The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  Crossing the broad, cobbled track which was the village’s main thoroughfare, Brea paused a moment to bid Mrs. Miller a good evening. The older woman was saying something, but Brea could not hear a word of it. Mr. Miller was busy loading his cart with sacks of flour and making a real noisy job of it, too. Brea pointed to her ears. Mrs. Miller laughed and waved her on.

  The Millers lived in the mill, a coincidence that always amused Brea. Most other folks lived in the houses built along the main road. Made of stone dragged down from the Karan Ridges, the houses had thatched roofs and wide, open porches. They were simple dwellings, but well made. The village was small: thirty-two homes, a mill, a blacksmith, an inn, and a store where the Millers sold produce from outside the valley – salt, sugar, tea, and so on. Still, Brea was happy there.

  She walked down a narrow passage between the neighbours’ gardens and climbed the wooden steps to her front veranda. After kicking off her boots, she went in.

  The door immediately entered into a simple kitchen, with a fireplace at one end, the table in the middle, and a few chairs scattered about. Affrair was standing at her chopping board in front of the kitchen window. Her long silver hair was tied up in a bun, and a white apron covered her day clothes.

  Smiling, Affrair turned to Brea. “Hello, dear.” She was cheerful, as usual. “Is everything well with young Rek?” She asked the last in a cautious whisper, all the while surreptitiously looking from side to side.

  Brea laughed at the clandestine enquiry. Everyone in the village knew about the dragons, but, nevertheless, her mother always spoke in a quiet voice when talking about them, as if spies with some evil agenda were lurking in the shadows. “Mother, please; there is nobody here. Yes, Rek will be fine. He just has a cold.”

  “Oh good, that’s a relief.”

  Affrair turned back to her chopping board.

  Brea listened to the tap-tap-tap of the knife as she sat heavily on the chair by the table. She began toying with the cutlery which was set out ready for dinner, spinning a spoon around with her finger. The vision of the two men flashed in her mind. It had been bothering her all the way home. What did it mean? Why was there nothing else? Was she missing something? She let out a sigh.

  “Are you well, dear?” Affrair asked. She turned to Brea, still holding the tail ends of the spring onions she had been chopping.

  Brea stopped toying with the spoon. “It’s the Lier’sinn, Mother. The image is not clear. I can’t tell where he is or what he’s doing, never mind if he understands what’s going on!” Brea shuffled about on the chair. She knew her mother would not have a clue about the men in her vision – certainly no more than Brea already did – and there did not appear to be any point talking about it. She did, however, yearn for a comforting voice, someone to help settle her mind.

  Affrair dunked her hands in a bucket of water. She stood towelling them dry while she spoke. “Really now, there’s nothing to be done. Tor and the others have everything in hand. I’m sure they know what they are doing.” Affrair smiled as she rubbed Brea’s shoulder. “Don’t you go worrying, my girl; you will only make yourself ill. Let the future unfold in its own time. Worry about what is in front of you, not what is waiting around the corner.”

  Brea leaned into her mother’s side and allowed Affrair’s gentle touch to soothe her. True, her mother had no answers but, as usual, Affrair saw things for what they were. Listening to her made it all so simple – for a while, at least.

  Brea had learned a lot in her eighteen years. But she knew she was still young and, try as she might, sometimes she could not help feeling out of her depth. Surely these were problems for wise men, not for a young girl who had hardly set foot outside the Bren’alor Valley. For all her love of Rek, sometimes she wished she were like every other girl in the village, and not fated to the lives of dragons.

  Rek was her biggest worry, the thought of him fighting in some battle… No, she could not dwell on such a horrible thought, not for her little dragon. Brea gave a long, forlorn sigh, before planting her forehead on the table and clasping her hands behind her neck. “I do not want anything bad to happen to him, Mother,” she cried. She could feel a tear welling up. “He’s too young for this.” She raised a tearful eye to her mother, who brushed it dry with the corner of the towel.

