more original fantasy fic, if you'd all care to read it...?

[luninosity]

So, I think I'd said I'd post this a while ago, but...have the second of those original fantasy short stories? This one was written more recently than the last one, though it's still from a couple of years ago. As yet unpublished, though that may change...

Title: The Sorceress and the Dragon's Heart
Rating: oh, probably PG.
Word Count: 6,610
Summary: um...magicians, dragons, a little bit of romance?
Notes: this one's out for consideration by a magazine, so, may not be up here that long, but...hope you enjoy?



The knock at the door came, of course, at precisely the wrong time.

She’d been mixing rosemary and angelica, a small blessing spell for a farm family down in the valley; the noise broke in on her concentration just as she whispered the final words to the small knot of herbs, infusing each phrase with a touch of her own power. Simple spells, simple magic; but even those drained her, requiring that she give of herself each time. Sometimes she was thankful that her powers were not more-she could only imagine the terrible draining joy that the great magicians of years past must have known-and sometimes, like now, she hated the fact that even a momentary loss of concentration dissolved all her bindings, making the spell fall into tiny fragmented bits. The baby had been sleeping, the rain had been soothing against her window, and she’d been hoping for an afternoon of peace for once.

Clearly, the world did not concur. Neither did her visitor, who thumped at the door again.

“Oh, what now!” Lily said in exasperation, and set down the crushed herbs on her workbench with as much care as she could.

The pounding redoubled; someone obviously was desperate to see her. She could hear the muffled sounds of a voice calling her, but the heavy wood of the door made the words indistinguishable.

“Coming!” she yelled over Merry’s sudden screaming-the noise had woken the baby up-and when she got to the door she yanked it open without ceremony. “What do you want?”

For a minute they gazed at each other in silence: the sorceress with her hastily thrown-on glamour, through which tangled hair and patched-up breeches flickered dimly, and the tall man with amber eyes who regarded her curiously, one hand still raised to knock. He wore Court dress, all crushed velvet and gold embroidery; the rain spots would never come out, Lily thought. His face was familiar, though it took her a second to place it, and when she did she couldn’t quite believe it.

“I know you,” she said, surprised. “You’re the Bastard.”

One corner of his mouth quirked up, a wry acknowledgement of old pain that surprised her. Perhaps the king’s half-brother was more human than all the rumors made him out to be, after all. “So I am.” He added, even as she observed the signs she had missed before, the marks of worry and sleepless nights around his eyes, “I need your help, Sorceress Liliana.”

“Everyone does,” Lily said tartly. “It’ll cost you.” She stepped back to let him in, inwardly wincing, knowing what he saw: the dusty cottage, strewn equally with magical paraphernalia and baby-related items; the burned bread on the stove; herself, rumpled and unkempt and smudged with smoke and berry stains under what she suspected was a pathetic attempt at disguise. Hardly the kind of place any Court noble would frequent, much less such a thoroughgoing hedonist as William the Bastard, who purportedly slept on gold-embroidered sheets and paid his mistresses with rubies.

Of course, rumor also had it that he rewarded his assassins similarly, though none of them had yet managed to kill the king.

Things to keep in mind when dealing with the Bastard: he can afford to pay, but he can also afford to have you killed.

He followed her in, ducking his head to avoid the low beam of the doorframe. The velvet of his shirt caught briefly on the splintery wood. He ignored it.

“I imagined it would. How much will it take for you to come with me to the palace?"

He had to raise his voice for the last few words; Merry, who had paused for breath, had chosen that moment to start shrieking again. Lily, whose mind was still stuck on coming to the palace, took a second to move; before she could, William walked over to the crib, picked up Merry, and settled her comfortably in one large arm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Merry went silent, wide-eyed. Lily could sympathize.

He met her eyes across the baby’s head, with an expression something akin to a shrug and a smile; Lily let out the breath she had been holding, and said, “Thank you.”

