The training went about as you would expect when your hero has never held a sword, your prince faints at inclines, your bard won't stop narrating, and your strategist looks like he's been aging in dog years since this whole thing started.
We had ten days. In ten days, Wallace attempted to teach me basic swordsmanship, defensive footwork, how to ride a horse, and how to not die. I learned approximately forty percent of these things. The sword was cool. The footwork was fine. The horse was an improvement over the mule in every way. The not dying part remained theoretical. But the clock was ticking and we were out of time. So we loaded the carriage: curtained and cushioned because Perceval did not travel in anything without upholstery. Then we set off.
The team: me, Perceval, Wallace, and Wesley.
The plan: I would wear the prince's armor. I would approach the tower. I would face whatever was between me and the princess, which, apparently, included a dragon, but I'll get to that. And I would bring her out. At the base of the tower, Perceval would be waiting. We would do the switch: I would take off my armor. By the time the painters arrived, Prince Perceval would be standing triumphantly beside the rescued princess, looking heroic.
The princess must be unaware that it was me.
That was the rule: the one non-negotiable. When Cruit opened her eyes, the sight that greeted her would be Perceval's. Her betrothed. Her one true love, as predicted by the prophecy. The courageous prince who had scaled the tower and confronted the dragon, freeing her from her enchanted sleep.
Now, back to the dragon thing.
The truth is that, when Wallace initially mentioned a dragon during the meeting, I heard the word and instantly categorized it as "probably metaphorical" before moving on. A dragon? Sure. Like how people say "slay your dragons" meaning face your fears. Metaphor. Symbolism. Fairy-tale jargon.
Apparently, it was not a metaphor.
As Wallace outlined the training route on the fourth day, he added, "When you reach the tower, the dragon will be at the base. He is, by all accounts, ill-tempered."
"The dragon. You don't mean a real dragon, right?”
"Of course it is a real dragon, what did you expect?"
"A dragon. A dragon that is real and exists. In real life. As a thing that is real."
"I am unsure how many times I can confirm this."
"Dragons are REAL?"
"Dragons have existed for centuries," Wallace lamented. "They are uncommon but well documented. There are fourteen known living specimens. The one guarding the tower is believed to be the eldest."
"Fourteen. There are fourteen dragons. Just… out here. In the world. Walking around."
"Flying, primarily."
"And everyone just accepts this?" A real dragon, fire-breathing, flying, and ready to kill and eat you. I was supposed to walk up to it and... what? Ask it to move? Fight it? Have a conversation?
I couldn't possibly do this. I was not equipped to face a dragon! I was not even equipped to face a large dog. The biggest challenge I'd ever faced was a raccoon in the dumpster behind my apartment, and I lost that battle.
However, Cricket was in that tower.
If she was up there, trapped, and her only apparent savior, the man the prophecy had chosen, the brave prince foretold to rescue her, was...
I glanced at Perceval. He was picking his nose, full knuckle deep, eyes glazed, staring at nothing, mining for something with purpose. He noticed me looking and withdrew his finger without shame.
"What?" he asked.
This chump. This was the hero the prophecy had selected? This was the man who was supposed to climb a tower and face a dragon and rescue her? He couldn't even climb a staircase without getting winded.
I had to do it. There was no other option. It wasn't for the money or the glory, or Perceval and his portrait opportunity. For her. If I didn't, no one else would. Cricket deserved better than to be stuck in that tower, subject to whatever fate awaited her. I couldn't bear the thought of it. It had to be me.
The journey to the tower took three days. Unfortunately, this meant three days in a carriage with Perceval and Wesley.
If you have never spent seventy-two consecutive hours trapped in a confined space with a cowardly prince and a hyperactive bard, let me paint you a picture. Hour one: manageable. Wesley is fine-tuning his lute, while Perceval is enjoying a meal. Wallace rode alongside the carriage on horseback because he was too smart to be inside it.
Hour 3: Wesley had asked Perceval eighty-four questions. Questions about his childhood, his palace, his favorite color, his thoughts on weather, the thread count of his preferred bed sheets, and his opinions on the taxonomy of cheese.
"There are only so many ways to categorize cheese," Perceval remarked.
"Ah, but that is where you are mistaken, Your Highness. The bard's task is to find beauty in the ordinary. Even cheese, when examined with care, reveals —"
"I like the soft ones," Perceval said. "The ones that do not require effort."
"Of course you do," I mumbled.
Hour 7: Perceval asked if we were there yet. Hour 8: Perceval asked again. Hour 9: Perceval asked a third time and I told him if he asked again I would throw him from the carriage.
"You would not dare," he asserted, indignant.
"Try me."
"Wallace! The peasant is threatening me!"
