Ruby Dragon Page 5

  Tomaaz lunged.

  Ezaara blocked his blow, then feinted. In a flurry of strokes, he drove her backward toward an apple cart. Typical. Quick to attack, he loved to corner his opponents.

  “Take five to one for Tomaaz,” Lofty yelled. The clink of coppers sealed bets. Folk always favored her brother.

  Ezaara whirled as his blade whistled past her face, the whisper of its passage kissing her cheek. That was close, too close. She ducked as he lunged again, then she danced out of reach, saved by her footwork. They fought their way past brightly-patterned bolts of cloth. Tomaaz thrust to her right. Dodging, she bumped the table and the bolts went flying.

  “Hey, my cloth,” yelled Old Bill as Ezaara leaped over the bolts and Tomaaz gave chase.

  Ezaara faced her brother. Perhaps she could distract him. “Seen any pretty girls today?” she taunted, thrusting under his guard. “Look, there’s one behind you.”

  His blade answered for him. He was stronger. And faster. She blocked him, arm aching from the impact. Tomaaz’s sword sliced dangerously near. He was so sure he could beat her. Slowing her steps as if she was tiring, Ezaara pretended to stumble, landing on one knee. “Ow!”

  Tomaaz faltered. “Ezaara, are you all right?”

  Driving her sword under his arm, Ezaara tapped his shirt. “I did it!” she cried, leaping to her feet. “I beat you.”

  A chorus of cheers erupted from the onlookers. Lofty called, “Go, Ezaara!”

  A man yelled, “Lucky she’s not a tharuk, Tomaaz, or you’d be dead meat.”

  A chill skittered down Ezaara’s spine. Thankfully there were no tharuks in Lush Valley.

  “Aagh, beaten,” Tomaaz groaned. Sheathing his sword, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  Ezaara met his green eyes squarely. “You chose to fight me here.”

  Around them, coppers changed hands. Suddenly, Lofty was there. He pulled her close and kissed her, right on the mouth, mooshing his lips against hers. The crowd oohed. Ezaara shoved him away. Old Bill put a pile of grimy coppers into Lofty’s hand. Lofty punched his fist in the air.

  How dare he! Her first kiss—some shrotty smooch, for a bet? Ezaara’s cheeks burned. Half the village had been gawking. She snatched up her basket. Market was only a few days each moon—a nice change from healing people with Ma—but Lofty had just ruined it.

  A bellow rang out. “Is that those twins again?” Klaus strode through the scattering crowd. A head taller than most, and as wide as a draft horse, he was the settlement’s arbitrator.

  Lofty slipped away. The coward.

  “Tomaaz. Ezaara.” Klaus put his hands on his hips.

  Some villagers, pretending to be busy, glanced their way. Others stared outright.

  “It’s my fault.” Tomaaz squared his shoulders. “I challenged her.”

  “In the middle of the marketplace?” Klaus glared. “You could have taken out a littling’s eye.”

  Whoops, she hadn’t thought of littlings. Ezaara held up her sword. “Our tips were corked and the blades aren’t sharpened.”

  Klaus examined Ezaara’s sword with his thumb and finger. “In any case, you shouldn’t have—”

  “She tricked Tomaaz,” Old Bill, the traveling merchant, called, “fighting sneaky, like a dragon rider.”

  As low as a dragon rider? Why was Bill mentioning dragons? Especially in front of Klaus. Was he trying to get her into trouble?

  Klaus spun on Bill. “I only let you trade here if you keep our rules. If I hear you mention those filthy winged killers and their stinking riders again, you’ll be acquainting yourself with our jail.”

  Old Bill glared at Ezaara. She shivered. He gave her the creeps.

  Klaus pointed a blunt finger at Tomaaz. “No fighting in the marketplace.”

  “Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again,” Tomaaz replied.

  Ezaara mumbled her apologies too.

  “They knocked over my cloth,” Old Bill protested.

  “Help Bill to tidy up.” Klaus threw a last glare at them and went back to his leatherwork.

  Old Bill rubbed his hands together. “So, kissed by Lofty, eh?”

  Ezaara wrinkled her nose at his fetid breath. The sooner they were finished, the better.