“I like children.” He kept his voice calm and soothing, and Merry snuggled up against him. “I used to look after Henry. When we were boys...” That flicker of pain intruded into his voice again, and again she wondered why he was allowing her to see it. It might have been on purpose; she believed him, as difficult as that was in the face of all she’d heard about him, but she also suspected that he would be willing to use every means at his disposal to convince her to do what he wanted done.

And then he said, in the voice of a man knowingly grasping at straws, “That’s why I need your help. Henry is dying.”

Lily stared at him in shock. “The king-?”

“We think it’s something magical. The physicians have tried everything-I thought you could help. Maybe. I know you worked with Lorre; I thought-I don’t know.” He sighed. It sounded genuine.

Lily ignored the casual mention of Merry’s father, though as always the name sparked a deepseated anger in her bones. But the king was dying, and Lorre was gone, and she was all they had left. She heard herself say, without conscious thought, “Of course I’ll come.”

The bleak amber of his eyes warmed slightly; Lily hesitated, moving past him to find her bag, the one she kept packed for emergencies, all the things she knew to try and the things she hoped she wouldn’t have to. She touched his shoulder, briefly. “I don’t know what I can do,” she said. “I need to know more. About what happened. Why you think it’s magical. Anything you can tell me.”

He nodded. “I’ll tell you on the way.”

They arrived at the palace in what Lily thought had to be record time, despite the constant drizzle and the cling of mud. By then, she knew precisely as much as anyone knew about the king’s condition: he had been hunting in the woods, his horse had been seen suddenly running terrified and riderless, and two of his courtiers had stumbled upon him a moment later, standing still and gazing at nothing, like a man possessed. They had thought they’d seen something moving away in the bushes as they ran up to him, but no one could say what that something might have been.

They’d brought the king back to the palace, his fever already beginning, and called for the best doctors in the kingdom.

That had been five days ago, and all the doctors, one by one, had shaken their heads, and the young king continued to fall deeper into feverish dreams, his periods of lucidity fading. Medical skill had failed; whispers of hostile magic, long feared in the intricate circles of power at Court, were revived.

William, not quite believing the rumors but willing to leave no stone unturned, had gone to find himself the best-known of the magicians, sorceresses, and hedge-witches in the kingdom. Lily supposed that she should be flattered by that, but the truth was that real magicians were rare these days. No one currently practicing had even a tenth of Lorre’s skill; Lily, as his last pupil, had only acquired her status by default, since he had vanished without a trace just under a year ago.

For the first time in a long time, though, she wished for his presence. Lorre could have fought fire with fire; Lily could only do the best she could with her small embers of power.

In the palace, the Bastard brushed past the startled courtiers as if they were so many chickens; they scattered in his wake, murmuring as he passed. Lily tried to keep up, trailing along behind him like a drab little shadow and feeling self-conscious despite her hastily reassembled facade of blonde curls, smooth skin, and magician-appropriate jeweled gown. She suspected that they could see through it all, though she knew they couldn’t. She wondered bleakly how many of them feared her, and how many of them considered her beneath their notice, a sorceress who lived out in the wild in a leaking cottage and found lost pigs for farmer’s children.

The older men and women feared her more, but that was only to be expected; they remembered Lorre.

William walked directly into his brother’s bedchamber, still damp from the rain and ignoring all the hangers-on and curious watchers in the antechamber, and sat down on the bed. Lily, ill at ease in a room where each chair was probably worth more than her cottage, hovered behind him, shifting from foot to foot, and clutched Merry protectively as gazes, some coolly dismissive, some fearful, swept over them both.

“Henry.” William’s voice was surprisingly gentle; Lily couldn’t see his expression from her vantage point, but the tone reminded her of the way she soothed Merry, when the baby was fractious. “Henry, are you awake?”

“Will?” The king opened his eyes, struggling to sit up; Lily caught a glimpse of his face and thought, They really do look alike. Henry’s face was softer, more rounded, puppy-brown eyes brightened by fever, but despite that there was no mistaking the relation. “I missed you.”

“I know. I brought someone to help you.” He looked up, waved vaguely at Lily. “She’s a magician, Henry. A good one.” Lily wondered whether he meant good in terms of her skill, or her intentions. She hoped the latter, because at least she could promise that.

