Dragon Witch.

Dolly Lien.

PROLOGUE.

The dragon flew high over the castle, the bright harvest moon gilding his scales, making them glow a deep, burnished gold. He had been drawn there by matters sensed, but not understood. Circling silently, he listened to the sounds rising from the tall granite tower, waiting patiently for events to unfold.

Screams slashed through the air, bounced off the walls, and raced down the stone corridors of the castle. Lady Christiana was about to give birth. Her shrieks of agony, rising to the heavens, were followed closely by the black dragon's howling challenge as he rose from the dark forest.

The ladies-in-waiting froze at the thundering response issued from the golden dragon. Some ran to the narrow tower windows to watch the huge beasts as they clashed high in the moonlit sky. Several of the women cowered in the corners, covered their heads and sobbed in terror.

Miriam did not leave her lady's side, but spoke soothing words as she wiped Christiana's brow with a damp, linen cloth.

The babe would come soon, and she knew she must not be distracted. Not even dragon battle could draw her attention.

Lady Christiana cursed the pain, the child, her husband, and the world in general as she bore down. But the babe was not yet ready to enter the world.

The black dragon launched himself at the gold, intent upon destruction. This young dragon was his mortal enemy, his greatest challenge. The black knew he must be victorious. With the death of this last hatchling there would be no more living golden males and he, S'rdonne, would rule supreme over Dragondom as the Great Wyrm, the eldest and most powerful

of all dragons. Revenge would be his. Hatred glowed from his ruby eyes as he plunged toward the smaller beast, fangs glistening in the glow of the moon.

But the golden dragon read his intent and evaded the slashing blow. He had fought this black before and knew his treachery. He circled high, folded his huge leathery wings close to his body and dove for the black's thick neck, intending to break it, to snap his enemy's spine.

They clashed like thunder. Sparks of light flew from their ma.s.sive bodies when they collided, looking like bolts of lightning to the awestruck watchers far below.

Christiana's final birth shriek was a faint echo of the battling dragons as they raged high above the castle. The girl child came into the world trying to vent her fury, but there was a covering over her face. Her arms flailed frantically, her tiny hands clawed at the caul, her chest heaved in anger.

The black dragon's talons raked over the golden dragon's chest, leaving a huge gash. Dragon blood poured freely as the mortally wounded gold plummeted toward the earth and certain death.

The babe grew still, and Miriam reached for the caul. As she carefully peeled the membrane from the tiny girl's face, the child took a deep breath and wailed, then howled in a fresh blaze of temper.

The cries reeled into the golden dragon's senses; instantly, magically, they healed his body and burrowed deep into his soul. At that moment, child and dragon became one, bonded irrevocably, eternally.

Abruptly his descent halted. His great, golden body began to regenerate, to fill with newfound strength, and he soared upward once again. He knew now that he could finish this age-old battle. He knew he could finally defeat his enemy, he and this wondrous girl-child.

The raging golden dragon catapulted into the black, rending shiny obsidian dragon scales from his opponent's vulnerable underbelly. The black dragon screeched in pain and tried to pull back, but now it was the gold who was relentless, pursuing his adversary across the moonlit sky.

The injured black dragon soared higher, trying frantically to escape his attacker. The pain amplified his senses a hundred fold and he, too, felt the joining of dragon and babe. He knew this was a thing too powerful for him to combat. At that moment he realized he must either destroy the child, or take her power.

This night he could not defeat the gold. This night he must retreat if he would survive to become the Great Wyrm. This night there would be no revenge. His screams of defiance and defeat echoed across the midnight sky as he fled.

The golden dragon did not pursue the black. He knew they would meet again. For the moment, he could not bring himself to leave the child-not even for the annihilation of his archenemy could he leave this incredible child. He circled the tower, screaming his triumph to the world below.

Miriam peeled the last of the caul from the infant's face and looked closely at her. Slanted, golden cat's eyes stared back, unblinking, under a mop of thick, curly, red hair. The tiny newborn smiled! Miriam took an involuntary step back, her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked at the child's mother.

Christiana blanched at the sight of her child's eyes, crossed herself, and wailed loudly. "The curse," she sobbed. "'Tis my mother's curse come back to haunt me."

The babe's eyes slowly changed to a soft, moss-green, but she made no newborn cries. She shed no tears, but simply stared at her mother, watching, waiting.

"Dragon Witch," a midwife whispered as she crossed herself and fled the room.

"Dragon Witch." The words were echoed throughout the castle as the events of the child's birth were repeated. "Dragon Witch."

Four-year-old Tristan clung tightly to Sarah's neck. The roars of the dragon battle and the screaming from Christiana's birthing chamber had frightened him badly. "Will she die, Mother?" he asked, his small body trembling in fear. "Will she die like Caroline's mum did?"

"Hush now, child. Never say such things lest they come to pa.s.s and someone sets the blame to you." Sarah held her small

son close to her heart. "Besides," she whispered in his ear, "she is too mean to die." They both giggled, and Tristan settled deeper into his mother's arms, his blond head nodding in exhaustion.

"Mother?" Tristan's voice was barely a whisper. "If she dies, will Father wed you?"

Sarah rocked him for a long moment, staring sadly into the huge kitchen hearth. "Nay, baby. Lord Wendall will never take me to wife. I am just a kitchen drudge, and he is lord of the manor. There can never be a marriage between us, Tristan."

"But he is my father and you are my mother. You are supposed to be wed, are you not?"

"'Tis not always true, my darling." She squeezed him tightly and gently kissed his head of unruly curls. "Not always true." She rocked him slowly and stared thoughtfully into s.p.a.ce.

"But Mother..."

"Hush, Tristan, and try to sleep. We have much work on the morrow."

