Dragon's Flame: Half-Blood Sorceress 1 Read online

  I made a wish right then that my mother hadn’t passed away and that my father was really my father. The firefly blinked out of existence entirely; perhaps that was its way of telling me my wishes couldn’t come true.

  I sat up, feeling the aches and pains of a day sleeping on stone assault my body. My head ached from crying, and my tongue felt parched. A quick drink from the pond quenched the last bit, but I would just have to bare aches and pains.

  As I stood up, I saw the glimmering light again and heard the buzz as first one then another firefly fluttered into view. They moved in an odd pattern, dancing from branch to branch and twirling across the forest floor. It was almost as though the two fireflies were beckoning me. Maybe I was seeing what I wanted to see, but maybe the wishes were looking for their meadow and drawing me to it.

  I glanced back up at the sky. Half the sun was gone, the first stars beginning to shine on the opposite horizon. Surely, people were looking for me—if not my father then my friends or neighbors. They would be gathered at the house, preparing for my mother's funeral, gathering wood for the pyre, and making sure everything was set to rights for my father and me.

  The fireflies buzzed louder, and I looked back at them. Was I imagining their beckoning? As first one, then the other, bobbed up and down above the path. Maybe I wasn’t imagining it. Surely it was folly to chase after glowing lights in a forest. It could lead me to a swamp too deep to escape from, or the maw of a hungry bear.

  Then again, what did I have to go back to? An angry father that blamed me for my mother’s death? Perhaps following the glowing lights would lead me to a better place, and away from the life that no longer wanted me.

  I followed the fireflies.

  The sparks of light meandered down a path I hadn’t known existed until I was on it. Magic or some trick of the light, I wasn’t sure, but once on it the fireflies seemed content to bob along with me trailing in their wake.

  I followed until the sun had set and the last rays of light disappeared from the sky. A silvery slice of the moon shone down, barely lighting my path. I needn’t have worried, though, because soon after the sunset the trees gave way to a small glade.

  In the distance, I saw a small hut sitting on the edge of a meadow. And hundreds of fireflies dancing in the breeze.

  I stepped into the clearing and promptly lost track of the two fireflies I had been tracking, but there was no worry as I was promptly surrounded by the glowing flash of little lights. They bobbed and weaved around me, coming close to my outstretched hands then darting away as I watched. Some part of me realized I should have been happy to be in a cloud of wishes, but a more immediate part only saw the failure. Each wish darting in and away, and I was unable to catch even one. Unable to grasp the answer—any answer—to my troubles.

  “Now, what are you doing way out here in the woods, child?”

  Startled, I looked up to find a little old woman standing just down the path. She was thin as a rail with plump cheeks and long white braids hanging down to her waist. Her skin had been weathered and darkened by the sun, deepening the laugh lines on her face.

  I gaped at the little old woman. It was rude, I know, but after so many emotions running rampant in my head there wasn’t much left for me to do. I could feel the tears burning in my eyes—and the precious hold I had on reality starting to crumble away.

  The fireflies danced around me. So many wishes, so many beautiful lights just bobbing up and down on the wind. I focused on them as I sank to the ground, letting their light pass over me.

  The old woman must have taken pity on me because the next thing I knew I had a blanket wrapped around me, and the old woman was singing softly just a few feet from me. I glanced over at her, watching her rock back and forth in time to the song she sang.

  “Winter nights are cold and grim,

  But summer sun will come again.

  By dragon’s breath or dragon’s might,

  Surely we will see the light.”

  I didn’t recognize the song, but I did know the subject. The dragons of creation who ruled over the elements and the seasons. Or so the myths said. No one had seen a dragon in centuries.

  The woman’s hands were moving quickly, and I realized she had been knitting. A long sheet of knitted fabric tumbled off around her, warm and inviting.

