There was a new painting in the Bard’s Hall at Kingstown.
That wasn’t a rare thing, necessarily. Even rural areas had their share of talent. Kingstown was a nice, progressive place, considering how close to the backwoods it was. It had a steady stream of visitors yearlong, even without the explorers who’d stop in on their way to visit the swamps. But this year, the number of visitors had risen significantly. Everyone wanted to see the new picture in the Kingstown Bard’s Hall.
The painting showed a brown-skinned girl in an orange silk dress with black velvet roses around the waist and collar. Her black curls were tied at the base of her neck with a velvet ribbon. She stared off into the distance, playing a flute, with her back to a cluster of trees. A flock of ibis marched beside her, and a heron soared lazily behind her. And in the background, swamp moss hanging above it like a lifted curtain, was something that, at first glance, most people took for a white boulder.
In real life, it must have been almost as big as the painting. It was an off-white color, with two black holes on its sides and a row of whitish points fanning out around the back. The front sloped down to a stretch of smaller spikes gathered at the base of the stone in an oddly stretched smile. The little plate at the base of the picture frame read Lady Avar, Dragonslayer.
“Dragonslayer,” people said over and over. “A dragonslayer!”
And over and over they asked, “Who is she?”
***
At that moment, Lady Avar, dragonslayer, was on her hands and knees on the porch of a white clapboard house. She dipped her rag in the water bucket, squeezed it out, and began scrubbing. Sweat stuck her blouse to her back and her curls to her forehead.
Healer Ivy stuck her head out of a front window, holding a dusting cloth in one hand. Even in the heat, she was wearing a purple kerchief over her black hair. Her face was flushed pink and shining. “Come get a drink, Avar. You’ll get heatstroke if you don’t stop sometime.”
“Soon.” Avar scrubbed furiously at a spot by the door. “I’ll take a break soon, I’m almost halfway done.”
Healer Ivy pursed her lips, absently scratching her forehead, which left a smudge of dirt. “All right, but don’t forget it. I certainly won’t.” She shook her head and disappeared from the window.
Avar sat back, just for a second, and looked around, wiping off her forehead. A slight breeze rustled the trees, swamp moss swaying like laundry hung up to dry. A flock of ibis flew over the fence around the house, landing and walking daintily through the garden as if walking around glass. Their heads bobbed forward as they went, almost poking the ground with their beaks. Down the road, a cloud of dust swung around a bend and came along with the creak and clop of a cart. Old Man Silas drove it, whistling through all the white hair around his mouth. Avar stood on her knees and waved. He waved back, mouth stretching into a grin and pausing his song.
“Look what’s on my tail!” he hollered as his cart creaked away. He gestured at a cloud of dust behind him. A carriage was coming down the road.
Avar pushed herself to her feet, groaning as her knees crunched. It was a simple carriage, a slightly rounded brown box, like a teacup on wheels pulled by two gray horses. More explorers from Kingstown, she thought, watching it jingle along. But as it neared the house, it pulled off the road and trotted over to the little white gate in the fence.
“Healer Ivy!” Avar shouted as the carriage driver waved at her. “Are you expecting visitors?”
The carriage driver, a thin blond-haired man, got off his seat and walked over to the gate. “What was that?” Healer Ivy called from above. Avar looked up to see her looking out of an upstairs window. “Who’s at the gate?”
“I don’t know, that’s what I was asking. Do you want me to see?”
“Hello?” the carriage driver called. “Ma’am? Miss?”
“Go ahead.” Healer Ivy took the kerchief off her head, wiped her face, and tied it back up. “I’ll be right behind.”
The carriage driver waved to her again. Avar wiped her own face, pushed back her hair, and hurried down the porch steps. “Sorry, sir. I’m—”
“Lady Avar.” The carriage driver stepped back and took off his hat. “Lady Avar! You are Lady Avar, aren’t you? I have a Grandlady Malva here to speak with you.” He hurried to the side of the carriage and opened the door.
Out stepped the most beautiful woman Avar had ever seen.
For one thing, she was easily six feet tall, with skin so dark it looked black. Her hair was swept over her head like a wave and topped with three gold feathers. She wore an emerald-green dress with no sleeves and a skirt that hid her feet, gold paint on her eyelids, and matching paint on her fingernails, which were almost as long as her fingers. The driver took her hand, sliding his fingers past the nails, which were filed to sharp points, and helped her off the carriage steps. She let go of him as soon as her feet touched the ground. Briefly, Avar saw she wore green shoes with tall, thin heels.
