Cinders on the Wind Page 2

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  Ethlin looked the dragon in the eyes. The two orbs gleamed ruby red, its jaws shining with needle-like, pointed teeth carved into the great marble column supporting one of the cloisters of the Dragonmother temple.

  Along the walls, she traced the resplendent tapestries mapping out the great kingdoms of Retha—Ballardia, Nasantium, Sydonya, the Backlands, Feldsparta, Montiskillin, Cintros, and Crowley. Dotting the weaving of major powers were intricate dragons of all kinds, makeup, and abilities. There were dragons the size of houses, dragons the size of castles. Two-headed dragons, dragons whose wings were also claws. Dragons whose tails were lances, whose edges were axes. Dragons with horns like battering rams, with tusks like scythes. Ethlin wondered how man’s existence scared these fierce children of the Dragonmother away. She thanked the Dragonmother that her temple disciples had written peaceful, compassionate texts.

  She passed the watchful, marble-carved drake and came to a corridor leading to a series of stairways. These steps encompassed multiple flights down into the secret library. It wasn’t secret to her, or the other members of the temple. But to outsiders, Patrycias said, it was to be kept hidden—for many would like to steal its contents—or see them all burn.

  Entering the musty set of rooms, the scent of old papyrus and vellum hit her. The aroma had enchanted her from the very beginning and made her feel right at home.

  The library was a dusky place, as it was underground. Sconces held candles, and torches were lit, but shadows still lingered in various nooks and alcoves and amongst the numerous rows of tightly-packed shelves. Shadows hiding the secrets of the Dragonmother’s sacred volumes.

  As Ethlin began replacing the books she carried to their proper sections, she thought of her unique nature. It was, at first, a burden. She’d once predicted a man’s death. She’d supposed it was a coincidence. Then in the orphanage, she escaped her work one day and followed an old man. Catching up to him, she told him his scars were due to dragonfire. She was right then too and proved it in front of Mistress Fildred, whose perplexity didn’t dwindle her cruelty, for Ethlin was dragged back to the orphanage. She’d hoped the old man would take her in, but Mistress Fildred wouldn’t hear of it.

  It wasn’t until she had the vision of poor Melistah drowning in the river on washday that Mistress Fildred thought of getting rid of her. Despite Ethlin’s outbursts, the mistress let little Melistah clean the laundry with the older kids at the river. Ethlin was forced to stay home on washdays. When the girl perished with the tide, the mistress saw fit to sell this ‘special’ child to the highest bidder. Ethlin would never forget the day she was sold.

  When poor Melistah had drowned, Mistress Fildred had begun looking at Ethlin in a different light. At times, Ethlin felt the woman was afraid of her. This feeling soon diminished, however, and the mistress decided to give her the label ‘freak.’ The worst part was that she wouldn’t say it for the other children and her pet bullies to hear. Instead, whenever Ethlin failed to perform her chores in the most perfect manner, the mistress would flick her hard on the ear and whisper “freeeak,” drawing out the word as if spoken in an ancient mage tongue.

  That word became a specter day and night. When the laundry was just slightly damp after drying for hours, when the food hall tables had even a speck of crumbs, when a strand of hair was found on a thoroughly swept floor—Mistress Fildred had reason to flick and tug on Ethlin’s ear and whisper the sobriquet.

  The mistress had interrupted Ethlin’s conversation with the man who’d been scarred by dragonfire. However, from what Ethlin heard, he’d been an assistant to the wizards in the northern mountains—as far north as Orwinia. There he met with an accident when feeding the great beasts. That had been decades ago, and since, he had moved on to less dangerous and less arcane work. Ethlin had wanted to learn more from the man, but Mistress Fildred would have nothing of it.

  When Ethlin first saw Patrycias at the street market, she wondered how a robed priestess spent her life. She was bold enough to ask, and it was there she first learned what a kind and wise woman the priestess was. Patrycias told her she studied the ancient Dragonmother texts, which championed philosophies that helped people live fulfilling lives—helping others in need, building stronger communities through healing arts for the sick, and food banks for the starving poor. Patrycias spoke of personal spirituality and how, like the dragons, each person was unique—with their own fears, anxieties, and struggles. How each individual could train herself to overcome her inner darkness and discover her own internal dragonfire.

