Elspeth was holding a slip of paper with the words Archery, First Place written in an elegant script. At least one of the Tanner children had done Theo proud.
Gialyn rarely, if ever, had been so close, and definitely not while he had been the subject of her gaze. His first few words fared no better than his feet. He coughed and started again. “Thank you, Elspeth, and congratulations to you, too.” He bowed, although the gesture was not necessary; nobody bowed in Albergeddy. Honestly, he did not know what else to do.
Elspeth mimed a curtsey – she wore no skirts to flare – and gave him a haughty grin. “Why thank you, sir, you are most kind,” she said, showing off the slip of paper.
Gialyn slouched nervously, rubbing the back of his neck, gazing at the ground and Elspeth’s knees. Say something, you fool! Don’t just stand there like a lemon. “Did you win by much?” he asked. Yes, that’s a good question. Well done!
“It was closer than I thought it would be.” Elspeth stood up straighter and raised her chin even higher. “Mr. Calande took me to a three arrow shoot-off. Of course, I was sure of the outcome. I could hear by his breathing the man was tiring and likely the worse for ale. I’m sure he had three jugs while on the range! Men… they think they can do everything at once.”
“I thought you would win. I watched you… uh… I mean, I’ve seen you practicing, when I walk past the field… sometimes.”
Meric coughed and grinned widely in Gialyn’s direction.
“Yes, you have to work hard if you want to be the best,” Elspeth said, fiddling with her bow. “You will learn that for yourself when we reach Bailryn.” A cheeky grin creased her lip.
Gialyn lowered his arms and felt his jaw drop. “When we reach…? Who…? Who is going to Bailryn?” What is she talking about? I’m not going anywhere.
A faint glimmer of realisation itched the back of Gialyn’s mind. He felt a surge of anxiety rising in his chest. Oh no, Father, what have you done?
“Oh, has your father not told you?” She waved off her own question. “Silly me, of course not, you would not have had time to speak with him. Yes, my father has asked Mr. Re’adh to escort Ealian and me to Bailryn for the palace guard recruitments. I expect I’ll be selected for officer training.” She gazed over Gialyn’s shoulder, imagining herself ordering a squad of men around the palace forecourt, no doubt. “Of course, Ealian is not applying; he’s just coming because he cannot bear to miss anything. Your father has agreed. He said it would be ‘good for you to see a bit of the world.’ I think that’s how he put it. ‘Maybe Gialyn will apply for the post, too?’ or something like that. I did not hear the conversation. Can you use a bow or sword?”
“Can I what? Is this…? Are you sure? When was this decided?” Gialyn knew he was blank-faced and gawking at Elspeth – of all people – but at that moment, he did not care.
“Forgive me. I should not have spoken until you had talked with your father—” Gialyn knew she was not in the least bit sorry “—I’m sure he will explain, when you see him.”
“I’m sure he will,” Gialyn whispered. He looked to Meric and Grady. They both hunched their shoulders. They looked as surprised as he was. “Excuse me. I…”
Gialyn walked off without another word.
“Oh dear, seems I’ve put my foot in it,” Gialyn heard Elspeth say.
He looked over his shoulder. Grady and Meric exchanged puzzled looks, and then followed Elspeth as she strolled towards the stage, where Theo had begun handing out prizes.
Gialyn was late for his.
CHAPTER 4
Brea’s Lot: Part One
The Aldrieg Caves, near the peaceful village of Braylair. One hundred twenty leagues west of Bailryn.
Today was supposed to be Brea Loian’s day for behaving like any other eighteen-year-old girl. She should have been down on the lake, catching up with friends and others her age, or maybe doing a bit of fishing. But no, Rek had to fall asleep in the Moon Pool. Silly dragon.
The Aldrieg cave was a poor substitute for a sunny morning in the meadow. The cavern was dark and damp, and never was there any chance of a visitor. Not that Brea had much time for talking. Still, it would be nice if they allowed a friend to come and say hello, occasionally.
