King's Exile: Chronicles of the Dragon-Bound: Book 1

by William Culbertson

  No, not completely alone. He remembered his dragon’s egg. As he swung his legs out of the comfortable bunk, he noticed a covering over the skin of his hands. Cautiously, he flexed his fingers. His fingers were stiff and sore, but there was none of yesterday’s raw pain. A clear, protective glove of tissue covered his torn blisters and abraded skin. He looked at it closely, but had no idea what the material was.

  The other thing he noticed was that he was naked—all his ragged clothes were gone. Figgeir must have treated him while her brew had made him sleep. He stood up straight and stretched. His muscles gave a few twinges of protest, but he felt much better. His skin pulled in a funny way in several places, and he saw patches of the same coverings as on his hands. He touched his skin where yesterday it had been red and painful with sunburn. The skin was pink and tender, but there was no burn.

  At that point his stomach interrupted with a mighty growl, and Dax decided food was his number-one priority. He bent down and reached into his pack to feel the reassurance of his egg, but he did not linger. He had a bundle of questions that needed answered, but most of all, he was famished.

  A robe hung from a hook on the door. He slipped it on before he stuck his head out. He remembered the outer room from yesterday, and Figgeir was working at the small desk by the window. Quietly, he stepped into the room. “Excuse me, Madam Doctor Figgeir, but is there somewhere I could go for something to eat?”

  Figgeir looked up from her work. “Ah, Leith! You are awake.” She smiled at him. “Good. You are hungry. Well, we can certainly take care of that. Please sit down at the table.” Figgeir’s tone reminded Dax of how ladies at court spoke to children, but if she had food, he could tolerate a little condescension. Dax slipped into a seat while Figgeir walked to a counter in an alcove lined with storage cabinets.

  The Kotkel were slim and graceful, and Figgeir’s motions as she prepared the food were as skillful as her examination had been. “I’m sure you have an interesting story about how you came to be on our island.” She did not look up from her work, but it was clearly an invitation awaiting a response.

  The Kotkel knew him as Leith, and Dax was uncertain how much of his story he should reveal. The Kotkel could not possibly be involved with, or even care about, Mathilde’s plot to take over West Landly. However, after all this time on the run, he was instinctively circumspect. “I escaped from pirates, Madam Doctor.” That was true enough and much simpler and safer than explaining how he had come to be on a ship that had been commandeered by pirates.

  “How interesting.” She nodded encouragingly. “What is a pirate?”

  For a moment Dax did not know what to say. Could the Kotkel really be that cut off from society? “Uh, they were bad men, and they stole the ship I was on, Madam Doctor,” he finally replied.

  Figgeir set a bowl of steaming white mush in front of Dax along with a short stick. She smiled expectantly, and Dax smiled back. He gestured with his hand. “Could I please have a spoon or some tool to eat with, please?”

  “Oh, certainly. I have forgotten tataluelhe like to use a scoop to eat with.” She lifted a small basket from a deep but narrow drawer and sorted through the items until she produced a spoon. She smiled at him when she laid it on the table, her small, delicate teeth a flash of white in contrast to her sepia-colored skin. “It has been a long time since I have had one of your kind as a patient. Please forgive me.” She settled into a nearby chair to watch him eat.

  Dax made a dismissive gesture with his left hand while he picked up the spoon with his right. “Your treatment of me has been most excellent in every way, and I feel much better today. Please don’t apologize, but accept my humble thanks for your help.”

  She smiled even more broadly. “And so polite too. Tell me, are you a youth, or are you stunted in size? Most of your kind are larger. Styr guessed you were young.”

  The mush, whatever it was, tasted wonderful, and Dax had to swallow a mouthful before he could reply. “Yes, I am young. I have seen twelve seasons.” He stopped for moment. No, he had forgotten his birthday this last summer while he was working with the bootblacks. His birthday had passed, but he had not remembered. Birthdays happen, but without the reminder of routine, he had forgotten. A cold touch of loss troubled him as he thought of the birthday celebration that had never happened. It was the birthday on which he should have received the crown of West Landly.

