by Hanna Dare
However, I do want to give you something, in the hopes that it will allow you to move on and settle the questions in your heart. There is a small town at the mouth of the Black River, in the northeast corner of the kingdom. The town is fittingly called Rivermouth. The people of this kingdom aren’t very creative with naming places, are they? Everyone here simply calls this country “the kingdom,” after all. Did you know that in the surrounding countries our kingdom is known as Valta?
I’m being reminded that I do have a tendency to ramble on. However, Rivermouth used to be a launching point for expeditions into the northern mountains to hunt dragons. Sadly, the dragons have been gone for years, but the town remains a gathering place for dragon hunters. My father only took me a couple times because he felt the other hunters there didn’t show him enough respect. I don’t know if any dragon hunters still remain, but it might be a place for you to gather information. Please be careful if you do go. Hunters are not easy people to be around; the cruelty of their profession bleeds over into their everyday life.
Whatever you choose to do, I wish you well, Tris, and that you find happiness. I hope that we will see each other again. I’m sure we’ll both have many stories to share.
Philip
Tris looked up from the letter to see Lily sitting across from him again with her mouth twisted up in a frown.
“I’ve spent the last few months wondering if I should give you that letter. Sometimes I wish I’d burned it.”
He drew in a surprised breath. “It’s a letter to me, Lil.”
“So you didn’t read the part about how it said there are no dragons and all this traveling is likely to get you murdered for your boots?”
“That wasn’t in the letter.”
“It was implied!” She closed her eyes and then opened them to give him a sorrowful look. “You’re going to go, aren’t you?”
“Not right away,” Tris said, though a part of him wanted to jump up and rush out to the road. “I’ll stay to help with the lambing. And…” He looked guiltily at his sister, “maybe there’s some work I could do around here? I need to save for a horse.”
“I can give you a horse,” Lily said. “Money too. And I will, but I want you to… It sounds horrible to say give up your dreams, but Tris you’re not a little boy anymore. Maybe just think about how that dream can change?”
Tris tried not to show how much her words stung. He was used to feeling like a disappointment to his parents but not to his sister. “I will. This is the last time, I promise.”
“You make it sound like a death sentence. You don’t have to stay in the valley. If you want to travel, why not sell my ale to places farther out? Or set up your own business; I’d stake you. You could live at my place in the capital — there’s plenty of opportunities there.”
He nodded to everything Lily said, but inside he was remembering how it felt to soar above the valley held in a dragon’s claws, with the wind in his face and the sound of wings all around. How could he give up on a dream like that? But Tris knew that his family was right. He couldn’t go on like this. One final trip and then he would put all of it to rest.
There were only a few people who knew the real reason for his journeys outside of the valley. Lily, of course. Then there had been old Jack — a mean drunk, but he had once been Jaxon Durandus, an actual dragon hunter. Tris wouldn’t call the old man a friend, he was too cruel, but if given a free drink or three he would talk about dragons all night. He was the only other person who understood what it was like to dream of dragons. Old Jack had no problem understanding Tris’s obsession — he had it too, except if he found a dragon, he would kill it.
“Soft!” the old man would scoff at Tris’s wince. “Just like my son, that worthless—” and then he’d be ranting about his son, Philip, who Tris had known as being kind and brave. Old Jack’s rants tended to go on for a while, so that was when Tris would show himself out from the old man’s shack.
Jack was dead now. Gone a few winters ago. Tris hadn’t exactly mourned him, but he did feel more alone after Jack had passed. That left, besides his sister, only one other person who knew his secret.
Lord Protector of the valley was a very fancy title, but everybody still called him Haymon. Tris had known him his whole life — he’d been sheriff for most of it, but Haymon had always been ready to toss young Tris up into the air. Tris supposed it was the closest he’d got to flying until the real thing. Maybe Haymon was the one to blame for his dream, not the dragon.
Haymon came upon Tris wandering around the ruins of the old keep. Much of the keep had burned the night Ejoler had destroyed the Lookout, with molten rock dropping onto the wooden roof of the building, but the rest of the destruction had come from the villagers. There had been rumors about the old earl and his strange ways for years, but with all the panic that night, his own servants had turned on him and accused him of summoning the dragon. The discovery of dragon bones and teeth in the Earl’s collection, along with books of spells, had caused the people’s rage to boil over. The Earl had fled, and it had been left to Haymon to restore order. There had been talk of the king sending some minor nobleman to take over the valley, but the people of Vale had had enough of outsiders and Haymon was raised up instead.
He had never bothered to restore the keep though, saying that the valley couldn’t afford to maintain a castle for no good reason. Haymon lived in a full-to-bursting house in the village with his cheerful wife and four children and was admired for being humble and unchanged by his improved station in life.
The ruins did bring in curious travelers though and Tris thought it served as a good reminder of everything that had happened. Folk in the valley liked to forget things that were unusual or unsettling otherwise. It certainly reminded Tris of flight and fire as he poked among the crumbled stone walls.
