Page 12 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

The vessel swings out into the river, and I drop to my knees to keep from falling. Then I creep forward, rising only enough to free the rope holding the front of the raft.

Once freed, the raft starts to drift, luckily in the direction I plan to head. I gather the courage to shift to one knee, so I can use the pole to propel me forward more quickly.

A rat grabs the side of the raft, its sharp claws scrambling for purchase, but I use the pole to push it back into the water, and then stroke more quickly, trying not to think about the squishy bottom that the end of the pole digs into each time I press down.

Whatever the bottom is, it’s not the same hard, smooth stone that forms the walls and ceiling of the passage.

The torch proves to be a blessing from Othrix, and soon my eyes adjust to the light. I’ve been traveling for so long, I’m starting to wonder if I should have gone against the current. But then a spot of light appears in the distance.

Setting down the pole, I retrieve a small looking tube from Olifer’s rucksack.

It’s moonlight. Even better, it’s moonlight with a strong hint of pink. The sun will soon rise.

The waterway leading from the crypts joins a larger river. Not far from the junction I extinguish the torch and tie the raft to a tree, hoping whoever owns this craft will find it.

Glancing to the brightening violet sky, I’m grateful that the day will soon dawn, and that I made my escape without facing the nighttime forest and evil creatures that might lurk there.

Rats are one thing but facing trolls or demons or vampyres is another.

I shake my head. Nurse’s stories were told to scare me.

Such creatures of Darkness no longer dwell in the Light, thanks be to Othrix.

My surroundings reveal a steep elevation change in the direction from which I came, explaining why what started as a subterranean passage emerged into a river.

I’m fairly certain I’m still in Achotia but can’t see a trace of the castle behind me.

From the texts and maps I’ve seen, this must be the area of our kingdom known as the lowlands.

Assuming I’m correct, there are several villages in this region—Morvain and Landros at a minimum.

Hoping one of them is on this waterway, I head along the riverbank as the morning sun brightens the violet sky.

Hunger growls in my belly. Save my two bites of bread and cheese on the stairs, I’ve not eaten since yesterday morn, and all the activity, combined with lack of food, is catching up with me now.

Finding a flat rock to stand on, I use my hands to scoop up some water, finding it clear and cool.

I’m grateful that the river’s current runs away from the junction through which I emerged.

The water flowing close to the castle was undoubtedly foul.

The water fools my belly into thinking it’s full for the moment, and my mood cheers.

Morning sparrows sing from the treetops, and the rising sun paints the world in her pink splendor and turning the violet sky a soft lavender.

The sun must be female, I reason. She provides so much light to the world, without seeking thanks.

I walk close to the river for nearly an hour before I hear voices. Looking through the hanging branches of a wyllow tree, I spot a road atop the embankment. A cart passes by, ladened with goods that look to be headed to market.

Pushing branches aside, I climb up to the roadway, arriving at the top just as another cart comes along. This will be my first test to see if I can pass for a boy.

“Good sunrise!” I call out to the man driving the cart.

He nods but doesn’t answer. A woman, riding in the back, stands after they pass and says something to the driver.

The cart slows.

“Hey, boy!” the man calls back toward me.

He thinks I’m a boy!

I race to catch up to them, joy flooding every part of my body.

“We be headed to market if ye’d like a ride.”

“Oh, yes. Very much, sir.” I try my best to deepen my voice. “Thank you for your generosity.”

The man shoots me a quizzical look, and I wonder what I said wrong, hoping I haven’t revealed my sex.

“Go on then,” he says. “Climb in the back with the missus, or ye can ride up here on the bench with me.”

I’m so exhausted that both options sound fabulous, but after a rapid debate, I step onto a piece of bent iron jutting out from the cart, and the man shifts to make room for me to join him on the bench.

If I’m meant to be a man—or at least a boy—it seems more appropriate for me to ride up front with him.

I’m wondering what topics of conversation will be best—I don’t want to make a mistake that will give me away—but the man slaps the reins against his oxen, and soon the clattering of the wooden wheels saves me from having to choose.

The ride proves quite bumpy, and the bones in my bottom ache against the hard wooden seat, but after the past day and night, I could not be more grateful to have a ride.

Soon, we pass a few cottages, and then a few more, until I realize we’ve entered a village. Not certain which village it is, I mentally scold myself. I paid more attention to the maps of faraway kingdoms than my own.

Soon, the road is lined with small buildings, most formed from unworked stones stacked together, and their roofs are covered in thatch so thin it’s hard to believe they keep out the rains.

I see no people in the village, but smoke rises from many chimneys and my stomach growls at the scent of bread baking and smoked boar fat cooking over fires.

The cart turns into a square that’s lined with taller buildings, some made from more uniformly hewn stones, like the ones comprising the castle. On one side, two boys work together, setting supports into holes in the ground and then raising large pieces of woven hemp to create shade.

My driver stops his oxen in front of a small table with a hemp tarp stretched above.

“This be us,” he says. “End of the road.”

“Thank you very much, sir.” I jump down from the cart.

The woman is already unloading baskets of their wares—plums and pears and at least four varieties of apples—and placing them on the table.

“Would you like some help?” I ask.

“We don’t got any coppers for ye, boy,” the man says, from where he’s still sitting at the front of the cart.

“As payment for my ride, then.”

He nods and then climbs down to check his oxen's yoke.

I climb onto the back of the cart to help the woman, handing down baskets so she can arrange them. “Do you sell your fruit in this market often?” I ask.

She nods in response and then points to a bushel of green apples. I pick it up and carefully pass it down. It’s very heavy, but she handles it easily.

“What varietal of apples are these?” I ask, though I recognize them as verdant snaps.

She shrugs, not even turning her face toward me. She clearly doesn’t like to talk while she works. As I hand her the last basket, the man climbs back up to the seat of the cart.

“Best be getting off now, boy,” he says. “I’ll be moving this cart.”

I jump down. “Thank you again. Both of you.”

The man slaps the reins on his oxen, and the cart pulls away.

I turn toward the woman, and she holds an apple toward me, one of the verdant greens.

“Oh, thank you.” I retrieve Olifer’s purse from the rucksack. “How much do I owe you?” I hold out a small piece of silver.

Her eyes open wide. “Put that away, lad!” she says in a harsh whisper. Then she looks side to side as if in fear.

My cheeks heating, I tuck the coin back into the purse and then stash it in one of the pouches sewn onto my breeches. What have I done wrong now?

“I don’t know where ye hail from, lad,” she says, “but around here, simple folk are not called sir, and two coppers buys ye a bushel of apples. I don’t think ye’d find a farmer or even a baker in this village who’d make ye change for a piece of silver.”

“Oh, I see.” A major mistake.

She hands me the apple, and my stomach growls in anticipation. Clearly hearing it, she hands me another one, plus a pear. She takes a roughly sewn apron from one of the baskets and wraps it around her thick waist. “Go on now. Eat yer breakfast.”

“Thank you.”

“And lad.” She leans closer toward me. “If I were ye, I’d make myself scarce around the village today.”

“Why?”

“Dragon riders,” she whispers even lower than before. “Word says they be about, stealing young men and taking them off to the slaughter.”

I shiver. “They feed young men to the dragons?”

She chuckles. “Not what I meant. Same result.”

“I don’t understand.”

She puts her hands on her ample hips. “The dragon masters, they’ll be taking boys off to their death camp.”

“Boys are taken against their will?”

“I’m told some go willingly, seeking adventure.” She shakes her head. “Fools. None return. Gettin’ aboard those wagons is as much a death sentence as the noose.”

Prince Tynan claimed he rode dragons. If this woman is right, his days are numbered. Good riddance.