Purple (The Dragon of Unison Book 1)

by M J Porter

  Purple (The Dragon of Unison Book 1)

  Purple (The Dragon of Unison Book 1)

  Midpoint

  Copyright notice

  Porter, M J

  Purple

  Copyright ©2013, Porter, M J Smashwords edition

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  For my son, Jake

  18th November 1999 – 5th April 2002

  And my mother, Janet

  3rd August 1948 – 26th September 2003

  Thank you

  Sunrise

  The view before her was perfect, pristine, virginal. Untouched by any foot. Behind her, she had sullied the snow with her own presence and the heavy task strapped against her chest. Her feet, encased in snow shoes, had woven an uneven and erratic path, fuelled by her own anger and shaped by the constantly changing texture of the less than flat surface she was walking over. Uniform it might appear from a distance; the truth was starkly different.

  The sun shone mutely yellow, huge on the horizon. Its heat was minimal, not alleviating the freezing conditions. Her tears froze on her unprotected cheeks and her snot on her trembling lips. As well wrapped as she was, only her eyes and her nose were totally exposed to the blistering chill. The rest of her was covered in thick animal furs. Her legs were encased individually in the furs of a white and a grey hare; her cloak was made from a giant white wolf with a broken black line straight down the back and on her head and ears sat the furs of a Long Day brown hare. Her hands were enclosed in midnight sealskin gloves and underneath the assortment of furs she wore a pair of leggings made from a number of stitched together sheep skins. Her plain tunic was made from the wool of one of those sheep.

  She felt warm, whether from her attire or fuelled by the hatred that cursed through her body with every jarring step, she did not bother to work out. Whatever was doing it, worked for her.

  There was total silence apart from her harsh breathing, her barely stifled hiccupping sobs and the soft padding of her companions four paws over the currently powder like surface. Her own feet were slowly sinking as she stopped briefly to catch her breath that was rasping through her achingly cold lungs. Her throat burnt from the bitter chill and hastily wiping her nose, mouth and eyes on her icy sleeve she pulled the hare fur scarf more snugly around her face to better warm the air before it entered her body.

  She fiddled with the straps on her backpack. They were digging into her shoulders slightly. As she did, she disturbed the burden attached to her chest, and had to rearrange that too. By the time she was comfortable again, her feet, even with the snow shoes on, had sunk ankle deep in the cloud like substance. She released her feet with a heave of effort and continued walking up the steep rise in front of her. Arrow was already waiting for her on the summit, her own breath forming a white fog in front of her as she panted. The wolf kept her tongue firmly in her mouth not wanting to risk it freezing on full exposure to the frigid air of the first day of the Long Day.

  Sereh reached the summit and shielding her eyes, glanced at the vista before her. The sun had reached its zenith in the ice violet sky and in its feeble illumination she could see the full majesty of the glacier, Vatna Jokull as it stretched as far as the eye could see, bordered on all sides by huge mountain peaks, snow shrouded except for their dark tops. Vatna Jokull glowed a rainbow of precious gems where the sun reached its glass smooth surface. The view was breath taking and awe-inspiring but she knew its beauty from afar would be deadly from up close. Just like the beauty strapped to her chest, and protected under her fur cloak. It would not be for much longer. She would soon need to kiss those auburn curls goodbye and never smell the innocent skin again. At the thought, her heart broke afresh and warm tears joined the frozen tracks on her face. She hoped her anger would resurface but it did not. She felt hollow, and more alone than she ever had before, even though she had Arrow and the baby for company. At least for now.

  She did not descend from the peak, but instead turned and walked towards the dull orange orb. She fancied that if she carried on along the path of the ridge that she would walk right off the end of the horizon and into the glowing sun. The thought cheered her slightly. Maybe a death in heat and fire would be more pleasurable to one of slowly freezing. Then she could join the baby and they would be together forever, albeit in death.

  All too soon she had reached her destination and she knew that it was time to make her decision. She had a place to go back to. The baby did not. She loved the baby strapped to her chest. She could freely admit it. What she could not reconcile was her desire to live, even with the baby exposed and left alone to die on the frozen, rocky overhang. Her life was one of servitude and misery with no hope of betterment, and still she craved it more than death. Her love must be a poor imitation of the real thing if she could put herself first.

  Her anger and frustration boiled over and with it white hot images of her imprisoner flashed before her eyes. She hated him, detested him, and yet was totally reliant on him. Her survival depended only on his goodwill and leaving the baby here was the only way to ensure it. It was that simple; take the baby home and she would die; leave him here and she would live. She agonised over a decision she thought she had already made as she stood desolately staring into the slowly sinking sun enveloping the horizon in a dazzling array of mauves and pinks. It thrust much of Vatna Jokull into shadow and with a start she felt a prickle of unease. She had delayed too long. Night would fall soon and when it did the temperature would plummet and an impenetrable dark would descend. She would end up fumbling her way home, with no means to see and no way of retracing her steps. She would die regardless of her time spent deliberating what she should now do. She had no more time. She must act now to protect herself.

