found it strange, thinking about Syrica and the sleeping princess, that he might have become part of such a story himself. His everyday life seemed so ordinary, compared to Wenceslas’s legends, that Sigismund wondered if he could have fallen asleep that afternoon in the library and imagined everything that happened afterward.
“Did I imagine it?” he asked Balisan one night when the storytelling was done. “I mean, you haven’t taught me any magic yet, and everything here is as dull and ordinary as ever.” It had been a particularly long and tiring day, and despite the storytelling he was feeling rather cross.
Balisan was standing in shadow again, but the torch in the wall sconce cast a halo around his head. “Is it?” he asked, and the hum that Sigismund remembered from the dream was back in his voice. “Some would say that both this castle and the great Wood that is your neighbor are far from ordinary. And it is not everyone who has a faie concealed in the middle of their garden.”
“I suppose not,” Sigismund mumbled, but he was thinking of Sir Parsifal and the Grail quest, and dragons that wore the shapes of men. Speaking with a dragon, he thought, now that’s what I call real adventure. “They say there are still dragons in the Uttermost East, but you don’t hear any recent stories about them here—not like Sir Andreas’s father fighting the ogres.”
Balisan’s cat eyes gleamed at Sigismund through torchlight and shadow. “A dragon is the symbol of your House, is it not?”
Sigismund shrugged. “Master Griff says that half the world uses dragons as an emblem, because they denote power and ambition in the human world.”
“Master Griff is correct, of course,” said Balisan. “But if you asked him, he would also tell you that the crown prince of this kingdom has always been known as the Young Dragon.”
Sigismund’s eyes widened. “I’ve never heard that before! I wonder how it came about—do you think there’s a story behind that too?”
Balisan smiled at his eagerness. “There is a story behind most things, Sigismund. You could probably find out what this one is if you look in Master Griff’s library.”
But that, thought Sigismund, would mean poking around in dusty books when there were far more interesting ways to spend his spare time. It was harvest again in the orchards and fields, and the castle hunt was out almost every day after game to smoke or salt down for the winter. Sigismund galloped after deer and hare with Wat and Wenceslas and felt the rush of his horse’s speed blow all thought of books and lessons out of his head.
He still liked the feeling of looking out over the world and continued to meditate on the tower roof well into autumn. The days grew shorter and the nights frosty, and it was on one of these nights that the shift came. Sigismund felt his breath deepen, tuning itself to the slow turn of the earth and the answering wheel of the stars. His bones grew heavy, as though sinking into the stone of the tower and the roots of earth beneath it; his mind was the murmur of the trees in the forest, reflecting the distant glitter of the sky. Energy flowed through and around him, and his whole being reverberated, like a note struck on a great bell.
The energy was a tapestry: the flicker of small animals in field and hedge, the warmth of kitchen and hearth fire, the laughter, arguments, and grumbling of people going about their lives. Sigismund could see larger currents as well, woven through the physical fabric of the castle and its grounds. He sank deeper into the ebb and flow of his breath, expanding to encompass that larger pattern—and felt another mind looking back at him.
“You!” he exclaimed, tumbling back into his everyday reality on the tower roof.
“Me,” agreed Balisan, swinging himself up through the trapdoor. He was silent, looking down at Sigismund, who stared back, his eyes wide and the cold air burning in his throat.
“I saw you,” he
“Did I imagine it?” he asked Balisan one night when the storytelling was done. “I mean, you haven’t taught me any magic yet, and everything here is as dull and ordinary as ever.” It had been a particularly long and tiring day, and despite the storytelling he was feeling rather cross.
Balisan was standing in shadow again, but the torch in the wall sconce cast a halo around his head. “Is it?” he asked, and the hum that Sigismund remembered from the dream was back in his voice. “Some would say that both this castle and the great Wood that is your neighbor are far from ordinary. And it is not everyone who has a faie concealed in the middle of their garden.”
“I suppose not,” Sigismund mumbled, but he was thinking of Sir Parsifal and the Grail quest, and dragons that wore the shapes of men. Speaking with a dragon, he thought, now that’s what I call real adventure. “They say there are still dragons in the Uttermost East, but you don’t hear any recent stories about them here—not like Sir Andreas’s father fighting the ogres.”
Balisan’s cat eyes gleamed at Sigismund through torchlight and shadow. “A dragon is the symbol of your House, is it not?”
Sigismund shrugged. “Master Griff says that half the world uses dragons as an emblem, because they denote power and ambition in the human world.”
“Master Griff is correct, of course,” said Balisan. “But if you asked him, he would also tell you that the crown prince of this kingdom has always been known as the Young Dragon.”
Sigismund’s eyes widened. “I’ve never heard that before! I wonder how it came about—do you think there’s a story behind that too?”
Balisan smiled at his eagerness. “There is a story behind most things, Sigismund. You could probably find out what this one is if you look in Master Griff’s library.”
But that, thought Sigismund, would mean poking around in dusty books when there were far more interesting ways to spend his spare time. It was harvest again in the orchards and fields, and the castle hunt was out almost every day after game to smoke or salt down for the winter. Sigismund galloped after deer and hare with Wat and Wenceslas and felt the rush of his horse’s speed blow all thought of books and lessons out of his head.
He still liked the feeling of looking out over the world and continued to meditate on the tower roof well into autumn. The days grew shorter and the nights frosty, and it was on one of these nights that the shift came. Sigismund felt his breath deepen, tuning itself to the slow turn of the earth and the answering wheel of the stars. His bones grew heavy, as though sinking into the stone of the tower and the roots of earth beneath it; his mind was the murmur of the trees in the forest, reflecting the distant glitter of the sky. Energy flowed through and around him, and his whole being reverberated, like a note struck on a great bell.
The energy was a tapestry: the flicker of small animals in field and hedge, the warmth of kitchen and hearth fire, the laughter, arguments, and grumbling of people going about their lives. Sigismund could see larger currents as well, woven through the physical fabric of the castle and its grounds. He sank deeper into the ebb and flow of his breath, expanding to encompass that larger pattern—and felt another mind looking back at him.
“You!” he exclaimed, tumbling back into his everyday reality on the tower roof.
“Me,” agreed Balisan, swinging himself up through the trapdoor. He was silent, looking down at Sigismund, who stared back, his eyes wide and the cold air burning in his throat.
“I saw you,” he
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