Dragon Source: Reunification, #1

1

The Words

Arten

The dreams were strong. They came almost nightly now. Dreams of burning, of light, of floating on a demon wind. She awoke with syllables in her mouth, shaped on her tongue, ready to sigh out on hot breath. When she tasted them, they were unlike any language she knew, and as soon as she tried to capture them in her mind, they evaporated. On this morning, the Words strained to escape. They seared her throat and demanded release.

She didn’t know what would happen when they were released, beyond the sense of dread that gripped her. Dread that was stronger than the compulsion to give them voice. For now, but for how much longer?

She clenched her jaw and sprang for the basin of water beside her pallet. Her legs tangled in the rough blanket, twined around her from her nightly thrashing. She fell. Her jaw thunked against the woolen mat and the floorboards underneath sighed with the impact.

A single syllable jarred free.

The near-dark room dimmed to black, and she shivered as the sheen of sweat on her skin evaporated in an instant. The Words scented freedom and leapt to the front of her tongue, dancing on her lips. She lunged the rest of the way to the basin, shoved her face into the frigid water. The abrupt cold shocked the Words free. They escaped into the clay bowl, boiled to the surface. They licked her eyes and cheeks in their passing. She shivered again.

She clung there, arms clutching the now empty basin as she panted. She trembled from fatigue as much as fear. Only when she pulled her face away did she see it—the line of dark char on her woolen mat, where the first syllable had escaped.

It’s true… Saviors protect me, it’s real… But it was too late for that. The demons had marked her.

Her stomach turned over and clenched. She fought the bile down but couldn’t stop the shaking that rattled her to her core. She couldn’t pretend anymore—she was going to die.

Eventually, she summoned the energy to crawl back onto her pallet. She stared at the ceiling unseeing, her stomach knotted, her skin on fire. She didn’t notice when dark shifted to light. She barely noted her mother entering, could hear nothing of what she said. Her mind registered a voiced question, which she vaguely wished to answer but managed only a groan. She couldn’t make her jaws unclench, like her body was trying to prevent more Words from escaping.

When the healer arrived—was it midday?—she was wrung out. His hands were icy on her forehead and cheeks, his eyes foreign and too-blue, like glacial melt. She dragged herself out of her hazy torpor, seeking shelter in their cool depths. Then he turned away and the heat flared again.

…fever, she heard him say to her mother. His voice was as distant as the clouds. She tried to listen. —nothing I can do unless she gets worse. Then we might know what kind of sickness has taken her. The icy eyes shifted back and pinned her down. They were hard, his face worried with a suspicious frown.

Does he know? Her heart pounded.

If he did, he said nothing. Then he was gone, and she faded.

The sun was all wrong when she awoke. She rubbed grit from her eyes and pushed herself up on one elbow. She trembled from this small effort and wanted to collapse back onto her pallet, but the scent of water drew her up. Her fingers found an earthenware mug and brought it to her lips. It was too heavy. She drained it, gasped with relief as it drenched the parched layers of her tongue and throat. She fell back, coughing, as moisture returned. The cup was taken from her hands. She instinctively clutched after it.

Let me fill it, her mother said in a voice usually reserved for keeping Arten and Deric from pinching each other at Temple. The cup was taken again, and an arm reached under her shoulders to prop her up against the wall. The cup was returned and drained twice more before the desert in her mouth was gone.

Thank you, Mother, she croaked, and then startled at her own voice. It was rough and too deep.

Her mother’s brow had a vertical crease, and it shadowed her eyes. The woman said nothing, but her jaw tensed briefly. Arten heard the unspoken: We can’t afford for you to be sick. Guilt and shame flushed through Arten.

There was no need for her mother to say what she was thinking—Arten already knew it. It was really better that way. She tried to be strong but hearing the words in the confines of her head was much easier to bear than when they actually came out of her mother’s mouth. She chided herself, and it sounded in her mother’s voice: At least I won’t impose upon them much longer. I only have to slip up once, then they’ll know about my Taint, and I’ll burn. Father will be sad to lose another, but he’ll be better off without me. They all will. Not that I deserve the honor of the pyres.