“Grandlady Malva,” the driver said, stepping to the side. The Grandlady tipped up her chin a little and stared at Avar, who felt like dropping to her knees.
Her gray blouse had actually once been white but had been spoiled years ago and was only fit for work. Sweat soaked through the underarms. The pink skirt she wore was getting too ratty even for work. Her feet and legs were bare, her hands uncomfortably soft from scrubbing. Dirt was in every crack of her hands, stuffed under her nails until they turned gray, streaked in gritty patches across her sweaty face. She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Lady Avar,” Grandlady Malva said, voice as smooth as her skin. Her gold-powdered eyelashes stuck out an inch from her face, while her eyebrows had been plucked into commas on her forehead. She looked like she’d never heard of crawling on a porch with a scrubbing rag.
“Grandlady Malva,” Avar stammered, poking her tongue at the bites in her cheek. The Grandlady’s eyelashes flicked at her. “How may I help you?”
The door squeaked open up the path behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, Avar saw Healer Ivy standing and staring in the doorway. She looked only a little better than Avar did, but there were gray patches of dust on her face and in her black hair. The purple kerchief was sliding off her head, and there had been a time when the gray-blue dress she wore had been more blue than gray. She walked down the path, eyes wide and curious. This would be the talk of the tavern tonight.
“Healer Ivy,” Avar said, “this is Grandlady Malva.”
Healer Ivy curtsied without breaking her stare. “Welcome, Grandlady. Would you like to go to the house? I can bring you something to drink.”
The Grandlady’s eyelashes flicked toward the house, and Avar glanced that way too. The peeling paint and sagging windowsills suddenly seemed terribly shabby.
“I think we can conduct business out here,” she said finally. “Lady Avar, I’m aware you’re a dragonslayer. What school did you attend?”
“School, Grandlady?” Avar blinked. “I don’t think it has a name, but there’s a school in town. Everyone attends until they’re sixteen. I finished three years ago.”
Now the Grandlady looked interested. “Who were your teachers, if I may ask?”
“I only had one teacher, Grandlady, and he doesn’t teach anymore, but his name was—”
“One teacher? How many were you?”
“A dozen, maybe fifteen? We’re not a big town, Grandlady.”
The Grandlady’s forehead twitched like she was trying to raise an eyebrow. “One teacher handling all of your music? Or do you all only study the flute?”
Avar’s face heated, feeling grimier than before. “I-it wasn’t a music school, Grandlady, just an ordinary school. Letters, numbers, that sort of thing.”
“Ah.” Grandlady Malva’s eyelashes moved like spider’s legs. “Where did you learn music, then?”
Avar wrinkled her forehead, as if it could squeeze answers from her brain. “Well, I think one of my family’s neighbors gave me an old flute that she had no use for, and I figured out some of how to play it, and got help from Healer Ivy—the lady who lives here. She came from Kingstown, so she has a lot of books and things, and I work for her, and—” Her face grew warmer as she talked, and it seemed to be all the wrong answers, judging by the fluttering of the Grandlady’s lashes.
“You’re a village-taught bard,” the Grandlady said. Avar glanced at her nails and shuddered, imagining them sliding across her skin. “How did you learn magic, then? From your healer?”
Avar bit the inside of her cheek hard. Blood flowed out, salty and warm. They had asked these questions when she had gone up to Kingstown to talk to the governor and get her portrait painted, and she had asked, “You have to learn magic?” And everyone who heard her ask had gotten impossibly wide eyes and spoke to her even more respectfully than before.
“You have to learn magic?” she asked, sucking at the bite in her cheek.
Grandlady Malva leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. “Explain, Lady Avar. Did you not, by use of bardic magic, defeat a dragon?”
“I did,” Avar protested. She had her portrait hanging in an actual city while the Grandlady treated her like a child on trial. “I wasn’t taught it. I didn’t even realize it was magic for the longest time. I just—know it, sometimes, when I play. If I get deep enough in the song, I know what to do. And over the years I taught myself what sounds do what.”
Grandlady Malva eased back, letting out a breath. “Lady Avar. Let me explain why I’m here. I am a patron of the country’s greatest bardic guild—we sponsor at least several hundred bards—and I am offering to sponsor you. If you join the guild, you will have opportunities to travel and perform, if that is your wish, or chances at permanent, high-ranking positions: a court bard, for example, or village mage. You could easily become a teacher at a bardic school with your background.”
“A guild?” Avar’s hands trembled. The Grandlady took no notice.
