by Nicky Kyle
Table of Contents
Title Page
Book Details
Dedication
The Faerie Godmother's Apprentice Wore Green
About the Author
The Faerie Godmother's
apprentice
Wore Green
Nicky Kyle
The village of Styesville has a dragon problem, and is in sore need of a knight in shining armor to solve it for them. Instead, they get a strange traveler in a ragged cloak they barely even notice at first. Worse still, it soon becomes clear the problem setting fire to their village isn't as simple as a dragon...
Book Details
The Faerie Godmother's Apprentice Wore Green
By Nicky Kyle
Published by Less Than Three Press LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by J. Ang
Cover designed by London Burden
This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition March 2016
Copyright © 2016 by Nicky Kyle
Printed in the United States of America
Digital ISBN 9781620047446
This story is for Sara Fox, who was kind enough to make me write it; for Mary Lou Roe who led me into books; and for Kathy Kyle, who taught me the strength of princesses—and of dragons.
The Faerie Godmother's
apprentice
Wore Green
The dragon came with the first new moon of spring. Everything was still wet, muddy, and half-frozen, which was what saved the village from burning down when the beast passed by overhead. It raked them twice that first visit, spouting a stream of blue-orange fire from its fanged jaws before banking out of sight over the forest. It left panic and soot in its wake. Those houses roofed in thatch were too damp to burn but it was three hours before the few buildings topped with pricier wooden shingles finally stopped smoldering.
Less than an hour after that, messages were heading with all possible haste to the surrounding towns to spread the word that Styesville had a dragon problem and shining knights were needed.
When help finally came, it wasn't the shining knight that was expected. There was no clanking armor, no noble steed, no razor-sharp sword of peerless steel. There was no unfurled banner, no shield with heraldic device, no panting squire trailing on a trusty pony. There wasn't even a lone knight-errant with dented helm and rusting chainmail plodding up the road on a boney, graying gelding. Instead there was just a shabby figure in a long patched cloak come walking into town on its own two feet. It bore a scarf wrapped thick against the damp evening chill, boots well-worn and trailing mud, and a much-mended pack that weighed its shoulders into a round stoop. Little wonder then that no one in Styesville noticed that help was here at last; little wonder that few noticed the traveler at all.
Ordinarily such a small, off-the-beaten-path village would have made much of any new arrival, even one so shabby, but these days they were focused more on their dragon than on gossip from distant places. Since the newcomer clearly had not come to rid them of their fire-breathing pest, being neither clanking nor shining nor even visibly armed, few of the villagers who had gathered in the smoky inn that evening paid the new arrival any mind, preferring to complain about their own winged problems over asking after whatever troubles might be plaguing any of their neighbors
Those complaints were punctuated by the sympathetic thumps of mugs and tankards and the occasional epithet spat contemptuously in the direction of the low fire smoldering in the hearth. Spring nights in Styesville were damp and chill, and Solm the innkeeper had learned long ago that people who were comfortable—or mayhap even a little over-warm—bought more drinks than people who were shivering. It was worth the effort of him chopping extra wood, or the expense of paying someone else to deliver fresh logs every day, for the increase of sales. Since it had yet to be burned down, the inn was one of the few places prospering under the dragon's eyes, although Solm was careful not to ever mention that fact and, indeed, took care to supply a free round of drinks every now and then as an expression of his sympathies toward the rest of Styesville. When the general griping about the dragon turned more personal as the evenings lengthened, both Solm and his wife, Myam, often took the precaution of retiring early before anyone could notice that trade at the small inn had more than doubled since the dragon's arrival. They did the same this night, and left their daughter in charge of serving the room while they excused themselves from the discussion. After a brief period of morose reflection, it was starting to get noisy again.
"I lost three goats yesterday—three!"
"Aye, but two of 'em had just run off on account of being afeared of the thing. Found them in my garden three hours later, didn't you?"
"That's not the point, and I paid you fair trade for all the tomatoes they trampled—"
"I'm just saying shingles is supposed to be better than thatch. It costs more don't it? It's not right when a person scrimps and saves to be able to afford the best only to have some—some big lizard come around and turn the edges into charcoal while them with thatch don't suffer more than a bit of smoke. It's not fair."
"Oh yes? And what are we going to do when summer comes 'round, eh? When everything's dry as tinder-boxes and a thatched-roof will go up in flame at the first hint of a spark? Bet we'll all wish we could afford shingles then."
"Surely we won't still be beset by this beast by summertime!"
"Do you see anyone come to help us? Face it, Jak, unless you've a princess or a duchess on hand to give away—or a glittery pile of gold at the least—knights have better places to waste their time and adventures than some dung-heap cluster of huts that can't muster more than a few sheep and some shillings for a reward. The dragon will grow bored with our ashes long before we see any knights come riding up that road to save us."
The miller's bitter statement was met by outraged protests but none that carried much conviction.