  Determinedly he let the thought go. There was business at hand. “No,” he corrected himself. “I’m sorry, but I am thirteen, Madam Doctor.”

  Figgeir nodded. “You have been well cared for, but you have been roughly used lately.” She watched him closely with her large, pale-blue eyes, then ran a hand through the short ruff of hair around the borders of her otherwise bald scalp.

  Dax nodded while he devoured another mouthful. He decided to continue his abbreviated narrative before she asked, and said, “Yes. I had a narrow escape from the sea, which brought me to this island.”

  “You found Kynwyl Island by yourself?”

  “No, Madam Doctor. The island sort of found me when my boat washed ashore here.”

  She smiled. “You were shipwrecked then? And please, just call me Figgeir. That is my name.”

  Dax nodded. “I escaped from the pirates in the ship’s longboat. I was trying to make landfall on what I thought was Deadman’s Finger, but the currents swept me onto the shores of your island.”

  “Ah. And as one of the dragon-bound, you found your way to Maha Gramah.”

  Dax thought for a moment. “I have been told I am dragon-bound, but I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, but you must be,” she said. “I found the egg among your things.” Dax was jolted by the thought that she had found his egg, but he realized he should not have been surprised. He suppressed his initial angry reaction. After all, she was trying to help. She went on without noticing his concern. “It’s a good thing I found it. It appears to be ready.”

  Dax blinked. “Ready? Ready for what?” He was afraid to hear what came next.

  “Why, to hatch, of course. It is all swelled up and ready for the fire.”

  “The fire?”

  “Do you know nothing about dragons?” she asked, sounding a little vexed.

  “No, uh, yes.” Her odd phrasing confused him. “I know scarcely anything. My father . . .” Dax stopped himself and thought quickly before he went on. “He showed me the egg some time ago—before he died. I never knew anything more about it other than he said it was a dragon’s egg.”

  For a moment she just looked at him. “As one of the dragon-bound, you are welcome here.” She hesitated, then spoke again. “The Kotkel are happy and glad to have you among us.”

  Dax frowned as he puzzled at the last statement. The first had been completely true, but the second part of her statement about the Kotkel was strangely wrong. He was used to hearing the difference between truth and lies when humans spoke, but this person was not human. The feeling was not the same, but he was still sure he could tell the last statement was not true.

  “Ah,” she continued, observing his reaction. “You are dragon-bound. You tell honesty from deceit even among the Kotkel.” She sighed. “Well then, you had better know something about dragons.” She retrieved the now-empty bowl from in front of Dax. “More?” she asked.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, please.” After one bowl, he was merely ravenous. When she set a fresh bowl in front of him, Dax restrained himself and ate at a more delicate pace. “You were going to tell me something of dragons?” he offered.

  “Certainly, but first tell me how long you’ve been bonded.”

  “I don’t really know.” Dax shrugged. “Two years? Three?”

  “Well, when was your bonding welcome ceremony?”

  “I didn’t have one. My father just showed me the egg one day.”

  “No sifting test and no welcome? Have they forgotten everything?”

  Dax frowned. “My father said he got the egg from a merchant. He never mentioned an
ything about a test.”

  “Mmm.” Figgeir tapped her cheek and looked at him speculatively. “Perhaps a wild egg?” she said to herself. “It could happen if a female strays outside the Dragon Lands.” She was quiet for a minute before she added, “Not likely.” She frowned. “I have also heard that the dragon-bound have had eggs stolen.” After another moment’s thought, she put the problem behind her. “Well, no matter now, but I will send word to Conclave to see if they can trace the source.”

  She seemed distracted, and Dax was uncertain just why. He recalled Herne’s comments about the egg and decided to finish his story to see if he could get Figgeir back on track. “My father said dragon’s eggs were always cold as ice, but when he let me hold the egg, it was warm.” He shrugged. “I liked it. I was younger then, and I didn’t know anything about bonding—not until, uh, a teacher told me a few months ago.”

  Figgeir arched her pale eyebrows skeptically. “Once bonded, you can tell truth from lies, but you can never lie yourself—just like a dragon. Did you never wonder about that?”