Wallace's voice was heard coming from outside, at the same height as the window. "Are you injured, sire?"
"Not yet, but —"
Hour 12: Wesley and Perceval had bonded. This was the worst development of the trip. Wesley had discovered that Perceval loved to talk about himself, and Perceval had discovered that Wesley loved to listen to people talk about themselves, and the two of them had formed an unholy alliance of narcissism and narrative that showed no signs of stopping.
“Tell me again about the banquet," Wesley said, holding his quill. "The one where the lobster was served in the shape of a swan."
"Ah yes. The Swan Lobster Incident. It was my father's naming day and the kitchen had —"
Hour 18: I climbed out of the carriage and walked alongside Wallace's horse. In the rain.
"Difficult journey?" Wallace asked.
"Your boss just spent forty minutes describing the exact shade of violet in his bedchamber curtains. Forty minutes. I know more about those curtains than I know about my own childhood."
Wallace didn't speak, but his mouth curled slightly. That was the closest thing to a smile that I had ever seen from him.
The second day was even worse. Perceval discovered that the carriage made him nauseous if he read, which meant that he couldn't read, which bored him, which made him complain about everything: the road was bumpy. The seats were hard. The curtains let in too much light, then too little light, then the wrong kind of light. His tea was cold. His pastries were stale. His lower back ached. His right knee made a sound when he bent it. His left knee made a different sound and he wanted someone to acknowledge that the two sounds were distinct and equally concerning.
"I am in agony," he proclaimed. “Sitting can be agonizing! Someone should write medical literature about this. I would volunteer but I am in too much pain."
By day three I was this close to committing homicide. I had pictured throwing him from the carriage in great detail. The arc of his body. The impact's sound. The blissful silence that would follow. Wallace must have sensed it. He appeared in the window of the carriage.
"We have arrived,” he said. I looked out the window. In the distance, barely visible through the rain and fog, a tall, dark structure rose above the treeline.
The tower.
It wasn't cute. It wasn't covered in ivy with little songbirds and sunlight streaming through the window. It was a jagged black spike of stone that rose out of the ground like a broken tooth. It twisted as it grew, narrowing into a point that disappeared into the clouds. The rocks around it were scorched. The trees were dead, their trunks blackened and their branches reaching up like burned fingers. Fog hung thick and low.
The carriage had come to a stop. We climbed out. My legs were trembling.
Wesley's jaw was hanging open as he gazed at the tower. Perceval had paled to a shade of white I didn't know human skin could achieve. Wallace studied a map and deliberately looked away from the tower.
"Okay," I said enthusiastically. "So, who's coming with me?"
Silence.
"Wes. Buddy. Bro. Come on. It'll be fun. You and me. Tower buddies. Think of the tale: the bard who climbed the tower! The songs you'd write! You'd be famous!"
"What an extraordinary offer," he said. "I must regretfully decline."
"Wallace. Come on. You've been preparing for this for weeks. Don't you want to see it through? In person? Up close? How fun would that be?"
Wallace folded his map. "I will be coordinating from a safe distance."
"Perceval. Your Highness. This is YOUR prophecy. YOUR betrothed. YOUR moment of glory. Don't you want to —"
"No."
"You're all pussies," I muttered. "Fake as fuck."
"You can do it, fox! I have the utmost confidence in you!"
"We will be right here," Wallace reassured me. "Within earshot. Should you need to scream."
"Gee, thanks."
My attention returned to the tower. Between it and the cliff we were standing on: between it and its base... was a bridge.
I use the term "bridge" in a loose sense. Two cables hung loosely across a chasm, plummeting straight down into nothing. The distance to the ground was so far that it was the type that doesn't kill you on impact, but instead gives you time to think about your life on the way down. Rough boards were fastened to the cables, spaced unevenly, some of them even missing, all of them appearing as though someone had installed them with malice toward whomever would cross them. The bridge swayed in the wind. Not comforting. The wind came from below, from the chasm, rising through the gaps between the planks, carrying the scent of wet stone.
My legs were shaking. Full tremor. My hands were sweating inside the gauntlets. The sixty-pound metal armor, which I'd almost gotten used to, suddenly felt like it was actively trying to pull me off the edge. I gazed down, through the cracks, into the abyss.
Behind me, Wesley: "You seem hesitant, fox!"
"I'M HAVING A COMPLETELY REASONABLE RESPONSE TO A DEATH BRIDGE."
I put my foot on the first plank, and it creaked. The whole bridge dipped, and my stomach went into my throat. I stepped onto the second, then the third plank. The ropes groaned. The wooden planks creaked under the burden of the armor. I shouldn't have looked down. I did.
A big mistake.
