In the Valley of Embers

CHAPTER ONE

There weren't always dragons in the valley. Once, there were clear rivers and summer meadows of green and yellow. Or so I've heard--as that was in my grandfather's youth, before he fell in love with the Dragon King.

Now, streams run black. There is charcoaled stone in the valley's belly and veins in the dirt that glint orange, like scars from dragon fire. It is the Valley of Embers.

The town bell sounds, a hollow ache in my ear. From my window, I see the village people gathering around the bell tower. Some look up towards where I stand, but turn away, as if I am the Dragon King myself, as if I am the one who will take one of their sons and add him to my hoard of treasure and bones.

"Cerys," my mother calls from behind me. "The bell has rung. It is time."

My mouth is dry, but my palms are wet against my skirt's thick, pleated fabric. I feel my mother's stale fingers place the weight of my father, and his father's, crown upon my head.

"What if this is the year they refuse us?" I ask, a moment of panic seizing me.

I turn to face my mother. Her eyes are damp–from fear or perhaps from seeing my father standing in my place, as he had years ago. She shakes her head, pulling me to her.

"We are the Couriers. If they try to pierce our hearts, their fates will be of fire. You know this. They know this. They wouldn't dare," my mother reassures me–she is right.

The bell sounds again. It is clear and undisturbed, as no one at its feet dares to speak or make a noise.

I follow my mother into the shadows of our castle's corridors and out into the courtyard. Our guards stand waiting, and then, of course, the Dragonsmen, the army we only see every seven years. The army whose helmets shine like graphite and whose eyes are lost in the shadow of their helmets. The last time I saw them, I was nearing womanhood, and I hadn't forgotten the suspicion in the back of my mind that they weren't human.

Our carriage takes us towards the bell tower, weaving choppily through the cobble stoned streets.

"They dare not look at us," I say, watching mothers and fathers grip the shoulders of their sons as we pass, their heads bowed, but not in any false reverence.

"They never do," my mother replies, sighing. "They never will. But they will soon remember that we do what they could not."

The carriage stops, and for a moment, my throat feels stuffed with cotton.

"Here," my mother says, handing me her waterskin. I drink and breathe. I close my eyes and think of my father and the five times he did this before me.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Wrapping my ermine cloak tightly around my body, I enter the crowd. The guards surround me, and I feel the presence of bodies--immobile.

I take my place on bell tower steps, releasing my cloak from my grip and standing straight.

There are so many dull eyes and faces weathered by the valley's icy wind and smoke-filled air–and they're all facing me. I look for my mother's gaze, which is also upon me, from the safety behind our carriage window.

Then there are a pair of violet eyes, so bright, I hesitate before starting my speech. They are fixed upon me as if they know something I do not.

"Good people," I shout, my voice raspy. I clear my throat and start again. "Good people, as my father Lord Glenn, the Courier, used to say, this is not a day of sorrow, but repentance. Your sacrifice is for the greater good. It is for your children, your neighbors--"

"Or for your pockets! We know the Dragon King gives you riches in exchange for our boys' lives," a woman shouts from the back of the crowd. "Damn you and your grandsire--the dragon-loving wretch! The Dragon King is only protecting us from himself and his herd of serpents! No other threats! Leave our boys to age and rot in proper graves!"

There is a shuffle, and I see guards take down the woman's disheveled form. There are other shouts, but the General of the Dragonsmen steps beside me, and the crowd is silent once again. And once again, I catch the gaze of the violet eyes.

"Today," I pause, catching my breath. "Today is for all of us. In exchange for one of our young men, the Dragon King will keep us safe from enemies, who would give us fates far worse than that of flame."

I nod at the General, and from his scarlet cloak and armor, he presents the Sphere of the Chosen. He lays it in my hands, his gloved hands avoiding mine. As my father had before me, I stretch my arms far in front of me, lifting the sphere towards the sky.

"Meirug, Dragon King, host and protector of the Valley of Embers, I call upon you to show me the man you desire to join you in your keep, as a sacrifice from us, to keep us safe and at peace from otherworldly threats. I bind you to the promise you made with my grandfather, Lord Alan, the Courier. I call on you through this sphere to make your choice!"

My voice must sound broken to the crowd, yet, they inhale as if in concert and hold their breath. I blink, and through the sphere, I see a sparkle of violet. Violet.

The sphere grows warm in my palms. I bring it close to my face, so close that my cheeks redden from its heat. Like a million streams clashing together, the violet sparkle swirls into black smoke within the sphere. I gasp as a pair of violent eyes seem to punch through the smoke.

Drystan. Drystan Brynmor, it is you, I call . . .

The Dragon King's voice is a low, hissing vibration coming from the sphere, but it is understood by all.

