by Anna Rose
Aya’s Dragon
A Tale of the Dragonguard
Volume One
By Anna Rose
Aya’s Dragon. Copyright © 2017 by Anna Rose
Cover Art Copyright © 2017 Anna Rose
All Rights Reserved
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living, dead or Undead, is entirely coincidental.
This work is protected under the US Copyright Act of 1976, its subsequent amendments and all other applicable international, federal, state and local laws.
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Also by Anna Rose:
THE SUMAIRE WEB:
Siofra
Fiach Fola
Droch Fola
Féasta Fola (short story)
Cosán Fola (coming soon!)
A message from Anna Rose:
This story is separated into sections, rather than chapters, for the reader’s convenience. I hope you find it to be a useful tool.
I have loved dragons since I was very young and knew that I would eventually end up writing about them. I am only sorry that I took so long to get around to it.
The first novel about dragons I read that left me wanting more was DRAGONFLIGHT, by the inestimable Anne McCaffrey. She wrote many more novels about the Dragonriders of Pern, and I eagerly devoured each one of them. I just could not help myself.
If you have not read them, I highly recommend that you do. Do not forget to read her Harper Hall of Pern trilogy, which is aimed at young people, but is still fine reading for the nominal adults out there.
Thank you to my wonderful, patient beta readers and editors, who have done a wonderful job to make sure I don’t make a complete fool of myself with my writing.
NJ, Robin, Janet, and The Ape have been wonderful, and I want to extend special thanks to His Mooseness, who has always been especially wonderful to me in this regard.
In conclusion, I hope you all can forgive me taking this long to get this done, NJ. It should have been done a very long time ago. Now you can stop shaking your finger at me.
All my best to all of you.
Anna
1
The flight of dragons glided lazily overhead, the sun dancing across their shining hides, creating a living rainbow of prismatic color that reflected down onto the ground below. Enormous in comparison to the human riders they bore, the dragons made the scattered buildings below them look like a children’s fragile playthings.
The nearest village was at least ten miles beyond the furthest buildings of the farm, over dauntingly rough and dangerous terrain. On horseback, a trip to the village could take an entire day, there and back once more. If one left first thing in the predawn morning, they would not return until long after sundown of the same day. It was not a journey to take lightly.
This particular plot of land, surrounded by rocky cliffs and uncounted acres of forest, was many miles from the nearest barony. It simply was not worth the time and effort of the closest local baron to add it to his holdings.
The entire farm was almost four acres in size. It featured a reasonably kept, whitewashed stone cottage, a barn made of mixed stones and heavily weathered lumber, a few patched and ragged animal pens, a small, fenced cemetery, and a little beyond that barn, a battered chicken coop that was now in the process of being cleaned. It was a young woman with long white-blonde hair pulled back into a loose bun at the nape of her neck and large, dark brown eyes that contained occasional flashes of copper and gold.
She was almost finished cleaning the coop, after a long, hot day of shoveling and scrubbing. It was thankless work as the hens, being only slightly above pigs in cleanliness, simply did not care how their home looked and smelled, unlike the humans who had to collect their freshly laid eggs on a daily basis.
The small flock of elderly hens that clucked at her, done for the day with hunting for juicy, protein-rich bugs outside, were disturbed by Aya’s continued intrusion, as they wanted to settle back into their nests, and she had broken the relative peace of their comfortable, although stinking, wood and wire home. She wondered why she even bothered to do more than shovel out the collected manure, as it did not matter how much one scrubbed, the stink never went away. It truly seemed to be an exercise in futility.
After changing out the straw in the last two nesting boxes, it was a blessing to be able to step out of the cramped, humid coop, into the fresh, early evening air. Aya had to remind herself not to use her filthy hand to brush her hair, which had escaped its tether at the nape of her neck, out of her eyes.
As she gazed out into the waning day, she watched the rainbow-colored flight of dragons and their riders on their evening flyover, now traveling along the edge of the forest that lay about a quarter mile from where she stood. It took Aya a moment before she remembered to breathe again.
The dragons always astounded her, no matter how many times she might see them. Despite the creatures’ great size, they seemed so very graceful as they made their way through the air. They dipped and soared, wingtip to wingtip, in a wondrous aerial ballet.
She did not remember ever having seen them on the ground, which she found surprising. You would think they would have to land sometime if only to rest the muscles that supported and moved their massive wings.
As far as she could tell, they came in every conceivable color, and even a few she had never thought existed. Even if she would never be able to have a dragon of her very own, just being able to touch one, once, would be reward enough for her patience.
