The Saint of Dragons

Something to Chill Your Bones

FOR SIMON, THE NIGHT had been a stomach-churning trauma. The
creature could not be denied. It had been as real and absolutely terrifying
as his father had promised. It took hours before he could stop shaking.

When he and Aldric finally left Alaythia and got down the street, Simon was mortified to find himself throwing up out of pure fear.
Simon wanted to die. His legs buckled; his arms were useless.
His fears had overcome him. But Aldric did not humiliate him. He did the kindest thing Simon could imagine. He kept his stride, and did not mention it directly.

He simply said the body has a way of turning against you in a panic, in car
accidents, or in warfare, and that Simon had done passably well under
the circumstances. He said what they both needed was a good bath, a
fresh set of clothes, and a night’s rest.

He delivered on each of them, back at the ship, except for the restful part. Aldric handed Simon oversized, homemade clothes, saying he had
once worn them as a child himself. Then the Knight fell into a sentimental mood. And as the night wore on, drinking an old wine he’d
saved for the occasion, Aldric grew happier and more pleased with
himself.

He told Simon stories, though few were about himself. They were mostly about his brother, Ormand, and how Aldric wished he’d seen the final outcome of their work.

“We finished the last of them,” he said to the sky with weary joy. “They’re gone, Ormand. Mankind can sleep.” He turned to Simon. “The White Dragon is dead. And you were with me, right there till the end.”
It wasn’t really praise, but Simon felt privileged.

He’d seen what no one else on earth could have witnessed—the darkest of its evils destroyed.

It was only when Aldric thought of the future that his mood turned bleak. “It’s all going to be different now. Don’t have much use in me, I’m afraid,” he said. “My talents aren’t exactly in demand. I just never really thought it would happen. No more Dragons to slay. No horizons to conquer. I may end up missing the wretched things.”

Simon felt bad for him, but wasn’t sure how to say it.

“I’m not exactly sure what I’ll do with myself,” Aldric said into his cup. “I suppose I could teach fencing at your fancy school.”

Simon wasn’t sure if he was joking. Aldric’s combat style would not
be welcomed there, and his edgy way didn’t seem right for a teacher.
Thankfully, he seemed to realize it.

“Maybe I’ll find work as a bodyguard,” he mumbled. “That’s good pay, you know. A decent living. So don’t look sorry for me—I’ll
be fine.”

They stayed awake until the early hours, learning about one another,
and listening to the lapping of the water against the boat whenever there was silence. They didn’t get up until late morning.

“The woman,” said Aldric, waking slowly.

“What?” asked Simon groggily.

“We might check on the woman,” said Aldric. “People don’t always fare so well after an encounter.”

“Oh,” said Simon, hopeful.

“What was her name? Amathia,
Arathia…”

Grumpily, Aldric brushed Fenwick the fox away from the kitchen, and Simon heard him say rather worriedly,

“Alaythia.”

Alaythia had been busy while they slept. She had spent a restless night in a hotel and returned to her apartment early in the morning, against police orders.

She found the place a sorrowful mess. Half of it was gone, and only a few of her paintings survived. No one would miss them. They were a loss only to her. Her paintings were just streaks of green and amber, overlaid with
strange, runelike writing that she had painted feverishly since she was a
little girl. She didn’t know what they meant, but she couldn’t stop painting them.