The Dragon Writers Collection

by DragonWritersCollective

  Caera giggled. “He did look like a troll.”

  Gráinne nodded and laughed, setting her fingers atop her ears in imitation of the gruff little man.

  By shortly after noon, Gráinne and Caera had visited the guilds of carpenters, metalsmiths, and glass makers. They received the same reception in every guild hall. The message was clear: womenfolk are not welcome here.

  After their last discouraging encounter at the glass makers’ guild hall, Gráinne turned to Caera and said, “We need food, something sweet and succulent. The marketplace!” Her eyes lit up, as did Caera’s.

  On the way to the town square, a thought dawned on Gráinne. “We may have restricted our search unnecessarily. Might some craftsmen have no affiliations with the guilds?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Where would we find such men?”

  “We could ask some of the merchants. Maybe they know.”

  “That is a splendid idea.” It was another good reason to walk about the marketplace, Gráinne thought, as if she needed some kind of justification for the gluttony her empty tummy tempted her to consider.

  For almost two hours, the pair roamed from stall to stall in the marketplace, but to no avail. If there were free tradesmen to be found in Port Firth, nobody was revealing that fact. Finally, they turned their attention to picking out some of the delicacies they’d smelled the day before. They stood near the pastry merchant’s kiosk, out of the way of the roving crowd, and nibbled on sugar-coated gooseberry tarts. They talked about the gowns some of the women wore and about the variety of beings in the town, some of whom were obviously just visitors, judging from the processions of trunk-bearing servants following them. Above the crowd, Gráinne caught sight of the back of a male with long, flaming red hair and broad shoulders sun-darkened to a deep bronze. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Something about him seemed familiar.

  The male stopped walking just as Gráinne choked on the pastry she’d gobbled wholeheartedly and ducked behind the stall to cough out the chunk in her throat without anyone seeing. When she returned to Caera’s side, the man was gone.

  Over supper, Lan described his visit to the Harbour Master’s office. “Tell would have settled for the first offer. I suspect he had already spoken to the Harbour Master and made a deal before I arrived,” Lan scoffed. “But I kept asking questions. And lo and behold, the Harbour Master told us a ship will arrive in a week. It is not for hire. It is for sale!”

  “Do we have enough silver to buy a ship?” Gráinne thought it impossible that they did.

  “Well, that is the thing, you see. Tell dismissed the possibility immediately and pushed for the Harbour Master to locate a ship for hire. But, I thought, why hire a ship when we can buy one?”

  Gráinne frowned. “I still do not understand. How can we buy a ship if we do not have enough silver to pay for it?”

  Lan’s excitement built. “A trading company owns the ship, which has had some rather . . . bad luck,” he began.

  “Bad luck?” Caera asked, apprehension lifting her eyebrows.

  “Yes. Well, that is what they say anyway,” Lan replied. “I am not certain it was bad luck, though. The ship ran aground a sand bar off the shore of Librar and was stuck there for some time before the tides changed, and it finally was able to sail again. That sounds more to me like bad navigation than bad luck.”

  “Did you say ‘Librar’?” Gráinne asked.

  “Yes. Is that important, woman? Are you going to listen to me? I have found a way to get what we need, and you are obsessing over silly details.”

  Gráinne shook her head. “No, it is not important.”

  “The Cailleach Bheur has a scheduled delivery of goods already overdue as the result of the delay. She was supposed to pick up the goods here and deliver them to another port, but the Captain of the ship has resigned and refuses to complete the contract. He says the ship is cursed and has not had a day of smooth sailing since she set sail the first time. The trading company has no other Captains who will take the ship and deliver the cargo.”

  Half of Caera’s face twisted into skepticism. “Are you sure it is not cursed?”

  Gráinne hadn’t heard anything after the name of the ship and the place where it had run aground. Her pulse raced, and her heartbeat thudded in her ears. Surely, it is a sign from the Goddess.

  “Are you not going to ask me how we can sail a ship without a Captain? Gráinne!” Lan snapped. “Did you hear a word I said?”

  She nodded.

