“Do you know when he is hungry?” Arfael asked Alacin. As soon as the words left his mouth, he realised they were a little dim-witted; of course he must know.
“I feel everything physical that Ealian feels,” Alacin said. “I can’t read his mind, though. Not anymore, not unless he wants me to. More’s the pity; it would make life easier for both of us, I think.”
Lance nodded to Alacin and told him he would be two minutes with his breakfast. Olam scratched his chin, probably pondering Alacin’s last remark about “mind reading.” Brea… Brea had yet to say anything. Hearing that her village would likely be the first target of an attack had put her in a stupor. She gazed aimlessly at the walls.
“I am sure Tor will have made preparations, Brea,” Olam said. “He will have a plan.”
“So why hasn’t he said anything,” Brea whispered.
“Because he is a dragon,” Alacin answered, “and a thousand years old, at that. He will be thinking on a larger scale. No, he is not careless; he would doubtless be ashamed if you mentioned it to him. But, saying that, he will not have considered the effects on your village.”
Brea slumped with her head in her hands. It seemed to Arfael that a weight had suddenly landed on her shoulders. And yet, he found he didn’t care. Oh, he was interested in the plans, but, if move they should, then move they must. He couldn’t see the problem. Is that my mind again? Would I care if I could remember my home?
Arfael put a hand on her shoulder in an effort to comfort her.
Brea flinched, and then apologised, “Sorry. I-I was… It has been a long year. All I could think of was how to protect Rek. He is too young for battles. I never thought…” A tear trickled along her cheek.
“Rek isn’t the only one who is too young, child,” Alacin said. “You should not be dealing with such things at your age. You should leave it to us older folk.”
Brea blinked at him. “Older? You look younger than me.”
Alacin sat back and folded his arms. He looked… hesitant. “I was three hundred and forty-seven when I died almost eight hundred years ago.” He, too, stared aimlessly. “I have seen more than my share of battles. Strange, how it always comes down to the same thing, the same evil, the same eternal battle for control. Coratien, Dayamoon, Raismutan: they all had similar goals and desires. Stupidity, I call it. To repeat the same mistakes over and over again. Stupidity. They never learn. Yes, the Powers are great, but not so great they can subjugate an entire race. In the end, freedom and free will always win. Yet I fear explaining that to tyrants will always fall on deaf ears. Those types always convince themselves that they have a right to rule. Madness and stupidity – that’s what we’re fighting. Such folly should have ended millennia ago, but every generation grows their own fools.”
For nearly ten minutes, nobody said a word. Lance brought Alacin’s breakfast and took the empty plates away. They all accepted another drink. They even seemed to relax a bit, but nobody spoke.
Then, “We have an hour,” Olam said. “I want to check the horses and organise my pack. Maybe have a quick look around, if that’s all right with you, Brea. We could meet back here at half past eight; take a slow walk up to the cave?” He eyed the girl as if waiting for her permission to leave.
Brea took a while to respond. Arfael had no idea what she was going through the girl’s mind, but she was certainly deep in thought.
Eventually, she said, “Yes, Olam, that sounds like a good plan. I should go see mother. There are things we must discuss. Or maybe I should leave that until…” She drifted off, back to her staring.
Olam took her comment as a yes and stood. “An hour then,” he said.
Brea left soon after, shaking her head as she walked. Alacin – Arfael thought he was still Alacin – followed her out, but then turned left. Maybe he was going to look around the village, too. Arfael stood for a moment, watching them through the window while Lance cleaned up the table.
“Is there anything I can get you?” the innkeeper asked.
Arfael shook his head. “No, no thank you. I’ll go back to the room and rest a while.”
The innkeeper stood quietly, watching Arfael. He appeared to want to say more.
“The wolves were just passing,” Arfael said. “They were probably lost on their way someplace else.”
The innkeeper let out a relieved sigh, smiled, and nodded his thanks.
