Shiny Things!

Chapter 14: In which Madrul remembers some changes

2005-11-30T17:32:00.000-08:00

Chapter 14

Several months later, the morning sun touched the face of the cave and filled it with a warm golden glow. It fell across the talon-marked ledge and two empty mats, rolled tightly up against the wall. The cave was empty.

Along the depths of the tunnel, the rock walls trembled with noise and heat as a mouth far below, within the forge’s chamber, slowly spoke the words to control the temperature of the magma pool. There was a surge through the air as the magma bubbled and heated, stirred by restless bubbles, and then fell down into cooler shades.

Madrul, dressed in his leather smock and boots, with the gloves on his hands, lifted a pair of tongs quickly from the magma. The metal held by the tongs glowed bright red as he swung it through the air and laid it on his workbench.

Drademar sat nearby and watched as he picked up one of the larger hammers and began to swing. The metal rang as the hammer rose and fell, filling the air with the sonorous booming of the inside of a large bell. He worked the metal over slowly, and Drademar only spoke three times to correct what he did. He was rather proud of that.

Xivodo was seated nearby; he too watched as Madrul worked, but made no comment. He was not entirely idle, however; he held in his hand a large round of wood that he was carefully whittling down into what would fit as a proper cover over the barrel in the cave above. Madrul had finally worked up his nerve to make the suggestion to Drademar, and had been surprised by its acceptance. He had worked on the project himself, going with Xivodo to the depths of the nearby forest to locate a felled tree large enough to provide the needed wood and slicing a chunk from it. They had worked together, rolling it across the lumpy field and almost losing it in the stream; then almost losing it a second time when they had both been pushing it up the path and had almost let it go. Now, however, his mornings were consumed in the heavy work of smithing and his afternoons with studying. He had grown more proficient at reading. And in the late evenings, Xivodo, who had been trained, was teaching him how to use a sword.

He grinned. It had been almost four weeks after Xivodo arrived before Drademar had officially called the youth his apprentice, and they had made a journey to the city to find a formal contractor who had written up the pieces of paper that were proof of their apprenticeships. Now when he went to the city to get supplies and see Iakena--they made the trip once every two or three weeks, but Drademar alternated between taking Xivodo and taking Madrul--he carried the paper in an inner pouch tied tightly to his belt.

Drademar spoke a sharp word and Madrul turned his attention back to the piece of metal he was working on. It was not good for him to let his thoughts wander amidst the forging. Every ounce of his soul should be focused on the one glowing strip underneath his hammer and tongs.

He returned the metal to the fire and let it heat up before bringing it back to his work bench and continuing to shape it. Though Drademar would never admit it, he was getting better at the forging. He was by no means a master, but he had acquired the rudimentary skills required to learn a mastery.

After a long time, Xivodo got to his feet and put away the knife he had been using for whittling. “I think the lid is done, Master,” he said.

“Then go see if it fits,” Drademar said.

The youth nodded and rolled the piece of wood out of the cavern and up the tunnel, listening with a smile to the sound of the hammer on steel. When he reached the cave he hefted the lid onto the barrel and tested it. It covered the barrel sufficiently but it was not perfect; he took the knife out and started whittling again until the edge was properly formed. Then he turned to the books that he, too, had been reading, opened one, and settled down.

When Madrul returned from the tunnel several hours later, he stripped off the apron and gloves and folded them into a neat pile by his bed. Then he bent and pulled off the boots, which were still uncomfortable but which by sheer necessity he had gotten used to, and laced up his sandals. He too took up a book and returned to reading.

The books were all about magic; its principles and its uses, common spells and particularly strange spells, the use of runes or sigils to represent a spell that should be read, and the use of herbs and other ingredients in spells that should be consumed or applied. The first book he had read was far too long for him, but he in his growing curiosity over the subject, enjoyed every moment of it. He had taken the book with him when he went for water in the early morning, and it was his reading more than anything else that had saved him from overworked days and nights of long labor.

As the sun approached midday, Madrul finished the current book and placed it in the pile with the others he had finished. Xivodo was a faster reader than he was, but he did not care. He got to his feet and stretched, thinking over the spell that had made up the very last pages of the book. There was a sigil or two, a rune in the spell, that he had seen before in similar spells for cleanliness or casting out spirits. The blade he was working on was a ceremonial knife, for sacrificing goats; he wondered if he could put the sigils on the blade and what sort of effect they would have. He would like it if the blade was unable to keep a stain of blood on it. That would certainly be useful.

Absently he went to the barrel, encountered the lid, and grinned at Xivodo. “So it worked out, then.”

Xivodo nodded absently and went back to his book as Madrul pried off the lid and checked the water level. It could use a few good bucketsful; he had done his share of quenching today, and Drademar might have more work for the evening.

With a sigh, he took down the buckets from the wall and started down the mountain path to the distant stream. Sometimes it seemed like all of his apprenticeship had been spent walking the path like this.

He remembered the day, no more than two weeks earlier, when he had gotten to the bottom of the hill and found men on horseback at the stream.

He half expected to see them now; he could clearly picture them in his mind. Their horses were fine, tall animals--only the rich could afford horses on an island that had little use for the creatures, being overburdened with an abundance of narrow pathways through forests and lacking decent roads for the majority of all but the perimeter of the island. But these men had ridden their horses through the forest; slowly enough, it seemed, for one had made mention eventually of the weeks they had been on the road. They wore cloth of the finest weave, dyed a variety of colors that Madrul knew would make for expensive tunics. It would have taken his mother weeks to achieve a shade that rich of yellow and blue. Their togas were embroidered heavily as well, and a few of the men wore northern style robes and loose leggings. Their richness was emphasized by both their jewelry and by the fact that half of the group that had come were servants who were meant to wait on the men and care for their horses.

One of the men in the lead had given Madrul a haughty look and spoken a sharp word to one of the men caring for the horse he sat on. The man looked up, ducked his head at the man on horseback, and came over to where Madrul was carefully stepping over the rocks that littered the base of the mountain. “You there,” he called, his tone almost as haughty as his master’s look had been. “Boy.”

Madrul made his way over the rocks until he stood next to the man. “Yes?” he said quietly.

“My master, Lord Struidsen, wishes to address the dragon. Do you know where we might find him?”

“Assuredly,” said Madrul. “If you will allow me a moment, I will show you the way myself.” Without waiting for the man’s acquiescence he strode over to the stream, bent, and filled the buckets.

When he had finished he looked up at the servant, who had addressed his master to communicate what Madrul had said, though Madrul was sure that this Lord Struidsen had assuredly heard him himself. The man on horseback nodded sharply, and the servant said, “We will follow you to the dragon, boy.”

Madrul nodded, maintaining an expression of polite interest on his face, and tread quickly back to the path. When he reached the base of the volcano, he turned to the men who followed him and said clearly, “It would be best if you left the horses here.”

The men did not appear to hear him, and he decided that trying to talk to them was useless. He instead focused his gaze on the servant who had originally addressed him and said, “Horses do not react well to the scent of a dragon, and I doubt your master and his honorable companions would wish to be thrown from the path. It is a long way down.”

The servant communicated this to his master, as if there was some secret language which only the two of them spoke; as if translating from real world into noble. The lord turned to his companions and spoke a few words; then they all dismounted at once, and the servants scurried this way and that. Some held onto reins; these remained at the bottom of the path as Madrul started up. The rest arrayed themselves around their masters as if to protect them from all sorts of lurking, hidden dangers that the path obviously contained.

Madrul suppressed a snort of laughter, inclined his head slightly, and turned to trod up the path. His leg muscles moved him powerfully up the incline he had climbed several times a day for months now. It was only when he had gone a good many yards up the slope that he realized the noblemen were lagging behind badly. He paused to set down a bucket and rest one hand, leaning against the path as if greatly exhausted and subtly trying to give them time to catch up. After a long moment, when they began to approach him again, he picked up the bucket and moved on his way, going as slowly as he deemed possible.

By the time they reached the ledge, the masters were leaning bodily on the servants here and there, panting and sweating, big round drops of salty liquid rolling down their fat cheeks and necks. Not all of them were so out of shape, but about half of the group stood there breathing hard for a long moment before entering the cave.

Madrul saw them all inside, waiting politely at the entrance. It was only as the last of them were passing him that he saw Xivodo’s father, clad in dark gray as if in mourning, go by. He had not recognized the man until now, and he felt suddenly cold. What if these men had come to do something about Xivodo? If they thought the dragon had hurt the boy... or if his father had made a formal complaint...

But then Madrul remembered the written contracts, and he smiled just a little. There was nothing they could do without going against the law now that Xivodo and Drademar had signed the same piece of paper.

“If you would care to wait here,” said Madrul once they were all inside, “I will go see if Lord Drademar will see you now.” He knew that Drademar did have the title of ‘lord’ from his own land, a title that put him at the least on rank with all of those present; his status as a master should put him above them. He brushed past the men without inviting them to sit (it was hardly his place to invite others to sit in the home of his master) and hurried down the tunnel.

Xivodo was at the forge, hammering, with Drademar hovering over his shoulder and pouring out instructions. Madrul waited until the dragon noticed him, and then he said, “Master Drademar, there is a group of noblemen to see you.”

“Noblemen?” Drademar lifted one scaly eye ridge. He sighed deeply. “Quench that strip, Xivodo,” he said, and the youth obeyed, turning his face away from the steam that rose from the water-filled bucket. “Where are they, Madrul?”

“They are waiting in the cave.” He hesitated, and Drademar saw that and asked him what was wrong. He rubbed his toe awkwardly against the side of his leg. “Xivodo, your father is among them.”

Xivodo, in the act of drawing the quenched piece of metal from the water, stopped. For a moment he seemed frozen; then he turned and set the strip and the tongs down on the work bench. Drademar was watching him, as was Madrul, but he only let a flicker of worry cross his face before he smiled.

Drademar scowled. “Perhaps you should wait here, Xivodo. This should not take too long.”

Xivodo shook his head sadly. There was a dark grey streak of ash along one cheek, and his toga was dirty. “I have not seen my father since the night I left him to come here, Master Drademar,” he said. “I would like to see him again, even if the meeting is unpleasant. Please, sir,” he added, when Drademar looked uncertain.

The dragon sighed gustily. “Very well.” He turned and treaded, catlike, up the tunnel with the two young men following closely behind him. Madrul glanced at Xivodo, but in the darkness of the tunnel he could not determine an expression on his friend’s face.
As Drademar entered the cavern and moved to face the group of noblemen in much the same way he had once faced Xivodo and his parents, Madrul darted around him to recover the buckets of water and dump them into the barrel. Then he and Xivodo moved to sit down on their bed mats. Each young man reached for a book or scroll from the pile that lay between them, and started to read, but neither could keep their ears from the conversation that the noblemen had started with Drademar.

“I welcome you to my house, sirs,” said Drademar. “Please, sit down.” And he folded his tail around his legs as if he were a content feline.

The men sat down slowly, one by one, as if they were not quite sure if he really intended them to sit on the ground. It had probably been years, Madrul surmised, since most of them had sat cross legged and on anything other than soft cushions. When they were all seated, Lord Struidsen shifted and leaned forward slightly. “How do things go in your house?” he asked politely.

Drademar’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and Madrul gave himself a small nod of satisfaction. He was right--they would insist on this being a formal gathering. He nudged Xivodo with his foot and put down the scroll, leading the other youth down the tunnel to the dark, cool cavern they used as a cool storeroom for those things that did not keep many weeks. They gathered bowls of grapes and small dishes, and Xivodo carried the big pitcher of cold fruit juice that had been made for these occasions. Then they returned to the main cavern to find Drademar and the men chatting about small inconsequentialities of life.

The dragon spotted the two boys as they came in, and a smile briefly touched his face. “It has been a long and hot journey,” he said; though of course he was not entirely ignorant of the horses that waited at the bottom of the hill, he chose to ignore them in the sake of courtesy. “Drink, and eat some fruit, and refresh yourselves.”

Madrul bent and placed dishes of grapes and orange and red fruit slices at even spaces among the men, so that they would not have to strain to reach for it. As he did so, Xivodo carefully folded himself to the ground and began pouring out the juice into the shallow drinking bowls. He passed the first bowl, a larger one, to Drademar with a slight bow, and then moved onwards, serving the men in the relative order of their rank. As he was beginning this method, Drademar said, “I might as well take this opportunity to introduce you to my apprentices.”

Xivodo’s father, who had been watching Madrul with smoldering eyes, jerked his gaze suddenly to Drademar’s face as if shocked. The dragon went on, “The first is Madrul,” and Madrul gave a short bow to the assembled noblemen, “And the second is Xivodo.”

“Xivodo!” And the youth’s father was on his feet. The men twisted and strived to look at him, and Xivodo, who was still in the act of pouring the juice, glanced up sharply. “By every god and every star, you are alive!” And then he seized his son in an embrace, almost knocking over the pitcher of juice, which Madrul promptly moved to rescue.

Xivodo was startled, but after a moment he returned his father’s gesture, and when the two broke apart there were the first hints of tears in his eyes. “Father,” he said in a low tone.

“I thought you were dead,” his father said raggedly, tears gathering in his eyes unashamedly, and the men glanced away politely. “But instead... here...” and his face went hard. “Drademar, what have you done to him?” he demanded angrily.

Madrul took a quick step forward to stand next to the dragon but Xivodo was faster. He stepped away from his father a half a pace and put out one hand. “Please do not say a word against Lord Drademar, father,” he said sharply. “I left of my own volition, and stayed only because he was gracious enough to allow me.” His father started to speak but Xivodo shook his head. “No, it was not in any way his fault. I chose to come here. You knew of my desire to learn the trade of a smith.”

“A desire most unbecoming of a boy of a noble house,” remarked one of the other men.

“It might be best if your lordship would remember that Master Drademar is both a master smith and a lord of his own people,” said Madrul quickly, half-stung, and then he bit his tongue hard to keep from a sharper retort.

“I meant no offense, Lord Drademar,” said the man quickly with the half bow to the dragon, who nodded in acceptance. “It is only that such a profession is not expected to be appealing to our young sons when there are jobs such as merchanting and politics available.”

“I can understand your confusion over the young man’s choice,” said Drademar in a smooth tone. The comment made the man look up sharply, but he could say nothing. “However, it is his choice to make. And now that we are under contract, no man or being in the world should be able to break that choice.”

“You are already contracted?” blurted Xivodo’s father.

Drademar nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I had it done the last time I was in Sevaye. I had wanted to have you present for the occasion but there was a complication involving time and I did not manage to ask you. My apologies.”

“Think nothing of it,” said Xivodo’s father rather absently. He glanced once more at his son, his face strangely changed, and then he sat down again in his spot, and Xivodo continued serving the fruit juice. Madrul sat down to one side of the group with a scroll in his lap and Xivodo joined him shortly, when the juice had all been served. For a moment, Madrul clasped his friend’s shoulder firmly; the other returned the grip, and then they each let go and sat in silence, observing the meeting.

The noblemen appeared to have had enough of the formalities, though Drademar acted as if he could chat about the weather all day. Lord Struidsen once again began to speak, and though his speech was lengthy and winding, Madrul managed to extract the knowledge that he wanted a great sword forged.

Drademar answered equally eloquent, and Madrul followed his master’s speech for some time before he realized that Drademar was accepting the request and would make the blade. He hid a scowl. All this winding talk made his head hurt.

The meeting went on for some time, and finally broke down into the small talk again. At last the noblemen took their leave, and they and their servants wound their way down the path up which they had come.

Xivodo’s father waited behind for just a short bit of time. He once again embraced Xivodo and then asked to see the written contract. “I wish,” he said, “That I could have been there.” There was a genuine wistfulness on his face and no indication that he blamed Drademar at all.

Madrul remembered the man’s last visit and before he could go he strode across the cave and approached Xivodo’s father. The man turned at him, and the expression in his eyes started as hatred but then dwindled away into a kind of unhappy acquiescence. “Well, boy,” he said. “I have no right to be upset at you now, I suppose.”

Madrul bowed deeply. “I apologize,” he said clearly. “For drawing my sword on you when you came here that first night, so long ago. I had no right to threaten a guest in my master’s household.”

Xivodo’s father blinked and after a long moment he nodded. “I accept your apology,” he said bluntly.

Madrul nodded, and turned away as Xivodo said his final farewell to his father and the man made his way down the hill after the rest of the noblemen.

Drademar had been standing at the entrance to the tunnel, watching them. As Madrul approached, his great eyes followed the young man. “Well,” he said.

“Master?” Madrul glanced up at the dragon.

“I am impressed,” Drademar said. “You had the courage to apologize for something you did wrong. I think you truly took what I said to heart, Madrul.”

Madrul swallowed. “I tried, Master,” he said.

“You should always try, Madrul,” the dragon said as he turned, his low voice drifting back to the boy from the darkened tunnel, and then he disappeared.

Chapter 13: In which some things are explained... sort of

2005-11-30T17:26:00.000-08:00

Chapter 13

The king was sweating, great round droplets of sweat rolling down the high curved forehead and the flabby lines of his cheeks. “Affection?” He laughed, shortly, raggedly--an ugly little sound. “From you, Wronsteit?”

“It takes considerable time and effort to train an apprentice, Your Majesty,” Wronsteit explained in his warm, low voice. “I would hate to waste what I put into this one.”

The king was still panting heavily, but he stood with the blade lowered and held only in one hand. He looked at it; the edge, not dulled by any of the contact it had made, gleamed again in the room’s warm light. There was a nick part of the way up the blade from when it had broken Nevaya’s own sword.

Nevaya did not know what to think. Wronsteit had given him that sword the day after they had signed the official apprentice and master contract. He had never trained with anything so suited to his build and speed. But a sword was just a sword. A swordsmaster put his heart and soul into his blade only if he forged his own, and then if it broke he himself could repair it. A gift blade was only that--a gift. Somehow he knew that it was not supposed to hold enough value for him to cry over it, but he did indeed feel like crying. What had happened to all the years and hours he had spent holding it? They were gone, shattered like dust on a bare floor in an empty house. He swallowed hard.

The king looked at him. “I broke your sword, boy,” he said, and there was still a dangerous edge to his voice. “How do you feel about that?”

“It is only a sword, Your Majesty,” he said, feeling curiously detached again.

The king laughed, and then he lifted the sword and laid the hilt across his palm, offering it to Nevaya. “Then take this one,” he said. “I no longer have any use for it.”

Nevaya carefully reached out and accepted the blade. It felt strange to take it from the king’s hands; he did not feel as if he could be Wronsteit’s apprentice with a blade from the king. But he could not disregard the gift nor the gesture; to do so would be an insult. So he took the blade, and he got to his feet and bowed to the king, muttering a low tone of gratitude.

“So Your Majesty has seen enough?” said Wronsteit.

“Indeed I have; if the emblem on the blade itself did not tell me in the first place, the quality sufficient enough to cut through another blade did. This smith is the one I seek.” Again the king seemed to have forgotten Nevaya. “You must go to him and request a very special blade.”

As he outlined the specifics, he absently handed Nevaya the sheath. The young man put the sword away and tied it onto his belt. Then he went over to where his old sword lay in pieces on the floor and he gathered those pieces and put them back into the sheath. The blade appeared whole but he knew that it was not and that thought disturbed him somewhat. Nevaya turned his attention back to the conversation between the two men.

At last the king sighed. “Very well,” he said. “You have your instructions.”

“I do, Your Majesty,” said Wronsteit.

“Then see that it is done, in your usual efficient and methodical manner.” The king smiled. “You may go.”

Wronsteit bowed, and Nevaya copied him; then the two turned and strode from the room. They were escorted back down the hallways and maze like corridors until they emerged again from a nondescript door in a nondescript wall of what Nevaya was sure was the palace. They were hurried into the carriage and then they drove away.

Nevaya desperately wanted to speak to Wronsteit about what he had seen in the king, but he knew it was not safe to do so with the uniformed guard in the carriage; nor probably throughout the rest of the city. They rode the rest of the way in silence, and the carriage stopped to drop them off a fair city’s distance from the inn. As they walked, Wronsteit sloshed through the iced over mud puddles without care. Snow had begun to fall again and Nevaya shivered underneath his new robe.

They did not go to the inn immediately, but made their way through the streets to the marketplace, where Wronsteit took the time to haggle over a variety of items that Nevaya was aware that they needed. As they lost themselves in the hubbub of crowd that made up the market even on snowy days, he grabbed Nevaya’s shoulder and said quickly in his ear, “Are you all right?”

Nevaya lifted an eyebrow at him. “I think so. But... my sword...” He was aware that his lower lip trembled slightly and he scowled against the action.

Wronsteit sighed, and the hand tightened on his shoulder. “I am sorry for that... more sorry than you could know, perhaps. But there was no way for you to refuse that fight, nor the sword that he offered.”

Nevaya nodded, somewhat unhappily. “Master, I don’t... I don’t understand,” he said. “Why is he--“

“Not here.” The grip on his shoulder tightened again. “When we are out of the city, we might be able to--ach.” He sighed. “Yes, not here.”

“Are we being watched?” Nevaya did not look around, but stepped forward and pointed to some foodstuff.

Wronsteit also stepped forward, examining it, and then pointed to the price and scowled. “Followed,” he said quietly, and then began to haggle with the shopkeeper over the price.

Nevaya did not ask him how he knew. He waited for a long moment as Wronsteit haggled and babbled, and then he acted as if he were bored and began to peruse the wares at first this stall, and then the next. He subtly examined his surroundings at the same time, and after a hard moment or two he saw a figure that he seemed to remember from before they had entered the market.

“Nevaya,” Wronsteit called; the young man obediently turned back to his master’s side and added the foodstuff to the collection of things he already carried, and they moved back into the crowd and on to the next shop they needed.

“We could lose them,” Nevaya hissed at Wronsteit as they were swept along by the crush of people.

Wronsteit shook his head. “Better to be followed by those we know are there, than by those we do not. I know what these men look like now, as do you. We can avoid mishap by making sure there are no other watchers. Although with him, I do not know...” They stopped at the closest shop and continued to buy the supplies they needed. Nevaya was able to subtly determine that they were indeed being followed by the man he had recognized, and two others. They were not as careful as perhaps they should be, but then, it was a crowded marketplace, and Nevaya knew that if he wanted to he could lose them. But Wronsteit had said no, and therefore he did not.

They finished their shopping excursion and made their way on foot back to the inn, where they spent an uncomfortable night with one of them always on guard. The next day Wronsteit shook Nevaya awake well before dawn. The young man silently dressed in his toga but he wore the loose trousers and the robe--it would be cold out. Then he packed his bag, placing the broken sword and the new tunic inside, and gathered the rest of the things into two or three saddle bags. He followed Wronsteit out to the courtyard, where the swordsmaster kicked against the stable doors, rousing a sleeping stable boy who hurried to bring out just one horse.

“Another horse, sir?” the boy bumbled in surprise when Wronsteit demanded it of him.

“Yes, lad,” Wronsteit said in the low grating tone he used when he was irritable--which was often, in the mornings. “A horse for my journeyman. You don’t expect him to walk, do you? And he certainly won’t fit on my horse.” He gestured at Nevaya.

The word slowly permeated through the various levels of fog and sleep that were clinging to Nevaya’s mind and dissipated them as if the sun had risen and dissipated the frost that formed on the grass overnight. There came a clatter from around him, and he realized belatedly that he had dropped the bags and was staring at Wronsteit with gaped mouth and widened eyes.

“Yes, sir, sorry, sir,” the befuddled stable boy muttered, and disappeared back into the stable.

“Master Wronsteit...” said Nevaya.

“What?” snapped Wronsteit, turning to look at the young man, and then seeing the expression on Nevaya’s face, that smile of pleasure flitted across his own lips, and he leaned back and laughed, the sound ringing loudly in the courtyard. It was a true, healthy laugh, and Nevaya found the sound almost as amazing as the sound of his own new title--he had never heard Wronsteit laugh so before.

“Well, we have been successful, journeyman,” Wronsteit said at last as the stable boy finally reappeared with Nevaya’s horse and began to attach the various bags to the saddle. “We have accomplished something, and we have begun to move on to the next stage of this mission.” A shadow passed over his face and the joy faded back into his normal mask as the two of them swung up onto their horses. He flipped a small coin to the stable boy and then the two of them rode from the courtyard and out into the streets, the horses’ hooves sounding loudly, like bells, on the cobblestone road. “Yes,” he said in a low tone. “Yes, we have things to do.” Then he glanced at Nevaya, who was still in the stages of a fair shock. “You seemed to have taken your instructions to heart at last, Nevaya,” he said as they rode. “No matter what he did to provoke you, you did not react. Why is that?”

“I do not know, Master,” Nevaya said. “I felt... cold, I think. As if every word he said was unimportant. And some of them made me want to stir and feel angry, but there was no need.”

Wronsteit grunted. “Indeed. You turned off your anger, and very well done too. He was looking to make you mad.”

“But... why?”

Wronsteit shook his head. “I do not know, Nevaya, but I... I think that he wanted to kill you.”

Nevaya shivered despite the robe and the toga. “I did get the same feeling, Master,” he said with a short, humorless laugh. “Especially once I lost my sword.” He felt his heart pull at him strangely.

“Indeed. And if you will pardon me for stepping in the middle of your fight--“

“Master!”

Wronsteit looked at him carefully. “It is not good form to interrupt anyone’s fight unless that aid is asked for, before or during the battle. I can admit that I was in the wrong. But...” he shook his head. “No, I would not stand to see you killed by him.”

They passed into the frozen mud roads of the outer city and from there out into the snow-dusted fields on the outskirts of town. The road led away, south; they followed it, both lost in thought for a long, long time.

Xxxxxxxx

In her small home in the town where Madrul had picked up his supplies, Rythcaren blew out the last lamp in the pottery shop where she worked. For a moment she hovered in the doorway, examining the darkened room. When she had returned to her family on the island, she had been grateful to fit back into her old routine, working with her mother to craft the same pots she had seen the woman make when she was a child. When her mother had died her father had given the majority of the care of the shop over to her; he had loved her mother dearly, but he still worked in the shop, making some of the pots and managing sales whenever he was needed. She had been glad for the distraction; after Iakena had grown up enough that she no longer needed constant care, it was harder to forget the days she had left behind.

Today was one of those days when even hard work could hardly take her mind off of things. Why had she given it all up? Forget the riches... her life, the sheer softness of it. She had dwelt in layers of furs and skins, woven cloth of the finest thread. There had been moments of bitterly cold wind to be sure--she could never really seem to escape the wind. But when she was buried in the depths of the palace, surrounded by soft fire lights and torches and the company of other young women her age who were there when she wanted anything--all she had to do was speak a word, and it would be done--it was easy to ignore the knowledge of the bristling fierce cold outside. And then he would come, late or early, it did not really matter what time of day. He would stroke her hair and whisper sweet nothings into her ear, feed her tidbits of dried fruit...

But she had missed the fresh fruit of her homeland. On the mainland they had nothing but that which could be shipped, and in the North, only that which could be shipped long distances. Dried fish, goat, and lamb were some of the main staples of trade that went North; but the flowers that proliferated from the vines only a mile from her house here withered and died in the frozen lands of the North.

She had been in the marketplace. Not the one in the city here, where her family had grown up; no, she had insisted on going to sell the pots at the closest mainland port, Corthisis. And when her brother had told her to go off and have herself a fun time amongst the marketplace, she had gone. She could still remember looking over her shoulder as she disappeared into the crowd, one hand over the purse that was tucked beneath her deep red toga. Red brought out the lustrous tones of her hair and the golden glow of her skin; she loved wearing red, and that day she had worn the toga and a flower in her hair to match, that one of the venders gave to her with a smile as she passed.

She went through the marketplace, avoiding the crush of the people, and took the time to buy an orange fruit and peel it, devouring one sweet segment at a time as she continued wandering. A trained macaw in a cage at one of the shopkeepers chirruped and sang and she whistled back at it. It had been a pleasant and sunny day and she went down to the dock to watch the waves move over the distant edges of the natural, sandy bay. Fish jumped in the harbor alongside the great ships coming in.

And in all this, she had thought herself bored. Rythcaren turned away from the shop and made her way towards her home next door, still remembering, still dreaming.

He had found her there by the beach. She had remembered speaking without looking to someone who stood next to her; then one moment she had turned and found him not an islander, as she had expected, but a mainlander with long golden hair, dressed in the robes and loose leggings that those men of the North seemed to prefer.