“Do you know, Lady Avar,” she went on, “most bards spend years in school learning to play music alone? And I have never met one that learned magic themselves. That, Lady Avar, is a gift that should not be stifled. And you are stifling it.”
“I don’t stifle it! I play at the tavern, I do mending magic, I use it to help Healer Ivy with patients sometimes—”
“Would you want to stay here?” the Grandlady said gently. “We could work with that. You would travel to Kingstown now and then—”
“No,” Avar interrupted.
“Your talent, Lady Avar—”
“I can stay here and still be a bard,” Avar snapped. Grandlady Malva swam in her eyes, a blur of black and green. “I can do other things and still be a bard.” In her mind, she saw a pale freckled face, frizzy red hair, a pink tongue flicking out of a smiling mouth. “Maybe I’m not as grand as you and your guild, but I can do things—I killed a dragon, remember? Getting a portrait and a title is more than I ever expected.”
The Grandlady stared down at her, plucking the air with her fingernails. The feathers on her head twitched like antennae. She’s a great emerald beetle, Avar thought hysterically.
“If you’ve made up your mind, I can’t change it,” she said, smiling coldly. “But at least think about what you are saying. Your skill deserves more than a country village.”
More and more, the Grandlady looked like a fire-eyed creature. She shifted her arms, and suddenly Avar saw wings. It was only her imagination, the light on her dress, but Avar found herself running down the path, through the gate… The carriage driver stood by his carriage, but she barely saw him.
When she stopped running, she was on the path leading to the swamps. She sat with her back to a tree and breathed hard. It was quiet, but a fresh sort of quiet mixed with distant noises of the outdoors. Bugs swarmed, birds rose up with a flap of wings, a faint breeze brushed the trees. It was especially humid here, so thick she felt like she was swimming. The air smelled like warm mud and fermented tea. Fat black-and-yellow spiders waved to her from the tapestries they’d woven between trees—thick knobby oaks, mossy black gum, and spiky palms. Tall, armless sticks that had once been trees stuck out of the brown water, tinged green by the algae on the surface, and there were spongy green islands surrounded by cypress knees piercing the water. Oaks dripped swamp moss from twisted branches, like yarn hanging from an old woman’s fingers. Cypress knees pierced the water, which smelled tangy and a little salty, and mangrove roots formed intricately knotted caves along the bank.
She had come out here since that day, but that day stood out in her mind. It had been five months ago but seemed to have been just yesterday. The sight of a dragon flying over the trees, reports from farmers missing livestock, worried parents keeping their children close…and that night, as she played her flute at the tavern and listened to gossip (about the dragon, of course), the bard had come.
Her skin was pale and freckled, like cinnamon on milk, and her red hair was as scraggly as swamp moss. She was tall, skinny, and long-limbed, like the skeleton Healer Ivy kept in her storeroom. She wore a silk blouse with billowing sleeves, a gold-embroidered jerkin, and green velvet pants tucked into tall red boots. And she carried a gold harp on her back.
She was just passing through, she said, tongue flicking out as she spoke. Her name was Amberly. No, she hadn’t heard about a dragon, but now that she had, she was interested. Could she kill it? Possibly; bardic magic was known to be strong enough. She had never gone up against a dragon before, but she liked a challenge. The only thing was, she would need a guide.
And it was Healer Ivy’s idea to have Avar do it. The bards could bond together, she said. Maybe Avar would learn a few things. She was always studying new ways to play her flute.
So the next day Avar found herself leading a bard into the swamp. Amberly had borrowed clothes and a pair of thick boots, and Healer Ivy gave them citronella paste to keep the bugs away. Of course, they still buzzed even if they didn’t land. A woodpecker drummed somewhere above them as they entered the woods.
“So, this is where the dragon is,” Amberly said. “I wouldn’t have pictured a dragon here. You always hear of them hiding in the mountains with mounds of treasure.”
Avar shrugged. “I looked it up in Healer Ivy’s books, and there’s a dragon called a common deerhunter. It’s green, like this one, and has the typical bat wings and four legs, but its skin is smooth and it’s maybe only two men long. And it apparently will settle in land like this, if it finds a spot it likes.”
“You seem to know more about dragons than I do,” Amberly said with a chuckle. “A common deerhunter, eh? Is it a firebreather?”
“I don’t know,” Avar admitted, stepping over a tangle of roots. “Some of the books said yes, others said no. If its claws turn blue, it’s breathing fire at you. That’s what one of the books said.”
