Dragonoak: The Complete History of Kastelir (19 page)

“Bah,” Michael grumbled, trudging up the hill as I slung the bag of goods over my shoulder. “That's the third time I've been turned down. They
must
have it—they live on a farm in the middle of nowhere. What's there to do
but
drink?”

“Work?” I suggested. “Anyway, if there's nothing to do but drink, they're not going to want to share it with you, are they?”

“I suppose,” Michael allowed, letting out a long suffering sigh. I knew better than to expect him to let it rest, and sure enough, moments later, he went on to say, “You'd think I'd be allowed a modicum of comfort. Over the last week we've slept on a fine assortment of dirt and rocks. Tree roots, I've found, make for a particularly good night's rest. All this washing in rivers, not having a single wall around us for protection, let alone a roof—it's barbaric. Sir Ightham could afford to put us up in a different inn every night, if she so chose. Now, I understand and respect that she has a plan she must stick to, but it does make one wonder... still, she's a fine cook, you'll hear no complaints from me there.”

As much as he professed to loathe a life of travelling, Michael had never shown any sign of turning back. At times, he'd ride ahead of us, excited by the prospect of what was over the next hill, inevitably disappointed when there wasn't a bed awaiting him.

“What are we going to do once this is all over?” I asked. Our camp was in the distance, fire not yet lit, and though I could make out the horses and Rán, Sir Ightham wasn't much more than a speck on the horizon. “Once we reach Isin and everything's done with.”

“Who's to say? If it's merely an errand Sir Ightham is running, perhaps we'll have the pleasure of accompanying her back to Thule,” he said. “More likely than not, however, Sir Ightham and Rán will leave to attend to other matters, and it'll just be the two of us. We have to go home at some point, you realise. If only to see dad.”

Michael had written to our father several times. I'd contributed, but whenever I asked Michael to write something, he put down far more than I'd dictated, and would often screw up the parchment and start over again, distorting what I'd wanted to convey.

“Right,” I said, doing what I could to act as though I hadn't asked the question. Thinking about any of this being over made my chest tighten; for all of Felheim and Kastelir that I'd seen, the moment Sir Ightham and Rán were done with us, I was certain I'd snap straight back to my village. If there were other options open to me, I couldn't see them. I couldn't carve out my own place in the world without my necromancy.

I tried not to think about it. Isin was still weeks away.

Back at the camp, Sir Ightham and Rán pointedly weren't looking at one another. They were sat on the ground, doing nothing; the fire hadn't even been started in order to heat the pan for dinner.

“Oh dear,” Michael said, unwilling to wade through an uncomfortable atmosphere. “Is everything alright here? Didn't interrupt anything, did we?”

Rán growled dismissively. Sir Ightham took the change from Michael, pocketed it, and didn't ask what we'd managed to procure. I pulled the chunk of meat from the bag and showed it to Rán, hoping it would cheer her up. Not that she'd had to rely on us for food at any point. She was perfectly capable of hunting for herself, and had pounced on no small number of rabbits, goats, foxes and sheep, needing to eat more than Michael, Sir Ightham and myself put together.

She held out a hand, and I sat by her side, leant against an arched knee while she made short work of what was supposed to be everyone's dinner.

“Rowan,” Sir Ightham said, holding a sword in each hand. I thought better of asking if we weren't going to eat first.

I got to my feet, squeezing Rán's hand as I went. Sir Ightham wandered further from the camp than she tended to, though I was usually the one trying to put distance between us and the others. I'd asked if we couldn't practise somewhere out of sight the night after we'd crossed into Kastelir, behind a row of trees or over the crest of a hill, but Sir Ightham had told me that if I was to use a sword when it mattered, I had to learn to deal with distractions.

“Is everything alright?” I asked once we were a safe distance from the camp. “You didn't have an argument with Rán, did you?”

“It was nothing personal.” Sir Ightham was more forthcoming than I'd expected her to be. “A disagreement about which route to take. The both of us have too much pride.”

I took my sword from her, relieved to know that things would be back to a semblance of normality by the morning. If nothing else, I'd grown accustomed to holding the blade. It still felt unnatural between my fingers, but I'd learnt not to grip it so tightly that my wrist ached with the strain.

