by T P Sheehan
“We will no doubt find out soon enough,” Austagia countered.
Catanya looked at them both, wondering at their relationship and how such a bond of trust formed between them. Austagia handed Catanya a folded parchment of paper small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. Catanya took it and felt the warmth of his touch as he cupped his hands around hers.
“This will give you directions, Catanya. For now, take the eastern road until you reach the start of the Dormiul Path at the top of the cliffs. Follow the path down to the coast. A dragon named Färgd will find you there. He is the oldest and wisest of the Couldradt dragons. He will take you southward along the coastline, then westward as it turns to the coastal town of Brindle. It is as close to Ba’rrat as he will dare go alone. Wait for us in Brindle. We will find our way there when we can. This parchment will give you further instructions for when you arrive. Once there, you need to go into hiding.”
Catanya was speechless. The whirlwind chain of events of the past few minutes came to a head. She now needed to trust in the person she resented most in her new world and flee from her Semsdi—the man she had trusted the most.
“Take this,” Austagia placed the leather bracelet upon Catanya’s wrist.
Jael looked on as Catanya whispered her enchantment once again, binding it so it would not fall into the wrong hands again.
“It is a good enchantment. And you are a fine Irucantî,” Jael said.
Catanya was still not aware of what Jael had been through over the months she was missing. Not knowing only added to her confusion. There was no time to ask, so instead she said, “Take care and heal well Jael. I will see you when you are strong again.”
“Thank you, Semsame.”
Catanya stepped out of Austagia’s room and into the pelting rain. Jael said I am a fine Irucantî. She turned and saw that Jael and Austagia were still looking at her. But I am no priest. She turned away from them and broke into a run, heading toward the Dormiul Path in search of the man she knew she should never have left by the Nuyan River all those months ago.
ONE HUNDRED
The sun beat at its highest and hottest since Magnus had arrived in Ba’rrat.
Summer Solstice—the longest, hottest day of the year.
On this day, the fearsome warrior Balgur would fight his hundredth battle, and a crowd larger than ever before had assembled to watch the spectacle. It was an hour after midday—the hour of the Solstice. The heat aggravated the crowd. They shouted and cursed at the two contestants impatiently.
One hundred battles… One hundred men dead at my sword… Magnus walked to the centre of the arena barefooted and dishevelled. He had given his shoes to a fellow slave in greater need than he was, for his wounds healed where others did not. On numerous occasions he had left the arena with wounds that should be fatal and yet he healed, just as they had when he fought Crugion. As he healed, Magnus would wonder if a part of him was truly dying, and that he became more dragon and less man with each passing day.
The part Magnus was most sure had died was his heart. Where once there was love there was anger. Where once there was fear was now hate.
Is this what it is like to be a dragon? What sort of life is this?
Magnus was beyond caring for his appearance. His hair was long over his shoulders and his face was hidden behind a scruffy beard. Carlo tried to encourage Magnus to shave and be proud in the arena but he cared nothing for it, nor for Carlo.
At one stage Sarah had fallen sick. Magnus pleaded with Carlo to release her or provide her with medicine, but he would have nothing of it. Magnus tried to bargain with Carlo. “I will fight every day, twice a day if you will tend to her. She needs daylight to heal—please, Carlo.” But the man would not relent.
“You need to know your place, slave. I take neither orders nor suggestions from you. Our deal is struck. You fight, she is fed and you visit with her. Beyond that your desires have no meaning to me.”
In the end, after a week of fevering and being nurtured by Magnus in the deep, dark cell in which she resided, Sarah recovered. But she was no longer the high-spirited gypsy he had grown up with who could talk all day long and still have plenty to say. Her words became fewer and were spared for only the most pressing subjects. Both of them spoke little of the loved ones lost. Sarah still knew nothing of what happened to Ganister, just as Magnus was no closer to finding his parents. Magnus had pressed Carlo for information, lying about his affiliation with them, suggesting they were distant relatives, but he was not forthcoming. Magnus did however tell Sarah he had learnt that Lucas recovered from his sickness of the wyvern poison. He was sure however that she knew he was hiding some truth from her.
