Dragon Star (1)

Chapter 1 (pronunciation key in Author's Notes)

“YOU BUMBLING FOOL! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT!”

The girl was thrown from the room, rolling as she collided with the floor. With tears of pain and fright in her eyes, she scrambled up and ran, tripping over her skirts as she went. Sobs burst from her air-deprived lungs.

She ran into someone as she tripped again. “’Scuse me,” she choked out, continuing her tearful run. Eventually, she found herself outside the castle, in the crisp, cool air of the night. Breathing heavily, she wiped her tears on her filthy sleeve. The moon was bright; it outshone even the Dragon Star.

The girl walked forward slowly, dragging her leaden feet along the ground. They were bare; the king gave his servants and slaves no shoes. She was lucky to even have clothes, though they were far too large.

“Selché,” she muttered in Daenérean. "I’m fine." No matter how often she said this to herself, she knew it wasn’t true. A small raindrop fell on her nose. “Imnae sülett,” she whispered. (The sky weeps.)

It was comforting to speak in her native tongue. She never heard it anymore, since she and her cousin had been separated. He had been sold to the king’s nephew for a ‘good’ price. No price was good if you were selling human beings.

She gazed at the sky, feeling a few more drops of water hit her grimy face. “Cry, sister moon. It shall make you feel better.” Her sister used to say that. Nüché's sweetly singing mouth had been closed forever in a slave raid. The king of Sharrah had sent his knights to Daenér’s outskirts to bring more slaves to his capital, Vyn’ja. Sharrah had betrayed its ally long ago, but even the most negative Daenéreans had not believed the king capable of enslaving them- or slaughtering them.

“Ché sülett, Nüché.” She believed she would never stop grieving her older sister. (I weep, Nüché.)

“Are you alright?” The girl whirled around, almost tripping on her skirt. Panicked, she searched for the source of the voice.

“Who’s there? Speak!” she demanded, her heart pounding. The Sharrah words felt slippery and untrustworthy on her tongue. Her Daenérean accent made them sound strange.

“Nobody, I suppose,” the voice said again. There was a small silence as he took a breath. The girl knew that it was a man, or perhaps just a boy. “Does it matter who I am? I want to know if you’re alright.”

Surprised by the gentleness she heard, she lowered her defenses slightly. “I am well. As well as I can be, at least. Who are you to care whether a slave is happy or not?” she asked.

“You’re a slave?” The absolute shock contained in those three words made the girl certain that this strange person would leave her be, for fear that he might get fleas from her.

She stood a little straighter. “I am not a slave,” she declared, “and I shall never be. Not even the greatest king can make me so!”

“But you were caught by the knights,” the stranger said. It was not a question. The girl felt her bubble of pride burst, and she sighed.

“Indeed.”

“Then, to King Cannen, you are a slave.”

“Yes.”

“To me,” the voice began, and the girl dreaded his next words. “You are not.”

She stared into the darkness in surprise. There was a soft, pleasant chuckling that reached her ears, and a small sigh escaped her. “Thank you, stranger.”

“Don’t call me a stranger. I can be your best friend or your worst enemy. I hope you wish me a friend.” The girl nodded slowly. “Well, friends know each other’s faces. I need to see yours.”

“You can’t see my face?” she asked in disbelief. Her new friend was silent for a moment.

“You need to see mine,” he said, adjusting his words from a moment before. The girl was slightly suspicious, though she felt that she could trust this person. She heard him take a deep breath before stepping out of the shadows of the doorway.

He was young, not much older than her 15 years, and his black hair fell about his face. He was tall, perhaps a hand’s length more than she, and he seemed strong for his age. She let out a small cry of fright, however, when the moonlight struck his eyes. They were so light in color; they looked silver, though she could see specks of blue in the irises. He had the Curse!

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said reassuringly. The girl saw that he did not look directly at her, but straight ahead, his eyes unseeing. “I can’t hurt you.”

“Can’t you?” He frowned when he heard the fear in her voice.

“It is no Curse I bear. Some people think it so, but I am not among their number. I was… affected, in a way, by King Cannen’s zenii.” A zenii? Here? The girl shivered. Those creatures, throughout history, had done nothing but cause death and destruction. One of their favorite ways of killing was with incurable diseases. If the king did have a zenii, she was lucky that he had not used it on her or sent it after her when he’d had her thrown from his dining hall.

The zenii had an almost translucent body. It could fly almost weightlessly, and it had wings that faded into the air like smoke. It had a heart-stopping cry used to paralyze its victims with overwhelming fear, and fiery red eyes that had the very presence of evil in them. As far as anyone knew, the zenii had no head, just two demonic eyes embedded in its birdlike body. The girl had seen one before, at the slave raid in Daenér a few years past.

