A Trail of Embers

by C A Kinnee

  He poked his spoon into the medino pie as his appetite dried up like a shriveled prune. They had poisoned him all right. They’d left him lying on the floor of the forest, sleeping like a baby. One of them had even tucked his cloak around him. The gold coin on his chest was payment for his information. His gut clenched at the memory.

  When he’d opened his eyes, silence mocked him. That should have been warning enough. He’d staggered to his feet, and nursing his pounding head, tracked the men to the dragon’s lair.

  The wards were severed. The dragon lay on her nest, long neck extended, its deep ring of scarlet like a bleeding wound against the emerald green of her scales. Her silver wings were spread as if ready to fly. Only the steady hiss of her breath proved she lived. Then he had discovered the theft of the egg. The charred edge of the hollow where it had lain was mocking proof of its existence.

  Beside him, the wagon master finished his meal and belched in appreciation.

  “It’s good, boy. Eat it,” he said, nodding in satisfaction.

  Kieran picked at the crust and tore off a piece of the heavy bread that accompanied the pie. He chewed slowly. Surely that would be free of poison.

  The loss of the Harmony egg sent him to the First. That was the hardest part. His stupidity meant the people of the forest faced the greatest danger ever to befall them.

  The First was kind. He’d listened and sent men to the nest. They found the dragon as Kieran described. They said it was the work of the Mage of Remarne. The bluish glow from the half-eaten ox found beside the nest showed the dragon was drugged with mindnumb, a powerful sleeping draught. She would sleep for seven darknesses. When she woke, she would search for her egg. She would level the land, and all hope of harmony between his people and the dragon would be lost.

  Shakala had left them alone for three hundred years. In turn, they kept man from her lair and gave her gifts of respect, all part of the bargain sealed by Makeion many years before. Now the Harmony egg had arrived. Man, and dragon would be linked in peace and prosperity. Shakala had been choosey in the picking of her mate. Many had given up on the truth of the prophecy, but with the long-awaited joining of dragons and birth of the egg, fulfillment was here. If Kieran didn’t recover her lost offspring, there would be no link. If Kieran didn’t recover the egg, no one would survive the dragon’s wrath.

  Sent from the room as the First called his most experienced scouts and gathered his most powerful wizards, Kieran collected his things and prepared his own search. His scouting skills were as sound as anyone’s. The way he saw it, finding the egg was his responsibility. He couldn’t return to his people until he did. No one named him outcast; his self-loathing did that for itself.

  Chapter 5

  You sleep.

  I take comfort in your presence.

  I sense your heartbeat as the shadows fall.

  Are you the one?

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  Meara wrinkled her nose. It wasn’t right. Her dream was full of flowers and sunshine, not sewage and rot.

  “No,” she protested, curling into a ball and tugging her cloak up under her chin.

  Waking triggered a burning itch in her nose. It demanded scratching. She fumbled a hand free, gave her nose a hard rub, and tried to open her eyes against the rime of mud rimming her lashes. Failing, she rolled over and swiped her arm over her face, smearing sticky muck down her cheeks and into her mouth. The taste gagged her, and she sat up spitting.

  “Baa,” she muttered, her face puckering in disgust.

  Judging by the dryness of her tongue, she’d been asleep for hours. A look at the sky drove all thoughts of mud from her head. Night had crept in while she slept, its dark hues gobbling up the purple rain clouds. Heart pounding, she twisted scanning the drooping shadows. The people of the street whispered of strange things that roamed the alleys by night. They said darkness fed their frenzied killings. In the labyrinth of ancient alleys, anything could be prowling in search of . . .

  She wasn’t alone. Her blood cooled, gelling at the feel of a hard oval of heat pressed against her ribcage. Carefully, she inhaled. The thing moved. She gathered her muscles, shifting her hips ready for a quick escape. The thing stirred, molding tighter to her side.

