The D'Karon Apprentice

by Joseph R. Lallo

  “I should hope so. I apprenticed in flame magic under a dragon,” he said.

  “Tell me, Grustim. Does Garr speak at all? Any human languages?” Myranda asked.

  “A Dragon Rider’s mount is meant to understand him and to be understood by him. He needs no other language besides that of his kind,” he said.

  “Though I’ve done my best to do right by Myn, I admit I don’t know much about dragons. Deacon knows a bit and has assured me I’ve done her no harm in raising her as I have, but I still worry. Should I be teaching her to speak? Should I wait for her to learn on her own?”

  “When things are not in a dragon’s nature, they are best learned when the dragon chooses to learn. A good dragon mount is rare because few take to the training necessary.”

  “I’m curious about your training, and breeding. Though he spoke little of his past, I believe that my fire master may have been brought from the same place that the Dragon Riders—”

  “Enough. I have agreed to escort you, not share the secrets of my kingdom,” Grustim said brusquely.

  “Yes… of course,” Deacon said. “My apologies for overstepping my bounds.”

  “Your meal will be finished soon. I suggest we eat and get to sleep. The sooner we are rested, the sooner we can continue south.”

  “A fine idea,” Myranda said with a nod.

  While each of the humans stared quietly at the shifting flames of the campfire, Myn swallowed and licked the remnants of her meal from her lips. She gazed at the remaining portion of the gazelle that had provided the meat for the human meals and licked her chops once more. Garr, lying beside his Rider, watched her for a moment, then grumbled something. Grustim’s eyes darted from the fire to his dragon. He gave a stiff nod and turned back to the flames.

  Garr stood and snatched up the remaining meat. Myn released a heavy breath and turned away, then turned back at the sound of the meal dropping to the ground at her feet. She looked quickly upward and cast a measuring look at Garr as he stood looking down at her. Finally she stretched her neck until their noses nearly touched and flicked her tongue across his snout before accepting the gift.

  “Well,” Myranda whispered to Deacon, “at least some of us are starting to get along.”

  #

  A wet, dismal snow had begun to fall in Kenvard as Ivy and her guest continued northward. Strangely, awful weather like this always made Ivy happy. Perhaps it was because she was more often than not warm, dry, and safe. Wretched weather outside reminded her of how wonderful it was to be so. The pleasant state of mind brought by the dismal weather was pushed far to the back of her mind, however, as it had produced some unpleasant side effects. The weather made the roads treacherous and put them far behind schedule. It was deep in the night before Ivy and Ambassador Krettis approached what would be their shelter. The lengthy journey had been enough to take the fight out of both of them, which was a welcome relief for the malthrope. Her many spats with Ether had been nothing compared to the venom Krettis could sling when she had a mind to, though the ambassador took care to make most of her aggression passive, and all of it political. Thanks to their agreement to speak their minds, Krettis had done little to veil her theories of deception regarding the D’Karon.

  “I must say, any people who could thrive in the face of weather like this are worthy of some praise,” Krettis said.

  “This is nothing. I’ve seen storms that left us knee deep in snow after just a few hours,” Ivy said, looking out the window at the dim lights of the approaching city.

  “You seem distracted,” Krettis said.

  “I’m excited… and a little nervous,” Ivy said.

  “Why?”

  “I’ve never been to Strom. I’m not always well received the first time I come to a new town.”

  “I imagine in this case you’ll be seen as the lesser of two evils. A delegation of Tressons will surely draw more scorn than you.”

  “You’re talking to a malthrope, remember. Not everyone has gotten the message that we aren’t to be killed on sight anymore. And in this case I’m not just a malthrope. I’m a malthrope who brought a bunch of Tressons to their town.”

  They rolled into town, and guards climbed down from one of the other carriages, approaching the doors of the primary carriage to escort the delegation to the small inn that would host them for the night. The cold snow had done them the favor of keeping the people off the streets, at least initially. A procession of luxurious carriages entering a town peopled mostly by port workers, fishermen, and salt-rakers was a curious enough sight to coax a small crowd out to watch from the shelter of their eaves.

