Sign of the Dove

by Susan Fletcher

  “Kaeldra saved the child’s life, remember you, daughter,” Granmyr said. “With dragon’s milk. And the green of Lyf’s eyes is the price of her saving. We owe Kaeldra for that. And the dragons.”

  Kaeldra, Lyf thought. There was something she must remember, of Kaeldra. …

  “But how if they pursue her?” Mama said. “How if she must live in hiding all her life long?” Her voice rose in its habitual whine, and Lyf felt the familiar tightening of fear at her throat. The danger might never pass. The soldiers would come after her; no place would be safe. …

  “Bletherchaff!” Granmyr’s voice cut in. “This will pass; the hatchings are nearly done. We all suffer from this trouble-not Lyf only. Mirym is divided from her husband, Kaeldra from her daughters and her home. Soon the dragons will fly from our land back to their home over the Northern Sea. Then there will be no need to get into such a ferment over folk with green eyes. Then all can be united. Meantime, Kaeldra will welcome another pair of strong hands.”

  “Strong! Lyf is not strong! Never has she been strong— not since she was taken with the fever. And she hasn’t the sense to leave off meddling with birds. Not yet twelve winters old, and small for her years at that. And frail—she is frail. …”

  Birds. Lyf came back now to the dove. There had been a message. … Lyf fumbled in her sash and found it. “The dove … it bore this,” she said.

  Mama reached for it, but Granmyr’s hand was quicker. She snatched it from Lyf and read it silently. There were many marks on the vellum—Lyf could see that. Few folk in Elythia were schooled in letters, so most message doves bore only metal bands inked with the marks of their senders. But Granmyr could read—as could Lyf—for Kaeldra’s husband, Jeorg, had taught them.

  Granmyr’s lips pursed hard. She tucked the message into her sash.

  “What news?” Mirym asked. “Is there word of my husband?”

  Granmyr merely shook her head. “Best you know nothing of this—then none may pry it from you. But now we can kill two hares with the selfsame shaft, for the message is for Kaeldra, and Lyf can fetch it to her. She can go with the harper, I hear tell he’s in Wyrmward now. We’ll send for him.”

  “Oh, my Lyfling.” Sobbing, Mama clutched Lyf to her, forcing her to stand. Lyf felt fear surging up inside. Going to Kaeldra and Jeorg, to their secret, far-off place. The perilous trek through the mountains. The soldiers seeking her. Lyf drew in a ragged, frightened breath, then caught Granmyr regarding her. Granmyr nodded gravely, as if to someone strong—as if she were stronger than Mama.

  And Lyf felt something odd then: a prickling of excitement.

  Perhaps she would see a dracling, help it escape. Long had she heard of draclings—from the time nearly seven summers past when Kaeldra had gone up the mountain and brought back the milk of a nursing dragon. It was for Lyf she had done it. Lyf had been taken with vermilion fever, and only dragon’s milk could cure it.

  It had cured the fever, though it had turned Lyf’s eyes a rare and startling green. And ever since, Lyf had been able to do this odd thing that no one else could do: She could ken with birds. Granmyr had told her that long ago she had known another who could ken with birds. Yet with Lyf the kenning was different. Deeper. More perilous.

  And now … to see a dracling … it would be an adventure.

  But she was frail—from the fever. Mama always said so. She was allowed only to help with the least taxing work—none of the plowing or lambing or shearing. She was not strong enough for adventures.

  “Best help her to the loft, now, to sleep,” Granmyr said, “for this night she will get no rest. I’ll send Mirym to fetch the harper. Then at darkfall, they will go.”

  Lyf did not think that she could sleep, and yet the kenning must have wearied her, for one moment she was listening to the voices below, and the next Granmyr was rousing her. And it all came back in a rush of dread—that she must leave her home where she had lived all her life to go into hiding, that she must trek through the dark forest with the harper, that the Kragish soldiers were seeking her out.

  Granmyr helped her below, and there Lyf saw the harper straddling a bench, regaling Mirym and Mama with music and a tale. His harp gave out mood more than melody, echoing the tone of his voice. His words coursed along softly, then all at once he called out, “Foom!” Mirym giggled with delight; even Mama smiled. Kymo, this harper was called. Lyf minded him now. She had seen him a time or two before, at the market fair in town. She had fancied his tales, but had not stopped to consider him. Now she eyed him more carefully, taking in his stout but solid build, his wild thatch of blue-black hair. He looked to have thirty winters or thereabouts, with crinkly lines fanning out from the edges of his eyes and bracketing his wide mouth. His brown-gold eyes seemed to laugh even when his mouth did not. Something glinted on his chest in the firelight: a copper amulet, shaped like a dove. Ah, Lyf thought. He was of the dove sign. He was allied in Kaeldra’s cause.

