Chapter Three

Sorrow

Orsie coughs, shivering. From where he’s curled on a platform, he can see both the peak shooting up through the clouds and, downward, the ravines streaking through the descending slope. From his vantage point, he tries to plan out a path. First straight, then to the left for at least an hour, then hopefully a way to move onto the other side of the narrowing edge of a rock formation. He doesn’t know how he’ll make it there; he can barely stand up as it is. His entire body burns hot from the inside, his skin freezing from the air outside. The sensations war within him, leaving him drained.

His sleeve moves up as he shifts, revealing one of the scales on the back of his wrist, and that’s what gives him strength to push to his knees. He crawls to his backpack before he manages to pull himself to his feet. He wets his lips with snow, follows the edge of the platform to the right, slips and scrapes his hand as he climbs down, but places one foot in front of the other. Swallowing hurts his throat, breathing stings all the way down his chest.His nose is useless.

Thick clouds are gathering above as Orsie reaches the end of the trail and finds, with relief, that there is indeed a way across the ravine. A flatter portion of the ground winds down around a large jagged rock, turning into an actual path. Littered with pebbles, it angles downward, first left, then right, then back again, in such a way that is obviously not nature-made. Orsie pauses midway to catch his breath, head spinning.

He must’ve fallen asleep where he stood, leaning against stones, because next he knows, snow is falling on his face. For a moment he wants to stop. Sit down and never… Instead, he keeps his eyes firmly on the scale peeking out from under the edge of the sleeve. He walks, breaths wheezing, and almost falls into the pit gaping open to his right.

Just then, he sees it. A cabin, where the path slinks upward to end on the other side of the ravine. A fenced pen spreads next to it, so perhaps this is a shepherd’s summer cabin. Orsie hurries. Even if nobody’s there, it would still be shelter from the tightening wind and snowfall.

Inside, he only finds a table and a straw bed with a threadbare blanket, but cut wood is stacked to the side of a fireplace. As he starts a fire with trembling fingers, snapping at the flint for a long while before it sparks, Orsie thinks this is as good as it will get. However, another search reveals a wooden chest hidden under the table and inside, a stash of biscuits. They’re dry and horrible, but he needs to eat, and there are only three apples left in the backpack. By the time he finishes melting snow in the tin mug he finds inside the chest, Orsie is drained.

He doesn’t really remember how long he lies there wrapped in the blanket, shivering and drenched in sweat. He thinks he sees Mother, guiding his hand to add logs to the fire. At times he sees Nevmis out of the corner of his eye, preparing to slice at him. The windows lighten and darken and lighten again, but maybe more time passes. Orsie’s not sure, his eyelids fluttering open and closed in between bouts of chills and flashes of heat.

When he wakes up, really wakes, he’s so thirsty he almost doesn’t wait for the melted snow to warm. He adds more wood to the fire, laying out his clothes to dry. The cabin is cold, but not so much to cause shivers. Just enough that he is reminded of the coolness of his lost home. The sliver of moon is visible from between the clouds for a change, casting its light through the window, mingling with the warmth of the fire. He stretches his arms in front of him, gaze skipping over each scale, from wrist to—

Seeing the empty space on his right shoulder is akin to falling into a bottomless void. He missed losing a scale. How could he miss it? His eyes go to the moon outside, its shape just shy past the rising crescent. It’s too early. He’s not even off the mountain yet.

Crying hurts, but he can’t stifle the wracking sobs shaking his entire body. He’s a young dragon, but still centuries old, much older than most creatures, and he’s never felt this sort of hopelessness in his life. Not even when Mother passed. His teeth clatter as he huddles under the blanket, the stale smell of the cabin stinging even through his stuffy nose. The fire burns out in the cold night, and Orsie can do nothing but clutch at his upper arm, willing it to come back.

His scale.

His life.

Two days pass before he manages to get himself back together. His body betrays his impatience by making him stumble with every step, the thin blanket wrapped tightly around him as he sets toward the hills again. It helps that more and more beaten paths stretch from the cabin.

Grief throbs within, unquenchable and unrelenting, and he’s never going to get rid of it unless he finds his anaskett. It’s this that drives him on, through the pain and the misery of sickness.

