Fire Rider

by T M Miller

Another tear ran down his cheek and he angrily dashed at it. His jaw set and he knew what he had to do. He would leave here, first thing tomorrow, no matter what they said, Carna nor his mother. He wanted to be no part of Rakenar. Not anymore.

  Mind made up, he lay back down. Yes, it was the best option. Return to Tiara and take up where he left off. He could make a good career as a race rider. He would forget all about who his father was. He got up to close the doors and collected together a few clothes and his old boots, wrapping them up in the bedside chair blanket. His leg had healed well – there was no need to stay any longer.

  14

  Jaron woke and took a moment to let the image of Teel fade from his dreams. He wiped at his wet face and turned over onto his side. He shifted automatically to make his leg more comfortable, absently noting his wound wasn’t sore anymore, sniffed, and opened his eyes.

  Oran was sitting by his bed. Jaron blinked, and sat up with a start.

  The master carpenter sat languidly in the bedside chair, the ankle of one tasselled velvet boot balancing on his knee. His hands were steepled and above them his black-lined rich brown eyes watched Jaron intently. ‘Good morning,’ he said, raising his head and placing his chin on his fingers. He wore a rather bright satin blue shirt with voluminous sleeves.

  ‘Is it?’ Jaron muttered. Adjusting his pillows, he lay back against them and waited for the carpenter to say something. When he didn’t but continued to stare at Jaron, his lips in a concentrated pout, the boy shifted uneasily under his silent scrutiny; he felt uncomfortable that Oran had been watching him while he slept. Clearing his throat, he asked, ‘How long have you been sitting there?’

  ‘Not long.’ Oran reached to one side and plucked a tankard off the table beside him, lifting the lid. ‘Here, it’s still warm.’

  Jaron accepted the tankard and eyed the green liquid suspiciously. It smelt of damp dead leaves in autumn and warm soil. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s brewed leaves from the Tapala tree; a stunted tree that grows at the base of the mountains, very invigorating.’

  Jaron took a sip. The taste was as earthy as it smelt and the consistency more like soup than tea but as it slipped down he realised he quite liked the bitter taste and felt his body thrum in response. He took another sip. Oran was right, it did indeed invigorate. Now fully awake, he peered at the master carpenter over the tankard rim.

  Oran smiled. ‘You are wondering why I am here.’

  ‘Well, yes, did my mother send you?’

  ‘No, she does not know.’

  His response made Jaron even more uneasy.

  ‘Then why–’

  But Oran raised a hand to cut off further questions. Jaron was already beginning to feel irritated with this strange dramatic man. Oran unfolded himself from the chair, leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees. ‘I am here because Rella is too upset to see you this morning.’

  ‘Too upset?’ Jaron felt a flush of shame colour his cheeks but he felt anger too and raised his chin a little, only to drop it again when he realised Oran would be getting a good view of his scarred neck. ‘Well, I’ve been a little upset myself,’ he muttered.

  Oran looked pointedly down at the bulging bundle left on the floor. ‘I can see. Going somewhere?’ His painted eyebrows arched. Jaron set his jaw and glared down into the tankard. He heard Oran sigh. ‘Ah, so you have judged your mother and found her guilty. It is all too easy to blame when one feels powerless, young Jaron, all too easy to judge in hindsight.’

  Jaron sat up straighter, angry now. ‘Do you know what she told me? About my…’ He couldn’t say the word and looked down again at the tankard clasped tightly in his hands.

  ‘Your father. Yes.’ Oran stood up with deceptive grace for one so tall and began to pace around the cave, shirt sleeves billowing, and looking at the floor with a slight frown pulling at his smooth features. Jaron watched him, grimly silent. At last, Oran stopped and faced him. ‘Do you realise what it cost her to tell you? She worried and fretted until Carna pointed out it was more dangerous to not tell you. Better you heard it from her lips than some well-meaning stranger.’ He continued his pacing. ‘And you would have heard it, my dear boy, here in Rakenar – an innocent mention of Torrit, how he was, what he became–'

  ‘A murderer.’ Jaron heard his voice break on the word. My father.

