Wavebreaker_Book II of the Stone War Chronicles_Part 1_Trickle

by A. J. Norfield

  “Don’t mind them. We’re all friends here,” said Duvessa as she led her away from the village.

  “Friends? You could have fooled me. They threatened Trista, and she attacked me from behind,” said Dalkeira. She followed Duvessa, constantly looking over her shoulder; none would get the jump on her again.

  “Oh dear, oh my, that’s all in the past now, my child. This way.”

  “Oh maai,” said the raven from one of the roofs before it glided down and landed on the old woman’s shoulder again.

  Duvessa reached up, gave a small seed to the bird and scratched its head.

  Dalkeira followed the strange duo to a large hut. She squeezed herself through the door, following the woman and raven inside. The air within tingled unpleasantly on her senses. Bunches of plants hung from the ceiling everywhere. To the side, a pot hung above the embers of an old fire.

  In the middle of the room were Trista and Decan. The siblings lay still with their eyes closed, their skin gray with white lines drawn all over them.

  “Don’t worry, my child, they’re still breathing,” said Duvessa, who saw Dalkeira carefully sniffing the brother and sister.

  “What have you done to them?” Dalkeira asked suspiciously.

  “The boy has been put in a deep sleep to stop the venom from spreading. The girl was exhausted and the sun has put a spell on her. Her body needs rest; everything is out of balance.”

  One of the walls had a large root breaking through it, or rather, the wall seemed to have been built around the root. Judging from the size, it was part of a very large plant or tree.

  “Oh dear, oh my, it’s time for his next dose already,” said the old woman, holding Decan’s wrist lightly in her hands.

  “Oh maai.”

  She put her other hand on the top of the boy’s head and trailed her fingers down to his neck. Carefully, she lay Decan’s hand back on his stomach and walked over to the large root in the wall.

  Dalkeira inched closer to Decan’s face, flicking her tongue nervously in the air. She saw the boy’s chest rise and fall, then nothing for a long time, then finally rise and fall again. The old woman was telling the truth. She watched Duvessa take hold of the root and softly squeeze a milky-white liquid out of it into a bowl. Turning round, Dalkeira inspected the gray layers and white lines on Trista’s skin. She flicked her tongue over it, sniffed it, but it did not seem like anything special. Somehow, the lines looked familiar, like rivers running over the body. Yet she could not place what was so familiar about them.

  “What is this on their skin?”

  “A special mixture of herbs, mud and lifesap. The sun has damaged their skin. It will need time to heal,” said Duvessa. “It might do you some good as well, my child.”

  “I am fine,” Dalkeira said stubbornly, who would have loved to receive a good scrubbing of her skin—and a drink.

  Dalkeira smelled Trista’s hair. She noticed Trista’s eyes rapidly moving behind her closed eyelids. She flicked her tongue across Trista’s forehead, which was feverishly warm. Moving to the far side of the table, Dalkeira slid her head along Trista’s arm, letting it rest when she reached the hand. She regretted her fight with Trista. It did not feel good to have left things like that between them now they were unable to clear the air.

  Anxiously, the dragon observed how the older woman mixed the white liquid with some herbs and poured it from the bowl into Decan’s mouth. For a moment, Dalkeira thought she saw Trista move, but when she circled the table, Trista’s eyes were closed.

  Inspecting the root, Dalkeira sniffed the part the woman had squeezed.

  “The juice you just gave him. It comes from one of those large, thorny trees?”

  “Oh dear, oh my, the Taori indeed. I see you are as smart as you are curious, my child,” said Duvessa with a smile.

  “Oh maai!”

  Dalkeira looked annoyed at the raven, who merely fluttered its feathers under her gaze.

  “Both admirable attributes, yet one gets you in trouble while the other can get you out,” continued the old woman. “It’s good to train your head. You never know when you might need it.”