*

Ark has spent the last couple of hours ineffectively trying to convince soldiers and travelers alike that he is not a dragonslayer and he did not just murder a dragon. No, Ark remembers it clearly, the arrow could barely even reach the unintended target, let alone make the creature pause in its flight. His protests fall on deaf ears and eager spirits as praise accompanies him all the way back into the village.

Half the garrison is waiting when he gets there, not nearly as inconspicuous as they want to appear. Geren stands at the entrance to the main hall, other soldiers giving him a wide berth. He must be in a worse mood than earlier. Ark could ignore him or not, but he doesn’t think either option will do him any good. Geren has a glint in his eyes. Ark takes a couple of steps closer, still far enough that it doesn’t feel like a surrender.

“Slaying dragons while employed by the king,” Geren comments, loud enough to be heard by others scattered in the courtyard, and raises a hand to show a sheet of paper. “That breaks several laws.”

Ark clenches his jaw, but he stands right where he is. If Geren wants to make it a spectacle, who is Ark to deny it? He knows, immediately, that the list Geren put together won’t be untrue, because Danv has some peculiar and obscure legislation dealing specifically with dragons.

“First,” Geren reads, “failure to report contact with a dragon. Second, creating conflict with a dragon that may cause damage to the area in retribution. Third, failing to secure donations to the magistrate’s offices of the settlement most in peril from the flimsiness of the dragon. Fourth…”

Ark stops listening as realization dawns. Geren just wants money. Ark confirms it as Geren flips the sheet and proceeds to recite a long list of fines. Unexpectedly, they amount to the exact sum of his mothers’ endowments. By the time Geren is finished, Ark doesn’t care about that anymore. He already has all the rubies he needs to reach the Sal’s northern shores.

They stand there watching each other for too long, enough time that Geren grows irritated with Ark’s apparent compliance. The way Geren taps his foot tells Ark he’s about to get mad.

“You performed military actions while not under direct command of your superiors. It is strictly forbidden to engage in acts of war outside the scope of your duties.”

“It’s my free day,” Ark says.

“Exactly,” Geren returns, and Ark grits his teeth, anger already swelling inside. “Therefore, Arkeva Flitz, as of today, you are discharged from your post within this establishment and stripped of your rank and endowment wages. Get out of my garrison.”

There must be something visible on Ark’s face because Geren now grins, wide and full of satisfaction. It takes all the restraint Ark has not to march over there, but disgust washes over him. It’s enough to turn his feet toward the barracks.

*

Muttering a curse, Ark loads his mothers’ traveling coffers with books and clothes and weapons, carefully arranged around the urn holding them. There are memories in there, too, meager things that are worthless to others.

Long after the mightnight toll, he finally locks the heavy coffers. He carries them one after the other through the door, then down the hallway of the barrack. Ark might be strong, but he can’t lift both at once. He’s almost outside when Dekin reaches him.

“You’re leaving,” Dekin says.

Ark nods, then shrugs uncertainly. He doesn’t really want to go like a criminal in the middle of the night, but he has no choice. He lets himself stare for a while at the still-open door to the room where he was raised. This had been home; no longer.

“Did you really slay a dragon?”

“No,” Ark says, weary of the repeated question.

Dekin lifts an eyebrow, unbelieving, but doesn’t contradict Ark. He’s the only one left who had known Ark’s mothers; he wasn’t the kindest man Ark had ever met, not even the smartest. At least he made it to an old age, which is not something most warriors can brag about, so it doesn’t take Ark long to decide to help him.

He fishes two stones out of his pocket, then places them in Dekin’s hand.

“Here, buy yourself some land for a hut. This should be enough to keep you fed too.”

Dekin turns wide eyes at him, mouth opening and closing.

“You did sl—”

A noise interrupts him, and they turn. One of the riders is looking at them, from right outside the door, a calculated gaze shifting between the rubies and Ark’s face. Her father is sick; Ark knows because nobody pays him enough attention to stop talking when he’s around. With a sigh, he retrieves another gem and flicks it at the rider.

She catches it, surprised, with a breathy “Really?”

Ark nods, which earns him a grin and a sloppy salute, right before she saunters off.

