by Laura Harris
The woman stared back, looking just as shocked. “You… know?”
“‘Course. How would I not know with him jabbering on all the time?” Giselle asked, wondering if this woman truly knew anything. “But you didn’t answer my question.”
It was unnecessary though – her legs buckled beneath her and she fell to the floor as Voice’s shock reverberated through her. A memory floated into her head of this woman but younger, much younger, chatting away about her father as she tied something onto Voice’s neck.
“I’d be careful, I told him that, but he wouldn’t listen–”
“Are you okay?”
The woman leaned over her, one hand pressed to her forehead. Giselle found herself lying flat on her back and quickly sat up, shuffling away. That younger version of the woman must have been the same age as she was now. Voice had known her before.
Voice shook. The entire sixteen years he had been in her body, he had never once had a flashback. A few times he’d mentioned how the huge market square in the centre of Tyrun seemed familiar, but nothing like this had ever happened.
“I know because I have a dragon in me as well,” the woman answered after a long pause. She kept her distance but every so often glanced at the window, as if she was worried Giselle might jump out of it.
But Giselle just stared back at her, trying to understand. Voice was filled with confusion. He didn’t know whether to be happy at meeting another of his kind, or if he should run off with Giselle and hide them from this. His curiosity was overtaking his fear.
The woman tried again to get a response. “The entry wound on your arm is unmistakeable.”
“The what?” Giselle felt sluggish. What was happening? It was all too fast.
“The burn where he entered you. Or she?”
“He,” she whispered, staring down at the circular scar that had been there as long as she could remember. It made sense, now she thought about it. Kind of. “What do you want?”
“Just to talk. Find out how you got here, who your dragon is. There are few of us, especially this far away from the mountains. What is your name?”
“Giselle.”
She could feel Voice’s stumbling as he attempted to sort his thoughts. He wasn’t yelling at her to run, so she stayed put for now.
“I am Sarra. And what is your dragon’s name?”
She shrugged. His name had long been a mystery that didn’t matter. “I call him Voice. We don’t know his name.”
A sudden frown creased Sarra’s face as she sat down opposite Giselle.
“What do you mean, you don’t know? Doesn’t he know?”
“No. He can’t remember anything properly before he came to me.”
Sarra’s shock told her that was not normal – although ‘normal’ didn’t matter in this situation.
“There’s more?” Giselle asked, leaning in as she caught on to what had been said a few moments ago. “More people like me? More dragons?”
“Yes. But I don’t understand – how did you get in contact with him? Did someone teach you?”
“I’ve always been able to talk to him. Anyway, who’d teach me?”
Sarra stared at her for so long that Giselle turned her eyes to the ceiling so she could at least pretend she wasn’t the focus of so much attention.
“Well you can talk to your dragon, right?” Giselle asked when she still got no reply. “How’d you do that?”
“Goldsmoke. Every Firesoul yet has needed some of it to help them communicate the first few times. It depends on the dragon and the human but… no one else has made contact with their dragon without it. The dragons hibernate until the goldsmoke awakens them – but it sounds like yours never hibernated at all.”
It was too much to take in so she asked the simplest question she could think of. “What’s goldsmoke?”
“Gold is a magical substance for dragons – it feeds their power.”
“In the mountains, we have a method of turning gold into a powder so fine that when you put it in fire, it goes up in smoke. Anyone nearby inhales it, and it feeds the dragons so they are strong enough to reach out. Haven’t you tried to find out who he is?” Sarra continued when Giselle did not reply. “Maybe Muire – my dragon – could help. She might remember him. There were only a few dragons strong enough to make the transition into a human.”
She felt Voice shudder inside of her, torn between getting answers and not wanting to know. She was certain Sarra would be able to find out after that flashback, but she waited for his decision without saying a word. She couldn’t deny being curious, but it was not her choice. It was not her past being offered.
“Voice?” she prompted, trusting that Sarra would understand the question was not for her.
/I think we should go./
She stood as soon as she heard his words. Disquiet filled him and transmitted to Giselle.
“Sorry. He says no. And we should be going.”
“Already? But we’ve barely talked!”
The short rest had done Giselle’s body good. She still ached all over, but it was less painful and she felt far stronger than when she’d first fallen into the room.
“Thanks for the information.” She even offered a brief smile. “I’ll be back next week with the last delivery.”
After that, she would never have to see the woman again. Before Sarra could say another word, she scrambled down the wall of the inn and had disappeared into the night.
CHAPTER 4
Dressed down in a stained cotton shirt and dark breeches, hair combed back in the merchant style, Corran was unrecognisable as the son of the Lord of Dunslade Town. Here, in an alehouse in the middle of town filled with noisy patrons, he was Corden – son of a merchant, who often visited with his lady friend Tilda.
Corran looked away from the corner he used to sit in with Tilda and buried his head in a flagon of ale. His right arm pulsed around the scar and fresh bruises were sprouting all over his body from the beating he had received today in the arena. At least it had been the second round not the first. His father was still furious.