  The other appealing point the priestess noted was that in the Dragonmother temple were apprentice mages, who practiced the white—or light arts. Magic used for healing and goodness used to combat the dark arts that led to misuse of power and corruption.

  It was then that Ethlin had opened up to Patrycias, saying she’d had visions ever since she could remember—connections to strangers she could not explain. The priestess was interested in all Ethlin had to say, but their meeting was cut short by Mistress Fildred once again imposing and telling the priestess that Ethlin had to get back to the orphanage and do her chores.

  That night, Ethlin’s name at the orphanage changed. She remembered it all too clearly.

  She swept the kitchen after dinner. It was a chill night, and she put kindling and wood in the large stove to warm the room. She looked around at the dirtiest spots to be sure the mistress didn’t find a single strand of hair or speck of dirt. A hand grabbed the broom handle.

  Ethlin looked up at the face of Ashlira, one of Mistress Fildred’s pet bullies. “Let go. I’ve got work to do.”

  “You always have work to do, freak.” Ashlira tugged the broom away.

  “I’ll tell the mistress you’re keeping me from my chores.”

  “You do that.” Ashlira smiled, her teeth shining from the light of the stove. “I’m sure all you’ll get is a flick on the ear.”

  “Give me the broom … or else.”

  “Or else what?” Ashlira posed with the broom as if it were a weapon. “You gonna attack me? Or cast some spell on me, freak?”

  Ethlin stepped forward and slapped Ashlira across the face, the sound echoing throughout the kitchen.

  Ashlira’s chin dropped, and she gasped. “That was a foolish thing to do.” She replied with a backhand to Ethlin’s jaw.

  Ethlin felt a sting of pain and tasted blood.

  Anger now creased Ashlira’s face, and she jabbed the frayed end of the broom at Ethlin’s stomach. “You think you’re so special,” Ashlira said, stepping forward. “Don’t think I don’t see you when we go out into the city. You converse with random people two to three times your age and they talk back as if they respect you. Truth is, they don’t respect you at all. They think the same thing we do—that you’re a freak.”

  Ashlira jabbed the broom into Ethlin’s stomach, and she lost her breath for a second.

  “Stop it.” She gasped. “Cut that out now.”

  “What’s the matter? Is it getting too hot in here for you?” Ashlira grinned in the firelight.

  Ethlin felt the warmth of the stove fire at her back. She hadn’t realized Ashlira had been shoving her backward, closer to the flames. The bully poked the broom again at Ethlin’s stomach, and she put out her arm to deflect it, the hard, dry straw cutting into her flesh.

  Ethlin cried out in pain. Her face, arm, and stomach hurt. She felt afraid. Ashlira was older, taller, and stronger than she was. If she tried to get past her, who knew what she would do.

  “Maybe I should take over your chores for you,” Ashlira said. “Maybe I should sweep you up off the floor.” Ashlira reared back with the broom, aiming at Ethlin’s head.

  Ethlin ducked and felt hot flames fly over her. She heard Ashlira scream. The broom hit the ground right beside her. The frayed end and handle were afire. She looked up, and flames danced on the wood roof.

  Ashlira looked down at Ethlin. “What’d you do?” She yelled, “Help! Fire!” and ra
n from the room.

  Ethlin followed her before one of the burning beams could crush her on the stone floor.

  By the time it was over, Ethlin was covered in soot along with the other mistresses, a few of the older orphans, and the local fire brigade. A third of the roof was gone, burned away. There were a few minor injuries and some smoke inhalation, but fortunately, no one was killed.

  When the flames were out, Ethlin felt herself trying to catch her breath and sat down. Mistress Fildred strode up and stood over her.

  “Ashlira told me what you did. You think a little teasing justifies you setting fire to the orphanage?”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t deny it, freak. You don’t even deserve to be here, living and eating and sleeping by my good graces. You’re nothing to me, and you’re going to amount to nothing. In fact, that’s your new name. From now on, you’re not a freak. You’re not Ethlin. You’re Nuthin.”

