The Dragon Of Trelian Part 18

Meg hadn't been down to the dungeons in a long time. When she'd been much younger, around Maurel's age, she supposed, she used to sneak down to peek at the prisoners, to try to see what a criminal looked like. Mostly they looked like other men. Or occasionally a woman, though that was rare. Mostly they'd just looked sad or angry and alone, and eventually she'd stopped going. Villains in stories were evil and exciting and dangerous, until they were caught and vanquished by the forces of good. But in real life a" she supposed it had been one of her first realizations about the differences between fact and fiction a" more than anything else, she'd felt sorry for them, the way she felt for creatures chained in a menagerie. And if she knew the crimes for which they'd been imprisoned, she'd had trouble connecting the beaten, broken men in the dank cells with the monsters who'd stolen and beaten and sometimes killed to earn themselves a spot in the dark under the castle. She didn't like that it wasn't easier to tell they were bad just by looking at them.

She should have learned that lesson better, she thought bitterly as she walked down the stone corridor between the empty cells. A guard trailed at a respectful distance. She'd wanted to come alone, but the most she could convince the watchman to do was to stay in sight but out of earshot.

She walked to the end and then stopped, bracing herself, before she turned to face him. He sat in the center of the cell, on the floor, his arms draped over his bent knees. They looked at each other in silence for what seemed a long time. This was stupid. She didn't know what she hoped to accomplish here.

"You should have left," she said finally. "You've only made things harder."

"I know," he said softly.

"I mean for me," she said.

"I know."

They looked at each other again. Even tired and dirty and marked with sadness and shock a" and shame? a" as he was, he was still beautiful. It made her angry. He didn't deserve to look that way. Maybe that should be his punishment. To be scarred and maimed and made to look as ugly on the outside as she knew he was within.

"Did they tell you they've left it to me to decide what happens to you?" she asked.

He blinked. "No. I didn't know that." He was quiet for a moment, then nodded to himself. "It makes sense, I suppose."

Meg felt rage boil inexplicably within her. She clutched at it. She had earned that rage. She would not let him take that from her, too. "Why are you so calm?" she demanded. "I could have you whipped and beaten and tortured a thousand different ways! I could have you killed, slowly and painfully, right this very instant if I wanted to. Why don't you beg for mercy? For forgiveness?"

"Because," he said quietly, "I don't deserve them. I know that. I want to pay for what I've done. For what I almost a"" He shook his head, not looking at her. "I'm so sorry."

"No," she said. "Oh, no. You don't get to do that. You don't get to do the right thing now. It's too late. You lied to me. You used me! You were going to a"" She couldn't speak. She was so angry she was choking on it.

"I know."

"No!" she screamed. The guard started forward in alarm, but she waved him back impatiently. On some level she knew she was angrier than she should be a" he was caught, he'd been stopped, she could make him pay, and she didn't have to be angry anymore a" but she was still burning with fury. She hated him; she wanted to hurt him, make him bleed, burn him a"

She took a shaky breath, trying to calm herself. Jakl was amplifying her emotions, of course, but that didn't make them any less real. It wasn't fair. She'd won, they'd won, they should get the righteous pleasure of giving him what he deserved, but it didn't work if he wanted to be punished. He was robbing her of even this last satisfaction. But he would not. She would not let him.

She let Jakl's hatred merge with her own and felt the rage burning with red hot flames inside her. This was her chance to make Wilem pay for everything, to make him suffer in the way that he deserved a" she was angry enough to kill him right now with her bare hands, and she believed her dragon could give her the strength to do it. She felt on fire with fury. And when he looked up at her again, and paled, she felt a cold smile touch her lips. He could see it; she could tell. For the first time he looked truly afraid, and she reveled in it. He should be afraid. He deserved to be afraid and he was right to be, because she had all the power here, and he had none. But even as she watched, she saw his fear replaced with resolve. She admired him for it a" she couldn't help it a" and that made her hate him all the more. He lied to me, she thought at herself furiously. He helped his mother try to kill her and Calen, and he would have killed Maerlie, and he lied, he lied, he lied, and he hurt her and now there was nothing to stop her from hurting him, nothing except . . .

Except . . .