Arfael knew he might well be wrong; he could not say for sure whether the wolves were forced into the valley. All he knew for certain was that yet another unusual occurrence had followed him. Seemed wherever he went, trouble wasn’t far behind. Was he destined for this? Would he never feel at ease? The aching in the back of his mind tugged at his conscience. He didn’t really care if wolves attacked the village. For decades now, he had grown used to the idea of forgetting people he met on his travels. He couldn’t afford to feel compassion, knowing perfectly well that a week from now, it wouldn’t matter to him if these folks were alive or dead: he simply wouldn’t remember them. How could he care about anyone if he couldn’t remember who they were? For the thousandth time, he cursed the witch for taking that from him. Not his memories, though that was bad enough; no, he cursed her for taking his passion. How could he love someone without that?
He turned back to his room. Abruptly, he remembered the dragons. With all the fuss over the wolves, he had forgotten why he had come to the valley. A sense of dread came over him. Would this be another step on his path, or could this be an end to it? He knew the dragons were there when all this started over a hundred years ago. For a second, he allowed himself to hope that things would come full circle, to an ending of sorts – an ending at the place where it all began. It was a shallow hope.
CHAPTER 11
Sacrifice
For once, the weather looked gloomy. The billowing, grey clouds choked what was left of the early morning sunshine. It looked like rain might fall on the Bren’alor valley within the hour, if not sooner. And yet, for the most part, a muggy warmth hung in the air. A gusting wind spoke of thunder for later in the day. Arfael hoped the change in the weather wasn’t an omen.
He was surprised he felt nervous. Usually, he would take events in his stride; deal with things as they came along. Today was different. He couldn’t help thinking that, after today, everything would change. Dragons. Isn’t this how it all started? What sort of trouble are they going to drag me into this time?
He gazed down at a small bench next to one of the outside tables. Too small for him to sit on, but he could imagine some of the villagers having a good time, sitting in the sun, watching the day go by. The Whistling Shepherd was on the main street. Although, calling it a “street” might have been stretching the truth; it wasn’t much more than a partially-cobbled cart track. Still, Braylair was nice enough, as human settlements went. It had none of the trappings of a town, though. No raised walkways, fountains, wells or statues; everything was rustic. Rustic, yes; quaint and charming. How did a small village full of peaceful folk get themselves involved with dragons? For that matter, which of them was here first? Did the villagers welcome the dragons, or did dragons welcome the villagers? That must have been an odd meeting. I’ll have to remember to ask someone. He took a deep breath. Gazing up at the dark clouds, he whispered, “What are you thinking? Why does it matter who was here first?”
“What was that, friend?” Olam said as he rounded the corner onto the “street.”
“Nothing, I was just – nothing. You’re late.”
Olam shook his head. “No, I think it is you who are early. It was eight when I left the Millers’ house, not fifteen minutes ago.”
“The Millers’ house? Why were you—?”
“I was walking past their home, looking at the water wheel. They invited me in for tea. A nice family. Mr. Miller is a fabulous cook. Shame they will have to leave soon.”
Arfael nodded thoughtfully. “Did you tell them that?” he asked. He would not be surprised if Olam had told them everything; he was
a great one for honesty. A little too much for his own good, sometimes.
“No! Gods no. That is up to their leaders. Although, saying that, if no one has warned them by the time we leave…”
“Good!” Arfael punctuated his statement with a solid nod. “These folk wouldn’t last an hour. No, they wouldn’t last five minutes against even one dragon. And unless Alacin is mistaken, more than one will come.”
Olam’s shoulders sank. “I’m afraid I agree with him. The chances that the Gan have remained hidden in secret for over a century are… Well, it is a ridiculous thought; of course the Kel’madden know they are here, I would bet my life on it.” Olam whispered the last few words; Brea was less than thirty paces away, walking briskly towards them. Ealian – or Alacin – was running to catch up with her.
“Are we all ready?” she asked. She seemed happier than when she left an hour earlier. Maybe talking to her mother had calmed her down. Affrair appeared to be a sensible woman; one not easily ruffled by bad news.
