Evocation

The mark on the child’s back was like an etching of golden, plated scales stamped into the milk-white of her skin. Delicate and shimmering, it resembled expertly wrought maile and was undeniably present, even in the buttery yellow candlelight.

"If we let the child remain, we are all in danger,” an angry voice boomed across the crowded hall.

“Get rid of it before we all perish in flame!” A woman added shrilly.

The child squirmed in the arms of the man who held her tightly. The fear on her damp, red face was plain. She was only a small thing after all; no more than two, perhaps three. Her hair was as dark as a raven’s wing, and the brightness of her moss-green eyes made her appear fae-touched and otherworldly.

It wasn’t her soft, round features or strange coloring that frightened the folk but the mark on her back. Packed in against one another, the villagers clambered close to the worn platform the Ealdorman stood on. They wanted to see the glittering lattice stretched across the child’s back for themselves.

“Touched by demon fire,” a wizened old woman with yellowing eyes and teeth muttered. “She is a thrall of the dragons. Her presence here will curse us all!”

A ripple of assent went through the assembled crowd, and the din grew louder. The Ealdorman frowned, and the deep-worn lines of his weathered face became more prominent. Maneuvering the child's gown back into place to cover her skin, the Ealdorman handed the squirming child off to the village Reeve. Tears ran down her face as she struggled to free herself from the stranger.

Unexpectedly a loud shout rose above the nose of the hall. From the back of the crowd, a woman began to jostle her way to the front. She cursed as she fought her way toward the Ealdorman. Finally, she spilled out on the platform at his feet as if pushed.

A woman of middling years, her skirt and blouse were simple but tidy and her long, tawny hair twisted into a plait with ribbons. The Ealdorman’s frown slid into an outright scowl as he squinted down at her imperiously. Uncowed, she glared at him with all the venom she could muster.

“Give the child back to me,” she demanded as she clambered to her feet.

“The child is not yours, Neva Feldray,” the Ealdorman said, addressing the woman. “The foundling should have been left where you discovered it.”

Neva drew in a long breath. Anger filled her face with color as she narrowed her eyes at the Ealdorman. There was no kindness there, so Neva turned to peer into the crowd, and their faces were equally cold.

Lip curling, Neva shouted out at them, “Gods above, she is a child! Would you condemn an innocent?!”

A murmur went through the villagers; for a moment, there might have been a bare glimpse of shame on their dirty faces. It was a fleeting emotion. Fear was a stronger and more formidable opponent than morality. Knowing defeat was imminent, the flame of Neva’s anger dampened and banked low in her belly.

She would not let harm come to the child.

“Demon fire take you all,” she sneered as she turned from the crowd and fixed the Ealdorman with a stony glare. “There will be blood to pay for this. Mark my words.”

****

The forest surrounding the village of Mireston was deep, dark, and verdant. Lush with dense growth, thick moss blanketed the round, squat trees. Most folks did not venture far, for the old growth was home to many a wild creature. Neva had heard the stories from her granny and had often wondered if the tales were true that the crumbling bones of a once great civilization lay secreted within the oak, pine, and yew.

It was a cautionary tale and one that warned of the hubris and greed of the dragons. It was a tale of a city enslaved by Dragons, now burned to ash by Demon fire. Even near Mireston, the ancient trees still bore an oddness to their shape as if scared by the flame's heat.

Passing one such tree, Neva marveled at the deep grooves in its bark and the rich moss that enshrined its roots. In the distance, she could see the forest's edge and the sun that fought to break through the cover of the lush canopy overhead. Almost, it seemed safer in the bower of the woods, but Neva knew she couldn't tarry long. The day was growing short, and soon, the sun would set.

Sighing, Neva gathered her basket of wild herbs and began the trek home. The path she took was familiar but uncharted to anyone save herself. Soon, she stepped out into the tall, grassy meadowland at the forest’s edge. At once, a strange feeling came over her. Frowning, Neva glanced about the meadow.