No one wails. Not one mother cries or father rages. But there is a pair of now-familiar eyes reddened with self remorse or anger. Or even some sense of twisted excitement.

Drystan walks towards the General and me, freely, and with a strong step--as if he knew and accepted his fate long ago.

"It is I," he proclaims, bowing, his head of thick auburn hair bent before me, "I am Drystan Brynmor."

"You may rise," I order him.

Though he stands a foot or more above me, it's as if we stand face to face. Though his eyes are striking, there is something absent in them. He looks at me, but does not see me.

"And from which family here do you hail?" I ask.

"None. I am an orphan from the mountain."

There is a current of whispers. Surely someone knows this man. But, I suppose what matters is that Meirug has claimed him.

Looking out amongst the people, I don't see happiness, but brows are less furrowed with impending grief. Thank the gods it's not one of ours, they must be thinking.

"Tonight, Drystan Brynmor and I shall travel to the Dragon King's lair,” I pronounce. “This ceremony has come to an end and shall not take place for another seven years."

The General covers the sphere with velvet cloth while it still rests in my hands–now cool. He collects it and bags it.

The Dragonsmen bind our sacrifice, who does not bow his head, but keeps it lifted. Even after I am guided back to the carriage and my mother and I are taken back to the castle, Drystan does not give up his stance. He follows us, sure-footed.

"He is different," my mother says, her voice edged with concern, as I sit across from her. "I do not like him."

"Yes. He is not like the others," I say, remembering the mild and dower boys who preceded him.

"What if he is a changeling? Meirug will punish us."

"Meirug has chosen him, Mama. The Dragon King would know if he was a changeling."

"No mother or father called his name as he was claimed."

"He says he is an orphan from the mountain."

At this, my mother pauses. The people from the mountain were different from us, in that they preferred the steep, snowy climes of the peaks to the barren nothingness of the valley. But the mountain people live simple lives and still follow our laws. There is nothing truly out of place about them. Yet, never had one been chosen. I wondered if Meirug's sight stopped at a certain height and desolate point, just like our hearts did upon climbing up the mountain too high.

"What was an orphan from the mountain doing in our village?" my mother muses. "What do we have that would bring him down frequently enough for the Dragon King to know of him?"

"I don't know, Mama. But tonight, I shall see why he has been chosen."

Later, as the sunlight is overtaken by dusk, I sit at my mirror and braid my hair. I weave my braids together and pin them against my scalp. It's a crown less glorious than my father's, but at least one of my own making.

I wonder what my father would have made of Drystan Brynmor, an orphan from the mountain, with violet eyes, and unafraid of his fate?

I ring my servant’s bell for spiced wine, and it is brought to me. It is heavy and full in my mouth, like blood, I imagine.

Dragons aren't a mystery to me. They soar between the valley's mountains on rare sunny days and leave us alone for the most part, at their king's bidding. If my grandfather hadn't loved the Dragon King, I think we would not be here. The dragons wouldn't have only destroyed our fields, but us and our grey walled structures as well. They would've claimed every mile of this valley as their domain; our skeletons naught but sticks amongst the bracken. Well, not mine, for I would not have existed. So for my sake, thank the gods for the Dragon King.

Dragons like their gold and shiny tokens and are jealous of what is not theirs. So I decide to keep my appearance plain and simple. I leave my braids as my crown, and choose my sheep pelt jerkin with its detailed, iron, clasps. I secure my ermine cloak with my grandfather's bronze brooch, hoping it serves as a reminder of our loyalty, as it was a gift to him from Meirug long ago.

In the reflection of my mirror, my face is emotionless, albeit pale from a touch of fear. But, it is not the dragons I fear–they are capable of harnessing fire in their chests, but they are also capable of love. It is the people I fear the most, and the woman who spoke against me only hours ago.

It is almost time. The cold air of the night pierces my bedroom. My window is ajar, and I hear my guards speaking gruffly as they prepare our horses.

I leave my room with one last sip of wine and slip on my wool gloves. As I walk towards the courtyard, I feel a numbness creep into my heart. What I am about to do–what I am about to be part of, will change me.

The horses of the Dragonsmen are not like ours. They are of the ghost world--they are so thin and wavering. Against the moonless night, I can barely see them. But I can see the General as he waits for me on a steed of his own.

Drystan Brynmor is surrounded by the Dragonsmen and my mother’s unflinching stare with his hands secured behind his back.

"Mama," I say, announcing myself.

"Cerys , be careful,” she says, grasping for me, pulling me into her chest. Her hair smells of the forest and of the spiced wine we share a love for.

"I will, Mama. I have two of my guards and the most feared army in the kingdom at my side."

She nods and lets me go--remembering that I am no longer just her girl.

"Take this," she says, unwrapping my father's sword, Draiga, from the depths of her cloak.

