An Echo in the Valley

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Neither was there the chilling ache of winter , nor the bodies lining the cobblestone streets.

The sordid reminder echoes in her mind, beneath the chilling winds that whip against her. It echoes in a voice she longs to remember but can never place; a voice that draws comfort and sorrow into her heart.

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

Iris sees it now, the horror of it all. Beneath the worn soles of her boots, the earth crunches amidst the lost symphonies of Atherion Valley. Each step and the ashen bones dissolve into the charred cobblestone paths that once were.

She keeps her breaths silent and her movements quick. She cannot afford to draw attention to herself this close to leaving. Dragons were never known to be merciful creatures.

She wonders now if these paths once held fruitful life. Iris recalls the folklore now, the tales of a beautiful world. A kingdom that flourished amongst the roiling hills of the Seven Gods, Atherion knew not the fear of the dragons nor the god of their control.

Iris steps over more reminders of the past, ones she is too young to remember—ones she feels deep within her soul. Tightening the cloth wrapped around her hair and the leather around her face, she runs her thumb along the hidden blade sheathed in her pocket. The feeling of the dagger’s hilt and the engravings within calm her sense. Knowing she is safe with it alone is enough.

For now, the Valley is silent. She looks up, through hanging clothes lines and scorched roofs, and she misses the sky. A dense blanket of grey overwhelms the Valley as far as the eye can see. The bitter taste of death clings to the air as particles drift towards the earth—like snow, if she could still recall the look of it.

In the heavy silence under the dark of day, Iris closes her eyes and listens. Years ago she learned to quiet her breaths so that not even a mouse might hear her. And so, through those empty breaths, she searches for the rattling under the cobblestone, the billowing gusts of air. The wyverns that stalk the night threaten to be anywhere and they are just as illusive as she is. One misstep and the last thing she will see is a grey sky before death becomes her.

No one dares to be awake this early in the day. Even when the sun cannot shine through the ashen waste of the sky, the villagers know never to wake before the wyverns. Lest they long for a cold and open grave on the Valley ground.

Upon opening her eyes again, she finds the alley she stands just as still as she left it. With careful feet, Iris steps through and around the debris on the ground. Though her boots are heavy, she is light on her toes like the dancers of Paria she remembers from long ago. Never making a sound, they would leap, twirl, and thread their bodies through the impossible fluidity of motion on the tips of their toes. Iris always longed to be as graceful as one—now she likens their movements to her own as she dances on the precipice of death. Recalling their steps as always, Iris holds her silent breaths and jumps for a foot hold in the wall.

The ground under her is tacky, slow steam rising from the bubbling liquid. Crenig waste—venom from the night watch dragons. Iris clings to the battered stone wall until she finds another jagged break, then she leaps. Now higher, she searches over the horizon of ruined buildings for the trading port. Any minute now and the sun would be rising. The deep call of the visiting ship’s foghorn would be echoing.

August would be waiting.

As the Crenig waste wafts higher, Iris buries her nose deeper into leather mask and pulls herself higher. When her hand finds purchase on the roof of the dilapidated building, a loose stone comes tumbling down. In the utter silence of the early morning, the clip of stone against the ground is deafening.

Iris quickly launches herself over the roof’s ledge and stops. Holding breath, holding steady, she hears the calling of the Crenig. The wyvern’s wail pierces the air in shrieks of her demise.

Iris curses herself then—she never should have taken another job in the Valley. She was never supposed to return here.

The tips of her fingers turn whiter than the fallen ash as she braces for the monster.

The air shifts until it bleeds with frigidity. Every hair on Iris’ body stands to attention despite being covered in two layers. A shadow befalls her sight—then she realizes true darkness.

The stench of the waste envelopes her. Rotten as a decomposing carcass, bitter as the dread of oncoming danger on the back of her tongue. The shadow shifts as the Crenig moves over her, then she can see the creature in its entirety. It has been years since she has seen one so close and yet those years will never be long enough.