  He shrugged. “It’s been a long time, and I guess I never realized the egg was involved. I didn’t even know I was bonded.” Dax looked up at her. “Having to tell the truth was kind of a nuisance really.”

  “A nuisance?” She stepped back as if startled. “It is one of the greatest gifts a tataluelhe can have. Your kind lies so much and so well that being able to see and speak the truth is a wonderful ability.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’d never thought of it that way.” He caught himself before he related the difficulties that being unable to tell a lie had caused him in the last year. Better to be quiet on that subject for now.

  “Bonding welcome or not, we will do your hatch correctly,” she stated decisively. “I have already sent notice by dragu. In seven days, when others of the dragon-bound are here, we will do a proper hatch for your dragon.”

  Dax could tell when Figgeir said “hatch,” she was talking about some sort of ceremony, and that thought gave him pause. What did all this mean? He handed her back his empty bowl. “Thank you so much for the food, but what is a dragu, and could you explain more about dragons? I’m afraid I don’t understand much of what you’ve been saying.”

  She set the bowl aside. “I’ll start from the beginning.” Her eyes sparkled with excitement. “We have not had a hatch at Maha Gramah for years, and I want to make sure you are ready for your part. After all, the harmony will be more pleasurable if things go smoothly.” She pulled over the chair she had been using at the desk and settled herself across from Dax.

  “Now, where to start . . .” She tapped her finger on the arm of her chair, and her voice trailed off. She looked up and smiled. “Of course, your question.” She settled back in her chair. “A dragu is a dragon, but it is of the minor species. There are two major species, draigs and drakons. Since dragus can be trained and imprinted, we use them to communicate between settlings or, as in your case, with the dragon-bound. They are . . .” She hesitated. “Well, just about a size with a full-grown tataluelhe—a bit bigger than you or me. The other thing they are good at is breeding. Highly sexed, they are, which is why you never see a female dragu around, at least if you want the males to be properly useful.”

  Figgeir paused to draw a breath at the end of a sentence, and Dax took the chance to interrupt. “Excuse me? You said there were two other kinds of dragons?”

  Her chain of thought broken, Figgeir was disconcerted for a moment. “Ah, two, yes, there are two others.” She pointed toward the room where Dax had slept. “Draigs, like your egg, and drakons, the large herbivore species the dragon-bound use for transport purposes.”

  “So my dragon is a draig?” Dax interrupted.

  Again she paused. “Well, of course. They are medium-size and quite intelligent. The ability to bond comes from a match in the development of the cortical structures of the right forebrain . . .”

  “I’ve heard the dragon-bound can hear the thoughts of their dragon.” Dax did not want to upset the doctor by interrupting too much, but he also needed specific information. Figgeir obviously knew everything there was to know about dragons, but he was fearful that if she just lectured him about the species, he might never get the guidance he needed.

  Figgeir blinked a couple of times, then sighed. “Yes, I am sorry. I need to allow for your youth and lack of preparation.” She thought for a moment. “Once you are bonded, you share your dragon’s emotions as well as the requirement for truth.” Dragon anger. Dax nodded his understanding. He had experienced that part. She smiled and went on. “Once your dragon hatches, he or she will not only hear your thoughts, you will be able to converse.”

  “What language will it speak? Will I understand what it says?”

  “Ah.” She smiled and looked pleased. “The speech between the bonded has no spoken words but is a joint mental construct between the two bound minds. The bond connects at both the conscious and unconscious levels of both species . . .”

  And so it went. Dax was eager for information, but it was hard to keep Figgeir talking about subjects he understood. Her descriptions of dragon reproduction, dragon society, and dragon physiology quickly left him bewildered. He thought back to some of Evnissyen’s lessons at the castle. Those sessions were challenging, but they never left him so disoriented as Figgeir’s jumble of apparently random information, undefined words, and generally strange ideas. He could not follow this Kotkel’s thought process. At one point, she seemed to be speaking of the hatch event itself, so he interrupted, trying to make sure he understood what his role would be.