It was Arten who broke the heavy silence, finally. How long…?

Three days.

Three days? she yelped. But that means…

Yes, there was a grimness about her mother’s mouth. Your father has gone without you. He took Deric. We hired a boy to mind the shop. The expense of that hung between them, oppressive. Rest and get well, she commanded. There was a hardness in her tone that belied the sentiment. She bustled around for a few moments with brisk efficiency, then left, sliding closed the thin panel that divided Arten’s room from the outer bedroom where Deric slept. Arten heard Deric’s door rattle closed, then heard the muffled padding of feet in the room beyond. She listened until she heard the soft creak of the stairs, her mother descending into the shop.

Arten lay back and groaned, forced her muscles to relax. Three days… They couldn’t afford a shop boy for one day, let alone three. How were they to manage? Her stomach churned around the knot of guilt. But there was nothing to do but rest for the moment. She was too weak to stand much less run the shop. So, she pulled the blanket up over her head and tried to sleep.

It eluded her. When she closed her eyes, she saw the healer’s eyes, his suspicion. He knows, he knows, he knows. Every jangle of the shop bell that trickled distantly through the floor, every clatter of hooves passing in the lane, set her heart racing. Were they come to fetch her away? Don’t be silly, she tried to tell herself, the venerated doesn’t have a horse. But the healer might. He might throw her across his horse’s withers and take her to the temple, turn her over to the venerated. Or he might bind her hands and drag her along beside him as he rode, so people would know she was Tainted. A hundred scenarios chased each other through her mind, each ending in chains and fire.

When her mother came back and left a plate and full basin of water at her bedside, Arten feigned sleep until she had gone out again. Her palms were slick against the clay mug, but the water was soothing to her still-fevered body, and the food sat comfortingly in her stomach.

Get up, get dressed.

Arten groaned. Morning light shafted though the crack in the sliding door, edging past the fuzzy silhouette of her mother, hands busy pinning hair on her head with brusque stabs, her face in shadow. Arten didn’t need to see her face to know that she was frowning. She inched herself up the wall on weak arms, nightclothes sticking to clammy skin, sleep and fever heavy in her limbs.

I’m not going to dress you, you’re not a child. If you don’t move any faster, you’re going in what you’re wearing. Her mother disappeared back into her bedroom, became an intermittent shadow that flickered across the beams of sunlight as she moved about. Arten heard the sharp clack of narrow-heeled boots and the susurration of satin. All wisps of fatigue fled her mind as she understood what her mother’s preparations implied.

She had been under the fever for three days. That made today the ninth day—Saviorsday. Her stomach turned and clenched, and she feared she would purge it, then immediately wondered if that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. I don’t think I feel well enough to go today, she called, endeavoring to sound as weak and sickly as possible. It was alarmingly easy.

Nonsense, her mother said, sliding the door wide and emerging from her room into Arten’s. She looked like one of the five saviors standing there, the morning light softening the hard angles of her crossed arms, the sharp lines of her face, burnishing the coppery folds of her dress and illuminating her hair so she glowed like an ember. Arten knew that today that ember would burn, not comfort. Get up, she said again, lips thinned.

Arten knew she was going to lose the argument, but she tried anyway. I might spread the fever. It’s not a good idea for me to go today.

Her mother’s look narrowed, the vertical crease appearing between her brows. It had been the wrong thing to say. A burning liar won’t ascend, her mother quoted quietly.

She suspects, Arten thought, panicked. Her eyes darted to the telling ashy scuff on the rug and quickly away. She drew the blanket close up to her chest, fingers clutched in it to hide their trembling. Did the healer tell her? Did I say something while I was fevered? Her mind spun uselessly. What do I do, what do I do? It kept spinning as her mother hauled her to her feet and shoved her into her best dress, despite her earlier threat. She risked only brief glances at her mother, while she sat her down and scrubbed a brush through her hair, equally anxious about drawing her attention as she was about what her mother was thinking. How much did she suspect?