Moving like a serpent though tall grasses, the creature searches for Iris. The feathers covering its body remind her of a blacksmith’s tar—one, thick coagulation of obsidian. Its neck leads its body, curling through the alleyways before the rest follows. Iris watches the venom drip from its hollow jaw, hears the sizzle upon the ground.

Iris slowly bends her knees and pushes herself up, now kneeling on the roof. She watches the Crenig as she straightens to standing. The creature cocks its head to the side, listening where sight fails. A Crenig has no eyes, instead endless caverns of blinding white light emanate from its dripping, sweltering, slithering body.

Reaching around her back, Iris secures the burlap tote she dared the Valley for in the first place. Once it is knotted around her waist, she braces to jump across to a neighboring roof. There is hardly a chance she won’t make a sound. She swallows down the lump in her throat until it hits the pit of her stomach—fear won’t take her now.

Iris grabs a loose stone from the roof and jumps. Her feet, heavier than a Parian dancer’s, land with a thud on the next roof. The Crenig’s wail pierces her ears, yet before it can find her, Iris throws the spare stone across the horizon of village homes. When it echoes in the distance and the Crenig follows, she moves.

Her gaze is on the trading port, her heart thrums for the sound of the foghorn. Another leap to a closer roof, her feet land lighter. Iris scales the side of another building until she’s safely on the ground again and her feet carry her. She swiftly runs around broken pottery, rotten food, under low bearing clothes lines. She runs until a sliver of sun peaks through the ashen sky and onto the ground.

Something gleams where that sun shines. Ever the treasure seeker she is, Iris takes the shining piece and continues on towards the delightful sound of a graveling foghorn.

...

“Ten minutes past sunup,” Leonard snaps. Iris ducks under his disapproving gaze and past the cartons of boar leather. “Ye’were supposed to be here ten past, girl.”

Durham Port is quiet as the rest of the Valley, yet bustling with villagers and traders alike. Everyone knows to speak in low voices and move as directed. Iris slides past those silent rule followers as Leonard’s heavy gait tracks her through the port. She removes only her face covering, eyeing the Atherion soldiers stationed along every cargo ship and shop entrance.

“You could have left without me,” Iris says, interrupting the disapproving string of mumbles from Leonard.

“Aye and I should’ve!” He exclaims—in a low tone. “One less mouth to feed.”

She shakes her head, ducking past a crowd of trout sellers and for the alley. Leonard follows her still, the loose chains and heavy keys clanging against his person with every step.

Once they are deep into the alley between two shops, Iris knocks on an old iron door. She slings the burlap sack from around her shoulders and starts digging into it.

“Where’s August?” She asks.

“Where’s my treasure, Little Seeker?”

Iris stops digging once the hefty item is in her hand. “Tell me August is safe and on the ship first, then you get your useless skull.”

The large man grips the short sword at his hip, glaring down at her. Iris has faced men much larger than Leonard with treasures more precious in her hands and made it out just fine; his intimidation is nothing to her.

When he says nothing, she pulls the wyvern skull from the sack and holds it loosely. Iris tucks the bag under her arm and tosses the skull between her hands. Leonard growls, lunging to snatch it from her.

“Really is just bone, isn’t it?” She says lazily. “Shame if I dropped it.”

“Do and yer off my ship,” Leonard threatens.

It rattles her but she doesn’t let it show. She needs to be on that ship with August and Klara. There’s no place for her in the Valley.

Not anymore.

The sound of a metal latch breaks the tension between them and the iron door opens. Iris doesn’t need to look over her shoulder to know who it is, especially when an accented voice follows.

“Everything alright?”

Leonard narrows his eyes, the thick, unruly mustache above his lip ruffles. “None’yer business, girl.”

The woman laughs. “Well if it’s happening in my alleyway on my doorstep, I reckon it is my business. Now I’ve got about four Atherion soldiers out front so unless you’d like to me shout for one of them, you’d be likened to answer me, griphët.”

