The Torching of the Westwood

XĪWÀNG : [Eastern - W. China] A large lóng species dragon of the West Orient. Locally held as an auspicious symbol of hope and the water associated with the spring rains. Pale azure in color; said to be between 40 and 55 m. in length. Four-clawed; wingless. Commonly thought to deliver rain to areas worthy of deliverance from drought and turmoil.

–The Livingstone Encyclopaedia of Legendary World Creatures, 1811 printing

—

The Princess of Trahern was not one to mince words. She said what she thought, and ordered it done. It was then done, because she paid well and honestly scared most people, and that was reason enough for her orders to be followed.

"Burn it," the Princess ordered, rather suddenly.

However, there were some things that were difficult, as an advisor, to allow her to do.

"The... forest, your majesty?"

"Yes," she replied. She stood by the tall castle window, gazing out at the Westwood and the trail that led across the valley and to a very small neighboring kingdom. Far away, in open coppices and clearings, the gleam of silver armor was faintly visible. "Burn it to the ground. Encircle them with the fire, so that they cannot outrun it."

The chancellor, a wiry, older man who had the good wisdom to outlive many prior assistants to the princess, hesitated.

"With... all due respect, Princess, there's more than their army in those woods. Several of our villages are there as well."

"They will live," the Princess began coolly, lingering by the lattice for a moment as she looked out. "Or they will not. It is a small price to pay for peace of mind, don't you think?"

The chancellor did not, but he had seen the fate of many others who said as much, so he simply pursed his lips.

The Princess seemed pleased at his silence, and smiled. Her dark hair shone hickory in the sunlight. In truth, she was not pretty, even if it were just for the obsessive gleam in her amber eyes. There was a certain impressive appearance in power, he supposed—but it was the same as there had been in the dragons of old.

She stepped out of the light and back into the shadows.

Gloria of Trahern looked like an ordinary royal, except for her eyes. They were golden, bright and always shifting, thinking and never showing what they were thinking about.

She, of course, would be safe in her stone castle from such a fire. The castle town would be safe. But the rest of the valley—the dry Westwood, the struggling north fields, the settlements all around—would likely burn as well, if the fire could not be controlled.

The river-dam and castle moat should have been overflowing at this time of year. Instead, they were of wading depth, growing over with algae and dying yellow grasses.

"I do love bonfires," she said simply, not really paying attention to him. "Imagine one that lights up the world."

—

It had not been a good growing year.

The rains from the East had not come. Where there was usually lush vegetation and soft weeds flooding the forest floor, there was now only dry sticks and the crooked figures of young trees that would not fully leaf until they'd been watered. The pines, as always, stood silent and tall, though they had dropped an excess of orange needles that now blanketed most of the ground below.