by Ana Mardoll
Villagers waited in the square, gathering nervously in the dim dawn light. Wren watched their faces relax as xie emerged from the line of sparse trees which dotted the hills around xer hut. A hand reached out to lightly grasp xer forearm and xie forced xerself not to shrug away the unwelcome touch. There was a ritual to observe, and it was as much to assure the villagers that the chosen sacrifice would not run off as it was to comfort the doomed soul and their grieving family.
Dwynwen had gone through the same ritual. She'd held Wren in her arms and hummed softly as her long braid was cut away as a token for the family to bury. Farmer children wove a straw crown while Wren leaned into her shoulder and tried to memorize the warm spring scent she always carried. She was dressed in a white gown donated from one of the village families, so that Wren and Eirlys would not be poorer for the loss of Dwynwen's clothes. Xie remembered how the white gown glowed pink in the light of that final sunset.
Now that it was Wren's turn, xie submitted to these ministrations with less grace. Xie kept xer own threadbare clothes, knowing they were too thin to be of any use to Eirlys. Xer hair would not be cut since xie had never been patient enough to grow it out. Wren wore xer longest boning knife in a belt at xer waist; an unusual choice for a sacrifice since the tool would be lost forever, but it was xer right to go to death dressed as the fisher xie had been in life. Embracing the role, xie wore a cloak of thick netting that tumbled down xer back and swept the ground as xie walked. Wren had touched these nets daily almost from birth and was determined that they accompany xer in death. Eirlys would not need them, but xie did.
When they led Wren down to the valley, the sky was already streaked with pink. Winter was coming on fast, shortening the days as the sun fled from the bitter northern winds. The shortest day was marked as a holiday, a holy day when no work would be done and every able-bodied villager turned out of their homes to honor the chosen sacrifice and their solemn procession to the valley. A soft susurration of crying spread through the village as Wren walked with the mayor and representatives from the village families, the ritual sound cresting above the constant crash of ocean waves. Xie wondered for whom they were crying.
They waited in the valley for the dragon to appear, all eyes turned to the darkening sky. When it emerged from the gash in the cliffs, white scales stark above the black sea, it spread its great wings with the same unhurried ease as a cat stretching and leaped into empty air. After circling twice in long lazy loops, it swooped down to land in the very center of the verdant depression cut into the coastal hills. The creature's feet slammed into the ground with an ostentatious whump, and the villagers drew back with a chorus of gasps; yearly familiarity couldn't lessen the awe inspired by its imposing presence.
Wren stood forward from the crowd in front of the village elders. The creature's gaze transfixed xer, binding xer in place as the mayor cleared his throat and began his speech. Words flowed over Wren without touching xer, the sentiments as familiar to xer as the folds of netting xie rolled between xer fingers. Over and again, xie touched the braided ropes which had been xer inheritance and livelihood as all the while unblinking orbs stared at Wren, the way wild cats watched for scraps when xie filleted fish.
When the mayor concluded his speech, a hush stole over the clearing as the villagers watched the dragon and the dragon watched Wren. Wings spread wide against the dying sun, the creature wore the gray-white hue of a fish too long dead. Talons on each paw flexed in the dirt, ready to reach for Wren and carry xer back to its lair. The creature breathed, a rumble building in its throat to a roar, and the husky voice that emerged could never be mistaken for anything human.
"I accept your sacrifice, humans. You may safely live and hunt in my territory for another year."
Wren gripped the edge of xer cloak tighter, the folds of rope heavy on xer back. Xer heart pounded in xer throat but xie would not scream. Xie refused to let them see how hard xer heart was beating or how fast xer thoughts were racing. The valley felt too cramped, packed with more humans than Wren could count in knots and the monstrous lizard hunched in the center of them all. White teeth gleamed at Wren as its mouth split in a grotesque smile, and in that moment xie was certain that it could smell xer fear.