2
Aya had wanted a dragon for as long as she could remember. They consumed her thoughts, day and night. She would see members of the elite, mysterious Dragonguard, mounted atop the fabulous beasts that dwarfed their riders in comparison, and her sense of jealousy would be overwhelming. Her emotional response to seeing them was always visceral, something deep down inside her that made her whole body start thrumming with excitement. Something told Aya that she was meant to be among their number, but her life seemed not to reflect that feeling.
Once upon a time, she had shared that excitement with her parents, but her down-to-earth parents quickly knocked down her enthusiasm. After all, why would the Dragonguard want a slip of a girl like her, someone who only had two sets of clothes to her name, and those patched and worn?
Constantly reminded by her father that she was little more than a servant, and only a girl besides, Aya’s chances of joining that auspicious company were little to none. It hurt, knowing that was the case. He told her that only the highest ranked, and most privileged of men were given the opportunity to ride a dragon, much less own one. Look at him. He was nearly half a century old and had never gotten within fifty feet of a dragon.
As she had left their small fa
rm fewer than five times in her sixteen years of life, and then only to the closest village, Aya had had far less experience with the world than he had, so he must know something she did not. At least, that is what he often reminded her.
Determined to prove him wrong, to show she was both clever and worthy, Aya had searched the forest for hours on end for dragon eggs. But she never found any, to her great disappointment. Aya wondered where a dragon would lay her eggs, or even if they laid eggs at all, as she had once seen a harmless, shiny, black and green snake by the pond, giving birth to dozens of exquisite little miniatures of herself on the shore, before slipping back into the concealment of the algae-rich primordial broth.
The resident snakes ate the frogs and tadpoles that might otherwise overrun the pond, and the snakes sometimes fed the hawks and owls who often glided soundlessly over the surface of the crops, ever vigilant for the unwary rodent that had strayed too far from its burrow.
Reptiles must be a tasty alternative to rodents, Aya thought, but that did not make her at all curious about how they tasted. She would leave that sort of culinary curiosity to the raptors. Then her mind wandered into wondering what the dragons ate. Whatever it was, it must be substantial.
An entire bullock, perhaps? And then, how often? Were they like snakes, who only ate once every few days, and spent the time in between laying out in the hot sun? Or did they need to eat daily? She hoped she might one day have the opportunity to ask that question and get an answer that had real knowledge behind it.
Aya’s father had told her to accept her lot in life, as that was the way things were, but she refused to accept his assertion. She was 16 years old, now only a year or two from some an arranged marriage, which she also did not want either. She wanted exploration and adventure, not a home to which she would be tied for the rest of her life. Hungry mouths to feed and clothes to wash.
She had recently heard her parents discussing her marriage prospects, late at night, when they thought she was asleep. Her parents were fortunate enough to have their sleeping chamber, instead of sharing the main room with their children. Unfortunately for them, as the cottage was not very large, every little noise would grab one’s attention, and such an expectation of privacy was unreasonable.
Almost without exception, the candidates she had heard her parents discuss were older men, some of whom already had children from wives who had passed on, and she did not want to be a mother to children who were old enough to be her siblings. Nor had she any desire to play nursemaid to a husband in his dotage. Her father seemed more focused on securing a lucrative match, rather than his daughter’s future happiness, while her mother seemed more concerned with Aya’s prospects for that happiness.
Aya knew that while her parents discussed her marriage prospects together, it would be her father’s decision who she married, and then he would finalize those arrangements. Her mother had not married for love but had been one of many daughters to a townsman with two young sons. When Andagebi’s father had approached Hadabeni with an offer to take young Zoraya off his hands, Aya’s grateful grandfather, no fool he, had leaped at the opportunity.
She wondered what her father would offer as her dowry to her future husband’s family. Theirs was not a wealthy family, and what little they had was necessary for the running of their small farm. Perhaps a ham or two, or even a live hog. She knew her worth to her father.
All Aya wanted was a dragon on which she could fly away from all of that, secure in knowing that she was tied no longer to the land, but had become one with the air itself. It would not even matter if it were male or female if it took her away from the life she now led. How wonderful it must be to fly so high above everyone and everything. She could think of nothing else she desired more. Maybe she would find an egg one day that would successfully hatch out a great beast, but she had begun to believe she would never have that chance. She became convinced that she would grow old and die, forced to tend her future husband’s farm and brood.
Heaving a great sigh, Aya picked up the basket of small brown eggs from the top of the fencepost and went inside.
3
“Thank you for bringing in the eggs, Aya,” said her mother, Zoraya, as the girl placed the battered old woven reed basket atop the kitchen table. It never ceased to amaze Aya that her mother always seemed to know what was going on around her, without having to look. Indeed, she had not even turned around from the fire, over which she was tending the contents of their precious, but well-worn, iron cookpot. “Please put them in the cool cupboard. I don’t know when I will be using them.”
