Redheart (Leland Dragon Series) (4 page)

“Fighting. All you humans know.” He nodded his head toward her cheek, and she touched the tender place where she felt bruised. “You prey on one another, use violence to feel powerful. It’s beyond you to understand not every creature thinks the way you do.”

“You don’t think like everyone else?” Riza asked, and smiled.

He only swung his gaze back to the mouth of the cave. Once more, his eyes reflected the sun that was now a glowing half-nugget of gold against the horizon. The wash of color filled the cave, and the songs of early birds filtered cheerfully into the dusty air around them. “Sun is up. Safe for you to go,” he said, his voice flat.

She didn’t know what she’d said that made him want to send her away, but she affected a lot of people that way. She slowly pushed to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she said, and she meant it.

When her dizziness passed, she took a step toward the outside. “I think I will be fine now.” She watched him, waited for him to respond. Or nod. Anything. But he only stared into the sky. “Riza,” she whispered. “That’s my name, in case you were wondering.”

He must not have been wondering, because he didn’t react. So she kept moving. Each step became stronger than the last. She reached the outside, and breathed deeply of the sweet morning light, drenched with dew. She gave a last glance over her shoulder to the dragon, who seemed no more than a statue. Then she lifted her chin, and faced the new day by walking directly into it.

Chapter Six

Riza wasn’t sure how long she’d walked before she finally stopped to rest. She leaned against the scratchy bark of a willow trunk and slid to her bottom. Where was she going, anyway? She looked up at the blistering morning sun. Rays stabbed like flames through the naked arms of pin oaks and knobby ash trees, and raised tears to her weary eyes. She was forced to look away.

Before she was taken to the dragon’s cave, she’d been traveling south. With a few saved coins in her pouch, a sack of dried meat and bread, and her father’s knife, she’d headed out before dawn woke the village. She’d offered no goodbye to her father, no note, no explanation. No explanation would have been good enough, anyway.

She’d spent several days walking and several eerie nights alone, surrounded by the sound of wildlife that seemed more ominous than she’d remembered it sounding when she was home, safe in her bed. But she had begun to grow accustomed, if only a little, to the sounds of nature all around her. It had helped remind her she wasn’t completely alone.

She felt alone now, though. She was in far worse shape. She had no knife, no provisions, and no money at all. Perhaps she’d been hasty in leaving the dragon’s cave, despite the overpowering stench. She hadn’t even asked directions.

What she needed was a plan. She looked back from where she came, recognizing the gradual up-slope of the dry earth. Rubble and stone lay like a trail of crumbs for her to find her way back to the cave, if she needed. After all, the dragon had helped her once, and finding him again would be better than starving to death.

She looked forward. The earth continued downhill, until it flattened out around a patch of sapling pin oaks with branches too gnarled for trees so young. This forest was as thirsty and pitiful as the forest of her home village. But, growing saplings meant there was water somewhere. She pushed to her feet, determined to find the water before dark.

Her battered boots rubbed and pinched. Perspiration tickled like crawling spiders down her back. She tried to twist her matted hair around her head, and even speared it several times with twigs to hold it, but it sagged and clung to her neck anyway.

She searched on, and found herself circling paths she was sure she’d already seen. She veered toward promising low spots, but all she found were puddles of crunchy leaves. As the day wore on, her hungry stomach twisted angrily, and she felt as though she had a fat stick in her mouth where her tongue was supposed to be.

And there was no water. Hours of searching left her legs trembling. Finally, they refused to move. She wanted to collapse, or at least sit, but she was too afraid she might not get back up again. She hugged a gray oak, instead.

It was then she realized the sun was fading. An unfamiliar fear slithered across her skull and crept, whispering, into her ears.
It was almost dark
.

She tried to think past the welling panic. She’d spent many a night in the forest before, and the darkness was a little unnerving sometimes, but nothing she’d ever been afraid of. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the daylight.

Except now there was. Now the night held memories of monsters. Monsters with lecherous grins wet with saliva, and cold hands that gripped and pinched, and eyes, so many of them, that buzzed and hovered like black bees against a black wall and festered with death.

“Stop it!” Riza shouted, and slapped her hands over her face. She had to stop thinking like that, and get moving again. She would just have to find the pebble trail back toward the cave, and beg another night’s stay with the dragon. It would be fine. Everything was going to be fine.

But when she began moving again, she realized she’d lost the direction of the pebbles. A few steps this way, and a few that way only led her back to the same gray oak. She followed an upward tilt of the land, but it leveled out again. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know where the dragon was.

