Kindling Ashes: Firesouls Book I (4 page)

Voice shook. The entire sixteen years he had been in her body, he had never once had a flashback. A few times he’d mentioned how the huge market square in the centre of Tyrun seemed familiar, but nothing like this had ever happened.

“I know because I have a dragon in me as well,” the woman answered after a long pause. She kept her distance but every so often glanced at the window, as if she was worried Giselle might jump out of it.

But Giselle just stared back at her, trying to understand.
Voice was filled with confusion. He didn’t know whether to be happy at meeting another of his kind, or if he should run off with Giselle and hide them from this. His curiosity was overtaking his fear.

The woman tried again to get a response. “The entry wound on your arm is unmistakeable.”

“The what?” Giselle felt sluggish. What was happening? It was all too fast.

“The burn where he entered you. Or she?”

“He,” she whispered, staring down at the circular scar that had been there as long as she could remember. It made sense, now she thought about it.
Kind of.
“What do you want?”

“Just to talk. Find out how you got here, who your dragon is. There are few of us, especially this far away from the mountains. What is your name?”

“Giselle.”

She could feel Voice’s stumbling as he attempted to sort his thoughts. He wasn’t yelling at her to run, so she stayed put for now.

“I am Sarra. And what is your dragon’s name?”

She shrugged. His name had long been a mystery that didn’t matter. “I call him Voice. We don’t know his name.”

A sudden frown creased Sarra’s face as she sat down opposite Giselle.

“What do you mean, you don’t know? Doesn’t he know?”

“No. He can’t remember anything properly before he came to me.”

Sarra’s shock told her that was not normal – although ‘normal’ didn’t matter in this situation.

“There’s more?” Giselle asked, leaning in as she caught on to what had been said a few moments ago. “More people like me? More dragons?”

“Yes. But I don’t understand – how did you get in contact with him? Did someone teach you?”

“I’ve always been able to talk to him. Anyway, who’d teach
me
?”

Sarra stared at her for so long that Giselle turned her eyes to the ceiling so she could at least pretend she wasn’t the focus of so much attention.

“Well you can talk to your dragon, right?” Giselle asked when she still got no reply. “How’d you do that?”

“Goldsmoke. Every Firesoul yet has needed some of it to help them communicate the first few times. It depends on the dragon and the human but… no one else has made contact with their dragon without it. The dragons hibernate until the goldsmoke awakens them – but it sounds like yours never hibernated at all.”

It was too much to take in so she asked the simplest question she could think of. “What’s goldsmoke?”

“Gold is a magical substance for dragons – it feeds their power.”

“In the mountains, we have a method of turning gold into a powder so fine that when you put it in fire, it goes up in smoke. Anyone nearby inhales it, and it feeds the dragons so they are strong enough to reach out. Haven’t you tried to find out who he is?” Sarra continued when Giselle did not reply. “Maybe Muire – my dragon – could help. She might remember him. There were only a few dragons strong enough to make the transition into a human.”

She felt Voice shudder inside of her, torn between getting answers and not wanting to know. She was certain Sarra would be able to find out after that flashback, but she waited for his decision without saying a word. She couldn’t deny being curious, but it was not her choice. It was not
her
past being offered.

“Voice?” she prompted, trusting that Sarra would understand the question was not for her.

/I think we should go
./

She stood as soon as she heard his words. Disquiet filled him and transmitted to Giselle.

“Sorry. He says no. And we should be going.”

“Already? But we’ve barely talked!”

The short rest had done Giselle’s body good. She still ached all over, but it was less painful and she felt far stronger than when she’d first fallen into the room.

“Thanks for the information.” She even offered a brief smile. “I’ll be back next week with the last delivery.”

After that, she would never have to see the woman again. Before Sarra could say another word, she scrambled down the wall of the inn and had disappeared into the night.

CHAPTER 4

Dr
essed down in a stained cotton shirt and dark breeches, hair combed back in the merchant style, Corran was unrecognisable as the son of the Lord of Dunslade Town. Here, in an alehouse in the middle of town filled with noisy patrons, he was Corden – son of a merchant, who often visited with his lady friend Tilda.

Corran looked away from the corner he used to sit in with Tilda and buried his head in a flagon of ale. His right arm pulsed around the scar and fresh bruises were sprouting all over his body from the beating he had received today in the arena. At least it had been the second round not the first. His father was still furious.

In a hopeless attempt to redeem
himself
he had resolved to go down into town in his old persona of Corden, to try and seek out information on the Firesouls one last time. He had strong suspicions that any dragon sympathiser knew better than to come into Dunslade Town, but in avoiding his father and Huw he figured there was nothing better he could do with his time than try again. Not to mention have some ale.

The evening was a failure. The room swayed – or was it him who was swaying? –
and
talk around him seemed to ebb and strengthen in volume. Corran wasn’t sure if everyone else was
as drunk as him, or if it was just his ears making it seem like words were slurring.

Downing the last of his ale, he slammed it on the table.

“Where’s your girl Tilda?” one of the other patrons asked as he slid in next to him and gestured to the barman for another pint.