  Lan threw up his hands. “No, you did not.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice. “Do you want settlers or not?”

  Gráinne took a deep breath and nodded. “I am listening.”

  “I have not completed all the necessary calculations. If we are thrifty, I believe we can buy the supplies needed to sail and pay for a crew to fulfill the delivery contract, though I will need to negotiate a higher price for it. Given the position the trading company is in now, I do not believe obtaining a higher price for the contract will prove difficult. With payment for the contract, we may have enough silver left to buy the four horses and the ship if . . . ,” he hesitated and swallowed. “If we charge the passengers for the journey to Incorrigible,” he sputtered.

  Gráinne wrinkled her brow. Lan didn’t yet know about their failures at the guild halls. “I do not know, Lan. Settlers may not wish to come with us if they have to pay for the journey.”

  Caera chimed in. “And you said the ship has no Captain. Who would sail it?”

  “The Cailleach Bheur will not make port for another week. We have time to consider all the options, but we will need to know how many passengers she will carry. How many tradesmen did you find at the guild halls?”

  Caera and Gráinne looked at each other, and the cook cleared her throat. Gráinne spoke up. “We were met with something less than a warm welcome at the guild halls. I fear we will need to find tradesmen not associated with the guilds.”

  “Not in this town,” John’s voice interceded. A belly laugh followed as the innkeeper set a jug of wine on the table and plopped into a chair. “Mind you, I’m not saying it’s right, but it’s the way things are.” He poured himself a goblet of wine and guzzled it.

  Gráinne’s heart sank. “Every tradesman in Port Firth is a member of a guild?”

  “Yep,” John replied. He poured himself another goblet of wine and took a swig before continuing. “Of course, there are some folk who aren’t in Port Firth.”

  “What do you mean? In other towns?” Lan asked.

  “Nooooooooooo,” he replied. “Outside of town. The nomads. They’ve got tradesmen aplenty, I’d guess. They came to town trying to sell their wares and find work, but the guilds wouldn’t stand for that. No sir. They ran them right back out to where they came from!” John took another large gulp of the wine.

  Gráinne’s heart leapt. “Can you take us to these nomads?”

  “Noooooooooooooo,” the innkeeper answered with a slow, protracted shake of his head.

  Gráinne realized John had to live in Port Firth and that life could become very difficult for him if the guilds so desired. She understood why he wouldn’t risk his family’s well-being for strangers. “I understand.”

  “But I can draw you a map you can follow to get to ‘em,” the big man added and then let loose a hearty laugh.

  Gráinne grinned and filled John’s goblet with more wine.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Hopeful

  Gráinne stood at the window looking out at the waning moon. Its buttery hue reminded her of the daisies she and Annie had picked for the castle. The trophies of their hunt had been so numerous they’d filled every vase and urn in the castle, and then some. Determined not to waste a single stem, leaf, or petal, they’d resorted to filling copper pots, wine jugs, and even their grandmother’s chamber pot. Grandmother Alanna had not been amused. Gráinne smiled at the memory of the look on her grandmother’s face just before the two mischief makers had run away
to avoid Grandmother’s tongue-lashing. They’d hidden under the stairs in the cellar and giggled until Grandfather Riordan had calmed down his livid wife. Nobody in the castle had dared say the words “chamber pot” for months thereafter, and it was a full year before daisies were added to any of the flower arrangements. Years later, when a suitor gave Annie a bouquet of daisies, the two young women had laughed so hard they cried. The poor suitor had been befuddled about the humor in his heartfelt gift.

  Gráinne closed the drapes and tiptoed to her bed, careful not to wake Caera. As soon as she slipped under the quilt and put her head on the pillow, the day’s events intruded on her serenity. Gráinne turned her thoughts to all that had happened in their first full day in Port Firth. The guild halls had closed one door of possibility, but John’s disclosure had opened another. At least there was still hope they’d find tradesmen without needing to travel much farther. Lan had learned there were ships for hire. He’d also learned there was a ship for sale, and its name was one Gráinne had heard before. When her father travelled, her mother made an offering to the Goddess for safe passage, and it was Cailleach Bheur she called upon to hold back storms and send fair winds. That the ship being offered for sale was directly owing to it having been stranded in Librar, the home of the scroll collector who had helped her discover that the Priestesses of Warrant were Shifters, seemed like more than coincidence. Perhaps there was a message in the complexity of all that had happened, in all of the coincidences. Perhaps there was an answer to her prayer for help. If so, clarity still escaped her. She drifted off to sleep with a whisper, “Help me learn what I need to know, Mother.”