  Mama rose and fetched Lyf’s cloak; then she flung her arms about her. She peppered Lyf with warnings—about keeping herself warm, about taxing her strength, about kenning with birds. Then she burst into tears, moaning that Lyf was too frail, the trek too perilous.

  Fear raced again through Lyf’s veins; tears pricked at the backs of her eyes. It was hard, too hard; she shouldn’t have to go.

  And then Granmyr was thrusting something into her hand. “Hide this in your sash, Lyfling, and give it to Kaeldra when you arrive.” It was the message from the dove. Lyf began to unfurl it, but Granmyr took it out of her hands and tucked it firmly into her sash. “Let Kaeldra read it first. Be of good use to her, little one. She has need of you. And no more kenning with birds. It is perilous, do you hear me? Each time you do it, the danger grows.” Granmyr paused, brushed a way-ward tear from Lyf’s cheek. “There now. No call for that. You’re stronger than you know.”

  Kymo’s mule stood laden and waiting without. It was dark; mist flowed across a slice of moon. Lyf made her farewell to Mirym—a long, tearful hug. “Tell Nysien I miss him,” Mirym said. “Tell him to come home soon”

  Kymo boosted Lyf up onto his mule, then walked a little way ahead of the beast, tugging on its rope. The mule set its heels and began to pull backward. “Come along, Grumble. Come along.” The mule made a rumbling noise deep in its throat and shook its head. Kymo sighed. “I’ll be needin’ your help now,” he said to Lyf. “If you would only scratch inside her ear a bit—no, not that one, t’other.” Lyf put her hand inside the mule’s hairy left ear and timidly began to scratch. Grumble lurched forward all at once, throwing Lyf sharply back. She grabbed for the bristly mane and held on with all her might. Kymo, she saw, was sprinting ahead so as not to be trampled. Soon, Grumble eased into a jarring trot; Lyf strove to reseat herself in the tight space between the baggage and the mule’s neck.

  When at last Grumble had slowed to a walk and Lyf turned round to wave farewell, Granmyr and Mama and Mirym were but Shadows in the mist.

  Harper’s Tale

  What wolf’s head, you ask, my lord?

  Did not your mother tell you? Your father?

  No?

  Ah, you young folk today know nothing of history!

  I will tell it, then. Hark you well.

  It happened that many years ago, near the end of the last span of hatching, there was a queen in Kragrom. Her cousin, the old king’s sister’s son, craved the throne for himself. And indeed, there were many who did not wish to be ruled by a woman. They banded with the queen’s cousin and drove her out.

  The queen and her minions lay low in the woods of Etythia, plotting her return. They got neither help nor hindrance from the Krags already living in this land. These preferred to wait, to see how the game played out. Neither did the new king pursue her, but shored up his defenses in Kragrom.

  It had long been rumored that by eating a dragon’s heart a man might protect himself against the bite of metal. The queen, believing this, sent her soldiers out searching, armed with the silver pipes w
hose tones were known to put dragons in a trance.

  And just to be certain, she offered a reward. A wolf’s head, as they called it.

  Grown or young, alive or dead, it mattered not to her—so long as the dragons had hearts. She would build an army invulnerable to the sword.

  And yet, my lords and ladies, the dragons were not friendless among men.

  CHAPTER 3

  An Advenrure!

  They struck out north, across the graze, avoiding the town altogether. Before long the cleared ground ended and the forest crowded in close. They made their way along narrow tracks, so deeply shaded and thick with drifting fog that at times Lyf could scarce see her hands before her.

  Lyf would have been afraid—she was afraid—but Kymo kept up a steady stream of stories. He neither sang nor played his harp, but wore it slung across his back as he walked. Still, his voice had a rhythmic gait all its own, and he knew a thousand tales. He told of four gallant sisters who went out into the world and took up work as men. He told of a pig who grew wings of parchment and soared through the sky. He told of a man who hooked a monster that nearly dragged his boat undersea.