  Abandoning any hope of a stealthy escape, Meara sprang backwards, scrambling crab-like through the mud. The object dropped free and rolled to a rest at the base of the pitted brick wall. It broke the silence with a low keening wail. Wrist deep in muck, Meara froze. A glow filled the alley, rising and falling in time with the object’s cry. Now more curious than fearful, Meara inched towards it, ready to fly at the first hint of threat. She paused an arm’s length from it and stretched a tentative finger to touch the rough crusted shell of iridescent blue and gold. A soft pulse thumped beneath her fingertips.

  Was it alive?

  In answer, it whimpered. The broken sound made her heart contract.

  “What are you?” she said.

  The shell cooled. Its light dwindled, leaving behind a sense of numbing cold and growing lethargy. So much unhappiness . . . so alone . . . Meara blinked and shook her head.

  The feeling faded, and a thrill of energy sparked from the object. It arced over Meara’s fingers in a rush of fire. Hissing in pain, she jerked her hand back. A wave of dizziness swamped her. Swaying, she leaned unsteadily over the globe that was half-buried in the mud before her. She was lost, cold, cut off from . . . Her eyes snapped open. Where was she? Panicked, she ran her eyes over the empty alley. What had happened? Her thoughts swirled in tangled chaos. She pressed her hands to her face. One thought teased its way through the gnarl to rise above the rest. The globe—she had to protect it.

  There. Relief surged through her. She would protect the globe. Confusion followed. Why? She shook her head and frowned in puzzlement. The reason floated nebulously out of reach. No matter. She worked her cloak free from under her and wrapped it around the globe, gathering the object close, tucking it up against her heart. A wave of peace passed through her. She felt a steady heat flowing from the globe. It melted the ice encasing her bones.

  “What are you?” she repeated.

  Murkwing fluttered down from a nearby roof and hopped across the mud. He spread his wings and poked his beak at her.

  “Where did you escape to?” she said, climbing to her feet.

  Moving was a mistake. Dizziness dropped her to her knees. She clawed at the alley wall to keep from falling, slumping against it. Eyes closed tightly, she rested her forehead against the cold bricks. If only the world would stop spinning . . . She breathed in deeply, willing away the black dots whizzing in front of her eyes. Slowly, the world was solid once more. Dragging herself upright, she touched an egg-sized lump sprouting from her forehead. A wicked bump, she thought, gently feeling the expanding lump. Since when did she run blindly into the dark? She shook her head in disgust, instantly regretting the motion as the alley started another slow revolution in front of her. She looked down at the globe tucked in the blanket of her cloak.

  “It was you that made the colors dance, wasn’t it?” she said. “Can you do it again?”

  The globe purred.

  Meara looked around, half-expecting to see the soft glow of lights.

  “Are you magic?” she whispered, touching the shell, feeling heat travel through her fingers. “It doesn’t matter. By finder’s rights, you’re mine,” she continued. “And I am going to keep you.”

  Bending, she wrapped the object more snuggly in her cloak, pausing to swipe a dribble of mud from one eye.

  Murkwing squawked. The raven had no interest in mysterious golden globes. Why keep it if you couldn’t eat it? He snapped his wings open and screeched, before lurching into flight. Still scolding, he faded into the gloom.

  Meara paid no attention to the bird’s departure. Was the globe treasure? In the tales of the traveling musicians, a find like this was always worth untold riches. A prickle of unease muddled her happiness. It was luck, wasn’t it?
Finding the globe was a good thing. Nothing this beautiful could bring evil . . . could it? Best sell it, she decided. Her heart skipped and hot blood pounded in her ears at the thought. The globe shivered and cooled to the temperature of ice on a puddle.

  Shaken, Meara hugged it closer and muttered, “My brain is scrambled. I almost think you understand me.”

  The growling of her stomach moved her mind from the globe. Absently, she rubbed the aching spot in her belly. The half-rotten apple she had stolen was paying her back for the theft. She should be finding food, not trying to solve the mystery of the globe. When a bite of apple and a lot of nothing filled your belly, it was hard to gather the wits to think clearly. She’d eat and then think about her newfound wealth. For once, she would make an exception to her rule to keep to herself. She would let Mama Shay Lann feed her.

  She shifted the globe. Its heat had grown uncomfortable and she was thankful for the double layer of cloak between it and her.