  Morning came too soon, but Gráinne awoke to the same scene as the day before. Caera was at the window looking out onto the morning landscape. “Good morning,” she said, smiling brightly. Gráinne thought it looked as if the sun had beamed down on Caera, who was dressed in a yellow and white frock.

  “Good morning,” she replied.

  “Are we going to visit the nomads today?”

  Gráinne stretched and yawned, still sleepy because she hadn’t rested well through the night. “I thought we might. No need to delay.”

  Caera nodded.

  “What do you think about all of this?” Gráinne wasn’t sure why she hadn’t thought to ask Caera before now. The woman always took a practical perspective, and perhaps a practical perspective was the best course.

  “You want to know what I think?” Caera seemed surprised. “Well,” she began, looking up as if thinking. “We could send Lan to the guild halls. I suspect he would get a similar response, now that I have thought about it, though. He is not manly enough for that lot. We could send Tell. If Lan is right about him, though, he would make a deal not in our best interests. So, I say the nomads are our best choice for now. Besides, it will be fun to take a short trip to the country, just to see what lies beyond this town. Maybe they have heard about survivors from Incorrigible.” She spoke with confidence, but then added with a hint of apprehension, “It just seems it would do no harm.”

  Gráinne threw back the quilt and rose from the bed. Caera had finally spoken about Incorrigible and with the hope for survivors. “No, it will do no harm.”

  At breakfast, Lan, Caera, and Gráinne went over the map John had drawn for them and discussed their plan for the excursion. Judging from the distance on the map, they had plenty of time to get to the nomad camp and back again before dark if they didn’t dally too long.

  “I will be ready to leave shortly,” Lan said, scurrying up the stairs.

  When he descended the staircase in the outfit that made him look fierce, Caera’s mouth fell open and then snapped shut.

  Gráinne laughed and whispered to her, “Not such a gentle kitty, is he? Wait until you see him run.”

  The trio set off in the direction of the camp, Caera casting occasional glances at Lan.

  The crowded houses of Port Firth thinned into scattered cottages for the first mile the trio travelled along the road. The next mile was speckled with fields of wheat and oats and pastures where cattle and horses grazed behind fences made of tree limbs crisscrossed and slid into slots in poles driven into the ground. Animals on the side of the road nearest Lan shied away from the fence as he passed them. Lan grumpily mumbled under his breath each time it happened. Caera and Gráinne exchanged glances but said nothing. Rather, they pointed out interesting formations in rocks or looked the other way so that Lan wouldn’t see them holding back grins. At two and a half miles along the road, the landscape began to change from flat fields to rolling hills, and at three miles, the trio topped a small hill to find a forest on the other side. They stopped, and Lan studied the map.

  “We are here,” he said, pointing to the shape that looked like a bump in the road. “There is the path to the cave of the nomads.” His finger followed the path and stopped on the X that John had drawn to indicate the encampment. “Watch for the path. It should not be far.”

  It wasn’t. Neither were the nomad scouts.

  Lan stopped first, his ears twisting.

  The creak of bows under tension caught the trio’s attention. The twang of arrows being notched was distinct, and the two females stopped abruptly.

  “Who goes there, and what do you want?” a male voice called out from behind a row of dense bushes.

  Gráinne replied. “We are travellers to Port Firth. We have come to speak with your leaders about settling elsewhere. We are peaceful.”

  “You want to drive us out of our home here, too?” a male called back.

  Gráinne winced. She’d made a bad choice of words. “No, no. That is not what I meant. We want to offer you refuge in my homeland.”

  “We’re not interested.”