That will have to do, her mother declared at last, grimly. It’s a good thing your father isn’t here to see you disgracing us today. Before Arten could more than register the pang of guilt, her mother dragged her up from the bench, her hand a steel band around Arten’s upper arm, and propelled her through Deric’s room, the common area, down the stairs, and out into the bright world. Arten tripped over the threshold, nearly tumbled down their three stone steps, but her mother’s grip tightened and kept her bodily on her feet. They marched down the dusty lane at a pace that had Arten’s breath stinging and her shoulder aching when she lagged or stumbled and her mother yanked her onwards.

They lived only two miles from the temple, but the walk was interminable. When other families began to join them on the road, Arten’s mother hissed at her, Make an effort at least, Arten! These are our neighbors. Arten tried to stand straighter, to paste a neutral smile on her face, but it was all she could do to keep up. With every person who greeted them, who paused to comment on how ill she looked, she felt a stab of fear. Could they see her secret? Would they reveal it or help her? Who could she trust? The congregation of the faithful drew a close net around her as they approached the temple.

The temple was a humble stone building encircled by a broad flattish lawn, neither of which were large enough to hold the entire village anymore. Because her family was on the east side of the temple, they attended morning services. The western half would displace them in the evening. Tall narrow windows were set with stained glass in the thick, ancient stone, and a small dome perched above the exact center of the building. How had she never noted before the rusted iron girding the dome or the ruby flames that burned along each pane of glass?

Nestled near the entrance of the temple property were two small, squat buildings. They were covered in vines, and the surrounding underbrush had nearly reclaimed them, but she had played in and around them enough to know they were there, to know what purpose they had been built for. They pulled at her today, as she and her mother passed. She suppressed a shudder. She dragged her eyes away, focused on the temple, on the rough lawn under her feet, on the good-wishes of their neighbors for her health, on the careful way her mother avoided answering questions about her illness.

When they finally passed through the temple doors, Arten felt a well of relief. The temple was safe. Here, she was protected by the five saviors. Within these walls, no demons could dwell. As the heavy doors scraped closed, sealing her in amongst her neighbors and friends, she looked to the altar, her eyes drifting up to the dome above it. To the manacles that hung from the ironwork there, chains looping like curtain swags, clinking faintly in the breeze that filtered through the slats in the high stone.

She released her tension in a long, soft breath through her teeth. The saviors will protect me, she told herself. Almost believed it.

Despite her exhaustion, she threw herself into the devotions. Prayed with the venerated, prayed more fervently than she ever had before. She threw her fear against the refrains and affirmations, a pleading, a bargain. Let the five protect us from the Taint. Let the righteous bear witness to the sacrifice, and let the suffering renew our world. She prayed silently to be saved from the Taint, for the purity of her soul, for the honor of her family. She embraced her neighbors and offered blessings with a fixed, frantic smile, even as a small part of her mind asked, Would you turn me over if you knew?

The press of bodies, the fervor of her prayers, the heat of summer pounding on the stone walls, that was what caused her perspiration. Not the fever. Not the Words. When the breeze filtered down from the dome and licked across her brow, she imagined it was one of the five saviors looking upon her with pity and compassion. Tried to push away the images of a possessive god caressing her head, claiming her.

They broke at midday, when the altar was fully shadowed by the dome, and filed out of the temple. She swayed on her feet, but her mother’s grip kept her upright, steered her through the crowd as they socialized and traded news with the neighbors. Arten knew that the pretense of enjoying the exchange mattered. So, while her mother pretended to care about their neighbors, Arten pretended to be well and meek and uninteresting. Her head ached from the sun. Her stomach began to cramp with fear again now that they were outside the safety of the temple walls. She did her best not to look towards the small outbuildings, to pay attention to her mother and be dutiful. But she could feel them, wrenching at the periphery of her vision, tugging at her thoughts, lancing spears of cold dread down her spine despite the heat.

At long last, they were called to confession. Arten waited at the foot of the altar, eyes fixated on the relics of the five saviors that hung high above, while her mother was closeted with Venerated Vachel. She normally would have crept to the wall behind the pillar and pressed her ear to that one stone near the floor, where the mortar had been chipped out by some enterprising person, long before she discovered it, in order to overhear what her mother was saying about her. It was better to confess things the venerated already knew. To surprise him with sins he was not prepared for was never pleasant. He’d only struck her once, but his words were worse than any blow. Today, though, she knelt at the altar and cast her prayers to the five saviors. Prayed that she was wrong.