  Dizziness made her move slowly. Slow kept the spinning at bay, and more importantly, with luck, would keep her from disturbing anything larger than one of the countless rats populating the alley. Ten big steps and she would be at the mouth of the passage with a clear view of the street.

  Around her shadows stretched like purple monsters eating up the light. The wind was rising, sifting past her, toying with the edges of her cloak, flaring it into sinister shapes that clawed the ground in front of her. She needed to find the open street. The darkness of the alley made her imagination conjure things that made her heart thump and hands tremble.

  A flash of movement snapped her eyes to the dark space behind her. A skinny feral cat had cornered a rat against the wall. Growling and hissing, the tangled ball of gray-striped fur and the dirty white rat clashed in battle. In a lightning strike, the rat raked its teeth across the cat’s tattered ear. Howling in rage, the cat released the rat. Blood splattered striped and white fur alike. The rat lunged for freedom, but the cat was faster. With a snap of its head, it caught the rat, tossed it high and pounced in a scrabble of claws.

  Meara flattened herself against the wall as the scrawny cat streaked past, the squirming rat clamped in its jaws. She staggered five of her ten steps to the alley entrance before she forced herself to stop. It would do her no good to bolt into the hands of Zarnache. She laughed raggedly.

  “Fool,” she whispered. “Only rats and the watch are out on a night like this.”

  At least, she hoped that were true. Nervously she glanced back at the darkness, trying to see through gloom that draped dark shadows over gaping holes in the alley walls. The ongoing darkness had everyone twitching at shadows. It’s nothing, she consoled herself. Don’t think about Danlon par Daire and his houseguest. The streets buzzed with the tale. Everyone claimed to know someone who had seen the strange creature Danlon took in.

  “Stop,” she muttered, cuddling the cloak-wrapped globe closer. “Danlon died of old man’s disease, nothing else.”

  The globe twitched and chattered softly.

  Swish . . . A raspy sound like leather over rock started in the darkness behind her. The sound, half-buried in the rising wind, sent Meara swiveling backwards. She tilted her head and opened her eyes wider, trying to see through the murk. Her legs turned to stone and horror crawled over her in an icy rush of goose bumps. Fool. She should have known something had forced the rat into the clutches of the cat, and the cat bolting from its rich hunting ground. The feral cats never left the alleys. There had to be a good reason for this one to abandon the dark for the openness of the road. She looked up at the rough wooden roof over her head. It was a crawling nest of shrinking, growing shadows that twisted and turned, hiding its contents from view.

  “There’s nothing there,” she whispered taking a backwards step towards the alley mouth. A shadow darker than the rest separated from the others. It glided towards her.

  Her breath caught in her throat.

  The shape took solid form, sliding forward, the strange leathery rasp of sound marking its advance. Its path carried it past a haphazardly piled stack of bricks and it stumbled, knocking the pile. Bricks tumbled end over end and rolled to rest at Meara’s feet.

  Pressed tightly against the alley wall, Meara made herself as small as possible. The thing, bigger than three of the large cats that populated the alley, clambered from the dark on flat, horny paws. Its leathery body was heavily armored, yet it almost floated over the mud, dragging its long-pointed tail behind it. The tail left deep cuts in the mud.

  If you don’t move, it won’t see you. Meara flinched. How did she know that?

  The creature sensed the tiny movement. Its crested head swiveled on its blocky neck, making the interlinked armor crunch like grinding teeth.

  Stay steady. It can’t smell you. It only senses your motion. That’s how it hunts.

  Again, the quiet certainty in the back of her mind kept her from panic. The stink of rotting flesh drove all thoughts from her mind. She heaved silently and then painstakingly drew her arm up to cover her lower face, leaving only her eyes exposed to watch the creature.

