The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1)

by T. J. Garrett

  He turned to the front and tried not to think about the men following them.

  * * *

  It was hot. Gialyn was beginning to wish he had taken Mairi’s advice and worn his yellow shirt. Yellow would be cooler. Unfashionable or not, his mother’s choice would have been more comfortable than the black one he had chosen. He tugged on the collar and swept the sweat-matted hair from his forehead.

  Spring Feast… more like mid-Summer Feast!

  Holding his collar open with one hand, he guided Pepa with the other. They were barely ten minutes from home and already the poor thing looked tired. She was a young horse; this was her first time pulling the cart, and what with the heat… Gialyn swiped the flies from around Pepa’s eyes and, once again, tried easing her harness. There was no much else he could do for her.

  The track was hard underfoot. Spring had started early, and what little rain there had been had made no impression on the hard-packed dirt. The rising heat made Gialyn’s feet itch with sweat inside his leather boots. He was glad the town green was only another mile away.

  Gialyn wiped a bead of sweat from his neck and glanced across Pepa’s back at his father. He chuckled to himself. Daric had resumed his previous position and was talking as though he was paying attention.

  Gialyn wondered how long Daric would keep going. He was not trying to be rude; just he could not hear what his father was saying while he faced the other way.

  “…can have the horse fitted… done, we will be able to plough the… Next year I’ll be… Of course, Tanner keeps me… Damn that…”

  The mumbling carried on.

  Until…

  “Are you listening to me, boy?” Daric barked.

  “Yes, Father, uh… sorry… have the horse fitted… ploughing…”

  His father gave him one of his sideways glances before walking on. A minute later, he started muttering again.

  Unlike Gialyn, Daric seemed oblivious to the heat. Swinging his pack from one shoulder to the other, he began to whistle while casually casting an eye over the fields. Now and then, Daric would pet Pepa, encouraging her to keep straight – the young horse had a tendency to wander if she saw something which interested her.

  Gialyn knew his father would not complain about the heat; the one-time soldier never grumbled about such things. Daric would turn anything into a lesson on duty or honour or responsibility. He might have left the guards to move to this backwoods village – and Albergeddy was a village, never mind what the council said – but he was still the same man; still a soldier.

  The green, where they held the Spring Feast, was on the outskirts of Albergeddy – although, in truth, it was not a real green, just a field that fit the need. Gialyn led Pepa along the lane which splintered off from the main road. After taking a final look at his giant, he guided the young horse through the narrow gates and into the field.

  The green, which ran along the western edge of town, sloped gently to the south. A hedge of wildberry bushes made a boundary on three sides. The centre was fenced off into pens of varying sizes. Goats, of different sizes and shapes, already occupied half of them. The Spring Feast organisers – most of whom were members of the “town” council – had pitched a dozen large white tents around the boundary. Long tables had been set up in front of the tents for displaying local produce. Mostly green vegetables like cabbage, but there were a few punnets of strawberries and the odd basket of apples to brighten up the displays. A play area for the younger children had been set up opposite the food stall. The shooting range was at the far end; the annual archery tourney was a local favourite, Gialyn had heard.

  Groups of small children ran around Pepa’s cart as Gialyn led her towards the produce tents. He laughed at their “tutting” and “arghing” when they discovered the cart was half-full of beets and beans. He laughed again when Daric produced a basket of sweetrolls which Mairi had prepared for the younger children. Daric gave them one each, there was just enough.

  “Best move along before they tell their friends where the free cakes came from,” his father said, chuckling.

  Vin, the local leather merchant, was eyeing Kiyn Bowland’s goat. He saw their cart and, after making some off-hand comment about the goat’s foot, scuttled over. Kiyn seemed relieved to see the back of him, which did not surprise Gialyn one bit. Vin came up on Pepa’s left, then matched the horse for pace. For a moment, Gialyn thought the leather merchant was going to take Pepa’s reins, but he only stroked her mane.

  “If they’re going to let children run about, then why bother building the play area?” the leather merchant said while pointing at a group of children playing tag between the goat pens.

  Gialyn wondered whether Vin was talking to him or his father.

