"By that argument anyone could be a mystic," Templar told him. "Maybe I'm a mystic. I predict that tomorrow the sky will be blue, it will be summer, and somewhere some Melian will start singing."
Omen sniffed and was about to reply when, to his surprise, Kyr looked over his shoulder at the two of them and gravely shook his head. "You're wrong about summer," he said, indicating that despite having carried on the conversation with the cats, he had been listening to Omen and Templar. Luckily he didn't seem bothered by anything they had said.
Templar reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. "Actually Kyr, that's the one part of my prediction I'm pretty certain about. It could technically rain tomorrow, in which case the sky won't be blue, and for all I know the Sundragons may have declared tomorrow some sort of national day of silence in which case there might be no singing. But it will still be summer no matter what we do."
Kyr thought about that a moment and then went perfectly still. "The ocean will still sing, and the darkness will still stare," he said finally. "Even if you don't look at it." Then he turned his attention back to the cats.
Templar threw Omen an "I told you so" look. Omen winced.
They veered north along a stone path and emerged near the shore of the small lake in the center of the park. Up ahead, they spied Omen's cousin Bryenth Deldano and their friend Liethan Corsair approaching from the market. Liethan, golden-haired and blue-eyed, with the deeply tanned skin of the island-dwelling Corsair clan, called out to them. "There you guys are! How did the lessons go?"
Omen mockingly raised an eyebrow when he noticed that, unlike Bryenth who was dressed like a proper Melian nobleman complete with a starched undershirt, brocade doublet, finely stitched breeches and well-polished boots, the younger Liethan was barefoot and windblown as if he'd come from the beach, despite the dragons' warnings to stay clear of the shore.
"Archery practice went great!" Templar quipped enthusiastically.
Bryenth brushed his ink-black hair away from his eyes. "I thought you were teaching Kyr the sword?"
"Swords are good when the wyverns attack," Kyr said sagely. "They bite, bite, bite."
"At least the bakers stayed out of it," Templar snorted.
Omen ignored him. "Sword practice went fine. Kyr did great!"
"HUNGRY!" Tormy shouted with a snap of his tail.
"Ah, lunch again," Liethan remarked. "I'm in."
Omen grinned as Tormy hopped forward, skipping and dancing awkwardly before them like a clumsy kitten. The large cat made his way around the small lake and beelined to the nearest tavern, The Harps. Guess that's where we're eating. Tormy does love the way they fawn over him.
The Harps was also one of the few taverns where Tormy could come and go with ease as the entire southern wall of the building had been designed to swing open wide like barn doors so that the evening crowds who came to hear the bards performing inside could spill over into the park itself. Also makes it easier for the dragons to hear the music when they're not in their human forms. Some of the Melian dragons preferred to appear as human, walking among their people as if one of them. Others rarely transformed, far preferring their golden draconic bodies.
Omen's eyes fell on one such dragon, Lady Frey. The enormous golden-scaled, winged creature slept under the willows by the lake, her great wings folded around her body and her long tail trailing.
Omen could recall only ever seeing Frey in her human form once. He'd accidentally interrupted her tutoring Bryenth at the Deldano Hold.
Mathematical analysis. Yuck.
More used to Frey in her dragon shape, at first Omen hadn't recognized her as the fine-featured, stunning human woman inviting him to join the lesson. But her melodious voice, her telltale sunlight-golden hair and the faint trace of scales highlighting the sides of her cheeks had given away her draconic nature.
But Frey typically preferred her dragon form, and was now resting at the edge of the grass near the very stone path they were walking upon. Omen swallowed a yelp as he realized that his large, furry orange and white companion was blithely skipping toward the outstretched reptilian tail and the sharp bone-spikes that ridged it. Gamboling happily, Tormy could be a veritable whirlwind of destruction. The great plume of his silky tail alone had destroyed more than one of Omen's mother's prized antiques. Should probably warn Tormy to tread lightly, before he—
"Watch out! You'll wake the dragon and she'll squash the stuffin' out of the &^$@^#% squirrels!" tiny Tyrin called out from his roost on Kyr's shoulder.
Foulmouthed little stinker!
Omen made a grab for the pint-sized cat.