"Okay. Okay, okay, okay. Not so bad. This is not so bad. I'm walking. I'm on a bridge. People walk on bridges. This is normal. This is fine." Fourth plank. Fifth. The bridge swayed to the left. I latched onto the rope. "I've done scarier things. Okay, no, this is the scariest thing that has ever happened to me and I once saw a cockroach the size of my hand in the shower!"
Sixth plank. Seventh. I was about halfway there. Okay. Okay! This was fine! The bridge and planks were holding. I was going to make it. I was going to make it!
I heard a sound coming from behind me, followed by a sensation of heat. The ropes on the other side caught fire, as if someone had poured oil on them and struck a match. The fire burned brightly and scorched the ropes and planks, making them black and curling.
"HOLY SHIT!"
I sprinted, my arms pumping, armor clanging, planks snapping under my feet, the fire behind me eating the bridge faster than I was crossing it. A plank gave way under my foot, and my leg was propelled through the gap. I pulled it out and kept running, feeling the heat on my back and smoke in my eyes, while the rope cables groaned and popped as the fire ate through them.
I made it to the other side. I threw myself off the final plank. I landed on solid ground, not on fire. The best ground I had ever touched. I rolled. The bridge behind me collapsed. The whole thing tumbled into the chasm in a cascade of fire. I lay on my back. I looked up at the sky. My chest heaved. Every part of my body trembled.
I flipped over and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. I placed my hands on my thighs. My lungs were burning.
"What," I panted. "The. Fuck."
I stayed there, bent over. I was struggling to breathe, trying to recall the mechanics of respiration. My armor weighed a ton, and fog enveloped me. The tower now towered over me.
And then, from above:
A voice.
"YOU DARE APPROACH MY DOMAIN, MORTAL? YOU DARE SET FOOT UPON THE SCORCHED EARTH OF —"
"HOLY SHIT YOU CAN TALK?" I shrieked.
The voice stopped.
I was on the ground again, scrambling backwards, armor scraping the stone, looking up at the dragon. The actual, real, enormous, very much not metaphorical dragon. It perched on a ledge above the tower's entrance, coiled around the rock. His eyes, which were yellow and narrowed, were directed toward me.
“Of course I can talk,” the dragon replied.
"You can TALK. You're a dragon and you can TALK."
"Yes, with words, which I string into sentences. Much like you are doing now, albeit with considerably less grace." He shifted his weight on his ledge, his massive body rearranging itself. "Why is that always the first thing you people say? 'You can talk! You can talk!' As though language is some exclusive gift the Gods handed to you pink little creatures and forgot to share with the rest of us. You people are exhausting. 'Ooooh, I'm the brave human come to slay the dragon and smooch the sleepy girl!' Heard it. Seen it. Burned the T-shirt. Looooooserrrrrsssss.”
"I didn't — I just —"
"You assumed because I am a dragon I'm stupid. That I sit on rocks and eat livestock and think about nothing. That I lack… what? Intellect? Culture?" He seemed offended. "I will have you know I am exceptionally well read. I was Maurice Mortimer's ghost writer, you know. Twice. I am also president of a book club.”
“You… you’re in a book club?” I was beginning to catch my breath.
“Yeah. Me and two harpies. We're reading Love in the Time of Sorcery. It's not bad."
I was still on the ground; I had not stood up. I was not sure I could. I think I peed a little.
"I — I'm sorry, I didn't mean —"
"No, no. I'm sorry. That was rude. I get defensive about it. It's a sore spot. We've been dealing with the whole 'dumb beast' narrative for centuries and it gets under the scales, you know? But that's not your fault. I apologize. I shouldn't have snapped."
"Wait... are you... apologizing to me?”
"I was raised with manners. Unlike some of the knights who come through here." He scratched behind his ear? "I'm Doug, by the way. Douglas the Dread, if we're being formal. But we don't need to be formal; you seem nice enough."
"I — Cas. I'm Cas."
"Cas. Good name. Short. I like short names. The union voted on name normalization last year. We all picked sensible ones. Mine's Douglas. It was either that or Trevor and Trevor just didn't feel right."
"Yeah. Trevor's not great,” I agreed.
"That's what I said! Now. Are we doing this or not?"
"Doing what?"
"The routine." He sighed. Smoke curled from his nostril. "You give the speech. The one about honor and bravery and how you came to rescue the princess and slay the beast. I pretend to be moved. You charge. I breathe fire. You scream. Perhaps cry a little. I singe an eyebrow and you stagger away with a traumatic story for your village. Everybody goes home. Sound good?"
"You — that’s—"
"I know how it goes. Big man, big sword, big speech. They charge. I breathe. They run. Occasionally one gets brave enough to actually swing and then I have to do paperwork."