Nothing seemed amiss until a sudden, shrill cry pierced the silence. Recognizing the cry of a child, Neva cast about for the source. When the child’s wailing became an outright shriek, Neva dropped her basket and ran blindly toward the sound. Hindered by her long skirts, she clumsily tucked the worn linen into her belt as she raced through the tall grass. It didn’t take Neva long to find the child or discover the reason for the little girl’s distress.

The child’s mother, or at least a woman Neva suspected was the child’s mother, was sprawled out in the grass. Her long, chestnut hair was a spill of ink amidst the crushed golden stalks, and the paleness of her lifeless skin was unnatural even in death. Her trousers and tunic were simple but stained with mud and filth. However, the livid bruises mottling the delicate flesh around the woman's neck caught Neva's eyes. That and the ugly, crimson gash across her forehead.

The woman was unfamiliar. Her clothes, while simple, were too fine to belong to any farmer’s wife. Kneeling, Neva picked up the woman's hand to check for any signs of life. Her skin was soft and clean, which told Neva that the woman, whoever she was, was not from Mireston or any of the surrounding villages.

Glancing toward the child, Neva swallowed heavily. She wondered who could have done such a thing and what to do now. The child could not be left alone, and not like this.

“All is well, Little one. You are safe now,” Neva said gently.

The little girl continued to sob as she looked anxiously between her mother and Neva. “Mum?” she babbled through her tears.

“Sleeping with your ancestors now, dear heart,” Neva explained. The lump in her throat made it hard to speak. "Come with me, and I'll find you something warm to eat."

The child dithered in confusion, then came close enough for Neva to scoop her up into an embrace. Thankfully, the girl did not appear hurt. Hungry and dirty, perhaps, but unharmed. A minor miracle, to be sure. Shifting the girl to a more comfortable position, Neva was about to stand when her eyes caught on something in the dead woman's fist.

Carefully prizing the object from the woman's grasp, Neva was surprised to find an artfully wrought pendant in the shape of a squat, round bottle. A strange liquid within swirled and shimmered. Neva was inspecting it when a noise from across the meadow caught her attention.

Tucking the pendant in the pocket of her skirt, Neva cradled the child close. Her stomach twisted with sudden anxiety. Had the woman’s attacker come to finish the job? Craning up amidst the cover of tall grass, Neva watched as a group of men came out of the forest.

She recognized one and all. They were men from the village led by the Ealdorman and the Village Reeve. Sinking back into the grass, Neva was confused by their torn clothing and bloodied faces. A tingling something in her gut told her to remain hidden. Once they were gone, Neva stood up with a frown.

Something wasn't right.

But there were more pressing matters at hand. The child needed to be bathed and fed, and the mother needed tending. Sadly, the dead woman would have to wait until morning. And as torn as Neva felt about leaving, the child was alive and more important.

Turning toward the village, Neva opted to go the long way to reach her own cottage. Whatever the Ealdorman had been up to, she was sure it had to do with the woman and child. The last thing Neva wanted was to place the girl in harm's way. With that in mind, she started for home.

****

“Shh, my love. We must play a game of being quiet and run away from the Ealdorman,” Neva whispered in the darkness.

Creeping between the shadows of the wattle and daub houses, she avoided the glow of torchlight lest she get caught. It had been lunacy to break into the Reeve's house, but stealing a prisoner right from under his nose? Neva knew the Ealdorman would hang her if they found her. She and the child were both marked for death now, especially after the debacle at the Town Hall.

“Bad Elman," the girl commented in a soft voice.

Despite herself, Neva's mouth quirked into a smile. “Yes. Bad. Now let’s play our quiet game. I bet you can win.”

The little girl obliged by tucking her head sleepily against Neva’s chest. It was a wonder the child hadn’t cried herself to sleep from exhaustion. That Neva had even managed to spirit the girl away was wonder in and of itself. Sending a quick prayer to the Gods in thanks, Neva scurried around the corner of a house. The meadow and the forest were close; she just had to get there before someone noted the child's absence and raised the alarm.

