Wingswept: The Dragon and the Dove (II)

Just a Hint of Flame

Photo by Milan Ihl on Unsplash

Alandis found herself in her gazebo that evening, long after the sun had fallen, leading the stars out to dance. Her room was separated from the main house, for homes were a complex like a blossoming vine; a rustic path wound up a low mossy ridge, where her room and open-air veranda lay beneath a woven canopy of birch and aschura, framing the stars and leaves overhead.

A stream spilled below the terrace, its silvering-sound usually soothing to her ear, but tonight it only led her mind to deeper thoughts. She plucked one of the rosy morning-glories from its twining vine and let it fall to the water below. It swiftly vanished out of sight.

How long she had wandered through wind and wood she did not know. The thought that she’d disturbed the earthly light of her heart, had so distressed him enough that he’d had to bear her presence-

It might have seemed a little thing to anyone but the Dove. Her heart had broken repeatedly in the walk she’d taken, abandoning the festivities in isolation once more as she cried to know whether she’d disturbed the heavenly light of her heart, too.

Her heart had superficially healed every time her tired mind had found something else to notice; then it had reopened, until her heart was exhausted and she’d wondered whether the dragon-blood had ceased its aid.

Trys – her beloved Trys – her heart cried, and all at once it twisted in violence. She longed to forget him, the one person whom she’d never thought she’d fail. She longed to fly with the fleeing doves, finding some life in which she could cease to be the sweet but useless Mielė, who had chosen to live quietly with no accomplishment, lest she leave her family and Trys.

Her thoughts were churning like the bubbling stream below her. She didn’t blame Trys for her pain the way another would have. It was all her own, to have tried so hard. If it was true that the voice she’d heard had been her imagination and not God, many more things were built on sand. She clutched at the balustrade as the ground seemed to crumble beneath her.

“Father, Mother, Jesu!” she closed her eyes and begged for someone to halt the shifting sand. The wind whispered in reply and tousled her hair in a kiss.

A luna moth landed beside her and crept to her hand with questioning antennae; Alandis stroked its drooping luminescent wings as her tears faded.

Yes, if she left, she would grow, leave Trys free, and test the merit of her feelings. Of the seven provinces, one would harbor her well, she mused. She would travel east from Clariègia, through the provinces of Min-doul and Nvilna, until she reached the coast of Nėraamin. It was the farthest she could travel without heading to the stormy north, and there was the cloistered, quiet school of arts she’d used to think of attending.

She would go there now, and busy herself, and, she hoped, become a better version of herself. One which, she prayed, would no longer be of pain to others. She watched the luna moth flit away, and wondered whether she could mirror its transformation.

To leave at once was the point of difficulty. There was only one way to secure it, and she prayed it would not be rough on her family. Children of Erevale were accustomed to claiming a grace of discovery in their eighteenth year, a self-challenge to free themselves by what they’d find most difficult, to discover who they were. This was a grace which Alandis had been content not to claim, and so her eighteenth year had passed in her sweet, quiet pleasures at home. If she claimed this grace now, she knew that while it might not come easily, it would not be fully contested.

She bent her head and the breath of prayer that escaped her lips floated on the softly singing wind, asking for blessing and clarity.

It was all she could do, she thought and hoped as she raised her eyes to the stars above. She would test herself and find a better way to live; she would spare Trys from her presence; she would free others of her failures, at least for a little while. Maybe it would help her not to fail again – she might be failing by departing, but that could not be helped, it seemed.

So it was that when she went down to the house at last, casting open the doors, she held her seica as she paused on the divide between homelight and moonlight.

Her brother Ean straightened from tending the fire and at once made a gesture as though to stop her. Mother and Father, too, arose, Mother with a little sigh that was half a sob.

Alandis half-dropped her head, wishing she could apologize, but she had made up her mind. The Dove could not forever be silent.

She planted the seica against the stone tiles with a rap.

“As a child of Erevale, it is time that I be borne on the wind. I claim the grace of discovery! I will go out from Erevale and into the farthest countries, and I will remain there until I have been tested. A week from hence, I shall go to the school of Era’menu, if it pleases you.”

For a moment there was only a sigh as her father bowed his head. When he raised it again, he said gravely, “My Dove, I know this is because of Trys. If he knew that he had made you feel so, he would prevent you from leaving.”

“Daddy. . . I need to go, let me go. If I am your dove, release me! I will come back, as they always do. Even this dove needs to feel the breeze beneath her.”

Her father gazed into her pleading eyes and saw that she did not believe that Trys would hold her back.

“I release you, Mielė.”