She had been surprised, but she had not run away. There was no reason to fear him then. She remembered all the words he had said--they had seemed so pleasant and so brilliant, and he had seemed so strange to her--strange, yet appealing.

By the time the sun had set he had agreed to walk her back to the stall where her brother had been packing up the pots that had not yet sold. He had bid her farewell and then disappeared, followed by the two or three shadowy men who had always been behind him--Northerners, like he was, but nondescript. They did not have his powerful body lined with muscles.

She smiled, and opened the door to Iakena’s bedroom. The girl lay on her bed, sound asleep under the moonlight from an open window. Rythcaren sat down on the edge of the bed and gently ran her hands through the girl’s golden hair. It was so brilliant and so beautiful.

She sighed deeply to herself after a long while. It had been some years now since she had left him; fled from him, fearing for the safety of her child. Was it worth it?

Again she touched Iakena’s hair, and then she got to her feet and moved to her own cold bed in her own small bedroom. No golden lights or furs awaited her; only roughly woven cloth, and a bed low to the ground and lonely. She curled up under the covers and fell asleep shivering.

She dreamed.

Golden fire lights flickered around her. It was warm, even though outside she knew the sharp, heavy taste of ice laden wind was blowing snowy pellets into the building’s walls. She stretched luxuriously, her limbs caressing the warm pile of bear pelts and furred pillows beneath her. An outstretched hand would easily encounter a comb for her hair, or a bowl of dried grapes.

Someone sat down next to her. She turned, and his strong arms closed around her, embracing her. They moved, rhythmically, together and silent.

“I don’t understand.” Her lips moved to form the words but she was not quite sure if it was her own voice that spoke.

“I...” His voice sounded wretched. “I am sorry,” he said. “There is nothing that can be done.”

She reached out a hand to touch his golden hair. “But... you and I...”

“That can never be, you know that, Rythcaren.” He turned away from her in frustration.

She shook her head, feeling the tears in the corners of her eyes and hating them. “And yet here you said you loved me.”

He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “I cannot love you, Rythcaren,” he whispered through his palms. “It is not allowed.”

“Nothing but racism and prejudice disallows it.”

He shook his head again, and then suddenly the fires flickered in a gust of wind and faded away, leaving only darkness in the room. It began to grow cold, and a pale light fell over them both, as if moonlight reached into the deep room.

He turned, and in his hand something like a knife glittered. And in her sleep she mouthed the words he had said to her, remembering and dreaming simultaneously. “Rythcaren, if you gave birth to a child, it would be a threat to my family and a threat to my future. I could not allow that.”

The pallid moonlight struck through her, and she screamed silently, alone in an ever darkening spiral of night that swept up to consume and devour her utterly. The wind from outside the warm room broke over her like the waves of the sea, rising and falling, stealing what little heat her body had, until she was spent. She lay on the ground, shivering and bleeding, the dark blood spreading out atop a snowy hill, slowly running down like the darkest, inkiest rivers of night ran across the land. The snow made the earth gleam almost unbearably under the light of the moon, and the blood kept flowing, and kept flowing.

Rythcaren awoke suddenly, her hand at her throat. She lay in bed gasping for a long time, and then she stumbled to her feet, wrapping the blanket around her own shivering shoulders, and hurried to Iakena’s bedroom. For a long moment she stood in the doorway watching the girl slumber. Then at last she leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor, covered her face in her hands, and wept.

Chapter 12: In which we meet the king of Marchith

2005-11-27T13:50:00.000-08:00

Chapter 12

Xivodo did the toe scuffing thing again, almost absently. “I...” he swallowed. “Despite my father’s ambitions for having a connection between the house of Takanor and the dragon, I truly wish to become a smith. I have been searching for masters for... for over a year now, but all wish to treat me as... as my father tries to pass me off.” Madrul cocked his head but said nothing as the boy continued. “Delicately, as if I would run to tell my father the instant something went wrong or I didn’t like what happened, and as if that would damage their reputation. I... I cannot learn in an environment where the master is afraid to reprimand me when I do something wrong!” Xivodo shook his head vigorously. “I did not want to come here but Father insisted. And then...”

“Then?” Madrul hefted the bucket slightly.

“And then Master Drademar was not afraid to take my father down a peg or two.” He scowled. “Despite his rejection of me without knowing me, I feel as if he would offer me the education that I truly need. Do you think there is anyway I can convince him?”

Madrul sighed deeply. “I do not know him so well. I have only been here a month. That is not enough time to truly get to know him.”

Wind pressed him into the path--he looked up, startled, to see Drademar swooping from the cave. He swallowed hard, and Xivodo followed his gaze. The wind pressed harder as the dragon swooped down towards the meadow and folded himself onto the ground. His tail draped across the stream like a little bridge, and his wings flapped a few extra times before he fully settled.

“What are you doing here?” asked Drademar without any hesitation or introduction, almost completely ignoring Madrul for the moment.

Xivodo stepped forward and bowed deeply. “I came to apologize,” he said clearly. “My father’s actions last night were unacceptable. Though I as his son could not step forward and stop him, I am ashamed of how he treated a master smith of your caliber, sir.”

Drademar’s wings stirred and then settled again as he shifted momentarily. “It was not his actions that were so offensive, but his intentions. Why is it that a man could hope to influence me merely by throwing around a name of one of the high merchant houses in Sevaye?”

Xivodo bowed again. “My father has always had aspirations of rising to the highest merchant house, sir; a connection with you would please him greatly. I apologize for his intentions as well. It was not my choice to come here in the first place.”

Drademar settled again, his tail flicking in and out of the stream and splashing little shimmers of water up into the air.

“However,” said Xivodo hesitantly, seeing that Drademar was somehow less angry, “Now that I have come... the things that I have seen...”

“What have you seen, Xivodo?” Drademar said in a ringing tone that sounded like the hammering at the forge.

“I have seen your works in the city, Master Drademar,” Xivodo said. “I know your quality and it is the fairest in the land. But I have also seen that you would not hesitate to tell me when I was doing something wrong--something no master in any city would do for me. I have searched for a year, Master Drademar,” he said passionately. “I have searched for a year’s worth of time among masters high and low in the city, and though they were eager to have me work for them--a connection to the house of Takanor!--none of them were truly willing to teach me, to have me learn. You, sir,” he took a step forward, standing tall now as he spoke his words, “You would not be afraid to reprimand me. You are not afraid of my father. And therefore I must beg you, sir. Please take me on as a second apprentice. I will be no trouble to you. I will work hard, I will learn hard; I will do whatever it is that I must do, if only I could learn from you!”

He stopped, panting slightly, and held Drademar’s gaze.

The dragon said nothing for a long moment, his eyes narrowed. Then he sighed. “Your enthusiasm is commendable,” he said slowly, “As is your desire to learn. But I have already dedicated myself to my apprentice. I do not know if I am capable of dedicating as much time to a second apprentice.” Madrul was slightly relieved to hear this. As interested as he was in Xivodo, who seemed far more polite than his overbearing father, he was worried that Drademar would find the sweet talking slightly older boy to be a better apprentice than he was.

“I know the rule of rank, sir. First apprentice has priority, it is true.” Madrul lifted an eyebrow in surprise. “But... I have not encountered anyone else from whom I might learn.”

Drademar snorted gustily, the dark smoke flowing from his nostrils and swiftly disappearing in the wind as the dark ash had disappeared into the water. “Very well,” he said. “Stay with me for a month. We will see how things work out. We will have no formal contract until that point in time, however.”

Xivodo bowed deeply, breathing a relieved sigh.

Xxxxxxx

Nevaya tugged at his embroidered tunic. The cloth was stiff with newness, and the loose leggings did serve to keep him much warmer than his bare legs and toga would have. The robe flapped a bit as he turned from one side to the other.

It had been several years since he had left his family to follow Wronsteit and learn his arts, and never since that time had he worn finery. His family, a minor noble house, had of course raised him on manners and obedience and etiquette and all the fine things that the noble houses used to hoist their pride above the middle class, but when he had joined Wronsteit he chose to leave all that behind. There was an entirely new formality to be learned by a swordsman in training, and the other aspects of Wronsteit’s job--the thievery and the killing--required almost no etiquette whatsoever, only common sense and delicacy. He had taken each aspect of the job with an open heart, willing to learn. For Nevaya, there was no other life that appealed to him, besides that of a swordsman, an assassin, and a spy.

“Are you ready?” said Wronsteit.

“I am, sir.” Nevaya came from behind the screen and paused in front of his master, who stood by the door.

The man reached out and slightly adjusted the neckline of the robe. “Very well,” he said, and tucked the cloth-wrapped sword under his own robe. With a turn of his heel and a flip of the dark blue cloak he left the room; Nevaya followed him, locking the door behind him.

They made their way from the inn out into the city streets, winding down icy back roads and very fastidiously avoiding mud puddles. When they had wandered aimlessly through alleys and streets for what had seemed like half an hour, a horse-drawn carriage came clattering to a stop right next to them. Wronsteit looked up sharply. A uniform clad guard dropped down from the carriage’s roof and opened the door; another uniformed guard gestured from inside.

Before Nevaya even had time to react, Wronsteit had sprung lightly into the carriage, and automatically the boy followed him up, one foot on the step and then ducking through the door into the small, dark, crowded space beyond.

The door swung shut, throwing them into darkness. There was a moment in which the first guard’s feet pushed heavily at the carriage; then there came the crack of a whip, and they were off.

Nevaya kept his mild amazement under control. Though it had been a long time since he had ridden in a carriage--and the guards’ uniforms indicated that this was a royal trip--he was no illiterate farmer’s child, to gawk at everything. He let his eyes flicker around the carriage, noting the minor details, such as the square in the roof that presumably allowed for an opening, and the untouched by mud shoes of the soldier in the carriage.

Wronsteit did not speak to the soldier; he sat with his eyes riveted on the wall across from him, which jostled and jumped as it sped along the streets.

When they crossed into the cobblestone paved section of the city, the noise of the hard wooden wheels changed from sloshing amongst frozen ground to rattling along rock, the action jarring Nevaya almost continuously. He did not complain, but he kept track of the number of turns they had made in an effort to determine where they were going. When at last the carriage pulled to a stop, he glanced at Wronsteit but the man, as always, showed no surprise.

The door was opened for them by the man on the roof; the soldier in the carriage hurried them out and through a nondescript door in a flat grey brick wall as quickly as he could. Some other guard in a similar uniform hurried them down a mess of corridors; again Nevaya counted turns and this time their direction. When they came at last to a halt outside a relatively nondescript wooden door, he knew how to get out of the place, unless there were some peculiarities he had not noticed. That was always possible. Wronsteit told him of times when corridors were ever so slightly inclined, so when one traveled along them one also moved up a floor, an unpleasant shock to any who tried to cut out what appeared to be ‘doubling up’ from their return trip.

There was a muffled conversation on the other side of the door, but as soon as the uniformed guard knocked, it broke off. Then there came a sharp response, and an order.

The guard opened the door and bowed them into the room. As soon as they had entered, the door swung shut behind them.

Nevaya did not have more than a moment’s worth of time to take in the depths of the room--a well lit space, with lengths of glistening tapestries hanging from whichever walls did not contain mosaics. Wronsteit swept forward, his cloak fluttering slightly, and stopped, his feet planted on the skin of a white tiger that served as a rug, and Nevaya took two quick steps and stopped a half length behind him, slightly to his right. Wronsteit bowed deeply, and Nevaya imitated the gesture, self consciously placing the tips of the fingers of one hand against his forehead in the traditional gesture of respect. Then he straightened, as Wronsteit did, to fully glimpse the figure in the chair at the far end of the rug.

He was a tall man whose long blond hair fell to his shoulders, away from a receding hairline. He had a shortly trimmed beard, and his eyes, lying beneath heavy lids and above thick cheeks that indicated a lifetime without want, were nevertheless a piercing internal shade of blue, like the depths of the sky on a sunny winter afternoon. He wore loose leggings and a richly embroidered tunic in a shade of brown far deeper than that which made up Nevaya’s clothing, and a long leather robe lined with sheepskin, which showed at the collar.

The full effect of his gaze fell on Nevaya, and the boy surreptitiously kept his gaze on the man’s collarbone. He knew his etiquette--one did not look this man in the eye too boldly; to do so was disrespectful.

“You have an underling now, Wronsteit?” the man asked.

“The boy is my apprentice, Your Majesty,” said Wronsteit in his low toneless voice. The title confirmed Nevaya’s suspicions, and he was glad for his original guess.

“Indeed,” said the king of Marchith. Nevaya knew his name to be Vradkof the third, of the Takener family. “Indeed,” said the king again. “How interesting. He is learning your trade, I assume?” Wronsteit bowed an agreement. The king laughed a little. “And what is that, good Wronsteit? Killing? Thieving? Spying?”

Wronsteit shrugged. “A little of each, perhaps,” he said carefully. “You of all people, Your Majesty, know how many things I truly do.”

The king laughed again, and Nevaya let his eyes drift up to examine the man’s face, as subtly as he could. The humor in his voice was not echoed in the lines of his face; it was a polite humor, and in the depths of his eyes there was something that was like a cloud, deep and overhanging, laden with unspent water like raindrops or tears. A sadness consumed him in a strange, brooding way--a sadness no one had ever seen, and an anger and a deep, unrelenting and unforgiving silence, like the festering of a long unhealed wound. Then the corners of the eyes tightened, just a little.

Nevaya jerked his eyes away instantly, unsure whether or not the king had seen him see, and also unsure whether or not he had actually seen anything.

There was a rustle of stiff, embroidered and rich cloth; the king had gotten to his feet. He scratched briefly at his beard, and his feet, clad in eastern slippers, tread carefully across the floor, grinding the fur of the dead tiger beneath them as they went. When he was standing Nevaya could see that he was not a portly man, but rather someone strong, and lean, who had spent a good portion of his life working to maintain not only health but virility and strength. Vradkof the third was known as a great warrior; the strength in the lines of his arms and the muscles in his chest showing through his clothing proved that. But there was something that touched him; a hint of dissipation, perhaps. A once great man who had just begun to go to seed, Nevaya thought, and then tried to suppress that thought as if the king might hear him.

“Well, boy,” said the king, and Nevaya, knowing his etiquette, lifted his gaze at last to fix on the man’s eyebrows, if not quite his eyes. “What is your name?”

“My name is Nevaya, Your Majesty,” said Nevaya simply. He was glad to hear that his voice did not tremble. Peripherally he could see that Wronsteit had turned slightly so that the king was always fully in his vision. He wondered what his master was thinking.

“And how do you like being Lord Wronsteit’s apprentice, Nevaya?”

Nevaya wondered briefly if this was where Wronsteit’s dislike of being called ‘lord’ stemmed from. “I find it very enriching, Your Majesty,” he said carefully.

The king smiled. “Very good,” he said. “What do you like to learn the most?”

Nevaya considered momentarily--Wronsteit certainly taught him a lot!--and then said, “Swords, Your Majesty.”

“Swords?” The king lifted an eyebrow. “How interesting. You learn well?”

“I try to, Your Majesty.” Here he felt it was appropriate to give another small bow, and did so.

“Good. It becomes a young man under such a good master to try hard.” The king then seemed to lose all interest in Nevaya. “So what do you have for me, Wronsteit?” he asked, turning back to the swordsman. “Anything particularly exciting or new?”

In response, Wronsteit reached inside his robe to where the sword had been tucked up against his body and pulled it from beneath his belt. Carefully, he unwrapped the soft cloth and pulled it aside.

The sheathed blade resting on his palms seemed to gleam slightly in the glow of the fireplace. The blade that Nevaya had stolen was not a particularly magnificent sword but regardless of its design it was indeed particularly well made. Vradkof reached out for it with a hand that almost seemed to tremble in the flickering light. He took the sword from Wronsteit’s palms, his fist closing over the smooth sheath, and then his other hand gripped the hilt and he drew it slowly out from the encasement.

The sheath was held, forgotten, in his left hand; the right lifted the sword and tilted it so that its finely crafted edge caught the warm glow that permeated the room. The blade glinted, mesmerizing, as the king turned it back and forth. Nevaya and Wronsteit watched his face--an internal glow lit his face, a glow that was born from the darkness that lay dwelling within his soul and almost totally obscured the depths behind his eyes, a glow that hid something foul and at the same time showed on his face like a form of hope and strange satisfaction.

He sighed deeply, and his powerful upper arms moved as he swung the blade in a semicircle. It whistled as it cut through the air, and Nevaya was almost unable to stop himself from shivering. “Well,” Vradkof said clearly, as he swung the blade again. “You say you enjoy learning swords, Nevaya. Why don’t you draw yours, and we’ll give this blade a little test.”

Nevaya swallowed, his throat suddenly dry; he saw Wronsteit stiffen just a little beside him. “Your Majesty,” Nevaya said quickly, “I... I do not know if I am worthy of such an honor as to cross swords with you.”

The king laughed, that false sound ringing in the fine quarters. “Come now, lad,” he said, his eyes glittering darkly. “I command you to draw your sword.”

Reluctantly Nevaya’s hand went to his belt underneath his new crisp robe. He glanced once at Wronsteit, who jerked his chin a little in approval; then he gripped the hilt of the blade and pulled the sword from its sheath.

He had no intentions of actually being the first to move to the attack, so he was gratified when the king made the first action, charging him with a swinging of the fine blade. He blocked it easily, the blades sliding across each other, and danced to one side; though he was faster than the men he had fought off to steal the sword, this man did not have Wronsteit’s speed. The king turned to follow him and Nevaya kept moving until Vradkof rushed forward and their blades met again, as did their eyes.

The hilts locked, and Nevaya got lost in the depths of those ice blue eyes, for in them lay such a deep and pallid hatred that he could not draw away. He realized then that the king knew that he had seen--that he had seen past the man’s defenses instantly, through all the walls and obstructions he had had up. He had seen into something that no one should have ever been able to see without being intimately close to the man--perhaps not even then--and he had done so in a moment of time, in the first glance that the king had had of him.

The king smiled. “Come on, boy,” he said. “Surely you can actually fight?”

Nevaya wondered if the words were supposed to enrage him. He did not feel right now that he was capable of anger, and so he made no reaction except to keep his blade up.

The man scowled, and then his powerful forearms moved and Nevaya was flung backwards. He went flying and skittered across the tiled floor, dragged to a halt by the scattered rugs and pelts; but he lost his grip on the sword. The king laughed again, that fake sound that echoed in the chamber and made Nevaya feel dizzy. “Your apprentice is not much of a fighter,” Vradkof said to Wronsteit.

Again Nevaya felt as if distantly he was supposed to be angry, but realized that he had neither time nor care for that emotion. He thrust down what little of it flickered in the core of his being and concentrated on finding his sword. In an instant he shook himself and spotted the blade, a half a yard away. He dove for it and the king leapt after him, the blade raised.

His hand closed over the hilt of the sword and he brought the blade up once, violently knocking Vradkof’s blow aside, then threw himself sideways while the king was still lifting for his next strike and rolled to his feet.

But as he was getting up the king was already striking. They went back and forth; Vradkof attacking, and Nevaya fleeing from the blows, not any longer because he did not wish to attack the man but rather because to flee was all he could do fast enough. Wronsteit had never struck at him this hard before, and each blow that came in contact with his own short sword jarred him badly. Nevaya had no time to pay attention to anything but the battle. The king’s repeated verbal jabs grew more and more vicious, but with each one Nevaya felt a strange kind of detachment from the anger that might have once consumed him.

At last they locked hilts a second time and Nevaya, this time, did not let himself lock eyes with the man, but instead pushed himself off and spun away. In the process of pulling back, however, the king’s powerful arms moved again when they had already been locked tight and almost without effort, his blade bit into Nevaya’s and sheered it off, hardly a hand’s width from the hilt.

Nevaya stumbled backwards as the blade went clattering to the floor, followed by the dropped hilt as the king turned and lifted the island forged blade. As he advanced, Nevaya took quick steps backwards to keep pace with Vradkof’s slow ones, and stumbled over a rug. He fell down heavily, and now he was afraid, fear showing itself in his small, stone gray eyes as the king continued to advance with an upraised blade.
As the blade swept downwards, however, there was a flash like golden lightning that lanced across his path, and then Wronsteit was there, his long katana drawn, and he caught the king’s descending blade with a shower of sparks and deflected it.

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” he said in a clear tone without even turning to look the man fully in the face. “But I think I must object.”

Chapter 11: In which Madrul draws his sword

2005-11-27T13:45:00.000-08:00

Chapter 11

He reached the bottom of the mountain and picked his way clumsily amongst the grassy boulders until he reached the stream. Then he filled the bucket and made his way back to the path, trying not to trip and spill the water in the darkness.

When he had almost reached the cave he realized he had made the journey almost without needing to see where he was going and grinned slightly. He was getting used to this lifestyle, though his blistered feet screamed in agony as he climbed. It would be a long day tomorrow if he couldn’t move better than he was now.

There was a woosh that pressed him against the far side of the path, up towards where the mountain climbed away from him. He strained to keep himself upright and then stared as the dragon landed, wings flailing air from beneath him, on the ledge, his talons biting in deeply as he settled, his wings slowly falling against his back.

Madrul started climbing again as soon as he could stand straight. Drademar disappeared into the cave.

Madrul wondered about that. Hadn’t the dragon been worried earlier about who was waiting for him? But perhaps Madrul’s own reaction had reassured him. The boy had not seen anything dangerous in the group of people and had acted as such; in fact he had ignored them. Now he wondered. Perhaps he had caused his master trouble.

He could feel the length of the sheath lying against his leg. It was a powerful feeling but Drademar was right; he did not even know how to use it yet, and he wondered if he would have time to teach himself. He had not put a serious dent in the pile of books that the dragon had given him yet, and there were the chores to do, and now that he had his tools he would probably be down at the pool of magma that served as a forge learning how to be a smith.

He did not know what he looked forward to more, learning the sword, or the forging, or the magic. But he was excited regardless.

He reached the ledge and turned into the cave.

Drademar was folded up onto the floor and the three people were seated. Drademar spared him a glance but did not introduce him, and Madrul took that as a sign to continue about his business without interrupting. He went to the barrel, limping a little more than he would like, and emptied the bucket. Then he folded himself down into the corner and tried to remain inconspicuous as he opened up the book he had been reading earlier.

“As I said,” Drademar went on while Madrul was getting settled. “You are welcome here.”

“We thank you,” said the man. He was sitting crosslegged before where the torches had been thrust into the wall, so that the area was fairly illuminated. His wife sat next to him and the boy was slightly further to the right, almost apart from them.

“I must admit that your presence is unexpected, or I would have been here to greet you.” Drademar stretched one wing slightly, casting shadows across the rest of the cavern. “I trust you were not waiting long?”

“We have only been here since sunset,” the man said. “We were not sure when you would return and your servant did not seem over willing to tell us.”

Madrul almost stood up to object before he remembered himself. It was not his place to state his status. That was Drademar’s responsibility and if he did not speak up there was nothing Madrul could do.

The man went on before Drademar had the chance to say anything, regardless. “The wait, however, is not important. We have come because we heard of your request and we wish to offer a contract to you.”

Madrul sucked in his breath as quietly as he could through his teeth. He had never seen a formal contracting situation before--usually they were not attended by any other than those dealing with the contract. Spectators were not welcome, and most masters would refuse entrance to those who came. But more than that, he was nervous. What if he had not been doing well enough to satisfy the dragon? It was true, they did not yet have a formal written contract yet, and their verbal contract was relatively tenuous. If he had not been doing as he should have been doing, Drademar might be unhappy enough with him to send him on his way.

The man turned to his wife and she bent her head and opened a bag that she had carried with her and withdrew a piece of parchment. The man took it from her a bit impatiently and put it on the ground in front of his crossed legs.

Then he gestured to his right, and the boy unfolded his crossed legs and pushed himself a half foot or so forward onto his knees.

“This is my son, Xivodo,” said the man. “He is fourteen years of age, strong, and has never been contracted before. He is tenacious and willing to learn all that you might have to offer him. A contract would be beneficial to both of our houses. I ask you to consider our terms."

Drademar’s eyes had narrowed during the speech. When at last the man had finished speaking he shifted slightly and then settled. “I appreciate your long travel,” he said again. “And a pleasure to meet the fine son of such an honorable man, but there is no reason for me to have two apprentices.”

“Two...?” The man looked startled.

“Madrul,” said Drademar, and Madrul got to his feet, crossed to where they had gathered, and bowed slightly to the guests, “Is my apprentice.”

Madrul, mid-bow, felt the gaze of the man and the woman turn smoldering. The boy’s gaze was focused on the floor but he could see his eyelashes flickering slightly.
The man got to his feet and approached Madrul as he straightened. Madrul almost took a step backwards but managed to hold his ground, focusing his eyes on the man’s chest with which he was even. The man reached out and seized him by the chin, forcing his eyes to meet his own.

Madrul’s gaze went flat with anger but again he did not react. One thing at least he had learned from his weeks of working with Drademar was the ability to hold onto his temper when he felt it would be bad to lose it. Now was one of those times; he forced himself not to move as the man turned his face this way and that. The man’s eyes were sharp above the high cheekbones, glittering behind the dark, heavy lashes. Madrul could feel the man’s fingers--they were smooth and clean, far different from the rope scarred and sunburned hands of his own father.

“Such a dirty boy,” said the man under his breath, and then he spoke louder. “Why would such a boy be acceptable in the place of my own son?”

He let Madrul’s face go and turned back towards Drademar. Madrul let his eyes turn to where the man’s son still sat on his knees. The two exchanged glances; the other boy’s gaze was unreadable, and shortly he let his eyes slide away and focus on his own father.

Madrul debated whether or not to be insulted by that, but decided it was neither worth the effort nor necessarily construed, so he too turned his gaze to where the man stood before Drademar.

“You do not know of my son’s abilities,” he was saying. “You do not know what an excellent apprentice he would be for you. Far better than this... commoner brat.” He waved a dismissive hand at Madrul who finally let himself bristle slightly.

Drademar’s tail, snaking behind where he sat, gently touched Madrul’s shoulder, restraining the boy, as the man continued to talk. “I am of the house of Takanor,” said the man, almost viciously. “A son of the house of Takanor would bring honor under your roof, as opposed to the son of an unknown country idler who will do you no good.”

“If the actions of the father are any indications of those of the son, I have no desire to have such a boy as my apprentice.” Drademar’s tone was low but the delivery of the insult made the entire cave tremble slightly.

The man’s head snapped back quickly, and the boy got to his feet. For a moment the man looked as if he might say or do something violent; then he took a deep breath through his nostrils and said, “I might construe your words as an insult, sir.”

“And I might take your insult to my apprentice as an insult to myself.”

The man drew himself up. “I am offering you a contact with the house of Takanor,” he hissed. “I did not think you would be so foolish as to refuse such a connection. Takanor has great power in Sevaye, and—“

He did not get a chance to finish because Madrul took another step forward. His hand went under his toga, found the hilt of the sword, and with a steely rasp drew it from the sheath. He was very careful in doing so and he leveled it at the man with both hands on the hilt.

The man stopped and shrunk away from the blade as Madrul said in a low tone, “Withdraw your insult.”

The man stopped and then grinned slightly as the woman rose and put her arms around her son. “So you can speak. And it took you this long to realize I insulted you? You are—“

“I do not care a whit for your insult to me. Your words mean nothing for or against me. But I will not stand your insult to my master. Withdraw it immediately.” The tip of the blade lifted and the man shrank back again.

“This is not permissible,” he sputtered. “Drademar, your--“ The blade lifted again and the man took a step backwards. Then he took a deep breath. “I apologize for insulting you, Drademar,” he growled quietly.

“And I apologize for the behavior of my apprentice,” said Drademar smoothly. Madrul flushed. “His protection is overzealous. Regardless, I cannot accept a contract when I am already under one.”

“There are masters in the city who take two or three apprentices at a time,” said the woman, her voice lilting.

“There are indeed,” said Drademar. “But they usually have journeymen under them. I am merely one master, and it is my choice here.”

The man’s dark eyes flashed. “Then we must accept your decision as a master. I only wish I could change your mind.” He nodded sharply, then turned back and waved a hand at the woman, who bent and picked up the scroll that had been on the ground. Without another word the man turned and strode from the cave and the woman hurriedly followed him. The boy bowed deeply to Drademar, and then turned and trotted after his family members.

It was still dark out, and Madrul hurried to where the torches were thrust in the floor, yanked one out, and ran out the cave after them, calling, “Wait!”