Magnus reached the centre of the arena. He raised his gaze to his opponent—a man almost twice his size carrying a spiked mace and shield with his chest covered in armour and his legs bare but for leather boots. Instinctively, and in barely a moment, Magnus had sized the large warrior up—Deep scar to the shoulder of his mace arm that he guards with a high shield. Another to the left knee that he favours over the other—his right leg is weak. He is a warrior of experience but he is old, worn and slow. He will be cunning but vulnerable to a fast attack—particularly if distracted.
The warrior charged at Magnus, led by a war cry. Magnus sighed—Here we go again. He was twenty feet out when Magnus used a gypsy spell of illusion Sarah had taught him during their nights together—their nights of magic and history.
“Gana mish deevway…”
Magnus’s body shimmered slightly, making his opponent think he was shifting from side to side when in fact he was not. The man hesitated bringing his mace down, unsure where exactly Magnus was in order to land the blow. The pause gave Magnus more than the moment he needed to deal a lethal stab to the man’s chest with his sword and so, barely a minute into the fight, his one hundredth challenger fell to his death.
Magnus turned and walked from the arena giving no acknowledgement to the people in the crowd and avoiding Carlo’s gaze of disapproval.
“You could at least make a scene for the people, Balgur. A true warrior relishes the fight and the win!” Carlo lifted his arms in the air for emphasis. Magnus gritted his teeth. Carlo always liked to offer Magnus advice after a fight.
“I am no warrior. I am your slave, remember?” Magnus looked at Carlo briefly then walked past him, throwing his sword across the weapons table.
“Slave! Look at me!” Carlo bellowed. Magnus stared at Carlo with indifference. “What would you say if I told you there will be no more visits to your mother until you clean yourself up and put on a grand show for the crowd in the arena?”
Magnus walked casually back toward the weapons rack and picked up the sword again, “Then I will kill both your guards here, followed by you.” He pointed the sword to the two guards and then to Carlo and continued to hold it, waiting for Carlo’s response. The guards shifted uneasily, waiting for Carlo to give them orders, but he stroked his chin and squinted at Magnus.
“I thought as much.” Carlo looked to the guards. “Take him to his mother… again."
Magnus had no appetite that evening. One hundred battles in the arena. To what end? His despondence was palpable and he could feel Sarah’s eyes burning a hole through his forehead.
“What is it?” he asked her.
She placed her food back on her plate and stood up from where she was sitting against the wall. She came over to Magnus and sat directly in front of him cross-legged, resting her hands in her lap. “You grow more despondent every day Magnus. Good is still to come of this. You must maintain your faith.”
Magnus shook his head lazily. “I do not see it.”
Sarah shuffled about making herself more comfortable. “Come, let me tell you a story. I promised you magic and history. I believe we have covered enough gypsy magic for the time being, but we are sorely lacking in history.”
“Why is this so important, Sarah?” Magnus did not feel at all in the mood for tales.
“You have
a fair understanding of your father’s way of life—of the Fire Realm and the customs within the realm you grew up in. However, unlike my boy Lucas, your mother did not raise you with teachings about her people’s ways. This is true?”
Magnus sighed and thought about this for a moment. “She would discuss some things, occasionally. It was usually in moments of sadness when she seemed to be missing home,” he recalled.
“She told me it pained her too much to go back there,” Sarah said. “In her mind and in her heart.”
“Have you ever travelled north to the Ice Realm?” Magnus asked. To him, the Ice Realm was an enigma. He had never really given much thought as to why his mother spoke so little about it. It had simply always been that way.
“I have… twice actually. The first time was with Ganister and your father when he ventured north to ask Hasledom—your maternal grandfather—for Alavia’s hand in marriage. Ganister and I travelled with him as far as the Ice Breach—two days travel into the Ice Realm. The lands from there were well guarded. Only your father was allowed to go further north into the Rhyderlands.