“I have to go,” he tells Dekin. “Be well.”

He goes back to moving his coffers across the courtyard, pondering how to convince the night guards to open the gates for him, when racket spills out of the officers’ barracks along with the captain and his lieutenants.

“Hold it right there,” Geren shouts.

Ark would like not to, but his luggage is heavy and the gates are still closed, so he turns around instead, crossing his arms.

“Make up your mind already,” he spits.

“Oh,” Geren says, waving a hand, “you still have to go, but it has come to my attention that your apparent lack of finances is false. Under the regulations of discharge, this makes you indebted to the garrison for lodging, training, and food, sixteen years’ worth.”

Ark is baffled. “I served for that.”

Someone jibes about Ark serving only his cowardice, but Geren remains almost bored as he stands there, chest puffed with too much stupidity and too little dignity.

“Laws of lodging say I can seize all possessions until the debt is settled,” Geren rattles.

More of the soldiers are starting to emerge into the dark courtyard, drawn by the ruckus, whispering snippets of rumors among them. Ark is tired of them, of Geren. He just wants to take his possessions and go. The shortest way out of this is to appease Geren’s avarice, so Ark empties his pockets on the ground.

“I’d be better off tossing rubies to fatten pigs,” Ark can’t stop himself from muttering, and he immediately knows it’s the wrong thing to say because Geren’s face reddens as it does when he loses a sparring match. He always loses, but that’s beside the point.

Geren isn’t the only one glaring, but Ark ignores the others, and a long moment stretches while he holds Geren’s stare. Ark won’t back down.

“It’s not enough.”

“What?”

“Out with him! I’ll be holding on to those,” Geren says, pointing at Ark’s coffers, “until you pay for the room.”

Next thing he knows, Ark is pushed onto the dirt road and he has to struggle for balance. “Wait!”

Ark rushes toward the gates, but they close before he can slip through. The wood is rough, splintery, wrong. No, his gates are smooth and protective instead of an obstacle.

Where is he—

He needs to go home.

*

Moonlight still casts a cold glow over the forest by the time Ark’s awareness returns. He sits cross-legged on the stone pavement in the middle of his courtyard, elbows on his knees and head in his hands. He can’t say when he started feeling that the castle is his, yet a surety in the belief sends a satisfied shiver through his limbs. For some reason, this magical place has chosen him, and Ark is honored, he really is, but he can’t help a bit of lingering dejection at the thought. The castle also made him lose all he had left from them.

Actually, no. Geren’s greed and Ark’s big mouth are at fault here.

Rubies roll toward him out of nowhere, seemingly springing from bare stone. Ark shakes his head.

“He’ll just ask for more,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

Moments pass, long and slow, before a loud clatter startles him. On the ground, arrows surround him, beautifully crafted with sharp tips and masterful fletching. Ark admires one as he twirls it between his fingers. He’s tempted, so very much, to put one of these through Geren’s eye, but Ark is no murderer.

One by one, the arrows fade away until Ark is again sitting among rubies. He runs his palms over the small, rugged stones. Well, he could try to buy his coffers back, since the castle is offering. He wonders vaguely what price he will have to pay for this magic, but pushes the thought aside. His mothers’ ashes are irreplaceable.

Dawn lights the sky over the walls and the treetops, and Ark rubs a hand over his face. So much has happened in a single day, some parts of which he still can’t explain. He feels drained, so instead of heading back out, he decides to try one of the doors leading inside. He needs rest before he can put up with Geren again.

He knocks, waits, knocks again. Nothing stirs, but the next time he touches the wood, the door slides open as if no latch has ever held it in place.

As he walks inside, torches come to life on their own, their light slowly revealing a grand hall. Ark shivers. The air is warmer than outside, and his steps echo against the bare walls and tall columns supporting the high ceiling. Other doors lead farther into the castle but only one is ajar, light spilling in from behind, but when he nears it, the corridor is in darkness while the spot of brightness seems to have moved to its far end. With a swallow against his dry throat, Ark advances carefully.

He finds a warm kitchen, water and food already on the table, a fire burning in the hearth. Soon, Ark falls asleep on the low bench lining one of the walls.