"Thank you."

“Your father is watching down. His spirit will protect you.”

The General stirs, and we know it is time for the journey to begin.

I turn away from my mother, only to find Drystan's gaze pressed onto me as my mother’s had been on him. For a moment, I cannot move. A rumbling sounds from the edge of the valley–Meirug is waiting. I inhale and exhale, and for a moment, close my eyes. I break away from Drystan 's stare and find my way onto the back of Finia, my mare.

With my Draiga at my side, and Finia's reigns taught in my hands, I follow the General into the night and our march towards Meirug’s lair.

I ache for the guidance of the moon’s shallow rays as we make our way into the forest, but the Dragon King prefers us to take this journey in the dark. Only the stars and my guards' lanterns offer us light.

From deep in the forest, there is a howl of hunger from a creature not too unlike the wolf. But he is a mongrel creature who does not need the moon. Trees thicken, and the path, overgrown from years of neglect, shrinks in width, forcing us to move in single file.

The air becomes thin as we move uphill onto the base of the eastern mountain and Finia's hooves start crunching against patches of unmelted snow. It is always winter-like in the mountains and the Valley of Embers, but the higher we ascend, the air tastes more and more like ice rather than ash.

"Only three more miles," one of my guards whispers to his companion behind me. "It's been seven years, but this path doesn't go forgotten from my memory."

"You came here the last time then?"

"Oh, aye."

"What happens to the Dragonsmen when we arrive? I've heard stories that they become stone or melt into the ground."

"Aye, to stone they turn. I've seen it myself, I have. It’s said that they were souls of an ancient army that the Dragon King burnt to a crisp long ago."

My stomach tenses, as if trying to digest rotten meat. I don't want to know how far and ancient the powers of Meirug are; I only want to do his bidding.

"Did you see the Dragon King too then? Do you know what happens to the sacrifice?"

"Oh, no. The sacrifice disappears deep into the Dragon King’s lair with the General. And I have only seen the Dragon King on the horizon, and even that was years ago now."

It had been years since he was seen gliding above the valley. I still remember the last sighting. I was barely tall enough to peek above our castle's ramparts. He was miles away from the village, but nonetheless, he was a dark green and silvery smudge on the valley's southern horizon.

I had asked my father once why Meirug had retreated out of sight, but he did not answer me. He only reassured me that he was still in his hoard, deep in the mountain, and not to believe any whisperings from the villagers.

My ears strain to catch the rest of the guards' conversation, but Finia halts, jerking me forward.

"Woah, Finia," I say gently, stroking her main.

The General stops and looks towards me, commanding me to move on, but then the ground beneath our feet shakes. He holds two fingers up, and the army stops.

A blast of green light rips past us. Finia cries, reeling onto her back legs. I nearly slide off, my eyes stinging from the burst of light.

A voice, speaking in an unfamiliar language, fills the night. I see a figure in robes of gold and emerald hovering above us. His eyes, violet.

My head spins around as I frantically look for Drystan, expecting him to be gone–to have taken this opportunity to save himself. But Drystan Brynmor stands erect, still bound, with eyes glowing in rage.

"Hunter." I don't hear him say it, but I read the words on his lips as they move.

There is another burst of light. A hissing noise sounds from the General as members of the Dragonsmen vaporize, their armor crumbling into dust.

I cover my mouth, wanting to scream, but only an ugly, dry, noise escapes my throat.

The General somehow climbs atop his steed, who stands paralyzed, unmoving.

"My lady!" One of my guards shouts. "Come with us! Nothing good will come of this."

I listen, as more light flashes. I kick Finia's side, as if to guide her into the trees, but she doesn't move. She, too, like the General’s horse, is frozen.

"The horses are spellbound," the guard says, pulling me down from Finia's back.

We rush behind the trees, stooping behind a log the size of village's bell tower.

"I have to go," I whisper. The two guards look at me in horror.

"My lady!" the elder says.

"We can't let our sacrifice be killed or escape!"

Before they can argue, I'm back on my feet, weaving back to the trail, which is still lit by the light of spell casting.

I can barely make Drystan out. His head is bent, and he mouths something I can’t decipher.

Then the general, balancing on the back of his horse, nocks an arrow in his bow and aims.

Suddenly a burst of flame rips through the path, lashing at the trees. The General falls, and the sorcerer is thrown higher into the sky and is thrust out of sight by an invisible force.

I shriek as a breath of fire nips at my sleeve. I run, the fire taking on every tree and bush in its path. Somewhere I hear my guards calling for help as they are burned alive.

We hadn't been traveling in the forest for too long. The emptiness of the valley should be close. As my legs ache from running and my hips grow tired from the weight of my father's sword hanging from my belt, I try to imagine how far away the valley floor could be. But my lungs sear from the cold air, and I stop, panting.