The king frowned, just a little. “The magician, Will. His eyes hurt.” Delirious, Lily thought. Not a good sign. She heard the pause before William answered, the effort at control evident in his voice. “Not this one, Henry. I promise. She won’t hurt you.”

“The dark,” the king said, and closed his eyes. Lily, hurting for him, moved up to the bed and touched his cheek; his skin burned her fingertips. She said, to his half-brother, “I need space to work. And a room for Merry. And a place for us to sleep.”

William nodded, and sent several servants scurrying in various directions. To the mass of Court finery occupying the outer chamber, hovering and watching, he simply said, “Leave.” Most of them melted away; when a few showed signs of hesitating, he added, “Now.” The room emptied in moments.

“Nice trick,” Lily murmured under her breath, hands already busy pulling herbs out of her bag. She hadn’t expected the Bastard to hear her, but he did.

“They all believe I’ll kill them if they get in my way,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s useful.” He stepped out of the way of servants returning with furniture: a crib, a bed, extra blankets. “Merry,” he said thoughtfully, and she knew he was wondering about her, a sorceress with a child. “It’s an unusual name.”

“It’s short for Merlyn.”

“The falcon.” He watched her settle the object of discussion into the crib. “Interesting choice.”

“Lorre named her.”

His eyebrows went up. “Lorre did.”

“Her father.”

“Ah.” His voice was noncommittal, but a slight tightening around his mouth spoke volumes. Watching, Lily guessed, “You knew Lorre.”

“Not really.” The Bastard almost smiled, ruefully. “You’d remember, he used to come to Court, when we were younger-he’d rant at our father for hours about how the Goddess-worship cults were corrupting the people, how no one respected the power of magic anymore. My father, good reformer that he was, finally banished him from Court, and Lorre got mad and kept the palace trapped in perpetual night for three days.”

“That sounds like Lorre.”

“I always had the feeling that he was really angry because no one respected him and his power anymore.”

That, Lily thought, sounded even more like Lorre. She went back to her bag, practiced fingers finding bark and leaves, crumbling them into water, watching the young king’s flushed, strained face.

“Henry tried to like him anyway. But Henry liked-likes-everyone. I-” William stopped, and then said, quietly, “Can you help him?”

“I don’t know,” Lily admitted, softly. “I’ll try.”

She worked through the day, steadily, as the sun burned lower in the sky above them, as shadows waxed and waned outside the palace gates. Pounding willow bark and sweetgrass until her hands ached; holding the king’s weakening body, sponging him with cold cloths, trying to bring down the fever. Whispering all the charms she knew, little spells and cantrips, pouring herself into the words, trying to tell them, heal. Make right what is wrong here.

William was there for most of the day, though not all of it; he flickered in and out of the room like a shadow and she never noticed his movements until she looked up to see him gone, or to see him there, holding water to his half-brother’s lips, taking mortar and pestle from her hands when she grew too tired, or just sitting by the bed watching. Once or twice she caught him checking on Merry, which made her smile, at how easily he seemed to have adopted the baby. She did not know where he went, when he was gone, nor did she ask, though several times those jewel-like eyes were hard and glittering with frustration when he first returned.

Her world narrowed to those few things: the bitter-bright scent of herbs and magic in the air, William’s panther presence in the room, the ever-present awareness of her child’s breath, sleeping or waking, and the dying king on the bed. She did everything she knew how to do.

By the end of that first day she knew that it wasn’t enough.

She had been standing still by the side of the bed, having just finished another unsuccessful attempt at a healing tea; what little Henry had consumed had had no apparent effect, and she felt ready to cry. Her head ached, and her hands ached, and she felt hopeless and exhausted and wrung out.

William took the almost-full cup from her gently, hands warm against hers, and set it on the nightstand; he looked down at Henry, and then up at Lily’s face, and turned and left the room abruptly.

Out in the hall, he took a deep, shuddering breath; Lily, feeling inadequate, put a hand on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Of course not,” he said, and slowly pulled his expression into some sort of order, but the habitual arrogant facade hid nothing. He looked at her curiously. “You’re slipping.”