The man was still striding down the slope and did not turn back; perhaps he did not here. The woman hesitated and the boy almost ran into her; then he turned, and at an unheard word and gesture he ran back up the hill.

“It is many hours before dawn,” Madrul said to him, and thrust the torch in his general direction.

The boy’s glance was grateful as he took the flaming brand and hurried wordlessly away.

Madrul watched the light wind its way down the hill until it disappeared around a curve, and remained outside in the darkness near the flickering light from the brand that remained in the curve for a long time. At last Drademar came out behind him, the great half spread wings blocking the torchlight and casting the ledge into darkness.

“Madrul?”

“Master...” Madrul turned at last and only then realized that he still held the sword.

Drademar sighed. Then he reached out with one taloned claw and pulled the blade from Madrul’s grip. “For shame, boy,” he said quietly. “I did not make that for you to threaten people with.” He moved inside the cave.

Madrul flushed deeply and followed him in. “I am sorry, Master, but—“

“There is no reason for you to object. You threatened a guest. That is completely uncalled for.”

“But he threatened you first, Master—“

“He did not threaten me. When did he draw his sword?”

“He did not threaten with a sword but with words, master. Throwing around his heritage and his connections, as if they would make you obey. The house of Takanor this, the house of Takanor over there. He did not respect you—“

“Madrul!” The dragon’s tone was sharp and Madrul at last bit his tongue, realizing that perhaps he had spoken too much. He lowered his head.

“I think you over speak yourself, Madrul,” Drademar said gently. “But moreover--whatever your pride is, you do not use the threat of a sword against a man who is a guest in your household, and who does not draw first, no matter what words he speaks. Let him draw first, and provide the first insult, the first provocation. I am unhappy with you, Madrul.” Madrul flushed unhappily himself. “I do not say that I disagree with your explanation. The man was overbearing. But,” and now the dragon sat back on his heels and pushed himself to as full of a height as he could achieve in the cave, spreading his wings slightly, “But when he is a guest, and a guest in my house, then you will not treat him in such a way. Do I make myself clear?”

“Master Drademar,” started Madrul.

The dragon’s eyes narrowed. “Madrul,” he said carefully. “Do I make myself clear?”

Madrul knew that tone--his father had only used it twice in all the time he had spent with his family. He lowered his head. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly.

The dragon lowered himself and let his wings fall against his back again. Madrul did not allow himself to fully look at him--he felt his cheeks were flaming with embarrassment. Without another word the dragon turned and slunk down the tunnel, disappearing into the distant red glow of the magma.

Madrul watched him go out of the corner of his eye. As soon as the dragon’s tail had disappeared from view he lifted a fist and scrubbed at the hot tears that had accumulated in the corners of his eyes, wiping them away viciously. At last he went to the torch in the floor, pulled it out, and thrust it into the highest crevice in the wall that he could reach. Er, oops. No he doesn’t. Because it’s already in the wall. Then he stumbled over to his bed mat and collapsed. He waited only long enough to pull the sandals from his aching feet and drop them next to the boots and pull the cloth around him to keep away the wind’s chill before the exhaustion dragged his eyes shut.

He woke late in the evening, when the torch had already gone out, and lay for a moment with his eyes closed, feeling the salty remnants of tears on them. Of course, of course Drademar had been right. But how could he explain to the dragon that he could not stand to see such an insult put to Drademar? The man had called him foolish only because he had refused to take his son into contract. That was just plain rude, and inconsiderate. And the way the man had treated Madrul himself... the boy scowled deeply. He had so very rarely been worried about rank and prestige and image that having finally encountered one of those merchant princes from the Siqan Drema’s stories, he hardly knew how to handle himself. The man had acted like a pig, but what stung Madrul most was his callous disregard of Madrul himself, as well as of Drademar’s opinion. He had wanted to force the dragon into accepting the contract. Madrul’s calling out of the insult had only complicated matters.

He forced himself to go back to sleep.

The next day Drademar assigned him to scrubbing the barrel of ashes he kept in the lava cavern, for burned out tools or the few failed attempts at weapons. It was a disgustingly messy job that required so many trips up and down the hill that Madrul’s blistered and agonized feet and legs almost gave out from under him. The boy was sure that this was punishment for what he had done yesterday, especially since Drademar had spoken to him cheerfully when he had assigned him the task.

Madrul decided to stick it out and not complain about it--at least not to the dragon. When he was making his eighth trip down the hill, limping from the pain of his right foot, he tripped and rolled for a few meters, raising a cloud of dust, and so when he finally reached the stream he took the time to splash some water over his toga and across his sweating face.

“What is this?” said a voice

He looked up, startled, from washing his face, and turned around.

It was the nobleman’s son, leaning on a rock nearby.

“What are you up to?” the boy queried gently as he straightened and approached. His toga was more dust-stained than it had been the night before.

Madrul straightened himself and watched the other warily. “Cleaning a barrel of ashes,” he said at last. “Punishment for threatening your father last night, I believe.”

“You were not told?”

“Not precisely. I read it in his attitude.” Madrul jerked his chin in the general direction of the cave up the side of the volcano. “What are you doing here?”

The boy scrubbed a booted toe at the grass, a bit nervously. “What is your name?”

“Madrul.” Madrul wondered why the boy had not remembered him from the night before. “And yours?”

“Xivodo. It was said last night but in all the...the mess...”

“Ah,” Madrul said himself, and then slowly offered his hand to the other.

Xivodo stared at him a moment, and then a smile flitted across his pretty face and he took Madrul’s hand in his own firmly. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I... I wanted to apologize for... for my father’s actions last night.”

Madrul flushed. “I—“

“No, no, I do not blame you for drawing your sword at him.” Xivodo laughed and ran his hand through his dark hair, pushing it back from his eyes. “If I were in your place I cannot say that I would have had your same patience when he dealt with you such. He is... a very confident man. Perhaps... over arrogant.” He sighed. “He really had no right to treat you in such a way. Again, I... I am very sorry for him.”

Madrul nodded slowly. The knot that had formed in the pit of his stomach from the moment the man had begun to offer the contract started to loosen and fade a little. “Nevertheless, I had no right to threaten a guest in my master’s home.”

Xivodo touched his hair again, a little self consciously. “Your master certainly knows how to deliver an insult. Subtle enough that my father could hardly react to it without being labeled the provoker of the fight, and yet so bright and stinging, he could hardly resist.”

Madrul grunted. “It was a rather good comment,” he said with a grin as he bent to scrub out the ash filled buckets, turning the stream from clear to dark grey as the water pulled the nasty mess away.

Xivodo stepped forward. “Let me help you,” he said, and there was a fumbled moment when the two were uncoordinated until they managed to gauge each others’ strength. Then they both bent to the task and worked to scrub out the two buckets.

Xivodo managed to get splashed with ashy water, putting a lovely dark grey stain on his fancily embroidered tunic, but he did not complain. He followed behind Madrul as he turned and made his way back to the path; they continued talking.

When they reached the path Madrul saw that the boy was preparing to follow him up. “Look,” he said. “What are you doing here? You could not have just come to
apologize.”

Chapter 10: The Light in the Cave

2005-11-27T13:40:00.000-08:00

Chapter 10

Madrul’s eyes at first had wanted to rivet themselves to the ground before he could give away in a glance all of his guilt to the dragon, but the woman’s gesture distracted him, for as she turned he focused instead on her. And once he had done so he could hardly draw his eyes away--she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

The woman’s toga clung to her body in ways that he had not known a toga could cling, but he didn’t concentrate on that. Her face, however, was what drew his attention—her cheekbones were high, and the characteristically slightly larger nose of the islanders that made him look so awkward only served to draw attention to her eyes, which were a deep shade of black that seemed to fill his existence. They were also widened as if in amazement.

“Mother?” gasped Iakena.

Madrul pivoted, startled, to goggle briefly at his companion, but she was already gone, running down the hill with her arms out, and the woman took two or three strides to meet her and catch her up in a great hug. Madrul gulped a few times and then started down the hill towards the group.

“You certainly took your time,” said Drademar to Madrul.

“Yes, sir, but it’s not sunset yet.”

Drademar smiled. “Did you get everything you need?”

“I think so, sir,” Madrul realized that the strap of the now heavy bag was digging into his shoulder and he swung it off of himself and let it drop to the ground.

Drademar followed it down with his eyes and let his gaze rest on Madrul’s feet. “How do you like your new boots?” he said.

Madrul bit his tongue for an instant to keep from ranting all whinily about them again and then only let himself go when he felt he could say something decent. “I can imagine that they will be most useful, sir,” he said.

The dragon laughed, a snort of laughter through his grinning teeth, a laugh that shot smoke from his nostrils briefly; the smoke poured into the air and was torn away by a sudden gust of wind. “Astute, apprentice,” he said with another smile.

“Drademar,” said the woman--Madrul knew it was her, though he had never heard her speak before. Only someone that beautiful could have such a soothing voice, all low and sweet honey like tones that seemed to fill his ears with pleasant flavors and colors. Drademar turned his head back to the woman and Madrul properly turned to face her as well.

Iakena stood next to her mother, staring at the ground slightly; she glanced up once at Madrul and her eyes were round. They narrowed slightly when her mother said, “I would like you to meet my daughter, Iakena. Iakena, this is... an old friend of mine.” Madrul realized then that he had never heard anyone address his master by his first name alone, and he wondered about how old of friends the two must be.

Iakena stepped forward and curtseyed carefully. “Sir,” she said quietly.

“A pleasure to meet the gracious daughter of such a kind woman,” said Drademar.

“A pleasure to meet the dear friend of my mother,” said Iakena, and stepped backwards.

“I see that you have already have met my apprentice,” said the dragon. Madrul swallowed and then realized he was probably supposed to step forward. He did so, at the same time pondering how interesting it was to hear that term, apprentice. “But Rythcaren, you have not. His name is Madrul.” The woman stepped forward and curtseyed politely, with an infinite amount of grace that almost but not quite disturbed him. Then he uncomfortably realized he was supposed to bow, and he did so, though awkwardly.

“A pleasure to meet the proficient student of my kind friend,” she said, her tone lilting.

“A pleasure to meet the dear friend of my master,” he said, the phrase fitting all smooth and ritual-ly into his mouth. He had not been formally introduced to anyone for a very long time and then only once or twice before, when he was quite young. He remembered that he had been horribly nervous then and had not remembered what he was supposed to say; the feeling now was interesting, but it did not strike fear in him as it had then.

She smiled at him and in that moment unthinking he could only blink at her radiance and bask in her grace, before he realized he was supposed to step back, and hastily did so. “Well, Drademar,” said Rythcaren. “I am afraid that I am keeping you overlong.”

“It is nothing of the sort,” said Drademar. “I would stay all night if I were needed.”

“I thank you for your kind offer.” She smiled again, this time the full effect of her gaze falling on Drademar, who received it unwavering and unblinking. “But I do not wish to monopolize your time.”

“A pleasure to see you again,” he said.

“Always. I do await your next visit.” She stepped back, signaling the end of the conversation.

Madrul did not have time to wonder about the situation’s formality as Drademar told him to climb up--he scaled the dragon’s side and then wondered belatedly if his boots might hurt the soft hide, but despite an extra shower of scales or two, the dragon seemed unaffected. The boy caught Iakena’s eyes one last time before Drademar kicked off from the ground, and she no longer seemed quite so shocked about him. It must have been some surprise for her to first see her mother speaking with the dragon and then learn that Madrul was his apprentice, but he did not have the opportunity to speak to her. He wondered if they came here the next time if he would be able to find her house again. He hoped so. He did not want this to be the last time they would meet.

The dragon’s wings pumped hard, the muscles bulging and stretching beneath him as Drademar sought a draft on which to rise, laden with boy and bundle. By the time they swept away from the city the sun had begun to set.

“How did you meet Rythcaren’s daughter?” Drademar asked as he flapped and gained altitude, soaring over the darkening landscape.

“I got lost, Master Drademar,” he said, and because he was not really paying attention he told the dragon everything. “I went to the smith’s guild to ask after a shop, but I got told I would not be sold to without a contract.”

Drademar snorted, the motion of his wings drawing the smoke back over his head so that it passed close to Madrul without actually touching him. “You have a contract. Or did you forget?”

“I know that we have a contract, sir, but they wanted it in writing. They would not take me at my word.”

Drademar was silent for a moment. “I am sorry to hear that. I should have asked Rythcaren if she knew a contractor in the city but I did not think of that.”

“It was all right, Master,” he said. “When I left the guild somewhat despairingly, that was when I encountered Iakena. She offered to show me where a smith tools shop was located, and I followed her. The shopkeeper was reluctant to sell to me without a written contract but agreed to if...”

“If?” Drademar twisted his neck so that his head was staring around at Madrul. “If what?”

“If the name of my master was in his book of guild approved masters. Apparently there is some sort of guild discounted price for those apprentices who have contracted with masters, but I do not see why they would not sell to the average person off the street. I mean, if you want smith’s tools, one would assume that you are going to do something with them.”

Drademar twisted back to his normal position and swept down low towards the land so that his belly skimmed the tree tops of the larger forest. “It has to do with competition,” he said at last. “The guild does not want freelance blacksmiths coming along and lowering prices for the average nail, you understand. So they do their best to keep freelancers out of town or out of business. One way to do that is by denying them repairs or supplies they might need, or charging exorbitant prices for such supplies.”

“What does exorbitant mean, Master?” Madrul had learned almost as soon as he had arrived at the cave that he would never learn the meaning of the words the dragon used if he did not ask promptly.

“An exorbitant price is one that is... how would one put it? A price that no decent item should cost. For example... paying five gold for a single hammer, or thirty dreeleng for a horse.”

“Ah,” said Madrul. “So if the guild charges that price for masters who are not part of the guild they either prevent the smith from buying or take so much from him that they hardly need to worry about his still being in business.”

“Yes,” said Drademar. “Now, finish your telling.”

“There is not much else to say, sir. I gave the smith your name and he sold to me. Though I admit, sir, that his reaction to your having an apprentice was surprisingly shocked.”

Drademar snorted and then roared in laughter. “Yes, yes,” he said through a cloud of smoke. “They buy my swords faster than I can make them but they don’t want to recognize me as a smith. I had a hard enough time getting my name on that list of guilds masters, though I am indeed a member of the guild.”

“Why would they seek to deny you, sir?”

“I do not know, Madrul.” He swooped upwards into the darkened sky so they could approach the stars and the cave at a more level height. “I do not—“

He stopped, not only in speech but also in direction, swooping hard to the left so deeply that Madrul had to grab at the bag with an outcry to keep it from sliding off the broad, scaly back. The dragon continued to circle, his eyes shining slightly in the starlight, staring at the mountain. “Master?” queried Madrul at length. “What is the matter?”

“There is a light in the cave, and I did not leave the torch burning,” said the dragon.

Madrul turned surprised eyes to the cave entrance and saw that the dragon’s words were true.

“But... who would be in the cave?” he said quickly.

“Perhaps random travelers,” said Drademar. “Looking for a place to pass the night. Decided to stop there, finding it livable but apparently uninhabited...”

“They decided to climb halfway up the mountain just to sleep in a cave they could hardly have seen in the first place, sir?” Madrul’s voice bore incredulity and he forced it down; he did not want his tone to be taken for disrespect. “No offense meant, sir, but also the cave looks as if someone were living in it, not as if it were old and abandoned. I make sure the dust doesn’t accumulate too much, sir, I do, I—“

“Enough, boy,” the dragon growled. “I do not blame you, nor do your words offend. You are, as ever, astute. Then whoever they are, they are looking for me.”

The tone of his voice had dropped low, and as he spoke a rumbling growl arose in his throat, a sound Madrul had never heard in his master before. It frightened him; he remembered that night, so long ago it seemed like, when he had lain by the tree in the meadows by Lohien and had watched the dragon slaughter and devour the goats, one by one in the darkness, with the dark blood coating his claws and muzzle. He shivered suddenly and tightened his grip almost involuntarily on the spike to which he clung.
The dragon swept as silently as possible towards a spot about halfway down the path that led up the mountain, and per his quiet instructions Madrul dismounted.

“I do not want you to get hurt,” he said.

“Excuse me, Master,” said Madrul, scuffing the toe of the horrible boots at the dirty path. “But if whoever is in there is looking for you, why do you propose to go to them? Let me go to the cave. I will take the goods on my back and act as if I have just returned. And you could wait, down by the stream; I would go as if to fill the buckets and tell you who it is.”

“And what would you do if that person attacked you?”

“What person would come to the cave with an outwardly malevolent intent?” Madrul shrugged. “I do not know, Master, but then... perhaps you could wait close by outside if I need your help.”

The dragon shuffled uneasily from foot to foot. “I would not have you hurt, Madrul,” he said, and then he sighed deeply. “You do not even know how to use it yet,” he said petulantly, and then he spoke a phrase, quick and guttural magic that traced hot runes in the air and made starlight glisten from nowhere momentarily. The glow solidified slowly, and something fell from the white afterspots it left in the air. Unconsciously Madrul reached out and caught the object with his one free hand.
It was a short sword, of similar make to that of his father’s own blade. The hilt was inlaid with a line of silver that wound its way up to the tip, and etched with magic sigils. He put down the strap of the bag and took the opportunity to draw it slightly. The half inch of blade that showed glimmered in the light of the moon, and he could see something etched along it.

“I did not want to give it to you yet,” Drademar said. “I will fly in from above and... make my way down the mountainside by foot so that my wings do not announce my presence. I will wait just above the entrance of the cave. If you have any need for me, yell, and I will come.”

Madrul pushed the sword back into the sheath. “Thank you, Master,” he said, a little breathlessly. This sword was better a hundred times over than that of his father, and he did not know quite what to say about it. To praise the dragon’s work seemed pointless; but the blade was truly excellent. He swallowed hard against his dry throat, and then nodded.

The dragon took off by pushing himself over the ledge of the path and swooping down over the fields and the stream beyond before curving back up into the sky. Madrul watched him disappear around the side of the volcano and swallowed again, feeling suddenly alone.

He gripped the sheath in both hands for a moment and then tucked it into his belt so that it was hidden beneath the folds of his toga. Then he hefted the bag onto his shoulder and started the climb up the hill.

As always it was a relatively long trek, and in the time it took to make it he tried to think of what he would do when he got to the cave. The trick to it, he told himself silently, was to act surprised. And natural. To not give away the dragon’s position. Yet again and again his mind kept wandering as he tried to imagine who on earth would be looking for the dragon, and would be either bold enough or unwise enough to take up residence in the cave when Drademar was not there.

He reached the point where the path widened out into the talon-scarred ledge and the cave mouth opened onto the path. The light of the fire inside flickered and bobbed against the stone. It suddenly looked almost cold and alone. He hesitated, then took a deep breath to steel himself and turned the corner into the cave.
Three figures held two torches. He blinked against the sudden light, trying to clear his eyes, until at last he could see them. When at last he did, his heart wobbled a little.

It was a family, as far as he could tell--a man, and a woman who did not bear much resemblance to him, and a young boy perhaps a year older than Madrul himself was whose features were such a mixture of the other two’s that there was no doubt that he was their child. Where anything had seemed to go wrong on their faces, however, it went right on his. He had his mother’s oval eyes trimmed with dark lashes, but not her wide nose. His lips were the strong full lips of his father, but his hair was not the same wiry thinness as the older man’s.

They were dressed fancifully--in the richly embroidered togas of the merchants in the cities, slightly stained by what appeared to be a long enough journey--or perhaps they had only climbed the hill. Madrul couldn’t be sure; either event was likely to make the walker very dirty. The man wore a pair of golden rings on one hand, and a long sword on his belt outside of his toga. He had a thick dark beard that was neatly trimmed. The woman wore the silver bracelets that Pedrac had always been so fond of--though far more of them than his family would have ever been able to afford.
The three of them stared at him as he stared at them and after a moment he became uncomfortably aware of his horrid boots, the rips in his toga, the cloth now long stained with dust and dirt. He also became aware that the strap on his shoulder almost seemed to burn his skin--he grunted slightly and moved forward into the cave.
They did not say anything to him, though the youth followed him with his eyes and the woman turned towards her husband and murmured something. He strode to the corner where his goods lay and dropped the satchel next to his neatly rolled up bed mat. He unrolled the mat with a foot and seated himself cross-legged on the surface to sort through the goods he had acquired that day.

The food went on the rock shelf in proximity to his bed, where the remnants of the last trip still lingered. He put the fresher food behind so that he would remember to eat the older stuff first. Then he pulled out the leather smock and folded it neatly beside his bed mat. He laid the two pairs of gloves on top and then took out the oil-cloth wrapped hammers and tools. At last he removed his sandals from the bag. With trembling hands he undid the straps that held the boots to his ankles and pulled off the offending objects with a stifled groan.

His heels were raw and red; one toe verged on bleeding, and the rest were squashed. He had also successfully acquired an amazing number of blisters. He bit his lip and stood the boots next to the other leather items, then stretched his poor feet.

At last he strapped on his sandals. Wherever they touched he felt like weeping but his feet did seem to breathe easier after the stretch and without all that confining leather. Lastly he folded up the bag and tucked it next to his clothing.

Then he stood and went to the water barrel to check its level. It was lowered, and Madrul scowled. He knew a puddle would evaporate in the sun after the rain fell and he wondered briefly if all water did the same, regardless of the sunlight it received. He pondered the feasibility of making a lid. It would have to be made of some sort of material that was not too heavy. That left out stone. A thin layer of metal, perhaps, but that would be expensive, and a waste. It should properly be made of wood anyway, since the barrel was made of wood. He measured the width of the barrel compared to his armspan and found it large enough and also circular.

Then he realized that the three of them were watching him. He fought down the crimson that raced to make his ears red and reached for the buckets. Why didn’t they sit down? There was plenty of room in the cave. They looked horribly uncomfortable standing.

But it was hardly his place to tell them or even invite them to sit in Drademar’s cave. He took the one bucket down from the wall and checked his own water supply—it would last for another day or two. Then he turned and left the cave.

He did not look up when he left but he knew that Drademar, perched above the cave, was watching him. He made it about a quarter of the way down the slope towards the stream before he was sure the people were no longer watching him and he turned.

Drademar was a dark, winged form, like a giant right side up bat clinging to the face of the mountain, his wings folded around him. Madrul squinted at him and the dragon’s eyes glimmered, sudden and round with a strange brightness, from the vicinity of his face.

The darkened form of the dragon blended itself with the ebony that was the unlit face of the volcano and faded away. Madrul watched the spot where he had been for a long moment until he realized that he really would need water; he turned and started back down the path.

Chapter 9: In which Madrul goes to town

2005-11-27T13:32:00.000-08:00

Chapter 9

The next day was consumed with chores and studying. Drademar produced, from some unknown crevice within the caves and tunnels that apparently littered the dormant volcano, a stack of scrolls and books. Madrul was very fortunate in that his mother had insisted upon his learning to read, though the skill was rarely used in a village that got its fill of stories and history from the telling. He was not very good at it, but as he examined the lopsided pile of material on which he would practice, he gathered that he had better become good at it, and rather quickly. He did not have much time that day to become good at it, however, for around midmorning, a number of hours after sunset but far before midday, the dragon crouched down on the floor and told him to climb up.

He hurriedly obeyed, taking the now emptied sack with him--what remained of the food was carefully wrapped in cloth and stored on a rock ledge. Madrul had not really counted himself lucky but he should have; besides the dust, the cave in which he lived, though sparse, was neat and clean, and uninhabited by any creature, since no sane creature would enter a domain that hung heavy with the spicy scent of dragons. He had no problems with storing food nor with dripping water, to judge from the dry, near perfect condition of the books.

The dragon pushed off from the ledge, his wings flapping as he dropped slightly before a breeze caught him and lifted him away, carrying him up into the air. They soared over the landscape and Madrul admired his surroundings and their proximity to the clouded sky with delight.

“Do you know what to get?” Drademar queried.

Madrul nodded and then remembered where he was. “Leather gloves, a leather smock, leather closed boots, two smaller hammers and a larger one, a set of detail tools, and two decently sized pairs of tongs. Also foodstuffs to last for several weeks.”

“Indeed. Your memory is excellent. The money I gave you should be sufficient for everything. Now I am afraid I shall not be able to drop you off at the town.”

Madrul puzzled over that. “Why not, sir?”

“It is not their week to feed me and I have no desire to drive off their herds and earn their enmity. You will not have too far to walk, Madrul.”

He did land along a relatively uninhabited stretch of road some distance from the city, and Madrul reluctantly slid down from his back and sized up how far he would have to walk with a scowl. Then he bent and brushed at the scales that had accumulated around his toga during his ride--the dragon was in shedding season, and sometimes the scales appeared to be everywhere.

“I will wait here. Try to get done by sunset; if you are not, I will come looking for you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Madrul, trying to suppress a sullenness in his tone, and he turned and trod briskly towards the town with the empty sack on his shoulder and the pouch full of coins tucked deep under his slightly stained toga. As he walked, pushing himself along with the muscles developed after almost a month’s worth of repeatedly enforced hard climb up the hill, he could not suppress his sudden elation, however. The closer he got to the city the more excited he became--it had been so long since he had seen or talked to a human being! And though this was not Lohien, nor Buoka, still it felt as if somehow he were going home.

He approached the outskirts of the city faster than he perhaps thought he would, mainly because of those previously mentioned powerful muscles, and as he strode down the street little boys and girls ran from their porches to congregate around him and bury him in questions. He ignored them--Rebe’s friends had often done the same thing back home, and that was the only response one could have when one was short on time. Soon he left them, still complaining, behind, and entered more crowded streets. Small shops stood at each corner, but more prominent were the guild houses, their signs advertising the profession they trained. Weavers, blacksmiths, merchants, even professional bards were gathered outside their respective centers of learning for the city, trying to gather passersby to train. More than one bard told Madrul he had the perfect hands for a lute, and once a shifty little man in a cloak approached him and started advertising the assassin’s guild. Madrul thanked him kindly--surely it was best to be polite to someone who claimed to be a trained assassin, whether or not that was actually true--and told him he was already apprenticed, and the man scuttled away.

He followed the growing crowd of people until he entered the merchant’s district, focused around a square so crammed with people that moving through it was impossible. He hesitated. Perhaps plunging headlong into that mess wasn’t the best idea--it would probably only get him robbed. He scowled, and turned back to the guild district from which he came. Eventually he found the blacksmith’s guild a second time and entered through the creaky old wooden door at the front of the building.

A congregation of large, rough looking men pushed past him on his way in. One said, “Forget it, lad! You don’t have the build for it.”

Madrul turned after him. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, and the man swiveled to eye him. “I am looking for a shop where I can purchase blacksmithing goods.”

“There’s Grabajda’s shop down the way--he sells the dragon’s goods in this town.”

“No, I’m sorry, I meant a store where I can buy blacksmithing tools.” A month of being constantly on his toes concerning politeness around the dragon was difficult to shake off.

“The guild sells them, but you’ve got to have a contract with a master to buy blacksmith’s goods,” said the man.

“I am under contract.”

“Take your paper in to see the man.” He gestured beyond Madrul into the hall and turned his back. Madrul scowled slightly and went inside. Behind a low table there sat a man who looked every inch a blacksmith, except he had a pair of tiny spectacles perched on his nose and he was bent almost in half over a thin, illustrated book on the table before me. He did not look up, and Madrul’s curiosity got the better of him; he leaned half over the table to examine the book’s drawings.

The book snapped shut. “Can I... help you?” said the man in a thin, dry tone.
“I’ve come to buy blacksmith’s tools, sir, and the man said I was to see you—“

“Do you have a contract?”

“Yes, sir.” Madrul was feeling slightly bewildered by this time. Why was such an emphasis placed on his blasted contract? What did it matter if he bought tools without being a blacksmith?

“Well?” the man snapped. Madrul stared at him. “Don’t stand there gaping, boy, show me your contract.”

“Show--oh...you want... a written contract?” Madrul flushed. “I... my contract was never written—“

“It either is written or it does not exist.”

“That is not true!”

“Look, boy, either you can show me the signed proof that you work for a blacksmith or you can get out of my business.”

Madrul stared pugnaciously at him for a long moment and then turned and stormed away.
The door swung shut behind him before he would allow himself to emit a burst of mild obscenities over which his mother would have surely beaten him and his father probably would have beamed.

