Relics and Runes Anthology

by Heather Marie Adkins

  A woman carrying a basket of cloth smiled and stepped out of their way. Her back dipped in an approximation of a bow. Laynin smiled back and the woman hurried on.

  "It would have been easier for me to move out of her way," she remarked, "she could barely see over the top of her basket."

  Zannis shrugged. "We're draakin," she said as two men made way for them. She tilted her chin up and walked by, back rod-straight.

  "I know, but—" Laynin caught a flash of red through the crowds, moving up and down the street. The priests and priestesses of the Cult of Euru favoured robes a few shades darker than blood. They wore matched expressions, always disapproving of those who didn't believe in their beloved Euru.

  A woman stopped in front of them and bobbed a curtsey. "May you please bestow your blessing upon my child?" In her arms she had a babe only a few months old.

  "Of course friend, the faithful are always welcome." The priest, a tall man with a long face and a short nose raised his hand to the baby's forehead and smiled. "I foresee a long life for this young one."

  Zannis snorted and rolled her eyes. "I'd bet the shards of both eggs they're not magin," she said loudly. "Do they look like they can really do magic?"

  Laynin elbowed her in the ribs, making her yelp, and smiled at the priest who scowled at her.

  "What did you do that for?" Zannis rubbed her side.

  "In case they are magin." Even being connected mind to mind with a dragon, Laynin found the idea of using magic disconcerting, if not intimidating. Some magin only had the ability to see the future, which wasn't particularly deadly, but others could control objects and people by singing. Others could do the same by touch. Doing so against a person's will was, of course, frowned upon and was a punishable offence in some cases. Most magin were harmless, but Laynin preferred to deal with things she could see or feel.

  The woman looked conflicted, but gave the priest a wan smile. "Thank you, friend," she said before scurrying away, her shoulders hunched.

  He made to call out something after her, but she was lost in the crowds. He turned a deepening scowl to Zannis.

  "Those who do not believe—"

  "Will not be reborn," she finished for him. "Save it for someone more naive."

  The priestess gave a sniff. "Arrogance isn't becoming of the draakin."

  "At least dragons are real," Zannis retorted.

  "That's enough," Laynin hissed. "Come on, I thought you were hungry?"

  "I am." Zannis looked at the pair like she wouldn't deign to waste more time, and stepped around them.

  Laynin thought she saw the man's hand twitch and pushed Zannis past a little faster. She managed an apologetic smile, which was met with a pair of stone walls of hostility. If either were magin, they were holding their anger in check well enough. No doubt they met with vocal non-believers on a regular basis. They'd have had to learn to curtail their responses. She gave them credit for that, even if she did think they were wasting their time.

  "What was that about?" Zannis asked, once they'd moved a safe distance.

  "You don't have to be rude to everyone," Laynin said with a sigh.

  "I'm not," Zannis replied, "just to people who deserve it. I'm not rude to you, am I?" She put a hand on her hip and shot Laynin a challenging look.

  "Not today," Laynin agreed. She held her friend's eyes until Zannis' expression dissolved into a smile and laugh.

  "Lighten up, we're celebrating, remember?" She hooked her arm through Laynin's and tugged her toward the ironically named Dragon's Shell, the only tavern in Tsaisa. "I need a drink."

  Laynin released her arm and reached into her pocket. Beside the piece of dragon shell, she had several of the new coins commissioned by the king of Marth. Each was shiny, round. One side bore strands of metal skilfully braided in a circle. The other bore a stamp in the shape of a crown.

  The man serving behind the bar eyed the coins. "One'll keep you all night," he said with a nod.

  Laynin handed one over. "Thank you, but it's not worth that much, and we're thirsty."

  The man took the coin and examined it before dropping it into the box along with the rest of the day's takings.

  "You never know when I may need a ride somewhere, good draakin," he said, respectful although he was at least twice her age.

  "Risper and I would be happy to fly you," she replied. She would take any excuse to be airborne, and if it involved virtually free drinks all night, then she was winning twice over.

  "Ale?"

  "Yes please."

  "Make mine wine," Zannis said, lounging against the bar.