The skinny orange kitten leaped from Kyr's shoulder and raced straight toward the sleeping dragon and the dozen squirrels frolicking near her glittering form as if bewitched by the glint of gold in her scales.
"Hey, Dragon! Frey, wake up! You is smooshing the furbags if you is rolling over!" Tyrin shouted as he raced across the grounds. "I is not being allowed to eat them, Kyr is saying so! So you is not smooshing them!"
A startled squirrel abandoned a treasure it had discovered between the dragon's toes and dashed away, chittering wildly.
"Tyrin!" Omen hissed, not certain who looked more surprised, his brother or the Melians strolling through the park. Poor Bryenth looks mortified!
"Now you've done it," Templar, ever helpful, remarked gleefully and dropped back several steps so that he would not be included in any potential fallout. He waved a hand, adorned with numerous flashing rings, as if saluting Omen's imminent demise.
"Oops," Kyr exclaimed, turning wide-eyed toward Omen. "Waking dragons is bad, isn't it?" The boy looked panic-stricken, and Omen placed his hand upon his brother's bony shoulder to calm him.
Tyrin paused in his charge toward the dragon to glance back. "I is not waking her. Tormy is. I is helping!" Satisfied that his motives were understood, he headed forward again. "Hey, Frey! Frey! Frey!"
Omen cringed. "It's Lady Frey!" he called to the cat, figuring it was too late to tell him not to disturb the dragon. Even he, a prince of the Kingdom of Lydon, didn't address a Sundragon without some sign of respect. I might not be a Melian, but I know better than to approach a dragon without invitation.
"Lady! Lady! Lady!" Tyrin shouted, which sounded even worse to Omen than the kitten merely yawping her name.
This time the dragon's eyes opened, dark blue sapphire glinting in the sunlight as she turned her gaze on the small tangerine-colored kitten approaching. Frey's enormous claws dug deep furrows in the grass as she pushed herself upward. She was large enough to swat even the giant Tormy cat aside with one swipe, a possibility little Tyrin seemed oblivious to.
The dragon raised her head, the golden swept-back horns crowning her brow glinting in the sunlight. She turned with a serpentine sway to focus on Omen, the cats, and his companions.
Templar and Liethan moved surreptitiously away from Omen, abandoning him to his fate. But Omen's cousin, Bryenth, son of a Melian Hold Lord, stepped swiftly forward, one hand held over his heart as he bowed to the dragon.
"My apologies for disturbing you, Lady Frey," Bryenth proclaimed, looking like a child about to be chastised. Omen knew that Frey was in fact Bryenth's Hold Dragon; he'd grown up with her as his tutor for all things Melian, and the mortification on his face was most genuine. Bryenth wasn't like Templar, capable of faking emotion when it suited him.
Tyrin turned, outrage burning in his amber eyes, tail fluffing up twice its normal size. "I is not disturbing her!" he yowled. "I is saving the @#$$%&! squirrels!"
There were gasps of shock from those nearby who heard the terrible word — Terizkandian if Omen had heard correctly — spill from the kitten's mouth.
Templar! Templar and Liethan, still moving away, could both barely hold back snickers. No doubt, we have Templar to thank for the cat's improved vocabulary. Why that kitten loves to swear, I don't know! And Templar encourages it!
Omen took several swift strides forward, snatched the kitten off the ground, and gave him ba
ck to Kyr. Hands trembling, the boy accepted the tiny creature and gripped him close to his chest.
Frey tilted her enormous scaled head, her golden wings shifting and drawing in tightly to her body as she prepared to leap into the air and abandon the no longer peaceful park.
"I'm sorry, Lady Frey," Omen said with a respectful bow of his head. He saw the chagrin on Bryenth's face and sweat started to form on the nape of his neck. "We really didn't mean to bother you. Please don't leave on our account. We're just going to have lunch in the tavern, and Tyrin is—"
"No longer speaking Sul'eldrine," the dragon finished for him, her tone soft and low, like a deep, musical purr. The Sundragons' greatest magic lay in their music, and there was not one of them who did not have a hypnotic voice.
Omen cringed inwardly. When both Tormy and Tyrin had first joined their family, they had spoken only Sul'eldrine, the Holy Language of the Gods. Since then they had learned to speak both Merchant's Common and the musical tongue of Melia. And obviously some Terizkandian. "Yes, well, they're terribly clever," he said self-consciously.