The stranger settled in at the corner of the room farthest away from the hearth and the cluster of disgruntled villagers sitting around it and rapped politely on the wooden counter to get the attention of the young woman cleaning mugs. She looked away from the discussion with a guilty start, her curls bouncing, then hurried over. "Good eve sir, begging your pardon! It's not often we get travelers here and sometimes I think that lot would just as soon serve theyselves and—well, what can I get for you?"
The stranger's heavy pack thumped against the wooden floor as it was set down; something inside clanged metallically. "I'll take a mug of whatever you recommend, and a bit of supper, please."
The young serving-maid nodded amiably enough but her expression was dismayed. "I'm afraid your choices are ale or mead, nothing fancy, unless you want to try an early-press cider. As for supper, it's either stew or pie. We mostly serve bachelors what don't want to be troubled with cooking for themselves," she explained apologetically, "or a few of the old folks what would rather eat here than deal with all the grandkids underfoot at home, that sort of thing. We don't see a lot of proper visitors in these parts. Maybe a few deep-woods hunters or trappers or the odd wandering bard passing through on their way to more interesting parts now and again, but little else. There's not much need 'round here for fancy foods or diverse menu options and more's the pity about that, sir."
The stranger's hood hid everything but the prow of a long nose sticking out over that loose scarf like a ship's fi
gurehead, but a chuckle emerged from the cloth-shrouded depths, followed by a question: "What's in the pie?"
"Potato," was the quick reply. "And cheese and herbs and spring onions. Some peas, but they was dried, so they don't add much taste – leastways not in my opinion they don't."
"I shall try the pie. And the cider. Thank you."
"Cider's strong," the serving-maid warned over her shoulder as she bustled away. The stranger grunted and turned to watch the loose circle of villagers. They were angry, their noisy complaints proved that much, but there was an undercurrent of fear in their voices too. They were afraid of the beast, afraid of what it had done already and what it would do next. Of course they were; dragons were dangerous, too dangerous for untrained villagers to fight. Only knights specially schooled in the art of dragon-fighting stood a chance against the dreadsome beasts, and even they tended to come away from any conflict crisped and blistered more often than not, when they came away alive at all. Dragons were monsters, everyone knew that, some of the most dangerous monsters out there. There was a reason the rewards for dealing with the beasts were traditionally so large; there was a reason nobody sensible wanted to face one themselves and these villagers were no fools. They knew what they had hanging over their heads and their homes, and the fact that it had yet to do more than singe them didn't detract from their terror of what it could do when it chose to become more involved with their lives and livelihoods.
Aside from the newcomer, the only person in the room who wasn't trembling at least a little was the serving-maid. Her hands were steady as she carried a tray to the group of grumblers and refilled their tankards; steady as she poked up the fire smoldering in the hearth; steady as she brought food and drink over to the curious cloaked traveler.
"What is your name, mistress?"
"Louisa," the woman said. She was young and round, her chubby form just beginning to cross from coltish to coquettish. Her skin was the color and softness of a peach, scorched bright pink with an early sunburn across plump cheeks and an upturned nose, and her hair was a mass of curls the color and sheen of fresh honey. "Louisa Cooper, if it please you." She ducked a little curtsy as she placed the pie and tankard of cider on the long trestle table. "And you, er…mister?"
"Mistress," the stranger corrected her, but kindly. "Or simply Dea. I'm hardly a mistress, just a lone wanderer." Her voice was low and quiet, rough as though her throat was sore or perhaps as though she spent much of her time yelling; it offered no more hint of her gender than did the tall, narrow form swathed in thick fabric. Brown hands emerged from the rough - spun cloak she wore to wrap around her tankard and lift it to her mouth. She did not remove her scarf, but sipped carefully over the edge of the dark green wool. "Ah, you are right, that is strong. And quite fresh. Thank you."
Louisa blinked, then shrugged. "Well, if you like it, we've plenty. There's not many can stomach more than a glass or two, and most roundabouts here prefer ale."
"And you, Mistress Louisa?"
"Oh—ale's all right, or mead, although I'm not much for cider. Not the early stuff that's as strong as this, anyway." Louisa giggled and skipped back over to the grumbling crowd for a round of refills. The traveler called Dea watched her speculatively while she dug into her pie with the rough-forged iron fork that had come with the mug and the dish. It was a good pie, although the potatoes were a little overpowered by the strong, fresh onions. Still, it was hot and the crust was delightfully crisp, and it had been weeks since Dea had had a proper meal rather than something cooked haphazardly over a campfire, and she ate it hungrily. She pretended she didn't notice that Louisa kept looking over at her.
Dea was watching Louisa as well at any rate, although more subtly. (The deep hood and high scarf helped, as did the forkfuls of pie.) The serving-maid was a lovely girl, with the gold-twist curls and long-lashed eyes so common to tavern wenches in bardic songs. Her practical bodice and full skirts complimented her plump figure and, as one might expect of a tavern wench, did quite a good job of accenting her swell of a bosom too. The way her round cheeks puckered into friendly dimples when she smiled gave her features an inviting expression, but Dea noticed that none of the men-folk in the cluster of villagers around the fire seemed to pay her any undue attention; certainly there were none of the friendly pats to her behind or leering glances down her cleavage that one might expect to find in such a rustic setting. It was almost as if there was some sort of unwritten "hands off" rule about the girl, which would be an uncommon thing to find in a plain village inn like this one whose usual trade doubtless consisted mostly of bachelors, the occasional spinster, and those who preferred to spend as little time with their family as possible—just as Louisa had described. Perhaps her parents were strict and prudish and would withhold service from any fellow who gave their little girl too much sauce; if so they were less pragmatic than most innkeepers, to be willing to eschew good coin or barter over a bit of harassment.
