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Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 |
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| wChapter 14: In which Madrul remembers some changes: Wednesday, November 30, 2005 | |
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.
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| wChapter 13: In which some things are explained... sort of: | |
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.
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| wChapter 12: In which we meet the king of Marchith: Sunday, November 27, 2005 | |
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.”
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| wChapter 11: In which Madrul draws his sword: | |
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.”
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| wChapter 10: The Light in the Cave: | |
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.
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