Someone laughed behind him, and he turned half furious to be confronted by a girl. She wore a dirty, ragged woman’s toga that had once been too long for her and was now cut up to her knees, far too short, in a shade of dark green; her eyes were a dark indistinguishable color that verged on blackness, and her hair was light colored--the brightest, yellowest hair he had ever seen.

“You’d put your father to shame, swearing like that,” she said, scratching at one cheek and leaving a dirty smear on her skin.

“He’d probably be proud,” growled Madrul. “What gives you the right to laugh at me?”

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing with you.” She smiled, suddenly. “What do you have to curse about?”

He scuffed his toe awkwardly in the dirt. “They won’t sell me smithing tools because I don’t have my contract in writing.”

She laughed again. “And aren’t you a bit young to be an apprentice, anyway, then?”

He scowled. “I’m twelve years old.”

“As am I, but do you think that matters to the likes of them? They don’t care for anything that doesn’t come with a master’s title attached to it.” In response to his deepening scowl she reached out and poked him in the arm. “Lighten up, all ready? By the dragon, you’ve more frowns in you than a rainy day. No reason you can’t pass a moment or two smiling now, is there?”

He sighed deeply. “I need those goods.”

“I know a shop as that sells them. Affiliated with the guild but at least you’ll have a chance, being outside the bureaucratic center and all. You want me to show you where it is?”

He blushed. “I don’t have anything to give you.”

“You can give me your name. I’ll take that as proper payment for my help.” With that she turned and ran down the alley. At the far end she beckoned him; hesitantly, then more confidently, he followed her.

“My name is Madrul.”

“Mine is Iakena.” Their awkward encounter continued until they reached the smithing shop she had mentioned earlier, with much carousing in between.

He thanked her and went in.

The man behind the counter was another of those buff, obviously smith type people. He looked up as Madrul entered. “Can I help you?” he said quietly.

“I need to buy some smithing tools, but...”

The man sat back in his chair. “But?” His tone was amused.

“But my contract as an apprentice is not written, so the guild wouldn’t sell to me.”

The man snorted. “I am guild affiliated. What makes you think I might break the guild’s rules so easily?”

Madrul swallowed. “Nothing makes me think that, sir, it’s just that... that...”

“That? Yes?”

“That I had to try, sir.” Madrul swallowed again.

The man stretched his long limbs and pushed his chair back from the table, getting ponderously to his feet. “I admit I have dealt with verbal contractors in the past, but to receive the guild price your master’s name must be in my book.” He patted a nearby tome. “Just so as we keep the guild prices fairly distributed.”

“I did not know that the guild gave tooling discounts,” said Madrul carefully.

“No matter,” said the man, waving his hand. “What is your master’s name?”

Madrul swallowed. “His name is Drademar.”

The man began to flip through the book. “Description?”

This last question made Madrul’s throat seize up. The man stopped turning the page and let his finger trace up and down the column of names. “Well, boy? Your physical description of him had better match up in some mann--erk.” He broke off, and his finger stopped.

Madrul swallowed yet again, choking against the lump that had risen in his throat. “He is the dragon,” he said thickly around a suddenly dry tongue.

The shopkeeper closed the book heavily and sat down. “You’ll need to give me more proof than that that you aren’t... that you’re...”

“That I’m not lying?” Madrul scowled. “You don’t trust me?”

“To say you are an apprentice to the dragon...”

The boy nodded. “Very well.” He thought for a moment, and then fumbled in the pouch at his belt until he encountered some of the scales he had brushed from his toga earlier in the morning, and showed them to the man.

The man swallowed hard a few times, bobbing between his chair and a standing position, until at last he shook his head. “For the love of all that is great, boy,” he said. “How on earth did this come about?”

“I do not know,” Madrul admitted, and then his story poured out of him in a rush of words. It had been so long since he had had the chance to talk to someone and also it was the first time he was able to truly explain what had happened to him. Once he started talking all that had happened slipped from his lips. “But when it was time for the dragon festival at my family’s village, Lohien, some friends and I snuck out to see the dragon where he was going to meet the men in the field. And once he saw me he said something about the men remembering his request after all, and sent me back for my things (yay, resummerizing!). When I told him later we didn’t know anything about his requesting an apprentice he didn’t seem to mind.”

The shopkeeper shook his head again, pushing himself to his feet. “However that works out, young man, I will gladly sell at guild prices to Master Drademar’s apprentice. What was it that you needed?”

Madrul recited his list. “Leather gloves, and a leather smock... one other leather thing, too... oh yes, leather closed boots. If you don’t have them I’m to go to the cobbler’s. And for tools two small hammers, one large hammer, a set of detail tools, and two pairs of tongs.”

“Whoa, slow down, whoa there,” laughed the man. “Give me a moment to look for some things.” He found the smock and the hammers and placed them on the counter; Madrul tried on the apron as the shopkeeper rummaged around for boots and gloves that might fit him. He came back in a short time later with the items and handed them to Madrul, who was still examining the smock. The boy accepted them wordlessly and tried them on.

The leather boots were heavy and extremely uncomfortable, especially for someone who had spent the majority of his life going barefoot. He had rarely worn sandals and had never owned boots. What use did the son of a fisherman and a dyer have for boots? There was nothing particularly dangerous around home or in the woods that boots would protect him from. Now they chafed and rubbed at his ankles and heels. A slightly larger size materialized by the shopkeeper proved to be slightly more comfortable, but only just.

The gloves that he tried on were awkward and hot but at least they didn’t irritate his skin as badly as the boots did. He reached for the closest hammer and lifted it--it was heavy, and while he did not strain too much it still took effort to pick it up. The gloves, however, made the rough wooden handle far more comfortable, and the shopkeeper suggested he take a second, larger pair—he was assured that he would go through them quickly, working in the heat of the forge. Madrul acquiesced and as the shopkeeper began to total his purchase, he dipped into his tunic and located the bag of coins the dragon had given him. He counted them out carefully to the shopkeeper and stowed his new things in the bottom of his bag, stopping only at the man’s suggestion and trading his sandals for the horrible boots, having been reassured that the more he wore them the sooner he would get used to them. Then he shoved the sandals into the bag, and thanked the man.

“On the contrary, it is I who owes you a great debt,” said the shopkeeper. “An amazing thing, I swear to you, that the dragon has taken an apprentice.”

Madrul fought down the hotness in his cheeks and stumbled out the door.

“I told you,” said someone’s voice right by his elbow and he turned to find Iakena had been waiting for him. “I told you he’d sell to you.”

Madrul nodded, and showed her his boots. She laughed when he told her how uncomfortable they were. “Oh, yes,” she said. “They do take a bit of getting used to once you start wearing them. I hate my pair. And I don’t wear them, not around the city. Mother makes me wear them when we go places.”

They walked together towards the market, and she told him about her mother. She did not mention her father and Madrul did not press her—she probably had her reasons.
When they reached the marketplace she insisted on following him as he made his way through the crowd, and he decided that he had no reason nor desire to chase her away. So he told her about his family, and where he came from—about Keirun and Jorreked, Rebe and Pedrac and Niruy, his mother and father, even the Siqan Drema.

“We don’t have the telling more than once a month here in the city, not when we’re past seven years of age. The children need more stories, and more instruction, of course, but sometimes I sneak out on weeknights when Mother is late at the pottery shop and listen to their instruction just to hear it.” She sighed as Madrul approached the closest food stall and started haggling over the price of something dried and long lasting.

They spent two hours in the market and by the end of that time Madrul’s bag was full and he was excessively pleased with himself. He had not had such a good long conversation in a long time, considering how little he and Drademar actually spoke. Well Drademar spoke a lot but Madrul realized that most of his end of the conversation usually consisted of, “Yes, sir,” and, “No, sir,” or decent variants thereof.

“Well,” said Iakena. “Did you want to come see the pottery shop?”

He smiled. “I would like that, yes. Are you sure your mother and your grandfather will not mind?”

“I am not sure but probably not. They have no reason to send you away.”

She led him through the depths of the street as fast as her small, churning legs could carry her. He followed her more slowly than he would have liked, because the boots were rubbing at his ankles so badly that he was sure some sort of wound had opened up in his soft flesh and was bleeding all down his heels, although when he looked he could see nothing at all on the back of his boots.

But when they reached the shop Iakena’s mother was not there. She shrugged off her mother’s absence. “She is probably at the market herself. I am lucky that she did not see me; I am supposed to be at lessons.” Then she dragged Madrul around the shop by one hand, showing him the pots her mother had made the day before and which ones her grandfather’s trembling hands had formed and where the paint room and the clay room were, and the firepit for baking. “You let them flame for only so long, you see,” she said. “That’s how you keep them from breaking.”

At last they left the shop, and she showed him where the ladders lay at the sides of some buildings, leading up to the flat rooftops where people kept gardens and across which the knowledgeable traveler could walk with ease, instead of in the busy press that was the streets, lined with people. They climbed one and scurried from rooftop to rooftop until they reached the outskirts of town. There they climbed down and darted through the streets until the streets faded into mud and dust pathways and then died off into the open fields and the one long stretch of road down which Madrul had first come. It led off distantly into the forest that was never far from any island city.

The herders were driving their cattle and their goats--he could see their wooly white backs crossing the fields. His eyes continued along until the horizon and then started the journey back to his feet but before they made it, Iakena grabbed his arm. “There!” she said, and pointed.

“What?” he said, twisting to follow her gaze, for there was shock in her voice.

“It’s the dragon,” she hissed in his ear. “I didn’t think he’d be so close to town, not this time of year. Our dragon festival isn’t for another few months. What is he doing? It looks like he’s talking to someone!”

Before Madrul, suddenly remembering himself, could say anything she grabbed at his arm again and then darted off. “Let’s go look,” she called over her shoulder.

“Wait!” he yelled, but she didn’t listen and he muttered a few choice oaths under his breath and raced after her. He caught her, fortunately, before they got close to the dragon.

“What’s the matter?” she said, and laughed. “Don’t want to be seen?” And then she laughed again. “Nothing to be afraid of, you know!”

“I know,” he snapped. “It’s not that. I’m just... I... I don’t want...”

“You don’t know what you want,” she said, and darted off again. Again he raced after her.

Drademar was lying by the side of the road about half the distance between the city and the point at which he had originally landed, and he was indeed talking to someone. They approached slowly, as carefully as they could, hiding behind the occasional tree stump and boulder as they went, and each time they crept closer Madrul felt more and more foolish, even though he knew that this was what he and the boys had done so few weeks ago. “This is spying,” he said quietly to her as they inched their way closer.

“I just want to take a look and see,” she said.

Madrul nervously realized he could not explain to her his situation now that they were so close. They would be heard. He gulped and decided not to say anything at all.
They watched the dragon and the person to whom he was talking. From this close he could see that it must be a woman, for she was wearing a woman’s toga in deep blue of a shade that his mother might have made, fresh from the dyeing tubs. Her hair was black and she wore it tied up in a braid but it was still a deeply lustrous shade that scintillated in the sun.

She and Drademar were speaking familiarly but they weren’t close enough to hear their words, and Madrul was glad. He did not feel right spying on Drademar. It was true that he had thought the dragon might have had an ulterior motive in bringing him to this particular city because they had passed over a number of towns almost as large on the way. At first he had thought that it was because Drademar might have known one of the smiths, but he had made no mention of it, and this woman was hardly a smith
Iakena stood to make her way over to the next available tree trunk and Madrul muffled another curse and followed her, but before they could make it Drademar glanced up. The woman, startled, turned to follow his gaze.

Chapter 8

2005-11-27T13:24:00.000-08:00

Chapter 8

“They were working at the water house, sir,” said the girl. “When I went down to get the tubs, they were the ones who helped me bring ‘em up, instead of Rastir and Dracthin and the other lads, they weren’t there. They said they’d been hired today, sir.”

The innkeeper looked up at Wronsteit, who stood nearby with his sword not quite pointing at the crouched man. “But I have... I have never seen these men before.”

The blade lifted slightly, and the innkeeper’s gaze dropped to it and his eyes bulged. “I-I swear to it!” he said, his voice shrill.

Wronsteit watched him solidly for another moment and then the tip of the blade lowered and he reached into a pocket of the dark robe and removed a piece of cloth with which he promptly began to clean the sword. “Let her go,” he said with a slightly nod to Nevaya, and the boy obediently took his hands away from the girl’s arm where he had been clinging. She stepped aside and brushed at the sleeve of her dress, her face pale because it was now dotted with blood. The innkeeper stood and went to her side to console her and tell her that all things would be right, patting her hair and soothing her.

“I believe you,” said Wronsteit. “Both of you. But I must stay here tonight regardless of any other threat.” Once he had cleaned the blade to his satisfaction, he threw the ruined scrap onto the pile of bodies, straightened, and tipped over the smaller basin of still steaming water with his foot. The water flooded out and into the room, lifting and carrying the blood with it.

“I will have your room cleansed, sir,” said the innkeeper. “And there should be no reason why my inn should be an unsafe place for you to stay the night, sir. I will take some of the men I know and see if there are any other new hires today.”

Wronsteit nodded. “It is appreciated. Put your sword away, Nevaya.” The boy realized with a blush that he still held the crimson dipped blade, and he too rummaged around through the folds of his toga until he located a rag with which to clean his blade before sheathing it once more. As he worked on it, Wronsteit went on, “I will need the services of a tailor, and another bath.”

“It shall be done, sir,” said the innkeeper, and he put his arm around the still trembling but no longer crying serving girl and led her away.

Wronsteit turned back to the room and stepped easily over the pile of bodies. Nevaya sloshed through the water and the blood and followed him in.

Shortly the innkeeper returned with a cadre of rough looking men who nonetheless Nevaya was sure he had seen at the inn at some point in the past. They removed the bodies and carried the larger tub of water into the room and placed it behind the screened portion. The bath had cooled slightly in the short wait. They received the innkeeper’s assurance that the second bath was being prepared, and then the men armed themselves with brushes and rags and scrubbed the floor and the walls clean.

While they were doing that, Nevaya retired to his mat in the corner and worked on sewing a tear in his spare tunic, and Wronsteit retreated behind the screen and bathed. He emerged after a long time clad in his tunic and loose leggings with the robe, wetted in places in an effort to remove the blood stains, over one shoulder, and immediately folded himself up onto the bed. He draped the robe across his lap and examined it, and then the innkeeper arrived a second time with Nevaya’s bathwater, and he and the group of servants withdrew.

As Nevaya splashed behind the screen and removed the dirt and sweat of what felt like weeks from his body, he said, “Master?”

“What is it?” said Wronsteit without looking up from what he was working on.

“Will there not be some trouble about the bodies?” The innkeeper had had them thrown in the gutter and back alley.

“I doubt the elite city watch has much concern over the death of some ruffian drunks.”

Nevaya paused for a long moment. “But there were five of them. That many, at once, around such a place...”

“It is a significant number. But I do not think they will worry about it. And even if they do, it is of no matter to us.”

Nevaya did not say anything else, but for a time as he bathed he thought about the innkeeper and the serving girl, their paled shaken faces.

He came out of the tub and started to dress himself, but Wronsteit stopped him. “The tailor is coming, remember?”

But that makes their relationship a bit too awkward, so never mind.

He came out of the tub and dressed himself and returned to inventorying the supplies they had when another knock came on the door.

Wronsteit opened it and the innkeeper, bobbing and bowing again, came in with the tailor behind him. The man had Nevaya stand and strip down to his loincloth and tunic. “What are you being fitted for, eh, lad?” he asked jovially then. “A new toga? A new tunic? Perhaps a new belt?”

“Loose leggings,” said Wronsteit from where he sat, perusing a scroll. “Fancy tunic. A long robe. You have anything in his size that could be adjusted?”

Nevaya goggled at him briefly. Finery? What on earth would he need such clothes for?

“Maybe,” said the tailor, taking out a length of knotted rope and having Nevaya spread his arms. “Maybe I have something. Maybe. But these boys, they are growing, you know, and next week none of it may fit. I can make them a little bigger, a little looser, so he has some room to grow.”

“They must fit perfectly tomorrow. Can you finish anything by then?”

“Can I--of course I can!” The man waved his hand flippantly in Wronsteit’s direction. “I can finish anything like that by sunrise tomorrow. Of course a little extra fee for working all night--“

“No sloppiness. If it comes out slovenly I will not pay you at all.”

“I am never slovenly, and any man or boy I dress will look good enough to suit the king, even!” He finished taking Nevaya’s measurements and scowled. “Speaking of the men, what can I do for you?”

“I am settled for clothing,” said Wronsteit. “I thank you for your offer. Just make sure my apprentice is presentable.”

“Very well, very well.” The tailor bowed. “I have the dark brown leggings, loose, they are all the popular rage now. And a fancy tunic, let me see... blue trimmed in beige, embroidered and all, very nice. And for a robe, also blue--perfect! Trimmings in brown.”

“Good enough.” Wronsteit haggled with him over the price for some time and when they agreed on it he paid the first half immediately and sent the tailor on his way.
As soon as he was gone, Nevaya said, “Master, why am I being fitted with such fancy things as robes and leggings?”

Wronsteit looked at him and that quick smile flitted across his face only momentarily. “You would prefer a new toga?” he said.

“I already have two, and that wasn’t the question, sir,” said Nevaya, getting himself dressed a second time.

“An insolent answer. We have yet to practice tonight.” Outside the sky had darkened, and Wronsteit moved around the room and lit all the torches from the one in the hallway so that the freshly cleaned floor shimmered and wavered in the light. Nevaya found his sword amongst his belongings--his damp toga, which he had washed after his bath, hung over the partitioning screen.

Both drew their swords, and along the lengths of the blade the flames flickered and danced. Nevaya felt very warm and comfortable in the lamplight, but not sleepy. No form of sleep had tempted him yet, despite the long day.

“You killed a man today,” said Wronsteit carefully.

Nevaya met his gaze. “I have killed men before.”

“Yes, but this is the first time that you have done so in conjunction with me. It is an interesting experience.” Wronsteit rolled his shoulders. “To see you applying the styles and methods I taught you and--“ he grinned, not the grin of pleasure that so rarely touched him, but the long, slow, vicious grin of a predator stalking something. “--And completely mauling those techniques.”

Nevaya scowled slightly, trying to hide the gesture.

“Also,” said Wronsteit, and now his voice tightened. “Today you fought when you were angry, and drew your sword in anger. You were not in control of yourself. Do you understand what that means?”

“That means that I was irresponsible and completely open to all forms of attack,” recited Nevaya dutifully.

“And I thought we talked, and fought, and talked, and fought, about how you were never going to do that again.”

Nevaya lifted his chin a bit proudly. “He attacked you, Master.”

“So what?” Wronsteit shrugged. “Do you think I was incapable of defending myself?”

“Not at all, Master, but--“

“There is no exception. If you knew I could defend myself, why did you disrupt what would have been our battle and imposed over it one of your own?”

Nevaya tightened his grip on the blade slightly and said nothing.

“Answer me!” said Wronsteit sharply, the tone making the boy flinch.

“I-I could not stand to see you so attacked and insulted, Master,” he ground out between his teeth.

Wronsteit lifted his blade slightly, and Nevaya thought for a moment that he once again saw the glimmering red tracing the sword’s length. “How many, many times have I told you that you cannot let emotions come into play at all when you have your sword drawn?”

Nevaya took a deep breath and tried to force himself to calm down. “Many times, Master,” he said. “And yet when I saw him attack you unprovoked I could not control myself. Against anyone, for anyone else, I would not have let it happen.”

“Not even for your family?” Wronsteit said in a low tone.

“I no longer matter to my family, and they no longer matter to me, sir,” Nevaya was vaguely surprised to find that his voice was steady and calm. “Only you do.”

In the darkened room brimming with torchlight Wronsteit’s eyes glowed strangely. “Your family is still alive, Nevaya,” he said, his town powerfully low. “They still care for you.”

“I know, sir,” said Nevaya. “But I am of no use to them. The youngest son of four is not even needed to carry on the family name. Nor did they deny my seeking apprenticeship. In this moment, Master Wronsteit, they can offer me nothing that can further me.” He straightened slightly. “And that is all I want for myself. Knowledge and advancement. I want to learn, Master, and because of that wish you are that which I most value at this moment.”

Again Wronsteit’s eyes glowed and glimmered in the flickering light. “Very well,” he said. “You must still seek, however, to control your emotions when your blade is drawn.”

“Yes, Master.”

Wronsteit moved forward, his form a mere flicker of lamplight. Nevaya only had an instant’s worth of time to follow him and block, the longer sword crashing down against his slightly smaller blade. He spun away and Wronsteit followed him with the attack, his actions so fierce that Nevaya had no time to do anything except keep himself from being knocked senseless by the swordsmaster’s actions. Again and again he struck, and again and again Nevaya blocked him. After a long moment of watching Wronsteit’s flicking blade, he saw his opportunity and, hurriedly dashing Wronsteit’s sword aside, flicked his blade out violently at the man’s face.

Wronsteit blocked the attack easily with a single swipe of his blade, almost too fast to be seen, and then he attacked again, and again Nevaya was driven back. In another moment Nevaya turned his defense into a series of layered blows, but Wronsteit flicked each one away as if it were nothing.

They continued to fight, blades swinging.

Xxxxxxxx

“There you are,” came a rumbled voice from the depths of the tunnel at the back of the cave. Madrul jumped and almost dropped the buckets of water he had just returned from filling. Drademar stood at the tunnel’s entrance and motioned to him with his head. He obediently emptied the buckets and hurried towards the dragon. “Master Drademar?”

“Come with me,” said the dragon, and turned around. Madrul carefully ducked under his ponderously swung tail and followed a few paces behind the dragon as he treaded, catlike, down the tunnel. “You have been with me for a number of weeks now, Madrul,” he said casually as he walked. “And yet you have never asked about where I work.”

“I figured that you would tell me when you were ready, sir,” said Madrul. The tunnel was long and he had to half run to keep up with the dragon’s pacing. In the distance the rocks seemed touched with a hint of red or orange, as if a torch were just around the corner flickering and waiting for them.

Drademar snorted in what Madrul had long since surmised was draconic laughter, billows of smoke pouring around his sides and making Madrul duck and cover his face with one hand to avoid choking. “Polite, and perhaps astute, but you came here to be an apprentice and not a servant. It is time for you to start learning.”

The tunnel was growing hotter, and Madrul was beginning to get slightly uncomfortable when they finally came to the tunnel’s end. As the rock walls fell away into a broader cavern, he stifled a gasp.

They were in the depths of the mountain, and he was reminded fully once and for all that it was not in fact a mountain but a dormant and not entirely inactive volcano, because before him lay the source of the walls’ crimson and tangerine tint, a bubbling pool of magma. The scarlet, molten surface was rimmed by large and small rocks, all of which were deeply scored with rune like markings.

The heat made brilliant droplets of sweat form along Madrul’s forehead, and he wiped them away with the back of one hand while looking around the cavern. Various openings littered the walls of the cavern. Each hole was surrounded by symbols similar to those that traced the edge of the pool. Near the bubbling hole there was a sort of shelf or table made of sheet rock that stood almost as tall as Madrul’s head, though it reached only just above the dragon’s waist when he was reared up on his hind legs. The dragon slithered up to it and then turned and examined Madrul with a gaze that verged on disconcerting. Then he grinned. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten you.” He indicated what Madrul had originally taken for a draconic bench, and then the boy realized it reached up to his own waist. On it sat a large hammer, a pair of tongs larger than his hands, and a chunk of raw metal larger than his head.

“We will have to go to town soon this week anyway for supplies,” said Drademar. “I believe when you are there you should be able to pick up some smithy supplies as well. As it is, those are some of my pieces of equipment. Ah, but you have no gloves.” The dragon frowned briefly, intensely. At length he sighed. “Fine. You will only be able to watch before we go to town.”

At Drademar’s suggestion, Madrul pulled himself up onto his rock workbench, noting that it too was lined with sigils, and then stood there for a clear view of the dragon’s actions.

“What are all these sigils?” he asked when Drademar prompted him to ask.

The dragon looked taken aback. “They are part of a spell that I use to control the magma. You see, good smithing depends on perfect temperatures of the forge, otherwise the metal will melt or deform. You have not seen a spell before?”

Madrul realized he must have been goggling. He swallowed. “No, sir.”

“Well, then,” and the dragon smiled. “You will need to learn magic in order to control the temperature of the forge.”

“I don’t understand, sir,” Madrul said hesitantly. “How can magic affect the magma if it is a spell on the rocks and not on the magma itself?”

Drademar watched him for a long second, and the boy feared for a moment that perhaps he had offended the dragon. Then Drademar laughed slightly, the smoke pouring from his nostrils. “That is an extremely precise distinction you have just made,” he said quietly. “Nevertheless, I will answer your question. When I speak the spell aloud, it affects whatever is contained within the ring that the rocks form. Now, watch,” he said, and then he turned towards the pool. A brief phrase formed itself at his lips and sounded almost too loudly in the cavern, echoing slightly. Simultaneously, all the sigils on the rocks surrounding the magma pool began to glow brilliantly, as did those around one of the openings in the upper wall. There came a rushing sound of oxygen-provided flame, and the heat of the cavern intensified twice over; simultaneously a hot wind swept Madrul’s hair from his face and pulled at the dragon’s wings.

The dragon had a piece of half formed metal in a pair of tongs in an instant, and he held it briefly over the magma, where the air was so hot it wavered and shimmered as if it were about to break. He turned the piece of metal as if he were turning a marshmallow (MMM DOOM MARSHMALLOWS) and then as the metal verged on yellow beyond orange-red, he spoke another phrase and turned away.

The heat dropped off back to that which it had been when they had first arrived in the cavern and Drademar turned away from the fire, the metal in his claws still glowing. He placed the strip on the counter, selected a hammer, and began to pound on the length of what looked to be a long sword--not with heavy strikes, as if he were trying to break it, but with pinging taps that slowly, very slowly, reshaped the edge of the blade.

Throughout the rest of the afternoon Madrul simply watched the dragon work, listening to the descriptions he was given and observing Drademar’s skills. By the time they finished the sun had already set; Drademar lit the torch and Madrul set about trying to reduce the piles of dust that seemed to have accumulated almost overnight within the cave. He was beginning to get used to the all consuming darkness of the cave, and now he felt as if he could see a faint red glow outlining the tunnel below. Shortly thereafter he ate, drank, and went to sleep.

In which we finally get to kill someone!!

2005-11-21T10:50:00.000-08:00

Chapter 7

It was a heavy breeze that sent one of the buckets rattling across the stony bank and into the river and woke him from his slumber. He sat up with an outcry, scaring away the wild goat that had once more returned, this time to taste his hair. Madrul chased the bucket where it bobbed downstream. Fortunately the current was not strong, and he caught it before the river wound away into the woods.

He checked on the cloth spread over the hot rock--it was no longer soaked, but still damp, especially in the center. That wind continued to buffet him and then he recognized it. Madrul glanced up and his ears caught the distant sound of the dragon’s wingbeats. He grinned to see Drademar approaching the cave and then worriedly wondered if the dragon had seen him sprawled asleep on the ground, like a lazy oaf.

He put on the damp toga and tied the belt around his waist, then sat down and put on his sandals, his sore hands, swollen a bit from the wash, having slight difficulties with the ties. Then he folded the all but dry tunic into a pouch around the completely dry soap and scrubbing coral and tucked that into his belt.

He bent over the river and filled the two buckets, then gave a glance around the bathing site to see if he had forgotten anything. He could see nothing, so he turned and headed back towards the mountain. His sandals left faintly wet footprints in the dust as he began his trek up the path, but they soon faded away as the dust absorbed all of the shoes’ moisture. The back of his toga, however, felt abnormally heavy with dampness, and seemed to weigh him down more than the buckets did. He plodded on, determined and trying not to kick up a lot of dust.

xxxxxx

Nevaya got to his feet and stretched, his arms rising above his head in a long, luxurious movement as a yawn engulfed his face. “You do not know what you are getting yourself into,” he said.

He was addressing the group of young men who had surrounded him on the outskirts of the great city Drexacha. Here the cobblestone streets had given way to sodden muddy roads strewn occasionally with nothing, nothing at allxx. The tightly packed merchant houses and guilds had given way to smaller, disheveled shops and family homes, where small children peered from the dirty front porches where they played and tried to catch the eyes of passersby. Some blocks down Wronsteit had finished haggling over the sale of a llama, because the author couldn’t think of anything else to put into the story here for him to be haggling overxx.