Only one of the men there paid Louisa much notice beyond mumbling his thanks for a refill or scolding her for taking too long to bring one. He followed her with his eyes, blushing whenever she came near. He was a plain-featured fellow with pock-marked tan skin, hazel eyes, and floppy strawberry hair that could do with a trim. It looked like he was trying to grow a beard but wasn't having much success. He hadn't spoken yet that Dea had noticed, but instead sat quietly behind a portly man who shared enough of his looks that he was certainly a relative of some kind if not actually his father; Dea suspected he was the father from the way the boy glanced to him whenever he wasn't staring at Louisa. She smiled at the older man as readily as she did the rest of her customers, but when she served the boy she did it so fast his drink sloshed on the table and she didn't meet his eyes at all, for all that he never seemed to stop staring at her.
Dea rubbed her nose thoughtfully and returned her attention to her pie.
As she was finishing her meal Louisa came over to her again under the excuse of bringing a refill of cider, but once the drink was settled she sat down on the other side of the of the table and stared at the stranger. Dea kept eating, head down and shadowed under the depths of her hood. Louisa started to fidget, then to squirm, then finally to bounce. Eventually unable to hold her tongue any longer, she burst out, "You don't have to be afeared, you know."
Dea looked up. She put down her fork. "Of the dragon?" she asked, rough voice mild.
Louisa shook her head. "Of being, you know, seen." Flustered, blushing hard, she hurried to explain, "Oh, well, of course you should be afeared of the dragon. Although you don't come from here, so mayhap it won't have cause to hurt you, I don't know; we don't know why it came. Could be it's vengeance for something, in which case it'll leave you be, you not being from Styesville, or could be it's just hungry, in which case you're in as much danger as anyone although so far it's eaten naught but livestock." She cleared her throat and pressed on, at first haltingly and then in a breathless sort of hurry as the words ran away from her: "But what I meant, well, it must be warm in here under all that, and you don't need it. The cloak and the scarf and all. We've no magistrates around, and we certainly don't have the coin to attract bounty-chasers, so if you're hiding from the law or some lords you needn't worry. No one here would turn you in anyway," she added in a voice that warbled with uncertainty, "we aren't that sort of folk. Well, unless you'd done something terrible like horse-theft or murder." She giggled nervously. "And if you're a deserter from someone's army or service, well, everyone is entitled to their own choices and no one here will hold you to account for that. Besides, we haven't had any visitors pass through in weeks — not since the trouble started, so nobody here would have even heard about it if somebody was looking for you, so it's not like you'll be recognized anyway. Not that you look knavish anyway, I don't mean to imply you're done summat to be ashamed of! I don't mean to offend and maybe I have and I'm sorry if so, but I just didn't like the thought of you being uncomfortable 'cause you thought you had to hide, and if I've insulted you I d
idn't mean to and I'm sorry for it but you really can take your cloak off. If you want to."
Louisa swallowed hard and clammed-up all at once, like a river suddenly blocked by a rockslide, the tumbling rush of speech abruptly at an end. Her round face shone with concern and her pink cheeks darkened like ripening apples under Dea's gaze. Her bosom rose and fell like a fast tide; so many words so fast had left her gasping. As she slowly got her breath back she looked up through her lashes at Dea and cringed slightly, her expression one of tight worry.
When the only sound that came out of that worn hood was a low chuckle, Louisa sagged in relief. She went so limp that she nearly slid right off her stool and had to grasp the sides of the round seat to hold herself upright.
"I appreciate your concern," Dea said, "but you needn't worry that I have the law dogging my heels. I wasn't hiding my face because I feared being recognized, but because I did not want to startle anyone. If it upsets you so much to think of me overheating, though… " Slowly she unwrapped her scarf and pushed her hood back, revealing a face with strong, planar features, thin lips, and a broad beak of a nose. Her hair looked black in the dim light and it was cropped short in tight, ragged curls that were clustered untidily after so long under her hood. Her skin was the same rich brown as her hands, but—it wasn't all skin.
Louisa gasped, one hand flying to her mouth and the other clutching the edge of the stool still. Her eyes flickered back and forth across Dea's face, taking in the unmistakable sheen of green-tinged scales that were spread in patches across sharp cheekbones and down from a high forehead and crawling in like beads of greenish sweat at her square temples. A second, closer glance at those hands revealed more than a hint of scale around the knuckles as well. They had gone unnoticed in the murky light but perhaps they might have passed unseen even in the sun; the human mind is skilled at overlooking what it does not expect to see, and there are few who expect a splash of scales across a woman's face.
