"Sire," Dogal spoke up, "we cannot draw such a conclusion from what we've seen thus far. Ruaidrhi found the stone, yes. He had it fashioned into the piece all Kings have worn from that time on. That is all we know."
I turned to Dogal, too tired and full of dread to burst into my customary enraged frustration at his inability to see what was directly before him. Instead, I spoke quietly and slowly. "I would wager anything in my kingdom, including my crown and my throne, that if we read through every account of every Celtic dragon who ruled County Cork from that time on, we'd find stories of mysterious illness, sudden death and inexplicable tragedy. Does it not seem strange to anyone here that none of these dragons died peacefully in bed, surrounded by family and trusted advisors? Including my own father?"
Again, silence. No one spoke against me. Not even Dogal.
"Somehow, Arthur instilled great power in this seemingly innocent stone," I murmured. "Imagine it. No longer did he need to face his foes in battle. He need not even alert them to his presence, or to his ill-wishes. He only had to … what? Charm it somehow? Cast a spell? And then the stone would lead to the death of the person wearing it."
"Of course," I continued bitterly, "in this instance it was not my death; at least, not directly. The demon chose to curse my Queen, instead. Perhaps because he knew of her being with child."
The men in the room gasped in unison. I realized that this was news to them; we had not allowed the word of Anabelle's condition to leak out, past the knowledge that she was cursed. Now I had slipped and told them the secret.
"My lord!" Seamus cried out, a hand upon his chest. He looked truly stricken.
"Is this … true, my King?" asked Dogal in a far gentler and kinder tone than I had heard him use since the days immediately following Rogan's passing.
I nodded miserably, knowing that the time for secrecy had long since passed. "Yes, it is true. The Queen is with child. I was not aware of this until after the curse had fallen upon her. The child lives, we are assured. But we don't have much time to lose; the child cannot survive indefinitely in such conditions."
This news was received in silence, as the men around me took in the significance of everything I had shared.
"What will we do, sire?" Seamus asked.
"We will find some way to destroy him, and soon." I looked back at the piles of parchment, and the thick volume on the table. "There must be some clue as to how to do so. We found out about the Heart here; perhaps there is some information that will lead us to a course of action. We cannot give up."
I could tell from the looks on their faces that the members of my council wanted to believe that we would be victorious. I could tell that they wanted to stand behind me with confidence. But the fear and doubt I saw in their eyes told the real story.
After my very revealing conference with my advisors, I resumed my place by Anabelle's bedside. Candles were burning throughout the chambers, and her beloved flowers were placed around her by her ladies in waiting. I looked at the roses and remembered our last night together before the curse fell upon her. The way she had responded to my touch, to the caress of the soft petals on her smooth skin. When our bodies finally touched that night, I made it possible for this spell to overtake her.
Rhiannon was in her usual place on the opposite side of the bed from where I sat. I leaned over Anabelle and kissed her cold lips, then sat and held my vigil.
I felt even more lost at sea than ever. What good was it to know that the Heart had been cursed ages ago, that it was the reason behind the deaths of so many – my entire lineage, almost – if there was no way of knowing how to stop the destruction? This was so very much in keeping with everything that had happened so far, I realized. Arthur had somehow set the wheels in motion and crafted a plot so twisting that no matter how much progress we felt we made, we were never any closer to a solution.
I remembered one of the first hunts I had ever gone on with Rogan. It was a big day for me; I had only recently been deemed old and mature enough to hunt as a dragon, having just turned 13. For years I had watched my father shift and indulge that side of himself that craved the hunt, the chase, the stalking and catching and killing. It had always seemed a very grown-up activity, and I was thrilled to be thought worthy to join him.
We had flown out together to a remote corner of the isle and soon spotted a herd of deer far below. Immediately my senses heightened; it was almost as if I could smell them. The impulse to swoop down and attack overcame me, and I was nearly ready to give in to that impulse. Then I saw my father flying beside me, and somewhere even in my primitive dragon consciousness I remembered him warning me against giving into that impulse.
"You will see them, and you will want them," Rogan had warned me. "But you will ruin the hunt if you give in too quickly. If you frighten them and they bolt, you may as well give up. You'll never find them when they scatter and hide in the thick wood. It's much better to circle quietly overhead and wait for one or two to leave the group, as will inevitably happen. Then, when you see that, and when you know that their senses aren't on alert and that they are relaxed – then is the time to dive on them. But only then. You must practice patience … but the reward is great."
I tried to remember this as we circled the large group of deer. I estimated there to be at least 50 of them, traveling together. We waited, exercising that same patience my father had warned me to exhibit. Then, just as he had foretold, a single large buck with a large, glorious rack of antlers strayed from the rest. It wandered over to a little wooded area by the small body of water in which the other deer had stopped to drink.
I looked at my father, and he nodded. Then we dove, almost in unison.
I remember the feeling of exaltation as the wind rushed past my face and over my wings. I was about to join my father in a kill for the first time.
The deer sensed us, however; perhaps the presence of a second dragon threw its senses into high alert. No matter why it bolted, the result was the same: It turned to run away, only wound up entangled in a thorny bush. Its antlers became hopelessly enmeshed in the brambles.
I remember thinking how easy this was. All we had to do was take what was right there before us.
Only my father stopped me.
We landed lightly, and instantly Rogan shifted back to his human form. I was shocked; I had no idea that this was part of the hunt.
"Shift back, Caside. There is a lesson I wish for you to learn today," he said quietly.
I shifted, albeit reluctantly. The deer was beyond frantic now, thrashing wildly as it sensed the danger it was in.
"Son," Rogan said. "What do you feel should be the fate of this animal?"
I was sure there was trick somewhere within the question he was asking. "I feel … that it was our prey, and that it should still be our prey," I told him, honestly. He nodded.
"That is what I expected you to say, as you are very young and inexperienced," he said. "However, that is not the correct answer. That is not the right way to go about a hunt."
"Why not? Doesn't this make things much easier?"
"Easier, yes, but not fair. It is not for the dragon to take advantage of weakness it perceives in others. If we were to take advantage of the fact that this animal is trapped, it would be the same as saying that we are not able to stalk and kill our prey when it is free and able to fight back."
He saw the confusion still on my face, and continued. "It is not fair to the deer, in this case. He should be able to fight us; of course, he will not be successful. But the thrill of a hunt well-stalked and a conquest well-earned will be lost. And that, for the dragon, is the most important part of the experience. We do not need the food, gods know; there is more than enough food for us in the kitchen of the castle. We hunt because it is our nature, but is not in our nature to take advantage of weakness. We are already at a great enough advantage."
I thought this over, and saw the truth in my father's words. "What should we do?" I asked. It was clear that the beast was tiring of its struggle. No matter how hard it fought, it got no closer to freeing itself; in fact, with every frantic movement it grew even more firmly entrapped. Now its movements were slower, less feverish.
Rogan looked seriously at the buck. "We will free it," he decided. And we did. It took nearly an hour, and our hands and arms were covered in cuts before we were finished. All the while, my father had spoken to the animal in soft, soothing tones in order to keep it calm as we worked.