  “Excuse me, Madam Doctor, but what am I supposed to do?”

  “Do? You mean when it hatches?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Dax was relieved that she would finally answer this pressing question.

  Figgeir stood up and started to pace. She stopped and made a tossing gesture with her hands. “The egg can’t hatch until it’s put into the fire. The amniotic membrane needs to be completely consumed to free the developed embryo inside.” She paused. “It . . .” She looked at him and sighed. “You need to put it in the fire.”

  #

  The morning passed as Dax struggled to comprehend what Figgeir told him without getting her so upset that she would give up and refuse to help. The task was complicated when, from time to time, she interrupted her narrative to go to the door and join her voice to the communal song Dax had noticed yesterday when he had approached the settling with Styr. “Harmony,” she had named it when he asked about it. “Our great Song of Life.” Most times it was a low, background humming that pervaded the community. Other times it rose in volume to a point where more variation in tones and pitch were audible. At those times, Dax could hear words he did not understand.

  Figgeir told him the harmony was the celebration of the settling’s past, present, and future. Dax guessed it was more a celebration of the Kotkel past when she told him how the narrative balanced comparison of past events with present circumstances and added overtones of the future. Her explanation of the Kotkel’s harmony song was just as clear as her discourse on dragons.

  By the time the sun was overhead, Dax had managed to gather that his role in the actual hatching ceremony, after he put the egg in the fire, was to stand there and respond to the young dragon—the draig?—after it hatched. Earlier she had invited him to move to an upholstered bench that was more comfortable, but he did not lie down on it as much as he was tempted. He fidgeted from time to time, but he sat as erect as he could and listened closely. Finally Figgeir ended her lecture on dragons. “Well, that is enough for now. You should be able to do what you have to do.” Dax hoped she was right.

  Since it was midday, she fetched another bowl of food for him, and after he had finished, she inspected the coverings on his hands. “Yes, they are healing nicely. The dressing will wear away in a day or two.” Next she checked his eyes. She gently but firmly thumbed back his eyelids. “The sun and salt damage are clearing. The sting on your thumb from
the tiger beetle had started to fester, but I treated that when I did your hands. I also took care of your internal parasites last night. You should have a rather forceful bowel movement this afternoon.”

  “Parasites?”

  “We are all communal colonies of organisms,” she said, “but there are aggressive species, which, if established, can be detrimental to health. Your dragon bond has made your body systems strong, but you still had remnants of previous infections. After today, you should have no troubles with other diseases.”

  She frowned. “One thing did puzzle me. You showed signs of having used a drug your people call fallenfairy. How is this possible?”

  Dax grimaced at the memory. “That wasn’t my idea. Zodas, the pirate, thought it would be an easy way to keep me quiet.”

  She continued to frown. “I imagine that did not work.”

  He nodded. “It worked quite the opposite. It burned like fire, and I . . .” He paused and thought about his struggle to get free and what he had done to Zodas. “I made a fuss,” he finished lamely.

  “And what about fenugek? I found traces of that poison as well. Have you been troubled with constipation? If so, fenugek would be a most extreme cure.”

  “No. Again, that was not my idea.” Dax thought carefully before he went on. “My stepmother tried to poison me last year. Maybe that was what she used on me.” He paused, then added, “And she used it earlier on my father.” Saying it aloud sent a shiver of anger through his veins.

  Figgeir frowned and said nothing for a time. “Interesting.” She tapped her finger thoughtfully against her chin. “You are unusual even for a tataluelhe. I thought your kind were more civilized.” Dax was afraid she was going to probe further, but in the next moment, she rose and went to the door once again to join in harmony.

  When she returned, she had lost interest in Dax’s problems. She smiled. “You have joined our song,” she announced. “That last part was about you, or rather, how your approach to Styr was an echo to Hamal’s encounter with a tataluelhe seven hundred years ago reprised with Jjeryn’s . . .” She looked at him and sighed. “Well, it made for a most interesting if poignant bit of polyphonic dissonance. I’m afraid you would have to be one of us to really appreciate the moment.”