  The forest loomed dark all around them. It rustled and snapped and moaned. Ever Lyf strained to hear the sounds of pursuing hoofbeats.

  And yet … an adventure! There were moments when Lyf felt freed of some heaviness, released from her old, narrow life and launched into something new. And through it all the calm, smiling voice in the darkness steadied her, helped her to blunt her fears.

  In time they emerged from the forest and wended up rocky escarpments where the wind whipped the mist into tatters and the stars came glimmering out. When the first traces of dawn touched the eastern horizon, they were high in the mountains. Kymo helped her down from the mule and handed her a heavy iron pot, bidding her to fetch water from a stream down the hill.

  “Mama forbids me to fetch water, except from the well,” Lyf said, “I’m not strong enough to carry it uphill.”

  Kymo cocked an eyebrow, gave her a long, appraising look. “Well, no mind,” he said at last. “Then fetch us some kindling for a fire.”

  Before Lyf could protest, he went off for the water himself. Mama didn’t like Lyf fetching kindling, either. It meant going into the forest, where it was dark. It was perilous in the forest, in the dark. But now … she had been in the forest for the better part of this night.

  She took a deep breath and headed down toward a copse of scrubby pines that huddled on the slope. It was not too dark within. Lyf hurriedly scrabbled together a heap of fallen branches and lugged them back to the camp. Kymo, she saw, had already fetched water and was cutting larger branches for a shelter. He favored her with a nod and a smile as she dropped the kindling. Then, hardly breaking the rhythm of his ax, Kymo said, “Fetch Grumble down to the stream, there’s a good lass, for her throat’ll be sore parched.”

  Lyf hesitated. Leading Grumble to the stream was not the same as fetching water in a heavy kettle. Still, it was a trek, down the scree-covered slope, through dark trees and underbrush, and she was weak and weary and her head ached from hunger. Mama would not have allowed it. But Mama was not here. Likely she had forgotten to tell Kymo about the fever. Perhaps he had not seen the vermilion mark on her cheek. It had paled as the fever had waned, and now it hardly showed.

  I will tell him, Lyf thought: about the fever when I was little, about how frail I am. But something in the resolute set of Kymo’s back stopped her.

  The stream was not so very far. And she would have Grumble with her.

  Lyf untethered the mule and tugged on her rope. Grumble grumbled, but did not budge. “Come along, Grumble. Come along.” Grumble balked and strained backward. Lyf sighed, walked back to the mule. Carefully, she reached up and scratched in Grumble’s left ear. Grumble shot forward; Lyf leapt aside and slipped on a patch of loose scree. Quickly she stood and, making for the stream, led the compliant mule down to drink.

  She returned more tired than ever, and yet feeling somehow stronger than before. Mama would have been surprised to see what she had done. Kymo scooped her out a bowl of oat porridge, then lowered himself stiffly to sit on a rock. Lyf joined him, watched the sunrise as she gulped down her portion. It was warm and spicy and satisfying. And when they were done, Kymo bade Lyf scrub their bowls with sand while he set out sleeping skins within the lean-to shelter he had made. Lyf lay down to rest then as Kymo took out his harp and told a tale about a beetle that soared above the sky and found another world, where giant beetles dwelt. It was a wondrous tale, and Lyf did want to hear the end of it. But her eyelids were heavy—her whole head felt heavy—and her mind drifted away from the words and into sleep.

  She awoke past midday to the pittering of rain on the branches of the shelter. The sky was all-over gray, lending a dull, shadowless cast to the light.

  Kymo was packing the mule. He turned round at the crunch of her boot on the scree. “We’re all but ready now,” he said. Tightening the cinch, he motioned her near and boosted her up onto Grumble. He handed her a loaf, some cheese, and a skin of weak brew, then went round to the fore. Lyf scratched; Grumble lurched. They were off.

  The rain did not let up through all that dreary afternoon. It pricked hollowly on Lyf’s hood as she rode; it beaded on the fabric of her cloak. The smell of wet wool filled her nose. As they moved to lower, forested ground, the rain grew louder, slapping hard against the trees. Before long, the wet soaked clear through Lyf’s cloak, to her kirtle, to her shift. The damp chill seeped down into her bones. She would catch her death, Mama would say if she knew. Still, the forest seemed less fearsome this day, which freed Lyf’s mind to think. That message. What could it bode? She might take it from her sash and read it. But the rain would bleed the ink, would ruin it.