  Oran came to stand at the foot of Jaron’s bed, his face grave. ‘As it turned out, yes. But nobody had any idea of what he was truly capable of. Rella knew he might come after her so she planned her escape well, but not even she, who suffered him the most, knew he would bear such hatred so many years later, nor go so far.’ He sighed. ‘Your mother sacrificed all that she could have become, her life here, her love, leaving her own mother behind – to protect you.’

  ‘Only it didn’t work, did it?’

  ‘She saved you from being brought up by him.’

  ‘But Teel and the villagers weren’t saved. They all died.’

  ‘I know, she told me. But you would have suffered Torrit’s cruelty all your growing life, Jaron. Your mother endured it for herself, but she vowed never to allow him to do it to her child.’

  ‘I suffer it anyway,’ Jaron countered. ‘I will bear the scars from his firedrake’s fire for as long as I live.’ He wedged the tankard between his knees, staring moodily into the cooling dark liquid. ‘None of this would have happened if I hadn’t existed,’ he mumbled.

  Oran sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Don’t you ever say that again! Especially not to your mother!’ He spoke with such force it startled Jaron. ‘That is a coward’s way of talking, Jaron, and I don’t think you are that.’ The man scowled for a bit longer then his shoulders drooped and he appeared deflated. The bed dipped as he sat on its edge. ‘She was afraid of this,’ Oran muttered, half to himself. ‘I know you suffer still, Jaron.’ He reached out and patted his knee. ‘I heard your anguish while you slept.’

  Jaron bit his lip and looked away.

  ‘It is not of your doing, dear boy, none of it,’ Oran said softly, ‘not your mother leaving Rakenar, nor the village being attacked. But did you really need to hear me say this? No, look at me.’ Jaron felt his throat tighten as he did as he was bid. Oran smiled but his eyes were sad. ‘Your mother came to me for help before her pregnancy started to show. She was trying to do what was best, the only way she knew how, yet every day she bears the guilt of your injury and what happened to your village and stepfather. A man she also loved.’ He paused. ‘She blames herself for all of it.’

  ‘No,’ Jaron whispered.

  ‘Yes.’ Oran’s face hardened. ‘And now you are trying to do the same – when your father didn’t even know of your existence. It is Torrit at fault. I tell your mother this, as I now tell you; over and over I say it, but I cannot banish her guilt. Do not blame your mother for doing what she could to protect you – she already blames herself more than you ever could.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ Jaron said in a small voice. ‘It was a shock, that she hated my father, that he was a…’ He trailed off but found he couldn’t voice the word again. He put the tankard on his bedside table and clasped his hands tightly together.

  ‘You are your father’s son, it is a fact,’ Oran said softly. Jaron stared miserably at him. The carpenter placed his own large heavy hand on both of his where they lay in Jaron’s lap. ‘But you are your mother’s also and have the blood of the Rakenar lords in your veins, many of whom were adored by the people. From what I have heard from your mother and Carna and seen for myself – you are a gentle boy and far removed from what Torrit was like at your age.’ Oran sighed. ‘A cruel boy, always, cruel and a bully. Carna was the quiet one, the sensitive one, and I think you take more after your uncle, young Jaron.’

  Jaron shook his head. ‘I think you are seeing things.’

  Oran laughed and his smile was kind. ‘It was a shock for you. I can also see you and your mother have something special. Will you let Torrit ruin that too? After all Rella’s efforts
to protect you?’

  Jaron felt a sudden rush of shame and bowed his head. ‘No.’

  ‘Good,’ Oran whispered and, bending forward, lifted his hand to grip Jaron’s shoulder. He gave him a little shake. ‘Now, we move on with our lives, yes?’ Jaron nodded. ‘And we go to see your mother now?’ Jaron swallowed and nodded again. Oran released him and stood. ‘I will be outside.’

  Jaron rose and dressed quickly. Oran was waiting at the tunnel end and indicated they were to turn left along the walkway. Jaron could feel his eyes on him, studying his walk, and he tried to remember to look up and keep himself straight.

  ‘The wedge in your boot helps?’ Oran asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, it feels much better.’

  Oran appraised him and nodded in satisfaction. ‘I can see it does, very good.’