I turn around to measure my surroundings. All is dark except for a distant wavering of the forest fire’s dying orange light. It is quiet and still.

For a moment, I think I am utterly alone. Then there is a crash. I stand straight and grip the hilt of Draiga.

There is nothing, and then suddenly, there is something--the low hum of a dragon's wings, like a heart, beating against the roof of the forest.

All at once, all was truly black above the trees, except for the subtle glow of silver dragon scales.

Drystan Brynmor. Drystan Brynmor.

I don't hear Meirug's voice. I feel it. It thrums through my body.

I see you. You cannot escape me.

So Drystan is still alive and lost in the forest as well.

I stand still, waiting for starlight to return. One by one, stars peak through the branches, and patches of snow glisten on the forest floor. The shadow of Meirug's serpent-like tale slowly edges out of sight.

"Agh," a voice groans.

"Who's there?" I shout, drawing my father's sword.

"You can put that down. I am not strong enough to harm you," the voice says.

I spin around and see a man leaning against a tree, his hands holding his side. His robes are gold and emerald, lined with black fur, and stained with his blood—the sorcerer.

"You! Who are you? And what is your business here? With us?"

Rage. It blooms from my stomach and sings from my mouth. Whoever this sorcerer is, he has doomed me, my family, and my village. If Meirug doesn't receive his sacrifice, if Drystan somehow escapes him, and if the rules he and my grandfather created are broken, all will be turned to smoke and ash. There'd not be a single person or life-saving love story, like my grandfather and the Dragon King’s, to be remembered by future generations.

"You're pointing your sword at the wrong person."

The man's voice carries an unfamiliar accent and richness. I tense my arm, realizing it had relaxed at the sound of his voice.

"Who are you, besides a sorcerer? What is your purpose?"

He moves one of his hands away from his side and stretches it out. A singular, yellow flame bursts from his palm, and I see him more clearly. His skin and eyes are as dark as snow is white. His jaw is strong and hard set, his nose smooth and rounded at the nostrils. For a moment, I feel like I have choked on air or my own spit. Our eyes lock, and I know I will never unsee this man--not only because of his originality, but because I feel him seeing through me as no one has ever before.

"I am Lekan. And you are the daughter of the Courier, of the Valley of Embers?"

"Yes, though he has gone to the heavens. I am now the Courier."

"Ah," he says softly, then grunts. "Sorry for your loss. Will you help me find some dry ground? I must rest and heal my wound."

I hesitate, and he chuckles, cooly.

"I have come to help your people’s purpose, not stop it. You do not need to fear me."

"Well, you haven't helped much, seeing that my two guards have been killed, the Dragonsmen have been vaporized, and that the Dragon King has left his lair to hunt the sacrifice I was supposed to deliver to him," I say dryly, but he doesn't seem to hear me. He grimaces.

I sheath my sword and aid him. We find dry earth amongst the blotches of snow, and he whispers to the flame in his palm. It moves and settles between us. It grows, hovering an inch above the ground. The shock of the evening seems to ebb.

"So, Lekan, why are you here to help our purpose? And who are you to do so?" I demand from him, watching as he fumbles for a pouch tied to his waist, underneath his robe.

"I have been called to shield the Dragon King from a threat–a threat who has been waiting in the bushes like a snake."

There is cunning in his voice. It should make me feel uncomfortable, but it doesn't. It is then that I realize his eyes are no longer violet, as they had been when he was casting his spells.

"Your eyes," I say stiffly, "they were violet, and it is not the first time I have seen violet eyes on this day. Explain it and everything else.”

He doesn't reply, but instead, removes his robs and tunic, revealing a chest, strong from what I assume has been a life of fighting enemies. From his pouch, he withdraws ointments and small iron tools. He places a thick wooden piece in his mouth to bite down on and presses a pair of tongs into his side. Slowly, he removes the head of the arrow that the General had pierced him with. He takes three, long, haggard breaths--saying something, undoubtedly a spell, under their cover. Gingerly, he rubs an ointment into a cottony cloth.

"Will you help me bandage this?" he asks, and I nod my head in compliance.

Slowly, I wrap the cloth tightly around the wound and tie it securely. Despite the cold, his skin is warm to the touch. Feverish.

"Thank you," he says curtly, pulling his tunic and robes back on.

The arrowhead lies next to him, bloodied and crooked, like a hook.

"You asked about my eyes?"

"Yes. And those of Drystan Brynmor, who the Dragon King is now hunting–thanks to you."

Lekan nods. Light from the fire pools in his eyes as if they are mirrors looking into another realm.

"I will tell you,” he murmurs. “And I will tell you what you don't know about the Dragon King and your Valley of Embers."