Brea perched on the only chair set at an ancient stone table. From where she sat, she could see the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees which lay beyond the cave entrance. Behind the table, a wide shelf stretched along the cave wall. The shelf was where Brea kept some of her larger items: mostly mixing bowls and pans. The clutter reminded Brea of her mother’s kitchen. To her right, a natural alcove, two spans deep and one wide, was where she would take a nap in a narrow cot when there was not enough time to go home between chores. Within this curtained-off niche, Brea kept her collection of rare herbs, safely away from clumsy feet.
As usual, the table top was crowded with her stuff: books, scales, tools – useful items she had gathered over the last five years. Then there were those things which came as part of the job, like the Lier’sinn – a large silver bowl used for seeing far-off places. As strange as they had once seemed, all were familiar now. Indeed, she loved her work, most days. Still, a day at the lake would have been nice.
Brea had spent the last few minutes chopping up herbs and roots. As well as her normal clutter, small piles of green, yellow and purple peppered the table top. There was nothing too out of the ordinary – just a touch of ousblud, a few sprigs of kharoe and some chopped kalli root, all gathered from the woods around the Bren’alor valley.
She worked quickly. After cutting and chopping the herbs, Brea began weighing up portions on a small brass scale, delicately pinching off a little, or maybe adding a tiny smidgen. She was very fussy about her tonics, and this had to be right. Once satisfied, she added the ingredients to those already in the large mortar standing at the side of her table.
The mixture was almost ready; just one final element…
She ran her finger down the list until she reached the last item. The Blood of a Guardian, it read. Brea sighed. “Why is it always the Blood of a Guardian?” she mumbled. “What’s wrong with a bit of chicken blood?” Of course, she knew only her blood would do; she was making a dragon potion, after all. She picked up her knife and cleaned the blade, first running the steel edge through the candle flame, then soaking whole thing in a bowl of lemon water.
After a moment’s pause to summon her courage, she picked up the knife, dried the blade – leaving lemon water on the steel only made things worse – and ran the sharp edge over her left palm. The cold steel sliced through her skin. Brea flinched and sucked a hissing breath through her teeth. Her shoulders folded up to her ears. Why is the sting always such a surprise? There must be a better way than this. She pulled the blade all the way across before relaxing her shoulders and looking at the cut. Quickly, she put down the knife and clenched her fist above the mortar.
There she waited, watching the blood drip into the bowl, clenching her fist, tight then loose, to coax blood from the wound. It was a slow job at times. After a while, she began to pack away her equipment with her free hand: closing the books, arranging the bowls, then pushed everything into a neat line across the back of the table. Might as well do something useful.
A minute passed: another look at the bowl. That should be enough.
Brea took a clean piece of cloth. After dipping it in the lemon water, she bandaged her cut palm. That stung nearly as bad as the knife. But she had to keep the wound clean – the cave was hardly sanitary.
Once set, she took up the pestle and began to grind her blood into the ingredients. The stone pestle clattered around the mortar as she pounded down on the inside edge, making sure to include the whole measure of elements into the mixture. It did not look a very appetizing concoction. Brea cringed at the odour and blinked at the vapours, which brought tears to her eyes and a bitter taste of rusty metal to her tongue.
After two minutes, the mixture turned into a smooth, thin paste. Brea shoute
d towards the back of the cave, “Come on! It’s ready.” She wiped down the pestle and arranged her tools back in their proper places. Then she picked up the mortar, turned to face the darkness, and waited.
A faint murmur broke the near-silence of the inner cavern, the sound of a quiet, deep breath – or a sigh, maybe – but there was no sign of movement. The noise faded to a hum, then to nothing, lost in the gentle swirling drone of the stream which flowed through the centre of the cave.
Once again, Brea peered into the darkness. Is he there? Tapping a finger against the side of the mortar, she gazed aimlessly into the shadows. Why is this always such a game? “It’s ready!” she called with a firm, loud voice.
From the back of the cave, Brea saw the reflection of the candlelight in Rek’s eyes. Two discs of pale, translucent orange flickered amid the darkness. The reflections steadied against the black backdrop of the cave wall. Slowly, the faint lights rose as the dragon heaved himself up. Pausing a moment, he blinked, before finally fixing his gaze on her.