"We is learning Melian!" Tyrin agreed eagerly. "On account of the fact that we is teaching Kyr to speak."
Everyone within earshot, the dragon included, stared at the large-eyed elvin child clutching the orange kitten.
"Is she awake?" the boy whispered to Omen, disoriented and distressed.
Omen smiled encouragingly, hiding his worry. "She's speaking to us, Kyr, that's usually a good indication that someone is awake."
Kyr shook his head, his white-gold hair falling into his eyes. "Not always. Sometimes they speak and they're not even there, remember? Did I upset a dragon? I'm not supposed to do that. Your mother told me not to."
Imagining there were all sorts of things his mother had told the boy not to do, Omen moved protectively in front of his brother. He glared at the gathered crowd, daring anyone to mock Kyr's aberrant behavior. Kyr's mind doesn't work like everyone else's. I'll punch the first person who says anything.
But it was Tormy who smoothed things over. Tormy, who'd paused in his prance toward the tavern when he realized there was some disturbance behind him, came galumphing back to their side with a happy chirp and a purr. "This is being Lady Frey, Kyr," Tormy exclaimed. "And she is being really real on account of the fact that I can see her. She is waking up because of the squirrels. Squirrels is being naughty, because they is being so noisynessness, and we is not being allowed to eat them because they is having little squirrel fists that they is shaking at us. But that is being fair and fine because we is going to eat lunch — right Omy, we is going to eat lunch, and you is going to sing, so the dragon is being happy."
A bright gleam sparked deep in Frey's eyes by the time Tormy had finished speaking, and Omen realized with intense relief that, far from being truly annoyed, the dragon was amused. "You're going to sing?" She lifted her great reptilian head and turned her gleaming sapphire orbs toward Omen.
Unable to answer right away, Omen cleared his throat. "I would be honored, my lady." He bowed again, glad that his cat's sweet nature had charmed the Sundragon so swiftly. "Any song you desire."
"Are you up to the Deldano standards?" Frey asked curiously. "You are no Beren Deldano, but they say you have his blood. Are you as good as him?"
"Better." Omen smirked. "You forget, 7 is my father."
"Ah yes, you and your strange mixed-breed history," Frey remarked. "So impossible to keep your ridiculous bloodlines straight. S'van Daenoth is indeed a sublime musician."
Omen bit back the response to that. It's 7, not S'van. Mother hates it when people call him S'van. But he caught himself before making the mistake of correcting a Sundragon.
Frey sighed and settled back down into the grass, laying her head upon her front claws and closing her sapphire eyes. "Very well," she commanded, seemingly content to fall back asleep. "Go into the tavern, feed your cats and the boy, and then sing to me 'The Ballad of the Maiden and the White Rose' and all will be forgiven."
Omen blanched at that. Wasn't that the song Kyr just mentioned? The song requested had over fifty verses, and as it was currently in high favor in the city of Melia, a bard was expected to sing it in its entirety without error. Creepy. Kyr mentioned the verses too. Omen glanced over at Templar who was now also giving Kyr a curious look.
"Oh, that is being my absolutelynessness favoritest song!" Tormy proclaimed — the same proclamation he made about every song Omen had ever sung.
Already numerous eavesdropping Melians had scrambled to their feet and headed into the tavern, eagerly discussing the promised performance: "I don't think he'll get past the part with the mermaid." "I've only heard him sing the chorus." "I think Prince Armand is so gallant."
Omen blushed, wondering if he could talk himself into something a little easier than "The Maiden and the White Rose."
"I like 'The Turning Wheel' too," Omen began, but Bryenth's sharp elbow to his ribs stifled his attempt to dissemble. "Of course, my lady," he amended immediately.
Omen began to follow his cat to the tavern, pausing only briefly to throw a dramatic disappointed look at Templar and Liethan. Snickering at a safe distance . . . Just you wait, he thought as he ushered Kyr past the tranquil Sundragon.
Chapter 3: Clear as Fog
OMEN
When they arrived at The Harps, innkeeper Jarlen enthusiastically hurried them all inside. The man's eager hand-wringing gave away his joy at Omen's command performance. He probably sent out runners to gather up more customers.