He heard Haymon’s horse as he rode up. Tris squinted up at Haymon’s solid outline until the man himself swung down from the saddle. His expanding fortunes had also expanded his belly over the years, but Haymon’s shoulders were still strong and broad as he regarded Tris with a kindly but measuring gaze.
“If you’re looking for treasure to fund your next trip,” he said to Tris, “you’re a decade too late.”
Tris’s mouth twisted wryly. “Who says there’s a next trip?”
One of Haymon’s bushy eyebrows rose and Tris sighed. He’d only been home for little over a week and talked to very few people, but folk in the valley did nothing but gossip. Fortunately they didn’t know the truth about what Tris was looking for; they just knew that he was flighty and constantly worrying his parents.
Haymon had gone to considerable effort to stop old Jack from telling the truth about what had happened to his son. It was known that Philip had run away — no one could blame him with such a father — and that he had possibly left with the mysterious stranger Ejoler who had disappeared at the same time. But exactly what Ejoler was Haymon strove mightily to keep hidden. If the already skittish villagers had known that dragons could walk among them in human form it would have caused full-scale panic. Tris didn’t think it would take much from them to turn, not just on strangers, but against anyone in the valley who seemed a bit off or especially annoying.
When Haymon had realized Tris knew the truth about the dragon he enlisted his help in keeping old Jack’s rants away from public hearing, or at least getting him drunk enough that they would be disregarded. After a time, Tris had confided to Haymon why he didn’t mind listening to Jack’s stories and about what he was hoping to find when he finally got old enough to leave the valley on his own. Haymon hadn’t approved — no one approved — but he’d been a person for Tris to talk to.
“I’m not going for a while,” Tris admitted as they stood among the ruins. “At least another month.”
“Your parents won’t be happy.”
Tris straightened his own shoulders — though he was still shorter than Haymon — and matched his level stare. The problem with knowing people his whole
life was that they often forgot Tris was an adult now and could make actual grown-up choices.
Haymon tipped his head, conceding Tris’s point wordlessly and scratched at his thick brown beard. “So where to this time?”
“North and east. As far as the Black River.”
“They say that the old earl headed that way.”
“Really?”
“It’s something to think about.” Haymon gestured at the remaining walls of the keep. “He only cared about dragons too and the magic he thought he could get from them. Look where it got him.” He put a hand on Tris’s shoulder. “I certainly don’t want you to end up like Jaxon either. Or those other dragon hunters who came through here in those first years after the Lookout burned. Those were hard men. Bitter men.”
“I’m nothing like them. I would never want to kill a dragon.”
“You hunting for their gold then?” Haymon eyed Tris curiously. Tris thought Haymon had a pretty good idea of where Lily’s money had come from, but he’d never asked.
Tris shook his head. He’d never been one to think much about money beyond what he needed to keep himself fed and clothed. He knew that was another thing that caused his family to worry, but from what he saw with Lily, having money required a lot of counting and ledger-keeping. She enjoyed it, but it didn’t seem that appealing to Tris.
“Then why?” Haymon asked. “Why go chasing dragons?”
“I just…want to see one again, is all.” His eyes drifted away from Haymon toward the clouds as he tried to sort out what lay closest to his heart. “It’s such a thing to see a dragon. It’s a wonder. Beauty. Danger too, because he was scary as can be. All of that at once and more. I never thought much about the world, but after flying with a dragon? It makes you believe anything is possible.” He grinned with remembered delight. “Maybe it’s a kind of quest, like in the old stories. Something noble, pure even.”
Haymon shook his head, but his voice was not unkind. “You come from such a practical family. Solid. Hard-working. Your sister has more sense than anyone in the valley. How’d you end up such a dreamer, Tris?”
Tris flung his arms wide in exasperation because it seemed his only destiny in this world was to be disappointing to everyone he knew. “I saw a dragon, didn’t I? That’s what I’ve been saying.”
CHAPTER TWO
The town of Rivermouth was a bit of a mess.
Tris had been glad to set eyes on it after traveling for days in the rough northern territory. He was used to mountains and rocks in all shapes and sizes, but the country around the Black River seemed especially forbidding. The soil was thin there, so much so that the roots of the tall pines were visible, seeming to scrabble to find a purchase among the boulders, holding on as tight as they could. The northern road was narrow and uncertain, lined in places with rough black cliffs that looked ready to close in at any moment.
The Black River got its name from those dark surrounding rocks, and its winding course churned angrily along before finally sending its muddy waters out to mingle with the North Sea. Tris had seen an ocean before, when he visited Ens, but the water there had been blue and inviting — here it was as gray as slate and stretched out to meet an equally flat, gray sky.
The town had been built around the harbor and the feeling of it was more like a way station that had sprouted up haphazardly, with a confusing tangle of streets and seemingly randomly spaced houses. The buildings were all made of wood, tall and built from logs taken from the surrounding forest of pine, with sharply peaked roofs covered in rows of weathered shingles — so different from the soft thatched or sod roofs of his valley. The streets were muddy and deeply rutted from the heavily laden wagons that creaked along them. It was altogether unwelcoming.