“And what happened?”
“Your father obviously got what he wanted. He returned a week later with your mother. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen.”
“And the second time?”
“The second time…” Sarah’s thoughts trailed off and a sombre expression crossed her face. “The second time was less than two years later.” Sarah explained. “Lucas was a baby and stayed behind with Ganister. Your mother was with child. This time we travelled beyond the Ice Breach together into the most spectacular lands I have ever seen. You must promise me you will see it someday, Magnus—white snow-capped mountains against bright blue skies. It took two more days to traverse through the mountain ranges and then finally, the mountains sloped away to the north coast where pristine white beaches abutted the Ice Seas. Seas of crystal blue, home to the Ertwe dragons and their blood brethren—the Astermeers. You should see them Magnus—wild Astermeers running the beaches at sunrise. And this is where the Rhydermere live—your mother’s people—along a stretch of coast spanning endless miles.”
“What was your purpose of travelling there?”
“Your mother sought her father’s blessing for you—her unborn child. But what she found was sorrow beyond her worst nightmares.”
“I thought this story was meant to cheer me up!” Magnus scoffed. He immediately regretted saying it, seeing the still-sombre expression on Sarah’s face. “I am sorry, Sarah, please continue.”
“Hasledom had fallen to Quag assassins months before. In retaliation, his father—your great grandfather whose name eludes me, although I know he was the youngest of four sons—travelled with Alavia’s brothers and attacked a band of Quag camped at Realms End near the three-realm border of Ice, Fire and Earth. It was a trap. The Quag knew they would seek revenge and were waiting in great numbers. They were all killed in the battle. Your mother’s entire family was lost.”
Sarah fell to silence. Magnus felt great sorrow for his mother’s loss. There was nothing he could think to say or ask of Sarah that would resolve the sadness of her story.
“The Rhydermere retaliated with fury,” Sarah continued. “They sent forth a legion of Rhyders to run them down. Two weeks later they caught them at the northern entrance to the Corville Pass. They killed every one of the Quagmen north of the Mountains.” Sarah hung her shoulders low. “Your mother never got her wish of Hasledom’s blessing. Her people pleaded with her to stay and live among them, but there was nothing left for her. She wished to return to her new home with you and Bonstaph. As a parting gift she was given a beautiful Astermeer foal—the only to ever leave the realm other than those sworn to the Irucantî.”
“Breona…”
“Indeed. They were bonded for life. And so back in the comfort of our homes with our husbands and young children I watched Alavia change as the years passed by. Her sorrow eased and gave way to love. You, Bonstaph and Breona were all she had—her everything. To this day she loves you, Magnus, and there is nothing she would not do for you.”
“Mother never returned to her people again?”
“Never. Not in the seventeen years that followed. At times I would ask her if she’d like me to accompany her back to the North to visit her people. “Never again.” That was always her response. But her people never forgot her. They would occasionally send gifts, such as the fleu-steel used to make your sword and Lucas’s. So the connection was always there. But she never returned.”
Magnus and Sarah shared what time they had left together in silence. As the bolt to Sarah’s door slid from its lock, Magnus gave Sarah a hug.
“Thank you, Sarah,” he said.
WAITING
As Austagia had told her, the dragon named Färgd was waiting for her at the bottom of the steep descent that was the Dormiul Path, where the eastern coastline met the foot of the Romgnian Mountains. The unrelenting rain suited Färgd. He told Catanya it provided him camouflage and masked his scent to the wyverns that patrolled the coastline further to the south. Nevertheless, as they flew together, rounding the southern reaches of the mountain, and changed their course to a westerly direction toward Brindle, they encountered a pair of the black creatures.