Stepping away from the safety of shadow, Neva turned toward the meadow. The darkness there opened like the maw of a great beast, but Neva did not falter as she rushed into the long grass. She was halfway up the little hillock between the village and the forest when a shout went up from the center of the small town. Panic jolted through her stomach, and Neva ran blindly up the hill and through the grass.

Behind her, there was a great clamor now. Fear spurred Neva on as surely as the bellowing men coming through the grass after her. They must have seen her shadow limned by moonlight because she could hear them shouting her name over the pounding of her heart in her ears.

Cursing between her panting breaths, she tried to calm the child, who was crying now and clinging to Neva's chest.“Shh shh— I— We— You must be quiet!” she gasped.

Ahead, the forest loomed, silent and imposing. Neva pushed toward it with all the speed and strength she could muster. The grass whipped around her legs as she ran, and Neva knew that she would get caught unless she cleared the wood. The villagers were superstitious; they would not risk a dragon's ire by wandering the wood at night.

Suddenly something hot and sharp exploded through the muscle of Neva's shoulder. Tripping and tumbling heavily to the earth, it was all she could do to twist to the side to save the child from the brunt of the impact. When Neva clambered to her feet, her thoughts could not comprehend what had happened. The child choked on her sobs as Neva attempted to calm her.

When Neva glanced down to see if she had tripped, the bloodstained shaft of a broken arrow lay in the grass. There was no time to think on it, though. The men from the village had nearly caught up, and Neva would be damned if she let herself get caught. Hustling toward the forest, Neva ignored the wetness that flooded down her back.

The grass quickly gave way to the springy moss of the forest floor. The shadows were deeper here as if even the moonlight were afraid to tread too close. Doggedly, Neva pushed forward despite the strange numbness creeping down her arm. The shouts from the village gradually faded until nothing was left but the sound of the wind rustling through trees.

Sending a silent prayer to the Gods, Neva continued on her journey, unsure of where it was taking her.

****

Vythri’s study was in shambles. His books, which he’d so lovingly collected, were strewn across the stone floor, and the table littered with charred bits of parchment and the glittering dust from broken spell jars. The tapestries on the blacked stone walls were in shreds hanging from their hooks, and Vythri himself was scowling in the corner amidst the detritus.

The room had been tidy once. Vythri knew this. However, he was still determining if it had been days or weeks since it was clean. Time flowed strangely for him lately, and he could not tell if this was abnormal or just a quirk of his Draconic biology. He had found nothing in the great library, nor was anyone left in the city to ask. He was alone.

Growling in disgust, Vythri stood and started to pace about the room. Typically a fastidious creature, the mess bothered Vythri, though he couldn’t recall why. Even his clothing was torn and in disrepair, but he could not remember why.

Why Vythri hadn’t left the city with the others all those decades ago was also unclear. But whenever he tried to capture those memories, they darted away like glittering minnows in a clear, cold stream. It was frustrating to know something was amiss and not recall what. He suspected foul magic was at play.

Scrubbing his long, claw-like fingers into his messy, black curls in annoyance, Vythri stalked out into the corridor. The passage, blackened with soot, was large enough to accommodate either of his guises; Man or draconic. Sadly, the crumbling ruin of Beithir had not seen any Dragons in its halls, apart from Vythiri, in years. Or so Vythri's fragmented mind told him.

Coming into an ample, cavernous space, Vythri hustled down the massive stone staircase that led into the lower hall. Like Vythri's study, decay was evident here as well. Far above, the vaulted ceilings were starting to crumble, and the banners that once hung proudly now lay in heaps of moth-eaten velvet on the broken tile floor.

Vythri tried not to think of the decay or the weight of the ghosts that haunted the halls of Beithir. They were too heavy to bear alone and often pressed on him like a stone until he couldn't breathe. Feeling that weight pressing on him again, Vythri sprinted toward the towering entry doors.