Leonard bristles at the foreign word—fugitive pirate.

“She owes me,” he says.

“And what do you owe her?” The woman retorts.

The heavyset man releases the grip on his dagger and crosses his arms. He returns his gaze back to Iris who bites back a smug smile on behalf of the woman behind her.

“Yer boy and cargo are safely on my boat. Now.” He holds out his hand.

Iris searches his eyes for a moment before she hands off the wyvern skull. She prays to the Seven Gods he isn’t lying.

She places the skull back into the burlap bag before handing it to him. He snatches it quickly, looking inside as though she’s cursed it with magic. If she had, she wouldn’t need to take jobs in the Valley.

“Anchors up in five minutes,” Leonard snaps before breaching the mouth of the alleyway.

Iris sighs as she watches him go. She almost lets herself take another breath before the momentary reprieve is interrupted by a hand on her shoulder.

“What in the twisted hells are you doing here?” The woman exclaims, yanking her past the iron door.

“Nice to see you too,” Iris responds. The scent of fresh bread and dark beer wafts through the air. She nearly turns out of the tight hand on her shoulder, longing for a bite of food or a pint to ease the tension in her body. But she’s dragged up a rickety set of stairs, past the bustling pub.

“Iris!”

“Jimena, how are—“

She’s shoved into a bedroom and the door slams shut behind her. The room is plain, a bed and wardrobe making up the entirety of it. The ruckus of the pub downstairs reaches the door where it turns muffled. Iris looks around, always on guard, before finding nothing of note. Though when she turns toward her friend, she braces for impact. Jimena stands with her arms across her body, red rising under her terra-cotta skin.

“I thought I told you I never wanted to see you in the Valley again,” Jimena snaps. She shakes her head, cursing in a string Atherion and her native Tulenish. “You look a mess.”

Jimena roughly pulls the scarf from around Iris’ head, golden strands of hair spill around her. Iris quickly removes the layers of dirtied black clothes from her person as Jimena yanks open a wardrobe.

“One of these days, you are going to show up at my door on the brink of death and what am I supposed to do then, huh?” She rips clothes out—a layer of skirts, a belt, a corset. “I can’t very well dress you and send you off with a basket of bread then now can I? Seven Gods, Iris—“

“Jimena, I’m okay.”

The raven haired woman—not ten years older than Iris herself—turns, hands on her hips and chest heaving. She looks over the girl with a knot in her brow and fury behind her eyes.

“Why are you here?” She demands.

Iris sighs, pulling the various weapons from her person. “I needed to take a job.”

“So take a job, but not here.”

Her boots come off. A corset is thrown at her head.

“Ouch.” Jimena glares at her. “No one saw me, only you and Leonard. I traveled during the night and I have my dagger—“

“During the night? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

Iris pulls the corset on, straining to pull the ribbon behind her. Jimena huffs again before she turns her around and pulls the ribbons until Iris can’t breathe.

“You’re twice as likely to die at night,” the older woman says.

“And three times as likely by damned corset,” Iris mumbles, gripping the nearby bed post.

Jimena pulls again; Iris knows she deserves it but gods, it hurts.

“You’re a liability to yourself,” the pub-owner continues. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to send you off again and trust you’ll stay put.”

“I’ve never been trustworthy, Jimena, you know that,” Iris says teasingly.

When her fierce friend doesn’t reply, Iris knows she has gone too far. She watches Jimena dig through the wardrobe again, unspeaking. She takes the underskirt from the ground and ties it around her waist as more hair falls around her shoulders.

“I don’t think you will ever fully understand what it took to get you out of the Valley and safely.”

Skirt secured around her waist, Iris slows her movements. No, she would never understand. Because she doesn’t remember.

Though, she does know one thing. “I understand, Jimena.”

“Do you?” The woman asks, turning around.

Iris looks between her dark eyes, the worry of a mother sparks behind them. She cannot bear to imagine one of Jimena’s actual children acting how she has.

She cannot imagine Klara being so ornery either.