  “Let me disembark first,” Celeste said. “I’ll try to keep order.”

  Ivy sighed shakily. “It’ll be fine. I’ve been through this a bunch of times.”

  Celeste stepped into the horrid weather and assessed the crowd.

  “I don’t understand,” Krettis said, pulling a thick rain cloak over her outfit. “You are a Guardian of the Realm. Surely despite your species you would be revered.”

  “When people tell stories, they tend to leave out the parts they don’t like. They don’t always remember that there was a dragon or malthropes or shapeshifters involved.” Ivy donned a thinner shawl and slipped a wide-brimmed hat over her ears. “One of these days I’ll have to have someone tell that version to me. I’m curious who they replace, and how. Plus, most people are slow to accept that the five generals were evil. It’s caused some confusion, and when people are confused they don’t always embrace newcomers like me.”

  Celeste motioned for Ivy and the others to follow. One by one they stepped out into the streets. Through the impatient shuffling of the carriage horses, the sloppy trudge of a dozen boots, and the steady plop and patter of snow Ivy knew that the humans in her group couldn’t hear the reaction of the crowd, but she could. Even with her ears squished beneath her rain hat, she could hear the distant conversations hush, then the voices turn harsh with whispers. And one didn’t need her acute hearing to see scattered faces scowl in the light of their lanterns. Her heart dropped a bit.

  “Could you please grab the two cases under my seat in the carriage?” Ivy called to one of the servants unloading the bags for them. “I think I’m going to need them.”

  Ambassador Krettis was by her side. Ivy cast a look to the crowd and tried to judge their gaze.

  “Well… good news for you. I think they’re more upset about me than they are about you.” She sighed. “You might want to walk a few steps farther back.”

  “Why?” Krettis asked.

  Ivy moved suddenly, pivoting around behind the ambassador and snatching something from the air. It was a stone.

  “They don’t always have very good aim,” Ivy said.

  Two guards descended angrily upon the man who threw the stone, but Ivy called out to them.

  “Leave him be. It didn’t do any harm,” Ivy said.

  The guards were less forgiving, barking reprimands and threats as the delegation continued forward along the packed gravel streets.

  “How did you know to catch the stone?” Krettis asked.

  “You start to learn what to listen for after you’ve been hit a few times,” Ivy said, disappointment in her voice. “It’s been a few weeks since I had to do that.”

  The city was one of the larger along the Kenvard coast. This far north it had never been struck by direct Tresson attack, though as the war had worn on it had seen its strongest citizens lost to battle. That left the place with barely half the population one would expect for a city of its size. Most houses on the main street were stout, comfortable homes, but peering down the side streets into the darkness of the night revealed more than a few homes left empty for years. Some had begun to succumb to the elements.

  Celeste led the way into the inn. Not nearly as grand as the one in Highpoint, it was nonetheless warm and dry, which was a curse and a blessing. It was certainly a welcome respite from the weather, but for those members of the populace without pro
per heat in their homes it was a nightly gathering place. Ideally the keepers would have cleared it in preparation of the diplomatic procession as they had elsewhere. On a night such as this it would have been cruel to turn the people away, and an enterprising innkeeper is disinclined to turn away eager customers on the best of nights. There was room enough for the guards, servants, diplomats, and drivers, but only just. The inn would be packed to capacity, and the Tressons would be rubbing elbows with the locals.

  All eyes turned to the newcomers as slush was stomped from boots and wet coats were taken by the staff. Some looked at the malthrope and the dark-skinned strangers with curiosity. Most looked with distrust or distaste. Celeste shared some words with a well-dressed man near the doorway, then addressed the others.

  “This man is the operator of the saltern. He has assured us that tomorrow morning, when the weather has improved, he will provide the promised tour. I recommend we take our meal and retire early,” he said.

  “I’ve been cooped up in that carriage all day,” Ivy said, taking off her hat and flicking her ears. “I need to do something to get the blood flowing a bit, or dinner will never sit right, and I surely won’t sleep.”