“I’m-” Lily put a hand up to her hair, felt coarse brown strands instead of the golden silk she had come into the palace wearing. “Oh. Thank you.”

He waved a hand. “No need. How much of that is real, by the way?”

“None,” Lily admitted, feeling that she owed him some honesty. Besides, he’d already seen her pathetic cottage, her disastrous life; she had nothing left to hide.

One corner of his mouth tipped up, that expression she was coming to recognize. “You’d fit in well, here,” he said tiredly. “We all wear masks.”

“They say you want the throne.” The words came out before she could stop them.

“Oh, I do. I always have. And I would be better at it than Henry; he’s far too trusting. But I don’t want it like this. Not at the cost of his life.” He eyed her, amused. “I wondered how long it would take you to suspect me, by the way. Most of the Court already thinks I’ve poisoned him.”

“You wouldn’t,” Lily said, instinctively, but knowing she was right.

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“I heard such dreadful stories about you,” she admitted. “Lorre despised the frivolity and corruption of Court in general, mind you, but somehow your name came up as the height of both.”

“Ah, Lorre. He used to try to convince my father to have me killed, when we were boys.”

Lily clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle the horrified laugh that threatened to bubble up from her exhaustion. “He didn’t really.”

“Oh, yes. He said I would grow up treacherous, tainted by the perfidy of Court life and all attendant iniquity, and be a danger to the legitimacy of the kingdom. Mind you, I was about ten at the time.”

“I take it your father didn’t listen.”

William offered her that half-grin again, fleeting and without real humor. “He said it might be true, but he’d be damned if he’d spill the blood of his own first-born son.” The grin dimmed a little, shadowed with memory. “Henry used to come find me after those conversations-he was about five or six-and I’d be sitting there just shaking with anger, wanting to kill someone, and he’d throw his arms around me and tell me he’d never let them take me away.” He closed his eyes for a minute. “I said I’d always be there for him.”

Lily did not say He’ll be all right, because she could not promise that; moved by an impulse she couldn’t explain, she rested her hand on his shoulder, and he didn’t move away. “I’ll do everything I can,” she said softly instead, and from the look he gave her, she thought he appreciated the honesty. She straightened her shoulders, and went back inside.

After a minute, he followed.

The evening wore into night, and the night into morning again. The weather, like the king’s condition, did not change; rain lashed the windows, reducing the world into a smoky grey blur, shapeless and indistinct. Like mourning, Lily thought. As if the kingdom knew.

Henry was sleeping, but it was not a quiet sleep; he moved and whispered and whimpered, at times speaking incoherent words: not me, he said once, and too hard, plaintive and fretful. Once or twice he said his half-brother’s name.

Lily stayed beside him, breathing charms and chants in a voice tired from continuous use, trying to get him to drink, trying to soothe his sleep. William had vanished again, and for once so had the near-constant knot of hovering courtiers that stood about like jackals, wondering if the king would die. Perhaps, she thought tiredly, they had finally given up. Perhaps they sensed something she did not, the way an animal herd might, in the wild.

In the next room, Merry stirred, waking, hungry and complaining. Lily stood, cramped muscles protesting, and went to get her.

The baby relaxed once she’d been fed; Lily was only thankful that some kind soul had arranged for porridge and cream and even applesauce to be brought up for them. She’d had no time to spare to go hunting for the kitchens herself.

Holding Merry, she drifted to the window, and stood still, humming and rocking the baby, just gazing into the silvery mist and trying hard not to think about anything at all. Just the feel of her child in her arms, sweet and warm and alive, and the downy brush of baby’s hair against her skin, like kitten’s fur.

Behind them, the young king moaned softly in his sleep. He was dying; Lily knew that much. Had known it, since that first day.

Merry gave a sudden, excited chirp, and wriggled in her mother’s hold.

Startled, Lily tightened her grip; but the girl wasn’t falling, or trying to get down. She was peering intently forward, at something in the window. Lily watched, wondering what she might have seen among the shifting mist.

