CHAPTER 3

Brea's Lot: Part One

The Aldrieg Caves, near the peaceful village of Braylair. One hundred twenty leagues west of Bailryn.

It was supposed to be Brea Loian's day for behaving like a normal eighteen-year-old girl. She should be down at the lake, catching up with friends and others her age, maybe even fishing. But no, Rek had to fall asleep while lounging in the Moon Pool. Silly dragon.

The Aldrieg cave was a poor substitute for a sunny morning in the meadow. It was dark, damp, and never was there any chance of a visitor. Not that she had much time for talking. But still, it would be nice if they allowed a friend to come and say hello, occasionally.

Brea perched on the only chair set at an ancient stone table. From where she sat, she could see the late afternoon sunlight filtering through the trees that lay beyond the cave entrance. Behind the table, a wide shelf that stretched along the wall of the cave. The shelf was where Brea kept some of her larger items... mostly mixing bowls and pans—it reminded her of her mother's kitchen, sort of. To her right, there was a natural alcove. Two spans deep and one wide, the alcove was where she would take a nap in a narrow cot when there wasn't enough time to go home between chores. Within this curtained off niche, she also kept her collection of rare herbs... safely out of the way of clumsy feet.

As usual, the tabletop was crowded with her stuff. Books, scales, tools; useful items she had gathered over the past five years. And then there were those things that came as part of the job, like the Lier'sinn—a large silver bowl used for seeing far-off places. As strange as it had once seemed, they were all familiar to her now. Indeed, she loved her work, most days. Still, a day at the lake would have been nice.

Brea had spent the last few minutes chopping up herbs and roots. As well as her normal clutter, small piles of green, yellow, and purple peppered the tabletop. Nothing too out of the ordinary, just a touch of ousblud, a few sprigs of kharoe, and some chopped kalli root—all gathered from the woods around the Bren'alor valley.

She worked quickly. Once she had finished the cutting and chopping, she begun weighing portions on a small brass scale, delicately pinching off a little of the herb, or maybe adding a tiny smidgen... she was very fussy about her tonics, and this had to be right. Once satisfied, she would pour the measure into a large mortar standing on a plinth of its own beside the table.

The mixture was almost ready, just one final ingredient.

Brea hated this part. Leaning back against the battered chair, she sighed before reaching for the knife. After wiping it with a clean cloth, she slowly ran the blade through the candle flame and placed it in a half-full bowl of lemon water. While that soaked, she checked her palms. It was a futile exercise; she always cut her left hand. But the act of prodding and poking took her mind off the knife for a while.

After a moment's pause—a long moment—she took up the knife with her right hand and ran it over her left palm. The cold, clean blade sliced into her flesh. Brea flinched and sucked in a hissing breath through her teeth. Her shoulders folded up to her ears. Why is the sting always such a surprise? There must be a better way than this. She pulled the blade all the way across before relaxing her shoulders and looking at the cut. Quickly, she put down the knife and clenched her fist above the mortar.

There she waited, watching the blood drip into the bowl, clenching her fist, tight then loose, to coax blood from the wound. It was a slow job at times. After a while, she began to pack away her equipment with her free hand: closing the books, arranging the bowls, and pushing them all neatly into a line across the back of the table. Might as well do something useful. A minute passed—another look in the bowl. That should be enough.

Brea took a clean piece of cloth. After dipping it in the lemon water, she bandaged her cut palm. That stung nearly as badly as the knife, but she had to try keeping the wound clean, the cave was hardly sanitary.

Once set, she took up the pestle and began to grind her blood into the ingredients. The stone pestle clattered around the mortar as she pounded down around the inside, making sure to include the whole measure of elements into the mixture. It didn't look a very appetizing concoction. Brea cringed at the odour and blinked at the vapours that brought tears to her eyes and a bitter taste of rusty metal to her tongue.

After two minutes the mixture turned to a smooth, thin paste. Brea shouted loudly towards the back of the cave, "Come on! It's ready." She wiped down the pestle and arranged her tools back in their proper places.  Then picked up the mortar, turned to face the darkness, and waited.

 A faint murmur broke the near silence of the inner cavern. It was the sound of a low, deep breath—a sigh, maybe—but there was no sign of movement. The noise faded to a hum, then to nothing. Lost against the gently swirling drone of the stream that flowed through the centre of the cave. Brea peered into the darkness. Is he there?

Tapping a finger against the side of the mortar, she gazed aimlessly into the shadows. Why is this always such a game? "It's ready!" she called with a firm, loud voice.