The child, born at the height of the raging dragon storm, was named Tempest, not by a loving mother, but by her doting father.

Christiana had wanted a son. Wendall had no sons to inherit his vast estates (if one discounted that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Tristan, whelped by a kitchen drudge). She vowed privately not to concern herself with the screaming monster she had just birthed. She was mistress of the castle and would have others do that ch.o.r.e for her. Her labor had been relatively easy, but Christiana swore never again to suffer such pain. Wendall's three-year-old daughter, Caroline, could inherit for all she cared. She hated the way her beautiful body had changed with her pregnancy.

And then to give birth to that...that witch. She would never, ever lay her hands on the witch-child. Her mother's dying curse tried to surface in her mind, but she banished it. No. She would not remember...

Tempest had been born with a caul, and Miriam, Lady Christiana's healing woman, knew that meant trouble. Even the servants were whispering.

"She is bewitched. She will bring disaster upon herself and everyone around her," whispered Mary the chambermaid.

"Look at that red hair!"

"Witch's hair!"

"A caul is a witch's veil!"

"And she was born during a dragon fight!"

They each made a sign to protect themselves against evil and watched as Miriam wrapped the caul in a cloth and took it from the room. The attending women sighed in relief.

A harsh winter's storm gathered as Miriam carried the caul far from the ma.s.sive old castle to the ancient forest growing almost up to the walls. As she walked into the deep woods, biting, rain-laden winds began to lash her.

Miriam stood before an ancient oak tree. A druid's tree, she thought. And a very good place to bury this precious burden.

Picking up a small branch recently blown from the old oak, she began digging a shallow hole in the hard earth beneath the tree. As she dug she sang softly. The wind bent the limbs of the oak toward her as though they were listening carefully to the woman's song. Beneath the tree there dwelt an eerie silence; the early winter storm raged everywhere except around the slim figure digging at its base. The hole finally deep enough, Miriam picked up the bundle containing the caul, lifted it as though she were offering it to the tree, and spoke.

By Oak and Ash and Thorn, I give over the guardianship of this precious gift.

May the G.o.ddess ever keep the child of this caul safe from harm.

May you, Ancient Tree of the Druids, ever be a refuge in times of strife.

May you offer her your love and protection when the need arises.

May this be a place of peace and tranquility always.

May you share your ancient wisdom and knowledge.

And may you bring her love, true

and everlasting.

If this be the will of the G.o.ds...

So Mote It Be!

She bent and carefully placed the small bundle into the earth, then turned to retrieve her digging stick. Suddenly lightning slashed the sky. Thunder rumbled in its wake, then still, sweet silence. As she turned back to the ancient oak tree, the driving rain ceased, the clouds lifted away and, above the tree, a softly glowing full moon lit the sky. Her breath caught in her throat as she watched a beam of silvery, white light stream from the moon, feeling its way through the branches, illuminating the cloth bundle. It glowed brightly for a moment.

The sweet perfume of spring wildflowers drifted to Miriam on a gentle breeze. Dirt began to slowly drift into the hole. A warm wind scattered fallen oak leaves over the area until there was no sign of the recent disturbance.

The moonbeam shyly withdrew-silence reigned.

In silent rapture, Miriam gazed at the glowing moon.

Gradually she became aware of the hushed rustle of wings. An immense golden dragon drifted slowly to the earth, settling beneath the giant oak.

You have done well, Miriam. The gentle voice echoed through her mind. My son will be pleased.

"He is her chosen mate?" Miriam asked in wonder.

He is. The dragon gently touched the leaf-covered spot with the tip of one golden wing. The prophesy shall be fulfilled.

She spread her wings and glided away as quietly as she had come.

With tear-filled eyes, Miriam raised her hand in salute.

"My thanks to you Lady of Dragonkind. You have truly blessed this special child. Blessed be."

Miriam turned to head back to the castle and was startled to see the storm raging fiercely beyond the borders of the oak.

She had thought the storm had abated while she was busy beneath the old oak tree. She paused, just for a moment, watching the lightning flash, hearing the thunder boom, and feeling the air tingle as fierce winds whipped the trees. Still all

remained serene under the ancient oak.

Miriam smiled and whispered softly, "She will be a weather-witch for sure." Pulling the hood of her old green cloak over her head, she began the long walk home.

When Miriam arrived back at Castle Windhaven, all was in chaos. Lady Christiana refused to see her newborn infant.

"She has already caused me too much pain," she told the midwives. "I wanted a son. I shall have nothing to do with a girl child. Take her away." She turned her face from her tiny new daughter and fell into an exhausted sleep.

Wendall Sanct Joliet heard his wife's last statement as he entered the room. He shook his head with sad resignation as he took his daughter from the midwife. Cradling her lovingly in his arms, he gazed into her beautiful green eyes.

She looked back as if to say, "'Tis all right, Father. I have you. 'Tis all I need."

"Tempest," he murmured, tears filling his eyes. He touched her dainty, perfect hand, and her tiny fingers closed around his. "Child of my heart you are, and so shall you be always."

She listened solemnly, as if understanding his every word, then a sweet, tiny smile twitched at the edges of her mouth.

The two figures sat on huge, ornate chairs. They were as unmoving as statues, their faces hidden in the shadows. A silver and onyx chessboard lay between them, the game not yet begun. Over the center of the board hovered a glowing crystal ball, its soft light giving life to the room.

Each figure stared intently into the crystal .

"'Tis begun." The voice was soft and breathless with antic.i.p.ation.

Thunder roared through the air, shaking the heavy chairs.

The crystal ball flashed brilliantly for a moment, then calmed to a steady, throbbing, azure glow.

"The prophesy has begun."