Something had torn them from their very hinges. Shame squeezed Vythri's throat tightly as he passed through the wreckage, knowing somehow that he'd been responsible. His fingertips pulsed with the recollection of his claws tearing the wood apart.

But the forest was calling.

Like wanting to be rid of an ill-fitting coat, Vythri ached to shed his man-shaped guise and take to the air. It was a risk he was unwilling to take, however. Setting off through the abandoned city, Vythri made for the forest beyond. There was a tang of something sharp and metallic in the air, which smelled of blood. He aimed to find out what it was.

****

Neva stared up at the sky. The dappled sunlight through the canopy was lovely, and she smiled wearily as she basked in the warmth of daylight. On her chest, the child slept soundly. Neva cradled her with one arm while the other hung uselessly at Neva's side. The flight from Mireston had taken much, and Neva's thoughts were unraveling like a skein of yarn.

“We must be close to the dragon city,” she murmured, more for herself than to speak to the sleeping child. “We’ll hide there, then make for Wickport in the East.”

The child slept on.

Smiling, Neva smoothed her fingers through the child's dark curls. In truth, Neva knew it wouldn't be long before she passed into the next life. The pain from the arrow still lodged in her shoulder had long since dulled, and the numbness had spread to her chest.

There was peace in knowing the struggle of living was coming to an end. The child lived, and that was important. The only fear Neva carried now was what would become of the girl after.

“Please,” Neva begged, gazing up into the sky.

Perhaps the Gods would hear her. Perhaps they would spare the child if Neva prayed hard enough, if she wished it with all her strength for it to be so. Unbidden, tears began to flow unchecked down her cheeks. She pinched her eyes shut and fixed her thoughts on the names of the Gods. Silently calling to each and all, she drifted in stillness for a time.

Lost in reverie, Neva's thoughts were slow to recognize the sound of approaching footsteps. After a moment, or perhaps even a lifetime, Neva opened her eyes. Even through the canopy of trees, the sun's brightness was blinding. What was more surprising, however, was the dark blot of shape looming above her. Gradually the shape resolved into that of a man, but for a moment, Neva swore she saw the great head of a scaley behemoth.

Blinking in confusion, Neva tightened her good arm around the child as best she could. The little girl was stirring now and starting to fuss. Neva said nothing as she took in the strange expression on the man's elegant features. Black of hair, his curls flopped artfully over his forehead, and his eyes, Neva noted with a jolt, were the same shimmering green as the child's. He was a mirror to the girl and he must have realized it too.

His face was a mask of confusion as he gawked at the child. Slowly, he bent down, touching the fine, dark hair on her head. The girl, babbling, struggled upright and smiled at him.

“What is this trickery?” he whispered almost fearfully.

But Neva was not paying attention to that. No, she was staring at the delicate, scale-like pattern etched into the man’s hands and wrist. It was as shining and elegant as the matching mark on the child’s back. Fresh tears spilled down Neva's cheeks. The Gods had answered her prayers after all.

“Touched by demon fire,” Neva whispered in awe.

Abruptly, the man stood. His expression hardened into a sneer. For a moment, his tall, willowy frame seemed to shimmer. Blinking, Neva swore she had seen scarlet wings and felt the heat of ash and fire in that instant. A flash of insight came to her, and unexpectedly, she laughed.

The old tales had been wrong.

Dragons did not enslave those touched by Demon Fire. Those touched by Demon Fire were dragons, and they had been hiding amongst men for centuries.

****

Vythri watched as Sylphise and her sisters flew circles over the western meadow as they kept watch over Beithir. Silvery in color, Sylphise’s scales flashed brightly in the late autumn sun. The three sisters were graceful creatures, but only Sylphise left Vythri’s heart hammering in his chest whenever they chanced to meet.

Ignoring the book sprawled in his lap, Vythri's heart leaped as Sylphise’s wings cut through the soft, white clouds. For a moment, she almost seemed to disappear inside them, then bursting free, she spun in an elegant circle to rejoin her two siblings on their patrol.