The young man who had knocked Nevaya over without warning was a tall, strong fellow with the blond hair characteristic of a true northern mainlander, though his eyes betrayed some sort of alteration in the race of his blood line, for they verged on green instead of the typical blue. He wore a long toga in dirty beige and a half-ripped red tunic that was a little too tight across his broad chest. He smirked, and took a step forward, pointing to the front of Nevaya's toga. “You got a little mud on you, there.”

Nevaya regarded him coldly, standing aggressively forward on the balls of his feet. His hand was at his hip, and he could feel the smoothness of the sheath through his toga.

“You going to do something about it, boy?” The other laughed again. “Or maybe it isn’t mud, maybe you scared yourself shitless facing me down, eh?”

The other boys laughed and Nevaya’s eyes went flat, but he did not draw his sword. Despite the many fights he got himself into, he knew that Wronsteit would not approve of him drawing his sword in a trivial situation such as this. He knew somehow without knowing why or how he knew that Wronsteit had finished his haggling, or would finish very soon. “Shitless like your father is shitless,” said the boy viciously, letting the insult sound loudly.

The young man stopped laughing and snarled, low in his throat, “What did you say about my honor?”

Nevaya could see Wronsteit approaching now--he had concluded his transaction for the llama and he came leading the two horses they had ridden from the port city. “I do not have time to waste on your petty idiocy,” Nevaya said, “But I said that your father is as shitless and as shitfaced as you are.”

With an enraged cry the other youth charged him, a fist swinging, and Nevaya grinned in the tiny fraction of a second before he reacted. He ducked under the incoming blow and dodged the second subsidiary blow as he threw himself at the approaching man. He struck with his balled up fist tight in his other hand, with his elbow, and when he struck he hit the other youth’s stomach, hard.

The boy went sprawling backwards slightly, stumbling as he went, and collided with two of his fellows, who gasped and yelled and charged Nevaya all at once. But he sprang lightly through their midst, dodging blows and turning strikes against others, until he danced free of the medley, almost tripping in his excitement. He had not escaped entirely unscathed, as his shoulder throbbed from a deflected blow that had not quite gone far enough, but he had done well enough for himself.

The boys disassembled from their mixture and those who had been struck stumbled to their feet--except for the first youth, who was currently spitting up blood and gasping for breath. They lined up in front of Nevaya, with him in the middle of the street.

“Nevaya,” said Wronsteit, simply.

Nevaya gave a glance behind him, saw that his master was waiting, and then turned back to the little crowd with a wicked smile and dropped his upraised fists. He took a light, bounding step or two backwards, and they made no move to follow him. When he was a safe enough distance away, he glanced again at Wronsteit, who had turned his back on the ordeal and was adjusting the bridle of his horse.

There came the sound of a grunt and then the schplucky patter of feet on the muddy street--Nevaya turned. The youth who had first attacked him had a small knife in hand and was running--not at Nevaya, but at Wronsteit.

“Master!” he cried, and then without thinking, without even knowing how he acted, he threw himself at the approaching boy. They collided, and Nevaya knocked him off course--both went sliding through the dirt along the street for a short ways.
The boy pushed himself to his feet quickly but Nevaya was already standing, his sword drawn from his sheath and at the ready. He was breathing hard and now covered in mud, but he did not care. An all consuming rage had filled him--the breath whistled in his throat and the muscles of his forearms were clenched so tightly that the veins stood out along them. “You dare...” he hissed.

The youth seemed momentarily taken aback by the vehemence of Nevaya’s response. Then he smirked again. “No wonder the shitless whelp won’t stand up for himself. You little slave. You’re worth nothing--the price that a boy can be bought here on the streets is pennies.”

Nevaya was shaking with rage by now, when he felt Wronsteit’s familiar and heavy hand fall onto his shoulder. The man pressed down heavily, the action so familiar that it reached down into the depths of his enraged soul and soothed him, like dark and profound velvet that covered and carried him. He drew a long, ragged breath, and then another one.

“Enough,” said Wronsteit quietly to him.

“No,” growled Nevaya violently. “I will not stand an insult to you.”

“Enough,” said Wronsteit louder, and when Nevaya still did not lower his blade he took hold of the boy’s clamped fists and wrenched the short sword from his grasp fiercely; Nevaya was hanging on so tightly that he had to knock the boy down before he could get the blade free, the action leaving the boy gasping on the ground.

The other youth laughed. “Hey, lord,” he called. “I’ll buy your slave from you. Pay you triple his worth. Whatever you ask for, lord!” He spread his hands and he laughed again. “I have the money you want. He’s more trouble to you, lord, than he is worth it. Doesn’t even obey you.” He twisted his lips in a smirk as he twisted the words with his mouth.

Wronsteit, still holding Nevaya’s blade in one hand, strode deliberately across the distance between the two boys, leaving Nevaya trembling with anger, upset, in his wake. He stopped in front of the youth and stared down at him for a long time. Though Wronsteit was considerably taller, the youth might have been his equal in muscle. He looked the youth over, once, and then twice.

“Well?” said the youth, smiling insolently. “What say you?”

Wronsteit focused with hard, boring cold blue eyes on the youth’s tinted green ones. “The price of an apprentice,” he stated clearly and loudly, “Is worth your life, five hundred times over.”

The youth blanched, suddenly, his eyes wide. In a split second, Wronsteit lifted a hand, his cold eyes never leaving the young man’s face, and before the young man even noticed and began to defend himself, he whipped his fist so hard into the youth’s face that he was flung bodily across the street, where he crashed into the front porch of a nearby tavern.

Wronsteit did not waste another moment of time staring after the direction he had sent the youth flying, where the other boys were gathering around their friend and trying not to look in his direction. He turned and walked back to Nevaya--the boy looked up at him uncomprehending from the dirt. For a moment he stood and stared down at the boy, his blue eyes unblinking as they collided with the stony grey. Then he reached down and dragged Nevaya bodily to his feet by the dint of merely grabbing his shoulder and hauling upwards. The boy stood uncomprehending and unmoving for a moment, until Wronsteit offered him the hilt of his sword. Carefully, he reached out and took the blade, automatically lifting it into a guarding position, but his eyes remained on Wronsteit.

Wronsteit watched him for a moment longer and then the eyes turned away, and he walked past the boy, whose gaze dropped to his blade. Briefly the hand dropped onto his shoulder again, heavy and comforting. “You do not ever need to draw your blade to protect me, Nevaya,” he said clearly.

“I was not protecting you, Master,” said the boy.

Wronsteit lifted an eyebrow. “What were you doing then?”

The boy stuck out his jaw a bit stubbornly. “Defending you, Master.”

Briefly, as if for only a second, a smile flickered across the stern man’s face, disappearing a moment later.

Then he was gone, and Nevaya turned and followed him to where the horses had remained. He adjusted the bridle of the almost too large beast upon which he rode before climbing up into the saddle.

They rode on throughout the rest of the day, down into the city. It had begun to snow again--winter always laid claim to the North early on in the year, and Nevaya tucked his toga a little closer around him. The flakes were bitterly cold on his barely covered legs, and his breath made a light fog around him. He concentrated on the neck of the horse beneath him, or, for occasional variety, at the back of Wronsteit’s deep blue robe where it met his blond hair and the two colors, honey and azure, mingled with the white crystals of the snowflakes.

When they had arrived at the inn in the inner city, traversing the mazelike streets successfully and without further interruption, the innkeeper came out to meet them. He bowed deeply to Wronsteit, who ignored the gesture as Nevaya struggled down from his horse and a servant boy came to take the reins. “Is there anything I can get for you, Master Wronsteit?” the still bowing innkeeper queried.

“We will need hot water for a bath.”

“I will have a tub sent up to your room immediately, of course, sir.” The innkeeper ducked his head. When he bowed he seemed to bob up and down like a little ancient ship traveling on the waves of air that surrounded him filtered with snowflakes. “And anything else, my lord?”

“Two tubs. And don’t call me that.”

“Sir?” The innkeeper ceased his bowing and looked up in amazement.

“Two tubs, one for myself, and one for my apprentice.”

Nevaya, who was shaking the now dried mud and dirt out of his toga as best he could, was suddenly glad for the cold weather for it hid the flush of his cheeks at the comment in the crispness of the air. That was the second time today that Wronsteit had not only called him apprentice, but announced it to others, and loudly.

“Of course, sir,” said the innkeeper.

“And I’m not your lord.” Wronsteit glanced back at Nevaya, who had gathered their bags and stood shivering slightly under the floating sky. “You have everything?”

“I do, Master,” said Nevaya clearly.

Wronsteit turned back to the bobbing innkeeper and grunted slightly, and the man ducked and wobbled and led them into the inn.

Inside it was warm with the strength of a powerful fire roaring in the commons room, and Nevaya felt his teeth cease their slight chattering as he began to thaw out. The innkeeper swept them up to their room--a large, partitioned chamber with two beds and decorated wall coverings, similar to the one they had stayed at the past several times they had came to this inn, each time with a sword from a different island.

The innkeeper saw them in and bobbed away, calling for workers to arrange for the baths. Nevaya lowered the pile of bags and satchels into a safe place on the floor and sorted them--his one small bag and his bed roll went into one corner, and Wronsteit’s various satchels as well as the carefully concealed sword went on the floor next to the larger bed. Then he folded himself down onto the floor and opened up the bags that contained their supplies.

Wronsteit sat down on the bed and undid his shoes.

Without looking up at him, Nevaya said, “We will need supplies, no doubt. It is not too late for me to go today.”

“It will be dark shortly. The snow makes it look lighter out.”

“Ah,” said Nevaya. “Then I shall go early tomorrow, if you want me to.”

“We have business to attend to tomorrow.”

Nevaya looked up quickly, startled. “Master Wronsteit?”

The man leaned back against the wall and was silent for a long moment. Before he could answer and before Nevaya could ask him again, there came a knock on the door.
Nevaya got to his feet and went over to the door. Wronsteit sat up quickly, and a frown flickered across his face. The boy was puzzled briefly and turned his senses to the door and what was on the other side. He listened to the sounds in the hallway--the scuffling of many heavy feet and one muted whisper.

“Who is there?” he called.

A serving girl’s voice answered, firm and unwavering, but perhaps a tone or two higher pitched than it should be. “Your baths, sir.”

Wronsteit’s hand was on his shoulder; the tall man had a finger against his own lips. Nevaya nodded, and felt rather than heard Wronsteit draw his sword, the slow gently grating feeling of the blade leaving the sheath.

The boy unlocked the door and opened it wide quickly.

A man thrust himself into the room, a small knife in hand--for a moment Nevaya stared him down as he approached, his eyes the cold, unfathomable and profound gaze of a hired killer. But almost before he had entered there was a flash that was blue and orange in the flickering torch light that entered from the hall, the flash of Wronsteit’s sword cutting diagonally so fast it was as if it only cut air. But then the man’s motion was checked and then, only then, did the blood seem to seep from his wound. He gave a low groan and fell and then the another man pushed past him.
Again, Nevaya stared him down for an instant even as this man, equipped with a short sword, turned towards the right where Wronsteit was barely visible. Again, there was the flash of light, brilliant and fierce, and the man half parried but Wronsteit’s sword slipped around him and swung back in its second arc. As it descended on the man’s unprotected neck and as he fumbled and failed to defend himself, the third and the fourth man entered simultaneously.

Nevaya drew his short sword quickly, but Wronsteit had time after the back blow to spin. He blocked the strike of the one man and knocked him aside, turning with the movement to smoothly slaughter the other man. Before he could turn back to the one, however, the fifth man attacked. The remaining man who had made it into the room, though slightly wounded, was still alive, and he turned to Wronsteit with his blade raised.

Nevaya did not doubt his master’s abilities but given the opportunity he did not hesitate--his blade flickered even as Wronsteit’s sword thrust itself into the final man’s chest so fiercely that its tip showed through on the other side. Nevaya’s blade bit deeply into the wounded man’s back and the man gasped and stumbled a little, lowering his blade. Wronsteit turned away from the final man and raised his blade but Nevaya was already moving--he whipped his sword out of the man’s back and slashed it into his neck. The man gurgled only briefly and sank to the floor to join the others in the twitching pile of blood and bodies.

Nevaya lowered his blade and lifted his eyes to meet Wronsteit’s gaze boldly, but in the middle of the gesture there came a scrabbling sound from the hallway and his eyes were jerked away. The serving girl had been flung against the back wall of the hallway at the attack and had sank to the floor, crying, during the slaughter; now she had stumbled to her feet and was running down the hallway.

Wronsteit turned but again Nevaya had already begun to move. He leapt over the bodies, dodged the bucket of steaming water and was off after her. He caught her before she had reached the stairs at the far end and she gave a sob as he seized her by the arm and checked her flight. “Please!” she gasped. “Please don’t kill me!”

The thought of her senseless request made him angry. “Be quiet,” he said sharply and began to drag her back towards their room.

Wronsteit stood in the doorway. His sword was still drawn, as Nevaya realized his own was, and the red blood was seeping down the blade to drip one brilliant drop at a time down to the floor. The girl struggled against Nevaya at the sight of him, her breath quickening in fear, but the boy had a good grip on her and succeeded in dragging her back and holding her there before the doorway and the tubs of hot water.

Wronsteit lifted his blade slowly, the edge shining crimson in the torchlight, and pointed the tip at the girl’s neck. She stiffened and ceased struggling in Nevaya’s grasp, though he did not let her go. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Please... please don’t kill me,” she begged.

Wronsteit’s eyes remained cold and flat and blue. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me, sir, except for the innkeeper, sir. I was on my way up, those men, they were supposed to bring the hot water.”

Nevaya spoke then. “Did those men work for the inn?”

“They... I thought they did sir, though today is the first day I saw them, sir. I-I...I needed help bringing up the tubs, sir, and they said, they said they were newly hired help, though the innkeeper hadn’t mentioned hiring anyone, sir.”

“And you just decided to help them?” Wronsteit’s tone was low.

“N-n-no, sir! They, they... once we got up here with the water, sir, then the one of them, he had, he had a sword, sir, and he said that--that...that he’d cut me, sir, he had the blade at my throat.” She swallowed against her tears. “He said if my voice wavered even just the littlest bit when I called to you that he’d kill me, sir.”

“What is going on here?” demanded a voice.

Wronsteit’s eyes slid to the left, past the girl’s face. The bobbing innkeeper stood at the top of the stairs, shocked out of his humility. “What--what--“ He caught sight of the blood that ran into the hallway and turned first white, and then red.

“Your men,” said Wronsteit bluntly. He lowered the blade from where it pressed against the girl’s throat and gestured into the room where the bodies had been piled. The serving girl relaxed very little in Nevaya’s grip.

The innkeeper turned white again and stumbled over to the bodies. “My... my men?” he gasped, and then he bent down, and turned over one half severed neck with trembling hands. “But... I have never seen these men in my life!”

In which Madrul carries more water... and falls down. and takes a 2k bath o.o

2005-11-18T23:55:00.000-08:00

Chapter 6

By the time the sun woke Madrul for the day, the torch had long since been blown out. Drademar still lay asleep on the cave floor, and Madrul was amused to find him snoring slightly. He pushed himself up onto his elbows and winced at the gesture. A quick inventory of wounds showed bruised knees and shins from where the buckets had smashed into him on the trek, and a fine set of blisters on both hands. The muscles in his legs screamed with effort as he got to his feet, and he was so shaky that he almost fell over.

He took the opportunity of Drademar’s slumber to eat breakfast with his legs spread out before him, trying to get them to calm down, but it seemed hopeless. At length he could put it off no longer--he straightened his bedding, found the two buckets on the wall, and started down the now dawn-lit little path along the mountainside.
At one point his legs gave out on him and he slid for several yards on his rear down the path, raising a great cloud of dust and putting another stone-rip in his toga.

He examined the garment with some unhappiness--it was caked in yesterday’s dust, but he had not had time to wash. Now when he finally reached the bottom of the mountain he scampered across the rise and fall of the stone and earth medley towards the stream. When he finished with the filling of the water maybe he would have time to take a bath. He had never before looked forward to a bath but the cave was dusty and the path was dusty and the ground by the stream was muddy and he had fallen down so many times that he had begun to assume the same color as a patch of good earth. He filled the buckets, scaring away a wild goat with his splashing, and then turned back to the mountain.

The path seemed to loom even more steeply than he remembered that it did, and inwardly he gave a groan of horror. As he lurched along, the handles of the buckets rubbed painfully against the blisters, and his kneecaps seemed to creak with every step. The mud had made the bottom of his sandals? slippery and he took the time to try and wipe them dry on the grass, though relatively ineffectively.

“Come on now,” he said to himself. “Chores! Up the hill.”

He stared up the hill and his feet seemed unwilling to move.

“Come on,” he said again, and then again more vehemently, and the right foot lifted and stamped itself on the earth below the path. Then it lifted, and it made the first step.

“First step done,” said he. “Now for the second step.”

The left foot moved, shifted, struggled, and then took the second step.

“The rest is easy,” said Madrul, and started to plod up the hill.

He took the time, as he rounded a slight corner and his burning thighs pushed him further and further up, to watch the flight of a particularly large bird over the distant trees. It hovered, like a grotesquely oversized bee, over the canopy before flapping heavily off, and its call was a raucous cacophony in itself. It was not a bird he recognized and he wondered if he had merely never seen anything of the sort before or if it were from the mainland, blown across the sea by a good blast of wind and survived the journey with a good blast of luck. It swept off, and he returned his attention to the path.

As soon as he had turned his attention back to his own feet, he became aware of the agony biting at his heels, toes, and soles, the pain of his sandal straps digging into his skin and the agony of the handles cutting into his palms alongside yesterday’s blisters. He groaned between gritted teeth, and tossed his head to clear it of the pain. His feet, however, kept moving of their own accord, and one straining sole caught at a patch of the loose shale that littered the path.
That foot slipped, and his eyes opened wide as his body slid forward. He waved his arms just a bit, trying to catch his balance, and then more frequently, and then he was falling forward, and he lost hold of a bucket as he shot an arm out at the ground that rose up to meet him.

The impact of the collision jarred the other bucket loose from his hand--it went flying some where, spraying him with water, and he cried out as he hit the ground.

The slope was steep enough that as soon as he was no longer climbing he started to slide. Desperately, he shot out a hand and clawed ineffectually at the hard surface of the path--he slid over a rock and winced as it bruised his ribs, though it slowed his fall.

At last his clawing at the slope brought him to a slow halt, and then the dust rose up all around him in a great blur, and he coughed and coughed against it. The hit had made him dizzy, and the rock had knocked the breath out of him, making it hard for him to breath. He lay gasping and choking on the dust laden air until a breeze touched the surface of the path and pushed the dusty air away. Even after that, it was a good number of minutes before he had caught his breath and was able to push himself up from the ground. The action made his wrist twinge with pain--fortunately, however, it did not seem to be broken, merely bruised.

He took inventory. His kneecaps and his palms and his fingernails were a bloody mess; his wrist throbbed, as did one elbow; when he touched his ribs they ached with the sensation of prompt bruising. Beyond that, he seemed to be all right, although his toga was now badly ripped and he was sure that if he had done this at home his mother would have retired the cloth to turn it into a cleaning rag.

A trickle of water came running down the slope past his right knee--he looked up suddenly and watched in despair as the damp patch of earth spread itself slowly and uselessly down the slope beneath the upside down bucket.

Madrul flopped himself over onto his back and lay for a long moment panting against the surface of the path. Unbidden, tears worked themselves out of the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away at first, with one smudged and bloody finger, but the salt stung at his ripped fingernails and after a while he let them fall. They gathered along the length of his eyelids and then poured abruptly down the curve of his cheekbones before dripping off of his earlobe and splattering against his tousled hair, pushed up against the surface of the path. They continued their march down his face for a long time.

It wasn’t fair. Why hadn’t he just told the dragon that he was never intended to be his apprentice--that the men had not even remembered Drademar’s request, much less considered it? Why had he even bothered to show up those laggards back home--why had he not just left well enough alone? Why had the dragon allowed him to stay? Why did he have to have the most miserable luck in the world? Why was he such a klutz? Why was he such a weakling? The tears pooled up and fell down, leaving pathways along the dusty curves of his face. He would climb back up the path and leave the buckets where they were--he would tell Drademar that he had never been intended as his apprentice anyway. He would have the dragon take him home, right then and there, and he would see Pedrac and Niruy and his mother again, and even Rebe would be glad to see him...

Why, asked a small, quiet, internal voice, Why would they be glad to see you when they knew you ran away? Why would they be glad to see you if they knew you broke your contract?

The thought hit him in the stomach, and for a moment he was almost physically sick. Of course he had not taken a formal written contract with the dragon but that did not really matter. Once an apprentice started working for a master, it was a horrible, horrible breach of etiquette for the apprentice to leave the master before he had finished training. The act was all but considered taboo throughout not only the village but the whole island. He would not be able to face anyone--Jorreked would call him an old woman again.

The thought of that old insult made his blood boil like hot metal, and pushed back the self pity. The tears steamed away in the heat of that anger. Some old woman he was, after all! He had approached the dragon--and the dragon had taken him as an apprentice. He was far braver than any of those nasty rotten thumbsuckers anyway. They had spent their night cowering behind a tree trunk. He had spent his flying...
The thought of the flight, his first night with Drademar, made his heart skip a beat. The beautiful sight of the expanse of the world, spread open before him--the sun lighting one pale horizon, darkness consuming the other--the proximity of the stars, the feeling of the hugely muscled back beneath him. He could not give that up--no, he could not give up that memory, anymore than he could betray his family by breaking contract. No. No. He could not leave, if only for the sake of that beautiful memory.

The tears were dry. He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the twinges in his wrist and elbow, and wincing as the dust ground itself into his scrapes. He clambered up the slope and picked up the bucket--it was dented but not broken.

Where was the other bucket?

A cursory glance up and down the slope revealed nothing, and for a moment he wondered how far it could have rolled. But then he glanced over the edge of the path to where its smooth surface broke off into a rock-pocked wall that one might be able to climb, and far away down this pseudo cliff the metal bucket glinted in the rising sun.

He stifled a groan--he had chosen! he would stay--and then limped down the path until he was relatively close to where the metal bucket hung, on a dehydrated little tree branch sticking out of the cliff’s surface. Then he lowered himself over the edge of the path and began to climb.

It was difficult to do with the blood from his scrapes and the blisters on his hands making them slick and wet, and twice he almost lost his grip. At length, however, his lowered foot brushed against the slick surface of the metal. He lowered himself a little further, and then reached out and snatched it by its handle. With that laid against his wrist--it was by now all but empty of what water it had once held--he stared back up towards the path. For a moment he did not move, and the buckets at his wrists slid down to his elbows and clashed against the rocky slope. It would be easier to get to the ground first and then find his way to the stream. But then, he hardly knew his way around the mountain--he could easily get lost without the path.

He stared up the slope, marking the spots where his bloody palms had made him slip and left red smears on the rock strewn surface, and grimaced. He would take his chances on the ground.

With the buckets clanging at his elbows, he slid himself down and further down the steep side of the mountain until it gentled out and he was able to roll over, push himself to his feet, and run helter and skelter the rest of the way down. When at last the dust covered rock gave way to sparse weeds and then the mixture of grass layered earth and moss coated stone, he heaved a sigh of mingled relief and resignation and bent to the stream to fill the buckets.

By the time he made his way, this time more carefully, though much more wearily and with a great deal more pain, it was shortly before noon, and the dragon was gone. As he was about to empty the buckets into the barrel he noted with some chagrin that it was a little lower now than the day before, and a thin layer of soot hung over the surface. He scowled slightly and then he realized perhaps Drademar had gone to his forge. So he emptied his buckets in with a sigh. It would take three more buckets full of water to bring it to the mark on the side that indicated full.

He made the trek down to the stream and back up the path once more. By this time the blood on his knees had dried to a dark colored crisp covered in pale rock dust, but where his hands clenched the handles, blood welled up from his scrapes and ran down the thin metal to coagulate before dropping into the water with a slight splash. The crimson spread itself out along the surface of the jostled buckets in ripples and waves, and as he climbed, laboriously lifting one foot at a time and placing it ahead of the other, checking his balance and his footing, and gritting his teeth against his throbbing wrist, he watched the droplets as they dissipated into the water. Each step was an agony, and his actions were so slow that he worried that he would never reach the cave.

Eventually, however, as he mounted the next rise of the slope, he did reach the place where the path widened out into the ledge, where the rock was marked with deep scores from the dragon’s talons. He trudged into the cave--Drademar was long since gone--and made as if to empty the buckets into the barrel, but checked himself. The barrel was slightly more empty today than it was yesterday, and ash had covered the surface of the water like his blood had entered the bucket he carriedxxoopsthisisheretwice.

He scowled briefly, and then made himself consciously shrug. It would be the last trip he had to take down the hill before the barrel was full, and he sighed deeply, determination lining his face. His dark eyes glittered with a light at long last.

He took down the bucket that was meant for his own water supply. He had drunk so many times from the stream that it seemed unnecessary but he knew that he would not want to make the trip down the hill just when he was thirsty. Into the bucket he put the cloth and the bar of soap he had taken from home, and the hard sea coral for scrubbing, and his spare tunic. He left the other bucket empty, repacked his satchel and leaned it against the wall.

Then he went down the path again, as he had so many times this day and the last. This time, however, he swung the buckets almost happily. He had never been entirely willing to bathe when he was at home simply because it took away from his time with the other boys, but now the thought of getting into water and stripping the dirt and blood from his skin was highly appealing. He had never felt so dirty and he had never been so glad at the thought of getting clean.

The sun was just past high noon as he trod hurriedly down the dusty path, and he realized belatedly that he was still hungry. As if reminded of the fact, his stomach sounded its hunger and he flushed slightly, then grinned as there was no one around to hear him. When he reached the bottom and stepped onto the grass he almost skipped as he approached the stream (all but completely out of character, sadly). He found a fairly deep, calmer spot in the passing water, scaring away a wild goat that had been drinking, and laid out the soap and other items on the slightly muddy, sandy bank. Then he sat down on a nearby rock and began to untie the straps of his sandals. As he fumbled with the ties he glanced around. It was a pleasantly hot day, brilliant and toasty, and all the boulders that lay about were warmed by the heat of noon. The sun was shining and the sky overhead was blue and sunny (doh!) er, blue and clear of clouds. The cicadas and the insects in the jungle forest that lay only yards beyond the stream were worked into an overheated frenzy. Somewhere a bird sounded its raucous call, and a butterfly flitted gently over the stream, dabbing at the water before floating away. It was an idyllic, smarmy scene that seemed just over perfect and wonderful, and it made the author almost sick to write it. But it was a very pleasant day overall and despite the pain of his wounds from the fall earlier and his equally earlier despair which had been just recently vanquished, Madrul was very happy all of a sudden.

“How strange,” he said to himself. He had not expected to be this happy. And then he was struck by how very alone he was out here in the middle of nowhere. No villages were located near the volcano--though it was dormant and had been so for many decades, there was no point in taking risks like that. There was of course among the island the story of Pavari village, which had after a long time of peace and prosperity built itself closer and closer to where the mountain slope joined the grassy meadows and lengths of forest land all around. They had lived there close to the volcano for years and years--decades, generations perchance. But when the earth had moved and the volcano had erupted they were obliterated. Occasionally those who took pilgrimages to the volcano found layers of ash or lava-flow rocks with bones or household items contained within them.

Nevertheless, though he was completely alone here, he felt strangely happy. He felt… as if something had changed within him, as if he had successfully changed something inside that he had been trying to alter for a long time.

He investigated the bottoms of his sandals and found that they had become worn down and scored with the heavy treading he had down over the past two days. Also one of the straps was wearing down. He did not quite know what he would do if it broke--he had no experience in repairing such ties. Maybe if he could get a bone needle like the ones Tenari and Niruy used, he might be able to repair it.

He placed the sandals aside and untied his belt. It was dusty, and he scowled at it before tossing it on the ground next to the sandals. Then he unwrapped the folds of his toga and pulled the long length of cloth off of his body. He scowled at its rips and stains and threw it aside as well. He shimmied out of his tunic, threw it down, and then plunged into the river.

“No son of mine,” Waef had said, “Is going to grow up without knowing how to swim.” They had been on the shore of a small bay right off of the sea, where Waef launched his fishing boat early in the morning, and Madrul had been smaller than little Rebe was now. The waves had pulled at him, and he remembered being safe in his father’s hands as he learned how to swim. The sun had risen then.