“You are blessed not to be dead.” The young man shrugged expressively.

“Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I would give anything to see again. What is your name, enslaved lady who is not a slave?”

The girl paused for a moment to think. If she gave him her true, Daenérean name, she could be in danger. She would have to give him her Sharran name.

“I am called Aoife in the servant’s barracks,” she said uncertainly. He smiled. His smile made her feel rather weak in the knees.

“A beautiful name, no doubt, for a beautiful girl.” She did not know if he was jesting or serious, but she blushed all the same, though she knew he could not see.

“You know my name now. What is yours?” Aoife asked. He shook his head.

“I shall not tell you until I see your face.”

“But you cannot see!” she pointed out in dismay. He was using her. He was using her just like the knight who’d tried to fool her on the way to Vyn’ja. But no, he laughed again.

“I cannot see with my eyes, dear Aoife. Come.” Not knowing what else to do, she did as she was told. He is blind; he cannot hurt me. A small voice in her head disagreed. ‘How do you know that he has not bewitched you, or put a spell on his eyes to make him look this way? You are being stupid!’ Stupid or not, Aoife felt that she could trust him for some unexplainable reason.

Thunder rumbled somewhere miles away. Another cold raindrop fell on Aoife’s cheek, where tears had fallen not half an hour ago. It was joined by several more, and soon the whole courtyard was filled with falling water.

The young man lifted his hand to touch Aoife’s face. His calloused, gentle fingers felt her forehead, her chin, her cheeks, and her lips. All the while, Aoife could feel the rain pattering on her, but she did not care. She watched the young man as he felt her face.

His eyebrows were drawn together in thought, and his silvery eyes were still looking at something Aoife couldn’t see. Finally, he stopped, and they stood together in the rain, soaking.

“My name is Traeh,” he said softly, his voice barely heard over the sound of the rain hitting the ground. “I am glad I met you, Aoife. I have never seen such a trusting, caring face. Take care that it stays this lovely.”

Aoife sat up in bed, gasping. Straw mattress, flea-infested blankets… she was in the servant’s barracks. Her entire right side hurt from when she’d been cast out of King Cannen’s dining hall. She looked down at the dirty brown blankets and felt her face. Traeh… had he been a dream? Was it possible? How had she gotten into her bed? She had no memory of leaving the courtyard.

“Aoife, you lazy lump, are you up yet?” Naem called, poking her head in the doorway. She smiled warmly. “Ah, I’m just pulling your leg, dear. You were exhausted, and chilled to the bone, no less! What work were you doing out in the rain, that was so important?”

So it hadn’t been a dream, standing in the rain. But what of Traeh? “Was anyone with me?” Aoife asked, casting off the blanket.

“Nay, I saw not a soul with you there. You were by the Faithful Fountain, with this in your hand. I daresay you must’ve been delivering it, but I can’t read this fancy script,” Naem said. The old woman hurried over, handing a piece of damp parchment to her. The two slaves sat on the edge of the straw mattress in silence.

“I… can’t remember. Perhaps, but I cannot for the life of me remember anything beyond the rain starting,” Aoife told the old slave. It was not a complete lie. She had merely omitted the fact that Traeh had been with her.

“If you don’t ‘member being ordered to deliver it, then it might be yours,” Naem reflected. “Can you read it, Aoife?”

Aoife held the parchment at an arm’s length from her eyes. The letters were faint, and hurriedly scribbled. They were in Daenérean. As Aoife’s eyes drank in the familiar characters, they also understood their meaning.

~Dänie utünalés ennlera~

“I am blind but for my heart,” Aoife murmured. Naem drew her eyebrows together.

“Are you seeing someone? Another slave, perhaps?” the old woman asked suspiciously. Aoife laughed aloud.

“Aye, slaves meeting slaves! That’d be a sight to see. Indeed, I am not. I do not know where this mysterious thing came from, nor how it came to be in my hand.”

Naem chuckled, not believing Aoife for a second, but she left the young girl in peace. Remembering her duties, she kissed Aoife on the head before bustling out of the room.

Alone once again, Aoife stared at the parchment in her hand, knowing for certain that she had indeed met Traeh that night in the courtyard.

“Dänie utünalés ennlera,” she read again, touching the parchment with her fingers. “Who are you, Traeh?”

She remembered his silvery eyes shining in the light of the moon, and she shivered. Aoife drew the dirty blanket around her for the little warmth it gave her.

“Sé anyá cenülii.” (We shall meet again.)