  The barman shot her a look, but poured hers and slid it to her. She took it and sauntered away.

  Laynin gave her second apologetic look for the day and followed Zannis to a table.

  "It really wouldn't hurt you to be polite."

  "Why?" Zannis squinted at her. "Laynin, we ride dragons. For that reason alone, we deserve respect. Did Risper decide to bond anyone else here?" She spread her hands to either side. "No, he chose you. And Refa chose me. People come to us for rides, for help keeping predators from herds. We put out fires, we search for lost people, or people who have escaped the king's constabulary. No one can do what we do. They need us."

  "Without him, you wouldn't have that glass of wine," Laynin pointed out, sipping her ale.

  "I'd get it myself."

  "You'd be locked away for stealing."

  Zannis laughed. "If you're going to be such a killjoy, I'll find someone else to sit with. You know what I think?"

  "No," Laynin ventured cautiously, "but I'm sure you'll tell me."

  "Yes, I will. I think you need to release some tension. Maybe you should find that man from that hatching. Or some other man. Or a woman. Whatever. Just someone."

  "I think I need to find Ara," Laynin replied.

  Zannis looked at her in surprise. "Well if that's how you—"

  Laynin rolled her eyes. "Not like that. I need to tell her you're being a brat and might benefit from a year or so of cleaning." She smiled behind her tankard. "Raking out the midden perhaps."

  "Oh you!" Zannis swatted her arm. "I mean it, find someone to bed. I know I am." She smiled at a man who walked past.

  "Here are some of the others." Laynin gestured toward the door.

  Fanad Hardin, his expression as serious as ever, led the two chosen inside.

  "Speaking of killjoy," Zannis said.

  Laynin had to agree with her this time. She couldn't remember having ever seen Fanad smile. His customary expression was one of disapproval, no matter who he was looking at. He might have been good looking, but a perpetual frown had created lines on his face.

  Deciding not to let him ruin her evening, she smiled warmly at the other newcomers and beckoned them over. Both looked overwhelmed. Tomorrow they'd bond dragons and become draakin, unless tonight they changed their minds. Doubtless Ara would send them back to the Dragonhall after a short time, to prepare and rest, but in the meantime, they could enjoy themselves.

  "Drinks all around," she said happily. Maybe tonight they'd get Fanad to indulge and see if the man knew how to have fun.

  3

  Travin Honsan kicked a rock out of his path. The look of elation on Varn and Marlia's faces should have filled him with elation on their behalf. Instead, he pushed away the flash of envy. He couldn't suppress it altogether. He'd wanted to be a draakin so badly. All his life he'd admired the great dragons, harboured a desire to bond one.

  He'd travelled to Tsaisa and applied to join the other hopefuls, expecting he wouldn't be selected. The successful had to be fit, smart and strong. Everyone around him had devoted years to training just to be allowed to try to bond. A dozen had been turned away after the first few days of testing. He and three others had succeeded. None of them had been chosen by a dragonet today.

  "Next time, no?" A clap on his shoulder made him turn to see Orun, another of the hopefuls, his expression as disappointed as Travin's.

  "Dragons hatch s
o rarely," Travin groaned, letting his self-pity win for a few moments. "I'll be an old man the next time there are eggs." There was another way, but he wasn't going to mention that. They both knew a draakin would have to die before they had a real chance of bonding. No one would wish for that. At least, no one a dragon would find suitable.

  "Then we have a good excuse to drown our sorrows." Orun said, grinning. "Say, were you trying to sing a dragon to you?"

  Travin chuckled. "I couldn't if I wanted to, I'm not a singer. Well, not in the sense that my singing is magic." He had a pleasant voice and some skill as a bard, but his talent as a magin wasn't in his voice.

  "I don't suppose it would work, or all of the draakin would be singers. Or touchers." Orun gave Travin a sidelong look.

  Travin responded with a shrug. He rarely had much use for his ability to control others whilst touching them. If he couldn't convince them with words, or a song, then he'd let the matter be. The skill was useful in a fight, but he preferred to avoid those.

