Daughter of the Dragon

Chapter 2: The Stone (UPDATED)

Valant and Haran, having climbed the escarpment by the waterfall, made their way upstream along the riverbank. They were nearing their goal: the stream pools above the waterfall. Perfect for dipping on a hot day, well away from the prying eyes of the adults. The two boys had expected to find Darya and the girls there, but the pools were deserted.

"Where are they?" Haran said and looked around. "They should be here."

"Maybe they went further? Up by the big silver beech?"

The river was running fairly high after the rains. When it did, the reasonable thing to do was keep walking upstream. Further upriver, there was a pool, out of the current, in the shadow of an old tree. It wasn't far, but the trail faded to nothing, and you had to climb across stone blocks and fallen trees to get there.

Haran groaned. "Stupid girls. There isn't that much water. Bathing here would be fine."

Valant nodded in agreement. But they'd come too far to turn back now. The only option was to push on.

When they finally did find the girls, they were not—to the boys' disappointment—bathing naked in the river. Instead, they were standing in the river, skirts hiked up, next to a massive tree that had fallen into the water.

Haran's sister was there. Darya had a little less red in her hair and none of her brother's freckles, but they had the same features. It was as if they had been made in the same mold, but Haran had been painted in his father's colors, while Darya was modeled after their late mother. She was a year and a half younger than her brother—just shy of sixteen—but almost as tall. Where Haran was filling out and becoming a man, Darya was slender as a sapling, with hardly any signs she was nearly a woman.

Valant liked Darya. Really liked her. When they were younger, when Haran was the only child who would play with the orphan boy, Darya had always followed them around. When you've only had one friend in the world, you couldn't be too picky—even if that meant playing with your friend's little sister. But for the past year or two—and especially this summer—Valant had started noticing things about Darya that made his heart skip and eyes linger longer than they should.

He tried—hard though it was—not to think too much about her. It would never be them. Darya was from a good family. Her father was one of the most influential freeholders in the village, the First Alderman of the Council. She'd marry some wealthy farmer's son, maybe from down by Whitebridge or up near Oakhill. Next year Darya would turn seventeen. She'd be betrothed by then and married the summer after, as was the custom for young women—and men—in the Highland Kingdom. Settling down and starting a family was expected by all young adults. Finding a good match—usually with the help of family and village elders—was essential.

Valant, on the other hand, would be lucky to find a wife at all. He had a craft and a valuable one at that, but Rijek was the village's blacksmith and would continue to be so for many years to come. Valant could stay in Stelmond, do odd jobs, help in the fields, and assist Rijek when he needed a second pair of hands, but he'd be a poor man, hardly fit to marry. Or he could forge his journeyman's tools, head out into the world, and probably never return to the village. Neither scenario had any room for Darya.

Ingela and Andrea, the Sweton sisters, were standing in the river next to Haran's sister. The elder of the pair, Ingela, with the fiery hair, was a year older than Darya. By a strange twist of fate, she shared birthdays with Valant. Not his actual birthday—no one knew which day that was—but the one the villagers had given the child they found in the woods. Seeing as the boy could walk but not talk, they had decided the child was a year old—and the day he was found was declared his birthday.

Valant didn't care too much for Ingela, but he knew Haran did, so he always pretended to like her to keep his friend on his toes. There was a chance Haran and Ingela would tie the knot. She was from a respected family, freeholders for generations. If only her father could muster the dowry. More likely, he'd drink it all up, and Ingela would end up marrying someone older and poorer than Haran. Probably for the best—his friend deserved a better match than the sour-faced redhead.