In a hopeless attempt to redeem himself he had resolved to go down into town in his old persona of Corden, to try and seek out information on the Firesouls one last time. He had strong suspicions that any dragon sympathiser knew better than to come into Dunslade Town, but in avoiding his father and Huw he figured there was nothing better he could do with his time than try again. Not to mention have some ale.
The evening was a failure. The room swayed – or was it him who was swaying? – and talk around him seemed to ebb and strengthen in volume. Corran wasn’t sure if everyone else was as drunk as him, or if it was just his ears making it seem like words were slurring.
Downing the last of his ale, he slammed it on the table.
“Where’s your girl Tilda?” one of the other patrons asked as he slid in next to him and gestured to the barman for another pint.
“Gone. She left. She left me,” Corran slurred, turning his flagon so one side of it hit the wood, then the other, until it was tapping out a tune. Tilda used to sing this.
“That’s rough, Corden. Here – on me!” the man said, pushing his new pint towards Corran.
Corran muttered his thanks and sipped, his mind drifting towards Tilda. He’d been doing so well at forgetting her absence with the tournament going on, but coming back to this alehouse had been a bad idea and now he could think of nothing else. Her hair... her smell... the two little freckles above her eye... He tipped the flagon up and took a hefty gulp. Now who knew if he would ever see her again.
His flagon tipped to one side as the word ‘Firesouls’ slithered into his ears. He swivelled blearily to find its source. People swam in front of him, blurring into each other, but after several long seconds of trying he managed to focus enough to watch a stable boy he knew as Henry pulled outside by the scruff of his shirt by a long–haired man.
Corran half–stepped, half–fell off his stool, then turned to finish the rest of the
ale he’d been given. No need to be ungrateful. He wobbled as he turned towards the door, then focused on putting one foot in front of the other to walk in a generally straight line. He lingered in the doorway, still with enough sense to know he shouldn’t walk right into whatever conversation was going on. The cool air helped sober him a little, and he peered around the corner to find the pair. He had spoken to Henry several times before when he had been there with Tilda. The part of his brain that still functioned was disappointed to learn that he might be a dragon sympathiser.
They ducked into an alleyway down the street and Corran blundered after them, trying to be quiet. He stayed close to the wall and years of training meant that despite the alcohol, he managed not to give himself away. As soon as he was close enough to hear, he halted.
“–in the north at the end of the war?”
“My father trades in horses – northern ones especially.”
“And you’ve had that scar all your life?”
“Long as I can remember. I already told you though.”
“I know, we just have to be certain. I– wait.”
Corran frowned and took a step closer, but the next moment the man had walked out in front of him, grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him into the alleyway. The sober part of Corran shouted at himself for not thinking properly, but most of him just stared with confusion at the man, then turned to Henry.
“Can I see your scar? Bet I can beat it. Brother sliced my arm open. For fun – ha! Hurt like fuck though.”
The man rolled his eyes and released his hold, but examined him closely. Corran wondered if he should run, but by the time he’d thought about that properly Henry was talking to him.
“What are you doing, Corden?”
“I… am…” Corran thought for a moment. “I am getting drunk. That is what I am doing. Or what I was doing. Because I’m not in the alehouse now. Were you getting drunk too? You don’t seem drunk.” He stared at Henry and tried to work out if he’d been drinking at all.
“…No,” Henry replied, staring back at him.
“So why aren’t you in the alehouse anymore? Why follow us?” the stranger asked.
He thought about the question even harder than he had the first. He knew he needed a good answer for this. “Because… I am drunk enough, I think. And I know Henry. Don’t I know you, Henry? We talk sometimes. He likes horses and I like horses. We have good talks about horses.” He didn’t think it was a good answer, but again all he got was rolling eyes.
“Do you think he’ll remember this in the morning?” the man asked Henry.
Henry shrugged. “He doesn’t normally get this drunk. I heard his lady left – I think that’s why he’s so bad tonight.”
The man nodded. He grabbed Corran’s arm, but paused. He lifted his hand to push Corran’s head to one side, pulling his high collar away from the ugly scar it covered.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Corran tried to pull away but the man was stronger than he looked. He didn’t want this stranger staring and poking at his scar! He swivelled his eyes, looking all around for somewhere to run. There were stars in the sky tonight. He wondered if they’d listen to prayers from drunkards about fixing his life. The wall was dirty black stone. It needed a wash. This man needed a wash too, he stank. He wasn’t from here – he must have been on the road for weeks.
“Boy. Hey, focus!”
Corran looked up from the floor to stare at the traveller man. “Huh?”
“Where were you at the end of the dragon war?”
“In the King’s Circus,” Corran answered without thinking. The man’s eyes widened and he realised his mistake. The tiny sober part of him produced a trump. “My– my family are merchants. They were trading there. Lots of rich warriors to sell to.”
“Ah, okay.” The man turned to Henry with a grim expression. “I think he needs to come with us too. How well do you know him? Can he be trusted?”
“Not that well… but I think so.”
“Go where?” Corran asked.
“Out of town. Come on.”
