The Dragon Oracles. Part One: The Call of the Crown. (Sample)

CHAPTER 4 - Brea's Lot: Part One

CHAPTER 3

Brea's Lot: Part One

The Aldrieg Caves, near the peaceful village of Braylair. One hundred twenty leagues west of Bailryn.

It was supposed to be Brea Loian's day for behaving like a normal eighteen-year-old girl. She should be down at the lake, catching up with friends and others her age, maybe even fishing. But no, Rek had to fall asleep while lounging in the Moon Pool. Silly dragon.

The Aldrieg cave was a poor substitute for a sunny morning in the meadow. It was dark, damp, and never was there any chance of a visitor. Not that she had much time for talking. But still, it would be nice if they allowed a friend to come and say hello, occasionally.

Brea perched on the only chair set at an ancient stone table. From where she sat, she could see the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees that lay beyond the cave entrance. Behind the table, a wide shelf that stretched along the wall of the cave. The shelf was where Brea kept some of her larger items... mostly mixing bowls and pans—it reminded her of her mother's kitchen, sort of. To her right, there was a natural alcove. Two spans deep and one wide, the alcove was where she would take a nap in a narrow cot when there wasn't enough time to go home between chores. Within this curtained off niche, she also kept her collection of rare herbs... safely out of the way of clumsy feet.

As usual, the tabletop was crowded with her stuff. Books, scales, tools; useful items she had gathered over the past five years. And then there were those things that came as part of the job, like the Lier'sinn—a large silver bowl used for seeing far-off places. As strange as it had once seemed, they were all familiar to her now. Indeed, she loved her work, most days. Still, a day at the lake would have been nice.

Brea had spent the last few minutes chopping up herbs and roots. As well as her normal clutter, small piles of green, yellow, and purple peppered the tabletop. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a touch of ousblud, a few sprigs of kharoe, and some chopped kalli root—all gathered from the woods around the Bren'alor valley.

She worked quickly. Once she had finished the cutting and chopping, she begun weighing portions on a small brass scale, delicately pinching off a little of the herb, or maybe adding a tiny smidgen... she was very fussy about her tonics, and this had to be right. Once satisfied, she would pour the measure into a large mortar standing on a plinth of its own beside the table.

The mixture was almost ready, just one final ingredient.

Brea hated this part. Leaning back against the battered chair, she sighed before reaching for the knife. After wiping it with a clean cloth, she slowly ran the blade through the candle flame and placed it in a half-full bowl of lemon water. While that soaked, she checked her palms. It was a futile exercise; she always cut her left hand. But the act of prodding and poking took her mind off the knife for a while.

After a moment's pause—a long moment—she took up the knife with her right hand and ran it over her left palm. The cold, clean blade sliced into her flesh. Brea flinched and sucked in a hissing breath through her teeth. Her shoulders folded up to her ears. Why is the sting always such a surprise? There must be a better way than this. She pulled the blade all the way across before relaxing her shoulders and looking at the cut. Quickly, she put down the knife and clenched her fist above the mortar.

There she waited, watching the blood drip into the bowl, clenching her fist, tight then loose, to coax blood from the wound. It was a slow job at times. After a while, she began to pack away her equipment with her free hand: closing the books, arranging the bowls, and pushing them all neatly into a line across the back of the table. Might as well do something useful. A minute passed—another look in the bowl. That should be enough.