“If its claws turn blue, it’s breathing fire at you,” Amberly repeated in a singsong voice. “I might make a song out of that.” She glanced at Avar. “They said you were a bard, and you were playing in the tavern last night, weren’t you? Did you train anywhere?”
Avar shook her head, dodging a spiderweb. “I’ve never traveled anywhere else. I learned some of it from neighbors and books and taught some of it to myself.”
Amberly nodded, tongue flashing out. “No magic, then?”
“A little,” Avar admitted, “and I mostly discovered it by accident. But I know some mending and quieting songs. A song that can put out fire. Things like that.”
Amberly grinned, brushing past a low-hanging clump of swamp moss. “I wonder you didn’t go after the dragon yourself then! It’s a good thing you didn’t, though. Who knows what might have happened to you?” A kingfisher darted from the branch by her head. “It’s dangerous enough for real bards.”
Another woodpecker began drumming, echoing through the woods. “What do you mean by a real bard? I thought a bard was just a bard.”
“Oh, well, in a way, I guess you’re right.” Amberly delicately sidestepped a puddle. “I meant someone who goes through years of music and magic training, versus someone who has a good voice or learns an instrument on the side. They might play at the local tavern or town square, they might learn some tricks and wow the town. They’re rather commonplace, don’t you agree? But bards like me, we gave up our childhoods to become what we are.” She lost her balance on the roots and caught herself on a tree. “You see the difference?”
Avar bit her cheek. “You have to do all that to become a magic bard?”
“Naturally. There’s the training itself—we have whole libraries of things to learn—and then joining the guild, getting patrons—”
“But do you have to do all that?” Avar repeated, swatting mosquitoes out of her ears.
“Well, of course.”
“Why?”
“Oh, there’s a variety of reasons. You get lots of very detailed training, and more opportunities. And it’s just more professional.”
Avar touched the flute hanging from her belt. “But what if you don’t want to be professional?”
“Well—” Amberly shrugged. “It just doesn’t seem the same to me.” She patted Avar’s shoulder. “I hope I didn’t offend you. I didn’t hear much of your playing last night, but what I did hear sounded very nice, and everyone seemed to enjoy it.”
Avar swallowed hard. The ground was getting spongy, and the smell of the swamp tickled her nose. “We’re almost there. At the dragon’s den, I mean. A couple of boys found it last week.”
They walked along the bank, stepping around squishy spots, mosquitoes whistling in their ears. A great blue heron flew lazily across their path. At one point, Amberly lost her balance and almost slid down the bank. Avar caught her hand just in time and hauled her back up.
“So,” Amberly said, brushing back her hair with a shaky grin, “where is this dragon?”
“Just ahead.” Avar pulled a knife from her belt, cutting them a path through the tangled bushes. “Ah, here’s where it lives.”
Ahead in the water was a mangrove tree, the tallest one in the swamp, a nest of roots rising from the water. Big for a tree, cramped for a dragon. The nest was clearly empty.
“It must be out hunting,” Avar murmured.
“Let me see.” Amberly strode past her, stumbling a little, and then stepped onto a patch of grass below. Her boots sank slightly in the soft ground.
“Be careful,” Avar called. “You could get stuck if you don’t watch out.”
Amberly ignored her and peered at the roots, running her fingers over them, then over the trunk. “Well, something lives here,” she said, pointing to scratches in the bark. “Ah, here’s burn marks. Your lowlands are more exciting than I thought!”
She slipped the harp off her back and picked at the strings with her fingernails, playing a tuneless song. It didn’t sound like much at first, but it slid into Avar’s ears like a mosquito and burrowed into her brain. She shook her head, then rubbed at her ears, and still Amberly played. The sound began to vibrate behind Avar’s eyes, and she pressed her hands against them.
“Amberly—”
“Yes?” The bard’s voice was tinged with a hiss.
Avar pulled her hands away and looked up.
Amberly went on plucking the harp with her nails, but they had grown longer and kept growing, curving around the strings. Her fingers thickened. A green shadow fell across her skin. She unhooked her nails one by one from the harp, snapping the strings and letting the harp drop into the water. It splashed algae onto her clothes, which slipped off as her body twisted and swelled.
“Amberly!”
The bard dropped to all fours, her arms growing longer, her legs twisting so she stood on four clawed feet. The boots popped off. Healer Ivy won’t like that, Avar thought dimly.
Amberly’s neck grew out, her mouth widened, knife-like teeth rising from her gums. Her eyes blinked shut, and when they opened they glowed yellow.