  It wasn’t long before the carpenter stopped at a tunnel much larger than Jaron’s own and with a heavy door set in the entrance. ‘She’s here?’ Jaron was surprised she was his neighbour.

  ‘This is Carna’s cave, so yes, she is here.’ Oran knocked twice and stood back. Jaron was still coming to terms with the fact his mother lived with Carna when they heard footsteps and the lord himself pulled open the door. He was dressed in his usual riding clothes but stood in socked feet.

  He stared at them with tired eyes.

  ‘Oran,’ he greeted the carpenter and opened the door wide for them to enter.

  The cave beyond was at least four times the size of Jaron’s; a tapestry hung on one wall depicting a red firedrake flying amongst a flock of greens. He recognized the valley that was outside his own cave woven into the fabric at the bottom of the tapestry. Walking further in Jaron looked around the room. It was furnished with matching dark polished wood, the legs engraved with intricate designs of firedrakes. A huge table graced the middle of the room, which Jaron guessed was for meetings, and a long, padded seat sat under a window that had been cut into the rock and served to throw some light into the room. A pair of worn boots stood by the wall and a leather tunic was thrown over a stone firedrake statue that reared up in one corner, obscuring the head.

  ‘She’s through here, Jaron.’ Carna walked past him and led the way to a large curtain at the other end. He pulled it aside and waved him through.

  The room faced out onto a ledge much like Jaron’s did, but again was much larger. There Carna’s red firedrake lay, his massive stomach rising like bellows as he slept, head turned away and tucked under a folded wing. He fitted comfortably on the large ledge with room to spare for two more. Jaron didn’t look twice at Madrag but went straight over to the bed and the mound of blankets that was Rella.

  ‘Mum?’ She didn’t respond and he sat on the bed. ‘Mum. It’s me.’ Slowly, the covers stirred and Rella’s face emerged. Her son was shocked at her appearance. Her eyes were red-rimmed with grey shadows underneath; her hair, usually so sleek, was dishevelled from the sleepless night she must have had. Jaron felt a rush of guilt. I caused this.

  ‘Jaron,’ she croaked but she didn’t smile and her eyes were large in her drawn face.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said and the words came out in a rush. ‘I didn’t mean it. I didn’t know what I was saying. I’m sorry I shouted at you – I just needed time.’ He looked down, avoiding her gaze. Her hand found its way out from under the covers. Jaron took it and clutched it tight. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered again.

  Rella seemed to come to life then; she shoved back the blankets and sat up. ‘It’s me who should be sorry,’ her voice was strained. ‘It was too much for you to hear, but I was left with no choice, not if I wanted you to stay in Rakenar. You had to know, all of it, and as it was I’d left it too long.’ She scooted forward and put her arms around him. Jaron, pressed against her chest and with his arms around her waist, breathed in her familiar jasmine scent and thought how light her body felt, so delicate, like a bird. He forgot that, he realised, how small she was; her spirit served to make her larger than life and he had callously broken it with his hurt and anger. He pulled back a little and looked at her worn beautiful face.

  ‘It was the shock. I couldn’t take it all in.’

  ‘And now?’ she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper.

  ‘Oran talked to me. I just want us to be alright, to move on.’

  She smiled and stroked his fringe back from his face. ‘Don’t be silly, we will always be alright.’

  Jaron nodded, relieved.

  Oran sniffed loudly then and they both looked at him. The master carpenter was dabbing at his eyes, a lace-trimmed handkerchief coming away with dark smudges. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. Rella smiled and beckoned him over. She reached up to stroke his cheek.

  ‘My very good friend,’ she said. ‘Dear Oran, still looking out for me after all these years.’

  Oran leant his head into her hand then engulfed it into his own and kissed it. ‘I will always be here for you, my lady.’

  Jaron noticed Carna standing apart while he observed the little group. He had forgotten the Raken lord was even in the room. His arm was looped around Madrag’s neck, who was now wide awake and watching the three of them. But it was not the red firedrake who Jaron was looking at now, it was the rare wide smile etched onto the Raken lord’s face.