From the back of the cave, Brea saw the reflection of the candlelight in Rek's eyes. Two discs of pale, translucent orange flickered amid the darkness. The reflections steadied against the black backdrop of the cave wall. Slowly, the pale lights rose as the dragon heaved himself up. Pausing a moment, he blinked, before finally fixing his gaze on her.

The mirrors of flame that were the dragon's eyes swooped down and began to move closer, becoming larger with each passing second. The sound of his laboured breath returned, echoing like bellows against the hard rock of the cave wall. She could hear it much clearer now—a muffled rasping rumbled in his chest, as though each draw of the warm, damp air was a chore. The dragon came to a standstill just beyond the circle of candlelight—a silhouette waiting in the shadows, motionless in the darkness.

Rek edged slowly forward. His scaly, golden skin shone in the dim, orange light as though wet to the touch. Black slit pupils split his orange eyes in two. Shadow still covered his forehead, but Brea could see the outline of horns beside small, pointed ears. At the front of his serpent-like jaw, tendrils of fleshy whiskers hung around long, pointed teeth. A pinkish tongue pulsed with every laboured breath inside his half-open mouth.

Rek tilted his head to the side like a dog quizzing its master. Brea lifted the mortar and gestured for him to come to her. Begrudgingly, and with more than a fleeting glance of unwillingness, Rek moved, slowly edging forward, head still tilted, and eyes fixed on the mortar. His enamelled talons clicked on the hard floor as his warm breath pushed at her thin skirt. Another tenuous step brought him close enough to touch.

 Brea took the mortar in both hands and held it ready to pour. "Open up now. I want to see your tongue." She made her tone kindly and reassured. She knew what her dragon thought of medicine. A calm, caring hand is what he needed.

On seeing the mortar's contents—or maybe he smelled it—Rek let out a sighing wheeze from his nose, and a greenish slime dripped from his left nostril. He quickly lapped it.

"Ugh... disgusting!" Brea said. Flinching, she creased her face in revulsion. "That's not going to help you, now is it?"

Rek backed off a step, bowing his head as though cowering. His inner eyelids blinked sideways as he glanced up at her.

"Aw... I'm sorry!" Brea told her dragon, trying not to laugh at his docile expression.

Balancing the mortar on her knee, she reached out an open hand, and with a compassionate gaze, she beckoned him forward again. He approached her, slowly.

Brea waited with a patient smile. Please hurry. It's going to turn tacky and useless soon!

Rek was close enough. Brea grabbed a thick, leathery lip—curled around a huge, razor-sharp tooth—and tugged it down, hinting that she wanted his mouth open. Rek obliged and cheekily stuck out his pink tongue. Brea poured the contents of the mortar upon it. Rek winced and curled his lip, displaying a full range of fearsome teeth. Brea put down the empty mortar and sprang to her feet. She grabbed his jaws, top and bottom, and forced them together—not that she had a hope of stopping him if he really had a mind to spit it out onto the floor. She pushed hard against his coarse, scaly jaws. "No you don't... Swallow it all!"

Rek did so but with as much exaggerated, pathetic effort as he could muster. Like a child playing for sympathy, he circled his jaw around the medicine, doubtless trying to edge it past his taste buds and straight down his throat, all the while eyeing Brea with a pitiful gaze.

"Don't look at me like that," she said. "If you're going to go falling asleep neck deep in the Moon Pool, then you're bound to catch a cold, my little one: there is nothing so sure."

Rek coughed on his medicine and gave a loud sneeze. A small ball of flame came forth from his one unblocked nostril and hit a pile of rags gathered in a heap on the cave floor, immediately setting them ablaze. Brea ran over to what was now a small fire and stamped it out. "Be more careful!" she said, laughing... a dragon sneezing was a comical sight, as long as it was aimed somewhere safe.

Brea began slapping her ash-covered shoe on the damp cave floor, then paused a moment to listen; a bubbling, spitting sound was coming from her table. It was the Lier'sinn.

The silver bowl full of a murky, oily liquid, had come to the boil—or so it seemed; there was no flame beneath it. Steam rose from the slick surface, and the now familiar sulphurous smell filled the air.

Brea and the dragon both watched as the steam rolled along the cave ceiling. Rek knew what the bowl was for, just as much as she did. Still, knowing did not mean either were looking forward to seeing what visions it had for them today.

She had hoped to get away without having to deal with the Lier'sinn. After all, it was supposed to be her day off. Brea's shoulders stooped, and Rek curled a lip in what she thought might be sympathy.