Jarlen showed them straight to their usual table near the hearth. The corner was lit with glowing magical lamps which illuminated the shadowed spaces that the sunlight coming in through the great opening in the tavern's wall failed to reach.
"If it pleases you, my lords," Jarlen chatted away as his wife began setting bottles of wine — the lush variety Templar favored — upon the table. Templar, spoiled by the sumptuous bounty of his father's court, had extravagant tastes and always ordered one of the more expensive vintages. "Your table is already prepared," Jarlen continued cheerfully. "And here's your pillow, Master Tormy." He plumped up a large blue pillow with a flourish. "Your appetizers are on their way now. Please enjoy fresh peaches with clotted cream and a drizzle of dragon-bee honey." He looked pleased with himself.
"That sounds wonderful, Jarlen." Omen patted the man's arm. "Thank you for your kind consideration."
The table itself was one that Omen knew Jarlen had purchased especially for him and his cat. The legs of this table were nearly a foot thick, the tabletop an enormous polished slab of wood that could take any weight placed upon it, including Tormy's overly large form.
When Omen had first brought Tormy to the tavern, the cat had been small enough to sit in one of the chairs. But as he'd grown from kitten to beast, Tormy had begun sitting on the floor, resting his front paws on the table.
Jarlen's daughters had diligently sewn together the special pillow that now lay at the foot of the table. Tormy had oohed and ahhed the first time he'd seen it, knowing immediately it had been made for him.
Now Tormy happily sat down on his pillow, folding his fluffy orange tail around his body. He ran his long tongue over his cheeks hungrily in anticipation of the coming meal.
"And here, my lad," Jarlen said to Kyr, holding out the chair next to Tormy's pillow. The tavern owner smiled benevolently at the boy.
Far cry from the first time I brought Kyr to the tavern.
During that first visit, Kyr had cheerfully grabbed a knife and begun scoring the surface of the table. Far too polite to say anything critical to such august company, Jarlen's distress over the ruined table had been obvious. That evening Omen had included an extra bag of gold when he'd paid his tab, apologizing for Kyr's behavior and paying for the table many times over.
Jarlen had of course graciously accepted the apology, and the incident had been mostly forgotten until Jarlen had later tried to return the money. The man had explained that far from damaging the surface
of the table, Kyr had transformed it from the purely functional into an object of beauty. The boy had carved the guardian figure of Sundragon Amar Lir Drathos with breathtaking detail. Kyr's skill as an artist was undeniable, and it wasn't the first time Omen had witnessed his remarkable abilities. When Omen had found his feral, starving brother in a dead and empty city, Kyr had been carving an army of faces and figures into the crumbling stones of old buildings in an effort to keep his lonely soul company.
The boy continued his carving every time they visited the tavern — adding more reliefs so that nearly a third of the surface of the tabletop was covered with some recognizable figure. The table was now considered a prized work of art.
And true to form, Kyr grabbed a knife the moment he sat down and leaned over the table, his skinny fingers already working the blade against the wood as he carved some new contour that haunted his mind.
"And you, my lord." Jarlen motioned toward the raised stage. One of Jarlen's daughters had already placed a lute upon the chair for Omen's performance. The instrument was one of a dozen that normally hung on the walls of the tavern.
I miss my lute. His favorite lute had been the victim of an unfortunate accident involving Tormy, fueled by Templar's announcement that there was a trout inside the instrument. Still haven't forgiven Templar for that!
"And don't skip any of the verses," Bryenth warned Omen as he stepped onto the stage. "It's Lady Frey's favorite song. She'll know if you skip even a syllable."
"Don't worry, Omy!" Tormy exclaimed happily. "I is reminding you if you is forgettingness of the words. I is knowing all the words."
"Thanks, Tormy." Omen smiled, knowing it was highly unlikely that Tormy could even remember the name of the song he was supposed to be singing, let alone all the words. Nonetheless, Tormy was his most ardent fan and would likely sing tunelessly along with him, making up the words if necessary. But there were a dozen other gifted singers in the tavern who would no doubt join in with the chorus, their perfect harmonies more than drowning out the cat's musical deficiencies.
Summer's Fall Page 3
