Dragonfield by Jane Yolen Read Free Book Online Page A

encircling the cradle where Father, having just conferred his gift, was still bending down to kiss the squawling babe.
    I stepped into the room and had passed several bored courtiers, when the Cloth suddenly failed, revealing me before I had time to recomb my hair or straighten my bent wings or paste a smile across my mouth. I had two bright spots of fever back on my cheeks and my eyes were wild. I looked, my eldest sister later told me, “a rage.” But at least I did not shout. In fact, it was all I could do to get out a word, what with all that running. Stumbling forward, the spindle thrust out before me, I almost fell into the cradle. I accidentally stepped on one of the rockers and the cradle tilted back and forth. The infant, its attention caught by the movement, stopped crying.
    Into the sudden silence, I croaked, “For Talia—a present of Life.” And I pulled on the black thread that was wrapped around the spindle. But I must have pulled too hard on the old knotted thread. It broke after scarcely an inch.
    Everyone in the court gasped and the queen cried out, “Not Life but Death.”
    The king stood up and roared, “Seize her,” but of course at that moment the Cloth worked again and I disappeared. In my horror at what I had done, I took several steps back, dropping the spindle and the snippet of thread. Both became visible the moment they left my hand, but no one could find me.
    Father bent down, picked up the thread, and shook his head.
    “What damage?” whispered Mother. Or at least she tried to whisper. It came out, as did everything her family said in haste, in a shout.
    “Indeed,” the king cried, “what damage?”
    Father took out his spectacles, a measuring tape, and a slide rule. After a moment, he shook his head. “By my calculations,” he said, “fifteen years, give or take a month.”
    The king knew this to be true because Father’s family had a geasa laid upon them to always tell the truth.
    The queen burst into furious sobbing and the king clutched his hands to his heart and fell back into his chair. Baby Talia started crying again, but my eldest sister surreptitiously rocked the cradle with her foot which quieted the babe at once.
    “Do something!” said the king and it was a royal command, my mother had to obey.
    “Luckily I have not yet given my gift, Sire,” Mother began, modulating her voice, though she could still be heard all the way out to the courtyard.
    Father cleared his throat. He did not believe in that kind of luck.
    But Mother, ignoring him, continued. “My gift was to have been a happy marriage, but this must take precedence.”
    “Of course, of course,” murmured the king. “If she is dead at fifteen, what use would a happy marriage be?”
    At that the queen’s sobs increased.
    Father nodded and his eyes caught the king’s and some spark of creature recognition passed between them.
    Mother bent down and retrieved the spindle. Father handed her the bit of thread. Then she held up the thread in her right hand, the spindle in her left. With a quick movement of her fingers, she tied the thread back, knotting it securely, mumbled a spell which was really just a recipe for bread, then slowly unwound a much longer piece of thread. She measured it with a calculating eye and then bit it through with a loud, satisfying snick.
    “There,” she said. “Talia shall have a long, long life now. But …”
    “But what?” the queen asked between sobs.
    “But there is still this rather large knot at her fifteenth year of course,” Mother explained.
    “Get on with it. Get on with it,” shouted the king. “You fey are really the most exasperating lot. Say it plainly. None of your fairy riddles.”
    Mother was about to shout back when Father elbowed her. She swallowed hastily and said, “It means she shall fall asleep on her fifteenth birthday…”
    “Give or take a month,” my father inserted.
    “… and she shall sleep for as long as it takes for the knot to be