“I do,” Iris says quietly, honestly.

Something in her tone must soothe Jimena as her shoulders ease slightly and the redness in her face calms.

The older woman approaches her with the second skirt layer, an inconspicuous cotton brown, and settles it over head and to her waist. Iris watches her as she tightens the ribbon around her waist, wondering what she must be thinking.

“This world has no safe havens,” Jimena starts. “But you must make one for yourself, Iris.”

“Harder said than done.”

“Go to Paria like you have always dreamed.” She offers a smile though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Jimena pushes Iris’ golden hair behind her shoulders, stroking her cheek lovingly. “Become a tiptoe dancer and wear fine silks. You still have time to start over.”

The image of the Parian dancers surfaces again in broken fractals of a memory. Elaborate costumes, music more beautiful than anything she had ever seen or heard…

“The voyage is far too expensive, its why I need to take jobs,” she explains. Jimena begins to protest but Iris pushes on. “The more dangerous the job, the more I get paid, and the closer to Paria I get. Trust me, if I could avoid Atherion, I would.”

Iris steps around her friend and takes a white blouse from the wardrobe. The sleeves fall over her shoulders, leaving the straps of the corset showing—ideal in the fashion of the western isles, the direction Leonard’s ship heads next. She shuffles around the room as Jimena stands quietly. Iris secures the thick belt around her waist before knotting her hair through itself in an attempt to hold it back.

Once she is finished, the foghorn sounds, already late.

“Here,” Jimena says, stuffing a leather bag with her other clothes and weapons. “Come, let me give you food.”

Iris lets her take her hand and drag her back down the stairs. Past the pub goers and through the kitchen doors, Jimena begins shoveling food into the bag. Four loaves of bread, a bag of dry beans, and a bundle of various fruits later, Iris is being shuffled out the door.

The foghorn blasts again, leaving her skin crawling with anxiety—she needs to be on that ship. Iris starts out the door for the sea port, bag secured in her arms when Jimena calls.

“I love you but I never want to see your face again!”

Iris laughs and blows a kiss her way. She promises herself that once she has enough to spare—once she reaches Paria—she will send Jimena more gold than she knows what to do with.

Though all thoughts of gold are replaced with fear as she watches the ships pull away from the port. Iris runs faster, ignoring every gasp and gape from the silent villagers. She pleads the Atherion soldiers ignore her, spare her the chance to escape this land once again.

She slings the bag over her shoulders and jumps the rope separating earth from sea. At the ship’s stern stands a tall figure with hair darker than the Crenig’s shadow.

“Seven Gods, Iris!” August yells.

She laughs again, legs pumping faster beneath her skirts. The edge of the port comes closer and she thanks the gods the ship is slow because she jumps.

What feels like a faint gush of wind pushes her towards the ship mid-air and she lands with a thud against the side of it. Her fingers grip the edge of the large steel boat where they’re taken by August’s.

He pulls her over the side, letting her land in a heap on her back. The wind is knocked out of her but she lets out another laugh anyway. Iris looks up, finding his pale face in contrast with the ashen sky and his dark hair. August narrows his eyes at her and sighs deeply.

“Next time, I let you drown.”

...

She savors the hearty ruckus from the ship above. Loud laughter and the sloshing of ale. Iris could fall asleep to the shuttering ceiling and the dust falling around her. Anything to shield from the bone deep silence of the Valley, anything to forget it.

“We can’t cook dry beans,” August says from where he sits on an ale barrel; he shuffles through her bag.

“Be grateful you even have beans in the first place,” Iris retorts.

She looks down at her lap where Klara lays asleep. Her eyes are shut, long lashes laying on the brownish umber of her skin. Iris brushes a loose, frizzy curl from Klara’s face, letting the tension from the voyage ease off her body. As long as Klara is safe now, Iris can rest easy.

Taking a sack of flour from an arms length away, she drags it close and gently lift’s Klara’s head from her lap. The young girl squirms slightly before settling into the burlap. Iris places a kiss on her forehead before moving towards August.

