, Gilbert, and Merlin took shelter under a rock overhang while Draco, oblivious to the downpour, waited it out on top. Kara had drifted off to sleep after a while, leaving Gilbert fussing over maps and charts and histories of old Roman campaigns that he constantly seemed to conjure up out of his scroll bag.

A crack of thunder woke her. She stirred and found Gilbert swaddled in parchment, poring over a diagram of tactics by the light of the small fire that hissed and sizzled as the angled rain spit at the edges of it.

She snuggled into the blanket the friar had given her and smiled. She was thinking what Hewe the Bear’s reaction would be when she showed up in the village not only alive and whole, but with Draco at her side. His one good eye would pop out of his head.

Hewe was not a coward, she knew that. He had planned the rebellion with her father and had fought hard beside him. The others of her village were not cowards either. But the wounds Einon had inflicted upon them the last time were still too fresh, and had weakened them, whereas he had grown stronger. Fear did not hold them back, only a sense of futility. They would fight again if they had any hope of victory. Now she was bringing them hope. Draco would be their hope.

The priest had been right. Avalon was an omen. Everything had been. Her finding Draco and Bowen. Why couldn’t the knight have seen what was so obvious? Only he marred her happiness. He, who had stood against Einon when there was no hope, would now deny himself his heart’s desire. Oh, to be so strong and splendid . . . but so stubborn. What would it take to reach out and release the glory and greatness that lay hidden within him?

She closed her eyes, and the memory of his haunted face wavered in the darkness as sleep came to reclaim her once more. But the lashing storm called her back with a bellow of thunder. Or perhaps it was the rustling swoosh from above that made her stir. In either case, she leaned up from where she lay, suddenly alert. She looked out into the rain, then suddenly rose and ran out into the torrent.

“Kara?” she heard Gilbert call behind her and the shuffle of his scrolls as he abruptly stood. She turned to him, soaked, and pointed at the sky. Lightning flashed and in its momentary clearness Draco’s silhouette was caught, winging through the gloomy rain toward the distant tor. The firelight flickered over Gilbert’s perplexed, worried face. The rain was cold. As cold as the hope in her heart.

The wind howled. The rain lanced through the ever-present mist. Bowen huddled under Arthur’s monolith. Huge as it was, it could not keep out the cold bite of the rain. He pulled his cloak around him.

“Valor . . . valor . . .”

It came on a hoarse whisper. Bowen at first thought it some aberration caused by the rain spilling over the stones. But it came again. An echoing whisper. Bowen sprang up, peering into the rain and mist and windswept night.

A knight stood in front of the stone opposite him. No, not stood
—floated
in front of the stone. Pale and as wispy as the swirling mist. Slashed by the rain. Wavering in the wind. Bowen instinctively went for his sword. But the ghostly image did not move from the stone. Whose place at the Round Table did Gilbert say that was . . . ? Gawain, was it?

“A knight is sworn to valor . . .”
The words issued from the apparition of Gawain. He was answered by another voice.

“His heart knows only virtue . . .”
Bowen whirled to the new voice. A shadowy wraith arose from Sir Percival’s stone. Beside him, from Kay’s stone, a third specter appeared.

“His blade defends the helpless . . .”
whispered Sir Kay.

“His might upholds the weak . . .”
Galahad’s ghost fluttered from another stone. Then Bedivere:
“His word speaks only truth . . .”

Their hollow voices echoed and overlapped in the wind. Bowen fell back and another voice hissed over his shoulder. He whirled round as Lancelot loomed before him.
“His wrath undoes the wicked!”
The words sliced through the wind and the rain like damning accusations. Bowen staggered back into the center of the circle as Lancelot raised a ghostly hand and pointed to Arthur’s stone.

Eerie and majestic, Arthur’s spirit rose from his stone, holding aloft the heavy sword in his hand. Bowen collapsed to his knees, his heart crashing against his chest. Golden light seemed to spray from the blade, sparkling through Arthur’s misty, mighty form. The king spoke in a rumbling rasp that seemed to cow the chaos of the storm.

“Inside the table’s circle,
Under the sacred sword,
A knight must vow to follow
The code that is unending,
Unending as the table—
A ring by honor bound.”

Again, the unearthly voices took up the invocation of a knight’s duties. Other spirits of the Round Table joined their ghostly brotherhood, converging on Bowen, chanting the words of the Old Code in a crescendoing cacophony, accompanied by the roaring thunder and the driving rain, whirling about Bowen in a mad dance with the whipping wind.

Bowen thought his heart would break. He was drenched in rain and tears. He covered his head from the jumble of sight and sound, reciting the code himself in a breathless rushed litany, trying to shout down the mad singsong racket of the spirits, trying to hold on to the sense of the words and retain their meaning.