And then she saw it, only for a moment, and with an almost audible rush of comprehension, everything became clear.

The scales were the same iridescent grey as the mists, and it moved through the rain like an eel in water, slippery and silent. Lily had seen one before, in one of Lorre’s books, long ago, one firelit and sleepy evening under his tutelage, memorizing the properties of magical beasts. She could even hear his voice, clear and confident as always, saying The eyes of the dragon are its deadliest weapon. It will show you truth, it will show you lies, it will show you yourself, the self you most fear, until you long for death. That’s how dragons kill, Lily-love: they want only willing prey. Remember not to look in their eyes. The eyes, she thought. Henry had said it, but she hadn’t remembered.

A dragon, here. No wonder the king was dying.

Lily followed the slip-slide of scales through the window, through the mist, lost them, found them again near the moat. She knew what to look for, but the rain was devious. It tricked her eyes, confusing her with patterns.

The dragon turned its head, then, and two wide blue eyes met hers directly, magnetic and shocking even across the distance.

Lily gasped, caught her breath, stepped backwards. She stumbled on the hem of her skirt and almost fell; Merry voiced her displeasure at the sudden clumsiness, loudly.

When she looked back at the window, she saw only mist.

She put Merry back in her crib, first, very carefully, and then ran for the door.

She almost ran into William, coming back in from wherever he had gone this time. He looked angry; his mouth was set in a thin line, and his eyes were darker than she remembered, almost black. But he looked at her expression, and the anger rapidly transmuted to worry. “Henry-?”

“I know what happened,” Lily said quickly, interrupting him. “He knew; he tried to tell us. Me. But I didn’t understand.”

He started to speak; she hurried on, before he could grow too hopeful. “The eyes, he said. The dragon’s eyes.”

“A dragon’s-I thought they were extinct.” He sounded astonished, but not disbelieving; Lily hoped that he would continue to trust her word, because the rest of what she had to tell him would not be as easy to hear.

“They aren’t; only rare. But this one...” She hesitated, awkward. Uncertain of how to phrase her next certainty. “This one is more than an ordinary dragon. Or less. It was human, once.”

No sound but the rain met that statement.

She swallowed hard. “It’s Lorre.”

“Lorre-are you sure?” William wasn’t arguing with her; she could hear it in his voice. He was, however, confused, and a little of the anger from earlier had resurfaced. “How? And why? And how do you know?”

Lily said, unhappily, “I saw it. Through the window. I thought I recognized-it’s not a spell I know. But he would. And I saw its eyes. His eyes.”

“Lorre,” William said softly. He took a breath, let it out. “Well. What can we do?”

“Not we,” Lily said. Hating the answer, hating the knowledge of what she had to say, what she would have to do. If she could.

She said, to the richly carpeted floor, “I can find him, and I can talk to him. Learn what he wants. What he’s doing. I can do that.”

William was silent for a minute; the unspoken words filled the air nonetheless. It’s dangerous, he’s more powerful than you are, what if something goes wrong, what about Merry, are you sure? But he said none of them.

What he did say was, “I’ll come with you.”

“Will,” she said swiftly, using the name she’d heard his brother use, speaking with all the intimacy she could find. “Will, no. I think-you aren’t a magician-I think anyone else would end up like Henry. And Lorre won’t hurt me.”

She knew the last words might have been a mistake the moment she said them; she felt the tangled barricade of emotion go up between them in the awareness of what she and Lorre had been to each other, felt the weight of the Bastard’s silence before he answered. But it was true; Lorre would probably not hurt her. She hadn’t meant anything more than that.

“You’re right,” William said, and she snapped her gaze up to his face. His gaze was rueful, not angry, but a little resigned. “But,” he continued, “I’d rather you not go alone. I want to be there. It is my brother’s life, after all.” The edge of bitterness was not strong, but sharp.

Lily nodded. “We should go now,” she said. “As soon as we can.” Before she became too afraid to face the dragon. Before she lost her nerve.

