Chapter I

Laural shook uncontrollably as the stiff winds buffeted about her. Naked and alone on the tiny ledge, she tried to curl herself up as small as possible against the icy winds. Above her in the night she could hear the raging of the dragons as the pitched battle grew increasingly violent. The gold dragon screamed with fury as the green evaded his talons once again and pitched wildly to the left trying desperately to reach the vulnerable underbelly with her teeth. All about her the air was filled with the noxious fumes of dragon breath from the two rivals. Laural knew that it made little difference to her which won the victory today. Whichever it was would make short work of her. Screaming in rage, the green made another, desperate effort to rake her foe with razor edged claws. The dragons, locked in combat, deadly talons caught in each other’s flesh, plunged toward her. Laural buried her face in her hands as the ground about her burst into flames. With a mighty rush of air, she could feel as well as hear the victor pull out just before hitting the ground. Trembling with the cold and her fear, Laural looked up into the face of death. Whimpering, she rolled away trying futilely to put distance between herself and the gaping maw. Suddenly she was falling over the edge into space…

With a crash she woke up on the floor wrestling the bedclothes tangled around her amid the remains of the bedside water pitcher.

After clearing away the broken crockery, Laural went out and took an icy plunge in the pond to clear away the last remnants of the dream. This was the first time it had gone so far and still she didn’t know the victor’s color. That the dream had significance was not in doubt. Many times she had been to see old Zyalia, the crone, and each time, she had been told that she must follow the dream to its conclusion. As she brewed herself some hot t’sayne to go with the simple breakfast of bread and cheese she debated on the wisdom of going to the ancient seer again. It was a long hike through the dead town that lay just beyond her grove and the day promised to be stifling in spite of the fact that the change was only four weeks away.

After clearing away the broken crockery, Laural went out and took an icy plunge in the pond to clear away the last remnants of the dream. This was the first time it had gone so far and still she didn’t know the victor’s color. That the dream had significance was not in doubt. Many times she had been to see old Zyalia, the crone, and each time, she had been told that she must follow the dream to its conclusion. As she brewed herself some hot t’sayne to go with the simple breakfast of bread and cheese she debated on the wisdom of going to the ancient seer again. It was a long hike through the dead town that lay just beyond her grove and the day promised to be stifling in spite of the fact that the change was only four weeks away.

With a grimace she recalled all the chores that needed doing in order to be ready for the change and realized that she had frittered away almost the whole summer and had much to do if she was going to survive the winmonths in any comfort. Perhaps, she thought, Mykal will come by today and the day’s work would again be put off for another “just one more day.” Already, the maise she’d planted was drooping on its stalks and the maytoes were nearly over ripe. Her kitchen garden needed to be cleaned out and harvested very soon or she could look forward to living on what she could trap or beg from the manor during the long winter that came hard upon the change, and she did not want to beg from the manor!

Groaning, she forced herself to dress and gather up the gardening tools that she had spent all last winter making. The hoe and rake were crafted of bone and elk horn and the shovel carved from the remains of an ancient tree whose wood had grown almost as hard as greyrock. They had taken her nearly nine winmonths to complete and they were her most valuable possessions. Without the food carefully stored from her garden to see her through the long winmonths, she would have to subsist only on what meat she could trap and the wild fruits and herbs she could gather in before the change. She had done it once and the prospect of another winter like the last, or worse, have to accept help from the manor, drove her into the garden to begin her harvest.

Laural had been lucky with her small plot of garden this year and the yield would be more than sufficient to see her through the worst of the dead season. Together with the wild apples to be gathered in just before the change and the herbs and roots she had already collected from the woods, she would only have to trap to add variety to her diet, and the only when the winter weather was bearable. This year she would not be forced into the worst of the weather to check her traps for the small coneys. And this year she would not be beholden to the local Lord whose grudging generosity was the only thing that had stood between her and starvation during her first winter on her own.

The day had turned excruciatingly hot and she was just about to stop work and turn to the pond for relief from the oppressive heat when she was startled by a pair of boots which appeared directly in front of her face as she kneeled in the garden.

“Mykal, you almost scared me witless!” she laughed, as she started awkwardly to her feet, brushing loose dirt from her knees.

“Impossible, as it’s obvious you’re already witless,” he laughed, holding out a hand to steady her.

Laural ignored the proffered hand and instead hooked her arm behind his knees and yanked. Mykal went down with a yell and they were both soon covered with rich garden soil, smelling strongly of compost and in desperate need of a bath.