  “My dear, Rek may be young, but he is a Gan Dragon—” she whispered the last part “—I suspect his father will have something to say if anyone tries to hurt him.”

  Affrair wrapped up the towel and threw it onto the chopping board. “Now, let us stop with this mournful mood and have us a little cake, maybe some wine. What do you think?” Affrair’s eyebrows rose and she gave a cheeky grin, as though she were suggesting something naughty.

  Brea could not help but smile. Yes, Mother can always make it better. “That sounds like an excellent idea. Besides, wherever this man is, he’ll get here eventually. Lier’sinn or no Lier’sinn, Tor will make certain of it.”

  Brea gazed out of the window at a wisp of a cloud as it slowly rolled across the now dark sky. She thought of the future, wondering about the man in the Lier’sinn. How could she be sure it was him… the beast from the old legends? And if he was, did he know anything of the part he must play, or understand how important he was to every man, woman and child of Aleras’moya? She wondered, when it came down to a fight, would he choose to help? There would be no forcing him. When it was too late for discussion, when the dragons rang their call to arms, would he come down on their side? Or would he add himself to the list of their enemies?

  With a sigh of resignation, she sat up straight and gave her mother another smile. “I’ll get the cake.”

  CHAPTER 5

  A Simple Plan

  Gialyn’s bedroom was cramped, barely large enough for a decent bed – never mind furnishings – and certainly nothing compared to his room in the house they lived in back in Bailryn. But he liked it well enough, mostly for the view.

  Sitting by the window with his arms folded on the sill, he rested his chin on the back of his hands and blew his long black fringe out of his eyes. The view through the thick bubble-filled glass was far from clear. Still, he let his gaze fall on the distant horizon. Slowly, he scanned along the ridge of the Speerlag Cliffs, following their jagged, silver-black contour to the Bailie Mountain and the distant peaks of Monacdaire. He looked beyond, through the pale shroud of evening, finally fixing his gaze on the Northern Arc and the flickering Lights of Collisdan as they danced in waves across the darkening sky.

  Closing his eyes, he imagined himself exploring the vales and mountains of what had become his home over the last two years. A horse was his greatest aspiration: buy a horse and travel the length and breadth of Ealdihain.

  Maybe I could find work delivering those scrolls or running supplies to Ealyn and the other villages. I do not want to go back to Bailryn, become a guard. Gods, working the canal dock would be better.

  Stifled shouts from the room next door interrupted his thoughts. Gialyn raised his head when he heard his name spoken loudly – the one clear word amid the muffled barking of his parents’ argument. He waited a moment. Were they shouting for him?

  The moment passed. His parents continued their… discussion.

  Gialyn turned back to the window and stared at the fading peaks as he tried to drive the voices from his mind. He searched for the solace the mountains had often brought him, the place in his mind where he could shut out his frustration…

  It was not working.

  The mountains would not come to his rescue, not this time. Sighing deeply, he banged his forehead against the backs of his hands.

  Shifting his seat, he wrapped his arms around his head, forcing his ears shut. His parents’ quarrelling had become louder and louder, more heated by the minute. He let out another low groan and quietly muttered to himself, “Why am I not part of this? Why aren’t they asking me what I want?” Lying down on the bed, he buried his face in the pillow, wondering if a simple “No” would finally p
ut an end to all the shouting. And if it were that easy, why did he not just say it?

  A good question. Although Gialyn knew in his heart, things were rarely so simple, not when his father was giving one of his lectures about honour and responsibility.

  Daric was a captain – had been a captain. For twelve years, Gialyn’s father had served as Master of the Guard at the Royal Palace in Bailryn – and Captain of the King’s Guard for eight years before that. Even though he was now a lowly farmer, Daric still believed his opinions were nothing short of the law. But as argumentative as he was, he rarely took a stand against Mairi when it came to family matters. Indeed, it seemed Daric would rather take the dog for a walk in a blizzard than fight with her. But there he was, shouting in the kitchen, arguing with Mairi. And, from what Gialyn could hear, it seemed Daric was winning!