It was already up now, and had fortunately warmed the stream waters slightly, but the water was nonetheless slightly shocking with its cooler temperature. He gasped, and then plunged under the surface. As he moved through the water he left an aura of dust behind him, like the blood of his wounds had left an aura in the water and the ash had left a film over the barrel. Now, however, the movement of the water carried his dust away. He splashed around happily for some time and then at length reached for the soap and scrubbed his hair until it came out clean. Then he worked on the rest of his body, massaging the soap into sore muscles.

It took a great deal of scrubbing to clean his wounds, and he winced and bit his lip as they were reopened and the soap and cold water bit into them. His wrist still gave off a twinge now and then but the cold water seemed to help. The palms of his hands were laced with sensitive, slightly puffy welts that showed red once he had worked all the dirt out of them.

He scrubbed the bottoms of his feet and rubbed the length of his thighs and calves, weary from all the climbing, and the backs of his shoulders, weary from all the carrying.

Then he turned to his clothing--throwing the soap at the wild goat, who had returned cautiously while he bathed to investigate the flavor of his toga.

He pulled the length of cloth into the water and watched as the puff of dust it left got carried downstream by the movement of the water. He swished it back and forth in the water and then he soaped it up, took the piece of coral, and scrubbed.

Fortunately the blue dye was well adhered to the cloth, and for the first time he whispered a thanks to his mother’s skills as a dyer, or not only would it be faded but splotchy and just strange. The rips and the frayed spots he could do nothing about except treat them gently. The blood was fresh enough to come out quickly, but it left a ring or stain that he had to scrub with the coral and soap for several minutes until they disappeared. Next he washed the tunic; without the bloodstains it was not nearly as big a hassle as the toga had been. He even pulled the belt in and swished it around a few times.

He climbed out of the water at long last with shriveled fingers and toes and pushed himself up the bank. He felt refreshed, though the wounds, freshly opened and swollen with water, stung in the air as they dried out. He pulled on the spare tunic and wrung out his clothing, the water trickling down across his feet to join the stream. Then he spread the toga and the tunic out to dry on the largest, hottest boulder he could find. Then he stretched out on the ground, his hands crossed behind his head, to wait for the intense sun to dry both him and it.

He reflected idly that back home it would be about time for the afternoon peacebreak, but he did not feel tired. He was well past the age where he needed a nap in the afternoon to keep up his energy, like Rebe did. That drew his mind to his family. He did not miss Rebe’s whining, nor did he miss Pedrac’s nitpicking. He wondered then how her apprenticeship was working out. She had been so interested in the telling that she had begged Waef and Tenari to approach Siqan Drema. When they finally had it took much discussion but they had at last arranged her apprenticeship, and Pedrac had almost screamed with delight to hear that it was successful. Her first night back from her apprenticeship--since she was apprenticed with someone within the village there was no reason for her not to live in the same household as her family, unless the Siqan had wanted otherwise--they could all see that she had been crying. Tenari and Waef had talked it over amongst themselves and thought to see if the Siqan would be willing to cancel the contract, but Pedrac would not let them. Despite her tears she had had a genuine interest in the telling, and even though she came home many more nights crying she did not once suggest to them verbally that she was displeased with the arrangement.

His mind wandered. He thought about his friends--Jorreked, Zetsoi, and Keirun especially, but also about the other boys in the village. What would they be doing now?

How had his mother responded to his not coming home that night? Waef had assuredly told her the situation, but not even he knew what Madrul would be doing--Madrul himself hardly knew. And then he wondered if he would be able to learn how to forge swords, or fight with them, or if maybe Drademar had only requested a servant and not an apprentice, and was only teasing him with temptation of tutelage. Eww, alliteration galore! Scary.

He dozed lightly in the warm sunlight, his mind flickering from thought to thought, and the sun passed an hour’s time in the sky.

In which Madrul carries water and there is darkness

2005-11-18T23:44:00.000-08:00

Chapter 5

Wronsteit leaned once again on the railing of the boat. He had not emerged from his cabin since they had left the island port at Buoka--instead he had spent some small amount of time with his scrolls, and a great many hours with his short sword. Though the space in the cabin was cramped, it was perfect for practicing fights in closed spaces, and he had trained Nevaya relentlessly throughout the length of the voyage.

The young boy stood to one side, hanging on with both hands to the railing. There was a bruise forming along one cheek where he had not been quick enough to block a blow with the short sword--he could clearly remember Wronsteit’s blue eyes going hard as he saw the opening, and then the flat of the blade had collided with his cheek, sending him sprawling. “Wake up!” Wronsteit had snapped as he had gotten trembling slightly to his feet. “The next time you let your guard down that blatantly during a fight I will give you a scar to remember your lesson by.”

Nevaya had not said anything but instead had lifted his own short sword into a guarding stance in response, his eyes going flat on their own. Wronsteit had stood watching him for a moment and then he had smiled, the gesture vaguely cold but at the same time encouraging. “You are not afraid?” he said in a low tone through that glittering smile. Only the boy’s stony eyes were his answer, and the smiled deepened. “Good,” he said. “Do not be afraid to get back up again. Never be afraid to keep fighting.”

Now the wind, laden with salt spray, lashed his cheeks and made the bruise and other half healed welts and cuts sting. He lifted his face despite the pain and let himself taste the scent of land that the breeze carried. They were at last approaching the shore of the mainland, and they would once again be on their way.

“Master Wronsteit,” he said, and pointed.

Wronsteit looked up with a grunt and let his gaze follow the direction the boy had indicated. On the horizon a low grey smudge had appeared.

“Land, eh?” he said. “Good. Good.” He straightened against the railing and arched his back, stretching his lean frame in the sea’s wind.

“Where will we go next, sir?” Nevaya queried.

Wronsteit rubbed his eyelids with the tips of his long, calloused fingers. “Horses at the port, and then we ride north, boy.”

The ship bounded through and over the water, waves crashing up and down against its broad ribcage. Wronsteit, after a long moment, turned to go back to the cabin and begin packing their things. Nevaya made to follow him but Wronsteit waved him aside with a fluid motion of the arm and a flick of the fingers. So for a long time the boy remained at the rail, watching the approaching shoreline with his eyes narrowed just a little and his hand on the hilt of the sword that hung at his belt, all but invisible beneath the folds of his toga. He was remembering--or trying to remember--every fight he had fought with Wronsteit. There had once been a time when he could envision each battle clearly, and count them off on one hand. But that time was long since past. It had been well over two years now that he had served as an apprentice to the master swordsman, yet his precise job was still unknown to Nevaya. In his company he had learned the basics of sword fighting and was trying to learn the advanced complexities of become a master--but he had never seen Wronsteit teach anyone besides himself. He therefore could not work as a teacher, for he had no students, only one apprentice. And in the years that Nevaya had followed him, they had done nothing but travel, steal swords, and return to the capital briefly before setting out once again.

He knew what would happen. Once again they would set up in a hotel. Wronsteit would send him out to stock up on supplies that they had never really seemed to run out of before that point in time. By the time he got back Wronsteit would be gone, with a note on the bed that said to take a day’s break and relax, that he would return within two day’s time, and to practice such and such move or such and such style of fighting. In two day’s time he would be back, and any lightheartedness he had gained on the journey would have dissolved into a cold, infertile bitterness that spoke of the sincere unhappiness of the soul.

The salt wind had turned bitter. He wanted so badly to go with his master and discover what it was that he did, but he did not dare ask. If Wronsteit wanted him, he would ask him to come with. But how many years before he found out the truth? Did the man sell the magnificent swords that he had stolen to a very special dealer? Frequently he would return without any trace of the sword and their hard work. What was he looking for?

In the cabin, Wronsteit pushed supplies into satchels and folded up a blanket or two. Nevaya’s one small bag lay shriveled next to a spare tunic by the side of his mat--carefully the blond man picked up the shirt, smoothed it, and placed it on the boy’s bed. His blue eyes were bright with an excitement that had not shone through them in years--he felt strangely light. Lastly he picked up the stolen short sword and half drew it from its sheath. For a long moment in the dull, glittering light of the oil lamp, he stared at the edge of the blade. Then the corners of his lips lifted in a smile.

“At last,” he said, and then he pushed the sword back into the sheath and packed it away.

xxxxxxx

Madrul woke when the rays of the sun burst into the cave--several hours before midday. As he stirred on the mat and opened his eyes he wondered where on earth he was. The wall in front of him was not adobe, but angled rock. Blearily, he stared at it, and then there came a rush of air--a heavy breeze that flattened him to the ground and made his hair tousle vigorously, a wind that raised clouds of dust. That wind woke his memory and he leapt to his feet and turned in time to see the dragon flapping his wings as he came in for a landing. Confusion fled, replaced by a sensation akin to fear--the fear of not doing something right, for above all else he did not want to fail at his apprenticeship.

He remembered that Pedrac had sometimes come home at night with a face tearstained after her day’s apprenticeship with the Siqan, having been scolded or yelled at for not having something right. Then he wondered if he would be going home. He had brought the bed roll and neither his father nor Drademar had objected--therefore this cave was his new home.

He had not had much time to look at it when before he had fallen asleep, but now he could not inspect his surroundings because the dragon had turned his great head his way and was eyeing him as if he had forgotten who Madrul was.

“Ah yes,” Drademar said at length, and let a large sack--diminished in comparison to his own bulk--fall to the floor. “The next time we run out of supplies I shall give you some money and you may go into town and buy some things. I only eat once a week but I am sure you eat much more frequently than that. Can you cook?”

Madrul swallowed. “No, sir. Well, I can maybe cook some things, sir, but I cannot bake or... or anything like that.”

The dragon snorted, sending a hot breath of air that smelled strangely metallic through the cave. “I thought as much. I tried to get food that requires no preparation and keeps for a while. When you go to buy you shall have to do the same.” He licked a talon nonchalantly.

“What would you like me to do now, sir?”

The dragon glanced around the cave with a twist of his neck, his eyes unblinking. “There are several daily tasks for you, young man,” he said, and Madrul realized that his tone carried a hint of--not sarcasm... what was it? Not even the author knew. It was that funny lilting twist of the voice that the rather kind master uses to address his or her apprentice, so as to avoid simply giving orders constantly in such a manner as might be described as offensivexx. That’s how the dragon talked, with natural inflections and changes in tone as normal as those in the human voice, and Madrul was just starting to recognize them in the octave range beyond deep bass in which the dragon spoke. “There is the thing with the doing of the stuff,” said Drademar, his tone a rumble that echoed against the walls like echoes do. “Also, the cave needs to be swept, and that barrel must be kept full.” He nodded at an elongated oval barrel almost as tall as Madrul was. “You can take the path down the mountain, or one of the internal tunnels should lead to the same stream.” He indicated which one it was with a flick of his tail.

Madrul, on the edge of objecting--there would be no way he could lift such a thing empty, much less full!--saw a pair of buckets hanging on the wall next to it and bit his tongue.

“That barrel is not for drinking from,” the dragon said sternly. “If you are thirsty, go to the stream yourself with any of the smaller buckets--I use them for various things. One of the large pair is for filling--the other will most probably not be there.”

Madrul nodded.

“I expect you to keep your own living area neat. I don’t tolerate slovenliness. Take your business outside, down by the stream if you can.” It took Madrul a moment to realize that the dragon meant for his latrine. “Do you want to ask any questions?”

“Yes, sir,” said Madrul. “Where is...well... your forge, and your tools, and such things?”

“My version of a smithy is down the tunnel. I do not want you going down there unless I invite you to. I keep my things arranged in a particular manner.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

The dragon pivoted to watch him. “I am not used to having anyone else around,” he admitted. “So please forgive me if things are awkward or if I am forgetful in the beginning.”

Madrul flushed. “I would uh... I would ask the same of you, Master, for myself.”

Drademar snorted, the metallic scent once again filling the room. “Of course.” He stretched himself again. “I have some work to do. You will want to fill the water barrel soon.” With that he dipped a bucket full of water and hurried down the tunnel.

Madrul breathed a light sigh of relief and took a bucket down from the wall. It was not as large nor as heavy as the ones he was used to carrying around the village--that made him feel a bit better about himself. But when he glanced at the barrel he found it hardly half full, and scowled. It would take a fair number of trips to get it full. He eyed the bag of food that the dragon had left by the entrance and then sighed. If there was anything his mother had taught him, it was that chores came before dinner.

He took the other bucket in hand and went out to the ledge. As he approached the place where the cave mouth broke off to make the face of the mountain below, his head reeled suddenly with the shock of height, and he had to sit down quickly. They were several dragonlengths up the surface of the mountain! And the path that wound its way down the face of the old dormant volcano, though easy enough for a walk, would be precipitous at best with arms laden with water buckets. Far below he could see the glittering surface of the stream.

Hadn’t the dragon said something about internal tunnels? He returned to the cave and sought the opening the dragon had indicated earlier. They had been standing by the water barrel, and the dragon had motioned somewhere behind him, yet slightly to the right--that must have been the crevice close to the corner in which he had slept. He took hold of the buckets with one hand and plunged into the darkened crack in the wall.

The darkness consumed him, and in an instant he thrust himself backwards out of the hole, panting quietly. Even the steep path outside would be easier than going into the dark tunnel. So he plodded his way desolately down the slope. At one point a patch of loose rock slipped under his foot and sent him sprawling--he landed on his back and stared up at the sun for a long, tired moment. The breeze caressed his tousled black hair, and he wondered aloud what under the stars he was doing.

Something internal pushed him up on his elbows, and then he got to his feet almost before he had a retort. “Working, of course,” he said to himself.

“Just working?” was his own query.

He stared at the scrapes on his elbows and the rip in his toga, and opened his mouth to object that this was too much, but something inside him heard his mother’s voice. “Just do the chores, Madrul,” she said. “Silly boy.”

He snorted and started down the slope again. “I am not a boy,” he hissed. And he continued plodding along the precarious slope until he reached the point at which the rock mingled with green grass and a sparse bush here and there. The ground did not level off but it swelled and dropped in a tumult of rock and earth, and between one lumpy hill and the next he found the stream. It was wide and the sunlight glittered off of it--beyond its far side the land flattened out into smooth plains rimmed distantly with the traces of forest and trees. A bird, perched on a nearby rock, erupted in tremulously high pitched song. He took a moment to throw a rock at it--he missed, and the bird took off anyway with a flurry of wings to disappear into the blue edges of the sky.

Madrul took the moment to drink greedily from the stream--the cool water bit into his empty stomach and made it snarl, but he did not care for anything besides slaking his dust-raised thirst. At last he filled his buckets and turned back to the mountain.

Going up was far more torturous than going down. He had to be extra careful not to slip on the steep path and spill the contents of the buckets. The slope seemed infinite--the sun poured down on him, and by the time he got to the top not only was he thirsty again but also hungry, and his legs were beginning to ache.

He made three more trips before he allowed himself to lean back against the cave wall and take a break. His legs trembled as he slid them out in front of him and massaged his kneecaps. It was almost sunset--he had had nothing to eat yet today, and yet the barrel was not completely full. He estimated that it would be another trip before it was sufficient but the thought of going down the hill again pained him.

He crawled over to the bag Drademar had brought--he had not seen the dragon that day since he had disappeared down his tunnel--and rummaged through it, inspecting the goods the dragon had brought. There was dried goat’s meat and fish, and bread rolls, and savvecha, which would have to be boiled in water or milk before it would be edible, and a bag filled with a variety of dried fruits, and more tubers than he could count. He ate desperately and felt some strength return to his wearied limbs, and when he had finished he carefully put the rest of the food away and cleaned up.

He did not trust himself to make the trip down the path at dusk, when the shadow of the mountain cast it into darkness, and so instead he found a rather decrepit looking broom and set to work trying to clean the cave. It was a long and dusty work, and as it got darker and darker he could hardly tell what he was doing. Too late, he looked around for an oil lamp or a torch or something he might light to guide himself by but he found nothing. Soon even the last hints of the sun had faded from the sky and the cave surrendered itself to the darkness. He sat on the ledge, watching the vestiges of moonlight and starlight, the only brilliance he could find in the whole place, and trying to calm his nerves. The utter darkness of the cave scared him as much as the ebony of the tunnel had. He could see nothing in front of him or behind him, nor to either side, but he felt as if he could not stop looking, could not stop feeling strange eyes on the back of his neck. With a desperate shiver he leaned against the wall of the cave to keep the eyes off his back and turned his head to trace the line of refracted moonlight that was the stream far below.

Madrul did not know how he fell asleep with the horrible fear of what was hidden in the darkness consuming him far into the night. But somehow he did, sleeping so deeply that he could not even remember his dreams. Yet somehow in the middle of the night he woke with a sharp inhalation from his profound sleep, awoke with a fear that all the imagined terrors of the darkness had closed around him and were about to devour him.

The moon had risen and in its light he could clearly see the face of the dormant volcano falling away to one side. He pressed himself a little more firmly against the wall and glanced into the depths of the cave. It seemed as if something moved far within the darkness, swirling and twisting like ebony smoke. Before he could cry out, however, the scaled muzzle of Drademar thrust itself out of the darkness and into the moonlight, followed by the rest of his bulk as he treaded lightly, like a cat, out onto the ledge.

Madrul almost cried out in relief to see the form of the dragon, but suppressed the instinct. He watched the dragon in silence--Drademar did not seem to notice him. He lifted his head and examined the night sky as if searching for friends among the stars. Then he snorted, peeled back his lips, and breathed heavily through a closed jaw. Smoke escaped from between his sharp teeth and was instantly whipped away into the wind. He grimaced and then the gesture twisted into a smile, and with a fluid bunching of powerful muscles he thrust himself off of the ledge and into the night air. His talons scraped along rock with a horrible wrenching sound, leaving great gouges in the stone. His wings beat--once, twice, repeatedly--and the wind from their actions buffeted Madrul and almost sent him tumbling backwards. He clung to the rock and watched as the dragon faded away into the night.

For a long time the boy stared at the spot where the dragon’s scales had last reflected the moonlight; he swallowed against a lump in his throat, and felt suddenly quite alone in the cave. He lay, trying not to breathe so loudly in the silence of complete solitude, and dozed on and off for about an hour. Then the rush of wind woke him again from the half slumber and this time he sat up from his place just at the entrance to the cave, which was still so dark that he did not want to enter. He watched with widened eyes as the dragon backwinged to land upon the edge, once more gouging deeply into the rock with his back talons, but now he stood half upright for he held something in his hand.

“Boy,” he said in a low clear tone.

Madrul sat up completely, startled--he had not known that the dragon had known he was awake. “Master?”

“You should go to sleep, boy,” said Drademar.

“Master...” Madrul felt his ears grow hot. How was he to explain to the dragon that even if he were to find his bed mat somewhere in the corner of the cave, the silence and the darkness would fold themselves over him and consume him? He had not been so alone in all of his life, and something in the interminable darkness of the cave seemed to indicate that he was the only human being awake on the whole of the island. But to tell the dragon that--

But it appeared that he did not need to say anything, for Drademar smiled just a little, his teeth glittering in the moonlight, and then he leaned out over the edge, lifted what was clenched in one claw, and breathed slowly, heavily. With his breath this time came a burst of sultry orange flame--it must certainly be a controlled effort, Madrul thought a little ridiculously, for when they had been in flight and the dragon had labored some in breathing he had heard it and there had been no fire then. But he did not linger on the thought--he could only let himself drink in the warmth of the over bright orange light.

The twisted tree branch that the dragon held burst into flame, ignited, and Drademar let his own flame die off quickly before he turned back to the cave. The fiery brand flickered and danced in the wind that teased the corners of the cave, casting shadows amongst the rocky outcroppings and illuminating the poorly swept floor.

Madrul grimaced slightly but Drademar said nothing, merely stepped forward with the
makeshift torch in hand and wedged the other end of the piece of wood into a smaller crevice in the wall. Madrul got to his feet and made his way to his bed mat. As he curled himself up under the covers, the dragon scuffed at the floor with one paw and then folded himself down, his legs forming a bed and his tail a cushion for his great head. His wings, arched just slightly along his back, bent down to cover his eyes and also seemed to act like a blanket against the brief gusts of wind that tore at the face of the cave.

In the dim light of the torch, Madrul watched the dragon settle down and for a long time after he had finished. At length Drademar opened one eye and fixed it on the boy. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing, sir,” said Madrul, a bit embarrassed, and then buried himself in his bed and tried to avoid the dragon’s gaze. After a moment or so he fell into exhausted slumber. Drademar watched him with the one eye from half under his wing for a long moment himself, and then he breathed a light sigh through his teeth, emitting an odor of stale metallic smoke, closed his eyes, and went to sleep himself.

2005-11-18T23:36:00.000-08:00

Chapter 4

Jorreked seized Madrul by the elbow. “Come on,” he shouted in his ear above the noise of the celebration, and he pulled him out of the crowd. He kept on pulling his arm until the two of them reached a relatively empty space close to the road. “Are you coming?”

“Coming where?” asked Madrul, surprised.

Keirun laughed, and Jorreked made as if to hit him--Madrul ducked, glowering. “Do not be stupid, old woman,” he hissed. “To see the dragon, of course!”

Madrul had wanted to protest Jorreked’s insult but he was too struck by the boy’s words. “The dragon?” He gasped. “But... but why?”

Zetsoi leaned a little closer and said in a low dangerous tone, “Are you scared, old woman?”

Madrul lashed at him with a fist, but the other boy dodged, and they laughed. “Come on then,” said Jorreked, and they turned and slipped into the woods alongside the road before anyone saw them or stopped them.

The passage through the woods in the approaching darkness was a strange one for Madrul. The whole world seemed to have disappeared--he wandered in silent ebony, and all doubt faded from him. In the twilight both the trees, with their creepers, and the other boys seemed to be no more than pale ghosts and all consuming shadows, and he pushed through them both without mind to where he was going but never leaving course. He did of course know the area perfectly well--they had played in these woods since he had been small--but in the darkness everything was alien and new. Yet he did not stumble.

When they were almost to the field, a wind blasted through the forest around them.

Jorreked stifled a laugh. “That’s him,” he called in a low, carrying whisper. “That means he’s here, that’s from his wings. Come on!”

The feeling of cognizance fled Madrul and he stumbled blindly after his friends.

They slunk from the forest and crouched down behind one of the fallen trees that littered the edge of the field.

The sky was a gradient of ebony and cobalt, with streaks of violet and fuchsia flames lancing from the remnant of a sunset. Overhead the clear night was littered with flecks and pinpoints of brilliant white stars.

The dragon sat on his haunches on the far side of the field. Half of the men were herding goats--the other half stood before the dragon, gazing up at his muzzled face a few yards above them. They were speaking, but of what none of the boys could hear.

At Jorreked’s suggestion they crept stealthily to closer hiding space after closer hiding space, until they were half the field length away from the group and had run out of fallen trees. But still the voices of the men were a quiet sound lifting into the steadily increasing darkness, and when the dragon answered, though his voice was a low rumble beyond bass whose echoes carried far, his words were undistinguishable.

Suddenly the men parted and the dragon, crouched, thrust himself from the ground into the air. The heavy beats of the wings flattened the long grass. The boys pushed themselves deeper into their hiding spot--no one seemed to have thought about the fact that the dragon could see them from above!

But if he did see them he showed no signs of interest--all of his attention was focused on the herd of goats at the far end of the field. Though the wind had carried them his scent, he was no natural predator of theirs and so they did not flee. But they were nervously shifting against their ropes, as were the men who herded them.

The dragon circled, gaining a little altitude and more space to maneuver, and Madrul felt as if he could scarcely breathe. To see the dragon this close! He had never dreamed it would happen. If he had wanted to he might be able to count the scales on the dragon’s chest.

The dragon swooped, the air rushing to avoid him; he lashed out--fast! thought Madrul--and his talons sank into the flesh of one goat. With a beat of his wings he lifted, carrying the dead goat in both claws, and his neck snaked down and he tore into the flesh, swallowing mouthfuls. The herders watched him with horrified eyes--one turned away as a splatter of blood fell onto the grass. The dragon drifted down to a corner of the field and continued eating, his muzzle buried in the goat he had killed until it was a pile of bones, almost completely cleaned of flesh. Then he launched himself into the air a second time.

He ate three goats in quick succession and when he was done he wiped his muzzle and claws on the long field grass. The men who were not carrying for the now frantically pinned goats gathered around him again. They were much closer now and in fact

Jorreked began to prod his fellows, daring them to join the crowd of men. At last he turned on Madrul. “Come on,” he said.

“You do it,” said Madrul quietly.

“You old woman,” Jorreked hissed. “I don’t even know why you run with us, you’ve got no backbone at all. Why don’t you go home to your mother, you sad little--“

Coldness had seized Madrul at the start of the insults, but then hot anger filled him and he said firmly, “Shut up.” Jorreked did shut his mouth in surprise, but it opened again as Madrul stood up from behind the tree. He felt suddenly cold and alone and for a moment he thought that maybe something would attack him from all sides in that instant. Terror consumed him but he could also see Jorreked and the others out of the corner of his eye and a sudden firmness filled him. He stepped around the rotted tree trunk and approached the men in the crowd. They had been speaking but as he approached they all fell silent. He almost stopped in his tracks at that moment but he could feel the eyes of his friends on his back and he made himself keep going again.

“Your... other request?” said one of the men at the front of the crowd, speaking directly to the dragon.

“And I see you have,” said the dragon, and then Madrul could not move because the head had turned and the great fist sized eyes, pure yellow with a large black oval pupil, focused on him. The voice lifted, and Madrul could suddenly see the muzzle as it shaped each word. “Don’t hesitate, boy,” said the dragon. “Come forward, please.”

Unable to stop himself--his knees moving with all the force of years of tellings on obeying the dragon, who was their protector--he moved forward. The men parted around him, silent and watching, and he moved as if floating in a dream, through the crowd that seemed to last forever.

At last he reached the front of the ring and he stood before the dragon. Unbidden, he let his gaze follow the length of the neck up and up until it reached the great head which had curved down slightly to look at him. Feeling those eyes on him he almost involuntarily bowed.

“There’s no need for that,” said the dragon quickly, and Madrul straightened himself, feeling his ears grow hot. “Do you have all your things?”

He shook his head and then realized he had better actually speak, so he swallowed against the knot in his throat and said, “No, sir.”

The dragon blinked. “Is your home far from here?”

“Not far, sir, but...”

The neck bent and the dragon dropped his head closer to the ground. “But?”

“But there are many people on the way, sir, who would wish to stop me and ask me where I was going.”

“And you could not simply tell them, ‘I am on an errand for my master’?”

His master? “I am only a boy, sir. They would seek to stop me nonetheless.”

The large eyes blinked, and it seemed to Madrul that for a moment a faint smile formed itself on the dragon’s lips. “Astute,” he said. “However--“

“My apologies, lord dragon,” came a voice that Madrul distantly recognized as his father’s. Waef came from the far side of the crowd. “My apologies for interrupting,” he said a second time, and then he turned to his son. Madrul was surprised to see that his father’s eyes were glittering with a hint of tears. He was about to say something--his mouth had formed a big shocked o--but his father stopped him with a shake of his head and thrust out the sheathed short sword to him. “Take this,” he said gruffly. “Cut through the woods. You know where to go from here?”

Madrul took the sword as if in a dream and nodded.

“Then go, get your things, and be quick about it,” said Waef, seizing his son’s shoulder roughly for just a moment before turning him around and giving him a push in the right direction.

Madrul ran--across the fields and into the woods, directly towards where the village lay. The ghosts of the trees once more loomed around him but this time he paid them no mind. He did know the woods well--he had grown up in this part of the forest, and even in what was now full dark every tumbled tree and change in terrain was familiar to him. He ran through the woods, dodging boulders and avoiding loose gravel--he passed by the compound, long since repaired, and in the dark as he went by he could only think how insignificant it was. At last he burst out of the trees and into the village.

The houses and compounds were silent under the light of the stars--everyone was at the festival in the next village, even Siqan Drema and her family. So when he heard the faintest hint of scraping down one of the alleys he almost leapt out of his skin. He drew the sword--the blade rasped as it came free from its sheath, but it was only a small wildcat, who hissed at him and then bounded away into the night.