With effort, she fought back against the strength Jakl had lent her, the heat he had poured into her heart and soul and mind to feed her fire. This was not a decision she would allow her anger to make for her. She took another breath and forced herself to look at Wilem objectively. Not with the eyes of a victim, or a sister, or even a young woman a" certainly not of a dragon. As a princess, charged with delivering justice tempered with mercy. Punishment but also reprieve. He was a boy still. Older than she was, true, but still quite young. He had done some terrible things, but only because of what he'd been led to believe. His own mother had lied to him, fed him the tales to turn him into a killer at her side. And once he'd discovered the truth of things, he turned away from the only family he had left to do what was right. And now he was alone, alone in a way she could only imagine, without parents or siblings or even friends. Alone with his conscience, which now told him he deserved to be punished. It occurred to Meg that perhaps a" perhaps a" sometimes justice and mercy could be one and the same. Forgiveness might be the kindest and the cruelest thing she could do to him.

Without a word she turned and strode back up the corridor. The guard waited for her to pa.s.s, then followed along silently behind her. There were practical matters still to consider, of course. If they weren't going to execute him, then some provision would have to be made for keeping him alive. And if they weren't going to leave him to rot in his cell, then . . . She would talk to Maerlie and Calen and then present her parents and the king and queen of Kragnir with some viable options. Meg smiled and felt some last piece of doubt and darkness fall away from where it had clung around her heart. She could do this. She could think without ceasing to feel, feel without ceasing to think, choose without losing herself among the choices. Jakl sensed her sudden lightness of spirit and rejoiced in response. She doubted he had any concept of the details of the situation; he'd just known she was angry and in pain, and now no one was hurting her anymore. Because I won't let them, she thought fiercely. I can stop them, and my choices are all my own. Despite everything, I am still myself. And I can do this. If I choose.

The guard stepped forward to push open the heavy door to the outer exit. Meg was still smiling as she walked past him, her delicate and proper princess steps lengthening stride by stride until she was bounding, laughing, up the stairs and emerging into the light.

THIS BOOK IS THE RESULT OF MANY YEARS OF DREAMING and doubting and working and writing, and would not have come to be without the help of several important people. Initial thanks must go to my parents: my mom, Flo Knudsen, for telling me about the stories and characters of the fantasy novels she was reading when I was little and sparking my own love of fantasy literature; and my dad, Paul Knudsen, for leaving his copies of a.n.a.log lying around and helping to inspire both my interest in speculative fiction and my early attempts at writing short stories. Thanks also to Mrs. Blumenrich of I.S. 75 for making me start to love English cla.s.s in eighth grade, and to Mr. and Mrs. Rivlin who kept that love of English cla.s.s going strong in high school.

Special thanks to my very nice friends who read drafts and gave me excellent and useful comments and suggestions: Kristin Cartee, Bridey Flynn, Michael McGandy, Michael Mellin, Rebecca Stead, Jenny Weiss, and Matthew Winberg. Also to Jennifer Rosenkrantz and Stephanie Santoriello for their enthusiasm and belief and for countless years of friends.h.i.+p. And to everyone (all of the above and more) who contributed thoughts and opinions in response to my frantic late-night e-mails about name p.r.o.nunciation and flap copy and other random but important things.

Extra special thanks to my agent, Jodi Reamer, who read the incomplete draft and said I had to finish, and to my editor, Sarah Ketchersid, for caring about Meg and Calen as much as I do and for helping me to make the story as strong as I could. I feel incredibly lucky to have both of you in my corner, and appreciate your encouragement and occasional tough love and seemingly infinite patience more than I have probably ever expressed to you.

And above all, I owe a debt of grat.i.tude to Matt Winberg, who read the first chapter and told me to keep going. Your support and encouragement, then and now, mean so much to me.

Thank you.

MICh.e.l.lE KNUDSEN is the author of many books for children, including the award-winning, New York Times best-selling picture book Library Lion, ill.u.s.trated by Kevin Hawkes. The Dragon of Trelian is her first novel. She says, "Once I discovered fantasy novels as a young reader, I never looked back. While writing this book, I wanted to include all the things I've always loved most in fantasy stories a" castles, magic, secrets, adventure, true friends, and of course, dragons." Mich.e.l.le Knudsen lives in Brooklyn, New York.

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