“If you’re ready,” William said gently, and the concern for her, layered in among a thousand other emotions of hope and fear and worry, steadied her resolve. She would not let him down.

“Besides,” he added, as Lily stepped into Merry’s room, “if we go now, perhaps I can manage to get eaten by a dragon before Henry’s ministers find me again.”

Lily poked her head around the corner. “They don’t want you dead-?” she asked, suddenly worried. He’d said most of the Court already suspected that he had planned his brother’s murder...

“Oh, no.” William laughed, but it sounded hollow. “No. Disloyal to a man, the lot of them, switching allegiances as soon as it’s to their advantage. Henry should have them all banished. They want to make me king.”

The three of them, king’s brother, sorceress, and child, left the castle in the late morning, though the sun stayed hidden, and went in search of the dragon alone.

William had looked askance at Lily when she’d brought Merry along, but hadn’t asked, clearly assuming that Lily knew what she was doing. Lily had tried for a reassuring smile and hoped he was right.

They’d brought no soldiers, no men-at-arms; those wouldn’t've done any good. No armor, no weapons, either. Only heavy cloaks against the rain.

They crossed the moat, beyond the palace walls, and Lily caught the flicker of dragonskin among the leaves, at the distant tree line. She said to William, “Stay here.” She added, seeing the protest in his eyes, “I need you able to come and get us, if something goes wrong. Not caught in Lorre’s spell. Stay here. Please.”

He stood still and watched her walk away, and she felt his eyes on her back the entire time.

Lily moved through the damp grass, clutching Merry to her, alone. The rain had lightened somewhat, but it still dampened her hair, her clothes, clinging like teardrops to her skin. She walked out into the field beyond the moat, where in summer the tournament games would mock life and death with the clash of arms, and stopped.

The dragon came out to meet her.

It shone like liquid light, like oil on water, the patterns of its iridescent scales changing and flowing hypnotically. It moved like the slide of silk on skin. It stood a head above her, but the length of it extended into the shadows, so that she could not guess at its true size.

It still had Lorre’s eyes, the color of a midsummer sky. They dared her to come closer, to lose herself in the dragon’s gaze.

She thought, in a moment of absolute clarity, Please let this work.

The dragon’s eyes swallowed her image and reflected it back, a tiny scared stick figure of a woman, holding a smaller doll-like bundle in her arms, plain and thin and lined with all the care she hid behind her sorceress’ glamour, and Lily could not look away. She saw herself, all her weaknesses, all the fears and inadequacies, and she stood frozen and aching in place. She might, she thought, go mad in the face of it.

That was the heart of the dragon’s power, after all: the ability to read human desires and frailties, greed and lust and pain, and to give it back a hundredfold. She couldn't fight it, any more than she could fight a hurricane. Had she been alone, she might have given up, given in to the despair.

But she was not alone, and Merry, in her arms, started to cry, as if knowing something was wrong.

The high wavering cry broke through the spell, and Lily found that she could speak, could whisper, “Shh,” and other calming words, could hold her child and feel that connection, the heartbeat that had come from her, life that depended on her. She was herself, small and weak, but as inadequate as she was, she cared for something infinitely more precious than herself.

She said, not to the baby but to the dragon, “I know who you are.”

She still could not move, and the dragon could not speak in return, but she sensed that it was listening. She went on, softly, “You taught me magic, once. You taught me how to listen to the birds, how to tell if berries were poisonous at a touch. How to heal, when I could. How to fight, if I had to.” She took a breath. Was something happening to the scales? The patterns made it impossible to tell.

She said to it, to him, “You taught me how to love. I remember that. And you taught me how to hate, too, when you left me. But it was a human thing to do.” She was speaking slowly, trying to infuse each phrase with her own small magic, just enough to underscore their importance, to make him listen. She wove words threaded with enchantment, and offered them to him, powered by all her hope and love and anger and fear. She held nothing back, because to do so would be to deny him the way home.