The mirrors of flame moved closer, becoming larger with each passing second. The sound of his laboured breathing returned, echoing like bellows against the hard rock of the cave wall. She could hear it much clearer now – a muffled rumble in his chest, as though each draw of the warm, damp air was a chore. The dragon came to a standstill just beyond the circle of candlelight. A haunting silhouette waiting in the shadows.
Rek slowly edged forward. His scaly golden skin shone in the dim, orange light as though wet to the touch. Black slitted pupils split his orange eyes in two. A shadow covered his forehead, but Brea could see the outline of horns beside small, pointed ears. At the front of his serpent-like jaw, tendrils of fleshy whiskers hung around long, sharp teeth. A pinkish tongue pulsed with every laboured breath inside his half-open mouth.
Rek tilted his head to the side like a dog quizzing its master. Brea lifted the mortar and gestured for him to come to her. Begrudgingly, and with more than a fleeting glance of unwillingness, Rek slowly moved forward, head still tilted and eyes fixed on the mortar. His enamelled talons clicked on the hard floor as his warm breath pushed at her thin skirt. Another tenuous step brought him close enough to touch.
Brea took the mortar in both hands and held it ready to pour. “Open up now. I want to see your tongue.” She made her tone kindly and reassured. She knew what her dragon thought of medicine. A calm, caring hand is what he needed.
On seeing the mortar’s contents – or maybe he smelled it – Rek let out a wheezing breath. A greenish slime dripped from his left nostril. He quickly lapped it up.
“Ugh… disgusting!” Flinching, Brea creased her face in revulsion. “That’s not going to help you, now is it?”
Rek backed off a step, bowing his head. His inner eyelids blinked sideways as he glanced up at her.
“Aw… I’m sorry!” Brea told her dragon, trying not to laugh at his docile expression.
Balancing the mortar on her knee, she reached out an open hand and, with a compassionate gaze, she beckoned him forward again. He approached her, slowly.
Brea waited with a patient smile. Please hurry. It’s going to turn tacky and useless soon!
When Rek’s massive head was close enough, Brea tugged at his thick, leathery lip, hinting she wanted his mouth open. Rek obliged and cheekily stuck out his pink tongue. Brea poured the contents of the mortar upon it. Rek winced and curled his lip, displaying a full range of sharp white teeth. Brea put down the empty mortar and sprang to her feet. She grabbed his jaws, top and bottom, and forced them together. “No, you don’t! Swallow it all!”
Rek did so, but with as much exaggerated, pathetic effort as he could muster. Like a child playing for sympathy, he circled his jaw around the medicine, doubtless trying to edge it past his taste buds and straight down his throat, all the while eyeing Brea with a pitiful stare.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Brea said. “It not my fault you fell asleep in the Moon Pool, again.”
Rek coughed on his medicine and gave a loud sneeze. A small ball of flame came forth from his one unblocked nostril and hit a pile of rags gathered in a heap on the cave floor, immediately setting them ablaze. Brea ran over to what was now a small fire and stamped it out. “Be more careful!” she said, laughing. A dragon sneezing was a comical sight, as long as he aimed it somewhere else.
Brea slapped her ash-covered shoe on the damp cave floor. She paused a moment to listen. A bubbling, spitting sound was coming from her table. The Lier’sinn was calling.
The silver bowl, full of a murky, oily liquid, had come to the boil – so to speak; there was no flame beneath the pot to heat it up. Steam rose from the slick surface, and what was now a familiar sulphurous smell filled the air.
Brea and the dragon both watched as the steam rolled along the cave ceiling. Rek cringed; dragon or not, he knew what the Lier’sinn was used for, just as surely as Brea did. The silver bowl rarely brought them good news.
She had hoped to get away without having to deal with the Lier’sinn. After all, it was supposed to be her day off. Brea’s shoulders stooped, and Rek curled a lip in what she thought might be sympathy.