  Looks like I’ll be going to Bailryn.

  Gialyn thumped the pillow over his face and squashed it against his ears.

  He could still hear them.

  * * *

  “What of duty?” Mairi asked. She was standing behind the dining chair, hands gripped on the backrest as if she needed something to hold on to. “Freezing your bones to the marrow atop the castle parapet, or marching the Ward all alone at night; I do not see duty there. I see servitude!”

  “He’ll be serving the crown!” Daric insisted.

  “He will be a slave to the crown! Duty and honour come to a soldier in battle, not guard duty, not clearing the streets of drunkards and loafers… or… or… standing in line with your buttons polished.”

  Gialyn’s mother was a beautiful woman even when angry, which did not happen very often. Her blue-grey eyes fixed Daric in an unyielding stare. She folded her arms, tapped her foot, and bit at her bottom lip. She was not going to give in to his argument.

  Mairi continued: “Or is it your plan to pray to the gods?” she yelled, poking a finger against the back of the chair. “Ask them for the old wounds to reopen, for our enemies to rise again, so Gialyn can taste this… this… duty you are so keen on? Is it your hope to see our son to war?”

  Mairi put her hand to her mouth. Shaking, she took a step backwards. Daric could see tears welling up in her eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said. Her voice cracking. “I-I did not mean that. I should not have shouted. That was not called for.”

  She cleared the pots lying by the stove and pulled the large chairs out of the way in readiness for their supper at the table. “It would not trouble me so, Daric,” she said in a calmer voice, “if Bailryn was not so far away. By Ein’laig, you could scarcely go further without falling into the sea.”

  Other than the odd word or two, Daric had stood quiet and listened to Mairi’s… comments. There were times he wanted to cut her short, shout back. He had turned wide-eyed and fidgeted with irritation at some of her remarks. But he let her finish – he let her be angry. How could a good mother not be angry at what he was suggesting for their son?

  “Then what would you have him do, my love?” Daric asked. “If you’re worried about his safety, there can scarcely be a more dangerous place than the Rundair Mines, nor more tedious. And never mind how miserable he would be working for Tanner. You know Gialyn better than anyone. You know what years of hard labour would do to him. But that is what will happen… if he stays here.”

  Daric thought his rebuttal was fair. However, knowing Mairi – as well, he did – there was little doubt in his mind she would come back with more.

  “He could work with you, labour around the farm.”

  Daric dipped his head and put his hands flat on the bench. “Mairi, my love, if only we could. The farming life is a way off yet. You know that. It will be at least another year before we can afford to plant the orchards, and then another three before we make any real money.” He stood up straight and tried to summon his best captain’s voice. “Were it not for my guard’s pension, we would barely have enough food, to say nothing of the debt on the farm. We would have to leave, move back to Bailryn, and y–your mother’s house. By Ein’laig, pray that never happens, or I’ll be the one jumping in the sea.”

  Mairi’s eyebrows rose. “If money is so tight, how is it you can take three months off work to deliver him to Bailryn?”

  She stood in an all-too-familiar pose, arms folded below her breasts, tapping her ring finger on her elbow while gazing at him with a triumphant expression painted on her face. It was her talk-your-way-out-of-that look.

  “I have already told you. The Tanner girl is coming. Her father is paying handsomely to see her safely to the capital.”

  “Pft.” Mairi turned away from the table. Shaking her head, she clicked her tongue. “Damn, I forgot about that,” she whispered, then quickly turned to see if Daric had heard.

  He had.

  An awkward silence settled over the kitchen. For a long moment, Daric stared back at his beloved. He knew that she was convinced her argument was best, but she must see his point. After all, they were quarrelling about their son’s future, not a mere domestic matter, like how many chickens should they buy, or would they need another cart to take their produce to Ealyn. He had to do right by Gialyn…

  “If your argument is no more than a wish to see Gialyn tied at your apron for the rest of his days, then, my love, I have no answer for you. None which would change your mind. You are his mother; I understand you cannot find this easy. You would not be the good mother you are if you did. But Gialyn is eighteen; he is a man now. He can’t stay your child for much longer. He must grow up.”