  “What did you have in mind?” he asked warily.

  “Who has the cases I asked for? Ah! There! Give them here!” She turned to Celeste. “I smell good, fresh bread. Make sure to save some for me. And a nice warm glass of cider for after.”

  She grabbed both of her cases and gracefully navigated the obstacle course of tables and bodies, working toward the large, warm fireplace that was inevitably the focus of any inn in the north.

  “Attention!” Ivy called out.

  The rare eye that hadn’t been turned in her direction now darted to her. Fifty or more people inhabited the establishment, many well on their way to deep inebriation, and none of them seemed happy. Ivy swept her eyes across the crowd and saw everything from fear to fascination.

  “People of Strom, I thank you for your hospitality. For those of you who do not know, my name is Ivy. Some call me Guardian of the Realm, and there are other titles that have been layered on top of that, but I want you all to call me Ivy. Today we are joined by our friends from the south. And they are our friends. I want you to treat them as such. I can see that some of you aren’t thrilled about what’s going on right now. Probably I’m the first malthrope you’ve ever seen, and those are the first Tressons you’ve seen in a time of peace. I know that most of you don’t know what to make of us. Well, if there’s one thing I’ve learned since this all started, it is that things get a lot easier once you know a bit more about each other. I’ve been telling Ambassador Krettis and her people all about us, so now I’d like to share a bit of them with you.”

  Voices were beginning to rise, most gruff, and rude words were beginning to flow. Ivy tried to ignore them, stepping onto a spare chair to get her head up above the crowd. She dropped a case onto the mantle.

  “If you learn one thing about me, let it be that I love art. Art of all sorts. That’s why I made certain I got my hands on this before Krettis and her people arrived. It is a work of art, and the best kind, because it helps to create other things of beauty.”

  She unfastened the clasp and opened the case, retrieving the contents. The crowd hushed a bit as she revealed a curious and attractively made instrument. It was stringed, but larger than a fiddle, rounder in the body and longer.

  “This is called a lute. It is the official instrument of Tressor. It wasn’t easy, but I was able to learn a little something of theirs, and I will play it for you now. I hope I can do it justice.”

  Ivy was already having to raise her voice to be heard and didn’t dare put off the performance any longer. She slipped her hands from her gloves and began to pluck the strings of the instrument with her claws. At first the unruliness of the crowd completely drowned out the soft, tinkling tone of the strings, but like a slow wave rolling out from her, the crowd began to silence.

  The song she played began as a simple one, the tempo slow and the notes distinct. As the notes penetrated into the crowd, her playing deepened. More notes joined in, complex chords and rolling scales. Her fingers danced flawlessly across the strings. Her face wore a look of concentration. The song grew faster, and the audience’s attention solidified. As the tempo and complexity of the tune both built, the spirit of the song subtly changed. Whereas it had begun almost solemnly, it was growing more vigorous, more jubilant.

  Another change came about as well. As her playing became more confident, and her audience more enraptured, Ivy’s face brightened, a deep spiritual bliss coming over her. The sounds coming from her instrument didn’t seem as though they could possibly be coming from a single player. When she wasn’t strumming or plucking, she was thumping and drumming at the body of the instrument. Her foot kept a steady rhythm, tapping on the chair. And then there was the glow. It was dim at first, barely noticeable, but as the audience began to forget where the music was coming from and instead embraced it, the golden aura began to become more apparent. It was pure, triumphant joy. Bone deep and utterly infectious. By the time the song rolled toward its crescendo, the clientele and staff alike were enraptured by the music.

  A furious flourish of notes threatened to shake the instrument apart, Ivy’s claws at times plucking all strings at once. Then, like a wave crashing against the shore, it was over. The silence of the audience was complete, such that the buzzing of the strings was all that remained. When it, too, dropped away, the crowd erupted into applause. Ivy jumped down and thanked the crowd—shaking hands, getting slapped on the back, and nodding her way through compliments until she reached her table.