I was not, however, so proficient when it came to swinging the blade. Michael said something about imagining the sword as an extension of my arm, but to me, it was more of a growth than anything that belonged. I tried. It couldn't be said that I didn't try, but my movements were clunky and uncoordinated. Sir Ightham favoured her left hand when it came to swordplay and writing alike, and though I tried mimicking her, I had even less luck that way.

The sword was getting in my way. I couldn't find a balance between my body and the blade to throw against Sir Ightham, and for the first time since I'd picked up a sword, Sir Ightham resigned to failure before I did.

“I don't understand why you aren't making progress,” she said, viewing my inability to parry a blow as a reflection on her teaching, rather than my natural ineptitude. If her disagreement with Rán earlier had shortened her temper, I was glad of it. “Your brother tells me that you were never one to be antagonised, in your village. And you yourself said you were wont to wrestle wolves—something that takes no small degree of skill, I'm sure.”

“I'm glad my brother sees fit to share these things with you,” I grumbled, letting the sword fall to my side. It was no secret that I let my frustration get the better of me throughout our sparring sessions.

“How would you fight, had I not given you the sword?” Sir Ightham asked, sheathing her own blade.

I'd used an assortment of tools to fight off wolves, but I wasn't certain any of them could be considered actual weapons. Shovels and rakes, a fallen branch; and then there was my knife, less for fighting and more concerned with delivering the final blow.

“With my hands, I guess,” I said, settling my sword down in the grass. “Unless there was something lying around I could use.”

“Very well,” Sir Ightham said.

I stared at her, needing a moment to realise that she meant to fight me. She fell into a stance that made me want to take wide strides back, and bundling my hands into fists was about all I could do. I might've been a necromancer, might've been able to heal from anything, but that didn't mean that she couldn't hurt me, didn't mean that my heart didn't hammer in my chest.

But I was determined to prove myself. I'd wasted her time with the sword, and thought that if I could only picture her as a wolf, a snarling, hungry thing, teeth bared, then I might be able to make that up to her. I nodded, letting her know I was ready.

Sir Ightham was better than me. I'd known she would be, but had thought she'd go easy on me in order to see what I could do. She moved faster than I expected, didn't lunge as a wolf would, catching me off-guard. I was on the ground within seconds, ribs and elbow slamming against the dirt, knocking the breath out of me.

I sprang back to my feet, bruises healing over before they could form, pushed on by the energy suddenly surging through me.

I circled her, trying to predict her next move, searching for a way to use her height against her. It didn't work: she deflected the punches I threw, returned the strikes in kind, and didn't hesitate to knock me against the ground over and over.

But it wasn't like sword fighting. No matter how much was happening around me, no matter how heavy my breathing became, I saw through the movement, through the rush, and peeled it back layer by layer.

I got lucky.

Sir Ightham hit me in the ribs but I caught her nose with the heel of my palm. I struck too hard: Sir Ightham fell back, landing more gracefully against the grass than I'd managed to the last seven or eight times. She looked up at me, surprised, not angry. Blood ran from her nose, and she lifted a hand to wipe it away before it reached her lips.

“Sorry,” I blurted out, as though she hadn't done the same to me time and time again. As though it hadn't been her idea. “I'm sorry, Sir.”

“Claire,” she said, holding out her other hand to me. I took it and pulled her to her feet, but stared blankly, brow creased. “My name is Claire.”

“Oh.” Colour rose in my cheeks as she smiled. I continued to stare, not certain why I was faltering; it was hardly the first time I'd been entrusted with something as simple as a name. I started when I realised I was still holding onto her hand, quickly pulled it back and said, “... I didn't break your nose, did I?”

“Far from it,” Sir Ightham –
Claire –
said, dusting down the front of her coat. “You are good, though. Undisciplined, but good. Perhaps your brother would have more luck with the sword.”

“Or maybe we could melt it down and make another pan,” I suggested, relieved that I'd never have to touch it again.

Claire let out a breathy laugh, and said, “I'm not certain why I didn't think of that.”