In the absolute worst case, it would hurt. Death would hurt and xie would be gone and Eirlys would be alone with her grief and enough food to feed a family of five for a year. She could ration what would keep and trade what wouldn't and she would find ways to survive without Wren. That was the worst case.
In the best case, however, xie could do as xie had imagined so many times as a child, playing countless games with xer patient sister as xie slew in a hundred different ways the monster who dwelt above them. Xie could do this because no one had ever tried before, and because a dragon tensed and ready for an adventurer's step into its cave was not the same as a dragon squatting lazily before an assembly of cowering villagers, waiting for the ceremony to be over so it could carry its yearly snack back to its lair.
If Halwen's prophecy were true, Wren could do this because xie was neither man nor woman. Xie was human and whole, but different from the others. Wren was xerself.
Scales on one forearm tensed to move and Wren knew this was the moment. In xer childhood games xie had spoken—a declaration, a challenge, a shout of defiance—but now xie made no more noise than an oar dipping into water. Xer hand tightened on the edge of xer cloak and xie stepped forward, whipping the nets from xer back and twirling them wide over xer head as if readying to cast them out over the sea. The dragon blinked at the unexpected movement, but its pride would not let it rear away from the tiny human.
Wren's fear was gone now, shoved to the back of xer mind as something to deal with later. Xer arms knew what to do and xer mind followed: lift and twirl and cast wide, hurling the heavy nets free of the boat that wasn't under xer this time. The netting fell with a thick slapping noise on the great lizard, its wings beating wildly in instinctive outrage at being pinioned. This thrashing only entangled the creature further, the jagged tips of its wings poking through the netting as ropes tightened against delicate leather.
"Stop, child! What are you doing?"
Xie could barely hear the mayor under the furious roar. The nets were sturdy, having been made strong under xer careful attentions all these years, but were no match for a dragon. Wren snatched the knife from xer belt, fingers closing around the worn hilt of the boning blade. A deep swallow of air, a glance at the creature's thrashing feet, and xie dove to the ground to scramble forward on arms and elbows towards its smooth belly. Xie angled the knife and jabbed the curved blade up into the chest of the writhing monster.
Wren was rewarded with a hot splash of blood that stung xer eyes and coated xer hands so slickly that xie almost lost the knife. Xie tightened xer grip and continued crawling, blocking out the roars that assaulted xer ears. The knife dragged a long cut in the wake of the initial wound, but Wren knew from a lifetime of nicks that the slice was more irritating to the creature than genuinely painful. That was fine with Wren. Pain didn't matter; what mattered was the liquid life spilling to the ground as xie steadily widened the wound.
Screams rose, human wails filling the air in confusion and panic; feet trampled the valley as people stampeded away from the enraged creature. Wren heard bodies hit the ground as the dragon's tail lashed wildly and struck unlucky bystanders, and xie caught glimpses of others dragging the wounded away from danger. Beneath its legs, Wren watched the thrash of the flailing tail and hesitated; it wasn't safe to stay under the beast, but neither did xie believe an exit lay that way. Making a quick decision, xie slammed xer knife high into the wound and left it there as xie rolled sideways between its legs.
Nets grasped at Wren as xie rolled away, but xie knew their touch and how to move under them without being caught. Xie scrambled to xer feet the moment xie was free of the ropes, dancing back from the dangerous paws digging furrows in the once-grassy valley. The creature was trying to cut itself free, but its claws w
ere made for stabbing instead of slicing and its efforts only drew the ropes tighter around it. Wren was reminded of a wild cat that had caught itself in xer nets once when hung out to dry; xie hadn't been able to free the creature until it wore itself into a calmed state and xie could approach.
The dragon was more intelligent than a cat, of course, but Wren had made time its enemy. Blood stained the muddy ground and more dripped out at an alarming pace; eventually it slowed, but not in the way a bleeding cut slows as it heals. The dragon was dying, and the baleful eye that turned on Wren seemed to understand this. Xie was no expert on the emotions of dragons, but xie thought it looked more shocked than angry.