“Gone. She left. She left me,” Corran slurred, turning his flagon so one side of it hit the wood, then the other, until it was tapping out a tune. Tilda used to sing this.

“That’s rough, Corden. Here – on me!” the man said, pushing his new pint towards Corran.

Corran muttered his thanks and sipped, his mind drifting towards Tilda. He’d been doing so well at forgetting her absence with the tournament going on, but coming back to this alehouse had been a bad idea and now he could think of nothing else. Her hair... her smell... the two little freckles above her eye... He tipped the flagon up and took a hefty gulp. Now who knew if he would ever see her
again.

His flagon tipped to one side as the word ‘Firesouls’ slithered into his ears. He swivelled blearily to find its source. People swam in front of him, blurring into each other, but after several long seconds of trying he managed to focus enough to watch a stable boy he knew as Henry pulled outside by the scruff of his shirt by a long–haired man.

Corran half–stepped, half–fell off his stool, then turned to finish the rest of the ale he’d been given. No need to be ungrateful. He wobbled as he turned towards the door, then focused on putting one foot in front of the other to walk in a generally straight line. He lingered in the doorway, still with enough sense to know he shouldn’t walk right into whatever conversation was going on. The cool air helped sober him a
little, and he peered around the corner to find the pair. He had spoken to Henry several times before when he had been there with Tilda. The part of his brain that still functioned was disappointed to learn that he might be a dragon sympathiser.

They ducked into an alleyway down the street and Corran blundered after them, trying to be quiet. He stayed close to the wall and years of training meant that despite the alcohol, he managed not to give himself away. As soon as he was close enough to hear, he halted.

“–
in
the north at the end of the war?”

“My father trades in horses – northern ones especially.”

“And you’ve had that scar all your life?”

“Long as I can remember. I already told you though.”

“I know
,
we just have to be certain. I– wait.”

Corran frowned and took a step closer, but the next moment the man had walked out in front of him, grabbed him by his shirt and yanked him into the alleyway. The sober part of Corran shouted at himself for not thinking properly, but most of him just stared with confusion at the man,
then
turned to Henry.

“Can I see your scar? Bet I can beat it. Brother sliced my arm open. For fun – ha! Hurt like fuck though.”

The man rolled his eyes and released his hold, but examined him closely. Corran wondered if he should run, but by the time he’d thought about that properly Henry was talking to him.

“What are you doing, Corden?”

“I… am…” Corran thought for a moment. “I am getting drunk. That is what I am doing. Or what I was doing.
Because I’m not in the alehouse now.
Were you getting drunk too? You don’t seem drunk.” He stared at Henry and tried to work out if he’d been drinking at all.

“…No,” Henry replied, staring back at him.

“So why aren’t you in the alehouse anymore? Why follow us?” the stranger asked.

He thought about the question even harder than he had the first. He knew he needed a good answer for this. “Because… I am drunk enough, I think. And I know Henry. Don’t I know you, Henry? We talk sometimes. He likes horses and I like horses. We have good talks about horses.” He didn’t think it was a good answer, but again all he got was rolling eyes.

“Do you think he’ll remember this in the morning?” the man asked Henry.

Henry shrugged. “He doesn’t normally get this drunk. I heard his lady left – I think that’s why he’s so bad tonight.”

The man nodded. He grabbed Corran’s arm, but paused. He lifted his hand to push Corran’s head to one side, pulling his high collar away from the ugly scar it covered.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Corran tried to pull away but the man was stronger than he looked. He didn’t want this stranger staring and poking at his scar! He swivelled his eyes, looking all around for somewhere to run. There were stars in the sky tonight. He wondered if they’d listen to prayers from drunkards about fixing his life. The wall was dirty black stone. It needed a wash.
This man needed a wash too
,
he stank
. He wasn’t from here – he must have been on the road for weeks.

“Boy. Hey, focus!”

Corran looked up from the floor to stare at the traveller man. “Huh?”

“Where were you at the end of the dragon war?”

“In the King’s Circus,” Corran answered without thinking. The man’s eyes widened and he realised his mistake. The tiny sober part of him produced a trump. “My– my family are
merchants. They were trading there. Lots of rich warriors to sell to.”

“Ah, okay.” The man turned to Henry with a grim expression. “I think he needs to come with us too. How well do you know him? Can he be trusted?”

“Not that well… but I think so.”

“Go where?” Corran asked.

“Out of town. Come on.”

“Huh? But why?” Corran turned to stare at Henry instead when the traveller man just pulled him into a walk down the street. “Henry? D’you know where we’re going?”

Henry didn’t answer either, and Corran found
himself
trundled along by them through the town and out of the gates. When a guardsman challenged them, Henry called back that they were taking him home because he’d drunk too much. Corran chuckled to himself at that – it was funny because he had drunk too much, definitely drunk too much, but they weren’t taking him home. They didn’t even know where his home was! They thought he was a merchant!

He continued to laugh to himself as they walked down the road – but after a while he registered how far they’d gone and stopped finding it funny.

“Are we there yet?”