“A knight is sworn to valor . . . his heart know only virtue . . . blade defends the helpless . . . upholds the weak . . . speaks only truth . . . !”

He stopped, realizing his was the only voice he now heard. Only the rain echoed in the circle. The spirits were gone. All but one . . . Arthur still drifted before his stone, slowly lowering his sword.

“His wrath undoes the wicked . . .”
The golden light had dimmed. Arthur’s image was fading into the mist and rain . . . fading into the stone. But still his voice whispered across the circle to Bowen.

“The right can never die,
If one man still recalls.”

Bowen rose and staggered to the rock, speaking the words with the faint voice.

“The words are not forgot,
If one voice speaks them clear.”

The voice was still now. Arthur’s wraith had disappeared into the stone. Bowen stumbled to it, embracing it. Its wet hardness was somehow reassuring, comforting.

“The code forever shines,
If one heart holds it bright.”

Thunder roared. Lightning crackled. In its jagged light, another shape seemed to loom out of the rock like a new vision . . .

Draco!
It was Draco! Sitting atop the stone. Bowen flung up his arms, reaching longingly out to him. The rain streamed down Draco’s face, into his kind eyes. He stretched down his wings and enfolded the knight in them.

There they stayed, wrapped together around the rocky symbol of their once-lost dreams and their newfound hope . . . two reclaimed souls cleansed and purified in the heavenly rain and reunited in a common purpose.

Twenty-Five

A KNIGHT OF THE OLD CODE

“Save your strength for the fight against Einon.”

Gilbert felt the shattering sting in his hands as the one-eyed giant’s quarterstaff smashed down upon his own. Cheered on by the milling villagers with shouts of “Hewe, Hewe,” the burly cyclops beat Gilbert back with rough, wild blows. Gilbert was mystified by the brute’s success. True, he outweighed the priest and his reach was longer. But Gilbert had strategy, which was superior to strength. After all, he had practiced these moves for years. Of course, it was only against imaginary partners . . . with tree limbs or shepherd’s crooks, in glades or on hillsides or merely miming empty-handedly on the back of Merlin while he traveled. But he had followed the diagram meticulously, even as he did now, although he had to confess his performance was somewhat awkward. But at least he was defending himself. And oh, how his hands ached! And it was hard to swing into the next position when the blows came so fast. Where had a cheese maker learned to fight like this?

A vigorous stroke by Hewe tumbled Gilbert to the ground at the feet of Merlin, who brayed and shied back. The priest thought the villagers’ laughter showed an unsportsmanlike regard for his valiant albeit brief effort. One must always be gracious in victory. He would need all the Lord’s patience to whip this rabble into shape.

“We should have waited for Draco.” Kara knelt beside him to help him to his feet. “He’ll be back. He must.” But she didn’t sound convinced.

Nor was Gilbert. He didn’t know the dragon as well as Kara, of course, but in all his vast years as a historian and a scholar, he had never encountered such a fantastical legend as the one the dragon told. Both the literary and biblical traditions belied the dragon’s claims. Was he to totally discount Perseus and Siegfried, and what about St. George? That brave knight would have to be uncanonized, if one believed the dragon. Gilbert just didn’t know. That dragon made a muddle of many cherished things. But then he had believed in the Pendragon and he had brought Gilbert to Avalon.

Gilbert scanned the sky along with Kara, but the air was filled only with the mocking jeers of the peasants. He gave Kara’s hand a comforting pat as he rose and took the scroll she held for him. The quarterstaff fighters in the diagram were rather crudely rendered, but the positions and instructions beneath them were clear enough.

“Aha!” Gilbert threw his hands up in miffed exasperation and turned to Hewe. “I thought so! It’s parry, parry, thrust. Not parry, thrust, thrust. You’re not following the rules of combat!”

Hewe crumpled the scroll with a downward blow of his staff and snarled at the priest, “The rule is to win! Which is more than we’d do if we followed you and this daft girl, priest.” He spat derisively. “You’ll lead us against Einon. To hell, more likely.”

Gilbert tried to smooth out his crushed scroll. It seemed simpler than smoothing out his crushed pride.

“When the dragon gets here, you’ll show us some respect, Hewe,” Kara snapped at him. All this brought was more laughing jeers from the crowd. For an oppressed people, they were entirely too cheery, thought Gilbert, and traded doubtful glances with Kara, still unsure whether Draco would show and make good her threat. The village had been quite surprised to see her, considering the fact that the last look they’d had of her was flying away in the clutches of a dragon. But while they couldn’t disregard her obvious escape, they weren’t giving any credence to the rest of her tale, even if she had a priest to back her up. Gilbert certainly saw no gullibility in the one-eyed, scowling face of Hewe.