“We are,” Olam said, bowing.
Ealian-Alacin looked pleased with himself for some reason. He rubbed his hands together. “Excellent, let’s be off then,” he said in a much-too-eager voice.
“Why are you so happy?” Arfael asked him.
“Seeing the dragons, of course. A chance to catch up with folk who remember me from old.” He drew in a breath of air and continued wringing his hands.
So, he’s still Alacin. Was the old Cren taking over Ealian’s body altogether? Arfael remembered that Elspeth’s brother was none-too-pleased at the prospect of giving way to the Raic. Was Alacin forcing himself forward, holding Ealian back somehow?
“I don’t think that is why we are going,” Brea told Alacin in a dry tone.
Alacin folded his arms and pursed his lips. “Hmmm, you’re right, of course. Nevertheless, it will be good to see them, even if we don’t have the opportunity to talk. I wonder who else is still around. I’d bet good money Lyduk is; he could find a way out of…”
Alacin’s voice faded as he turned walked away. He and Brea were across the road and half way towards the edge of the village before Arfael or Olam had put a foot out.
“Just who is this meeting for, anyway?” Arfael whispered.
“Apparently,” Olam said, “our new friend is enjoying his freedom.”
Arfael grunted.
Olam chuckled. “Come on, friend,” he said, swinging his staff out in front of him. “Let’s get this done with.”
Arfael followed Olam as they made their way between the cottages. The path to the dragons’ den lay just beyond the low buildings at the northern edge of the village. Folk waved from their windows or stood by their doors as he and Olam walked by. A few looked happy to see him, but many did not. Maybe they already know what was coming.
They caught up to Brea and Alacin just as the pair passed through the gate leading into the field. They were still talking…
* * *
“…are four Powers, Brea,” Alacin said. Not for the first time, he wondered why he had to explain such things to a Soul Guardian. “The Power folks call ‘Ein’laig’ governs the land: hills, mountains, grasslands, canyons, and all the beasts who live on them. Over the years, men have worshipped the Earthen Power, made it into a god. As for whether it was human, or rather, looked human… Well, all I can say is it certainly wasn’t alive during my time. But who knows? Perhaps it was. On the other hand, if it had chosen to take on a living form, who’s to say it would choose to be a human? Knowing the powers the way I do, I would not be surprised if Ein’laig chose to manifest as a horse, or even a rabbit.
“Along with Ein’laig, the other three are An’gael, U’sieg and Mau’dael, the Spirit God. Land, air, sea, and spirit: four Powers, four ‘gods,’ each as different as oil and water – they don’t mix, ever.”
Brea was paying close attention, Alacin noticed. Surely, living with dragons, she already knew all about the Powers. If she truly didn’t, Tor would have some explaining to do. Why hadn’t he told her? Or maybe she did know and was just being polite, letting him ramble on.
Alacin continued, “Ein’laig held my essence for almost a thousand years until I was put into Ealian. You see, over the millennia the Powers have been fighting a battle to balance the forces of good and evil within themselves. Ein’raeg and Ein’rann, the two connected to Ein’laig, have spent an eternity tugging at the Earthen Powers, trying to force Ein’laig in one direction or another. Think of it like a river flowing through the mountains. A damn may force the waters in one direction or the other, but for every push, there is an equal pull. Ealian had been possessed by Ein’raeg, or The Black, as some call it—”
“Oh, you mean the Dead Man’s Vein.” Brea looked pleased with her interruption.
“The Dead Man’s Vein, yes,” Alacin said. “I have heard it called that.
“In order to cure Ealian of it, I was… given to him, or rather, my essence was. I don’t remember any of it. It was a risk; the Black and White will counter each other – remember the balance; neither is the stronger. If Ealian was in any way evil, the Black would have won, and I would not be here talking to you. Chances are, none of his group would have survived. Unless someone had the presence of mind to kill Ealian before the Black could fully manifest its Power.”