Ark wakes to the pleasant realization that his back is not as sore as he’d expect from lying for hours on hard wood. Another meal waits for him, and this time Ark is more wary of who might’ve put it there while he slept, but his stomach’s grumble is too loud to be ignored. Weakness lingers in his bones, an effect of the past day, the kind that needs nourishment and rest before it’s banished. So he eats, then sets through the castle.

His head is much clearer as he tries to make sense of the recent events. A dragon flew by, but then it was suddenly gone and this castle appeared out of nowhere. Ark knows the forest, and he’s convinced the structure wasn’t here last month when he came around these parts. He can’t completely dismiss the possibility that a wizard is around, but he has to wonder. Could this be the dragon’s castle?

He walks all the spaces he’s allowed to enter, after he discovers some doors are locked or simply won’t budge. He doesn’t force his way through. If there’s a host, they are not showing themselves to Ark. Up over the kitchen, he finds a row of rooms resembling servant quarters but uninhabited. Ark claims one for himself. Its window overlooks the mountain slopes on the opposite side from the gates, right over an inner courtyard patterned with stone benches. It’s unusual to have two yards, as though the castle has two faces. There isn’t much Ark can do right now but accept the obvious kindness of the castle toward him. He tells it as much, then shakes his head at himself.

*

Ark slips out of bed and stretches with a long yawn. So far, the castle continues to appear uninhabited, yet meals are being cooked and fires are lit. He tries burning a piece of paper and finds with great surprise that the flames are cold—there, providing warmth, without being actually real. The walls are solid, however, and the food wholesome. The magic keeps raising goose bumps all over his skin, but it’s also soothing, in a way. After a few days here, it feels like the castle cares for him, a feeling Ark hasn’t had in a very long time.

“Good morning, castle,” he says before he grabs his tunic.

The place might provide for Ark’s needs, but one thing he hasn’t managed to get so far are clothes. Odd. He needs a coat, though, so he sets off toward the village. If he’s lucky, the seamstress might already have a few waiting and that would mean Ark can be gone before anyone sees him. He hasn’t come up with a plan to retrieve his belongings yet, so he doesn’t want to run into Geren unprepared.

Right where the narrow forest path meets the larger road leading to the village, Ark stumbles onto Dekin, sitting with his coffers next to a fire. It looks like he’s been there in the cold for a couple of days already.

“Arkeva,” Dekin says, rising to his feet.

“What are you doing out here?”

Dekin dusts off the front of his coat. “It’s unfair what the captain did. I stole your things from him, but I didn’t know how to find you. Last place someone saw you was here, so I figured I’d wait,” he finishes with a sheepish shrug.

Ark raises an eyebrow, unbelieving. Dekin’s too old to be spending his nights on bare ground, especially after carrying such a heavy burden.

“How’d you get those here?” Ark asks, tipping his chin at the coffers.

Dekin waves a hand, muttering something about the stable boys.

“What do you want in exchange?” He’s pretty sure Dekin hasn’t done this out of pure goodness, but Ark isn’t opposed to paying for his efforts.

“Nothing,” Dekin says, coming closer, as if to clap his hand on Ark’s shoulder, and Ark slides away. The answer is unlike him.

“No rubies?” he asks.

“You gave me enough.” He looks sincere, and Ark wants to believe him, to believe he still has at least one friend.

“Thank you,” he says.

Dekin nods at him, then at the coffers. “Let me help you with those. Where have you been living?”

“You’ll see.”

Ark leads Dekin to the castle. He wants to give Dekin some more rubies before sending him on his way. Maybe he can convince Dekin to leave the garrison altogether. Geren’s an awful influence.

“Do we take these inside?” Dekin asks, looking impressed at the courtyard and already stepping toward a door.

Ark shakes his head. “No, I can do it. Thank you for the help.”

“Kicking me out already?” Dekin jokes, a smile on his lips, rubbing his cold hands together.

Something in Dekin’s stance, some sort of desire hidden within Dekin’s gaze makes Ark bristle at the thought. Suddenly, Dekin is an unwanted intrusion. The castle chose Ark, after all.

“You can’t stay here,” Ark tells him, decision to turn Dekin away made just as his words leave his lips. “But I will bring you some ale. Wait here.”