  For the next week, every hour of every day, Ethlin heard her new name. She cried herself to sleep each night, keeping quiet to avoid ridicule by the bullies. When Priestess Patrycias walked through the orphanage front door one random morning, saying she wanted to purchase Ethlin and bring her to the temple, Ethlin found herself crying tears of hope.

  Ethlin walked along the book rows, her mind transitioning to the two men in the street who’d been watching her and Patrycias. Certain followers of other religions made a habit of harassing those of a different stripe, particularly apprentices of the Dragonmother. The Darien Sect believed the Dragonmother wanted the world to be ruled using fear and dark arts, and of course, the dragons.

  Another option was the Pure Ones, so ostentatiously called because in their minds they followed the Pure God. Anyone contrary was treated with derision. Those who did not adhere to their rigorous doctrines were unclean. And the unclean often were dealt a violent hand.

  For the servants of the Sundry Gods, there were gods for every trial and tribulation in life, as well as every season. The problem is certain gods made certain demands, including, many times, actual living sacrifices. Fortunately, the activity had dwindled in recent years. Yet the Sundry still used Dragonmother apprentices not only as the target of their bullying but also as a tool to have their prayers answered.

  Ethlin was glad she’d chosen the path of peace. As was her habit, she scanned the pages of The History of the Dragonmother Temple in her hand and came to a surprisingly relevant passage.

  Contrary to the teachings of Darien, the Dragonmother and the wizards that served her sought to maintain peace through her children. The wizards and their dragonriders with their mounts intervened in the early wars only to prevent the conflict from escalating. With the aid of the dragonriders, battles were won, and wars stopped. However, men held on to their hate and pride.

  Banners continued to be struck, and thousands continued to march. The ground rumbled, trees were felled, rocks were quarried, and rivers were damned, as the bickering between kingdoms intensified. It eventually came to wizards choosing sides, fighting amongst themselves, pitting dragon against dragon. Her children fell from the sky, creating craters in the ground, shaking the core of the earth. The wisest of the wizards, along with the dragons, chose to let mankind fend for themselves. The wizards took the Dragonmother’s children and hid away in the highest of mountain cliffs and the deepest caves, leaving only Her teachings to offer peaceful enlightenment amongst a world full of colliding swords.

  Ethlin closed the book and replaced it on the shelf, reflecting on what she had read. It wasn’t that the wizards and the Dragonmother’s children were weak—though in the eyes of the Sect they were. The wizard masters and their dragons were a formidable force in the early wars, making kings and generals change their minds rather than see their armies in flames. They chose to stop participating not out of weakness but to teach mankind a lesson. They intervened and stopped the fighting once, but kingdoms continued their battles and alliances so that it became a civil war amongst the dragonriders. Rather than continue to kill each other, the wizards decided to step out, allowing men to go at it—where the killing would rise a hundredfold.

  The Sect’s tenets said it was just and righteous to use dark magic and the dragons as a perpetual means to restore order. They believed it was right to harness bad for good. For when the wizards had cast enough deathly spells, when the dragons had burned and swallowed enough victims, kings would have no choice but to lay down their arms.

  Meanwhile, the Pure Ones thought the dragons were fallen creatures of the Pure God. The real power was in the rule of the Pure God’s law. Further, in the view of the temple, the Sundry Gods were an inferior offshoot of lesser deities formed out of the microchemicals of the Dragonmother’s smoke. The Sundry merely viewed the dragons as mystical children of the nature god, just the same as all other creatures, mighty and meek.

  The door to the library creaked open, disrupting the pin-drop silence. Only a year younger than her, Tomsun was practically a foot and a half taller and twice as wide. He walked to her, forced to bend down until reaching the higher ceiling of the shelving room.

  “The priestess wants to see you in the devotion hall,” he whispered. “She’s with someone—a knight, I think.”

  “But I’m not done with my task.”

  “I’ll shelve the rest of them,” Tomsun took one of the books and put it on a top shelf with ease. “See, as easy as reciting the Dragon Prayer.” He smiled down at her.

  “Thank you, Tomsun,” she handed him the books and walked past him down the row. “Oh, the last two books are more history than they are philosophies. They should go next to Banning’s Texts of Origins.”