The richly carved wooden door opened, her mother emerged, head bowed piously, and perched on a bench to reflect as Arten was called back.

Blessings, child, Venerated Vachel smiled as he welcomed Arten into the small confessional room, the picture of serenity. The door snicked closed behind her.

Thank you, Venerated, she replied, as was expected, and upon you. Her back was already slimy with sweat.

Something weighs heavily upon you, does it not? he pried gently as he settled into the more comfortable of the two chairs in the room. Arten seated herself after, perching on the very edge of the finely-crafted chair.

What do you mean? she said, glad he couldn’t know the pounding of her heart at his words. She couldn’t exactly lie. He had a knack for sniffing out lies.

I understand you have been ill with a fever.

Does he…? Her blood roared in her ears, and she almost missed what he said next, had to replay the sounds as he looked at her expectantly.

These trials are reminders of how closely demons dwell, and help strengthen us against their attacks, he had said.

Yes, Venerated, she said, showing him the same false piety her mother so recently paraded, even as the word demon pealed through her as strongly as the temple bells, and something deep in her writhed in response.

It is especially important, during these times of trial, to take council from those who offer it, as I am about to.

Yes, Venerated.

With your father and brother away, your mother must bear the burden of your illness alone. It is a difficult time for you both. You must help her as much as you can. Since Deric cannot be here, you must recover quickly and do your best to fill your brother’s role. He must have misinterpreted Arten’s frown, because his tone sharpened, Selfishness and sloth invite the demons in. You must be compassionate for your mother’s trials, as she is with yours, though you do not deserve it. You must not be mean-spirited, but generous in offering yourself to her service…

Arten kept her face neutral, her answers obliging, as he continued on in that vein for some time. She felt the familiar weight of guilt at the reminder that she was undeserving of her mother's care. The venerated knew her secret, knew the curse she brought to her family. He reminded her constantly. As though she could ever forget.

When he felt she had been sufficiently warned against the evil of which her heart, thoughts, and actions were capable, and the dire consequences of anything but absolute submission to her mother, he rose. Her stomach jumped as he spoke a blessing over her, a spasm of relief.

There had been no mention of Taint. She practically floated out of the room. The only narrowed, suspicious eyes were her mother’s. Arten quickly blanked her face. Happiness was not permitted to her. They marched home, her mother once again dragging her by the arm as the heat and the day’s emotions turned her legs gelatinous. Even the pain from that grip was muted by the gentle buzz of secret relief zapping through Arten.

She didn’t tell him, she thought, staring through the road dust unseeing. Does that mean she doesn’t think I’m Tainted? Does that mean she’s protecting me? Something visceral and wrong clanged through her at the thought. No, I'm unworthy of her protection. Either she doesn’t know, or she’s waiting for proof. Perhaps she’s waiting for Father’s advice. Father will know what to do. That was a comforting thought. She clung to it for the rest of the trudge home, curled up around it on her pallet. She just had to make it another few weeks until he returned, then he would tell her she was being silly, that she wasn’t Tainted. She wouldn’t burn.

I just have to make sure I show everyone how normal I am until the next Decaday, she thought just before sleep crashed around her. Three weeks that may as well be an eternity.

The next day, whether from her natural toughness or her desperate prayers throughout the night, she was strong enough to ease her way down the stairs to the shop. Three days of expense on her behalf. Something in her stomach writhed at the thought. Fortunately, there had been no dreams. She had been terrified that her weakened state would prevent her from fighting the pull of the Words. But they had not come. A mercy from the saviors, or a sign that the Taint was a figment of her mind?

She sat on the tall stool behind the long counter inlaid with broad panels of clear glass, an extravagance and evidence of the superiority of her father’s shop. Mikneilson’s counter was half as long and was made only of wood (that was infrequently polished). She rested her cheek and forearms on the glass, moving by inches to find cooler spots on the smooth panes. She was sweltering in the heat, longed to be outside where at least the breeze could reach her.