Gathering herself, Brea took a deliberate step forward. She waved her hand over the top of the bowl, wafting the steam away, and peered over the rim. The foul brew spat, bubbled, and popped ferociously. With every burst of a bubble, a small wisp of stinking, nauseating vapour was released. Brea backed away from the stench and grabbed a cloth to cover her nose. She paused a moment to brace herself before looking again.

The bubbling gradually settled and, after a few seconds, a blurry image began to form on the slick, oily surface: a faint picture of two men walking along a narrow, sloping track. It appeared the two were travelling together. The track levelled and followed a fast moving river through wide grassland that tapered off into the misty horizon. The two figures approached a small town. One man was tall—very tall—a giant of a man, massively broad across the shoulders. The other was older and had a staff. The taller man carried a hefty pack strapped across his shoulders. The two walked a hundred paces behind a horse and cart, led by another two men. Again, one looked older than the other did. The picture began to fade. Brea squinted around for signs of any landmarks—nothing. Only the shadows gave a bearing; they were travelling south. But that could mean anything. It may well be a southerly turning of an otherwise westerly road.

Brea looked across at Rek. His head was by her shoulder, his eyes staring down at the near-faded image. "Not long now!" she said in a soft voice, as she patted the dragon under his chin.

Rek moaned as though understanding her words—he couldn't yet answer Brea in her native tongue; a dragon's voice didn't mature until they were at least twenty, and Rek was barely eighteen. He gently rubbed his cheek against Brea's side and whimpered like a lost puppy.

Brea threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. "Never mind, my brave boy. All will be fine," she said, rubbing his cheek softly. "If he comes, if he will help, all will be well. You'll see!"

Brea caught the sound of a distant roar coming from the tunnel opposite. "That sounds like your mother, young man. I think maybe father has brought you a goat—or perhaps half a goat—yummy!" She rubbed a rag around Rek's runny nose. "Besides... I must be off myself, soon, or I'll be late for my supper."

Rek turned his slender, twenty-foot body slowly towards the passageway, taking care to stay clear of the table. Brea smiled. Rek had sent her things flying on more than one occasion. Once clear, he set off down the short shaft to the inner chambers. About halfway down, he sneezed again. Brea saw the tunnel walls light up a reddish-orange. She laughed at the sight of it and then watched as her dragon disappeared in the darkness.

Brea wrapped her arms around her middle. A deep sense of dread welled up until a real sensation of pain rose in her stomach. She knew difficult times lay ahead for young Rek. That thought alone tugged hard at her heart, for there was one thing she was certain of—she loved that dragon!

Brea raised her wounded hand and removed the bandage—it was already healing. She threw the bloodied rag into the pile that had caught fire earlier. Picking up her bag, she blew out the candles and made for the entrance—some hundred paces down the shallow slope of the cave. The sound of the trickling stream and the reflections of distant daylight upon the water guided her as she made her way home..

*  *  *

The cave entrance was a good thirty paces above the open pastureland of the central valley. A steep path wound through the ring of trees circling the inner fields. It wasn't until Brea passed through the thick line of spruce and fir that she was able to judge how late it was. It was dusk, and would be getting dark soon. She had spent more time in the cave than she had thought. The paddocks were empty. Goat and yak alike were all in for the night, doubtless crowded under the open-sided sheds that ran along the edge of Braylair Village. Ducks waddled along the path from the stream and geese—half-flapping, half-walking—seemed to race each other back to their own shed. It was another quiet evening. Brea often found it hard to believe there was a dozen dragons not half a mile from her home.

Looking east, she couldn't see the other caves—not that there were many; most of the caves were beyond the ridge, beyond the reach of the valley. And glad of it she was, too. They were the Tunnels of Aldregair and not a place she would wish to live. She had heard of men who, over a century ago, tried to map those tunnels. Some, a few, had been successful in their endeavour. But dragons weren't the only things that liked the dark, and many men lost their lives discovering things they had "no business poking their noses into." That was what her mother, Affrair, told her two years ago when Brea asked how they had died. "There are things we're not meant to know." She should have known better than to press her mother for answers. Now, she couldn't look east without feeling a shudder run down her spine.

Crossing the wide, cobbled track that was the village's main thoroughfare, she paused a moment to bid Mrs. Miller a good evening. The older woman was saying something, but Brea couldn't hear a word of it. Mrs. Miller's husband was busy loading his cart with sacks of flour, and making a real noisy job of it, too. Brea pointed to her ears, and Mrs. Miller laughed and waved her on.

