Witch's Honour, page 40
that this is only a picture, a glimpse of an unalterable past. Then
she falters, and her fingers go to her lips as if to silence herself. The smoke-scene is all around her now: she is a part of it, a part of the
boy, of the dragon, enmeshed in their every emotion. She senses
the beast’s urge to kill, instinctive as hunger; sees the jaws stretched wide, the fireburst erupting up the long tunnel of its throat. The
boy does not flinch or run, only at the last second closing his eyes
against the onslaught of a terrible death. The fire pours over him
and through him – his ragged clothes flare and wither, blown away
like sparks in a hurricane – his naked body blackens, even to his fly-
ing hair and the knife in his clutch. But somehow he stands fast, a
dark silhouette in the midst of an inferno. And now the witch is in
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his mind – she feels him burning yet unharmed – feels the sudden
cold stillness of his thought – the last shreds of his boyhood that
shrivel and perish, falling from him like wasted skin. His soul is left as naked as his body, filled with the blackness of a new strength.
His blood throbs to the drumbeat of a giant heart, not his own, but
the dragon’s. The flames pass and he opens his eyes, and they are
hard as ice-crystals in the sable mask of his face.
The dragon is checked, drawing back in bewilderment. Its
thought is loud in the boy’s head – in the witch’s head.
You do not burn. All things burn. I have melted mountains, and
turned great lakes to steam. The warrior who sought to kill me is less than dust. Yet you do not burn.
‘Sorcery,’ says Vishanu. ‘Black magic. Your flames cannot touch
me.’
The dragon unsheaths a foreclaw the length of a man’s arm. Your
hide may be proof against fire but it will not be too tough for this. I will open your breast, and see if you are black to the core. I will eat your flesh and drink your blood, dark or red, until I am sated. No
sorcery can save you.
The forked tongue darts towards him, its two prongs moving sep-
arately, skimming his chest, twining his arms. But his fear has gone
– anger has gone. The dead warrior and the beloved mule are alike
forgotten. The presence of the dragon fills him to the exclusion of
all else: its cruelty, its appetite, its power. He is living in the
moment, on the edge.
His arm moves in a blur, faster than the snake’s strike or the
dragon’s lunge. The knife-blade pierces the tongue, pinning it to
the rock beneath. The dragon howls with pain and fury, lashing
towards him with triple claws, the distant pounding of its tail send-
ing dust-clouds up into the thick air.
‘Kill me,’ pants Vishanu, ‘and you will have to gnaw through
your own tongue before you are free. Those great claws are too
clumsy; only human hands can loosen the knife. If it stays there,
the wound will fester, until your tongue rots in your mouth and
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sloughs off, and you will be tongueless for ever.’
The dragon roars, venting its rage in a gush of flame. Fire breaks
over the boy in waves; the rock chars beneath his feet. Then the
conflagration dwindles, breaking into flame-curls that flicker over
the ground and vanish, and still he is unhurt. In his mind the mon-
ster’s thought is clear and bright as diamond. You are a dragon. You are as swift, as fearless, as ruthless, and you do not burn. I understand now. Beneath that black hide beats a dragon’s heart. You have won, youngling. Kill me now. Or release me, and I will let you go.
You have my word.
‘What is the word of a dragon?’ counters Vishanu. ‘Less than that
of a man, and that is little enough. You have made me your broth-
er, your spirit’s double, your other self. I know how you think.
Swear by your tongue. May it corrupt and wither if you break your
oath! Bind yourself to me, not in slavery but in kinship, and in
return I will see that no more warriors come to slay you. We will
leave the villages and hunt elsewhere, in a land where the cattle
are fat and the men are greedy and fearful. Swear to me!’
You are wise, little dragon. Honour does not bind me. Only power
rules. Yet none of my kind has ever sworn such an oath.
‘I have your tongue,’ Vishanu retorts. ‘Your mark is on me, and
will be on all my descendants. My family will be dragonkin as long
as we endure. Swear!’
The great head twists as far as it can with its tongue pinioned; the
boy’s ice-crystal gaze meets that of a single huge eye, dark as a ruby, where the ancient thoughts can be seen revolving slowly like oil-sheen on water. ‘You cannot maze me,’ Vishanu adds. ‘Our minds
meet. I can look into your eyes.’
I have met none like you, youngling, even in my mind. The
bond you seek is deadly. Dragon and man are natural foes. Such a
covenant must ultimately mean the destruction of my race.
‘Dragons are mighty and powerful and cruel,’ says Vishanu.
‘Men are small, weak things beside you. What have you to fear?’
Men are cunning beyond all other creatures. My tongue bears wit-
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ness. Yet it is in me to love you, little dragon, as if you were my own spawn. I will swear…
The witch emits a tiny sigh; her taut fists slacken. The dragon’s
voice fades from her head. She sees the boy withdraw the knife: the
forked tongue, blood-flecked, slithers back between enormous
jaws. The monster arches its neck, stretching cramped muscles,
baring its fangs at the sky. Then its muzzle drops to where Vishanu
stands, waiting.
‘Now,’ he says, ‘I must return to my village, and tell the people
they are saved. You have destroyed my shoes, my clothes and my
mount, so it is fitting you should carry me there.’ The dragon
extends a foreleg, and Vishanu climbs up, straddling the neck
behind the poll. He clasps the jut of bone in front, the knife still
gripped tight in his hand. The dragon leaps skyward, unfurling cor-
rugated wings with a sound like the boom of giant sails. The valley
plunges, twisting and turning beneath them, and the cliffs roll
back, and he rises through the brown haze, up and up, into the
clearer air. To the west the red disc of a late sun emerges from the
dust: its long rays limn the dragon’s scales with copper light. For an
instant it seems to hang there, coasting on a vast wingspan, a crea-
ture fabulous beyond legend, beautiful and terrible. The boy is a
minute black imp astride its outthrust neck. Then its wings dip,
propelling it forward with the force of a jet engine, and the scene
recedes. The witch yearns to stay with it – to ride with the boy, to
fly with the dragon – but the image slips inexorably away from her,
and the smoke clouds, and the vision is gone. She is left alone in
the darkness of the cave, with stinging eyes, and the chilling
embers of a scattered fire.
About the Author
Jan Siegel has already lived through one lifetime – during which
she travelled the world and supported herself through a variety of
professions, including that of actress, barmaid, garage hand, labora-
tory assistant, journalist and model. Her new life is devoted to her
writing, but she also finds time to ride, ski and attend the opera.
By Jan Siegel
Prospero’s Children
The Dragon-Charmer
2
Credits
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Artwork by John Howe
Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers 2002
Jan Siegal assert the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
WITCH’S HONOUR. Copyright © Jan Siegal 2002. All rights
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Document Outline
Contents
Epigraph: Prayer
Prologue: Enter First Witch
Part One: Succour I It was New Year’s Eve 2000
II At Wrokeby, the house-goblin…
III The hardest thing…
IV Fern left work early…
Part Two: Valour V In the city, you…
VI On Saturday morning…
VII There was little progress…
VIII It was daylight in the…
IX Luc saw very little…
Part Three: Honour X It has forgotten…
XI Luc woke to find…
XII Fern went to King’s…
Epilogue: Exit Third Witch
Acknowledgements
PerfectBound e-book extras: Glossary: Names
Black Magic: A Short Story
About the Author
By Jan Siegel
Credits
Copyright
About PerfectBound
Jan Siegel, Witch's Honour