  Tomsun waved as though he already knew. Ethlin walked past two priest-scholars, so quiet she wondered if they were even breathing, and slowly opened the door to fight the ritual creak in the hinges. Ascending the tiring stairs, she pondered what a knight was doing in the temple.

  “Ser Malcolm has been sent here to ask you a few questions,” Patrycias gestured to the man, “and he will do so with respect and politeness.” The edge in her voice echoed quietly throughout the devotion hall.

  Muted sunlight streamed in through the three-inch-thick stained-glass mosaics of drakes breathing multiple hues of fire. Resplendent shades of purple, green, and ochre dragonscale shimmered with the daylight. The huge slabs of masonry forming the structure of the temple looked drab by comparison. A grand oak table sat in the middle of the room.

  Ethlin took a seat next to the knight who was situated at the end of the table. Across from her sat the priestess. Warmth emanated from the large glass windows.

  “What’s this about?” She looked at Ser Malcolm, whose helm sat so close to the table’s edge, she thought it would fall to the flagstones. In a room this large, the sound would be booming. His cloak and tunic were green trimmed with gray. Emblazoned on his breastplate were the walls of the Gray Keep and the sun streaming upon them. He was a commanding presence to be sure—very tall—though his goatee was disheveled.

  Ser Malcolm eyed her with a peculiar look—one of fascination and maybe recognition. He seemed to catch himself, and then glanced over to the priestess.

  “Ser Malcolm,” Patrycias nodded toward him, “is Kingsguard. He’s here on official king’s business.”

  The knight stared blankly at the table.

  “Glad to see the king cares about us,” Ethlin said, drawing the knight’s gaze up.

  “Ethlin—” There was a hint of caution in the priestess’s voice.

  “Why is it King Greenvale has an army, a city guard, a castle guard, and a Kingsguard, but none of these guards are used for the welfare of his people?”

  Ser Malcolm sat upright in his chair. “These men fight for the protection of the realm, and for the protection of the king and royal family—how is that not for the people’s welfare?”

  “Wars are waged on distant lands with well-fed men, while the people who forge the swords and shields, who tan and stitch the leathe
red armor, who raise the livestock for butchery are living in squalor and starving.”

  “We protect and fight so the people can at least go on living,” Malcolm replied, annoyance in his voice.

  Patrycias intently watched Ethlin, as if eager to hear her counter.

  “The army fights bravely for our protection. I don’t doubt that. The families of those serving mourn when their husbands, fathers, and brothers deploy. I don’t doubt that. The royal family mourns when the king marches to war. I also don’t doubt that. But at least they have warm hearths, full stomachs, and fat pockets. Many have nothing.”

  “The king has given back. Food and clothing and money have been dispersed.”

  “Then why do the temple’s food banks spill out onto the streets with overcrowding? Why are our shelters overrun with the roofless? Why do our tutors labor from sun to moon caring for the children of lone, working mothers? Why are our healers running out of medicines?”

  “You may petition him.” Malcolm scratched his head lethargically as if he’d recited this before. “But bear in mind, the king and his council are burdened with many responsibilities. At the least, consider it a blessing the crown does not harass the temple like the Cintrosi.”

  “He’s right,” Patrycias interrupted Ethlin’s next pontification. “The king has a great weight on him, and I’ve been corresponding with his Mage-Council, who has seen fit to lend us aid in the past, even when the crown could scarce afford it. And we do live in a kingdom where the Dragonmother’s work is not hindered, either by the Pure Ones, nobility, or the king.”

  “Now,” Patrycias continued, “speaking of Mage-Council Orbist. I’ve been writing letters to him at the castle. In one of these letters, I discussed your recent vision.”

  Ethlin’s eyes widened. “The one about the tournament?”

  “Yes, my dear. It is paramount that we do what we can to prevent this assassination attempt. Lord Staverly is a distant cousin to the king and rules Backland’s largest western stronghold, securing trade routes from Montiskillin to Ballardia and bolstering our economic and diplomatic relationship with Cintros. Ser Malcolm has been tasked to keep watch over the lord at this week’s festivities.”