He carefully sheathed the sword and went into the family compound. It looked desolate and empty, glittering slightly in the pale starlight, the dust flat and barren. He hurriedly approached the kitchen and found one of his mother’s satchels--she would have to do without. Then he went to his bedroom, packed his spare clothing and the small amount of money he had saved from haggling when he had gone with his father to Buoka. He went through his collection of oddities that all boys seemed to have and found that very little would be worthy of taking with him. Nevertheless he pushed them all into the bag. Then he picked up his rolled up bed mat, closed the bag, and slung it over his shoulder. In another moment he was gone--running through the abandoned streets and then back through the woods towards the field. As he ran, he at last let his thoughts consumed him. What on earth did the dragon want him for? Why had he called himself Madrul’s master? That was a term that the servants of the rich men used. Maybe he was to be the dragon’s servant? Yet even though the dragon had certainly not treated him as an equal, Madrul had not received the impression that he was to be a servant. A lord would not have stopped him from bowing, nor would have had the patience for him to get his things. He did not understand

When he reached the field his breath left him in a kind of fear as he saw the dragon once again and he slowed down to a walk. A casual glance at the tree trunk showed that Jorreked, Keirun, and Zetsoi had not yet revealed their hiding place--he stifled a grin. That cheered him somehow, and he trotted briskly towards the dragon.

Many of the men had dispersed but his father stood to one side--Madrul gave him back his short sword, and briefly his father roughly embraced him before letting him go with a slap on the back.

“So you have your things,” said the dragon. “Let us be going then.” He was already wearing the crown of flowers that the girls had spent an entire day laboriously binding together, and Madrul gathered that he had missed some of the important parts of the ceremony. He nodded nonetheless and then remembered himself again. “Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” said the dragon, and he lowered himself bodily onto the ground. His body was long and narrow, covered with craggy scales. “Go ahead,” he said after Madrul hesitated. “You won’t hurt me. Climb on up.”

The boy approached the dragon’s side and hesitantly at first, then encouraged by the dragon’s prompting, scaled the side as if it were a particularly steep hill. When he reached the dragon’s back, per instruction, he sat between two of the semi rigid spikes of the fringe that ran along the dragon’s back.

The dragon bunched his legs and pushed off, rocking Madrul’s head back on his neck, and he scrabbled at the spike in front of him as the dragon’s shoulders bunched underneath him and the wings flapped. The backdraft created by that gust almost ripped the satchel from his grip and he struggled to hang onto that and the bed roll as they continued to rise.

“Well, boy,” said the dragon over his shoulder. “What is your name?”

“My name is Madrul, sir,” called Madrul.

“You do not have to shout. I can hear you if you speak normally. Madrul, is it?” The dragon banked slightly to the left and Madrul felt himself cling at the spike in front of him. He tried to unclench his hands but to either side he could see the earth--falling, falling away, and that sight filled him with an unthinking panic that he struggled to fight down. “How old are you?”

“I am twelve years old, sir,” he said again, this time in a normal tone of voice.

“Ah,” said the dragon. “A bit young for apprenticeship, is that not?”

Apprenticeship? Madrul almost dropped the bag. He swallowed against the lump that the height had brought to his throat as the dragon continued to flap and glide across the landscape. “I’m--I’m to be your apprentice, sir?”

The great head swiveled and a large eye, opened wide in disbelief, focused on him. “You were not told?”

“I--no, sir. That is, that is to say, sir, I did not know when I got there, sir, that you were seeking an apprentice.”

“I have been looking for an apprentice for a little over a year now. At your village’s initial reaction to my question, I did not think they had remembered my request.” He shrugged as he flew, the motion making Madrul grip at the spike in front of him again. “It is of no matter. You do not object? It is a hard work that I do.”

“No, sir!” In his haste he shouted again, and then he lifted a hand to cover his mouth.

The head swiveled forward again, and the dragon began pumping his wings for a few long minutes until they were brought into a thermal--then he locked the fingers out and let the hot air take the webbing and lift them. After a moment of silence,
Madrul felt that he could no longer keep silent. “Um... sir? Lord dragon? What is it that you do, sir?”

“You can call me Master Drademar, as that is my name, boy.” He flapped his wings once or twice as he spiraled, the thermal bringing them up and further up until Madrul was sure that if he reached out, he would touch the fabric of the night sky. If they kept flying they would tear it, and the stars would spill out and shatter across the land.

They kept flying upwards, and the sky did not rip but seemed to expand above them, as if adjusting to fit them into its velvet structure, and the dragon went on. “Here, in this place and this time, I am a smith, and such is my work. Making the blades that you people use every day is what I do. Even that short sword, the one your father gave to you, was made by my hand, and I can remember each one that I made.”

Drademar’s eyes closed for a moment, and he lost himself in the feeling of flight, the pulling of the wings against the downward drag, the gusts of wind this high up buffeting him all around. Height consumed him, and the sensation of flight, and then he let himself hover, wings beating mightily, midair.

Madrul looked up from the curve of the ridge in front of him and followed the length of neck towards where the great head swiveled, this way and that. For a moment he was silent. Then, when he was about to ask why they had stopped, Drademar spoke. “Look,” said the dragon.

Obediently Madrul glanced around.

“Look out,” said the dragon. “Look over the land.”

The curve of the earth sloped down far beneath them. Before him and to one side Madrul could see the trembling fire lights of a hundred small villages and larger cities, studding a darkened land covered in the fuzzy outlines of trees and grass, spiked here and there with a mountain. Behind him, when he twisted carefully in his seat, he could see the volcano, from above its massive peak reduced to a round crater set in a dark slope. To the other side, the land fell away, and the curvature of the earth was completed with length upon endless length of glittering water--the expanse of silent liquid looked still from above, each ripple in the shining sea a faint hint, a flicker of motion--every wave a scarce tracing of disturbance from above.

Above him, the dome of the sky had shaded itself into indigo and ebony, shades deeper than the tones inside a shadow, laden with a heavy feeling of velvety encompassment. The dark skies consumed the world and covered it with a fine blanket like layer of endless distance and depth, and through that infinite expanse a blazing pinpoint jutted out, diamond flecks against black silk. The cold wind stole his breath away, and on the horizon the waves stirred the length of the sea--the firelights glittered under the night--and the sky blazed an unfathomable answer.

Time stirred itself--flecking the world with existence, and beneath him, above him, all around him, he knew that life existed and changed, as time changed and the world changed. The truth sought to fill him but something inside him held it back. He fought against that with restricted him--his own faults, his defects, and his past shattered in an instant. His secure little idea of home shattered in an instant to be replaced with a sense of inspiration, over laden with the idea of the vastness of space and the entirety of the world--not just what he knew, but more, far more than he had ever dreamed of.

The dragon continued to rise and fall in the air with the motion of his wings. Madrul was suddenly reminded of the time he had gone out to fish early with his father. The silence of the world--the darkness of the sky, with the first hints of dawn touching the horizon--the quiet lapping of oar at water, or wing at air--and the bobbing motion of existing atop a strange, too thin medium--all were the same, in an instant of unverifiable and blazing time.

It was some time later that Madrul became aware of the fact that the sun was rising, for the water where it lapped the eastern horizon had acquired a hint of rose, honey, and plum, the colors liquid and rich and running under the surface of the water and across the dome of the sky. As he watched, their brilliance increased until rose became scarlet blood, honey change into brilliant gold, and plum deepened into a shade of magenta. The tip of the sun achieved precedence over the horizon--a blazing ball of molten tangerine and cardinal--and as it rose the colors intensified until they blended into a single mixture of white light that seared through both the eyelid and the soul. Madrul found himself blinking and ducking from that light, but no matter how he twisted he could not escape its permeating existence as it sought him and warmed him.

At last the dragon sighed--Madrul could feel the motion beneath him--and sloped himself forward in a controlled fall. Now more than ever Madrul fought down the sleepiness that had consumed him and struggled to maintain his grip on both his goods and his seat, frightened to lose either. When their altitude had lowered sufficiently, the dragon angled towards the volcano. He banked hard around the craggy slope until Madrul saw a steep, precipitous path that might be scalable for humans. Several hundred feet above this was a cave mouth--it was for this that the dragon aimed, and in no time at all he back winged quickly, his talons scraping against the mouth of the ledge. The gusts from his wings threw up whirlwinds of dust that were sent whirling into the cave and, with no place to go, came whirling out again immediately, amplified. Madrul coughed.

Drademar lowered himself to the ground once more and Madrul slid off of his back as he was bidden. “You must be tired,” said the dragon, and at Madrul’s sleepy “Yes, sir,” he smiled slightly. “Then sleep for a while. We shall take a day of rest before beginning.”

Madrul glanced around the cavern, but as the dragon lumbered down the back tunnel he indicated a corner there in the main cave with his tail. Madrul stifled a yawn, spread the mat out in the corner, curled up under a layer of blankets, and, despite his pulse racing with excitement--to be an apprentice to the dragon--he promptly fell asleep.

Drentshi is now called Zetsoi, for your reference...

2005-11-18T23:25:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3

In the town of Buoka, a merchant ship prepared to set sail.

“Do you have everything you need, Wronsteit?” said a man--his skin was the olive of the native islanders and showed signs of sunburn.

The other man, whose skin was fair and whose hair was a pale honey colored blond, smiled. “I am sure that I do,” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his deep blue robe. “You have been most accommodating. These goods are highly sought back home, and I shall be welcomed on my return.”

The native man laughed. “Well, well,” he said quietly. “You paid good enough coin for it, of course. Turn a profit, will you?”

Wronsteit also laughed. “Always,” he said. His blue eyes skimmed the docks, crowded with men and women with dark hair, moving crates and casting lines, and then restlessly returned to the ship that floated a few yards away. The island merchant bid him farewell and he nodded, then sprung lightly up the ramp to the ship. He smiled and waved a long arm as the other bid him farewell again, but already his mind and his eyes were elsewhere. He peered through the crowd, but there was nothing--nothing! Inwardly he cursed.

The captain approached him as he leaned on the ship’s starboard rail. “My lord?” he queried.

Wronsteit looked up quickly. For a moment his eyes were dangerous--then his teeth flashed in a grin. “Come now, my captain. I am no lord, especially not to you.”
The rotund, grizzled little man grunted slightly, and Wronsteit’s eyes tightened imperceptibly--the captain looked down quickly. “Assuredly, sir,” he said, “But I was wondering if everything was arranged for our departure.”

Wronsteit let his gaze travel the length of the ship and then across the crowded dock--still, nothing. He frowned, and one gloved hand lifted to tug at the short beard that decorated his pointed chin. “Not yet, Captain. I’m afraid I am still waiting for some supplies. They should be here within the hour, though.”

The captain nodded and turned away, and Wronsteit growled low under his breath, “He’d better be back by then.”

And in the depths of the city a small boy, perhaps ten years old, backed himself against the wall of an alley.

One of the three men approaching him smacked his fist into his palm. “Rotten thief,” he spat. “You stole from the wrong man this time.” The other two exchanged laughs and spread out, cornering the boy.

He watched them now rather nonchalantly. In his hand he held a short sword in its sheath--with one swift move he drew it. “This is an excellent blade,” he said quietly, his child’s voice piping yet serious.

“And an expensive one, too,” said the man, taking a few steps forward. He stopped quickly as the boy brought the blade up into a guarding stance, and then he laughed. “What, you’re going to cut me?”

The boy’s eyes were flat grey, the color of wet stone. “I am going to take this blade and leave,” he said, and closed his small hand more firmly over the rounded handle.

“No-o...” said the man, and he grinned amidst the laughter of the other two. He was a slightly pudgy older man with the big forearms and calves of a field worker. “You’re going to hand it over all nice and quiet like, and then maybe I won’t beat you to death.”

The surface of the blade caught the sun briefly, and then it flashed through the air. The larger man fell back with a cry, a hand going to his face, and the young boy sprang past him, the tip of the blade now touched with crimson. The other two men, built but not as pudgy as the first, with the same black hair and half-tanned skin as the rest of the islanders, closed on the boy but in their surprise they were too slow. He dropped to the ground and threw himself between the knees of one, then rolled to his feet, kicked the other man in the kneecap and the first man in the small of the back. The latter stumbled and cursed, lurching after him, but in an instant the boy had sheathed the bloody sword and disappeared down the street.

He ran on, his small legs churning. The sun showed that it was far past their meeting time--Wronsteit would be upset. He grinned, shaking his head to get the sweat from his grey eyes and wincing as the braided black strands on either side of his face whipped against his skull.

At last he reached a quiet spot and took a moment to tuck the short sword down the back of his shirt. Its pommel stuck out beneath his length of black hair and poked him in the neck. When he was relatively sure that it would not fall or be noticed, he continued on his way at a more casual walk. A quick glance around showed that Wronsteit was not on the pier, and for a moment he almost panicked. But then he saw that the ship was still at the dock and he sighed in relief to see the tall lean frame topped with a long shock of blond hair that was his master.

He pushed his way through the crowd, keeping his head down until he reached the ship and then climbing the gangplank hurriedly. When he reached the deck he glanced around but Wronsteit was nowhere to be seen.

He rolled his shoulders, feeling the sword against his muscles, and strolled nonchalantly towards his cabin. He had gone no more than a few paces, however, when a hand clamped down on his right shoulder and stopped him.

The boy almost jumped out of his skin, but then Wronsteit’s voice hissed in his ear, “You are late, Nevaya.”

“Sorry, Master,” Nevaya murmured, swallowing against the lump that had risen in his throat.

“I trust you were successful regardless?”

“Of course.” He flashed a grin backwards at the blond man who received the gesture coldly.

“Wait for me in the cabin.” The hand left his shoulder and the tall man was gone instantly, silently.

Nevaya shook himself free from his dazed stupor and headed for Wronsteit’s cabin quickly, avoiding the gazes of the sailors and the few ambassadors and tradesmen of Peloria who were still on deck--those for the most part were uncomfortable on sea voyages and stayed in their cabins until the ship arrived at the next dock. He went inside and sat down cross legged on his bed mat, pulled the sword from his shirt and removed the sheath, and commenced to clean the fine blade with a corner of his spare tunic. When he had finished he put the blade away again and leaned back against the wall. As he waited for his master to return he dozed lightly in the seated position.

The movement of the ship as the sails billowed and caught the wind jerked him awake, and a minute later Wronsteit came in and shut the door behind him. “You have it?” he said, and then his eyes flickered around the room and he rummaged around through his pocket until he found the paper scroll that held the spell and pressed it against the door. White light flashed briefly, and then faded, and Wronsteit sat down with his legs half folded under him at the short bench next to the cot in which he slept and beckoned to the boy.

Obediently Nevaya got to his feet and, pulling the sheathed sword from his shirt, he handed it to his master. “I apologize,” he said clearly. “I did not mean to be late. But these islanders are very careful with their blades, and even the clumsy fool I lifted this one from was cautious enough to notice me.”

Wronsteit, who had accepted the sword and was turning it over between his palms slowly, looked up sharply at this. “You get yourself into a fight?” he demanded.

The boy shrugged. “Just a small one.”

“Did you kill them?”

“I thought it better to return quickly than to ensure their deaths, since I was already late.” He hung his head, and the few strands of braided hair fell forward with the motion. The rest stayed tucked behind his ears.

The man grunted, a mixed sound of both displeasure and indifference, took hold of the pommel and half drew the sword. The blade glittered in the pale lamplight of the cabin, and he nodded in satisfaction. “A good blade. You chose well.”

Nevaya remained half bowed. “But that was the strange thing, sir,” and at that Wronsteit looked up again at him, surprised. “They were all of equal caliber. I saw the shops that sold them, the men who drew them. I could have taken any blade in the city--machete, short sword, long sword, even a kitchen knife--and it would have born the same excellence. Whoever makes these swords is a good man.”

Wronsteit said nothing for a long moment, but he examined the shining blade and at the base, where the blade met the hilt, he found etched the form of a dragon’s claw--the maker’s mark. “It is neither your place nor mine to guess as to the nature of the maker,” he said. “We do what we’re told, nothing more.”

The boy deepened his bow and then straightened. “Yes, sir.”

Wronsteit nodded a second time. “Very well. Since you were in fact successful this time, take the rest of the day as a break. We’ve not much to do besides wait until we reach the mainland, but we can train tomorrow.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Nevaya, bowing slightly again, and then he turned and went out the door. He loitered on the main deck, watching the sailors, and then after a while he found himself a bench and sat, watching the passing of the sea instead.
Wronsteit leaned back on the bench in silence for a moment, and then after a while he went and got a scroll from one of his bags and began to read.

xxxxxDRAGONSCENExxxxx

A breeze swept the face of the volcano--a thin tendril of it entered the mouth of a cave, lifting dust from the craggy floor and pushing deep into the cavern. It brushed the distant tunnel that was the cave’s only other major exit, besides numerous small outcroppings and crevices here and there, but a rush of hot sulfur laden air pushed the little breeze back out the mouth it had come from, along with a belch of smoke. A strange sound like the toll of a bell rose with the hot air.

Follow the hot draft and the sound down--down the tunnel, covered in darkness, towards a distant red glow. The tunnel opened eventually into another cavern--one that resonated with the sound of a bell, over and over.

A hammer on metal.

Each blow struck a shower of white sparks from the glowing slice. Ring. Ring. The sounds echoed in the large cavern.

Drademar hesitated, stretched his claws in the grip around the metal handle of the hammer, filling the air with the grating of his scales. Then he lifted the strip of metal, still glowing, from the flat rock shelf where he had hammered it and thrust it into the slightly bubbling river of magma that meandered nearby.

The half formed blade heated immediately and he dragged it out of the magma, clearing droplets from it with a flick of his heavy wrist, and placed it again on the rock shelf. The hammer rose and fell, and the strip of metal flattened and spread.

He reached out--claws hovered over an assortment of other tools. After a moment’s hesitant decision, he selected a smaller hammer and began to work again. Beneath his ministrations and the flying sparks, a blade began to form.

When he had it shaped as he wanted it--who knew how much time had passed? Time didn’t matter in such a place as the depths of the dormant volcano, not when night and day were obscured by rock and glowing fire. When he had it properly shaped he flapped his wings a few times, sending drafty air currents spiraling to the pinnacle of the cavern, carrying sparks with them. He gave the blade a few more tentative taps with the hammer, and then hummed to himself in delight, picked up the glowing strip, and plunged it into a nearby bucket.

There was some little amount of steam, and Drademar peered, surprised, into the bucket to find that only a trickle of water remained in the bottom--that now quickly evaporating under the heat of the metal.

He sighed, placed the strip back on the counter near the magma river where the cavern’s temperature would keep it from cooling too much, picked up the bucket by its handle in one claw, and turned back towards the tunnel from which he had come.
It was easy going through the dark tunnel for him--he knew well all its twists and turns, since he had lived there for years. When he emerged into the brightly lit cavern halfway up the mountain’s face, sunlight glittering against the rocky walls told him it was day.

He went to the water barrel and found that it, too, was empty, and a low growl of frustration escaped his throat. He scuffed a desolate cloud of dust with one clawed hind foot in the general direction of the barrel and scowled, then hurried to the mouth of the cave.

For a moment he perched on the ledge, overlooking his domain. The dormant volcanic mountain curved underneath him, an expanse of rock littered with hints of greenery here and there. The sunlight glittered on the distant edges of the sea to the far right--to the left, the earth curved away into distant countryside. While he was technically on an island, it was large enough that an easy day’s flight could not cross it.

He flared his wings, and the breeze caught at the webbing between the bony fingers and almost pushed him over. His talons bit into the rock as he worked to keep himself upright, and then he flapped once or twice, creating a whirlwind of dust in his wake. He leapt from the edge, bucket in hand, and skimmed down the face of the mountain, his scaled belly brushing shrubs and rocks aside.

A small distance away there was a river that ran next to the plains and into the surrounding forest. He dropped down on one side of it, leaving deep footprints in the mud before scooping water into the bucket. A sigh escaped his lips--he should have filled the whole barrel, but the sword blade had to be quenched before it cooled and turned brittle.

When the bucket was full he kicked off from the ground, the huge muscles of his shoulder working to pump the heavy wings as he struggle to gain altitude.
When he reached the cave mouth Drademar clawed at the ledge until he had regained his balance once again, then folded his wings tightly up against his back and hurried down the tunnel once more.

The temperature of the inner cavern and the blade’s proximity to the lava had indeed kept the strip of metal relatively hot. For good measure he held it above the lava and let it warm up again before adding a final light blow or two to the edge--then he plunged the blade into the bucket.

Steam erupted from the bucket and boiled away. He waited a long moment, letting the blade cool down in the clear water, and then he pulled it free and laid it down again.

The blade was that of a short sword and not yet fully formed--one of those used by many townsfolk and villagers. It would take another day’s work or two to finish it off to the caliber that he preferred, but right now he was hungry. It had been some time since he had last eaten--almost a week--and also the water barrel ought to be filled before he left. It was bad for the metal to sit too long without quenching.
He lumbered up the darkened tunnel once more, and behind him the magma bubbled and steamed.

xxxxxxxxxx

“So,” Madrul’s father said several weeks after the trip into town, “Have you given any thought into your apprenticeship?”

Madrul, who had been gathering firewood, almost dropped the stack.

Blah blah blah and then he died

Xxxxxxx

The day of the annual dragon festival arrived with a golden sunrise, washing the palm trees and the canopy in an array of warm tangerine and yellow light. Madrul, his eyes full of sand from the late night prior, pushed himself out of bed and slapped away his younger brother’s hands as Rebe pulled excitedly at him. They dressed in their best tunics and cleanest togas, and joined the rest of the family in the main room. Tenari gave each a brief inspection, smoothing Rebe’s wild hair and straightening Madrul’s belt, helping Pedrac put in a pair of earrings. Then they left and walked through the woods until they came to the neighboring village of Keihilo. It was their week of celebrating the dragon festival and that meant that this week, of all the weeks in the year, the dragon would feed from their herds. The opportunity to provide sustenance for their protector was also an opportunity for an enormous celebration. The next two days would be full of dancing, feasts, and gift giving--a time of year that Madrul looked forward to as much as the end of the harvest season or the summer festival.

As they approached Keihilo, they could see the community fire was already lit, in the village square. A tendril of black smoke rose towards a fragile blue sky, and the cries of the singers--and the dancers--spiraled after it. Family friends greeted Waef warmly as they approached, and he returned their embraces with a sincere fondness of his own. Tenari found the taller, thinner form of her sister amongst the crowd and tearfully seized her in a hug. Rebe, a sweet in hand, wandered about until he found his playmates.

It was not long until Jorreked, Keirun, and Zetsoi found him, cornered by nearby cousins. With a nod to his relations and cheerful greetings, they dragged him away to run rampant with them throughout the crowds, stealing tidbits of food and avoiding relatives of all forms, until one aunt on the father’s side of someone’s family chased them away from the meal tables with a wooden spoon.

When it came time to eat, they assembled along the tables, and the feast ensued. Everyone brought something to the meal--Waef’s family of course brought fish--in addition to those relatives who had been cooking since two days before, and the tables groaned with food.

At last, when the sun had almost finished its descent, about half of the men from both villages took up staffs to drive the goats to the field, where the dragon would meet them and eat his fill, after which they would give him a crown of flowers and wish him well on his way. The singers and the drummers picked up the pace until their music was a frenzy, and the dancers swirled and trilled, the high pitched sound making Madrul’s blood race strangely, and the whole of the two villages shouted a farewell as the men disappeared down the road.

2005-11-10T10:20:00.000-08:00

Chapter 2

They had not done much work in fixing the wall by the time the sun’s descent encouraged them to go home, and when Madrul got back to his family’s compound he was scolded for the state of his clothes and forced to wash them in the small room at the back of the house. As he crouched by the tub wrapped in little more than a spare tunic, sullenly pushing the sodden toga around with a stick and scrubbing it under the supervision of Pedrac, he reflected a little sourly on the other boys. Jorreked was bigger than he was and responsible for most of the good ideas of the group--at least the ones that got used, because he was older than each of them by at least a year and could make them do what he said. It wasn’t fair.

At last the toga was relatively clean of dirt and plant stains, and he gathered up the heavy sodden cloth and took it outside to dry on the baking warmth of the adobe wall of the compound in the last few hours of sunlight. Supper was spent in the silence of the overworked and weary--Waef chewed without saying anything, and even among the children there was little chattering. Tenari reprimanded them infrequently, her eyes betraying how tired she was after a long day’s work at the weaver’s. After dinner Madrul was once again enlisted to help with the dishes, and his unhappy grumbling earned him a swipe or two from Niruy, who had no patience for his wounded pride.

When the sun had almost set the call finally arose for community time. Waef, who had been relaxing in the bedroom with his arms around Tenari got to his feet so quickly that he almost let her fall, and she recovered with as much dignity as she could muster. Rebe, who had only awoken just before supper from the afternoon peacebreak, screamed giddily until Niruy shushed him, and took him by the hand. Madrul ran and got the now cold, though not entirely dry toga from the wall and dressed himself hurriedly. They gathered in the entrance room and Waef smiled to see his family all assembled.

They left the compound at about the same time as Vestinire and his family, from across the street, left theirs, and exchanged cordial greetings. Waef embraced Vestinire and the two men walked ahead of the mingling of children and the two wives who exchanged embraces as well.

They made their way to the square at the center of the town where the Siqan was already waiting. A village as small as Lohien needed only one Siqan, and in Lohien the person they turned to was Siqan Drema. Madrul remember that once when he had been Rebe’s age, she had come to their compound to speak with Waef and Tenari about something he hadn’t fully understood, and when his father had found him trying to listen to their conversation he had been very angry. Madrul’s memories of how Siqan Drema had looked then were quite different from the Siqan Drema he saw every other day at sunset. She had been a normal woman during the day when she visited--but at night she was something else, something powerful and huge.

The community fire was lit, tongues of flaming licking heat into air that had not yet entirely lost its overhanging midday humidity to the night’s chill, making beads of sweat appear on Madrul’s forehead. The square was filled with people, and Rebe clung tightly to Niruy’s hand. Madrul felt like doing much of the same to keep from being trampled underfoot, and then fought down that nervousness with a swell of self-disgust. He was nearly twelve years old now--he was almost a man. Men did not get stepped on in ignorance. He drew himself away from Pedrac and Tenari and almost darted off into the crowd, but then Tenari caught hold of his elbow and dragged him back to her side, and in the process his toes were trod on and he yelped slightly.

“Now you behave,” Tenari admonished him, giving him a good shake. “And do not get your toga dirty again, you hear?”

They made their way to the two circles of benches that surrounded the community fire and wedged their way onto an available bench, all one family. Once they had been seated, Madrul peeled himself from the bench. Tenari hissed at him. “What are you doing?”

“I was just--“ he pointed in the general direction of two or three other boys, none of those from his close group that worked on a compound in the forest, who were standing to one side and laughing and talking.

“No,” she said firmly. “You’ll stay here.”

“But for the telling, could I not--“

“I said no. We will sit together as a family--not apart like strangers.”

Madrul sank unhappily back to the bench. It wasn’t fair! Tenari treated him like he was Rebe’s age. And all the other boys were allowed to go where they wanted, and not have to sit squashed between their eldest sister and their younger brother for the telling. He leaned back on the bench, trying to get comfortable while they waited for the telling to begin.

He did not have long to wait. The rest of the families in the village were all but completely accumulated on the benches, and a swift breeze rustled the trees in the forest and gave relief to upturned faces. The final hints of sun-burnt gold, tracing glorious outlines against the palm fronds, hovered on the edge of the horizon, temporarily bringing shades of vivid crimson and honey colored light in rays across the square.

The last person sat down. An expectant hush fell over the bench rows, and Madrul felt within him the first stirrings of excitement that the telling always seemed to bring. It didn’t matter how frequently the telling was called--he could not help but enjoy it, even if it was a story he had heard before, because there was always some new aspect to it, some adventure twist or unique character. A large part of this was in Siqan Drema, whose voice could imitate the cry of a macaw or the sound of palm leaves rubbing together or the hiss of lava into the sea, or even the heavy beats of the dragon’s wings. But it also seemed as if the stories themselves seemed to evolve, to transmute. Like Tenari said, the rain never fell in the same way twice, xxeven if it fell on the same part of the forestxx. Stories changed because every nuance of the environment and manner in which they were told affected them.

Siqan Drema, wearing a long red abaya robe open over a woman’s toga, appeared at the far edge of the square, the last rays of sunlight framing her outline and casting her actual form into shadow. She screamed, then, her voice a sudden rush of shrill sound that raised the hair on the back of Madrul’s neck. The noise lifted and soared out over the village and the trees, and the palm fronds rattled in the wind, the shivery sound of the rustling leaves raising and joining with the Siqan’s voice until the two sounds were blended and the same.

“Oh!” she screamed. “Oh friends, can you see the sky?”