The Millers lived in the mill, an irony that always amused Brea. Most other folks lived in the houses built along the main road. Made mainly of stone dragged down from the Karan Ridges, the houses had thatched roofs and wide, open porches. They were simple dwellings but well made. The village was small, with thirty-two homes, a mill, a blacksmith, and an inn. Still, Brea was happy there.

She walked down a narrow passage between her neighbours' gardens and climbed the wooden steps to her front veranda. After kicking off her boots, she went in.

The door entered immediately into a simple kitchen with a fireplace at one end, table in the middle, and a few chairs scattered about. Affrair was standing at her chopping board in front of the kitchen window. Her long silver hair tied up in a bun, a white apron covering her day clothes.

Affrair turned to Brea with a smile. "Hello, dear." She was cheerful, as usual. "Is everything well with young Rek?" She asked the last in a cautious whisper; all the while surreptitiously looking from side to side.

Brea laughed at her clandestine enquiry. Everyone in the village knew about the dragons. Nevertheless, her mother always spoke softly when talking about them, as though spies with some evil agenda were lurking in the shadows. "Mother, please, there is nobody here. Yes, Rek will be fine. He just has a cold."

"Oh good. That is a relief."

Affrair turned back to her chopping board.

Brea listened to the tap-tap-tap of the knife as she sat down heavily at the table. She began toying with the cutlery in the centre, spinning a spoon around with her finger. The vision of the two men flashed in her mind. It had been bothering her all the way home. What did it mean? Why wasn't there anything else? Was she missing something? She let out a sigh.

"Are you all right, dear?" Affrair asked. She turned to Brea, still holding the tail ends of the spring onions she had been chopping.

Brea stopped toying with the spoon. "It's the Lier'sinn, Mother. The image still isn't clear. I can't tell where he is or what he's doing, never mind if he understands what's going on!" Brea shuffled about in the seat. She knew her mother wouldn't have a clue about the men in her vision—certainly no more than she already did, and there didn't appear to be any point talking about it—however, she yearned for a comforting voice, something to settle her mind.

Affrair dunked her hands in a bucket of water. She stood, towelling them dry while she spoke. "Really now, Brea, there's nothing to be done. Nothing is certain yet, not by any means. We only have rumours and tales passed down through the ages. I'm sure there's truth in them, but you can't let it rule your life." She smiled as she rubbed Brea's shoulder. "Don't you go worrying, my girl, you will only make yourself ill. Let the future unfold in its own time. Worry about what is in front of you, not what is waiting around the corner."

Brea leaned into her mother's side and allowed Affrair's gentle touch to soothe her. True, her mother had no answers, but as usual Affrair saw things for what they were. Listening to her made it all so simple—for a while, at least.

Brea had learnt a lot in her eighteen years, but she knew she was still young. Nevertheless, try as she might, sometimes she couldn't help feeling out of her depth. Surely, these were problems for wise men, not for a young girl who had hardly set foot outside the Bren'alor Valley. For all her love of Rek, sometimes she wished she were like every other girl in the village and not fated to the lives of dragons.

Rek was her biggest worry. The thought of him fighting in a battle... No, she couldn't think of it, not her little dragon. Brea gave a long forlorn sigh, before planting her forehead on the table and clasping her hands behind her neck. "I don't want anything bad to happen to him, Mother," she cried. She could feel the tears beginning to well up. "He's too young for this." She raised a tearful eye to her mother, who brushed it dry with a corner of the towel.

"My dear, Rek may be young, but he is a Gan!"—she whispered at the last part—"I strongly suspect his father will have something to say to anyone who would do him harm."

Affrair wrapped up the towel and threw it back over towards the chopping board. "Now, let us stop with this mournful mood and have us a little cake, maybe some wine. What do you think?" Affrair's eyebrows rose, and she gave a cheeky grin, as though she were suggesting something naughty.

Brea couldn't help but smile. Yes, Mother can always make it better. "That sounds like a wonderful idea. Besides, wherever this man is, he'll get here sooner or later. Lier'sinn or no Lier'sinn... Tor will make certain of it!"

Brea sat for a moment gazing out the window at the wisp of a cloud as it rolled softly by. She thought of the future, wondering about the man in the Lier'sinn. Could she be certain it was really him, really the beast from the old legends? And if indeed it was, did he know anything of the part he must play or understand how important he was to every man, woman, and child of Aleras'moya? She wondered when it came down to it, would he even choose to help, as there would be no forcing him. When it was too late for discussion, when the dragons rang their call to arms, would he indeed come down on their side? On the other hand, would he add himself to the list of their enemies?

With a sigh of resignation, she sat up straight and gave her mother another smile. "I'll get the cake."