Malmyera, Laogüen

Cyrus tucked the mutton more securely under his arm. The night was hot and humid. The air settled like syrup upon his skin, and his long hair hung limp around his shoulders, soaked as it was with sweat.

He reached for his cache: a dragon-hide pouch tied to his belt with preservation signets inlaid on the face. A small dose would do. He took out a waxed paper packet, unfolding it slowly to avoid any noise, and placed the contents on his tongue. Dissolution began immediately, and he shuddered at the sensation—not because of its acrid taste, nor the coating of fat left upon his tongue, but because he now knew intimately the injustice of its harvest.

Forgive me, he thought.

When he felt the tell-tale burn in his throat, he drew the rune of Shadows in the air with his free hand. He pressed his frame against the guard-wall as the sentry walked past. Ninety-nine, ninety-eight, ninety-seven… He mustn’t lose count.

He waited until only his breath split the silence, and the sentry had disappeared around the corner, before he crept out of his hiding place and made his way to the city gates.

Sixty-five, sixty-four, sixty-three…

A shout broke through the night. He stumbled in surprise, cursing under his breath, and froze, moving only to swivel his head for the source. Another shout echoed, jeering; his head snapped to the left to find two drunkards shoving each other in the shadows of an alley. Glancing around once more and finding nobody, Cyrus crept on, increasing his pace twofold.

Fifty-three, fifty-two, fifty-one…

Security had always been well-run in Malmyera, one of Laogüen’s largest cities; patrols had doubled after rumors of the theft of a hatchling had spread. A bounty had been announced for any information. Though the authorities didn’t yet know his face, Cyrus woke up every morning with a knot in his stomach, anxious and agitated, fearful that when he stepped out the door he’d find bulletins with his likeness posted all over the city.

Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…

He held his breath as he slipped through the gates. To his north stretched the trade-road, empty and well-worn; to his northwest lay the sea, rumbling and dark; to his west lay the tree line, gnarled and looming. He relaxed at the sight of spiraling trunks of live oaks and low-hanging branches of cypresses. Seven, six, five—just a few more strides and he’d be safe—

He melted into the forest, heartbeat slowing as the lamplights grew ever more distant. He knew the footpath well, could follow it even without the nearly full moon above, and though his cloak caught on stray branches he made his way easily enough. When he reached a small glade, he waited and listened.

Nothing but the sounds of the forest.

Satisfied, he stepped towards the cropping of boulders on the far end of the clearing; he whistled, a high pitch followed by a low. Two orange eyes blinked open at him, pupils slotted. He smiled.

«Hello,» he signed.

The dragon chirped. She uncurled, letting out a yawn that showed rows and rows of teeth, and stood and stretched. She chirped again, padding over to him and bumping her head into his chest, as she’d done every day since he’d hid her here. He stumbled back a step and laughed.

“It’s good to see you too,” he said. He scratched her beard and the scales on the nape of her neck, laughing again when she curled so heavily into his touch that she nearly knocked him over. He stepped backwards, signed, «Food. Stay.»

She waited as he unwrapped the mutton. When he signaled, she tore into the meat greedily, one clawed foot holding the leg of sheep in place. Her neck rippled with muscle as she crunched through bone. After she finished, she shook herself like a wet hound, flapping wings that were not yet strong enough to carry her, and flopped down at his feet. He sat down on the ground. She put her head in his lap, blinking her eyes sleepily.

He scratched her scales, and cradled her head, and thumbed the line of her brow with care as she rumbled at his touch.

The fear, the toll of the cache, the bounty—these were worth it to him, for her.

————————

Cerys, Eyrdimon

She was standing at the edge of a cliff. Ocean spray gentled the air. Sea salt caught on her eyelashes, coated the leaves of live oaks in a silvery sheen, stuck to her lips so when she ran her tongue across her teeth she tasted the waves. The wind whipped moon-silver braids around her face, tangled, and far out over the waves flashed a storm freshly broken.

Four seals danced in the shallows; playing among them were creatures who dipped and dived, swooping across the glassy sea’s surface with fervor and grace. These creatures shook the water from bony wings when they spun.