“The Dragonguard were out again, Mama,” she told her mother, excitement coloring her tone. She heard Zoraya sigh and regretted her words. Even now, Aya would forget herself and blurt out the wrong thing. This was one of those “wrong things.”
“I know you covet one for yourself, daughter, and perhaps I understand, but please keep your observations to yourself when your father is near. You know such talk only upsets him,” Zoraya told Aya without turning to look at her daughter. “You should be old enough by now to know that avoiding beatings is for the best.”
“Yes, Mama,” Aya replied, crestfallen that her mother had cut her short.
The smells from the iron pot caught her attention, inside and out. Whatever was in that pot smelled very tasty.
Aya’s stomach growled at her as she put the eggs away. Tonight’s supper would not be a bland or spare one that much was certain. It would be a welcome change from the scanty meals of the past few days before her brother Gebi had made the long-postponed journey to the closest village for the supplies they lacked.
Already a shrewd bargainer, Gebi took only the best of their produce and goods with him for sale and barter. When he returned, Gebi had most of what he had been sent to obtain, along with a few coppers and silvers.
He had also taken the last pup from their old dog’s litter, a sizeable brindle female, and Aya’s favorite, and traded her for a few yards of coarse-woven brown cloth. She was not sure yet if she should treasure or hate whatever was made from it.
“Hopefully the hens will feel inspired and lay a few more eggs overnight,” her mother said, as she gently stirred the contents of the pot, either not hearing Aya’s gastric complaint, or choosing to ignore it. Most likely the latter. Zoraya knew very well that her daughter had not eaten since breakfast. The yeasty aroma of baking bread that still hung in the air added to the maddening aroma of the cottage’s interior.
“Oh, the black hen is ready for the stew pot, I think, Mama,” Aya replied. “I left her in the coop until you are ready for her. She hasn’t laid an egg for at least two weeks now.”
“Do it first thing tomorrow morning, and I will be able to stew the meat all day long. It is the only way to make an old hen edible, you know,” Zoraya said. “I do not know why you waited this long.”
A compliment from her mother would have been nice, but Zoraya seemed incapable of that. Aya had not assumed, and that should have meant something to her, she thought. Aya had gotten into trouble for making such decisions on her own in the past, and knew better than to do it again.
Yes, Aya did know how to cook an old hen, as she had borne the duty of the slaughtering of crippled and barren hens for at least the past six years. Mother rarely dirtied herself anymore with the messy, unpleasant chores, preferring to set her daughter to those tasks, and staying indoors as much as possible. Zoraya’s skin, once as pale as her daughter’s was now, while she was still young, had long ago turned wrinkled, dark brown and leathery from long days working outside in the kitchen garden, the damage already was done.
“We cannot afford to keep feeding hens who don’t lay,” her mother muttered, half under her breath. “No sense in wasting good food, after all.”
Aya refrained from reminding her mother that the hens fended for themselves when it came to food, as saying anything would only have gotten her into trouble. It was how they kept the grubs and other insects out of their tidy little kitchen garden
. Those rich little treats resulted in brilliant yellow yolks that burst in your mouth with rich goodness when you devoured them whole.
All of their hens were on the elderly side, and they were either going to have to buy new hen chicks at the market or get a rooster and hope the hens were fertile enough to lay viable eggs. Again, though, this was not something Aya could bring up to her mother. She only knew that there were going to be at least seven chicken stews in her future.
“Is there anything I can do to help with tonight’s supper, Mama,” she asked politely, hoping as she always did, that there would be nothing for her. Hope took that moment to fly away.
“Yes, there is. Wash your hands, twice, and then peel the turnips for me after you fetch the small ale barrel from the cellar. Your father and brother should be back in soon, and I would like to have supper ready for the table when they return.”
Her mother still had not turned around from the fireplace. The soft, dull scrape of the long wooden spoon against the inside of the pot was soothing and almost hypnotic in its regularity.
“Don’t dawdle, child. Be quick about it!”
So much for going outside again to watch for more dragons.
Soon, Aya was scrubbing and then peeling four sizeable turnips. Once she had removed the purple and white skins, she diced them small and threw them into the pot. Aya thriftily saved the turnip peels for the morning’s hog slops. Always a thrifty person, nothing went to waste if Aya had a hand in things.
After making certain there was nothing else her mother needed, Aya took the time to wash her face and comb out her long platinum blonde hair before plaiting it into a single long, thick braid that hung to just below her waist. She would need to get up early in the morning to give her hair a good wash, but for now, it was acceptable. She treasured the comb that her brother had carved for her from a cow’s rib bone a few winters ago. It had been his Winter Solstice gift to her that year, and she kept it in the hide sheath he had also made that year for her to store it safely.