  With renewed sobs she quickly pulled her precious bundle from its cosy nest under her cloak. She removed her gloves and undid the buckles on the fur carrier, kissing the gentle curls and dimples on the fat little face as she lifted him into her arms. She smelt him, inhaling his scent so that she would always remember. He did not stir, even as the chill air quickly turned his curls to icicles and his breath to a freezing fog. Leaving him inside his padded sling and fully clothed, she placed him on the icy overhang, precariously balanced. She ran her fingers delicately over his sleeping face, fixing his image in her mind.

  She resolutely turned away. Her breath caught in her throat and she momentarily panicked as she fought to fill her starving lungs whilst choking on her sobs that wrenched from her body with a physical pain. She stumbled, blinded by tears, and only the steadying feel of Arrow’s fur beneath her naked fingers allowed her to follow through with her intention to leave.

  * * *

  He worked in the soft glow of the flickering blue flame, and the three large candles sat on his cluttered desk and gave off more of a yellow glow, enabling him to see. These three candles burned through the tallow around their wick and needed constant replacement. The blue flame never needed renewing. Occasionally it flickered, and when it did his heart temporarily froze as he waited for it to burn bright and true again. Sometimes it did not gutter for rotation upon rotation. Other times it was more often. It worried him whilst at the same time being a source of comfort. It was his only point of c
ontact and had been for more of his life than it had not been. It was more companion than any other, and still its fickle nature annoyed him.

  His eyes burnt with tiredness and on he worked, quietly, no noise other than the scrape of his quill over the smooth vellum, the occasional chink as he dipped his quill into the ink pot, and the odd crackle and snap from the fire glowing balefully at his back.

  Behind him, the pile of workable pre-prepared velum sheets was starting to run low. Soon he would have to take a break from his lifelong work in order to make more sheets. He had once thought he had made enough sheets and that he could continue without a student to prepare his materials for him. He realised now that he had been wrong. His life’s work was not yet at an end. He would need a new student.

  It had been over twenty five rotations since his last apprentice had left. His name had been Hagon Harkonnsen. He had been an exemplary student; keen to learn; keen to know; but never too inquisitive. He missed him and felt afresh remorse for his untimely death and that of his wife, whose name he could not recall. He had been prepared to accept their daughter as an apprentice even though at the time he had not thought it would be necessary. It was irrelevant now. Fate had played her hand. His apprentice was dead and their daughter reduced to servitude. No doubt she would have made a fine addition to the select followers he had known throughout his long life.

  With an effort he forced his mind back to his task and peered intently at the faded script before him from which he was copying. The words were clearly legible on the well-preserved antique vellum, and he briefly wondered why he was copying them. Again. He dipped his quill into the green ink and carefully wrote each word. They leapt clearly from the page, bold and new and he remembered why he copied them, as he compared the two; the old and the new; identical apart from the vividness of the green ink.

  There was a sudden dimming of his lights and he looked up. The blue candle guttered low and he held his breath, hoping it would spring afresh again. Fearing what he would do if it did not.

  * * *

  She walked through the silent rock way, her feet finding the well-worn path of centuries of wear, with ease. In places the spaces were melded exactly to her feet, and felt almost like shoes made out of warm rock. They could have been comfortable. Almost.

  As she walked, eyes closed, even though the tunnel was cast in darkness as thick as the Long Night, she felt the engravings on the wall around her with her right hand. Her fingers quested in and out of dips and shallows as she searched for the figure she sought.

  She found she was unintentionally holding her breath, and laughed quietly to herself at her own folly. What did she expect? That she would not find him? The wall art had been here for more rotations than she cared to remember. It had never changed. Admittedly the colours had faded but that was no longer relevant in the dark. So why the worry now?

  With a quiet gasp of relief her fingers skirted over the figure she had been seeking, and rested there. On the scene before her, he was but a tiny point, but one which held the focus of almost all in the huge picture. His reckoning was precise, right down to his straw blond hair, and the colours of his green tunic and dark brown trousers. The only part of him that was even a little incorrect was his facial expression, for he was shown pleading whereas in actual fact, on the day being commemorated, he had worn a fierce determination and she had been proud of him. He was not to be denied that day.

  All this she felt with her fingers and saw in her mind. There was no chance she could really have seen the minuscule figure in the thick veil of blackness that hung all around her.

  Unexpectedly, she felt warm tears on her cheeks. She wiped them away carefully. She had not cried when visiting this sacred spot for rotations. There had been little point. What was passed had happened and the future, agreed so long ago, was not yet come. Only time would bring events full circle. It was a bitter tonic but one she had accepted, almost unquestioningly.

  Sudden anger flared within her and burned so brightly she fancied she could see it at the corner of her closed eyes as a flashing of bright silvers. And with it her warm tears flowed uncontrollably down her gently curving cheeks, and along her mouth. No sound escaped from her but internally she screamed in rage and fury and suppressed grief for what had not been and what was, so achingly slowly, still to come.