  Dalkeira observed and followed the woman for the rest of the night. When daybreak announced itself, Aslara came by to offer Dalkeira food and drink. The dragon could no longer resist the water offered, which was surprisingly cold, but still refused the food. She was not yet ready to accept Aslara’s help so willingly again. She figured she would go out and hunt by herself later, then regretted her decision as it dawned on her that she would have to leave both siblings behind. There was no way she was going to let them out of her sight when they were like this.

  Those first days in the village, Duvessa seemed to be constantly brewing herbs, making small potions from them. She put leaves in both Decan and Trista’s cheeks, made them swallow the different liquids and once poked Trista’s finger to check the color of the blood as it formed a drop on the skin.

  On the second night, Decan’s leg lost its fiery color around the bite. The old woman kept a close eye on the wound, but seemed satisfied with how it was healing.

  Decan woke up some time before dawn. He was groggy and complained that his leg hurt, but he was glad to see Dalkeira waiting for him to explain everything that was going on.

  While Dalkeira and Decan talked, it was clear Trista still had a long way to go. For the second time that day, the old woman washed off and reapplied the gray mixture to Trista’s skin. Duvessa was drawing new patterns on her body when Trista opened her eyes.

  “You’re alright, my child. Sleep. You’ll feel better in a day or two.”

  Hearing the remark, Dalkeira jumped up in the middle of one of Decan’s sentences and hopped over to the table.

  “Is she back? Is she awake?” Dalkeira said eagerly.

  Trista fought to keep her eyes open, only to slip off into sleep again without a word.

  The morning came around once more. Aslara dropped by to welcome Decan to the village. The boy, apparently judging Trista to be in good care with the older woman—and Dalkeira—keeping watch, eagerly accepted Aslara’s invitation to meet the rest of the Minai people. He had been locked up long enough in the hovel and was clearly dying to stretch his legs, even if one still hurt when he walked on it.

  Dalkeira wondered briefly if she should keep him close, but figured these people would not save him only to hurt him again.

  Perhaps Aslara is not hiding anything after all, she thought as she watched Decan walk out the door.

  Another day and night went by during which Dalkeira kept a close eye on Trista. The fever was still unwilling to break, but the life listener—as Decan had called Duvessa after he returned from Aslara’s tour around the village—was away more often. Other things in the village required her attention. Besides, the important thing to do now was to keep Trista cool and make sure she got enough fluids. Thus, Duvessa only returned when it was time to give Trista her next drink, or apply some of the lifesap mixture. The life listener allowed Dalkeira to keep watch, which meant the dragon got some additional time alone—which was highly appreciated.

  Decan spent the nights in the hut with her, but unlike Dalkeira he had no trouble finding his sleep—despite the fact his dreams remained restless with night terrors.

  For the dragon, the call of sleep now continuously pulled on her, but she did not want to let Trista out of her sight. That woman and her two dogs were still out there. She would not risk it. She slept only small amounts; when Decan promised to keep watch, or when the warmth of the day made it impossible to stay awake, but she often stirred awake after a short time, asking if anything had happened.

  While waiting for Trista to wake up, Dalkeira found herself with a lot of time on her wings. Her thoughts drifted, frequently circling back to the events in the desert and the sunken city. With nothing else to do, she pondered relentlessly as she paced around the room. She looked at Trista again. What if she did not wake up anymore? Dalkeira was not sure how that would make her feel.
It would be much easier to go west without being bound to the ground by her traveling companions. Yet the idea of losing Trista wrung her chest into a painful knot.

  Divided, she strolled over to one of the larger pots in the hut and looked at the water inside. Apart from here, she had not seen any water at all since they left the city in the desert. Yet here stood multiple pots, filled to the brim.

  They must have a well nearby.

  Staring at the water, Dalkeira thought of her fight with the feathered lizards and how the water had come to her aid. She dunked her nozzle in to quench her thirst. Strangely enough, her hunger had almost entirely disappeared; only her thirst remained. She stared into the pot again as her reflection reformed on the bobbing water’s surface. The sparkles sluggishly flowed around. They were much less active than when she saw them in a freshwater spring, or the ocean itself. The water felt…tired. Amongst the sparkles, she saw the reflection of her own swirling vortexes look back at her.