  “I’m sure Kiyn and the others don’t mind,” Daric told the older man. “And this is supposed to be a family day.”

  Gialyn knew his father was none-too-keen on Vin Calande. Daric had often mentioned how the old man was often too quick to complain.

  They reached the space behind the white tents, where they would unload their produce. Daric eased Pepa to a halt while another cart slowly made its way through the narrow gap.

  “It’s not right,” Vin continued, apparently not hearing Daric’s point. “They should do something about it. Now, if I were on the council…” Vin pushed his thumbs into his belt and rocked back on his heels as if his point was enough to end that argument. Vin continued, “Do you know they have a girl in the archery tourney?” He stared at Daric, evidently waiting for a reaction. Gialyn’s father just shrugged, but Vin took the gesture for an honest response. “Yes, Theo Tanner’s daughter, Elspeth. Have you ever heard owt so daft? What are the odds her father had something to do with it? So what if he is the emissary? That does not give him the right to change rules.” Vin was prodding a stiff finger in Daric’s direction, his face turning redder by the second. “Say what you want, it’s just not proper, girls shooting arrows. There’ll be women on the council next, you mark my words!”

  “I didn’t know there was a rule against girls competing,” Daric said in a surprisingly even voice. “Are you worried she might win?”

  Gialyn tried not to laugh.

  “Well, it’s just not—”

  “Sorry, Vin,” Daric interrupted, “we have to have the table set up in the shade before my beans sweat too much.”

  “Uh… oh… right. We will talk later, I expect.”

  “Not if I see you coming, we won’t,” Daric whispered. Although Gialyn suspected, his father would not have minded if Vin had overheard.

  Gialyn led Pepa behind the tents. He unhitched her and handed the reins to Gobin Volt, the blacksmith. As usual, at events such as this, tending the horses while their owners manned the stalls was Gobin’s job.

  “Has Vin been chewing your ear as well?” Gobin asked Gialyn. “The man will not shut up about young Elspeth and the bloomin’ archery. If you ask me, I’d say good luck to her. What do you think, Gialyn?” Gobin laid a thick, calloused hand on Gialyn’s shoulder and gave him a toothy grin.

  “I don’t know, Mr. Gobin. I thought the idea was to find out who is best, man or woman… or girl.”

  “Well said, lad.”

  Gobin turned his grin towards Daric. “You have the making of a council member here. He has a good head on his shoulders, this one,” Gobin said, nodding approvingly at his own remarks.

  Daric cast one of his sly, sideways glances over his shoulder at the blacksmith. “Ask him his opinion were she anyone but Elspeth.”

  Gobin’s round belly shook in silent mirth as he gazed wide-eyed at Gialyn. He looked shocked, as if surprised by the revelation – though Gialyn was sure half the village already knew. “Ah, a bit of young romance blossoming, aye?”

  Gialyn felt a hot flush rising to his cheeks.

  It was not the first time his father had embarrassed him over his feelings for Elspeth. Bad enough Daric knew, but why his father had to share the news with everyone they met was beyond Gialyn’s u
nderstanding. Whatever the reason, Daric seemed to enjoy humiliating him.

  The blacksmith loosened Pepa’s straps as he continued, “Thought she was too busy sharpening her knives to notice the boys.” He laughed. “If you do end up courting, don’t be getting into any arguments, my lad. With that one, you’ll likely come off the worse for it.”

  Gialyn pulled the last crate of beets from the cart as Gobin led Pepa to the makeshift stable, still laughing to himself as he walked.

  “Where do you want this?” Gialyn asked his father as he ducked under the flap which was the door to their tent.

  The air was cooler under the white tarp… if only a little. Across the front, where the canopy was open to the green, a wooden bench had been set up for displaying produce. There were two stools either side of a central pole. Gialyn rested the crate on one of the stools while he waited for his father to answer.

  “They can go under there for now,” Daric said, aimlessly pointing under the long table. “Keep them in the shade.”

  Daric had reserved his space in the tent. Which had not been easy, so Gialyn had heard, frequently, over the past month. Apparently, newcomers to Albergeddy often had to make do with the back end of a cart or an upturned barrel to display their produce – if they were allowed in the feast at all, that was. Gialyn watched as his father placed their meagre harvest in small punnets and neatly arranged them across the table top. Once finished, he stepped back and admired his work. But the proud look only lasted until he noticed his neighbour’s stall. Mrs. Cawthorn’s vegetables were easy twice the size, and greener.