“Mielė -” Her mother stopped, then came and kissed Alandis’ brow. “I am proud of you to be willing to test yourself. Only. . .never run away.”

Ean said nothing. He knew, as Alandis did, that no one had expected her to leave; they didn’t want her to. Neither did he.

They also knew that she was running, running to outrun her heart, her mind, and away from Trys.

She didn’t tell herself that.

Original artwork by Princess By Starlight.

Three days later, the chilled violet veil of dawn found Alandis wrapped up in velvet cloak and hood, riding with Ean towards Erenni, from whence caravans frequently departed for the outer provinces. One was leaving later that morning for Nvilna, hence why her departure had not been put off a full week.

They were already leaving Erevale’s woodland. Ean had spoken very little on the ride, silent as the night on which Alandis had claimed her grace. It was clear he neither wanted to challenge his sister’s decision nor let her go.

Alandis had informed no one of her leave-taking, even Enara, for fear that Trys would hear of it. She bit her lip, unable to still her mind from wondering what he might say and do; part of her hoped he’d be pained so that she’d know he cared, but he would have blamed himself, and that was the last thing she wanted. She prayed that he would understand she was alright with leaving. She hoped she was.

She had packed lightly, with only the clothing and personal items she could bear easily in a knapsack. The school would provide her with all she needed for her studies, so she’d need none of her own supplies. She’d dressed in rose-deyed doeskin, embroidered in traditional style, beaded purse at her waist, seica clasped to her back, and her crucifix on a beaded rope at her side, for the dragon’s-blood hindered its wearing over her heart. Winging gauntlets braced her arms, and the headband held back her hair. Practicality and beauty were, to her, of one mind.

The pair had come to the slopes now, and were joining the white cobblestone road, up which a handful of merchants and travelers were already trekking. Perched above on the crest of the hill, the city was rising out of the fog and violet. The first sunrays were gilding it like a clarion-call, a proud, beautiful face behind which royalty of earth submitted to that of Heaven.

Grasping Alandis’ shoulder firmly, Ean drew her through the tangle of the early morning bazaar, full of tapestries in the jewel-tones of stained glass, woven crosses and baskets, the latter brimming with breads, fruits, and flowers. Breaking through the sea of good-natured chaos, Ean and Alandis came to the ancient cathedral. It marked the crown of the city square with its braided pillars and lace-work windows, and a trickle of early risers were mounting the stairs to hear Mass.

Brother and sister joined them, glad for a way to fill the silence between them, and Alandis could only guess that Ean was entrusting her to his King as he gazed intently upon the altar.

For her own prayer, Alandis could form no words for all that she might need to say. She found herself trying not to realize the violence with which she was leaving. There was a sense of guilt weighing over her which she could neither shake nor wash away. She must go, she reminded herself.

Drawn out of fury, out of the flood,

No bark, no thorn, nor shedding rose-bud

Will hide from us the price of His Blood.

The song seemed the only words she could phrase – Yes, even here in her pain she had to see the price of His Blood. She would follow through with her difficult decision, if only to be tested, for somehow despite her failures and lack of tact with Trys, she had been worth the Ultimate Price.

She had joined Ean’s intent stare, so much so that he had needed to gently shake her, for she had not noticed that Mass was over; sunlight was streaming through the windows now, and she could hear the sparrows chirping just outside.

“You need to eat,” Ean said shortly, once they were outside the doors. He let out his breath. “Mielė, tell me you’re going to take better care of yourself than you have the past few days, or I’ll truly hate that you’re going.”

“I promise.”

“At least that,” he muttered, and handed her the fried grape flatbread he’d bought. There was fresh water from the fountain, and they let their mounts drink from the adjacent trough.

When Alandis glanced up, Ean had vanished, and the growing bustle of the bazaar aided little in finding him with her eyes. Her brother was not gone long, however, and when he returned, he held something in his hand, but only took his stallion’s reins, and Alandis’ hand, and guided them out of the square and into one of the lower terraces of the city.

The caravan of brightly painted wagons was almost ready to go; most members were families returning home or on their way to visit relatives. Three knights were mounted, idly watching the final preparations. These were the traditional guards in case of the occasional highwaymen, and the only reason Ean was even slightly willing to leave her there. He stood a moment, clasping her hand.

“Mielė -” Ean put something in her hand. It was a strand of lapis and amber beads. She had possessed such a necklace a long time ago, when she had been given the implant, but had subsequently lost it to one of the forest streams.

“Ean – I love you.”

He nodded but wouldn’t meet her gaze, leaving her to suspect there were tears there.

“If you ever want to come home,” he said gruffly, “send a dove and I’ll come and get you.”