  15

  Long ago, the Raken people lived in caves in the Arkenara mountain range that marked the Northern Lands. Their villages had been burned to the ground by the flying beasts that preyed on them. Forced to live in the caves like animals and enduring daily attacks by the fire-breathing dragons, the people were at constant war and losses were high. These were dark days for our people…

  Jaron stared at the ink drawing of a firedrake breathing fire into a cave whilst another flew with a dead man clutched bleeding in his talons. The book had been given to him by Carna. ‘Time you learned about your people, Jaron,’ he had said.

  Jaron had taken the large but slim leather-bound book eagerly and flicked through the pages. There were short passages with ink drawings dotted throughout. He had looked up at his uncle, disappointed. ‘But it’s a child’s book.’

  Carna had shrugged. ‘You’ve got some catching up to do and this is the quickest version.’

  Jaron turned over the page and began to read.

  A child was born to Ayla, wife of Chief Leon, head of the Raken tribe. He was named Rillion son of Leon. As he grew he was expected to take his place by his father’s side and fight the dragons. But Rillion felt only wonder at the beasts. Still more boy than man, Rillion began to observe the dragons. One day, whilst out on his first hunting party with his father, they were attacked. Leon felled the dragon with a well-aimed spear at its wing. It crashed to the ground and the men ran in to kill it. But Rillion could see the bulging belly of the female and couldn’t bring himself to join in. When the men at last stepped back he moved forward and, taking his knife, sliced the belly open to extract a single, gleaming white egg.

  Jaron stared at the picture of a boy kneeling at the shoulder of the dead firedrake and holding up the egg while the men looked on. He turned the page but there came a knock on the door at the back of the cave before he could read on.

  ‘Come in,’ he called, looking up. The curtain was already drawn back and as the door opened a red-haired girl of about his own age peered round it at him. He remembered her, the girl who flew the green.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Not disturbing you, am I?’

  ‘Not at all… Marla,’ Jaron said, remembering her name and closing the book. Marla sauntered into the room, her wavy red hair cascading over her hunched shoulders and with her hands stuffed deep into her tunic pockets. She wore the soft leather trousers and boots that all the riders wore.

  ‘Nice,’ she said, looking around. ‘The students’ rooms are cupboards with a bunk bed and not much else.’

  ‘Where is that?’ Jaron asked, waving her to the chair. She sat carefully and ran her hand over the soft leather arm before settling back and crossing her legs.

  ‘I
n Mount Treen,’ she puckered her lips. ‘But the lower level on the east side, it’s where all the students stay.’ Her eyes flicked to the book now closed on his bed. ‘I recognise that book.’

  Jaron held it up. ‘I’m to learn about the history of the Raken people.’

  ‘I read it when I was seven,’ her violet eyes appraised him.

  Jaron shifted uncomfortably. ‘Carna gave me the quick version to catch up.’ He put the book down, surreptitiously pushing it half under his pillow.

  ‘Don’t you mean Lord Carna?’

  ‘Um, yes, of course.’ Jaron felt on the back foot already and this strange girl had only been in here a short time. She got up and wandered round the room again. He watched her move to the open doors and lean against the doorway as she stared out at the view. He wanted to go over and join her but, unsure of himself, stayed sitting on the bed, glad he had thought to put on his scarf that morning.

  ‘Nice,’ he heard her say again before she turned back to look at him. ‘Are you feeling better?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. The bandage is off.’ He put a hand to his thigh and his fingers trailed over the scar left under his trousers. Another scar that he would bear for the rest of his life. ‘It itches sometimes but doesn’t hurt. And I’ve been doing the exercises the healer prescribed…’ He trailed off, aware he was babbling, and watched as Marla pushed off from the doorway and returned to her seat.

  ‘That’s good,’ she said. For a moment she stared at him then put her elbows on her knees. ‘It’s strange you being here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ He would die if everyone knew of his fears.

  ‘I mean here, in Mount Scarf and on this level, right next door to where Lord Carna lives. Only our lord and the council leaders live up here,’ she looked him in the eye. ‘Are you someone?’

  Jaron swallowed. ‘Someone? I’m not sure if I know what you mean.’

  She waved a hand in his direction. ‘People are talking, wondering about you. Our lord rescued you and brought you here and he seems to be taking quite an interest in your wellbeing.’ She rested her chin on her hand and looked at him from under her long lashes.