“Merry,” she said, stroking her-their-daughter’s hair, gently keeping Merry from looking directly at the dragon. “Merlyn, our daughter, do you remember her? You named her. You were proud of her, of us, at first. Until we couldn’t be the magicians you wanted. You always did want magic before anything else.” No censure; they couldn’t afford that, not now. She was building an image, a man, the man she remembered; there was no room here for old resentment, not if she wanted to save him. “She has your eyes, you know. I remember being so pleased with that, the way she looks like you.”

She paused again. There was definitely a change happening, an alteration in the weather; the dragon’s scales danced and clashed like thunderclouds, and she thought that she could look away now, if she wanted to. But she did not.

“We met in the summer, on a warm day, when you came to my village looking for the place where moonflowers grow. You had already been banished from Court for fighting with the old king, and we were all a little afraid of you. But you told me I could be beautiful. You told me I had a gift.” She smiled. “You like strawberries. And you hate being outside in the snow. And you’ll argue with anyone when you believe you’re right.”

She took a breath, let it out. “Your name is Lorre.”

And the scales shifted, glittering, moving in a dazzling storm, so blinding that Lily had to glance away, her eyes stinging.

When she looked back, the dragon was gone, leaving only the man.

Lorre opened his eyes carefully, and sat up. He looked as perfect as Lily remembered, even now, all golden skin and eyes like crushed sapphires, despite their current reddened settings. She’d always thought he resembled some fairy-tale prince come to life, too impossible to be real. He whispered, wonderingly, “Lily. When did you get so powerful?”

His eyes held hers as he got to his feet, but he did not ask for her help, nor did she offer. He stood, as always, a little taller than her own height, and even naked gave the impression that he was perfectly in command of himself and his surroundings. He gazed at his hands, turned them over: smooth skin, short nails, not scales or talons. Human hands.

He started to speak, stopped; looked past Lily to William, standing like a silent grim shadow behind her. “I am sorry,” he said, after a moment.

William said nothing.

Lorre tipped his head to one side, golden hair falling over one shoulder; listening, Lily thought, to some sounds only he could hear, the whisper and pulse of magic in the air, or maybe just the noise of the world through human ears again. He added, “The king will be all right. I’ve-I can do that much from here.” He stopped, awkward. Lily wondered when he had learned to be awkward.

She watched William’s throat move as he swallowed; he said, “You’ll come back with us and make sure.” The statement wanted to be a command, but was not, quite.

Lorre’s glance flickered like a butterfly between them; he sighed, and said, “Yes. It seems I will. And perhaps I could trouble you for clothing, as well. I’ve no idea what happened to mine.”

William, face impassive, shrugged off his cloak and tossed it in Lorre’s direction, clearly not intending for him to catch it. Lorre, just as easily, put out a hand and caught it from a foot away, raised an eyebrow, and said, “Thank you.”

And Lily turned her back on them both, and held her daughter tightly, and gazed up at the sky, where the rainclouds were already blowing away, and laughed, exhausted, elated, alive.

The swarm of people around the king’s chambers would have told them of his recovery, if they hadn’t already known it; the news spread like wildfire through the Court. Despite the excitement, everyone appeared willing to give the magicians a wide berth, and scattered when William, Lily, and Lorre appeared in the king’s bedchamber.

Henry opened his eyes, blinked, and said, “Will?” and his brother was at his side in a heartbeat. Lily watched, smiling, withdrawing to one side, letting them have their reunion.

“See,” Lorre commented, pausing beside her. “He’s fine.” He’d found proper clothing somewhere, or maybe just pulled it out of thin air. The blue fabric matched his eyes.

“Why?” Lily said. “Why would you do this to him?”

“You know better than that,” Lorre said, a little sadly. “You found me, in there. You know.”

“I know you didn’t mean to hurt him,” Lily said. “They know, too. But they wouldn’t understand why you’d do it in the first place, Lorre. Why a dragon.”

Lorre shrugged. “Because I could. Because I wanted to see if I could. To be a creature of so much power, even if I got lost in it, for a little while...you understand that much, Lily-love. You used to dream of it, too.”

“I used to,” she said, after a minute. Because he was right, and because he deserved the answer. “Not now.”