Sea thrift bloomed in clumps around her. Near her feet grew a wildflower. She had never before seen such a flower: though most of the buds were only half-opened, the grey, stony-looking petals she could see were shot through with red, glowing augite cracked by slow-moving magma. Rhizome stretched into the air where the earth had been gnawed away by the tide.

In her left hand she had a string of pearls, twined around her fingers like vines of morning glories. The pearls shone black under the moon. She ran an absent thumb across them as she stepped closer to the edge and looked out over the water. The thunderclouds advanced slowly. With the storm came a hulking figure, misshapen, gait uneven and halting; weathering the waves at its back, steadfast, as it made its way to shore. When fully out of the water, the figure paused. She shivered. Though she could not see its eyes, and it was many marks away, she knew that it was watching her.

The figure dropped to all fours and raced across the sand, charging full-speed towards the cliffside—

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Ismene sat up with a yelp. She brought a hand to her cheekbone, dazed; someone had slapped her awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, finding her face wet with tears, and saw Maecia standing by her bedside.

“You were whimpering.” Maecia said. “It was bothersome.”

“I was dreaming,” Ismene snapped. “Don’t you know better than to interrupt a seer?”

“Huh!” Maecia snorted. “You, a seer. How far the order has fallen.”

Ismene ground her teeth but did not respond, for Maecia spoke the truth; dreams held little portent in the modern age. Seers were unreliable at best. Though Selenaia’s temple still sought out every child with potential in Eyrdimon, such conscription was now tradition more than strategy, and the largest share of the clergy had chosen to serve of their own free will. There hadn’t been an acolyte with consequential foresight in centuries.

“Even so,” she grumbled. “You didn’t have to hit me so hard.”

Maecia was already settling onto her bunk. Her voice was muffled as she repeated, “It was bothersome.”

“Do it again and you’ll lose a hand.” Ismene rolled to face the wall, kicking her furs down to her feet to cool off.

Ismene had foretold her grandmother’s death in her fourth summer. The strongest vision in centuries, her mother had claimed, though Ismene herself had no memory of it. She only remembered sweetbread and running through the forest, and the pup she’d found curled up under a willow tree that she’d loved more than anything else. The two of them had been inseparable for nearly a moon. She hadn’t minded the bite, nor the crescent scar left upon her wrist—they were only playing as they always did. The pup had let go as soon as she’d yelped.

Her mother had minded. She’d struck Ismene across the face, stolen the pup from her and ordered it taken to the woods where they’d met and put to the sword. Ismene had been locked in her room for days before her mother’s anger cooled; after she was freed she’d scoured the forest, tears streaming down her face, yet she’d never found any bones to bury.

Ismene shifted, uncomfortable, cursing her bed for the countless time. Two more winters, she thought, two more winters and I’ll be free. A strange thought. She felt so distant from the child who’d been brought to the temple, screaming and biting and wild, the girl who’d seen not even seven summers, with onyx eyes and hair colored a blue so pale it could nearly pass for white. Moon-kissed, they’d called her. Yet no more visions had come.

Perhaps if she’d—

Ismene took a deep breath, pressing the heels of her hands to her face until stars danced on the backs of her eyelids. Another deep breath. Another. She tapped the crescent scar on her wrist, felt her body slowly relax.

The remnants of her dream slipped away and she made no attempt to catch them. It didn’t matter. Maecia was right. Seers like her had no real importance nowadays.

————————

Cthahn mountains

The sun shone hot and the clouds were strung in twisting wisps across the sky, cicadas singing the first song of summer. Boughs of pines rustled as the wind curled across the mountaintops.

A man lay dying on a road. An old road. A road with rivets worn by hoofbeats and wagon-wheels, where rain collected in the ruts more days than not, made of rock-studded dirt that cut starkly through mullein. Most of his body rested upon such dirt; only the ankles of his boots and the bottom of his leathers were mixed up in the blades of green that leaned into the road to try to reach the sun.

The dying man lay prone. His head was turned just a bit to the side. His skin was tan, had seen the sun plenty, though was now undercut with a pallor the grey of morning mist. One hand rested upon his chest. The other was bent at his side. Knucklebones curled against his ribs, the pads of his fingers scraping his palm.