Were the trees getting thicker as the light got smaller? She spun around, searching for an opening. She eased between two thick trunks, and, just as she was about to give in to her panic, a wide path rose up and parted the trees. She threw herself toward it and ran.

She came to a stop in a small field. She could see the dark outline of a lumpy house in the near distance, with windows ablaze with torchlight. The sight calmed her, and she took a minute to catch her breath.

Porkers grunted close by. She followed the sound. They were nosing the dirt of their sty, ignoring her, and weren’t even using the box of straw in the corner. She considered climbing in. Compared to the dragon, the pigs smelled springtime fresh. Then she spotted a small, lopsided barn just a few feet away.

She ran for the stone wall of the house, and, pressing against it, she snuck toward a corner and peeked around. A rectangular patch of light streamed to the ground through a front window. She avoided it, and dashed for the barn.

The barn door was ajar. She moved to ease herself through it, but a water trough caught her eye. She dropped to her knees, and dipped a hand into the water. It tasted of dust. She was briefly glad for the dusk, so she couldn’t see the water as she cupped it again and again to her mouth, barely breathing between swallows.

It wasn’t enough. She leaned over the side of trough, and with a splash, immersed her whole head. She shook her hair, and blew bubbles that tickled her nose. Then she withdrew with a gasp. She probably smelled like a pig, and looked like one, too, but she didn’t care. She felt immensely better.

“What do you do there?” said a man’s voice. She shrieked and dove through the barn door, tripping on her own feet. She sprawled on the dirt floor.

A stream of moonlight widened near her hand. The scrape of the opening door drowned out her second cry of fear. She scrambled to her feet, and whirled around to face the man, realizing too late she’d just trapped herself in the barn with him.

“What are you doing?” he repeated.

She could think of no excuse fast enough. She could think of nothing at all. His dark, angry eyes consumed the last of her strength, and her legs gave out. She dropped onto a scratchy pile of straw.

Behind the man, a woman’s voice called, “Mr. Armitage!”

The man turned to block the door, his gloved hand on the rusted latch. “Yes, Mrs. Fennipen?” Hurried footsteps halted, and Riza could see the wrinkled cheek of a woman just past the man’s shoulder. Riza wished she could call out, but her body wouldn’t respond. She could only stare from her place on the straw.

“Forgot your candle,” said Mrs. Fennipen. “Can’t get into town ‘n back in the dark.” A fat pillar candle lofted toward the man’s face, and its flame deepened the creases of the hand that held it. “Mr. Fennipen is awful glad to have another man around the place. You’re sure you don’t know how long you’ll stay?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said, and took the candle. “But, Madam, if you keep feeding me like you did this eve, you might have to kick me out when you grow tired of me.”

Mrs. Fennipen gave a girlish giggle. “You’re the charm, Mr. Armitage.” She pressed a strand of graying hair back into her low chignon. “What brings you to the barn?”

“I chased something inside. A rat, I think. I was just going to go inside and finish it off.”

At that, Riza jerked. Somehow, she had to find the strength to get out of there. Maybe she could pry a hole in the wall. She tried to pull herself toward a loose plank, but her arms wouldn’t bend.

“Nasty things, rats,” said Mrs. Fennipen. “Can’t get used to ‘em, no matter how many I see. You have the key to get back in?”

“I do. Good night to you, Mrs. Fennepin.”

Riza managed to reach one arm toward the plank, and dug her nails around its edge. Just then, his rumbling voice came from behind her. “Are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

Riza froze. She slowly turned her face toward him. She tried to speak, really she did, but no sound came out.

He took a step. He leaned in so close she could feel the warmth of the candle he held. “What happened to your face?” This time, his voice was gentle.

He kneeled. Her heart raced painfully and she closed her eyes, willing him to disappear. She felt his fingers under her chin, and she was pulled forward. “Did someone hit you?”

When she tried again to speak, her eyes opened. She met his dark gaze, which hovered and buzzed like black bees against a black wall.

“So. You’re wanting to borrow the place for the night.” He rose to his feet and stepped back. She could breathe again. “Don’t make off with anything that doesn’t belong to you.” He turned, closed the barn door, and slid the bolt home from the outside.

Riza wanted to weep with relief, but she was too drained for even tears. She collapsed to her side, half on the straw and half on the dirt floor. Before she could realize she was uncomfortable, she was asleep.