“How has she been?” She asks, sitting next to him on another barrel.

His eyes linger on Klara, something stirring within him. “Fine,” he says. Then he sighs and drops the bag onto her lap. “Faster we get to the western isles, the better.”

Iris snorts. “Couldn’t agree more.” She pulls out her dusty black clothes, the reminder of the Valley coming back. “Wish I could’ve washed these before we left.”

August takes them from her, tossing them towards a pile of their things. “Maybe if you hadn’t waited until the very last second to get on the ship, you could have.”

She looks at him, bumping her hip against his leg. His, seemingly permanent, narrowed eyes find hers and she smiles wide. “It was fine. That jump was amazing though, you have to admit it.”

“I will not be admitting anything,” he says. “You could’ve died.”

“Not the first time.”

He sighs. “Iris.”

“Aww, do you worry about me, August?” She teases, digging for her dagger.

He rolls his eyes before looking back to Klara. “That gust of wind was rather convenient, wasn’t it?”

Iris looks at her too. “I thought the magic—“

“I don’t know,” he sighs, rubbing his hands together.

“But we—“

“I said I don’t know, Iris.”

When his eyes, akin to the depths of the sea, meet hers, she knows not to push. Despite all of his rough edges, she sees the worry, fear—even anger, if she decides to acknowledge it—behind August’s eyes.

A particularly loud bang from above their stay in the ships underbelly has Klara squirming again. Iris watches, praying to the gods she stays asleep. August whispers something under his breath and she settles down again. That soft string of calming energy wraps around Iris for a moment and she feels a yawn escape her.

August looks toward her. “Tired?” There’s a small curve to his lips that she lingers on.

“Not at all.” Iris finds something gleaming in her bag and pulls it out. She turns it between her fingers before handing it to August. “For you.”

“What is it?”

“I dunno, but you like shiny things.”

He scoffs. “No, I like gold.”

“And daggers,” Iris adds. “Swords, arrows, knives.”

He turns the little shiny object over in his hand; light from between the wooden slats catches on it. A brush of his thumb over the face of it shows something engraved into the silver. The script is something she doesn’t recognize, and apparently neither does he.

She watches him tuck it into the inner pocket of his shirt, something twists in her chest.

“Not getting rid of it? Could be rubbish,” she says.

August shrugs and leans back against the wall. “Have to find out, won’t we?”

Shaking her head and hoping its dark enough below deck that he doesn’t see the red tinge in her cheeks, she continues digging in her bag. Past throwing stars and loose bandages, Iris finally finds her dagger.

Dropping the bag to the ground, she sighs happily and runs her fingers over the dagger’s sheath. The ornate black metallurgy of her namesake wraps around the handle where she traces the memorized indentations. The boar ivory sheath is soft against her fingers and when she pulls the dagger out, her heart falls to her stomach.

Iris sits up quickly, her feet unexpectedly hitting the ground. She turns the dagger over in her hand, certain her eyes have deceived her. The ivory metal is perfectly untouched, as though it has never been used. Though there’s something missing. Something absolutely vital.

“Iris?”

Something life threatening.

She picks the bag up again and dumps the contents onto the ground. Iris digs and searches and spreads everything out in search for the missing piece. The amethyst jewel as slim as the dagger itself, shaped and carved to fit perfectly in the center of the blade and no other, is gone.

“August,” Iris gasps.

“What?” He’s at her side in an instant, the dagger between them.

Suddenly, the silence returns and it has never been more deafening.

The missing amethyst jewel rings like a wyvern’s cry in her ears. It’s the one thing that has kept her alive and kept her safe these many years.

The magic held within has kept the world from discovering who Iris truly is, or rather, who she isn’t.

Her heart tumbles inside of her; August holds her upright in his arms.

The light from the wooden slats slashes the blade in two—a break, a crack, fissure.

A secret uncovered.

“I need to go back,” Iris whispers. “To Atherion Valley.”