“Come now.” Dekin’s already at one of the doors, pulling on the knob. “Show me the treasure,” he says sweetly, too gentle and coercing.

Apprehension runs down Ark’s spine only to settle in a heavy knot in his stomach. With a grimace, he points at the gates. “Get out.”

Dekin tuts. “I came here to make sure you have a place to sleep, and you won’t even let me inside? Geren was right about you.”

“About what?”

“You’re greedy, boy.”

Ark fishes a few stones from his pocket and hands them over. “Here, get out.”

Thankfully, he goes, but the whole thing leaves a bad taste in Ark’s mouth.

A quarter of an hour later, after Ark has taken the coffers inside and is on his way to close the gates, he hears noise coming up the road.

In only a few moments, the courtyard is entered by some of the higher-ranking soldiers of the garrison, let in by—

“Dekin?”

“I tried stopping him,” Dekin says, but his gaze is hungry instead of apologetic.

Ark cannot believe his own eyes and ears. He’s having another nightmare, surely. He thought Dekin was just minding to his own greed. Two of the burlier riders approach Ark, hovering around, while Geren paces the yard. The other five are trying to open doors to no avail. Not even putting their shoulders into it makes them budge. Ark almost smirks.

“What the hell do you want,” he hisses at Geren.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Geren says with fake innocence. “What everybody wants. A good life.”

“Good lives come from good deeds, not stealing.”

“No, we’re merely taking back what we deserve,” a lieutenant adds from the side.

“You deserve nothing.”

“What do you take us for? Idiots?” Geren grits, earning agreements from the others. “Did you think you could find a treasure and keep it to yourself? Give us little trinkets like we’re your peasants?”

Ark clenches his jaw. He takes a step away, but a heavy hand grabs his shoulder and Ark stops, trying to reassess his route of escape. If he rounds the corner to the left, he can slip through the window there, which he’s sure will close behind him. Probably.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding,” Geren continues. “We’ve been looking for you and your dragon treasure, and Dekin here was kind enough to help us. Surely you must’ve had more than fistfuls in your pockets. I’d hate to think you killed an entire dragon for so little.”

A growl escapes Ark’s throat before he can stop it.

“Flitz is a murderer, eh? The bastard of Baurin whores—”

Ark shouts, elbows the rider holding him, and flicks his knife at Geren. He misses his target, which only serves to annoy Geren more. One of his more zealous lieutenants lands a punch on Ark’s middle, causing his legs to bend under him, and he falls to his knees.

“Can’t even hit me yourself. Afraid you might hurt your hand?” Ark spits, something red already flowing out of the corner of his mouth.

The words fare better than his knife, touching one of Geren’s sore spots, because Geren walks over and kicks Ark in his side. The result is a pain so sharp, it makes his head spin. Ark wraps his arms around his chest, breaths aching and shallow.

“Take what you can find,” Geren orders. “We need a battering ram for the doors.” He bends over Ark. “This is not over. We’ll be back and everything here will be ours. So you better bug off by then, nitwit.”

Shaking, Ark curls on the cold pavement. The loud bang of the gates closing jolts through him, but now he’s sure he’s alone. With great effort, he drags himself toward the door, then inside before collapsing against a column.

“All they care about is riches; just make them forget about me,” Ark whispers, consciousness slipping from his grasp. “Make them forget.”

*

Orsie’s descent is arduous despite the thinning layers of snow. He’s coughing and shivering again by the time he steps onto the road leading into Haumir. Tightening his grip around the threadbare blanket, Orsie pauses in front of the boulder he marked a month ago. He runs his fingers over the grooves, the difference between then and now dire. Another bout of coughs shakes him. Hoarfrost covers the rock and the road, and a sharp chill permeates the air. Winter is coming to the hills and the wind blows stronger here, adding to Orsie’s affliction.

He trudges toward the village where he hopes to find shelter and warmth and something other than old biscuits or apples. Orsie barely makes it to the inn, dizziness stronger with each step. He vaguely remembers collapsing at the entrance, a warm bed, a doctor.

A few days later, the returning fever breaks. Another day after that, he can move on his own, albeit with difficulty given the soreness in his body.

