Relics and Runes Anthology

by Heather Marie Adkins

  "You really think this is something to worry about?" Gallia whispered, her expression uncharacteristically serious.

  "You heard him," Travin whispered back. "Laynin said he and Ara went north to speak to the kings. If anyone knows what's going on up there, it's them." Luthin didn't seem the sort to lie. If anything, Ara might have told him to downplay the danger they were in. She wouldn't want to incite panic, even in the most dire situation. No—Ara would want it contained.

  Travin slumped back in his chair and risked a sidelong glance at the draakin. His face looked grave. Judging by the stubble on his chin, he hadn't shaved in a handful of days. That wasn't like him. He'd never seen Luthin look less than immaculate.

  "Maybe we should get out of Tsaisa," Sami suggested. "Leave while we still can."

  "And go where?" Gallia asked. She cocked her head and gave her lover a quizzical look.

  Sami shrugged. "Somewhere further north? I hear it's always hot in Paryos."

  Gallia looked uncertain. "Maybe we shouldn't jump too soon. For all we know, nothing will come of any of this. I mean, how often do we hear talk of war, but then it just dies down and gets forgotten? Or it's isolated to some other part of the kingdoms."

  Sami nodded slowly. "You're right, I suppose. In a week or two we'll probably laugh about this whole conversation." The furrow in her brow smoothed and she managed a wan smile.

  "Of course I'm right," Gallia said brightly. "Now who wants a drink?"

  "I could use one," Travin replied. He wasn't sure he could sit by and wait, and wasn't convinced nothing would happen. What could he do if war did find them here at Tsaisa? He may join in the fight if it came to that. What he didn't know was which side he'd fight for. He was a northerner, but he was also a magin and a follower of Euru. Whatever he decided, he could potentially end up fighting against friends.

  No wonder, he added to himself as he looked back to Luthin, the draakin stayed out of conflicts. It was easier than having to choose sides.

  20

  Laynin threw her clothes onto the floor near the door and grimaced. "I hope that smell comes out," she muttered, "that was my favourite shirt."

  I am certain it will become clean again, Risper said, his sleepy tone suggesting he'd just woken in time to know what she was referring to. There are worse smells than dragon feces.

  "That's easy for you to say. You don't have to shovel it." She picked up a stray sock from beside her bed and added it to the pile.

  I do have to do it, he pointed out, sounding huffy. I don't find it too offensive.

  "Most people seem to think their dung doesn't stink," she said dryly. "Some more than others though."

  Oh, to whom are you referring?

  "No one in particular, I suppose," she admitted, "just an observation." She pulled the towel from around her hair and threw it onto the pile with the dirty clothes. Her hair was damp, but smelled of oils scented with a woody fragrance that reminded her of Risper. It was her favourite, although she rarely bothered to try others.

  Zannis had once insisted she try hers, only to have Laynin smell like sickly sweet flowers for days.

  She grabbed a comb and started running it through her hair. "Do you ever think about the future?" she asked. "Apart from what I have to kill for your next meal."

  At times I do. If events are uppermost in the mind of my draakin, then they will also be in mine.

  "Is my worrying bothering you?" She couldn't stop thinking, but he didn't have to listen if he chose not to.

  Not at all. Your concerns are also in the minds of Nehko and Sala, because it's in the minds of their draakin. Even were you not troubled, I couldn't avoid it.

  "How worried are they?" Laynin paused before attacking a particularly tight tangle

  Varying degrees. Nehko more so, but that's usually the case for him. He takes his draakin's responsibility seriously.

  "That doesn't surprise me. So, if you think about the future, what do you think? Do you make plans, or imagine what may happen?"

  I don't make plans, as people do, Risper replied thoughtfully, beyond what I might prefer to eat the next time I do so. I remember things which happened in the past and recall parallels to the present. I muse about whether the same outcomes might occur, or if they'll be different. Generally speaking, both are correct. Situations often have similarities to other situations, as well as differences.

  "Oh? How so?"

  In war, people kill or are killed. This remains unchanged. But borders move. Alliances are made and broken. If a conflict occurs, the kingdoms may shift again.

  "But people will die." She sighed. "Is Ara very worried?" She should speak to her directly, but for now it was safer to stay out of her way.

  Nehko says she is concerned, but determined that the draakin, and the dragons will not get involved under any circumstances.

  "She made that clear enough," Laynin said. She put down her comb and started to dress. "But I don't know how she will feel when people are dying all over the kingdoms. I know, people aren't dragons, but—"

  No life should be taken lightly, he said, his tone a gentle scold.

  "I know that," she said hastily, "I'm just not sure Ara does. I can understand her putting dragons before people, but sometimes things aren't so simple." She stopped and gave a short laugh. "Here I am, giving a lecture to a dragon several times my age, who has probably seen conflict over and over until it all but loses any sense of meaning other than silly human squabbles."

  Risper was silent for a while. I have seen much, he said slowly, and yes, sometimes it does seem like a repeating cycle, but each time there are grievances on both sides, which couldn't be resolved by other means.

  "Are you justifying war?" she asked, incredulous.