Surprised, they lifted their faces to where the trees broke off against the cobalt and indigo tinted night, then turned back, puzzled, to focus on the Siqan. “Oh,” said she, now in a slightly calmer tone as she took a step or two into the circle. “Oh friends, can you see the stars? For they are shining, they are listening to tonight’s telling.”

For some reason this peculiar thought warmed Madrul slightly--that even the stars had gathered to hear the telling.

She took a number of slow, stalking steps past the rows of benches, and all eyes were on her. Madrul could feel Rebe breathing against his ribcage, and then realized that his own breaths were as short and as excited as his brother’s were. He quickly jerked his eyes back to Siqan Drema as she continued her stealthy dance past them. “Tonight,” she said in a low tone that carried over the snap of the fire and the whir of insects, and with each word she hunched her back over a little and lifted her hands, the fingers bent like rough talons, a little higher, “We speak about the dragon.” And with the last word she straightened her spine and spread her arms to the stars above to include them in the introduction as well.

Madrul felt his blood stir again. The telling of the dragon’s origins and why he was due such respect was not so common a tale, and it had been a while since they had heard the thrumming of Siqan Drema’s voice in perfect imitation of the dragon’s wings.

Step by slow step she circled the ring of benches, from the inside, her bare feet making no noise over the earth. “Not so long ago, when my father’s father and my mother’s mother were still only children themselves, there was no dragon who passed overhead. Why did he come here?” She shot one hand up towards the sky. “We do not know. We do not have to know. All we do know is when he came and what he did.”
Her breath trembled in her throat like the sound of the waves on the shoreline, rising and falling, beating the sand like the inexorable hammer of time. They listened to her telling--of the wingbeats of the dragon over the ocean, casting the waves high up into the air so that their water fell back to earth like rain, as the dragon came for the first time to the island.

“The townspeople saw him,” she said. “The village people. People of Buoka and people of Lohien... everyone saw him. You couldn’t not see him--oh! How big his wingspan was. It seemed to blot out the sky.

“At first they were afraid, they were, they trembled like skeletons. The sound of their bones rattling filled the air. But the man who was the leader of Sevaye--“ This was the largest city on the island, a good two week’s journey from Lohien-- “He said that they should not attack without knowing the dragon’s purpose. So he went, with a group of strong men, to test the dragon’s intent.”

She had made a full circle of the inside of the ring of benches and now she moved outside the ring. They did not turn around--her voice came to them through the rising darkness, mingled with the flames of the community fire. “They traveled, and they traveled. They traveled for days and nights, deep into the forest, tracking the dragon. It was not a difficult thing to do, for though he flew and left no tracks, he was bleeding--a viscous dark blood that boiled as it fell and left its mark through the canopy and heavy upon the earth. No one knew why he was bleeding. But at last they came to the volcano--to the sacred hot mountain from which the gods first brought forth lifexxdunnoifIwantmythologytobeafocusherexx.”

She came back into the ring. “They climbed,” she said simply, and then she hiked her abaya up a bit and made the motions of scaling a mountain, a gesture that brought smiles and laughter. “They climbed, they climbed. They followed the trail of his blood and they found where he had landed. Inside a cave up the side of the mountain, in a place nearly accessible. The ledge was streaked with that dark blood, and they advanced cautiously, as if into the lair of the beast.”

There was some shock amongst the villagers that the dragon had been compared to a violent animal.

Siqan Drema hurriedly went on, “But they were of course ignorant of the dragon’s nature, as they had never met him before. How were they to know? How were they to know what and who he was? They did not, and in their ignorance they thought unworthy thoughts about him. But when they stood upon the ledge that was the entrance to his home, he spoke to them.” Her words, once quick and vicious, now faded off in wonder.
“He told them that he was wounded, that he was weary, and that he was saddened beyond any sadness that could consume mere men, and he begged them that if they were to kill him, if they would do it quickly.” Tears gathered in her eyes, and her voice trembled slightly with the infinite graceful sadness of the dragon.

“So moved was my father’s father’s leader that he forgot his initial purpose, and sent his men back down the slope to gather herbs and roots and boil huge pots of water. In a day’s time he had medicine for the grave wound of the dragon--and in a week of time, the dragon had healed completely.”

She took a deep breath. “And so it was formed--a bond, as it were, between the people and the dragon. He with wings was grateful and he--the leader--was awed by the magnificent.”

She went on to talk about how, almost twenty years later, when her mother and her father were only children, the Naritian invaders had come and tried to conquer the island, and how the dragon had burned their ships and protected the villagers. How he had ever since been forging weapons so that the villagers could henceforth protect themselves.

“Yes, the dragon is our defender,” she said, her tone now almost scathing. “So if he asks us for a few goats now and again, or an amount of wood, or something of that kind--we will give it to him, yes, without question.”

The world fell silent--even the chirruping of insects was relatively dimmed now that Siqan Drema’s voice had stopped. A cold wind made them shiver, and the fire snapped and sparked. It was full night now, and Madrul felt Rebe yawn against his ribs.

The Siqan drew her abaya robe against her and shivered slightly. “That is tonight’s telling,” she said, and all the power had gone out of her tone once more.

The villagers stirred on their benches, released from the spell of her strong voice at last. One by one they began to move and speak once more, until the benches were empty and the ring was filled with talking people. Siqan Drema stood to one side, silently gazing into the fire, and she smiled a little when people spoke to her and thanked her, but did not answer them.

The stars had begun to burn pinpricks in the night sky when Tenari and Waef finally accompanied their yawning family back to their compound. Niruy carried Rebe, who had long since fallen asleep, and as she tucked him into his bedroll, she glanced over at Madrul. “Best get to bed yourself, brother,” she said. “Tomorrow’s likely to be a busy day for you.”

Madrul grinned. “Sleep well, sister,” he said, and then she went out and closed the door.

He lay for a long, silent moment in the darkness of their room listening to Rebe’s steady breathing, and then he fell asleep.

It was hardly dawn when Tenari woke him the next morning. She held a hand against his mouth and shushed him as he startled himself from slumber, and then nodded silently at the door. “Get ready,” she whispered, and then she was gone.

Excitement made his blood race. He got dressed quickly, rolled up his mat, and brushed off his new sandals. He wore them so infrequently around town that it took him a moment to remember how they tied on, and by that time Waef was waiting in the doorway. He hurriedly followed his father out to the front of the compound, where Tenari was waiting with a bag of foodstuffs and a dried piece of fish for his breakfast. He took the fish and she caught him in a quick embrace, then kissed his forehead. “Be careful, and obey your father,” she admonished. Surprised at that show of affection, he nodded but said nothing.

Then Tenari turned to Waef. “And you be careful too,” she said, her voice a little thick.

Waef grunted, and then he smiled quickly at her and kissed her soundly. “For you, I will be,” he promised, and then he bent and picked up the large bag of dried fish and hauled it onto his shoulder. In the other hand he held his short sword, the blade unsheathed.

Madrul had not seen the sword in a long time--not since there had been signs of a panther on the outskirts of town. Then his father had sat up all night above the compound entrance for three days running, until it was announced that a farmer on the other side of the village had killed the panther that night before. The sight of it now made him shiver, and he hesitated only a moment before picking up the smaller sack, accepting the bag of food from his mother, and striding after his father.
The two made their way through the village to the path that led to the main road. Madrul hesitated once again right outside the village. The palm fronds shivered in a slight breeze, filling the air with their hollow sound, and the path behind him seemed to lead only to darkened, lonely houses. Then at a sharp word from Waef, he turned and hurried after his father.

Waef strode along the path, avoiding creepers and roots without any difficulty. Madrul, however, seemed to find himself tripping over something every other step, and with each passing moment he found himself listening more carefully to the forest surrounding him, as if anticipating an animal of some sort. But nothing came bursting through the bush except for a thrush that made his heart leap with surprise and fright as it sped off, wings buzzing in the early morning silence.

Even the insects hardly made any noise in that temporal changeover between night and day--those that came out under the moon were now sleeping, and those that rose with the sun had not yet come awake. A cool breeze touched the trees and made Madrul shivered. The bag of fish was heavy on his shoulder and the strap of the sack dug into his flesh. No matter how he tried to adjust them, neither would get more comfortable.

They walked on in the interminable half darkness, Madrul stumbling almost blindly and shrugging against the burden of the bag on his shoulder, until long after the sun had risen. At sometime around noon, when they came across a clearing and a stream, Waef lowered his bag onto the ground and followed it with a weary sigh.
Madrul, who had lagged behind his father, now finally caught up and collapsed on the ground next to him. The older man thrust a hand in his general direction--it held an orange fruit. Surprised and grateful, he took the fruit and dug his fingernail into the thick skin. He pierced the rind and peeled it, inch by faintly scented inch, from the wedges of fruit underneath. When he glanced up, once, at his father, he saw Waef was doing the same thing.

In no time at all they had their fruits open. Madrul pulled from the top and split the sliced ball down the middle, then removed a section at a time and shoved each dripping wedge into his mouth. The juice stung at his cracked lips but he ate the pieces one by one regardless, licking his fingers.

Waef did not split the fruit down the middle--he took one big bite at a time, his large square white teeth cutting easily into the fruit’s flesh. As he tore into the fruit and pulled it away from his mouth a line of spittle linked his lips and what was left of the ravaged fruity globe before he turned and spat the seeds onto the ground next to him.

They ate in relative silence, until Waef at last said, “How are you holding up, Madrul?”

Madrul swallowed his bite of orange and said quickly, “Just fine, father.”

Waef smiled down at him. “Good. We are almost to the main road--I think we’ve made pretty good time. Let us rest for another ten minutes or so and then we’ll get on our way again.”

Madrul nodded and leaned back against a nearby tree trunk. An ant crawled up his leg and he slapped irritably at it. The insects had begun their interminable buzz long ago, and by now they were a maddening rush of chittering noise, raucous and vibrant. Somewhere in the distance a bird called out a sharp, repetitive tune, the sound prolonged by echoes in the surrounding woods.

Waef pushed himself to his feet and went to the stream where he first examined the water and then drank a few handfuls at a time. When he had finished he scrubbed his large, stained fisherman’s hands on his toga and got to his feet. Madrul hurriedly took a drink himself, and then they both hefted their bags and were on their way again.

Their trek continued until the sun had almost set, and then finally they reached Buoka--a thriving port city, though not the ‘capital’ city of the island. They stayed in a farmer’s shed at the cost of a few coins that Waef produced mysteriously from the depths of one of the pouches on his belt and ate a frugal meal of the bread, fruits, and dried fish in Madrul’s pack, and then they both laid down to sleep. Waef was soon snoring but Madrul could not sleep--the shed smelled of goats and there were no windows to let in the moonlight or even a breeze. He tossed and turned uncomfortably, trying not to think about what would happen tomorrow and also trying to ignore the blisters his new sandals had given him--they were just slightly too small. After an hour or so of restlessness he at last fell into a fitful slumber in which he dreamed of a road--an eternal road whose end he sought but could not find, no matter how hard he ran, and the further he went along it the heavier the bag on his shoulder got and the farther away the end seemed.

He woke an hour before dawn, shaken into life by his father, and under Waef’s careful eyes he dressed, tied on his sandals, and followed the man from the shed.
They went into town. It had been a long time since Madrul had been to Buoka--almost four years. It had changed little except to perhaps grow a little more crowded and a little more dirty. They followed the roads through the depths of the town until they came to a market square where other merchants were beginning to display their goods, and in no time at all they had the small dried fish and the larger, fresher smoked trout or whatever other sort of fish one might find around a tropical island--maybe tuna--all spread out and displayed.

Waef sighed contentedly and folded his legs down onto the hard wooden bench behind the stall, and Madrul gathered the bags into a ball and sat down on that. No sooner had they settled in than the sun began to peek over the horizon, its rays passing the tightly packed houses and falling across the land, and the market square began to grow busy. XXelaborate on somescene here where Madrul encounters thief if he doesxx

The rest of Madrul’s day was spent in a frenzy of selling fish and crying out to customers about their quality. By the time the sun had set there were hardly half of the dried fish left and very few of the fresher large fish.

So they stayed over night in the farmer’s shed again, and Waef slept with his hand on his short sword in case of thieves. Madrul, exhausted, could not sleep--his mind was racing with all the people he had seen. So many of them! All living together and crammed in such a little space. The sea had been dirty with their garbage when he had wandered off from the stall to find amusement elsewhere--not like the coast by the village, where the water was kept clean.

Somehow he fell asleep.

The next day was passed in a similar manner and the fish sold out by late afternoon. Contentedly, the man and the boy wandered the town and stopped at an inn to eat and stock up, for their own supplies had all but run out.

They made the return trip early the following morning, and though the load on Madrul’s shoulder was lighter the road was no more easier or shorter than it had been on the way there.

2005-11-07T21:15:00.000-08:00

Chapter 1

Waves lifted and tossed fine powdered black sand further up and down the beach, making the crabs scuttle and crouch against the spray. They swept along the length of the cliffs, shooting foam up into the air to cascade like rain back into the churning surface. The wind sped along the length of the coastline, then up the cliffs and across the island beyond. It raced over the long grass of a plain.

Overhead the sky was flecked with white clouds--the sun was beginning to touch the horizon, and opposite it indigo and violet streaks permeated the stars with vivid hues. The long grasses bended and bobbed gently under the breeze and the clouds overhead flickered by, swept on the wind. The trees--large palms and other deciduous plants--swayed against the breeze, and when at last the wind left, it left the plain behind in a state of calm, steady relaxation.

The grasses grew still, a flower here or there nodding, vibrating against the last echoes of that wind. The palms ceased their swaying, and the whole world of that fair grassy plain rimmed in trees fell into silence, as if it were holding its breath. Peace consumed the world--and then darkness consumed it as the sun began its descent to the left of the dormant volcano. There was nothing left but stillness, and silence, and the faint bobbing of the flowers against the hesitant touch of a breeze as the moon rose, spreading silver light over the landscape.

A darkened shadow flitted across the white lit grass. It took only a moment of time but in that instant the ebony disrupted everything that had been at ease--silver became black, and black became a shade of silence beyond the darkest edges of night, and black became a moment and a hesitation, a discernable silhouette of interest whose ragged edges were infinitely fractal, without end. Endless, it coasted, its touch shriveling the fresh greenery into darkness, and then as it past reviving the internal silver glow that permeated the meadow.

At last the shadow passed, and in its wake the meadow remained, undisturbed and trembling, glistening anew in dewy light.

The shadow glided up the tree trunks that rimmed the meadow before continuing on its way over the forest. It touched over a little village, darkening the palm roofed houses completely and then surrendering them once more to the moon’s caress. Once again the treetops faded underneath it and then it was over a larger town, and the expanses of houses fit in the shade of the wingspan.

At last the shadow came to the shore, curving over fine black sand, and halted before the greedy, lapping, pensive length of the sea. For a moment it remained, unfaltering before the waves, as if considering every edge of thought and time that might have ever bothered to be asked. But nothing rose from the deeps, and the night was beginning to pass.

The dragon banked and flitted along the beach, tracing the curves of sand dunes and hills until he came to the cliffs. Then he swept out over the sea, the waves licking at him and sending chasers of foam in the wake of his flight, until he followed the cliff face up, propelling himself up past the interface of rock and water, earth and sea, past the world and into the night sky, trying to reach and caress the very stars.

He winged over the land and headed for the volcano. He circled it twice and then swooped himself into an entryway that almost seemed just too small for his bulk, though he did not have difficulty getting inside.

Somewhere, on the other side of the island, Madrul woke up.

He woke up with the instinctive knowledge of a small child who knows, wistfully and uncomprehending, that something in their dreams are true. Madrul had dreamed strangely--one of those peculiar dreams in which one is running away from things, with no success. And now that he had awoken he could retain no knowledge of how the world worked in the dream, nor what he had been running from.

He pushed himself free from the tangle of bedding that had wrapped itself around his legs during the night and staggered to his feet. His younger brother Rebe sleepily opened one eye and then rolled over--Madrul paid him no mind. He rolled up his reed mattress bedclothes and all and pushed it against one wall. Then he lurched out of the door of their room and into the main part of the house.

Niruy, his oldest sister, was already up, bent over the fire ring blowing on the embers of last night’s fire. She smiled at him and pointed at the wooden bucket by the door. He nodded--it was too early for words, as the rest of the household was asleep.

He took the bucket and went outside, carefully shutting the door behind him. The sun had not yet pierced the thicket of trees that surrounded the village of Lohien, and so the long spindly shadows of palm trees and olive trees curved across the family compound. Next door, neighbor Vehsino was singing, a quiet song about the sunrise and the python, and Madrul smiled to hear it--an old song but one of his favorites, and of course it was never sung the same way twice. He hefted the wooden bucket again and strode out of the compound and down the street to the public well. The air was chilly in the shade of the trees, nipping at his bare ankles, but it was a fragile cold that would dissipate with the first rays of the sun.

He drew water from the well, trying not to slosh, and as he did so he returned to his dream from last night. He had been entirely sure, without knowing why, that it had been true--and yet he could not remember a single moment of what had caused the terror and the joy that had so filled him. Weren’t dreams for remembering? This inability to recall what he had seen disturbed him vaguely. He tried to dismiss it as a mere nightmare, but something in his bones belied the insistence, and he could not shake the feeling of having missed something entirely.

He carried the bucket back to the house and dragged it to the kitchen, where his mother Tenari was preparing for the noon meal. She took the water bucket from him with one hand, and he watched her muscles roll and bulge as she lifted it easily to the top of the table. Madrul suppressed a wave of envy--he had to use both hands just to carry the buckets, and she could lift them with one. Someday, he said to himself, someday he would be strong like Tenari or Waef, his father.xxthis envy is useless... he’s not that youngxx

“Don’t stand around,” she said sharply. “Here, let’s have more water.” And she gave him a second bucket without so much as a second glance. He took it and went back outside.

Sunlight had begun to hover, molten gold, above the tops of the olive and palm trees by the time Madrul finished his chores and the rest of the household started to stir. Tenari was setting the low table with bowls of food and frowned when he came inside. “How did you get yourself so filthy?” she asked, and he glanced at the mud and water stains on his toga and flushed.

“Now,” said Niruy, “You know how the boys are, mother.” She put down a steaming bowl of savvecha and smiled fondly at Madrul. He took his seat and kept his eyes steadfast upon his feet, trying to ignore their comments while he waited for the rest of his family to gather around the table.

His stomach rumbled, and he could not keep his eyes from the plate of red fruit. It looked succulent, and it was the perfect season for ripe red fruit, just after the rains had come and gone. Rebe, younger by almost six years, reached for the plate of red fruit and his sister Pedrac slapped his wrist. “Wait, now,” she said sharply. “Father isn’t here yet.” Rebe’s eyes went wide and he began to sniffle. Pedrac hushed him imperiously and glanced towards the back door, and when he thought she wasn’t looking Rebe reached for the plate again.

A spoon, wielded by Niruy, came down on his knuckles and he howled, tears sprouting from his eyes. Tenari scowled. “Now, you see what you’ve done?” she said to Niruy.
“Shh... it’s all right, little man,” said Madrul, taking firm hold of his brother’s slightly sticky hand and soothing him. “It’s all right, isn’t it? Come on now, little man,” and he soothed the boy until the sniffles disappeared.

“I have had no child with quite so piercing of a wail,” said Waef as he came in the back door. He was a tall, strong man with hands scarred from the working of the fish nets, and he brought, in addition to the smell of the sea that was always with him, the overlaying smell of the smokehouse. He smoothed Rebe’s hair back as he passed and kissed Tenari on the forehead. “Good morning, children,” he said as he folded himself down onto the bench, crossing his legs underneath the low table.

“Good morning, father,” they said in unison, and that was the signal to begin passing the plates. Madrul, responsible for getting food onto Rebe’s plate as well as his own, sighed with quiet delight as he spooned red fruit from the dish and passed it on to Pedrac. Tubers, bread, and baked fish, as well as the savvecha and fruit juice, completed the meal, and Madrul ate with all the fervor of his eleven years, listening to his elders converse and keeping Rebe quiet.

“How was the fishing?” asked Tenari.

Waef grunted around a mouthful of tuber. “A good catch. Do we have enough in the barrel?”

“Plenty.” She forked another piece of fish from the plate.

“Then I shall have to go to town to sell a batch,” said Waef.

Rebe began to whine that there was no more red fruit, and Madrul, over the glares of his elders, gave him a piece of his own. The younger boy chewed contentedly, and Madrul sighed inwardly and turned his ears back to the conversation between his parents.

“When will you be back?”

“I don’t know. A few days to get there and back. It depends on the trip, of course.”

Tenari frowned, and then nodded. “Of course. You intend to go to today?”

Waef shook his head. “No, two days, maybe three days from now. Tomorrow to prepare the batch, and we will see how it goes.” Then, to Madrul’s surprise, he glanced at his oldest son and said, “I’d like you to come with me.”

Madrul had just stuffed a forkful of tubers into his mouth—he fought now, over his shock at being addressed by his father, to swallow them down and produce an answer more appropriate than the vigorous nodding of his head.

Waef went on without noticing Madrul’s preoccupation with the mouthful of tubers. “I could use the help with the batch, and I’m sure you’d enjoy a trip to Buoka. It’s been some time since we’ve gone.”

“May I come too, father?” said Pedrac.

He shook his head, then grinned in the face of her objections. “There’s no place for a girl your age on a market trip to the city. You stay here, and mind your mother.”

She let it drop with a final “Very well,” and Niruy rose and began to clear the dishes.

Madrul also got to his feet and darted into his bedroom before Niruy could insist on his helping her. He spent a moment alone contemplating the clean adobe walls with a smile—he was going to go to Buoka! Wait until he told the other boys... they would be so jealous...

Rebe touched his elbow and asked him, “What are you thinking?”

Madrul tousled his little brother’s hair. “Not much, little man,” he said. Then he heard Niruy calling from the kitchen and with a rueful sigh he went to join her and help clean up. When he had finished his toga was weighted with additional water stains but he didn’t care--he left the house by the back door, scaled the ladder that leaned against the adobe wall of their compound, and dropped into the street beyond. The smell of smoked fish filled the air around the house with a vivid perfume, and Madrul made his way down the street to the compound of the family of his friend, Drentshi.

Drentshi was already waiting for him outside the compound walls, and the two clasped hands briefly in greeting before racing each other out of Lohien and into the surrounding woods. As they clambered over fallen trees, pushing creepers and branches out of their way and picking through bushes, they discussed their plans.

They and two others, Keirun and Jorreked, were building a compound of their own some way into the forest. The walls were mud and stick, encircling an area that was hardly enough to fit all four of them underneath the palm leafed roof, and there was a hole at one side of the compound where a snake had burrowed through. They had killed the snake and stuck its little broken body to the outer walls with a sharp stick, to scare away enemies, and today when Drentshi and Madrul arrived the other boys were carrying rocks the size of their small fists towards the encampment.

“What are you doing?” called Drentshi as they approached.

“Stop, identify!” the other two cried, laughing as they dropped the stones and grabbed their slingshots.

They went through a complicated identification ritual, as young people have a way of creating--littered with key phrases and special handshakes, and at last Jorreked said, “It’s good that you’ve come.”

“Oh?” said Drentshi.

“We need to bring in these rocks, there.” He pointed down a distant slope in the direction of the closest river. “Another few trips should do it.”

He handed his last rock to Keirun, who was busy inside the compound, and then lead the way to the river, where by the dint of much rooting and digging in the muddy bank, they found a fair number of fist sized rocks and made their way back to the fort.

“What are they for?” said Madrul as he carried his collection in the front of his toga.

“We’re going to put them in the hole,” said Jorreked.

They labored throughout the morning and into the early afternoon, first filling the half of the snake tunnel outside the compound with bricks and then layering mud and dirt over it to conceal the entrance’s existence. By the time they had finished they were dirty and exhausted, and it was time for the afternoon peacebreak. The jostling of all four boys, stretched out and tossing in half dozing slumber, was almost too much for the compound, and Madrul was chosen to sleep outside the walls. He left rather sullenly, sprawling on the still damp ground amongst the undergrowth. A thick weed pressed against the small of his back, and he twisted onto his side to try and avoid it, but then a rock jabbed him sharply in the hip. He rolled onto his stomach, crushing the small plants underneath him, but none did not leave their mark on him--and he rolled again, tossing restlessly in the uncertain knowledge that he was probably the only one awake in the whole world.

A macaw, its gold and blue plumage scarcely discernible amongst the tall foliage of the trees, sounded harshly from the distance. Nearby he could hear the river as it meandered over rocks, burbling quietly, and the ever present whine of insects. He slapped absently at a leg and rolled clumsily away from a plant slammed against his ribcage. The snores of his friends during peacebreak rose from the compound, and he could see someone’s foot protruding slightly from under the vine woven door they had put over the compound’s entrance--probably Keirun, who was the tallest.

Madrul scratched himself through the now mud stained tunic and squinted up at the treetops, beyond which glittered the hints of a scintillating blue. Where the sun escaped the dense overgrowth, there were shafts of brilliant golden light that nourished the undergrowth Madrul was crushing with his restless peacebreak. He could not fall asleep. Something clouded his thoughts--more than the satisfaction of having done a hard work and a good work. He wondered idly about it for a moment and then remembered that his father had said he was to come with him to Buoka.

The recollection made him sit up quickly, making the macaw, which had come quite low in the trees overhead, shriek and take off, flapping heavily. The sounds of its wingbeats filled the relatively silent woods with the flutter of leaves on a half-stirred wind, and then faded away, leaving the insects sounding their calls even louder once it had past. Madrul cast a glance at the compound where the other boys lay in slumber and sighed--they were asleep, and he could not therefore share his news.

He laid back down on the ground and crossed his arms behind his head, watching the shifting of the golden rays of light with the movement of the branches and leaves in the canopy far overhead.

Something cold and slippery crossed over his legs, and he, startled out of his reverie, gave a reverberating shriek that echoed among the trees and broke through the silent peacebreak. He leapt to his feet, slapping at his legs and the toga that covered them, in a panic because for a full powerful moment he thought that perhaps the snake had crawled up his leg and into his clothes. There was a motion somewhere immediately off in the undergrowth to the right and unthinking he stomped and stomped on the ground, giving off vicious cry after vicious cry as he chased imaginary snakes off of him with his feet and hands.

It was only a minute or so later, when he calmed down enough to catch a few deep breaths and stop the blood from ringing in his ears, that he noticed the other boys had woken up. They leaned over the compound wall--Jorreked had even come out the door--and they were laughing with all the ferocious hilarious laughter that a mocking group of children can muster. Drentshi, after a moment’s time of hard laughter, could not contain himself and fell to the ground, rolling about inside the small compound in his hilarity.

As he rolled Keirun stumbled backwards, still laughing, and tripped on him. He went down with an outcry and flailing arms, and in the frenzy of gravity seizing him, he sprawled too hard against the far wall of the compound and knocked off a top layer or two from the wall--it fell with a shower of leaves and mud.

No longer laughing, now, the boys scrambled to their feet and came around to assess the damage to the compound they had spent all the season building. A quarter of the wall had taken the hit and held the most damage, but the fall of the one part had brought down several other parts. They were mute and sober, a contrast to the prior hilarity that had brought about the accident, and Keirun desperately bent down and collected a handful of the heavy mud that had fallen and tried to pat it back on.

Some of it stayed--some of it glooped down the side and splattered on the ground, and then Jorreked hit Keirun on the back of the head. “Stupid!” he yelled, and then he turned to Drentshi and repeated the gesture and the name, and then he turned to Madrul and also hit him. “Old woman,” he said, “What were you yelling in fear at? Peacebreak dreams and nothing!”

Madrul felt his ears grow hot. “There was a snake,” he said quietly.

“Then you should have killed it and saved us the trouble, instead of screaming like an old woman and waking us up,” said Jorreked viciously. “Now go get more sticks so we can rebuild the compound.”

Madrul stared hard at Jorreked for a long moment--then, casting a glance at the shamefaced Keirun and Drentshi, he turned and stomped off into the woods, kicking clumps of leaves and smacking creeper vines that hung from nearby trees with a stick he picked up.

Before November

2005-10-20T17:09:00.000-07:00

To begin...

This is the fifth time I've tried to do 50,000 words in thirty days. Three times I've done Nanowrimo in November three times and Julymo once.

I'm excited. A new story has been forming in the depths of my mind

Oh yeah, except I'm too lazy to write about it right now ;)