  Mairi stared aimlessly at the floor. Daric knew he was upsetting her. Any other day, the pitiful look on her face would have been enough to stop him.

  But not today…

  “If you have a good argument, save that of a mother’s coddling, then I will hear it…”

  Daric waited for a response. Mairi’s lip quivered, but she said nothing.

  He continued, “He must see the country. Whether he chooses the guards or ends up in the mine is beside the point; he must grow up. He is drifting into oblivion, wasting his life. He will come to Bailryn with the rest of us. He will seize this opportunity. What he decides to do once we are there is up to him. I swear it: the choice is his. I’ll not force his hand. But nor will I have him wallowing as if his future was carved in stone.” Daric stood up straight and folded his arms. “That’s my final word on—”

  * * *

  Gialyn slammed his bedroom door and stomped into the kitchen, eyes front, ignoring his parents. He swung the outer door wide open, letting it bang against the kitchen wall, and left the house. The door was still shaking when his father shouted after him.

  “Where are you going? Gialyn!”

  Gialyn ignored his father’s cry and left Daric standing on the threshold. He skipped the fence, pulled his coat around his shoulders – although it was not at all cold – and made off at a brisk pace towards the town square.

  He strode determinedly along the track to Albergeddy, briefly pausing at the edge of the farmyard to glance over his shoulder. His father had already gone back into the house, likely to continue where he left off, laying down the law. Gialyn had no doubt Daric would use this sudden exit as yet more proof his son was “an irresponsible child.” But Gialyn did not care, not anymore. He was already numb from all the thinking he had done; one more thread added to his father’s ridiculous plan would not matter much. Daric had decided they were going to Bailryn five minutes after talking to Theo Tanner at the Spring Feast… if it had taken five minutes, and once Daric Re’adh, the Master of the Guard, made up his mind…

  From the hilltop, Gialyn could see the entire town.

  Town? Only settlers would call fifty homes a town.

  The lamps in the town square shone in the near dark of late evening. Lights flickered in the windows, too. None more so than at the Tanners’ – it was the largest house. Gialyn wondered if Elspeth was home. He knew which of those windows belong to her room, but could not see a light shining from it. T
hat did not stop Gialyn squinting for a better look, though.

  “I bet she’s polishing her trophy,” Gialyn whispered as he kicked a stone down the track. “I bet her father threw a party.”

  It was true. To listen to Theo after the prize-giving ceremony, anyone would think he had won the archery tourney. Elspeth, for all her arrogance, had looked embarrassed by his constant prattle and praise.

  But at least she was praised for her achievement.

  And what do I get for winning? Gialyn thought. Nothing, not even a cake. No, that’s not true; they’re dragging me off to Bailryn. And for what? To follow in Father’s footsteps?

  Would Daric ever accept the fact his son was not like him? Gialyn had no desire to fight, no urge to gain honour for himself. As for responsibility… as far as Gialyn was concerned, Daric could keep his grand ideas on duty and honour. Better to live a simple life.

  All seemed quiet when Gialyn reached the outskirts of the town. The day’s activities had sent most to their beds. Even the dogs from the Lesgar Inn, the two mastiffs which roamed the square at night, were absent. Likely sleeping off the scraps of food they had scavenged from under the produce stalls.

  But Gialyn could hear something moving…

  He glanced down the alley separating the homes from the canal dock. Ealian and his friends were leaning against the low wall of Mayon Bower’s cottage. Gialyn quickly averted his eyes; he did not want to deal with that crowd; not now, not tonight. He pulled his collar up around his chin, trying to hide his face. Ealian and his cronies were laughing and joking. Gialyn held his breath and quickened his pace until he was well past the alley. They did not notice him, thankfully.