PART THREE
She trailed the royal procession back to the Three Dragons Inn. The common folk were peeling away in Jezebel’s wake, tears of joy in many an eye. It seemed everyone had seen the queen, who, from the sound of it, had presented a magnificent figure: from snippets of conversation Jezebel heard the queen described as a “golden butterfly,” “Stavus’s own daughter,” “right pretty for an old ‘un,” “the Twin Ascendant, no doubt,” and, from a man who seemed intent on the Ontish angle, “the very picture of a Salk, Beoliotius guide her, with her high hard cheekbones and jaw. The Twins had good sense to cut down that Sparrot fellow in his prime and give our dynasty to Ontish blood.”
At the foot of the hill leading up to the Three Dragons, a group of mounted knights had formed a soft perimeter. They looked a magnificently fierce lot, resplendent in surcoats bearing the Salk insignia: three crows perched on a tree limb against a field of beige. In their midst, a familiar face. One of the stagehands—a torchbearer named Ewe—sat puffed up and prideful on the back of a tan rouncy, looking for all the world like the keeper of the realm. When he saw Jezebel, a self-important expression took hold of his face.
“This, gents,” he began, turning to the knights, “is why our Lady of the Long-Eyes…meaning Madam Shayla…asked me to stand post. The lovely lass you see before you is no common village wench come to beggar the queen’s time. No, she is Jezebel, the dragonfeeder, the very one the fortunate few will have the honor of watching perform on the morrow. Her residence is the Three Dragons, her home the stage. Unlike the others, she passes.”
“Stavus save us,” a different knight said, rolling his eyes. But upon taking their measure of Jezebel, the other knights collectively decided that they didn’t mind. One of the younger knights leaned forward in the saddle. “You play the part of the dragonfeeder? Truly?”
“Yes,” Jezebel replied, keeping her expression distant, neutral. She knew a million ways to keep men at bay, polite detachedness being the first arrow in her quiver.
“Don’t the legends say the dragonfeeder was a scrawny thing? You, you’re so…”
“Womanly,” a russet-bearded knight finished on his behalf. He wore a grin like an eel for Jezebel’s benefit, before quickly redirecting his attention to the younger knight. “It’s a performance, you fig-eater. You don’t ask the nobility to hand over a brogan’s-head and then trot out a teatless scarecrow to perform. You’ve got to keep their attention.” He turned back to Jezebel with the same soulless smile and made a presentation of her with his hands.
She replicated the smile and the gesture. “May I pass?” She felt a tickle in her throat, a sort of hot burning. After fire-breathing with Jodori, she had washed out the lamp oil with a strong ale, but now the taste of the lamp oil returned in force. She briefly envisioned roaring flame at the men, striding through the charred remains. She glanced past the knights to the top of the hill where the Three Dragons awaited—both the inn and the sculpted trio atop the inn. Teriquay’s open jaw stretched toward the unwitting knights, its exposed gullet yearning to feast or, perhaps, preparing to flame.
A strange and wary look suddenly came over the face of the russet-bearded knight. Without saying a word, he gave Jezebel a little nod, reined back his horse, and receded to the left. The knights to the right and left of him respectively did the same, creating a part in the perimeter.
Jezebel passed, continuing to the inn.
*
When she walked inside, a woman who could have only been Queen Portia was descending the spiral staircase, accompanied by the royal retainer. The queen paused her descent when Jezebel entered. Mimicking their liege, Queen Portia’s retainers did the same, until, in very short fashion, every person in sight was staring at Jezebel.
Jezebel couldn’t help but return the queen’s gaze. Her Highness was an arresting woman, even in her old age. The queen’s hair was a black storm cloud streaked with lightning strikes of silver-grey, the legendary Salk mane. It framed an intelligent, venerable face that possessed notes of kindness and authority. She was slightly shorter than average height, a fact that in no way undercut her palpably evident charisma. She was clad in the sumptuary fashion, wearing a silver surcoat embroidered with the regalia of her house. The Salk family crest, its colors altered for the season, danced on the fabric, looking stylized and less formal than expected, though certainly not less expensive. She’s Beoliotius in the flesh, Jezebel thought passingly. The mother of the Twins.