Vythri grinned, his face becoming hot. Sylphise was like the wind, and Vythri ached to tell her so. Shy as he was, the thought of doing so made his stomach twist with anxiety. Well-liked and popular among the others in the city watch, Sylphise was seldom alone.

Focusing on the text in his lap, Vythri stubbornly put the thoughts of Sylphise out of his mind. His elder brother expected him to recount his learnings later that evening and would not appreciate distractions. Rallying admirably, Vythri returned to his studies. He had managed to finish several chapters of his reading when a shadow fell across his face.

Glancing up, Vythri’s heart slammed up into his throat. Sylphise was standing above him with a broad smile on her dirt-smudge face. Her chestnut hair hung in a long, messy plait down her back, and the fine maile of her hauberk glimmered with the same beauty as her scales. With little fanfare, she helped herself to a seat beside Vythri in the grass.

“Well met, Highness,” she greeted brightly. “The palace too stuffy today?”

“I—-” Vythri began, stumbling over what to say.

Sylphise’s smile widened. Ducked her head to the side, she released a small tittering laugh. “I saw you watching. You should have joined in. The sky is lovely today.”

Vythri’s face felt suddenly hot. Flustered, he gripped tightly at the book in his lap. “My brother has forbidden all but The Watch from flight until the threat with the humans has passed. They grow bolder in their aggression.”

Sylphise’s soft, sweet mouth hardened into a thoughtful frown. She drew in a long breath and then nodded. “You’re right, of course. Still, it would have been nice. I enjoy your company immensely."

Ah.

The world seemed to tip suddenly on its axis, and for some absurd reason, Vythri couldn’t stop himself from smiling, despite how his stomach twisted with excited apprehension.

“…Truly?” he questioned in amazement.

Confusion flitted across Sylphise’s face. Then, abruptly, she smiled again—this time with a coy sort of bemusement.“Truly,” she confirmed gently. “And should you wish to court me, you’ll find no objection from my sisters.”

Something scalding and sweet rippled through Vythri’s body, and for a moment, he thought that the great bulk of his dragon body might burst free of the confines of the man-shaped guise he wore. It was all he could do to keep himself from flying to pieces.

Happiness, he thought. This could be what true happiness felt like.

Grinning with toothy abandon, Vythri laughed. A bright, slippery feeling settled in his chest, and he bunched his clawed fingertips into the fabric of his shirt just over where his heart pounded in his breast.

“I am relieved to hear it,” he replied gently.

"Good," Sylphise affirmed with a soft, musical laugh.

Then, reaching out, she took Vythri’s hand in her own.

****

The human was dying.

Vythri could smell enough of her blood to know that it was inevitable. Frankly, he was surprised the wolves hadn’t taken her yet. Then again, wolves were clever creatures and knew to stay clear of a Dragon's territory.

Honestly, it was more surprising that the human had come so far with a child in her arms. Beithir was merely a stone's throw away and the nearest human village was a day's walk at least. Even more surprising was the child herself. Her scent alone marked her as Dragonborne, to say nothing of her verdant green eyes and jet-black hair.

Touched by demon fire.

The dying woman had all but confirmed it. The strange familiarity of the child unnerved Vythri, however, and left him unsure of what to do with himself. Dithering for a moment, Vythri finally reached out for the child. Shockingly, the girl came fearlessly forward and curled her soft arms around Vythri’s neck.

“Da,” the child babbled.

Taken aback, Vythri gently extricated himself from the child’s grasp and scowled at her. “I am not,” he told her sternly. “But I will not leave you with a human.”

The child began to wriggle as she fought to get close enough to muckle back onto Vythri. Struggling, he finally relented when the girl began to cry. Cradling her close, he couldn’t deny the odd familiarity of her weight tucked against his body.

Glancing down at the woman, he noted the odd smile on her pale face and the slow rise and fall of her chest. Not dead yet, Vythri thought wryly.