Laughing all the way, they raced toward the pond, shedding their muddy clothes as they went. After they had splashed and played in the cool water they lay together panting on the warm rocks.

“So, how is your garden’s yield this year?” Mykal asked.

“Just fine, as you can see for yourself you great oaf,” she replied. “And no thanks to you, I might add.”

Mykal suddenly became serious.

“If you would marry me and forget this nonsense about dragon dreams, you wouldn’t have to think about surviving out here all alone. You know my sister and Palles would dearly like to see you safely ensconced at the manor as my wife. They worry about you, you know, Laural. Everyone knows that there is no other wife possible for me, but we are all getting a little older every year with no heir in sight.”

“I am not some brood mare with nothing to do with my life but to foal you an heir,” Laural exclaimed hotly pushing him away and tugging on her blouse.

“Don’t you see Mykal? I have to see this through. Zyalia says that...”

“Zyalia says this, Zyalia says that. That’s always your answer isn’t it? Zyalia is just an old witch whose mind still lives in the Before Times, Laural. How can you believe what she tells you is so important? I don’t understand why you attach so much significance to these dreams of yours anyway. There haven’t been any dragons since the Before Times and dreaming about them won’t bring them back, no matter what Zyalia says.”

“Yes, she is an old witch and I am a young one!” she said irritably. “Oh Mykal, can’t we just enjoy each other today? Must we always fight about this?” she pouted. “Please understand this is something I have to see through. Zyalia is not just a senile old woman; she is the Old One, older even than the Tower. Even the Lady of the Krys in Thannon doesn’t know how old Zyalia is. No matter what you think, Zyalia knows what is going on.”

She watched as his face fell. “Oh Mykal never mind. Please, let’s just have the rest of today and we can talk about this tomorrow.”

“Alright, tomorrow then,” he said. He stood on the rock and dove into the water. He splashed at Laural until she finally pulled off her now sodden blouse, jumped in and dunked him. They swam and played like children until finally hunger forced them into the cottage. They put together a makeshift meal of cold meat, cheese and salad made with turnip root and greens. Mykal had brought a fresh cake from his younger sister, and some wine from the cellars of DragonSwan. It seemed a feast.

As the night chill extinguished the heat left from the day, they fell in a tangled heap onto the bed meant for one. Giggling, Laural and Mykal enjoyed each other far into the night.

Laural woke at dawn, and gazed longingly at Mykal’s sleeping face before extricating herself from his embrace, being careful not to wake him. Without a sound she slipped out of the cottage and washed quickly in the cold pond. As she walked to what must once have been a great orchard, she thought over what Mykal had said. It was two years now since she had begun having what she called her ‘dragon dreams’. At first they had started as barely remembered fragments, soon dispelled in the light of day. But they did not stop. Gradually they became more and more vivid, more and more real, until the dreams held as much reality for her as the apple she held in her hand. Finally, when she could stand no more, terrified to close her eyes at night for fear the dream would return, she sought out the witch, Zyalia.

The witch was older than anyone could guess. She lived in a cave about half a days hike out of the dead town. It was said that she had survived since the Before Times and once lived in the town when it was alive with people an activity. Today the town was as dead as the people who had once lived there. After the Before Times, the town was said to be haunted and people shunned it, even in daylight, for fear of the spirits who could inflict the rotting sickness. Now, the town was truly dead, deserted even by the spirits. It was shunned now, not out of fear, but out of habit and lack of interest. People wanted no reminders of the Before Times, indeed, none existed. Nothing of that time had survived. The ancestors of those who lived today had destroyed all references to the past. Now, after generations had born children in the Common Era, the Before Times was just a mystery. Stories of half remembered events had been relegated to the realm of myth and cradle tales used to entertain children. Nothing of the Before Times still existed, nothing except Zyalia.

Laural shivered at the memory of that first visit. The nearly blind woman could barely hobble about on her knob headed cane, as she had come to meet Laural at the cave’s entrance. It seemed that Laural had been expected as the aged crone led her to a seat of greyrock near an open fire pit in the center of the cave’s chamber.

She had spent a full seven-day with Zyalia, gazing at scenes through the fire. At first Laural could make no sense of the visions. Silver dragons trailing miles of smoke tails behind them as they crossed the skies; too high up to be seen as more than a flash of light against the grey of the heavens. Zyalia had shown her the end of the world in smoke and fire as dragons fought high overhead. Colors too vivid to describe flashed and exploded in the witch’s all-seeing flames as Laural watched transfixed, unable to look away. What she had seen was the death of a world, too horrible to imagine. Whether it was the past or future, Laural couldn’t tell.