  “Oh well, it’s our first season; shouldn’t expect too much,” Daric said while giving a friendly nod to Mrs. Cawthorn.

  Mrs. Cawthorn answered Daric’s nod with an amiable smile. She did not look at his beets, however.

  “Can I go now?” Gialyn asked.

  He had a feeling a conversation might start up, and wanted to be gone before he would have to stay and listen. Gardening was boring. Beets were boring. As much as his father tried, Gialyn could not see the point. Not when there was a market – an excellent market, by all accounts – not half-a-mile from home.

  Too late…

  “Good day, Mr. Re’adh,” Theo Tanner bellowed.

  Theo Tanner was a large man, tall and fat. He was the Royal Emissary for Albergeddy. Which, among other things, meant the big man handled running the mine and collecting taxes. Unsurprisingly, he was not ever so popular – though listening to him talk you would never know it. Standing in front of Daric’s stall, Theo’s broad grin split his round face and caused more chins to appear. The fat man was in his usual garb. Not even the unseasonably hot weather had stopped him wearing his coat of office. His thinning grey-brown hair lay plastered to his forehead and droplets of sweat trickled from his temples. Gialyn thought he looked ridiculous. None of the noblemen from Bailryn – the kingdom’s capital, where Gialyn lived until a few years ago – would wear such a thing on a day like this. The man must be a fool.

  “Afternoon to you, Mr. Tanner,” Daric said, giving the fat man a shallow, just about respectable, bow.

  “I see you made it,” Theo said. “A bit late, but never mind. Nothing much has started yet.” He looked over his shoulder as he spoke, casting an eye over the rest of the goings on, which was not much. “It would appear everyone is running late. Must be the weather, I expect.”

  Daric looked surprised, Theo was never this talkative.

  Indeed, Gialyn could not remember the last time the fat man had said more than a quick hello to any of them. Apart from once, when Emissary Tanner had welcomed his mother to the town granary, on their first visit.

  The fat man continued, “Did you know my daughter is in the archery tourney this year?”

  Theo picked up one of Daric’s beets, sniffed at it, gave it a squeeze, and put it back. He did not look impressed.

  “Yes,” Daric said, putting the fondled beet back into the correct punnet. “Quite a fuss, so I hear.”

  “Really,” Theo growled. “Who’s making a fuss?” He folded his arms, pulled his shoulders back and stared defiantly at Daric.

  Gialyn was sure the emissary meant for his stance to look intimidating, but at best, the fat man managed to lose one of his chins.

  “Did you think there wouldn’t be, Mr. Tanner? First time a girl has ever entered the turney; there was bound to be a fuss.” Daric folded his arms, too, and stared right back.

  Gialyn backed off a step. Gazing at the two men, he wondered who would back down first. He was sure it would not be his father – Daric had that look in his eyes, the one he would use on drunkards cavorting around the palace gate, or on guards who misbehaved under his command.

  A long moment passed. Daric appeared to have turned to stone. Theo, on the other hand, had begun chewing his bottom lip.

  Finally, Theo broke. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. A little animosity is to be expected, especially when she wins.”

  The fat man picked up another of Daric’s beets. “Did you warm the soil before you planted these?”

  Daric broke out of his guarded stance. “Sorry, what? Warm the soil?” He looked puzzled.

  “Early beets, Daric,” Theo said in a lecturing tone. “You must warm the soil. Lay some hay down to drag out the last of the winter frost. Not saying they won’t grow without it, but they’ll be more like Mrs. Cawthorn’s if you do.” Theo shot a smile and a shallow bow over to Daric’s neighbour.

  “Oh. I’ll remember for next time.” Daric snatched the beet from Theo’s hand and gently placed his cherished vegetable back in the punnet.

  “Anyway,” Theo said, “there is another reason I’m here.” He clasped his lapel and began rocking back and forth on his heels. “By now, I’m sure you must have heard there’s a royal messenger in town?”