  "A toucher would have to get close enough first, and hope the dragonet didn't mistake him for a chicken," he said drolly.

  Orun let out a hearty laugh. "He would at that," he agreed. "That'd make a right mess. Although, I never did hear of a dragon eating a person. First time for everything though."

  "Not raw, anyway," Travin agreed. When Orun gave him a questioning look, he added, "Isn't that why they breathe fire? So they can cook their food first?"

  Orun laughed again. "They might well."

  Travin smiled. To the best of his knowledge, dragons ate their food raw, and preferably freshly killed, if not still moving. "All this talking is eating into valuable drinking time," he pointed out.

  "When you're right, you're right," Orun remarked.

  "Um, all right." Travin followed him to the tavern, and hoped the owner wasn't expecting him to work tonight. He'd sing, and loudly after a few ales too many, but he wanted to enjoy himself, to take the sting off the hatching.

  Of course the first people he saw as he stepped foot in the tavern were the two who had been chosen. Part of him wanted to sidestep the pair and get right to the bar, but manners impressed upon him by his mother made him stop and give them a nod.

  "Congratulations, you must be—" Thrilled? Delighted? Over the moons? "Um, happy." The bard under who he'd apprenticed would be disappointed at his poor use of superlatives, but it would have to do.

  Marlia gave him a shy smile. "Thank you. We are. It's a great honour." Judging by her tone, she'd said that several times already today. She'd say it all night, all day tomorrow and for weeks to come. He'd bet a year's worth of braids she wouldn't mind. Having a dragon would be worth all the platitudes and tedium.

  "I'm sure you'll more than live up to it," he said politely. "Uh, please excuse me." He gave a shallow bow and stepped away.

  To his relief, he spotted a familiar figure leaning against the bar. "They still let you in here?" he teased.

  Gallia stuck her tongue out at him. "I could say the same to you." She looked down around his feet. "No dragon in tow?"

  He winced and pressed a hand to his chest. "Ouch. Stab me through the heart, why don't you?"

  She smiled. "You're a big boy, you can take it."

  He dropped his hand and sighed. "It's not like I have a choice."

  "No, you don't." She patted his arm lightly. "I'm sorry. Those dragons don't know what they're missing. Look on the bright side though, you don't have anyone reading your mind while you're having dirty thoughts about me." She grinned.

  "Mmmhmm, keep telling yourself that." Travin gestured for the nearest tavern worker to fix them drinks. While Gallia paid for the first one, he sipped his. She was a good friend, and a drinking buddy, but nothing more.

  "Oh I will. It's good for my ego." She grinned, but her eyes were on something over his right shoulder. "Don't look behind you."

  Travin turned, immediately curious.

  "Trav," she hissed, "All the gods…"

  He spied a woman of around the same age, empty glasses piled high on her arm. She must be new; he hadn't seen her here before. Judging by her light hair and freckles, she was from Aarle.

  "Is it me," he said, turning back," or do Aarlish women always have bigger… smiles?" He chuckled at the expression on Gallia's face before she swatted his arm.

  "Don't think I hadn't noticed," she said wistfully.

  "You could go and talk to her," he pointed out. He gestured for another round of drinks and passed over a braid. "She doesn't look like she bites."

  "What do I say? I mean, after last time…" Gallia sighed.

  "You could start with hello," he suggested, but he did remember the last time she'd summoned up the courage to speak to a woman she fancied. The woman had made it all too clear that she didn't share her preference. The horrified look on her face had spoken more loudly than words. While most people didn't much care who did what with who, there were always people who took exception to being approached.

  "That's innovative," she said dryly, "maybe you should take your own advice some time."

  He grimaced. For a man who made a living with his words, he wasn't good at using them on anyone he found attractive. "Can I help it if my tongue ends up in knots?"

  "Probably," she said lightly.

  "So," he said slowly, "she has empty arms now. Go and talk to her before someone else does. If she doesn't like girls, you could send her my way."

  "You're dangerously close to having a drink upended on your head," she said, laughing.

  "That would be a waste of perfectly good ale."

  "It would be worth it." She raised her glass.