The evening finds Orsie under the glower of Hann, his burly innkeeper, as he stands in the doorway of the room.

“You need to pay if you want to stay here,” he says, and Orsie almost hangs his head.

Instead, he lifts his chin, a lingering cough escaping his lips. “I gave you a gem.” It was his last one, a small piece of onyx.

“Had to give it to the doctor.”

“But I’m still sick,” Orsie mutters, voice hoarse.

Hann narrows his eyes, but then he lets out a long sigh. “Ag’s doctors are wretched,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t let you stay. A paying traveler needs the room.”

Orsie inhales, trying to steady his heartbeat. Where would he go if Hann throws him out? In the doorway, Hann fidgets.

“How many days do you need?” he asks, and when Orsie blinks at him in surprise, adds, “You paid generously before, so I’m willing to make some concessions. How much longer are you staying?”

“Oh.” Orsie’s shoulders slump. “Not long, I just need supplies and I’ll be on my way. Say, did you happen to see a red dragon flying by?”

Hann now raises an eyebrow at him before throwing a thumb over his shoulder. “Some kids kept spinning tall tales about one that flew toward Nok a couple of weeks ago.” He scratches his beard, considering. “Was it real?”

“Yes,” Orsie says. “I need to find it.”

A slow grin makes its way on Hann’s face. “So you’re an adventurer, eh?”

Orsie half shrugs. One could say he is.

“What’s your name, then?” Hann continues. “Have I heard of your deeds?”

Orsie opens his mouth, ready to say Havesskadi, but the name stops in his throat. He isn’t Havesskadi. No, he is small and frail now, more like a hatchling, and although dragons don’t usually reveal their birth names, it is the one that leaves his lips. “I’m Orsie. I’m nobody.”

“But you have tales of quests and faraway places, don’t you?”

It’s all Orsie has, and he nods.

Hann’s grin grows wider as he walks closer, clasps Orsie’s shoulders. “I have a deal, then.”

It turns out Hann’s deal requires Orsie to entertain his ill wife, Lia, with stories. She’s fading, he can see it on her face, so he lingers for a few extra days. Hann appreciates it more than Orsie thought because he fills his backpack with lasting food and even gifts him a thick blanket.

*

The road west out of Haumir meanders between stony hills until it splits, one path climbing north into the mountains, the other along the Ahrissals. From there, it heads toward the sea, lining their most western peak and surrounding its steep slopes from the north. The road south, however, heads to the village of Nok, where it forks in three; east into the Plains, west into Uvalhort, and south into Danv.

Nevmis flew southeast, by what Orsie could gather from the children that saw her. He won’t know until he reaches Nok. He can’t tell if Nevmis is heading down toward the fire lakes, or east to the desert. Either journey would be a long one on Orsie’s human legs, but he has to start somewhere. The emptiness inside him is slowly spreading until he can almost feel it gripping at his limbs. There are moments, clear and raw, where his loss is thick enough to feel like water. It presses against him on all sides, pushes at Orsie to go and find the missing piece of himself. Now.

Nok is eight days away on foot, but despite his hurry, Orsie is slower than he thought he’d be. He rests often, legs sluggish at times. His eyes aren’t helping him at night either, so he’s forced to make camp at early sunset. Well, if a blanket can be called camp. There aren’t even enough trees to provide firewood, so Orsie eats his meager ration and wraps himself in the blanket Hann gifted.

A freezing storm catches Orsie by surprise on the third night, soon after he lays his head down. They happen in late October around these parts, and this one slashes sleet down on him. The cold bits of ice melt soon after hitting his skin, but it doesn’t hurt any less, not under the naked sky. By morning, the sickness has taken hold again. He growls at the sky and hits the ground with his trembling fist, his anger doing nothing to hold the wetness in his eyes at bay. But that just serves to scrape his knuckles and add to the soreness of his body. Orsie is again reminded, with stark clarity, of the frailty of his condition, this helplessness that holds him back while his drive to find the anaskett pulls him forward. It tears at him without mercy.

Shaking, feverish, in pain, Orsie can’t continue. With the growing ache in his chest, he turns back toward Haumir.