  “Yes! Thank you! It was my pleasure, really. I’m glad you liked it. Certainly I’ll play more. I’ve got a fiddle, so if you’ve got any local favorites, I’ll do my best. Just have to get something in my stomach.” She looked at her table. “I hope I did okay with it, Ambassador… Ambassador?” Ivy said.

  Krettis had her hands over her mouth, her eyes wet with tears.

  “Is something wrong?” Ivy asked.

  “I’ve… I’ve never heard it played so beautifully,” she uttered, moved almost beyond words. “That was… oh, how is it translated? ‘The Ascension to the Stars.’ It was played at my wedding.”

  “It was? Well, I’m so pleased you enjoyed it.”

  “How did you learn to play it? And alone? The song is meant for three.”

  “I’m not much of an ambassador, I know that. But art, any sort of art, comes to me like breathing.”

  “What was that light that surrounded you?”

  “It’s complicated. That’s what happens when I’m truly happy. Other emotions have different effects. I try to keep them down, but joy is one I can share.”

  “I’ve never seen anyone win over a hostile group so easily.”

  Ivy took a seat and tore herself some bread.

  “I didn’t win them over. Maybe one or two of them, but those were the ones who weren’t really against me, they just didn’t know what to do with me. What I did mostly was distract them, entertain them. They thought I was a wild animal before. Now they think I’m a trained animal. It isn’t much, but if it helps us get through the night without anger and hate, that’s enough. First I convince people I’m not a menace. After that I can start working on being equal.”

  Krettis wiped some of her tears away. “You may one day make a better diplomat than you realize.”

  Chapter 5

  Myranda awoke just before dawn to the familiar feeling of a dragon’s paws folded over her and Deacon sleeping by her side. Myn had barely made it through the meal the previous night before scooping Myranda and Deacon close and dropping off to sleep. Sleeping clutched to the chest of an overprotective dragon might not have been the most regal way to spend a night, but for Myranda it brought back some of the only pleasant memories of her time battling the D’Karon. She tried to ease herself from Myn’s grip without waking her, but the dragon pulled herself groggily to
her feet only a few moments after Myranda did, rousing Deacon in the process.

  The air was already warming with the rising sun. With a river beside her and a climate that wouldn’t make such a thing a death sentence, Myranda had the rare luxury of at least a cursory bath while traveling, something that had been all too infrequent when living off the land in the frigid north. Myn stood guard, her extended wings offering a degree of privacy, then reluctantly offered the same favor to Deacon.

  Grustim, in an act Myranda could scarcely conceive of becoming accustomed to, had slept silently in the same position he’d flown, lying on his dragon’s back. Through the whole of the morning ablutions he’d remained asleep, though Garr woke shortly after Myn did and observed the morning routine, motionless. The Rider didn’t awake until Myn gave the remnants of the previous night’s fire a huff of breath to reignite it, and Myranda put the set-aside portion of the previous night’s meal over it to warm.

  “Good morning,” Myranda said. “Will you be having some before we leave?”

  “Yes,” Grustim said. He stifled a yawn. “I… didn’t expect to be able to sleep so soundly.”

  “Why not?” Deacon asked.

  “Garr seldom allows it when other humans are about. He becomes watchful of them, over-aware of them. Distrustful.”

  “Well I’m pleased that he does not feel distrustful of us,” Myranda said. “Myn is the same way, but I think last night she was simply too exhausted to do anything but sleep.”

  “Perhaps it was the presence of other dragons. Or perhaps Garr has judged us to be of trustworthy character. Solomon was always a quick and very accurate judge of character,” Deacon suggested.

  “Perhaps… Listen. When we’ve eaten and resupplied our stock of water, we will set off. Based on Myn’s performance yesterday, if she can follow without attempting to pass, I think we can set a swifter pace today. We may be able to reach our destination in four more days, perhaps a bit less.”

  “Do you hear that, Myn?” Myranda asked. “Stay close, but let Garr and Grustim lead the way. This is important.”