“Huh? But why?” Corran turned to stare at Henry instead when the traveller man just pulled him into a walk down the street. “Henry? D’you know where we’re going?”
Henry didn’t answer either, and Corran found himself trundled along by them through the town and out of the gates. When a guardsman challenged them, Henry called back that they were taking him home because he’d drunk too much. Corran chuckled to himself at that – it was funny because he had drunk too much, definitely drunk too much, but they weren’t taking him home. They didn’t even know where his home was! They thought he was a merchant!
He continued to laugh to himself as they walked down the road – but after a while he registered how far they’d gone and stopped finding it funny.
“Are we there yet?”
“I am not looking forward to explaining this in the morning,” the traveller man muttered under his breath. Corran leapt on the opportunity to turn on him.
“Explain what? You could explain now. Then there’s no explaining in the morning and nothing to not look forward to!”
He grinned at the brilliance of his logic, but the traveller man just shook his head. They turned off the path, and Corran looked about with interest as they headed into the forest. He tripped a few times on roots and rocks, but the traveller man and Henry always caught him. A small fire came into sight and Corran perked up. Sleeping bodies were scattered around it, with one old man stood alert. He waved a hand in greeting.
Corran strode forward ahead of the others to kneel in front of the fire, soaking in the warmth. He heard words exchanged behind him and turned to watch as the traveller man talked to the old man on guard, Henry hanging back.
“–Found him by accident. Never heard from him before but I’m certain he’s a Firesoul too. I’ll have to explain in the morning though. He’s far too drunk to comprehend a word right now.”
“I can comprehend!” Corran called. The old man motioned at him to be quiet and the traveller man sighed.
“Go to sleep, Corden. Wait –” He walked over and pushed some water into his hand. “Drink that first. All of it. Then sleep, and I’ll tell you everything in the morning.”
Corran frowned at him, but drank the water and decided that perhaps sleep was a good idea. What time was it? He had no idea. He sank to the floor next to the fire and lost himself in dreams.
*
Someone was playing drums. Or banging pots together. Or shouting at the top of their lungs. And all of those sounds were knocking at the side of Corran’s head, bringing him to a bleary wakefulness. He inched open his eyes to peer into the dawn half–light, and stared.
He was in the Moss Woods. There were people all around. Not many, about ten. He recognised none of them – wait, that was Henry! And… a man from last night. The traveller man? His memories blended together into a melting pot of ale and Tilda and Firesouls. Firesouls?
His heart started pounding. If he remembered last night correctly, he was surrounded by dragon sympathisers. Glancing around he found everyone else here looked on the weak side, but they outnumbered him. He had no idea what they would do if they found out who he was; who his father was.
“Corden, you’re awake!”
He winced at the bellow but managed to pull himself into a sitting position as Henry crouched in front of him. He offered some water and Corran gulped it down.
“Are you okay? How are you feeling?”
Corran shrugged. He felt like shit. Wasn’t that obvious?
“Do you remember much?” Henry asked.
A wrinkled man with snowy white hair approached to hand him some bread. Had he been the guard last night? He was bony and didn’t look like he would be any good as a guard if someone did attack.
He shrugged again at Henry’s question and took the bread. It was stale, he could tell that already just by holding it. But he was starving and it was all he had. He took a grudging bite, trying not to move too fast.
His head would not stop pounding.
“Your name is Corden?” the old man asked. His voice was quiet and rasping, like he had a permanent cough. Corran nodded. “I’m Garth. Thank you for joining us.”
“I don’t think he even knows what’s going on,” Henry said.
“You could tell me?” Corran muffled the sharp tone that wanted to come out. “You and that traveller man bundled me out of Dunslade Town yesterday without explaining a thing.”
Henry at least had the decency to look shame–faced about it. “Sorry. But you were babbling so much, Gerard didn’t think you’d understand. And it’s the kind of news you shouldn’t hear drunk.”
“Okay, well I’m not drunk now. What is it?”
They were all being so mysterious and it was getting on Corran’s nerves. Why didn’t they just come out with it? They didn’t know he was a Dunslade and would be running back to town the first chance he got.
Henry frowned, opening and closing his mouth a few times before speaking. “It’s hard to explain. I knew about this for ages before Gerard arrived, they came to see me near Wint’end.”
“Knew about what?” Corran snapped. He regretted it when Henry drew back a second later, but then Garth spoke.
“I think Gerard noticed symptoms in you. Do you have a scar like this?”
Garth lifted the bottom of his shirt, baring his stomach that was marked with a puckered, red circle. Henry lifted his trouser leg, exposing his own version wrapped around his calf. They were perfect copies of the scar on his own neck that the traveller man, Gerard, had peered at last night.
Corran’s mother had blamed his father and his father had blamed his mother, so he’d had no idea who burnt him as a toddler. Personally, he’d suspected Huw. But it seemed beyond belief that he had a scar so similar to these two when he’d never seen another like it.
“I don’t understand.”
“What do you know of dragons?” Garth asked.
He could feel the eyes of the other people in the clearing on him. It felt like they were ready to pounce.