  I took the moment to look around and see what I had stumbled onto. We sat outside a small hut, several oil lamps filling the tiny yard with a soft, warm glow. The hut itself had been hewn from the forest wood, a rich, dark oak that soaked in the light, and trimmed with the lighter cottonwoods that grew near the lake. The front door had a red tint, unlike anything I had seen before. I didn’t know a door could be red without some sort of paint. But the hut appeared to be naked, hewn and assembled without pitch or paint to tint it.

  “You’re wondering how an old woman could build a house in the middle of the forest?”

  I started, looking up to find the woman’s eyes watching me intently. I nodded but didn’t trust myself to speak.

  She focused back on her knitting, the needles clicking together in a sharp staccato the echoed through the clearing.

  “I wasn’t always an old woman,” she said, not looking up. “The years have been kind to me in some ways, not so much in others. But the house still stands even after being built so long ago, so I’ll count my blessings.”

  “Why stay?” I asked.

  “Why not?” she answered.

  Why not indeed. I had run away from the village, hadn’t I? Why would she want to go back, either? What did the village offer her that she didn’t have here?

  I could hear the quiet bleat of sheep moving in their sleep. She would have wool and mutton there. There was a small garden next to the hut with vegetables and herbs growing in neat rows. Indeed, what would she need from the village?

  “Companionship?” I ventured.

  “You’re assuming someone else could give me better companionship than I could give myself.”

  The thought took me aback. I’d always been surrounded by other children. There were the twins, Heidi and Jane, down the lane who liked to swim. Michael, who lived over the inn, and James, the blacksmith's son. I’d grown up with them swimming, running, and playing in the fields alongside the plow horses; learning to sew beside the twins or how to fight when the boys were feeling particularly ornery.

  There were others, of course. Younger and older children, and their parents. And my own parents.

  But when my mother died and I had been berated by my father, who had I run to? The solitude of the forest. I had, as the old woman said, wanted my own companionship because there was no other person who I felt close to now that my mother was gone.

  I pulled the blanket closer and frowned. Shouldn’t there be someone I had been close to? One of the twins? A boy? James, who sometimes seemed to dote on me? Even one of the younger girls? But no, there really hadn’t been anyone that I felt a kinship with.

  “I suppose you’re right,” I said, almost reluctantly. “There is no reason to go into town.”

  The clicking picked up its rhythm as the old woman sighed, her smile growing.

  “Sometimes we know what should be, according to society,” she said, “and we believe what we are taught as children: that everything is done in a certain way, and we should be like everyone else. We even act accordingly. But there is often a deeper part of us, a part we try to ignore, that is telling us that something isn’t quite right here. Most folks don’t listen to that voice. They just go on about their business, living and laughing along with everyone else, expecting things will work out for them in the end. Then there are folks like me, and maybe like you, that see there is something wrong and aren’t content to just let it happen.”

  “But how do you know what’s wrong?”

  The clicking stopped, and she looked up at me, her face deathly serious. “Now, that’s the trick of it, isn’t it? Knowing something’s wrong and knowing what is wrong are two separate things. Sometimes
you have to be willing to go look for the wrong to find it. Sometimes the wrongness comes looking for you.”

  “Who are you?” I asked. The words were out before I could stop myself, but I had been wondering that since I entered her glade. She was unlike anyone I had ever known, and while cryptic, her words spoke volumes to me. Something was wrong with my life, and I didn’t think it was just the circumstances of my birth. Something inside of me said she was right even though I didn’t understand why. Whatever the wrongness I had been feeling was, if I didn’t go searching for it eventually it would find me. Just like my bastard status found me at the worst time.

  She chuckled and turned back to her knitting. “My name’s Winifrey, but I don’t hear it near that often anymore. Your mother use to say it on occasion.”

  “My mother? You knew my mother?”

  “I know a great many people. Ausan sought me out more than once,” she said, and her needles stilled as she turned back to look at me. “You see, I know a bit of healing, and she needed it. But I didn’t know enough to help her, I’m afraid.”

  “My mother died today,” I said. The words felt thick on my tongue, tasting of chalk and dust as I spit them out. But I didn’t lose myself to the tears again, just sat there quietly. Waiting.