  The fat man raised his chin while he waited for an answer. He smiled knowingly as if he were the bearer of some long lost secret which would change their lives forever.

  Daric cringed. A flash of anxiety filled his eyes. “Why is he here? What has happened? Are we at war?”

  “What?” Theo gaped wide-eyed at Daric and began waving his hand in front of his vast belly. “No, no, no, nothing of the sort, nothing for you to worry about.” He took a step forward and leaned on the counter. The cloth-covered table creaked in protest. “However, I’d very much like to have a talk with you, once the messenger has spoken. Or during. Won’t matter if we talk while the man is on stage.”

  “And I suppose you already know what is in the message,” Daric said, scratching his chin, doing his best to look down on the emissary.

  “Of course I do. He has to tell me first; council covenants and all that.”

  Gialyn could see his father nibbling the inside of his cheek; he was getting angry.

  “And the contents of this message?” Daric asked. “Is that what you want to talk to me about?”

  “Have patience, Mr. Re’adh,” Theo said, standing back up and resuming his lapel-grasping stance. “As I say, there is no need for concern; we are not at war, the palace still stands, and, as far as I know, the Salrians have not invaded. I’ll come find you once the messenger has addressed the crowd.” Theo took a final look at Daric’s produce before walking off.

  “That man!” Daric growled the words through gritted teeth as he straightened up a row of punnets which did not need straightening. “What I wouldn’t give to have him in my battalion for a week… a day. Small town bureaucrats, they are worse than city folk.”

  And he meant it. Daric was not one for repeating himself, but if Gialyn had heard it once… “If a man can’t look you in the eye and tell you straight—” Daric would say “—then best you just walk away.” Conniving politicians were right at the top of Daric’s list of “scheming leeches,” as he called them. Indeed, leaving behind the bootlickers and sycophants of the Royal Court was one of the reasons why they had left Bailryn – likely the main reason. Although, in truth, Gialyn did not know half of that story.
And nor did he want to.

  “Can I go now?” Gialyn asked.

  A distant, glazed expression had settled over Daric’s face.

  “Father!” Gialyn leaned forward, in hopes of catching Daric’s eye. “Father, can I…?” He nodded towards the field, which was just now starting to fill with town’s folk.

  “Uh… oh, yes… yes, go,” Daric replied, casually waving him off.

  Then, as if remembering something, Daric put his hand in his pocket and fished out two silver krùn. “Here, and do not let me catch you buying ale. I don’t care if you’re old enough to carry a sword, I’ll not have a son of mine drunk in public, least not when I’m around.”

  Gialyn grinned: two krùn!

  “Thank you, Father, thank you.”

  “And, uh… don’t tell your mother I gave you that much. Go on, off with you, and keep out of trouble.” Once again, Daric waved Gialyn away, then continued arranging his beets and beans.

  It seemed strange, watching Daric organising the food they had grown. Not that Gialyn thought there was anything wrong with farming: it just wasn’t Daric. His father was a guardsman – and not just any guardsmen; Daric had been the Captain of the Palace Guard – not a farmer!

  Gialyn ignored the thought, bowed, and ran off towards the field. Best to go quickly before Daric thought of something else for him to do.

  The centre of the field was busy.

  Ironically, there was not much in the way of farming in the Northern Geddy; the soil wasn’t very good. Beets, beans, and a few hardy vegetables were the best most folk could manage. But then, Albergeddy was not a farming town. Indeed, the “town” would not be there at all were it not for the Rundair Mine. Most of their food came from Beugeddy, shipped up the Geddy River once a week by barge. Despite this arrangement, the town’s folk were prideful of what little they could cultivate, and the soil was no bar to raising livestock; there were plenty of pasturelands.

  Men gathered by the pens, ready to show off their pigs and goats and chickens. A few had cows, but not many; the big animals ate too much. Women gathered around the stalls, discussing the best way to make a country cake or the proper herbs to use in a beef stew. Foot races were already underway. Groups of small children would run half the length of the field to win themselves some sweetrolls or gum root. There was even a travelling minstrel prancing on a flat stage, playing the harp and singing old ballads of Ealdihain – no sign of the giant, though.