Catanya spotted them first. Through the darkness and rain their black, dull hides stood out for a moment in the brilliance of a lighting strike. They were closing in on Färgd fast, but with Catanya’s warning, Färgd attacked with ferocity. He grabbed the first with his powerful rear claws, pulling it forward and into his open jaws, tearing it in two. The second, Catanya dealt with. She ignited her lance and stood in Färgd’s saddle, her legs firmly strapped into place. Catanya struck the creature across its face with her lance, leaving it wounded and vulnerable. Färgd finished the wyvern off with a lethal jet of flame that engulfed it. The searing heat singed Catanya’s hair and left her face sore. Färgd apologised and recommended an effective spell Catanya could use to prevent such mishaps from occurring again.
No further mishaps occurred, and as the new day dawned, they landed on the pebbled shore several miles east of Brindle. Catanya dismounted and stood before Färgd, touching her forehead to the dragon’s nose. She shared thoughts and thanked him for his help.
“Your feelings suggest you face a great predicament, priest-girl,” Färgd observed. “Is it anything I may help you with?”
Catanya was not sure what to say. She was uncertain whom she could trust and was even questioning her own beliefs. “Thank you, Färgd, for your kindness and concern. But I think I am yet to learn all there is about the priesthood.”
“Very well, priest-girl, but if I may give one piece of advice before we part ways—it is to be true to yourself.”
“True to myself?”
“Before any other principles or beliefs, yes.” With that, Catanya saw Färgd’s eyes flicker through a myriad of shades from her own brown to his usual amber. He bid Catanya farewell and spread his immense wings, taking once more to the skies.
Catanya walked the remaining three miles to the outskirts of Brindle. Along the way she unfolded the parchment Austagia had given her. He had written directions to an abandoned chancel that she could use for accommodation during her stay.
Mindful not to go too close to it before she determined it safe, Catanya found a position atop a rise half a mile away that gave her a clear view of the old chancel and the surrounding areas. For the rest of that day and the night that followed, Catanya stayed there, watching and waiting.
By the second morning she was confident no one was moving in or out of the chancel, nor that anyone was watching it. She was certain too that no one had followed her to Brindle. Satisfied, Catanya moved into the abandoned building.
For the first few days, Catanya cast her eyes and thoughts back to the east, waiting for Austagia or Jael or perhaps a hostile Ferustir on a mission to kill her. None came and so she began to venture out and explore the coastal town. She found an old brown
robe within the chancel that she wore to conceal her Ferustir suit, and pulled her hair over to cover the bald side of her head and its telltale marks. In the solitude of her time alone, she allowed herself to sink deeper and deeper into regret over leaving Magnus. She wished they had fled earlier and found isolation together, away from the violence and deception of their world.
Catanya wondered how Joffren reacted to her disappearance and concluded that he probably thought that she fled for home and no longer wanted to be a part of the priesthood. It was considered blasphemy, but surely a lesser crime than working against the will of the priests. Besides… Catanya considered. Steyne had fled the priesthood many years before without a death mark placed on him.
After a week, Catanya grew agitated. What if something has happened to Austagia or Jael? She tried to keep the thoughts from her mind by reciting memorised passages from the Murata Fara. Translating the Fireisgh words into the common tongue, Catanya recited a passage she recalled from the last pages of the Murata about the bond of fire—
“The fourth of four realms,
The last to bring bond and the power of fire,
May give over to one of their choosing,
Whose progeny shall forever inherit the power of the
realm of fire…”
“Of their choosing… the dragons’ choosing,” Catanya re-evaluated. “Not of the priests’ choosing.” There was no promise to the priests themselves.
Catanya realised that if the priests had developed a false sense of entitlement, their retribution to an outsider receiving the bond would be deadly. Austagia was right. She recalled his words—“They will want Magnus dead”.
On the thirteenth night of waiting, Catanya slept uneasily in the makeshift bed she had created at the rear of the chancel. She slept each night with one hand on her lance and the other on her sheath of throwing knives. Past midnight, her eyes became heavy and she replaced her sense of vision with a focus on hearing. She heard a cockroach scuttle across the stone floor. It was the same one that came out each night at this hour. But then she heard a foreign sound—that of a partially dried iris petal being broken under foot.