  Winifrey set her knitting down at looked me square on. “I knew the moment the wisps brought you to me, Sybel. I’m sorry for your loss, but I hope you are happy for your mother. The pain is finally gone. She can rest easy now, however hard the road is for those she left behind.”

  I gave her half a smile. “I know. I’m glad about that. I was surprised she held on as long as she had, but it still hurts.”

  “Of course, it does. Love is a powerful thing, but like all powerful things it comes with a cost.”

  Winifrey rose to her feet. She couldn’t have stood more than shoulder height to me, but she exuded a presence that overwhelmed me even as I was sitting at her feet.

  “Come now,” she said, turning toward the hut, “I’m sure you’re hungry, and you’ll need some proper sleep before morning.”

  “Oh, I shouldn’t stay the night,” I said, trying to scramble to my feet while holding on to the blanket.

  “Nonsense, Sybel. It’s already night, and I won’t have you wandering out into the woods alone. You never know when the wolves might come up from the lowlands. Now then—”

  She opened the door, ushering me inside before storming into the hut herself.

  Green plants and bright-colored flowers littered every surface in the one large room. Lilies, roses, rosemary, and oregano. More spices and herbs than I could ever name. The aroma was thick with life, drowning me in the cacophony of scent. More spices hung from the rafters, drying. Pots and vials lined one shelf along the far wall. It reminded me of the apothecary shops my mother told me of back in the city. Medicines and remedies for any variety of ailments could be found at a good apothecary. But not even the best herbalist could cure the wasting disease.

  That my mother had come here spoke volumes on her state of mind. Most of the men and women I knew did not associate with mages or alchemists. Even apothecaries could be shunned in smaller villages. My mother had been a bit more open than the normal villager, possibly because she had been looking for a way to live. But even that hadn’t helped her.

  “You’re a mage?” I asked, unable to help myself.

  Winifrey looked around the room and chuckled. “Looks that way, doesn’t it? But no. Wizards don’t need the trappings of herbs and spices to call on the elements. I’m just an old woman that knows a thing or two about plants—and how to heal with them.”

  “An apothecary, then. Mother told me about apothecaries in the big city and how they helped ease pain and cure disease.”

  “They do, indeed,” she said. She walked over to the far end of the room and the hearth where a big cauldron bubbled over the fire. Grabbing a big wooden spoon, she stirred the bubbling brew, releasing plumes of steam into the air.

  I hadn’t noticed the smell of stewed meat and potatoes. I had been so overwhelmed by the spices that the food completely passed me by. Now that my attention had been drawn to it, my mouth started to water. I hadn’t eaten since early that morning, and my stomach began to gurgle.

  Winifrey chuckled as she ladled the thick stew into a wooden bowl. “It’s all right, dear. I knew you’d be hungry. You’ve had a lot on your mind today.”

  I sat on a stool near the fire and accepted the bowl with a nod. It was empty within moments as I wolfed down the contents, barely tasting it as it burned down my throat. It warmed me from within, shaking off the last dregs of chill that had been clinging to my skin. Winifrey handed me a second bowl without hesitation, and this time I slowed down enough to taste what I had been eating. Delicate spices, juicy chicken, tender carrots and peas. Nothing had been overcooked to mush, and it had a light salting that added to the flavor instead of overpowering it.

  “You’re a wonderful cook,” I said as I set down the empty bowl second time.

  “Thank you. When you know as much as I do about herbs, it helps in the cooking as well.”

  I smiled. A genuine smile. Winifrey did a lot to ease the tightness in my chest that had been building for so long.

  I yawned, trying to stifle it with the corner of the blanket.

  “Now, now, don’t try to stay awake on my account. When emotions run rampant like they have for you, it does more than bring tears. It takes a lot of energy to fuel. You’ll sleep well.”

  She cleared away a few satchels of herbs, and I saw a sleeping mat tucked up against the wall. It fell to the bare wooden floor with a thud.