“No. You dream of other things, now.” He smiled, and it lit up his face, the way she recalled. “But you still saved me.”

“That might've been a mistake,” Lily muttered, half under her breath, and was surprised to hear him laugh.

“I suspect our esteemed royal family might agree with you, Lily-love. But I’m not worried. After all, you’ll be here. And I’d trust you to save me again, you know.” His tone was teasing, the Lorre she remembered, but his eyes were serious. He leaned against the wall, thoughtfully.

“They could use a magician, you know, at Court. To stop-things like this, from happening again. Someone who could do what I couldn’t, years ago. Who could teach them not to fear magic, anymore.” They both contemplated the wide-eyed faces they’d seen in the hallways outside, and he added, dryly, “That might be the hardest part.”

“You could stay,” Lily said, looking at him, trying to read his expression. The face was the same, the confidence the same; but this Lorre, who had worn the shape of a dragon and nearly killed and saved a king, was not quite the same man she remembered.

“No,” Lorre said, rather ruefully, eying the king’s bed, where the Bastard hovered protectively over his younger brother, explaining recent events to a wide-eyed Henry, with occasional emphatic gestures. “I think I should be-elsewhere.”

“Where will you go?”

“Where magicians go,” Lorre said, elliptically. But he smiled, a little, as if he knew something she did not. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I don’t,” Lily said tartly, but she still followed him to the door, one arm still wrapped securely around Merry. “Goddess’ luck to you,” she said, and was surprised to find that she actually meant it.

Lorre smiled. “And to you. But you don’t need it.” He touched Merry, lightly, a good-bye touch. “I’ll come back. When I can.”

“I know,” Lily said, and watched him leave. She stood looking into the suddenly empty space for some time after he’d gone. After he’d gone wherever mages went. Whatever that meant to him.

She heard William’s soft step behind her, and turned. He was smiling, the first time she’d seen him really smile, and the emotion warmed his eyes, lightening them, changing the color in fascinating ways. She shifted Merry in her arms, feeling the baby’s small solid comforting weight.

“Henry will be fine,” he said. “He’s sleeping. Thank you. I-thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Lily said automatically, and then winced at the banality of it. “Should I...” She hesitated, feeling a little lost. “I could go. Home. If you want. Since Henry-since the king will be all right.”

The light in William’s eyes faded, just a little. “If you want,” he echoed, and then added, “But. Lorre. He might have been right. About one thing.”

Lily blinked at him, confused; she had thought he’d been too occupied to be listening to her conversation. She hadn’t replaced her faded glamour, and wisps of brown hair fell, limp and exhausted, into her eyes. Both her arms were supporting Merry, and she didn’t want to disturb the baby by freeing a hand.

“Lorre was right,” he clarified, “that we need a magician here. Or a sorceress. Someone who-someone to advise us, on magical problems. To face down dragons, if need be. So you could stay. If you wanted.” He reached out, brushed the stubborn hair from her face. His eyes, she decided, were the color of honey.

“Well,” she said, not looking away, “I’ll need a workroom. A distillery. Space for an herb garden-”

“But you’ll stay.”

“I’ll stay.”

He grinned, leaned in and kissed her, unexpectedly swift and sweet, and then ducked back into his brother’s room as Henry turned over and sighed in his sleep.

Lily lingered in the hall for a minute. Living in the palace, she thought. A Court magician.

She let herself imagine the possibilities: a workroom without leaks and crumbling walls, a library, a place to experiment. Magic accepted at Court again. Maybe even students, if any of them had the smallest touch of the magician’s gift.

Will’s lips, brushing over hers.

A kaleidoscope of potential futures danced before her, bright and shining. Not perfect-she knew that many at Court found it hard to trust magicians, no doubt even more so now that magic had nearly killed the king, and the palace would be a dangerous place for some time to come. She was under no illusions.

But, she thought, smiling, she was a magician. Perhaps for the first time, it felt right to say so, even in her own thoughts.

Lily cradled her baby, and walked back through the door of the king’s bedroom, to warmth, to an answering smile, to her new life.