“Madam Shayla,” the queen intoned, her voice sounding like honey poured over volcanic rock, “would you do us the honor of introducing our new guest?”
It was only then that Jezebel noticed Shayla Long-Eyes. She was standing on the steps beneath the queen, surprisingly inconspicuous. There were no obvious differences—her hair and dress remained the same—but she seemed to have retreated into herself somehow, and, in doing so, become a different person. Shayla gave the queen a quick smile in response, but it was the smile of the meek and the mild, devoid of the hunger and power that generally characterized her every facial expression.
When Shayla Long-Eyes spoke, her voice sounded like a trembling creek of water. “My Queen. Before you stands the young lady of whom I spoke: Jezebel White, the actress who plays the dragonfeeder.”
The expression on Queen Portia’s face suggested she had guessed as much. “Jezebel,” the queen said, letting the name sit unadorned in the space of a restive silence. Jezebel, to break the unease of simply standing there, gave a deep curtsy, and hung her head. Head bowed, she heard what sounded like the queen harrumphing. “Oh please, child, do raise your head.” Jezebel ended her curtsy, and once more found the queen’s eyes. “You will sup with me tonight, will you not?” the queen asked, though of course it wasn’t really a question.
“Yes, Your Highness,” Jezebel replied.
“Good,” the queen said. Her expression had changed once more: she wore a grin that was full of either impish mischief or masked malice, it was difficult to say which. “As you can imagine, I have quite a few questions for the actress who spends her days killing my brother.”
*
The Three Dragons Inn had a large common hall in the west wing, and that was where they dined. Over the years, Shayla had spared no expense in renovating the inn for the purpose of attracting ever-more affluent clientele; in no place was this more evident than the dining hall. Dying sunlight filtered through a series of gorgeous stained-glass windows on the hall’s western wall. The three windows bore depictions of scenes from the play, one for each act, beginning with the dragonfeeder’s ascension up the mountain and culminating with the dragon Teriquay’s descent from the same, beautifully captured in a myriad of colors—green, gold, and white being dominant. On the southern wall hung a massive tapestry, showcasing the beauty of Low Osgood as seen from the perspective of someone standing at the front door of the Three Dragons Inn. The Long-Eyes had commissioned the work from a master weaver out of Wrain, an eccentric artist named Cipriot who had spent time in Clyesia learning the art of perspective. Jezebel often stared in wonder at the work. Looking at the tapestry, she felt as if she might step into the fabric and begin the winding walk away from the inn, down toward the glistening perfection of Lake Wyglass in the distance.
An extravagant dinner was served. The queen’s own traveling cook had prepared the fare, and he had made it a point to prepare plates that blended the south with the north, the Struvan with the Ontish, the rivers and seas with the land and sky. A cherry and corn salad preceded a spice-dusted mountain river trout. Soon after, roasted heartbirds served in black-bread trenches arrived, followed by a sweet stew made from Qorlish grasses. For the main course, a hearty moonbear dish was served, the meat glistening red and served with a savory brown sauce. The queen in particular was enamored with the plate.
“When I was a child, Father would tell my brother and I stories of how grandfather stayed alive during the Crow and Arrow Rebellion by eating moonbear. Usually the moonbear was dried and salted, but once, when he was in his cups, Father scared Reuel and I to death by telling us a story of how Grandfather stalked and slew a moonbear to stave off starvation. I can’t remember what was more frightening—hearing how the moonbear nearly decapitated Grandfather with a swipe of its massive paw or listening to how Grandfather cut out the moonbear’s liver and ate it raw seconds after the bear was dead.”
Jezebel, seated next to the queen, nodded dumbly, uncertain how to respond. Multiple people were listening in, but the queen’s attention was directed at Jezebel. A few responses rattled around Jezebel’s skull, but they were too stupid to share: Your grandfather was Daeguss Salk, the first king of Ragar Or, your father was King Brogan I, and your brother Reuel was burnt to a crisp by the dragon Teriquay. Jezebel kept hoping that Shayla, seated opposite and on the other side of the queen, would jut into the conversation, but the Long-Eyes appeared committed to her newfound meekness.