  “Get some sleep, Sybel. I’ll lead you back to town in the morning.”

  Stomach full, and head swimming with more thoughts than I could properly sort, I didn’t argue. I slipped onto the straw mat, tucked the blanket around me, and the world faded away in moments.

  Town

  I woke to the smell of sweet bread and molasses. Winifrey was bustling around the kitchen again, frying small cakes on a skillet over the fire. A jug sat on the table beside her, presumably the molasses.

  My mother brought me molasses once as a little girl. She said it came from the south, made by the plainsmen along the southern coast. The tradesmen brought it up the coast a few times a year, and she managed to purchase one.

  “Good, you’re awake,” Winifrey said.

  I looked up, nodding. I could feel my mouth starting to water and heard a grumble from my stomach. The smell was almost intoxicating.

  “Well, stop staring, and come help yourself, dear. I wouldn’t want it said I was a bad host.”

  I found Winifrey so easy to accept. Whatever anyone else would say about her, witch or not, she was kindhearted. That made the rest of my troubles seem to fade into the background. For the moment.

  “It’s been a day,” she said before taking a sip of tea.

  “Yes,” I said, tracing patterns in the molasses with my fork. “I suppose they will be ready for the funeral by tonight.”

  “I’m sure you want to go,” she said softly, encouragingly.

  I stared at my pancakes, my thoughts warring back and forth. Of course, I wanted to see my mother laid to rest, but did I truly want to go back to my father, to face him after all he had said?

  “Your father may not be the man you thought him to be,” Winifrey said as though reading my mind, “but your mother loved you more than anything. She did everything she could to protect you and make sure you had a good life.”

  I looked up, feeling the tears at the corner of my eyes but refusing to shed any more, and nodded.

  “Good,” Winifrey said. “I’ll take you to the edge of town after breakfast and see you on your way.”

  ***

  Winifrey was true to her word. After breakfast, she led me through the forest, down past the small pond, and back toward the river where Brefalls nestled on a bend in the waterway. There were no trails, no paths, no markers that I could see, but she kept u
s on an unerring path back to the town.

  At the edge of the forest, Winifrey made her goodbyes.

  “I try to avoid the town as much as possible,” she said. “Small towns are less accepting of those who know strange things. Until they need us, of course.”

  “I’m sorry,” I told her, and I really was. I hadn’t spent more than a night with Winifrey, but I could already tell she had a kind and generous heart. Who else would have sat there patiently waiting for me to pull myself together in the middle of the night? I couldn’t think of a single person. “Whatever they think of you, I’m glad I found my way to your home. You helped me more than you’ll ever know.”

  “Good, I’m glad I was there when you needed me. That’s what mattered.”

  She gave me a quick hug then disappeared back into the forest from which she came. The forest seemed to close up behind her, swallowing any trace of her that she might have left.

  Alone again, I turned back to Brefalls, watching the tall-masted ships lowering their sails as they came into our small harbor.

  It did not appear to be any different than it had when I’d seen it weeks before, when my mother was alive, and I was not the bastard child of an angry husband. But I was different, and I saw it in a darker light than before.

  But none of that mattered right then. I wasn’t going to let the circumstances of my birth keep me from paying my last respects to my mother.

  As soon as I hit the main road, I could feel eyes on me.

  Brefalls was a quiet place nestled between two mountain ranges. The forest that grew near the village had the best hardwoods available in many parts of the land and easy access to streams and rivers to take the wood to trading vessels. Most of the young men in town earned their living helping the loggers. Some, like my father, earned enough to set up a small farm. It was honest work, he told me, and kept the community running without the same dangers that came from logging. Perfect for a man who had a family to think about.

  I passed by the Holbrens’ farm house on my way into the village. I could see Nancy playing on the front porch with one of her mother's dolls. I had a similar doll sitting on my shelf at home. My mother made it for me when I was little, and I spent many nights crying into the soft tattered dress when my father had been particularly harsh.