  * * *

  He heaved on the great wood doors that sealed the animal barn, his powerful arm muscles straining against the unfamiliar motion. The doors screeched and groaned as they always did on first being opened for the Long Day.

  He had already cleared a path in the waist high snow to allow the doors to swing wide open and once they had stopped shrieking in complaint, they gave and swung open on the watery blue of the First Day. The light was weak but every animal head instantly turned towards him, blinking in the unexpected brightness that infiltrated the gloomy barn and showed the dust motes that had been released from their own hibernation.

  He moved quickly to release the animals from their pens. They could not move far but then, neither could he yet. The thaw had not begun and snow lay thickly carpeting the landscape. Its brightness was almost unbearable on eyes so used to deep velvet black and flickering candles. He could feel his own eyes watering, and lifted his arm, encased in Long Night furs, to wipe the tears away. They fell more freely in the stored heat of the barn than in the frozen air outside.

  The motley collection of farm animals shuffled forwards towards the smell of fresh air and the promise of Long Day grazing. He strode past them all on his way to the fodder storage. It was no longer filled to capacity with food for the Long Night, but remarkably, enough remained, and Erann forked it out into the centre of the barn so that the animals could help themselves. Normally they were all fed in their own stalls, as much as to keep the place tidy than for any other reason. Yesterday he had cleaned all the stalls in preparation for their journey today and he did not want to encourage them to make further messes which he did not have time to tidy up.

  As he finished forking the feed he felt a wet nudge on his shoulder and turned to see Thunder, his father’s horse standing as close to him as it was possible to be. His silver grey eyes were intelligent and Erann could almost hear the questions the horse was trying to ask him with just a look. His behaviour today and yesterday was most out of the ordinary, even during the last eight rotations. He had never before seen to the animals as soon as the sun first rose. But he had made his decision and knew what actions he was going to take, so why, when the first faint streaks of green had illuminated the sky briefly yesterday should he hesitate? He had known with their arrival that today there would be full light, and however brief it was, he wanted to take full advantage. He wanted to get his mother away from their isolated steading and with the company of others. Then, he hoped, she would become well again, and her desire to live would be rekindled.

  He stroked Thunder’s neck as he examined him again for any signs of injury. He had done the same yesterday but found himself repeating the familiar motions of running his hands down his legs and along his back. His decision may well be made but still he hesitated. His actions were positive but there was a sense that in taking them he was surrendering the hopes and dreams of his adolescence and he was reluctant to do so. Erann shook his head angrily and Thunder looked at him in puzzlement as he reached across the horse’s back and took down the saddle and placed it on him. Thunder was to carry a careful load today and Erann wanted to be sure to correctly attach them. As he worked he found himself explaining his actions to the horse.

  He spoke in a low voice of his fear for his mother’s life if they waited too long. His mother’s health was failing before his eyes and he was close to despair. He would not let her die. His father would have not allowed it and neither would he.

  Thunder stood patiently by, listening, or so Erann fancied. Then as he finished Thunder made a point of turning towards him. The tears he saw in the eyes of his father’s horse made him realise that he was not foolish to tal
k to him or to offer explanations. His own eyes watered in response as he led Thunder forwards to the welcoming light of day and the unwelcome deep chill.

  Six Weeks Earlier

  She woke with a start, for a moment confused and disorientated, and perhaps most worryingly, warm from head to toe. That was most unusual. Then she heard the screams of the birthing woman and practically leapt from the seat she was slumped in, next to the huge kitchen fire. She was supposed to get some warm water, but the fire had held a seductive lure over her and she had crept closer and closer until she had sat in the huge wooden chair positioned to get the full force of its heat. It had made her sleepy and now with a start she realised that she was probably in for another tongue lashing from Jarl Rankil or his mistress. She hoped she had not been gone too long and that her prolonged absence would not be missed. She doubted it. She was not scared of Jarl Rankil or his current bed warmer, just preferred not to forgo some of the little luxuries she had become used to of late. She currently had the use of her own little sleeping area instead of sleeping huddled up on the kitchen floor amongst all the other servants. She hated to feel so pathetically grateful for this little show of grace but quite frankly, she did appreciate the peace and quiet as opposed to the endless snores and grunts that she had been forced to endure every night for the last seven rotations.

  The screams and cries of the birthing woman were beginning to get a little frantic as she made her way back to the woman’s own private room. Not that it could really be called a room. It was simply a curtained off section in the main living area of the steading. There were no walls just the heavy curtains that attempted to create the idea of privacy. The steading consisted of few rooms. Only the kitchen and lavatories were self-contained rooms. The sleeping quarters and the Jarl’s private study were differentiated by similar heavy curtains. Sereh understood that Rankil now planned to extend his steading, to suit his now official place in society. Sereh wondered where the coin would come from to do so.