“Where did you come by this child?” he demanded at length.

“I found her on the edge of the wood,” the dying woman began, then paused to laugh as if entertained by some private joke. “She and I will end as we have begun. The Gods must have been in humor when they wrote our fates.”

Vythri’s frown deepened. Waiting for the woman's mirth to ebb, he quirked a brow when she pushed her hand into her pocket. It took all her strength, but finally, she produced a pendant made of a small glass bottle. The contents, stoppered with a wax seal, swirled angrily.

Dread, like ice, crept down Vythri’s spine.

Despite all his lost memories, he knew this necklace and knew what was within. Adjusting the child on his hip, he reached down and took the pendant from the woman. The contents of the little bottle pulsed with a strange heat. Then, with a snarl, Vythri broke the wax seal.

At once, the veil of confusion lifted from his mind, and the voltaic charge of magic filled his nose. This little bottle was a spell. One of obfuscation and forgetting. Vythri recognized it as his own work and knew Sylphise had taken it. He knew she had employed it to keep him safe. And, with his mind now clear, the sharp sting of grief was inevitable. Vythri also knew Sylphise was gone. He remembered it now and the grief that followed as his memories had slowly drifted away from him.

Unbidden, a low, pained groan burst from his chest. Clutching the little girl close, Vythri kissed the top of her head.

“Da?”

“Shh, I have you now.” Vythri returned, his voice tight.

His breathing was pained as he glanced down at the woman. Her expression was placid as she gazed up at Vythri and the child. As much as he loathed humans, the woman deserved some kindness.

"You have my thanks, Human. And should you like to keep your life, there is another service I must ask of you."

****

“There were humans in the city a fortnight ago. Men from Mireston searching for lost wealth to line their pockets. You know this is safer, ” Sylphise reasoned.

Growling in frustration, Vythri scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Sylphise was right; he knew it. It just galled him to leave Beithir behind. As they passed through the gates and into the forest, Vythri still questioned the decision.

The vow he had made decades ago to stay behind and defend Beithir seemed an empty promise now. With many of their kin slain and a small child to protect, leaving became the correct course of action. Vythri was unwilling to risk his wife or child, especially with the threat of humans so close. Humans were dangerous creatures and would not hesitate to kill out of fear.

“It will be safer in the mountains, My Love,” Sylphise went on. “Once we're clear of the villages, we can fly again,”

To fly again. What a dear wish. Vythri ached for it almost as much as he ached to see the liquid silver of Sylphise’s wings and scales.

“And the babe will fly as well,” he replied fondly as he fixed his eyes on his sleeping daughter.

“And she will fly as well,” Sylphise agreed with a smile.

Ahead, the verdant green forest welcomed the three of them. It would be a long journey to the mountains walking on two legs, but it was safer this way. The child was too small to travel such a great distance on the wing.

Falling into step beside Sylphise, Vythri wound an arm around her shoulders. He would protect both Sylphise and his daughter with his life, even if that meant burning the world down to ash.

****

The wind was sharp and cold as it streamed along the smoothness of glistening carmine dragon scale. It had been a lifetime, maybe more, since any of the Princes of the Sky had taken to wing, and it had been longer still since a Dragon had waged war upon humankind.

There would be war upon the men of Mireston this night, and any joy Vythri might have felt soaring through the vast swathe of a starlit sky was robbed by bitter vengeance.

The ambush in the wood had come back to him in glimpses:

The wildness of his rage as he'd fought off the attackers.

Sylphise unable to fight as she fled with their child.

The Eolderman watching as the Reeve clamped his hands around Sylphise’s delicate throat and squeezed.

And finally, the flash of magic as Sylphise released the spell to make one and all forget.

But Vythri could no longer forget. His throat burned with the heat of demon fire as he soared ever closer to the sleeping village of Mireston. He would make quick work of burning it all to the ground. The child was waiting in the wood where he’d found her.

Vythri would not keep her waiting for long.