Chapter Seven

When the time came for dawn, the sun was still hiding. It hung back behind a curtain of dreary clouds, failing to take its place on center stage. The trees stood as audience anyway, their naked arms embracing the heavy air.

Kallon left no shadow against the dusty earth this morning. His usual romp in the skies did nothing to lift his mood. He felt as bloated with darkness as the clouds he danced with, and the longer he lingered there, the heavier he felt himself become. Finally, he gave up, and swung low to the ground without landing.

Above the dank scent of promised rain, he smelled something else. He turned his head toward the rubble at the top of his mountain.

A familiar old man picked his way carefully, one arthritic hand curled around the crystal tip
of his walking stick. The other hand he held out to his side, as though pretending to fly. His baggy trousers rustled and slapped against his bowed legs, and his beard danced in the rising wind like the wild, white hair of a gypsy girl.

Kallon swerved to pass over the man once. Then he angled his thick wings, and came to a landing behin
d him, so gentle that he stirred less stones than the noisy wind. The man turned, and pointed his staff toward the sky. “Smells like rain.”

“Noticed,” Kallon replied.

“Came to see the girl.”

“Gone,” he said, and swung his head toward the village.

“Already?” The man scowled, and stabbed his stick into the dirt. “Curses.” He then turned his back to Kallon, and continued along his path down the mountain.

Kallon pushed off to hang in the air above the man, his wings beating lazily. “Orman, where are you going?”

“Didn’t come all this way for nothing. If I can’t see the girl, I’ll see you instead.” Orman tapped his stick against a boulder the size of Kallon’s head, which was blocking the path. The boulder wobbled, and then politely rolled out of the way.

Kallon grumbled. “Don’t want company.”

“Noticed,” said Orman.

By the time Orman Thistleby reached the base of the path, the wind was so fierce it snapped his wiry gray hair against his scalp. He didn’t seem to mind, though, because he lingered outside the cave without going in. “Scared her away, didn’t you?”

“No.” Kallon landed again, and tucked his wings against his spine to saunter into the dark opening. “She wanted to leave.” He heard Orman huff, and he glanced back to see the wizard cross his arms against his scrawny chest. “You’re going to get wet out there,” Kallon called.

“Won’t rain.” Orman grunted. “Smells like it. Feels like it. But it won’t.” He hobbled into the darkness, anyway. Inside the cave, he scraped the crystal of his staff across the ground as though striking a flint, and the foggy gem blazed with a glowing orange light. “Your father wouldn’t want this for you, Kallon. You spend too much time alone.” He waved his stick, and the cave crackled with warm torchlight.

Kallon leaned back against a wall, and drew up his feet beneath him. He rolled his eyes at Orman’s comment, and gave a grunt of his own. “You’re one to talk.”

“That’s different!” Orman shook his stick. “Have my books, have my duties, my magics. You have nothing but yourself. With your rotten attitude, you can’t be much company.”

Kallon’s nostrils flared. “That’s none of your business.”

“Is too my business. Your father’s wishes are my concern.” The rumpled old man shambled closer. He pressed the tip of his staff between Kallon’s eyes. “He was the most honorable creature I knew. Aside from your mother, of course. He lived up to his promise to protect me to the death, and didn’t turn his back once. Not once, I tell you.” And his stick went tap, tap, tap against Kallon’s forehead.

Kallon shook his head to knock the irritating staff away from his face. “That was the old way. I want no part of it.”

At that, Orman withdrew, his brow bunching together. “Much to be done still. Your seat on the council as Herald of the Reds waits for you.”

Kallon lowered his snout and met Orman’s gaze. A gust of steam curled from his nostrils. “The Reds are dead.”

Orman’s neck grew several inches as he straightened his shoulders. He opened his mouth, but only the sound of his breath issued. Finally, he ground the heel of his boot into the cave floor and turned away. “Fordon Blackclaw leads the council in your stead. All of Leland reeks of his darkness.” He peered over his shoulder at Kallon and clicked his tongue. “Dragons murmur of war with humans. Your father would have much to say.”

Kallon blew a puff of breath between his teeth, which hit Orman full-force in the back. It sent the wizard stumbling several steps out into the howling wind, forcing him to plant his walking stick into the rocky sand to keep from falling.

Orman spun to glare at Kallon, the sharpened crystal of the staff glowing white. “Still got plenty of breath for a dead dragon.”

Kallon just flopped his chin to the ground with a grumble, stirring up a cloud of dust that tempted his nostrils to sneeze. But he was too miserable to sneeze. He simply lay there, immersed in the darkness, and silently cursed it.