  The water surface grew still and waited, waited for Dalkeira to stir it alive. She lightly touched outward with her mind, but nothing happened. She tried again, this time concentrating harder, trying to recall the feeling she had when fighting those feathered crawlers in the sunken city. Staring intensely, she noticed the faintest increase in activity amongst the sparkles in the pot. A third effort commenced. This time, the water gave her the satisfaction of seeing the tiniest of ripples move across the surface. She let out a satisfied snort.

  This should be interesting.

  For the rest of the day, Dalkeira spent every bit of time she had alone in the hut refining her ‘watertouch’, as she had decided to call her unusual skill. The more she practiced, the lighter she felt, as if her body had been waiting to free itself from its physical confinements and touch the world beyond. Not to mention it tamed her nerves as a pleasant calmness flowed over her every time she shaped the water with her mind. Although it was not really her mind doing the work. It was her…intent. Her entire being stretching out, like moving an invisible muscle.

  She only stopped when she heard Duvessa, Decan or anyone else approach the hut, and by the end of the second day she was pleased to see a fast-moving whirlpool form in the pot in front of her. With some more practice, she could stop and redirect it the other way without much effort. It was very satisfying—no, liberating. The more she practiced and grew in skill, the more convinced she was that it would not be so bad if she went and explored what lay to the west on her own.

  On the third day of her self-imposed watertouch training, Dalkeira was focused on the pot when she heard Trista stir on the table. She walked over, thinking she was finally about to wake up, but the sounds were those of a nightmare.

  Slightly disappointed, Dalkeira resumed her morning practice. As a challenge, she forced the now easily-created whirlpool upward out of the pot. Her claws scraped the ground as they involuntarily clenched in response to her focus. Her head swayed back and forth as her eyes focused on the water. Slowly, the water began to rise, first inching closer to the edge of the pot, then higher. She forced the whirlpool into a more compact tornado, narrowing it, stretching it upward.

  Unexpectedly, the door opened and Duvessa stepped inside. Dalkeira had been so consumed by her efforts that she had not noticed the life listener approaching the hut. Startled, her concentration was instantly gone. The small water tornado splattered to all sides, soaking everything around the pot, including Dalkeira herself.

  “Oh dear, oh my, if you wanted to take a bath, you should have told me. There are better places to do that,” Duvessa said with a smile that betrayed she might have seen more than she would admit.

  “Oh maai,” said the raven from the corner.

  “Just thirsty,” said Dalkeira, acting as normal as possible.

  The interruption had replaced her feeling of bliss with plain dizziness, thrown from the heightened state of mind she had reached these last few days. Suddenly, Dalkeira felt very drained and very hungry. She looked longingly to the door and back to Trista. Her stomach rumbled loudly. Perhaps it was time to leave her side…for a bit.

  “Looks like we got here just in time,” said Decan, entering the hut with Aslara in tow.

  “We’ve brought you something to eat,” Aslara said as she held up two desert hares.

  “No, thank you. I do not need your help,” replied Dalkeira stubbornly. Her stomach growled.

  “Your stomach disagrees. How do you expect to stand watch if you don’t properly take care of yourself?” said Aslara. “You must be starving by now.”

  “Come on, Dalkeira, you’ve got to eat,” added Decan. “I even helped chase them from their den so you could feast.”

  Dalkeira’s stomach spoke again before the dragon could utter another protest. Decan grabbed both hares and offered them to her.

  “We take care of each other, remember?” he said. “Eat.”

  Dalkeira could no longer fight the boy’s logic with her own stubbornness and reluctantly gave in to her renewed hunger. She only needed a moment to rip the first hare in half and gobble it down. She took her time with the second hare while Decan and the two tribeswomen prepared and ate their own evening meal. All the while, Decan enthusiastically told stories about the village outside: the dwellings in the mountain, the amount of people and animals, and the strange language most of them spoke.

  “The baby is doing well, too,” said Decan, nearing the end of his tale. “The woman said she’s gaining weight again and likes reacting to the other children.”