  “How do you know you are not interested until you have heard our proposal?” she yelled back at him, turning to face the direction of the voice. “Are you the leader of the nomads?”

  A tall, thin male with silky complexion stepped through the bushes. His bow trained on Gráinne, he remained near the dense shrubs as if poised to fire and disappear back into them. His features were finely carved, and he had pointed ears close to his head. They stood straight up through his long, white hair. Unlike Lan’s ears, the bowman’s didn’t seem to move. “We aren’t nomads. We live here in the woods.”

  “We heard you live in a cave.”

  The male tilted his head to the side and studied Gráinne. “What’s your name?”

  Gráinne laughed. “Gráinne. Gráinne Roisin Ferrane MacKenna Seetan, Marquessa of Vandovir.”

  Lan cleared his throat and tossed Gráinne a dirty look that screamed “Shut up, woman!”

  An arrow tumbled out of the bushes. Behind it—amid the cracking of broken branches and a flurry of “ouches”—came a scruffy Dwarf. “Gráinne? Gráinne MacKenna, daughter of Arianna Ferrane?”

  Gráinne knew the voice, and its owner knew her. “Goddess be praised,” she cried out as she saw the Dwarf. “Caleb! Caleb the blacksmith! Is that really you?” She smiled as brightly as Caera had that morning.

  The dwarf hobbled over to her, pulling branches off his dark blue tunic and out of his wide belt. He tossed them aside with one hand while the other dragged a bow haphazardly along the ground behind him. When he finally got near Gráinne, he bent on one knee. “Your Majesty.”

  Gráinne was mortified. She reached down and lifted him off his knee. “No, please. Just Gráinne. I am no majesty. You are a sight for sore eyes, Caleb.”

  “But you’re the daughter of Arianna. I heard what happened. I’m sorry. Your mum treated me well,” he said, his eyes filled with genuine sadness. Then he smiled and added, “So that makes you . . . .”

  “Gráinne,” she interrupted. “Just Gráinne.”

  “What’s going on here, Caleb,” the tall male asked as he approached the pair. “You know this woman?”

  “Aye. She’s from the land where I once lived. Incorrigible.” Spoken from Caleb’s tongue, the name of her homeland made Gráinne want to cry
.

  Lan cleared his throat. “Might I request that we proceed to the cave?”

  Caleb nodded his oversized head toward Lan and gave Gráinne a questioning look.

  “This is Lan Noire,” she said. “He is my . . . guard. He has been assisting me in . . . .” She gave up her explanation. “It is a long story, Caleb, one best told near the fire.” She motioned toward the cook. “And this is Caera,” she said, leaning down toward Caleb and wiggling her eyebrows, “who can cook a stew and bread that will turn any being into a glutton.”

  Caleb slapped his knee and belted out a laugh. Turning to the tall male, he said, “It’s safe to bring ‘em to the cave, Jarrod. I’ll stand for ‘em.”

  Jarrod waited a few seconds, as if considering the idea, and then turned and walked in long strides deeper into the woods. “Come on then,” he called behind him.

  From out of the bushes, a variety of beings appeared, all with bows in hand. Gráinne and her companions were already scrambling to catch up with Jarrod as the other scouts closed in behind them.

  The entrance to the cave reminded Gráinne of the hole in Tell’s ship, the one that led down to the hold, except the entrance was hidden by a moss- and leaf-covered-plank. Gráinne didn’t see it until Jarrod stopped and pushed it to one side.

  “This way,” he said, disappearing down the hole on a ladder.

  Gráinne was the first to follow Jarrod. As soon as she started down the ladder, she could feel the pull of its verticalness and height. She wanted to lean back to compensate but kept her body close to the wooden rungs. Looking up, she saw the bright yellow of the cook’s frock. Panic seized her that Caera might fall and take them both crashing down Goddess knew how far. She yelled up, “Lean into the rungs of the ladder, Caera.” The echo bounced around the cave and then died. Tempted to look behind her to see how far down the cave floor was, Gráinne resisted for fear she’d lose her nerve on the ladder. It was a smart move on her part, as she counted a hundred rungs before her feet hit solid ground.