"I did it. I killed the dragon." Xer numb whisper had barely enough breath behind it to escape xer lips. On xer tongue xie tasted the blood that coated xer from top to bottom. "I did it for you, Dwynwen." And for Eirlys, and anyone else who might otherwise have walked in procession to the valley. Wren's hands were not free of blood, but no one else would ever die in xer place. "I did it."
The dragon, now more red than white, staggered under the clinging nets. One paw moved to clutch at its gaping chest, but there was nothing to be done. The creature slumped to the ground, its eyes locked on Wren to the last until those unblinking orbs glazed over in death. Stillness crept over the valley as the young fisher stood drenched in blood and shivering in the night air. Wren heard distant wails from the villagers tending to those wounded by the dragon's thrashing but xie felt a warm sense of solitude, as if everything in existence had shrunk to xerself and the motionless body beside xer.
Halwen was the one who found Wren as she walked with her cane down the trampled path humming an old sea shanty to herself. The moon had taken his place as lord of the night, his silver light turning the red blood on the ground a watery black. The old woman picked her way to the trembling youth and threw a heavy cloak around xer shoulders—not netting this time, but real fur. Soft and still warm from a hearth, the article brought life back to the motionless survivor.
"I've got to get home to Mother," xie murmured. Xer voice felt changed somehow, thick and heavy in xer throat. Xie coughed and winced at the pain in xer ribs. A bone was broken, or at least bruised, and would need attention. "Do you have an extra cane I could borrow? And maybe something for the pain? I'll pay you another fish. Not a silver-scale, but I have a red-tail you might like."
The witch's unmatched eyes glittered in the moonlight. "Come along, then. My, but you do like to do things the hard way. Do you realize that dragon's blood has turned both your eyes quite black? There are easier ways to become a witch, you know. Lean on me, child, and we'll get there together."
King's Favor
Content Note: Border Walls, Population Purges, Violence, mention of Self-Harm
Neopronoun Pronunciation Key: Nee ("nee" or /niː/), Ner ("nur" or /nɜr/)
Caran's plan hinged on passing through the kingdom of Northnesse without drawing notice, for those who caught the attention of the witch-queen were rumored not to live long after. Worse still from the perspective of ner employers, if nee were captured and interrogated then future expeditions would be compromised. The last thing the Magic Guild wanted to contend with was tightened border security.
Nee had spent the autumn harvest season traveling on back roads and sleeping under the stars whenever nee could, staying in villages only when ner supplies needed replenishing. The back roads were better for ner purpose and less populated; the fewer people nee spoke to, the less ner accent could be remarked upon. Nee affected Northnesse mannerisms as well as nee could, but there were always words and phrases nee did not know, language quirks which had evolved in the time since the borders had been closed to foreigners.
As winter approached, it was now time to leave; Caran would not be able to sleep outside in safety for much longer and nee had no desire to tempt fate by settling in a village for an entire season. For better or worse the expedition was over, and the guild would have to be happy with the information nee had obtained; no more would be forthcoming until they supplied money and necessities for another incursion.
Leaving Northnesse was risky, but far easier than entering. When the witch-queen rose to power and closed the borders, incoming visitors were subjected to a harsh vetting process before being allowed entrance into the kingdom. Yet those who chose to flee elsewhere were for the most part allowed to funnel through the Eastborne wall, provided they left behind most of their worldly belongings for the crown to seize. Caran had spoken with refugees in Freyhurst before setting out on ner expedition and knew what to expect when nee arrived at a checkpoint: a small line of impoverished farmers seeking relief elsewhere, mixed with a few merchants permitted to cross the border on business, and capped with a modest military presence to maintain order.
Each checkpoint along the Eastborne wall lay at the heart of a city or town which fed and housed local guards. Caran selected a middling-sized town for ner approach, hoping to find a small gathering of refugees fleeing the coming winter. Nee hoped to blend into their ranks as just another hungry mouth seeking better fortune on the other side of the wall, slipping out of the country with few questions asked.