  Not long after that, Decan went to bed. Tired from the impressions of the day and his recent recovery, he quickly fell asleep. Shortly afterward, Duvessa made her excuses and left, leaving Dalkeira and Aslara alone in the company of Trista, who still lay silently slumbering in the depths of her mind.

  Dalkeira continued to gnaw on one of the hare’s legs, intent on ignoring Aslara.

  What I would not give for a nice juicy fish right now, the dragon thought idly.

  After a while, it was Aslara who finally broke the awkward silence.

  “Has she said anything today?”

  Dalkeira simply shook her head.

  “Don’t worry. She’ll wake up soon enough,” added Aslara.

  “I know. And when she does, we will be on our way again. Decan, too.”

  “Are you sure that’s your decision to make? Or wise, for that matter?” said Aslara. “You all look like you need to recover much of your strength. And you’re welcome to stay. The rains are coming, and with them the times of plenty.”

  Dalkeira looked Aslara straight in the eyes.

  “Stay? With that woman ready to attack me again?” said Dalkeira.

  “Who? Shiri? She realizes she made a mistake. You have nothing to fear from her anymore.”

  “I am not so sure,” Dalkeira spoke thoughtfully. “But you are not going to give up easily, are you?”

  “What do you mean?” said Aslara.

  “I mean you want something from her. From Trista.”

  Aslara let out a sigh.

  “You really are headstrong, aren’t you? Look, I know you don’t trust me, winged ancient one, but I have no ill intent,” said Aslara. “I just want to help.”

  “No, you do not,” stated Dalkeira bluntly. “You might be willing to help us, but there is something you want in return. Trista might not see it, but I do. Ever since we left the island we have been chased, threatened, cheated and nearly killed by other people. People who were all looking for something they wanted, or thought they needed. I think it is human nature. You might not want to hurt her—you have convinced me of that at least—but you want something. I can sense it.”

  Dalkeira’s head spun. Having been awake for almost two days straight, this was not the best time to have this conversation. During her watertouch training, her thoughts of leaving without the siblings seemed sound, but what would she expose Trista and Decan to if she abandoned them here? Dalkeira shook her head. She would not allow Aslara to fill her mind wit
h half-truths or faulty reasoning.

  “Back in the sunken city you kept looking at Trista. Her hair in particular. And I have seen you look at me, while you thought I was sleeping. You introduce yourself as one of the tribe, but now that we are back here—wherever this is—Decan tells me you are their leader. What did he call it? Matri? If you hid that from us, it is likely there are other things that you are not telling us as well, and I want to know what they are,” demanded the dragon.

  Aslara looked at Dalkeira for a long time.

  “Well, I’m pleased to see Duvessa was right about you. You’re an excellent sha’cara for her. A great protector,” said Aslara. “And I must admit there have been a few things on my mind, but you’ll have to forgive me; this isn’t the right time.”

  “Not the right time? The only time is now.”

  “But much is still uncertain,” said Aslara, apologetic. “All I can say is that we think you and Trista are important to the tribe. Duvessa spoke of a lifevision. A prediction. A—a story of old. Many visions visit a life listener. Even as a child. When the moment draws nearer, they become more vibrant. Stronger. Until it overpowers all other visions for a while. Some visions are passed on from generations of life listeners before us.”

  “Vision? Story? That does not make sense. How could anyone know where we would go?”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know. But the fact that Trista is accompanied by a winged ancient like yourself is already proof enough that you are both important.”

  “Wait—does that mean your tribe has encountered my species before? Are there any other dragons living nearby?” asked Dalkeira.

  “The First Mother was known to be paired with a winged ancient. The tribe’s history mentions a few others were as well, but these great sha’cara disappeared from our lands without a trace generations ago. The stories are few. Duvessa might have better answers; you’ll have to ask her.”

  “What about what Duvessa saw? The story,” said Dalkeira.

  “All I know is what she told me. ‘A wandering mother with hair of fire riding a raging, winged river.’”