Gathering herself, Brea took a deliberate step forward. She waved her hand over the top of the bowl, wafting the steam away, and peered over the rim. The foul brew spat, bubbled and popped ferociously. With every burst of a bubble, a small wisp of stinking, nauseating vapour rose up. Brea backed away from the stench and grabbed a cloth to cover her nose. She paused a moment to brace herself before looking again.
The bubbling gradually settled and, after a few seconds, a blurry image began to form on the slick, oily surface: a faint picture of two men walking along a narrow, sloping track. From what she could see, the two were travelling together. The road levelled and followed a fast-moving river through wide grassland which tapered off into the misty horizon. The two figures approached a small town. One man was tall – very tall – a giant of a man, massively broad across the shoulders. The other was older and had a staff. The taller man carried a hefty pack strapped across his shoulders. They walked a hundred paces behind a horse and cart, led by another two men. Again, one looked older than the other did. The picture began to fade. Brea squinted around for signs of any landmarks – nothing. Only the shadows gave a bearing: they were travelling south. But that could mean anything. It may just be a southerly turning of an otherwise westerly road.
Brea looked across at Rek. His head was on her shoulder, his eyes staring down at the near-faded image. “Not long now,” she said in a soft voice as she patted the dragon under his chin.
Rek moaned as though understanding her words – he could not yet answer Brea in her native tongue; a dragon’s voice did not mature until they were at least twenty, and Rek was barely eighteen. He gently rubbed his cheek against Brea’s side and whimpered like a lost puppy.
Brea threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Never mind, my brave boy. All will be well,” she said, rubbing his cheek softly. “If he comes, if he will help, all will be well. You’ll see!”
Brea caught the sound of a distant roar coming from the tunnel opposite. “That sounds like your mother, young man. Maybe Tor has brought you a goat.” She rubbed the rag around Rek’s runny nose. “Time for your dinner. And I should be off, too, or I’ll be late for mine.”
Rek slowly turned his slender twenty-foot body towards the passageway, taking care to stay clear of the table. Brea smiled. Rek had sent her things flying on more than one occasion. Once clear, he set off down the short shaft to the inner chambers. Halfway down, he sneezed, and Brea saw the tunnel walls light up a reddish-orange. She laughed at the sight of it, then watched as her dragon disappeared in the darkness.
Brea wrapped her arms around her middle. A profound sense of dread welled up until a real sensation of pain rose in her stomach. She knew difficult times lay ahead for young Rek. That thought alone tugged hard at her heart, for there was one thing of which she was certain – she loved her dragon!
/>
Brea raised her wounded hand and removed the bandage. The cut was already healing. She threw the bloodied rag into the pile which had caught fire earlier. Picking up her bag, she blew out the candles and made for the entrance. The sound of the trickling stream and the reflections of distant daylight upon the water guided her as she made her way home.
* * *
The cave entrance was a good thirty paces above the open pastureland of the central valley. A steep path wound through the ring of trees circling the inner fields. It was not until Brea passed through the thick line of spruce and fir that she was able to judge the time. It was dusk and would be getting dark soon. She had spent longer in the cave than she had thought. The paddocks were empty. Goat and yak alike were all in for the night, doubtless crowded under the open-sided sheds which ran along the edge of Braylair village. Ducks waddled along the path from the stream, and the farmer’s geese – half-flapping, half-walking – seemed to race each other back to their own shed. It was another quiet evening. Brea often found it hard to believe there were a dozen dragons not half a mile from her home.
From the path which reached across the valley, Brea could see the Eastern Caves, high up on the cliff face. Those caves ran through the ridge to the Taris grassland, Brea knew. In truth, they were more tunnel than cave, but nobody ever went up there. Once beyond the ridge, those “caves” became the Tunnels of Aldregair. Not a place Brea would want to live, or visit, for that matter. She had heard of men who, over a century ago, had tried to map those tunnels. Some, a few, had been successful in their endeavours. But dragons were not the only creatures who liked the dark, and many men lost their lives discovering things they had “no business poking their noses into.” That was what her mother, Affrair, told her. When asked how they had died, her mother had said, “There are things we are not meant to know.” Brea should have known better than ask about such things. Now, she could not look east without feeling a chill run down her spine.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 4