"Paperwork?"
"Incident reports. For the union." He made a broad gesture with his wings, which, for a dragon, required a considerable amount of wing movement. "We've been unionized since the last princess rescue incident. A knight nearly put out my eye and management did nothing. Nothing! So we organized. We have dental now. And a grievance process."
"You have dental?” I couldn't conceal my shock.
"Don’t say it like that. Dental is a right, not a privilege."
“Yeah, yeah, totally. So, um" I replied. "The princess. She's up there?"
"In the tower, yeah. The cult people brought her up like a week ago. The whole thing. Chanting. Candles. I stayed out of it; they gave me the creeps."
"And you're like... guarding her?"
"I mean, it's in the contract. 'Guard the tower, look menacing, breathe fire at anyone who approaches.' But, honestly? I've been phoning it in." He yawned. He had so many teeth! "I've got sciatica in both hips. Acid reflux from the wyvern meat they served at last month's summit, and I'm about one dramatic speech away from quitting this whole career and opening a smoothie stand. I've been developing recipes. I think there's a market for it."
"Honestly? There probably is. I would kill for a smoothie."
"Right? That's what I keep saying. But my friends are like 'Doug, you're a dragon, you can't sell beverages,' and I'm like, why not? Why can't a dragon diversify? It's a closed minded industry."
"That's actually kind of unfair."
"Thank you!"
We sat there for a second.
Then: "Hey, is the real prince the one hiding behind the boulder back there?"
"Oh yeah, that's him," I glanced back at the carriage.
“Didn't expect them to outsource this time. Let me guess, prince got cold feet?"
"That happens a lot?"
"You'd be surprised how many princes send someone else.” He settled further into his ledge. "Honestly I respect it. If I could send someone else to do my job I would."
"Yeah. Same."
"You want a cookie?” He nudged something with his claws. A tiny platter rested near his ledge. "The cult people leave me offerings. Mostly livestock but sometimes sweet treats. These are pretty good.”
"I'm — yeah, why not?"
With just one of his claws, he shoved the plate toward me. I took a cookie. We ate in silence for a moment.
"So what's the book about?" I asked. "The book club one."
"Oh, it's this whole thing. There's a lighthouse keeper and she falls for a sailor but the sailor is actually a selkie and there's this whole question of whether the selkie can stay on land or if she has to return to the sea. Vee, one of the harpies thinks the selkie stays. I think she goes back. It's causing tension in the group."
"I'd say she goes back. The sea is her whole thing."
"THAT'S WHAT I SAID." He exhaled a small puff of smoke, possibly due to excitement. "Vee keeps saying love conquers all and I'm like, Vee, love doesn't conquer the ocean.”
"For real. The ocean does not care about your feelings.”
"I knew I liked you."
"So are you gonna..." I gestured toward the tower. "Let me pass? Or..."
"Oh yeah. Go nuts."
"Really?"
"Why not? Prophecy, rescue, whatever you're here for. Knock yourself out." He flicked his claw toward the entrance. "Just don't knock over the candles in the entryway. I spent an hour arranging those."
"Got it. No candle touching."
"The tall one in the middle, that's the centerpiece. If that one goes the whole arrangement falls apart."
"I'll be careful." I hesitated, suddenly nervous, which seemed kind of absurd after having a conversation with a dragon, and living to tell the story. "Well, I should probably go. Rescue the princess. Do the whole thing."
"Yeah. Probably should."
"Cool. Cool, cool, cool."
I looked at the tower, tall and very vertical, and I saw that the stones were rough, uneven, and jutted out at odd angles. They were kind of handholds. If you could climb, which... how hard could it be? I had seen Tangled. Flynn Rider did this. He just went straight up the side. Looked pretty doable, honestly.
I grabbed a stone. I found a foothold. I pulled myself up, one foot then two. I got a grip on a ledge, pulled myself up, and managed to get my knee on a protruding brick.
I was really doing it! I was climbing a tower!
I looked down.
I was only about two feet off the ground. I looked up. The tower stretched above me for what felt like a thousand miles, disappearing into the clouds, endless, mocking. Two feet. Only two feet! My arms were already shaking.
Doug watched with his chin resting on his claws.
"There's a door, you know," he gestured.
"What?"
He nodded in the direction of the base of the tower, to the left. Where a perfectly visible and completely obvious door was set into the stone.
"Right...! I knew that."
"Mhm."
"I was just… testing the stone. Checking the integrity. Of the wall. Yeah.”
"Of course."
"Before I used the door. Which I was going to use."
"Naturally."
I let go and dropped two feet, landing on my ass. I got up and walked to the door.
"Have fun," Doug said.
“Thanks Doug.”
"Seriously though. The candles."