Bel-nadin-sumi knelt beside him. “Well-met.” He said, and touched the man’s heart; the man’s forehead; his own sternum. Repeating this ritual twice more, he then reached for the dagger at his belt, drawing it smoothly from its ornate scabbard and in one quick motion cutting the man’s throat to the bone.

He cleaned the blade upon the cloth wound neatly around his sword arm. This wrap had once been the color of the milk of mountain goats; nine summers into his Walk, the blood of many strangers had colored it the burnt red-brown of the ochre marking trees that have begun to rot from the inside out.

He would ask the wise woman for a life-mark at the gathering. This man was worthy of such respect, for the battle was indeed well-fought.

Bel sheathed his dagger and turned back to the corpse. His violet eyes narrowed, head tilting to take in every detail. Tall, brown-skinned and fine-featured, thinning hair tied back with a cord marked by dyed red tassels: Laogüenese. A messenger, by his simplicity of dress and swiftness of stride. Likely an important one as well, for only the best of royal messengers were sword-trained, and only the best of those could match Bel in battle for as long as this man had. He had fought for almost a quarter-candlemark.

It was unusual for such important messengers to be sent through the Sidhe Pass; more often than not they were killed.

Nudging away his runabout thoughts, Bel drew the rune of Stone in the air and waited for three heartbeats before beginning to search the corpse. Despite the rune’s protection, he kept his movements careful as he turned out pockets and patted down seams. Some messenger-folk were known to sew poisonous powders into the lining of their clothes. Such a death was painful and prolonged.

He collected all of the belongings beside the body, poring over each item as struck his interest. One was a cache, with enough dragon-fat for perhaps two days of rune casts. Bel wondered why such a small cache would be chosen, and the second item answered this soon enough: a vial of dark blue liquid, with flecks of orange swirling against the glass. He opened the vial, cautious, and drew the rune of Light in the air above its opening. The air flashed yellow. He pulled the cloth that was tied around his neck over his nose and sniffed the vial with a shallow breath. The sugar-sweet smell of morning rose—fatal, fast-acting.

An important message indeed.

The third item he spent the longest examining. It was a talisman tied to a leather cord, small, with a stone of a type he had never before seen that shone under the sun. The stone caught rays in colors that danced like coruscations of the Goddess’s Belt on clear, cold nights, and ghosted over the surfaces they touched like mist over a lake, soft in the dawn. The stone-face was engraved with symbols he did not recognize. Elegant and swooping, no doubt carved with a precision requiring a mage’s touch.

He drew another rune of Stone to shield himself as he moved the talisman to a patch of earth clear of any grass. Talismans did not usually trap active magic, and were most often used for protection, luck, or health. Nevertheless, Bel knew, as all mountain-folk knew, the strength and cruelty of cache-backed runes that did not react well to strangers.

He retrieved a chalk-stone from his belt and encircled the talisman with a thick line of red. He sketched the rune of Light in the air over the talisman. The circle flashed; the air did not change color. He re-drew the circle, and this time sketched the rune of Fire above the talisman. The circle flashed; the air did not change color.

No danger. No dragon-magic. Yet marked with foreign signets, and carried by a royal messenger. Odd.

Perhaps the stone itself had value, or perhaps the talisman was a Relic. Perhaps—though under the false king’s reign such practices were viciously punished—the markings were signets sacred to the messenger’s ancestors.

The wise woman would know. If not, then the listeners of whispers.

Bel tied the talisman to his belt. He rubbed the chalk away, red dusting his palm, and began to walk to a creek he knew lay nearby. He left the corpse on the road and did not look back. The Mountain would strip the skin from the body, gnaw the marrow from the bones, devour the rest until only dust was left to be lost in the wind.

He squatted beside the creek and washed himself clean. When he finished, he drew the dagger from his belt and let his thoughts wander.

A strange talisman. A royal messenger, sent through the oft-raided mountain shortcut with a message important enough that better it die with the courier than become known to any other.

Bel rocked back and forth on his heels, flipping and catching his dagger mindlessly, wondering what secrets he had killed with the man.