Instead nee found nerself walking deserted streets as eyes peered from the windows of every house. No children played in the yards framing the main thoroughfare, and no merchants called from their doors to advertise fresh bread or local wine. The town was silent and this unnerved Caran; the villages nee had passed through during ner expedition had not been lively, but nee had never seen a place so subdued.
The checkpoint on the far side of town was larger than nee had anticipated, with heavy gates hewn from thick tree trunks. Their outer shell of bark had been left rough and unfinished, and Caran shuddered to imagine how ancient the trees must have been when they were slain to build the gates, anger surging through ner blood at the extravagant waste of such ancient beauty and power. Nee liked even less the look of the stationed soldiers: too many for so small a line, each heavily armed and armored. Three men patted down a traveler at the front of a short line, while a fourth held a menacing sword at the ready.
Misgiving curled in ner stomach, but Caran could not turn around. Nee had been seen, and there would be questions if nee were to balk at the gate. Nor were there better exits available to ner; the Eastborne wall extended for days in either direction, and every checkpoint would be the same as this one. Escape the way nee had come in, through the Mossmerrow swamp, was impossible because of ner journals; the delicate paper would be soaked in the crossing and the entire expedition would be wasted.
The only way out was through. Nee took a deep breath and stepped into line to be processed. The soldiers searching the poor soul at the front of the line liberated a small knife, three coins, and a packet of dried meat and chokeberries—the local travel ration. Caran kept ner face straight, but felt a measure of relief; nee had a small purse for them to plunder if the soldiers were only interested in thieving. Ner journals and pack of samples were the real treasures nee carried, and they were of value solely to Caran and ner sponsors.
Three more travelers were taken in turn and ner confidence grew. The soldiers were efficient in their greed but not cruel; belongings which had no worth to them were not destroyed in a show of bullying. Each victim was released after a thorough search, trudging out of Northnesse poorer for their trouble but free. Caran rehearsed in ner head how best to react when the soldiers inevitably divested ner of the few pieces of gold nee had retained. Alarmed but not angry, nee decided; upset, yet not in a threatening way.
Ner turn came. Caran stepped forward, boots clunking against the wooden platform. Nee set ner bags on the ground and spread ner arms wide in preparation for being searched. If they peeled up ner sleeves, they would not be able to read the tattoos there; if they patted through ner short razor-cut hair, they would snag their fingers but find nothing of value. The invasive search would be unpleasant and unsettling but would be over quickly and nee would be on ner way, safe at last and knowing t
hat ner sponsors would be overjoyed.
Soldiers moved forward with outstretched hands, then one of them checked his step in surprise. He gasped and shot a finger out, pointing to something above Caran's head. Ner heart sank as nee followed his gaze. Thick tree trunks formed rafters overhead, weeping with ancient power cut off in its prime. Nestled in their branches lay a gem the size of a man's eye. Caran had not noticed the jewel before but was quite sure that it had not been throbbing with an incandescent blue glow until after nee stepped forward.
Anyone with magical ability knew how dangerous it was to attempt travel through Northnesse since the witch-queen's rise to power, but it had not always been so. For generations, the witch-kings of the northern lands had welcomed the magically-inclined to their court, carving out places in their palaces for even the lowliest conjurer. Their advisors were solemn wizards and experienced hedge-witches; their queens and consorts were chosen from among the most powerful magi and enchantresses in all the five kingdoms.
Northnesse was renowned throughout the magical community as a place where mages of common birth could rise to the level of a prince if they were clever enough to master politics along with their craft. Yet not every witch and wizard in the five kingdoms was eager to emigrate there. Rumors spread of hidden dangers and unsavory practices among the gentry; things like necromantic divination were fine as far as they went, but lurid tales of necrurgists raising the bodies of dead laborers sounded a step too far. Whispers of powerful rivalries at court were another deterrent, causing many to hesitate before throwing their hat into the political ring.