I am listening to all this, Alacin, Ealian sent.
Best she doesn’t know that, Ealian. Not yet, at least. We don’t know what she is up to, Alacin sent back.
Do you suspect her of something? Why are you so friendly if you suspect her of something?
I don’t suspect her of anything, Ealian. I just don’t know her yet. I’m not in the habit of trusting Oracles.
Oracles? She’s not… What’s an Oracle?
Later, Ealian.
Brea was looking at him, probably wondering about the short pause in their conversation.
“So… Ealian isn’t evil,” Brea said. “I had my doubts.” She chuckled, clearly trying to lighten the tone of the conversation.
“No, not evil,” Alacin said, “just an annoying young man.” He laughed, too.
“I know something of the Powers,” Brea said. “Much of it has to do with what Tor’gan needs of—” Brea cut herself off, she looked over shoulder at Arfael, who was busy talking to Olam. “Best I leave that for Tor to explain.” She cleared her throat and fiddled with her blouse, straightening a crease that wasn’t there.
“I suspected as much,” Alacin said. “Yes, we should leave it to Tor to explain.” He turned back and gave Arfael a quick, considered glance.
I wonder if the big man is ready for all this, he thought.
* * *
Arfael stared back. He had been listening intently to their conversation. Talking to Olam or not, he could still hear what was said, just like he could hear a rabbit digging its burrow in the adjacent field. Glancing west, he wondered if it was too late to leave. He was right about Brea: she knew a lot more than she was letting on. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be a part of their schemes.
Brea and Alacin had stopped talking about the Powers, and were now limiting their conversation to mundane matters. Such as the weather, which was currently threatening to soak them to the skin.
And as if their talk had summoned it…
The heavens opened. The four ran up the hill towards the cave entrance. Sheets of rain thrashed at the tall pine and fir trees, whipping them from side to side. Thunder rumbled in from the west, while lightning brightened the dark skies in sheets of silvery-white.
“That was lucky,” Brea said. “Another minute and we would have been stuck in the middle of it.” She brushed her skirt and shook a few raindrops from her shoulders.
“Indeed,” Olam said, peering out of the entrance at the thick curtain of rain. “As you say, another minute and we could have swum here.” Olam poked his staff at the already-rising stream that ran along the centre of the cave. “Have you ever been flooded?” he asked.
Arfael raised an eyebrow. On top of
everything else, he didn’t think being stuck in a cave full of dragons would be a good way to spend the day.
“Don’t worry,” Brea said. “There are plenty of streams flowing out of the den. It has never flooded. Shall we go?”
Brea looked small, suddenly, and reluctant to take the lead. Arfael flicked his gaze between the other two; neither moved. Sighing, he began the short trek to the inner passageway. He barely made it two steps before Brea called him back.
“Wait, wait, I almost forgot.” she shouted.
“Forgot what?”
Arfael turned back and watched as the young woman rummaged around inside the leather bag she carried.
“Here,” she said, “drink this. It will stop the… you know.”
Arfael took the small vial from her. “It will stop me trying to kill your friends,” he said, ruefully.
Brea dipped her eyes and made a study of the now fast-running stream. “I’m sorry, Mr. Arfael. I’m sorry for all this trouble.”
Why is she sorry? Arfael knew the girl was no more in control of events than he was. Like everyone else, she was following the dragons’ lead.
“No, don’t be sorry. Thank you, Brea.” Arfael smiled before pulling the stopper and drinking the black liquid from the thin glass vial. It tasted like soil mixed with week-old fish. “Yuk, you could have added some flavour; maybe some crushed cherries.” He handed the empty vial back to Brea. She smiled, holding back a laugh.
Arfael paused a moment to regard her smile. Another one; and so young. Why are they so young? They should be out stealing kisses and having fun: all of them, the boys, too. He turned back to the cave and continued towards the inner tunnel.
He slowed when he heard Olam stumbling. It was dark, what with the storm outside. “Do you need a hand, friend?” he asked.
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 57