A few nights later, we left behind open fields for forest. Kastelir as a whole was more open than Felheim, and the ground became rockier as we headed further and further from the wall. But there was a point, beyond a city Rán told me was famous for its baked almonds, where spring had gathered, leaving a rush of blossoming apple trees leading onto sturdy evergreens, mossy rocks surrounding a winding river.

The overgrowth worked in our favour and against it. While we were hidden from the elements and any passing travellers too curious for their own good, we wouldn't have been able to see anyone tracking us until it was too late. I had no idea who could possibly be after us. Claire – who I was easing myself out of the habit of thinking of as
Sir Ightham –
was as paranoid as I'd once been about the imaginary monsters pane certainly weren't.

She'd always walk the perimeter whenever we settled down, taking Rán along with her, and every night, they took it in turns to keep watch over us. Michael and I both offered to stand vigil, but we'd been told – as kindly as was possible – that we had no idea what we were doing and would hurt more than we helped.

That evening, Rán had me patrol the area with her. Claire had nothing of importance to discuss with her, and so stayed behind to tend to the cooking. I hurried along to Rán's side, amazed that horns and teeth could have ever frightened me.

“We're getting there, aren't we?” I asked, not bothering to look around in earnest when Rán was there to scare off any supposed assailants. “It's been
weeks
!”

I wondered how big Kastelir could be. How big Bosma was beyond that. We'd been walking and riding for so long I was convinced we should've had time to wander through Canth and Ridgeth alike, and stop in on the Bloodless Lands on the way back. I was starting to suspect we were going in circles; from a distance, one city looked like another, and I couldn't be expected to distinguish between every tree, rock and river.

“A week and a half,” Rán said, smirking down at me. “Reckon we've got as long to go again before we get near Isin. Not enjoying the company?”

I bumped my shoulder against her side, wrapping an arm around one of hers.

I shouldn't have been complaining. I didn't want to reach Isin. It was the end of the journey for Claire and Rán, but there was no resolution awaiting me. When I thought about it, time seemed to slip from my grasp and through my fingers. I grit my teeth, willing the next week and a half to never end.

“Once we get to Isin, what are you going to do... ?” I tried. I hadn't asked before, knowing that Rán's plans were entwined with Claire's, but we were alone, and I wouldn't ask her to tell me anything Claire didn't want her sharing. “Are you staying there? If you need help with anything...”

“Might stay. Might be heading back to Canth,” Rán said, rubbing her chin.

“Depending on what?”

“Depending on who,” she clarified, and continued on her way, snapping a branch as thick as my arm underfoot.

She wasn't dismissing me. She hummed to herself as we continued around the outskirts of the forest, mulling something over.

“All clear,” she decided, when we'd run into a handful of rabbits and nothing more. “That should keep your dragon-slayer happy. And as for what you were saying—don't want you to be worrying about anything, yrval. There'll be a place for you with me, if you want it.”

I lowered my head, smiling at the ground. Rán placed a hand on the top of my head, ruffling my hair, and together we made our way back through the forest, to the clearing where Claire and Michael were waiting for us. They were discussing something that went over my head – the use of repetition in some book or another – and dinner was just about ready.

“Any problems?” Claire asked, idly stirring the stew.

“No one's hunting you down,” Rán told her, falling to the ground and propping herself against a sturdy oak. “How's that feeling, anyway? Being the one to be hounded after, when usually you're tracking down dragons?”

Claire frowned and I saw her chest rise, as though she was debating whether or not it was worth answering.

“A-anyway, Sir, I was wondering if you might've perused Singer's
Myrosi Compilation
at some point...” Michael said jarringly loud, trying to head off a confrontation that wouldn't have had any bite behind it.

Claire held eye contact with Rán for a beat longer, and turned to Michael, saying, “One of my favourites.”

He brightened and went on a tirade about an age-old debate regarding historical accuracy. Michael never asked Claire what any of this was about, though I knew he had his suspicions; he'd become delighted by the concepts of duty and honour, and decided it was of the utmost importance that he lent his aid until Claire inevitably told him all that he wanted to know.