“Your grandfather must have been a brave and fierce man, Your Highness,” Jezebel managed at last.
The queen bent an eyebrow at Jezebel and gave a small smile. “All the legends say so,” she replied. “And now that my grandfather is a legend, he will remain forever thus. Personally, I’m partial to stories of Grandfather’s kingship, when he became known as Daeguss the Unifier.” The queen looked distracted for a moment, before recovering. “But enough about my family. What I would really like to hear about is you. Did you know that I can scarce keep company at court for news of yet another noble going on holiday to see The Flame? And when they return, all they can talk about is the hypnotic performance of the girl who plays the dragonfeeder. But now I’m the one in Low Osgood, and I mean to drink my fill of the experience. So tell me—how did you come to play the part?”
Jezebel had a sense of the dangers inherent to conversing with royalty, but, seeing that the die had been cast, she summoned her thespian nerve and committed to the moment. “I had no acting experience before winning the role, Your Highness. When I first came to Low Osgood, I saw a troupe perform Arrival of the Ships by the lake. It was the first play that I had ever seen, and it stirred my soul in unexpected ways. It seemed to me that the actors had not merely performed a play—they had carved out a different reality for themselves, and there made a home. I was desperate to live in that space, if only for the span of a couple of hours each day. Months later, word spread around Low Osgood that there was to be an open audition for an ongoing play to be held at the new inn on Simstone. I gathered my courage and came.”
“And you won the part, without any prior acting experience?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” She was uncertain to what degree she should elaborate. “Madam Shayla chose me.”
The collective weight of the queen’s attention shifted to Shayla Long-Eyes. Shayla donned a demure smile. Her voice when she responded sounded like a light rain. “Jezebel was the correct choice for the dragonfeeder. Any simpleton would have recognized it.”
The queen’s curiosity wasn’t so easily allayed. “And yet you were the one who did recognize it.” The queen smiled yet again, a paring-knife grin. “We searched for the dragonfeeder for years, you know. We searched for the dragon too. All three dragons, in fact. They went wild after Reuel’s death: Mooncalf and Comet set fire to a nearby village before disappearing. Few remember those details. But everyone remembers the dragonfeeder. Don’t they?”
Jezebel’s heart gave a little tremble. Was the question intended for her? The space of the silence that followed was unbearable; Jezebel felt an urgent need to say anything that would bring the quiet to an end.
“The dragonfeeder was evil, Your Highness. Evil is memorable. But the dragonfeeder’s story is compelling only because it’s balanced by the story of the Salk dynasty, who weren’t undone by the tragedy of Reuel’s death. At the end of the play…” Jezebel halted, worried that she might soil the queen’s experience of the play on the morrow.
Queen Portia laughed. “Continue, my child. I may not have seen the play, but every scene has been described for me a hundred times over.”
Jezebel continued. “At the end of the play, the actress who plays Your Highness comes onstage and delivers an impassioned monologue mourning the death of her brother and her brother’s family. She then promises that the Salk line will continue through her, and that the realm will not be destroyed by so senseless and vile an act. It’s the queen’s words that make the play redemptive. Her goodness—the Salks’ goodness—is what gives the audience permission to be fascinated by the dragonfeeder. I’ve played the role of the dragonfeeder for years, and never once has the audience applauded when I’ve set foot onstage. But for your brother, for you…they cheer and clap, or they cry, because of their love for the Salks. Their love for Ragar Or.”
“They clap for you at the end, do they not? When you return to the stage and take your bow?”
Jezebel flushed with a sudden guilt. It was true that no one clapped for her during the play, but, at the end, her cheers were always the loudest. “Y…Yes, You…Your Highness,” she stuttered.
The table had grown deathly quiet. Only six were seated at the head table; down below in the benches, the burbling of conversation continued unabated, lively and good-natured.
“Make no mistake about the audience, dear girl,” the queen said, her voice growing dark. “They clap and cheer because they are entertained.” The queen’s onyx eyes zeroed in on Jezebel. “That’s a lesson we queens and kings know best of all. In order to rule, one must put on a good show.”