Tris sat on the back of his tired mare and squinted through the light rain. He wondered how he was supposed to go about finding dragon hunters or at least a hot meal, but then he raised his eyes and saw that the barn-sized building across the road had a toothy dragon carved into the beam above the door. A tavern. A dragon-themed tavern.
Tris grinned. He was dirty, exhausted, and his backside seemed to have taken on the shape of the saddle, but he was on his way to fulfilling his dreams. This time he was certain.
That was how he discovered the tavern called the Tooth and Talon. That first day, he’d taken it as a sign that he was on the right path, but two weeks on, Tris wasn’t so sure.
Work was easy enough to find down at the docks, loading and unloading the sailing ships that came from across the sea or the flat-bottomed barges that traveled the river. It was tiring work, but every night, instead of going back to his rented bed in the spare room belonging to an old widow woman, Tris took himself to the tavern. The fish pies were questionable, the ale inferior to home, but what he was after was information.
The pickings were usually slim. Sailors stuck to the cheaper taverns by the water, so the patrons at the Tooth and Talon were mostly locals who worked in the town or occasional prospectors who spent months combing the mountains for rumors of gold and stumbled back in smelling bad and looking to either drown their disappointment or celebrate a find of gold dust or a few tiny nuggets.
Tris had been so excited at first. His questions about dragon hunters were met mostly with blank looks, but the bartender had promised to initiate him into the dragon hunters’ society. Doing that involved buying everyone at the bar a round before drinking a large cup of an eye-wateringly strong brew and then kissing the wickedly sharp dragon’s tooth that hung behind the bar. Tris had managed to down the stuff without gagging, but when the tooth was brought over to him, he saw that it was only a carved and painted piece of wood. He puckered up for it gamely and smiled around the laughing room, but he began to feel that first twinge of familiar disappointment.
There didn’t seem to be any actual dragon hunters haunting the tavern, just waiting to spill their secrets as Tris had imagined on his long days of travel. The best he could manage was occasionally buying a drink for the toothless old man who sat by the hearth. Old Gilbert had known dragon hunters, but his stories were mostly of how he’d beat them all at cards. Tris hoped that the hunters had shared more with Gilbert than their coins, but the old man’s memory was spotty when it came to dragons, yet perfect in recalling his every winning hand.
“So, Gilbert,” Tris said, trying again. “Why do you think dragon hunters used to come through here?”
“Because of the dragons, of course.” Gilbert cackled, accepting the ale Tris had brought him.
“Aye, but why here and not someplace else? Why do dragons live where they do?” Tris wondered more to himself. “The sightings are always around mountains, so I guess dragons like caves and such. But why choose one mountain over another?”
Gilbert focused his clouded eyes on Tris. “The gold.”
“What’s that?”
“There’s gold in the mountains around here. Used to be a lot more. One hunter told me that dragons have a feel for it, a lust for treasure. Gold, gems, and the like. It calls to them. Dragons belong to the earth and stone and fire, so they can sense it. Like calls to like. Least that’s what the man said.” Gilbert picked up the ale with both hands, his bony wrists looking frail. Tris started to lean forward to help steady the tankard, but Gilbert managed to get it to his mouth for a long sip.
“What else did he say?” Tris asked eagerly.
“He didn’t say much after I cleaned him out.” Gilbert cackled again. “Talked too much and didn’t keep his eyes on his cards. But I did and that’s why he lost.”
“Gilbert,” Tris sighed, “you’re not supposed to look at the other person’s cards. That’s cheating.”
“It’s not cheating if they’re that careless. That’s opportunity is what it is.”
Gilbert took another long drink and Tris eyed the old man’s skinny body with concern. “You want some food to go with that, Gilbert? An egg? Maybe a bit of bread?”
Gilbert scoffed at him, but Tris got up and headed to the bar. He w
as tired from a long day of stacking crates, tired of old Gilbert’s stories, tired of the tavern’s smell of pine wood and sour ale. Tired too of his fruitless quest. He didn’t know how much longer he should stay in this town, but the prospect of dragging himself home to the valley was even less appealing. He’d have to admit that he’d wasted years chasing a childish dream.
Two men nodded to him in a friendly way as Tris stood at the bar getting a pickled egg for Gilbert. “You don’t have to spend the whole night talking to the old geezer,” one of them said. He had a heavy black beard and was dressed, like his friend, in the leather jerkins favored by locals.
The other man’s beard was patchier and blond, matching the thinning hair on his head. “Have a drink with us,” he said. “We don’t see many strangers in this tavern.”
“I’m not a stranger, I’ve kissed the tooth and everything.” Tris looked to the bartender for confirmation, but he was ignoring him. Tris hadn’t seen the men in the two weeks he’d been coming to the tavern and he figured Gilbert’s store of meaningful information was exhausted for the evening. “Sure, why not?”
Blackbeard’s name was Petrus, the other man Jeffer, and they both turned out to be good drinking companions. They bought a round and Tris soon found himself feeling an easy, relaxed glow. They were good listeners too, and Tris probably talked more than he should have about home and sheep and even dragons.
