until someone clever asked:
«What shall we do with them now?»
«Put them in the cellars,» Graymore commanded.
The cellar was already shaking from the aggression of the dragons they had captured. It was unlikely they would fight for her. She could brainwash them with enchantments. So far, that has not worked. Dragon scolding and cursing could be heard from the cellars.
«My lady, your dungeons are hell with dragon sparks! It’s as hot as an oven!»
Graymore brushed the harsh warrior aside. She knew her cellars were like a cauldron of fire, but the flames didn’t go up the walls. Magic doesn’t.
«Everything will be all right! Trust me! Who else would have saved everyone if it weren’t for me?» Graymore snatched a crossbow from one archer and took aim at the supposed dragon that was flying in from the west. It must have fallen behind the pack. But the target vanished from sight. Where had the dragon gone? Graymore looked up at the skies, which were suddenly overcast. A storm was coming.
«You have angered the dragon gods,» she heard the distant thunder.
She imagines it! Graymore snorted. Where are the gods? The only other knights bustling around were the knights in armor, who had long since become fearful of her. They could not do with an army what she alone could.
For a moment Graymore thought she saw in the towers among the archers the very elf boy she had dreamed of. He looked at her sternly and sadly, as if judging her for something. At the sight of him everything turned over inside her. But he vanished as soon as the storm began. And the fragrant rose on the parapet of the tower remained. Where had it come from? And why did the sight of it conjure up thoughts of dragon claws? What can a lush scarlet rose and sharp dragon’s claws have to do with it?
Ball of Fire
Victory over dragons is celebrated with a noisy celebration. Firecrackers exploded over the city, and Graymore’s heart ached.
She had done something wrong. But what is it? She had forgotten to bind the dungeons with dragon-locked enchantments, or to mutter a magic mantra before she caught dragons. Or had the trapped dragons managed to cast spells on her and arouse her conscience?
The townsfolk put on a dance, and there was a ball going on in the castle. The well-dressed courtiers danced. Graymore sat on her throne and watched the festivities as etiquette dictated.
No fair! The dragons were defeated by her, and others danced. By the unwritten rule of the ancient wizards, the dragon conqueror had to spend the evening of the feast alone. You could watch the ball, but you could not interfere with the entertainment. Stupid rule! Graymore was bored. Before her, only men had been dragon hunters. They could ponder their exploits for twenty-four hours, but she wanted to dance. She excelled as much at dancing as she did at fighting. Her grace was the envy of all.
Graymore paced the curly strands of her long auburn hair that fell from beneath her ruby crown and contemplated the fanciful ceremonial. It had occurred to some long-dead council of wizards to force a dragon fighter into a day’s solitude. A vow of silence for the day was attached. Otherwise the defeated dragon would speak to you and try to enchant you.
Nonsense! How can a captured dragon speak to her? It doesn’t even understand human speech. Or does it? Graymore had the impression this morning that dragons could speak human. Not with their mouths, but with their eyes. Their gazes haunted her: azure, red, orange, emerald. A firework of glittering eyes watched her from every corner of the ballroom.
«A dragon can become your master if you let its charms enter your mind,» the ancient council of wizards dictated. According to their beliefs, dragon’s charms are strongest on the day of capture. After a day they are weakened. Therefore it is necessary to isolate oneself for the whole day. But you can’t put off the feast for 24 hours, alas. Victory over the dragon must necessarily be celebrated on the same day to cement your superiority over the monster.
Her forced vow of silence sent Graymore’s imagination into overdrive. It seemed to her that dragon voices were calling to her from all sides, and that dragon heads hung like masks on every wall.
The pairs twirled in a waltz. The winding music made it difficult to sit still. Graymore nervously unfolded the folds of the sumptuous golden-yellow dress she had planned to wear on Coronation Day, but wore today.
«Oh, my! She’s managed a whole flock!» The ministers whispered excitedly in a corner of the hall and drank to her health. They did not dance either, but they could make toasts, and she would have to sit all evening without parting her lips. It did make her feel enchanted.
«I’m like a statue! I sit there to decorate the throne, and I cannot move or speak!» Graymore thought, and suddenly there were sparks on the wall. They ran down the lambrequin. Only Graymore saw them. For some reason the others didn’t notice. The sparks formed a sort of face or mask on the wall. Its lips moved, but no words could be made out.
«Don’t answer them!» A peculiar bird, with a purple tail as big as a peacock’s, perched on the armrest of the throne. Where did it come from? Was it from the king’s garden or from the park? But there are no such birds there. There are peacocks, swans, ibises, herons, cranes and flamingos, even talking parrots, but there are no small sapphires growing in their feathers. This bird, on the other hand, has precious stones scattered in its feathers, and a violet blooms on its head instead of a crest. What a wonder of a bird! Graymore wanted to stroke it, but the bird dodged.
Human speech came out of the bird’s beak again. It was a warning:
«They will burn everything if you answer them and carry you away from the fire to be sacrificed to the dragon deity. There is only one man who can help you, but he has been forced to take the dragon’s side ever since he himself became covered in scales.»
«Who is he?»
Graymore opened her mouth, and the violet bird squeaked with consternation. Instead of a favor, she pouted. Had it not been for her warning, Graymore would not have broken her daily vow of silence.
«I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to! Now the garden fairies will be furious with me,» the bird hastily took off, while Graymore was left in a state of heavy contemplation.
She wasn’t bored, though. Fire hissed from the walls. Was the whole castle on fire? Graymore nearly screamed:
«Run for your lives! It is fire!»
For some reason the dancing couples were stubbornly oblivious. The musicians continued to play, the footmen carried trays of champagne, the ministers chattered. No one felt the heat from the blazing walls, but Graymore felt and saw faces in the flames. They were saying something, but their speech was like an echo.
«Damnation! Vengeance! Redemption! Love the one you hunted,» it came to Graymore’s ears.
She was just tapping his scepter on the armrest of the throne, and the obsession vanished. The walls were no longer ablaze, but something strange began to happen to the guests. The dancing silhouettes became fiery. It was a dance of fire, not people. Graymore was even frightened. The dancing flaming figures looked aggressive. They were on fire, but they didn’t burn. No ash fell from them.
Perhaps it’s just imagination again, Graymore judiciously decided.
Indeed,