Alandis’ head drooped, for she felt the words neither could say about staying, or of running away. She had committed. She raised her head and Ean was able to meet her gaze.

“God keep you while I’m away,” Alandis whispered.

“May He and Mother watch over you.”

Alandis embraced him. The caravan was moving out; she mounted and joined. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Ean standing high on the terrace stairs to watch. He lifted his hand in farewell. It was the last Alandis would see of him for many months.

The ride passed quietly for several days. The wind was calmer, though there was a dark line on the northern horizon, and smoke still lingered on the air.

Alandis befriended several of the mothers and children, leading her to pass her time assisting with meals and keeping rambunctious little ones occupied. Her peace, however, seemed to fade rapidly with each step she took. Her heart ached for the man she loved, for the seeming act of betrayal she’d played him, for the sorrow she’d felt in Ean and her parents. Nightmares riddled her sleep, and the day, by a clinging sense that something was wrong.

Every few minutes her heart lightened at the thought of turning back and she could apologize to Trys instead of running away – and then she remembered that she couldn’t turn back, not on her own, and she needed the change. So she pressed onwards.

The fifth day fell differently. It had begun much the same with an early start, a sprinkle of rain, and the making of good time. As dusk fell, however, the wind whipped through the tall grasses. Setting up camp had to be delayed and shelter sought in the forest.

There was a sound encased in the hissing breeze, something Alandis could not identify and yet she was sure it was there. Nervously she called the wandering children back into the lamplight and aided in bundling them up into the wagons.

A shout carried back to them from the head of the line. All halted.

“What is it?” one of the knights called, riding ahead.

Alandis pressed closer through the wagons to hear.

“. . . I don’t know, I saw something moving and could have sworn I saw fire.” This was from one of the other knights, the youngest of the three.

“If you’re seeing will-o-the-wisps again – this isn’t even a bog, Marté. Or at least there wasn’t one.”

“Will-o-the-wisps nothing! They don’t bear the shadow of a beast about them, Arvel,” Marté said quietly.

“Luka!” Arvel called back. “Bring a lantern and let’s see. Fellows, keep the ladies and youngsters close in the wagons, just in case.”

Alandis untied her mare, who was shivering as though she sensed what had been seen.

“Ssh, nothing will hurt you, Sissi,” Alandis murmured, smoothing the velvet muzzle and looking ahead into the darkness.

“There is a bit of a marsh from the rain,” Arvel called finally. “Only a few inches. See anything, Luka?”

“Noth-whoa, whoa-!”

Another shout, a screaming blast, and the acrid crackling, ripping open of an explosion sent men scrambling, horses rearing as flame burned out the night and seared the trees, smoke and steam rising in one cloud of tattered hue.

“Get them out of here!” Luka yelled, waving the caravan back as a looming shadow ran through the flame.

The caravan careened out of the forest outskirts as a track of flame nearly spliced it apart. Alandis was not so lucky in escape, for she and Sissi were blocked out by the firewall.

Sissi shrieked and wheeled away as her rider tried to find a way around, running from whatever was behind them. There was a sound of pounding, like a drum amid a thundering volcano, but it soon ceased.

By the time they were free of the fire, the caravan was no longer in sight. Not a sound of it could be heard. Even Sissi’s ears swiveled in vain.

Whether the caravan had escaped, Alandis had no way of knowing. She knotted her fingers in Sissi’s mane and touched the crucifix at her side.

“May they be as safe. . . or safer, than we are. Please, keep them that way.” She knew that her words were heard.

Alandis no longer knew what was north and what was south, for smoke and cloud dimmed the stars until she could not hope to find her way. All she could do was try to find the road.

They tramped through forest and fen for hours, far into what must have been morning, with no light and only Sissi’s eyes to see by. All was still. Even the birds were silent, leaving only an ominous cracking in the trees, as though they whispered of the still-unidentified danger. Leaves crunched underfoot, seeming far too loud in the empty night.

After some time of clambering down a moss-covered slope, the land leveled out. There was a dim streak of lightness underfoot that told Alandis it was the road at last – a road, at least.

“North, south, east, west, I know not,” she sighed to Sissi, and sent a glance skywards. “If this be the wrong road, let it be the right one in Your eyes.”

She turned Sissi towards the leftwards running lane. The mare snorted hardly a mile later and drew back. Alandis squinted into the sudden fog.

The violent amber of a direction sign seemed to blaze through. Relieved, Alandis drew at the reins. At last, she would know what direction they might have taken.

Then the lights blinked.

A shadow stretched overhead.

It was then that Alandis knew.

Dragons had returned to Lharmeval.

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Read the next chapter.

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