  Not at all. I'm simply suggesting it's the way of people, and has often been the only way to break free from tyranny.

  "I suppose so." In this, she agreed with Ara. She'd prefer to avoid conflict if possible. Surely people could just sit down and talk? She wasn't naive enough to think that when faced with hundreds of armed men, the response wouldn't be to arm and fight in defence.

  Dragons fought once, he added, surprising her. When there was a lot of us, and food was scarce. Several died, or so the tale goes. It is passed down from dragon to dragon to remind us that we are no longer animals.

  "Dragons are smarter than humans then," she said with a smile.

  Well…

  She laughed and pulled the door open. She'd see to her dirty clothes later. Right now she wanted something to eat which wasn't sheep.

  "Evenin'." Luthin walked down the corridor toward her, weaving a little on unsteady legs which suggested he'd come from the tavern. By the look of him, he'd been there a while.

  "Are you lost?" she asked, giving a soft laugh. "Your room is in the Dragonhall, remember?"

  "I know, but it's nice in the annex, don't you think?" He grinned at her. "Fewer shar…sht… stairs." He finally got the word out. "So many shtairs in the hall." He waved an arm in the wrong direction.

  "There are a few of them," she agreed. "You look like you need to find somewhere to lie down and sleep it off."

  "I think I do," he said, squinting at her. "You want to sleep it off with me? I mean, after we make wild love." He gesticulated in her direction.

  "Um, as tempting an offer as that is, I need to eat and I really think you need to sleep. By yourself."

  "Don't look so worried," he said. He leaned against the wall and almost missed. He saved himself at the last moment before he fell flat on his face. "Everything is under control."

  "Under whose, yours?" she asked, "Maybe I should be more worried."

  He threw back his head and laughed so loudly it echoed up and down the corridor. "You always were so funny!"

  She raised an eyebrow at him. "You really are drunk, aren't you?"

  "War is coming," he said, his eyes wide, suddenly serious. "Why not enjoy every moment while you can?"

  "If that's another ploy to get me into—"<
br />
  He grasped her shoulders and looked her in the eyes. "Be careful," he said earnestly.

  "What are you up to Luthin?" Zannis' voice made them both jump. Luthin staggered back, hands and fingers outstretched to keep his balance.

  "Ah, the lovely Zannis. I was just telling Laynin she should relax and enjoy every moment of life. She was just about to let me in to share a few hours of pleasure."

  Laynin rolled her eyes. "No I wasn't. I told you to go away."

  "You know, there's three of us now, we could have some fun—"

  "Go away, Luthin."

  He huffed and gave her a sulky look. Something in his eyes suggested he wasn't as drunk as he was making out to be. There was more there as well, something which gave her a chill. He was scared. Whatever he'd seen up north was far more than he or Ara had told anyone.

  "I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be a bother."

  "I'm sure you weren't." Laynin gave him a smile, although it was slightly forced after his persistence. "No doubt you'll find another way to pass the time."

  "Or with someone else," Zannis said, interrupting the awkward conversation with her light tone. "I'm not busy just now."

  Luthin turned, looking more his usual self, a smile gracing his wide mouth. "Oh, you're not? Well then, would you care for some company?"

  His words were formal, as were his gestures as he offered his hand, but Laynin knew they'd spent nights together before. It was none of her business then and she didn't want it to be now.

  She melted back toward her room and let them walk away, both already having forgotten her. She rubbed her face and wondered as she had a couple of times before, if maybe draakin needed more to occupy their time.

  The door clicked shut behind her as she closed it and headed in the opposite direction.

  21

  "You smell better." Laynin remarked as Travin moved to stand beside her. The tavern was full, but a somber air permeated as though the whole place had caught her mood.

  "So do you," he replied. "No blood either."

  She raised her hands and admired her fingernails. "Only if you don't look too closely."

  He laughed softly, but she noticed the troubled look in his eyes.

  "You too?" she asked with a sigh.

  "I overheard Luthin before he staggered off."

  "Ah."

  "You probably know more than I do," he ventured.

  "I can see you're fishing, but you won't catch anything here." She leaned her elbows on the bar, only to remove them and grimace as they came away damp. "I probably know as much as you do, or as little. I know Ara wants to stay out of it, but I'd like to know what's going on."

  "You're still worried about your family?"

  "Is it that obvious?"

  "It's logical. Do you want a drink?"

  She sighed. "Actually, no, thank you. I need to eat though." She nodded to the man behind the bar who leaned toward the kitchen door to give a shout.

  "Care to join me?" she offered.

  "I could eat," he agreed. "Then I have to work. I hope you'll stay and hear me sing. I'm told I'm not too awful."

  "I'll be the judge of that," she replied teasingly. She'd heard him sing before and found his voice pleasant, but she didn't need to tell him that, not yet anyway.

  "Challenge accepted." Travin took the plates of stew and bread as they were handed over the bar and led her to an empty table. "I'm going to have to sing my best tonight to impress you, I can tell."

  She sat and pulled a plate toward herself. "Why would you need to?"

  He opened and closed his mouth, then flushed. "No idea, I'm sure," he muttered.