  Something to do with Kaeldra. Something that others might try to pry out. Lyf’s thoughts swirled with dark imaginings of pursuing Krags, of perils to Kaeldra … and to herself.

  Green eyes, the soldier had said. Kaeldra’s eyes were green—green-flecked, at any rate. And yet not nearly so green as Lyf’s. “Mine are only inherited,” Kaeldra had once told her, “but yours are undiluted by other bloodlines—straight from the dragon’s milk.”

  Kaeldra was a Krag—tall and blond—not small and dark-haired like Lyf and most Elythians. They were not blood kin. Even so, Lyf and Kaeldra had been raised as sisters. Granmyr had taken in Kaeldra before Lyf was born. Not a popular thing to do, for Krags were despised hereabouts. They had invaded Elythia, occupying the castles and the most fertile land, seizing food and livestock whenever it suited them, elevating those who supported them to positions of power.

  The Krags misliked all green-eyed ones—whether Kragish or no—because of the power they held over dragons. Kaeldra’s green-flecked eyes had been a danger to her even as a babe. Dragon-sayers’ eyes, they called them.

  “Lyf?” Kymo turned around to look at her. “I’m in a mind to tell a story. Do you fancy hearing one?”

  “Yes,” Lyf began, and then amended, “Well, no. First I would like to know … have you seen this place where Kaeldra lives? Do they keep the draclings there?”

  Kymo laughed. “Yes, I’ve seen it, and no, the draclings aren’t there. Jeorg and Kaeldra go to the dragons when they are needed—many dragon caves, scattered near and far.”

  “Have you ever seen a dracling?”

  “No,” Kymo said, “though I hope I will one day.”

  Lyf secretly hoped to see one also. Long had she heard talk of draclings—ever since Kaeldra had gone to fetch dragon’s milk. There had been three draclings then, and Kaeldra had come to love them. She had taken them away when their lives were imperiled.

  And now there were other clutches, other draclings—all imperiled. Men had always hunted dragons, but never so relentlessly as in this past year. Kaeldra had feared that soldiers would one day come for her, demanding that she track down dragons to kill. So she and Jeorg had fled into hiding with their green-eyed son, Owyn. Still, Kaeldra
would not abandon her cause—to keep the draclings safe until they could fly to the far northern land where the rest of their kyn dwelt. Though how she did so, Lyf did not know.

  Now Kymo began with a tale, and Lyf gratefully turned her mind from her own worries to the troubles of others. He told of a girl who found an enchanted box and cast a spell that went awry; of a lizard who befriended a child who had fallen from the stars; of a fool who sought a magical leaf that would make him disappear. Kymo told as well of his hopes to find a wife—a comely lass and clever, but above all, one well-skilled with the stew pot. And yet there were times in their journey when all was silent, save for the patter of rain, the dripping of water from the trees, and the tread of Kymo’s and Grumble’s footfalls on the sodden track. Often it seemed that they did not move at all, but only trod in one place as the trees moved ever toward them, growing darker and darker as they neared and then fading in the distance behind.

  It was late in the day when they turned off onto a muddy path. Lyf shivered constantly now, and her teeth had begun to chatter.

  Before long the path ended in a tangle of parsebramble and wild nectarvine. Kymo drew on a pair of heavy, gauntleted gloves and began tugging at the snarl. To Lyf’s astonishment, it moved easily aside; and yet more brambles lay behind it. Kymo turned back to her and smiled. “A gate,” he said.

  “Were nearly there?”

  “Nearly.” Kymo dragged aside an especially unwieldy mass of brambles, and then another and another, opening up a corridor just wide enough for Grumble. Lyf scratched; Grumble lurched forward. There came a rustling of brambles as Kymo closed the gap behind. A soft luminescence filtered through the trees ahead.

  A clearing?

  Yes, a clearing.

  They emerged from the wood, and Lyf saw just ahead a crumbling stone wall with an iron-barred gate. And beyond … she strained to make it out through the rain and swirling fog.

  It was a ruin. It loomed like a broken-backed giant: cottage and byre and shed all run together in a single, long structure. The slate roof had collapsed in one place; the windows looked out with dark, blank eyes. It was still—utterly still—save for a thin, blue twist of woodsmoke that wound up into the sky.