Her mother had specifically forbade her to leave the shop for any reason until she returned. Arten had not thought to bring in enough water to even use that to cool herself. Why was it so hot this early in the season?

She thought of her father. He would still be on the road, wouldn’t reach Laird until tomorrow or the day after. She imagined him, sitting in the driver’s seat, head shaded with his battered summer hat. It was midday, and he would be stopping soon to give the horses a rest, to catch a quick nap in the grass under the wagon.

Deric was probably already napping in the bed. He would spend the break drawing the horses or some of the local birds or an interesting cloud. She felt a stab of jealousy. She would have been pestering her father with questions every waking moment, because he knew everything. Not wasting the time sleeping. Or she’d have been sitting in the back, snuggled against aromatic grain sacks, listening to her father recount his merchanting adventures. And in the afternoon, she would have taken her turn at driving, feeling the dance of harness through the reins, attuned to the secret messages the horses sent each other and herself if she only listened properly. If only she were there.

You’ve always been jealous that Deric gets to mind the shop. Now that you’ve been given the opportunity, you’re still jealous of him, she scowled at herself, the words echoing in her mother’s tones. Her normal job, stocking the shelves and counting the inventory, was less glamorous than tending the customers, taking money, giving change, measuring goods by weight, length, and count. She should be excited that she was going to be able to do these things to her heart’s content for the next three weeks. But she hated he was taking her place at the fair. It was the one thing she looked forward to every year. The one time she could be unrepentant and feel joy.

Besides which, she justified her unhappiness further, I still have to do my normal job. I’m doing twice the work, and he’s having all the fun. She ignored the logical retort that normally he would be stuck doing two jobs and, instead, focused on all she was missing. The merchant’s fair where people from all around gathered to buy and sell their goods. Exotic spices from foreign lands, cattle and sheep and horses, soap and candles, fine porcelain dishes and dainty cups, beads and jewels, little mechanical gadgets she didn’t understand, powders and potions, bolts of cloth both luxurious and plain. So many marvels, such interesting people.

The crowds, the bustle, the opulence of it—she loved everything about the fair. Learning to barter for the goods, to identify a good price, how to tell quality, when to demand proof of ownership. Sleeping in the wagon bed, under the stars or under the canvas awning while the patter of rain lulled her to sleep. The dusty drive out there, behind their unmatched team, jouncing on the driver’s seat. The slow drive back, wheels groaning under the weight of their purchases.

A glitter of bells announced the arrival of a customer. Arten peeled herself off the glass, scrubbed at the marks of her face with the corner of her apron, and contrived to look alert as the woman rattled out her demands at an expectant clip.

The afternoon stretched on in fits and starts, and Arten wilted. By the time her mother returned and closed the shop for the night, Arten was too miserable to want to do anything but shuck off her damp clothes and sleep. Even the thought of food was unpleasant.

Arten, come in here, her mother called from the small office. Arten slithered off the stool and padded over to the doorway. Her mother sat at the narrow desk, pulling out the stiff-bound ledger books. The room looked so much bigger without her father in it. His head brushed the underside of the stairs when he sat at the desk, and he always looked like a foot crammed into last year’s shoe. Well, she snapped, eying Arten with an expectant frown, bring the sales ledger!

I don’t—what sales ledger?

What sales—don’t tell me you didn’t record your sales today…

I—I didn’t know I was supposed to, Arten said in a small, faltering voice. She wanted to melt into the floor.

Her mother emitted a strangled noise that conveyed precisely her disappointment and irritation. Well, she said, and Arten quavered inside at how calm she was trying to sound. You must simply do a complete inventory tomorrow to find the items that were sold, and then contrive to remember to whom they were sold and the amounts of sale, which you will write down, so we can reconcile the accounts and tender tomorrow night. Under her breath, she added, This is going to be a nightmare. Jahn will have something to answer for when he gets back. Arten pretended not to have heard, since the words were not for her ears, but it sparked something in her. Some ember of defiance, a coal of anger.

She held it close, the motion of her breath in her chest nurturing it into