  "All right, all right," he put up a hand, "I surrender. I'll be good. But if she wants to share…" He ducked as she dipped her fingers in her drink and flicked them toward his face.

  "You're reprehensible. Lucky I like that in a friend. Oh, her shift is finishing."

  Apparently given permission to look this time, Travin glanced back to see the woman untying an apron from around her hips.

  "If you don't talk to her, I'll go on your behalf," he said with mock magnanimity. "Don't worry. I'll only say nice things."

  "You will not," she grabbed his arm before he could move. "I'm going, all right." She took a breath, pushed a smile onto her face and walked away.

  "Good for you," he said under his breath. Not wanting to pressure her further, he looked away and took in the rest of the room. He knew most of the people present, but many only in passing. He spotted a group of disappointed hopefuls sitting at a table, one shuffling a deck of cards.

  "Got room for one more?"

  Saldr, an older man with ears like trumpets, waved him to sit down. "If your braids are good and your nerves are strong, Killun'll deal you in."

  "Why not? I might get some good luck for a change." Travin sipped while Saldr explained the rules.

  "Four dragons beats all. Three dragons beats all but four, and so on. Draakin are second highest, then queens. Kings after that." When Travin raised an eyebrow, he added, "Queens got king's balls in their hands, so they hold the real power." He laughed loudly. "Then generals, swords, shovels, hoes, brooms and finally sticks. Sticks are worth nothin' 'cause they're useless."

  "Unless they're pointy," Killun said, dealing four cards to each player. "Don't go tryin' to draw a point on a stick though, it don't count."

  Travin chuckled. Of course he'd played Dragon Match before, but each game had its own rules. In most, the king was worth more than the queen, as was the general. Some counted the draakin as worth more than the dragons. He found that somewhat silly, but as long as they gave him his winnings, he wouldn't be troubled for long.

  He picked up his cards. A queen, a general, a hoe and a stick. Eighteen. It wasn't the best hand he'd ever had. The trick was to convince his opponents his was better than theirs.

  He shrugged and pulled a copper braid from his pocket. He placed it in the centre of the table and watched the faces around him.

  "I
'm out," a flat-faced woman opposite him groaned. She placed her cards on the table. A stick, two hoes and a broom.

  "Bad luck, Yallah." Killun placed a silver braid on the table and smiled, looking smug.

  "Ain't no way you have that good a hand," Saldr declared. He too placed a copper braid on the table and sat back.

  "Do too," Killun declared. He added a copper braid to the pile.

  "I'm out." Saldr presented his cards.

  All eyes turned to Travin. He pulled out a silver brain and a copper one, sure Killun was bluffing.

  Killun growled. "Upstart." He dropped his cards onto the table. Two sticks and two brooms.

  Saldr chortled. "That was worse than Yallah's!"

  Travin smiled and drew his winnings toward himself.

  "I guess I'm buying the next round."

  "Aye, good lad." Saldr beamed. "I don't mind losing braids if I get them back in ale."

  "Either way, it all goes to the tavern." Travin waved for drinks and picked up his second hand of cards.

  4

  Travin staggered a few steps through the darkness. He swung his arm and connected with something hard.

  "Ow." A tree, although it took his ale-addled mind a few moments to realise. He'd almost walked into it. Instead he leaned against it, trying to orient himself. He'd left the tavern a few minutes earlier and headed roughly in the direction of his lodgings. In the dark, and drunk as he was, his current whereabouts eluded him.

  Footsteps crunched toward him. He must still be close to the road.

  "Hello?" he called out, weaving a few steps away from the tree. "Who's there?"

  The sound of a knife drawing free of a scabbard was loud in the still of the night.

  "I don't mean you any harm," Travin said quickly, "no need for that."

  "Give me your braids." The voice that spoke was rough, gravelly, and definitely male.

  Travin blinked as one of the moons came out from behind the clouds. The man was bigger than him. A long blade glinted in the moonlight. Even drunk he knew if he could see better, so could the man. Sober, he could probably outrun him. As it was, he'd be lucky if he didn't trip and fall flat on his face.