  She smiled and started on her meal. It was hot and thick, the flavours strong as they often were when stew sat warming in a pot for a while. The meat, she assumed, was beef. Even if it wasn't, she decided to pretend it was. The memory of the sheep looking at her flitted through her mind, but she shoved it away. She'd never been squeamish before, she didn't want to start now.

  She mopped up her sauce with her bread and glanced up to see him watching her.

  "What?" she asked.

  He shook his head and looked toward his plate. "Nothing."

  "It must be something," she pressed. "Or do you just like to watch people eat?"

  "I was thinking." He looked up and met her eyes.

  "About?"

  "I know you have a lot on your mind, but you look so calm."

  She started to protest, but stopped and gave him a wry smile. "It's easier than falling apart, I suppose. Besides, I have Risper to help me keep it all together. What about you?"

  He looked thoughtful. "I suppose my music gets me through hard times. If I get angry, I can write a song about it, for example."

  "Oh?" She laughed. "Do you have many angry songs?"

  He grinned. "None."

  "Really?" She raised an eyebrow at him.

  "Yes, really. I write them, and then I burn them. Trust me, there's things in those I don't want anyone to see."

  "Such as?"

  "That would be telling." He stood and picked up their plates. "It's time for me to work."

  She nodded and sat back, arms crossed over her chest, eyeing him as if she was prepared to deliver judgement. The smile he gave her made it hard not to do the same in return. Instead, she gave him a smirk and gestured with her fingers for him to hurry.

  He walked away chuckling and returned a few minutes later with his guitar and a stool. He set the latter to the side of the bar and started to tune his instrument. Every few moments, he'd glance up at the crowd. Gradually, they started to notice his presence and the chatter died down.

  He strummed a few chords and then launched into a sprightly song about the dragonet hatching.

  After a few bars, Laynin found herself tapping her foot on the ground in time with the song. The words took her back to that day. He'd captured the mood of the moment perfectly. The last few bars were lower, she assumed representing his feeling at not being chosen, but rose at the end in a higher, triumphant sound which resulted in cheering from his listeners.

  Laynin clapped.

  When his eyes found hers, she clapped a little harder. He gave her a brief grin and started on another song.

  "Did I meet with your approval?" he asked, reclaiming his chair and rolling his shoulders.

  "You might have," she replied. The crowd seemed to enjoy it, and the bar was kept busy supplying drinks as he sang. She'd given in and settled for a glass of water to wet her throat, dry from singing along to the songs she knew.

  He pouted. "You're a tough one to impress."

  Laynin laughed and decided to take pity on him. "It was very good. Especially the one about the hatching. I guess everyone liked that. How many times did they ask for it? Three?"

  "Four," he replied, looking unconcerned. "What can I say, some people like dragons. A lot."

  "They do," she agreed, "but I think they liked your song. It has a nice tune."

  "Thank you, but I don't think they'd like it as much if it was about—potatoes."

  She laughed. "Why not? Who doesn't like potatoes?"

  "They're fantastic, and very versatile, but they can't fly."

  "That depends on how hard you throw them."

  It was his turn to laugh. "Is that what draakin do in their spare time?"

  "Yes. That's why so many people want to be one." She struggled to keep a straight face.

  He clicked his tongue. "Such a waste of perfectly good vegetables."

  "At least they make less mess than tomatoes. Or dung."

  "I know a rhyme about that," he said brightly. "There once a girl name Brit, who loved to fling—"

  She socked him on the arm. "All right, I get it."

  He rubbed his arm. "Throwing potatoes made you strong. Or maybe it was the sheep."

  "Don't remind me." She grimaced. She downed her water. "Have you finished for the night? Maybe we could go for a walk. I could use some air."

  "I could use a bit myself," he agreed
. He rose and held out his hand. She looked at it for a moment, then pushed herself to her feet and took it. The callouses on his fingers from years of playing were rough on her skin, but mostly she felt his warmth. It coursed into her and around her body.

  They walked to the door and slipped out into the night. Outside was several degrees cooler, and immediately quieter, like the sound of talking was locked away in a box.

  "When I was a little boy, I used to lie outside, look up at the stars and wish for a dragon to fly me up to them," Travin said, his face turned toward the sky.

  "I always wanted to go to the moons," Laynin replied, looking up at the tiny, twinkling lights. "Imagine my disappointment when Risper told me he couldn't fly that high." She expected him to laugh, but he gave her hand a squeeze instead.

  "At least we can admire them from here." He pointed. "My mother used to call those stars there the twins, because those five, and those five, look so alike."

  Laynin squinted. "I can see that. My mother would have called them the lovers."

  "I like that," he said softly. "They seem to have a lot in common."

  "They do," she agreed, her heart pounding.

  "Do you think stars like dragons?"

  "How could they not?"

  "No idea."

  "Travin."

  "Yes?"

  She faced him, put a hand on his shoulders and pressed her mouth to his. He felt soft and warm, and tasted of the stew he'd eaten for dinner. His lips parted slightly, responding to her unspoken demands.

  After a moment, he drew back. "Are you trying to tell me to stop talking?" he asked.

  She laughed softly. "In a way. But only because I can think of something better you could be doing with your mouth?"