When she came to herself, five days had passed. When she had rested and regained her strength, the old witch told her to leave and to seek shelter in the grove of yorra trees that lay on the other side of the dead town. There, Laural had found her cottage, built on the edge of a small and silent pond. The door had been open and the cottage furnished simply but adequately for the comfort of a single tenant. When Laural had walked in the door that summer day a year ago, she felt she had come home for the first time.

She shook herself out of her reverie, plucked three more apples from the nearest tree and began the walk back to wake Mykal. That proved unnecessary, however, when she heard his falcon whistle on the morning air. She answered it with her own whistle and hurried back to find him standing in the doorway, clad only in his shirt. Hungrily he eyed the apples she held.

“I see you’ve brought me breakfast, witch,” he teased as he made a grab for the fruit.

“I’ve brought apples M’Lord, but I’d thought to make a pie for you to bring to the Lady Olyva in thanks for the cake she so thoughtfully provided for our dinner last night,” she said as she danced easily out of his reach.

She turned and stuck out her tongue at him and whirled away again sidling toward the open door. He laughed as his lunge missed her again and he found himself hugging the trunk of a yorra tree trying to keep himself upright while retaining some dignity; a difficult thing without breeches.

Laural slammed the door just as he reached it and it wouldn’t budge when he tried to open it. Mykal knew that magic kept the door closed to anyone she would not have enter. He pounded loudly, shouting.

“Let me in witch, or at least toss out my breeches!”

He could hear her suppressed giggles through the door as she called back.

“And what a pretty picture it makes, the Lord of DragonSwan standing at my door with neither breeches nor boots!” She tossed the required apparel out of the window, hitting him in the face. “Go wash up in the pond and dress, and I’ll have breakfast ready for you when you return.”

Mykal gathered his clothes into a bundle and hurried off to do as he was told, plotting revenge to this affront to his dignity as he went. As he walked away, he heard the cottage door open of its own accord behind him.

Clean and dressed, he returned to find Laural smiling as she served him from an iron pot. The savory smell of stewed coney filled the small room as he sat to eat. She poured him a cup of hot t’sayne and sat at the table.

“Do I smell apples baking?” he said between mouthfuls.

“For the pie I promised you for Olyva and Palles. It should be ready by the time you are,” she said.

“Ready for what?” he asked, one eyebrow raised quizzically.

“Ready to leave, Mykal. You are planning to leave today aren’t you? I still have a lot to do and the change will be here before I know it. I know you must have things to see to back at DragonSwan, since you’ve assumed the title, or do you have poor Palles doing everything?”

His eyes met hers but he couldn’t read the thoughts behind them. “Laural, come back with me. We can be married before change and spend the winter keeping each other warm. Leave this mystic purpose of yours to someone else. Laural, I love you.” She could see in his eyes he spoke the truth.

Laural took a deep breath and said, “I love you too Mykal, but I have to follow this through. Don’t you see, even if I left this place, the dreams would still come. No matter where I go or what I do, these dreams are going to be with me. I have to learn what they mean. I have to find out what I’m supposed to do. I just can’t pretend I’m the simple daughter of a woodcutter or even a Lord. My mother was a Tower trained Krys and so am I.” She held out her hands to him as she continued.

“Mykal, don’t you think I want to go back and marry you? Nothing could mean more to me than you, but I can’t, not yet, not now. There is something I must do, something to do with dragons and my dreams, and I won’t be free until I know. How can I think of giving you children, without knowing that they will have a world in which to grow and be happy? Can you ask me to?”

He took her hands in his own. “I don’t suppose I can,” he said. “I don’t suppose I can.” He bent his head and kissed the top of her auburn head.

“Well, at least we can enjoy the benefit of your baking with our dinner tonight.” His eyes sparkled as he moved his arms to encircle her waist. “I pretty much expected your answer to be something like that. I’ve given Palles authority to manage all our lands for the next year at least. Olyva is expecting their first child by Springfest and Palles can use this excuse to keep close at hand instead of leading the trade caravans.” Laural searched his face, not sure what he was telling her.

“Come on, don’t just stand there staring at me. I left the rest of my pack on the edge of Belfaun Grove, come and help me carry it in.” Mykal pulled her close into his arms. After a brief flicker of hesitation, her resistance crumbled and she gave herself up to the moment.

It was almost midday by the time they went to retrieve the pack.

©2005 by Trish Reynolds