Avar’s back hit a tree trunk, and she reached back to steady herself. The thing that had been Amberly swept its tail across the water and gave her a grin. Its tongue flicked out in a flash of pink.
“This is why you get training,” it croaked. “A village bard can’t teach themselves to do this. And what are you going to do now?”
Avar felt the bites in her cheek swell as she sucked them. She pulled the flute from her belt, holding it tighter when it almost slipped through her fingers. The dragon gave a hissing laugh.
“How very rustic,” it said. “Just like that rhyme, how did it go? If its claws turn blue…”
Terror rose in Avar’s throat as the fire rose in the dragon’s. She shoved the flute in her mouth and played frantically. What had she been telling Amberly? What had she learned? A song that could put out fire.
She blew out the notes with all the power in her body, and the flames poking out from in between the dragon’s teeth began to go back.
The dragon lunged at her, snapping its mouth. Avar darted behind the tree and ran, glancing over her shoulder. The dragon snapped after her, running only a little slower than she was. It’s toying with me. The eyes burned, hunting, the claws turned blue…Avar played harder. The dragon growled, jerking its head around, but didn’t stop chasing her.
“You’re good, but you won’t last, bard!”
Avar played frantically, fingers trembling on the flute. The breath was being sucked out of her body. And every now and then she missed a note or stumbled over the song, and then a bit of fire licked out of the dragon’s mouth.
Suddenly the world tilted into a sickening swirl, and she hit the ground hard. The flute dropped into the dirt. The dragon leaped at her, and she screamed, grabbing the flute and blowing on it as hard as she could. The note squeaked in her ears, and maybe it was that or just coincidence, but the dragon stopped and threw its head back with a snarl.
She blew again and again, racking her brain for some other course of action. If she could undo what the bard had done…but Amberly was right, she didn’t have the training for that. She had never known shapeshifting could actually be done.
But Amberly hadn’t known the swamps were so exciting, so she’d said.
Avar did.
The dragon’s claws were turning blue again, so Avar quickly played to block the fire, then blew a shrill note before playing all the notes backward. A patch of earth under the dragon’s forefeet jumped up, throwing it back down the bank. Avar scrambled to her feet with a jolt of triumph. The softer ground was harder to shake, but she got it to quiver enough to throw the dragon off-balance. It reeled into the swamp. Again, she played to block the fire.
Mucky water splashed up as the dragon moved around in it. Avar watched the splashes closely. There was a song she had been practicing…if she could time it just right… She played the notes but missed the splashes and had to blow shrilly on the flute to hold the dragon back. Then she had to play the song against fire. More splashes, another missed note—there! She caught a wave in time with the middle note. It hovered by the dragon, and she blew harder, watching it grow higher and higher. Now it was at eye level with the dragon, now it was over its head, and—
And she was running out of air. She pushed herself to keep blowing. The dragon’s mouth was open, snapping at the enchantment. Avar shoved the wave down its throat and dropped to the ground, gagging on air through shattered lungs.
The wave poured down the dragon’s mouth, throwing it down with the force of it. The world was speckled black from breathlessness, but Avar crawled forward, a drum banging in her head and making her dizzy. She pulled the knife from her belt.
It was no trouble at all, cutting through the dragon’s smooth skin. But there was nothing heroic about it. She was kneeling in swamp water and mud, stabbing a half-drowned beast that had once been human, and feeling like she might pass out. The stories had never said anything about this.
Remembering it, Avar felt woozy and sandy-brained. She rubbed her eyes, tasting blood in her mouth. A squirrel dashed across her path, and a snake slithered through the grass by her hand. She watched it disappear in the bushes.
“I wish the Grandlady would disappear,” she said. Maybe she already had. Who knew what sort of abuse she’d given Healer Ivy though? And if she was still there…well, Avar had defeated one dragon. She could take on another. This dragon didn’t even have the advantage of fire.
***
There were few who ever saw Lady Avar outside of her picture. People wondered, of course, and gazed at her painting wistfully, wishing to meet the real dragonslayer. But she lived in the swamplands, helping the healer and playing in the tavern. Grandlady Malva and the guild gnashed their teeth over such a loss, but there was nothing they could do. Since the best tales end happily ever after, who can say she did not have a life worth living?
This story was written by Sarah Elizabeth Sax, an apprentice at The Company!
Click here to learn more about The Company’s writing programs.
Cover art by Levi Matthews
Connect on Instagram @levimatthews.artist or on his website, LeviMatthewsArtist.com.
I’m so excited to come back to The Pearl! I hope you all love Avar’s story!