  It was now in front of her, its long tail sliding past her feet. Stay. Wait. There. The frozen stiffness in her legs melted. She sagged against the wall but she had relaxed too soon. The heavy knob of the creature’s tail was tangled in the folds of her cloak. The creature lurched to a stop. Confused by the sudden loss in momentum, it swung its head towards her and snuffled wetly. Grainy mucous leaked from its egg-sized nostrils. Its panting breaths were so close, they ruffled the folds of her cloak. Meara clamped her teeth together and held her breath. Wide glowing eyes stared through her. Its thick nostrils slapped together—in and out—in and out. Slowly, the creature circled back to stand at her feet like a faithful dog at his master’s toes.

  I am stone. Ice. If I move, I am dead. The certainty behind the thought held her as still as the stone statue in the market place.

  Lazily, the creature turned in another half-circle as if planning to settle at her toes.

  Meara held the globe so tightly that her hands formed white claws. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

  There. Meara closed her eyes. It was moving again, this time away from her, but its heavy tail was still caught up in the hem of her cloak. The thin wool, heavy with rain, stretched until with a sodden plop, the ratty fabric parted. Suddenly free, the thing turned back. Thick yellow slobber leaked down its broken tusks and dribbled over Meara’s toes. She closed her eyes and shook in time with the globe.

  Near the back of the alley, a rat scrabbled across the bricks. The click of claws was loud in the silence. The creature in front of her shifted, listening to the sound of the rat. Its head swung side to side as it followed the rodent’s passage through the alley. Its long whip of tail rose off the ground and undulated like a snake. Meara watched hypnotized. With mind-numbing speed, the creature charged back into the shadows. The heavy tail whipped across her ankle and Meara bit back a scream.

  The rat shrieked in the dark. Meara froze, afraid to move. Her heart rattled in her chest. Finally, unable to bear the stillness, she pushed away from the wall. Across the alley, a second rat poked its head free of the broken bricks. It scuttled over a shattered crate and vanished into the shadows. The movement snapped the invisible cords holding her. She stumbled over the bricks and fell headlong against the rough mortared wall.

  “Merdon,” she muttered, scrubbing at the pain in her elbow. “You jump at the run of a rat but stand still and let that thing nibble at your toes.”

  Now she believed the story of Danlon par Daire, but there were more monsters than Danlon’s guest to be found in the alleys. She swallowed dryly and stared back at the shadows until her eyes burned. She rubbed them with her fists and looked again. She could think of nothing but Danlon’s guest. Have you grown roots? Move, she commanded. Or are you waiting for it to come back?

  Danlon’s guest could creep up walls and slide through cracks the size of your thumb. They said it had slithered through a cra
ck in the fortressed wall, leaving Danlon’s shell behind in a room locked and shuttered, that it sucked the very soul from his body. Forniche par Ennon told everyone he met that he had seen the left-over husk of fat Danlon. That the body was as dry and thin as bread left too long in the sun. What about the creature she had seen—what could it do? She shivered.

  The globe twitched and a trickle of warmth melted the icy sludge surrounding her. She tottered forward, her feet moving faster as she neared the road. Was it her imagination, or did eyes nibble the gap between her shoulder blades? A gust of wind flipped up the hem of her cloak, and a blast of cold fear shivered through her. She stumbled on a broken board and fell onto the open road. The globe chattered as she struck the ground, rolling through the mud. Slowly she crawled to her feet.

  Chapter 6

  Carefully I wait and listen.

  I hear your thoughts,

  they fill my soul.

  Do you hear mine?

  Translated from the Chronicles of the Egg

  The transition from alley to open road let Meara relax and move faster. The feeling of watching eyes slackened, and her usual upbeat spirits returned the smile to her face. At least here, even if the rain drowned her, she would die in the open. Away from the alley she could pretend the thing she saw was nothing more than a large ugly cat. She could convince herself that the bump on the head had tricked her into seeing something that wasn’t really there.

  Out on the street, she had to stay close to the shadows but only as near as she could bear. The worry now was Zarnache and the watch, but she was more than a match for them. Besides, by now Zarnache would be at his special table in the back room of the Inn of the Whispering Woman, swapping lies with his men. If she were lucky, he had forgotten the stolen apple. The long dark awoke the worst in people. It wouldn’t be long until some new crime occupied his mind. The streets should be safe enough for her to make her way.