  Tomaaz stared at Bill in disgust. “I can’t believe you put Lofty up to that. I mean, he’s liked her for ages, and now he’s blown it. There’s no way my sister’s going to like him back now.”

  Ezaara rolled her eyes. “Would you two stop talking about me as if I’m not here?”

  Tomaaz continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Come on, Bill, you should’ve bet Lofty a silver.”

  Men! Ezaara punched his arm. “Come on, let’s get this cleaned up.” She picked up a roll of green cloth and dumped it on Old Bill’s trestle table. “Good morning, Lovina.” Would she answer today?

  No, as usual, Bill’s daughter, Lovina, ignored her, staring at the ground, lank hair covering her face.

  Tomaaz threw most of the bolts on the table, then wandered off.

  Ezaara held the last bolt for a moment, rubbing the sea-blue cloth. She’d been admiring it earlier. She’d never seen the sea, but if it was anything like the rippling pattern of blues flowing across this fabric …. She sighed, placing it on the table. Maybe one day she’d see the real ocean.

  Old Bill leaned over the stand, his gnarled hand plucking at Ezaara’s sleeve like a roach clinging to a table cloth. “You’ll like this.” He opened his jerkin and pulled out a scrap of black cloth covered in vivid patterns. “Look.” It was beautiful.

  She didn’t want anything to do with Old Bill, but she couldn’t resist. Ezaara leaned in, staring. Dragons—the swirls of color were dragons. “That’s forbidden,” she whispered.

  “Go on,” he murmured, eyes glinting. “Touch it. I know you want to.” He held the cloth out.

  Someone would see. Ezaara snatched it. Holding it close, she opened her palm and stroked the wing of a golden dragon, then the tail of a bronze. Set against a dark sky dotted with silver pinpoints, the beasts were beautiful. Were dragons really gold, red and bronze? Or was it only the weaver’s imagination?

  “How much for this fabric with the wheat pattern?” A woman’s voice startled Ezaara.

  She crumpled the cloth and thrust it into Bill’s waiting hand.

  Bill tucked the scrap inside his pocket and elbowed his poor daughter, Lovina. She didn’t respond, just kept staring at her feet. “Twenty-five coppers a measure, my lady,” Bill crooned.

  “Twenty-five,” the woman exclaimed. “Why, that’s preposterous! I’d only pay—”

  Ezaara fled past the cobbler’s stand, pushing her way through the crowded marketplace, toward Ana’s stall. Old Bill was dangerous. If Klaus had caught her staring at dragons …. Swinging her basket to distract herself from her thumping heart, she strode past hawkers, bleating goats and littlings playing tag. The delicious scent of melted cheese wafted over her. If she could sell her last two healing remedies, she’d be done. And it was early, so she’d have the afternoon off. She headed toward Ana’s hand-painted scarves. Ana had tried to teach her how to paint scarves, but instead of creating beautiful patterns, Ezaara’s had been ugly and splotched.

  “Morning, Ana,” Ezaara called. “Need any herbs today?” She swallowed. Did Ana know her son had just kissed her?

  Ana smiled, eyes crinkling. “What have you got for me today, Ezaara?”

  So, Ana hadn’t seen, thank the Egg. Ezaara passed a pot of healing salve and a bundle of clean herb across the trestle table. “You’re lucky, these are my last.”

  Ana peered into Ezaara’s basket. Her brow furrowed. “No owl-wort?”

  “No.” Strange question. Ezaara and Ma never usually picked owl-wort unless someone requested it. Most folk didn’t need a herb that helped you see in the dark. Ezaara adjusted her basket on her arm. “It’s still in season. I can bring some by later if you need it.”

  “Good, I’ll expect you.” Ana fumbled with her money pouch.

 
Was Ana planning on going out at night? Or was the herb for Lofty? He was always sneaking out with Tomaaz, getting into trouble.

  Coppers clinked as they passed from Ana’s well-worn hands into hers—three coppers. “You’ve given me too much.”

  “That last coin is for the owl-wort,” Ana replied. “I want to make sure you bring it today.”

  So, someone was going out tonight. “I’ll come by later.”

  Ezaara threaded her way through the villagers, past a weapons stand and Klaus’ leather work. Near the cooper’s stall, the clacking of sticks came from behind a stack of barrels.

  Busy serving customers, the cooper’s wife rolled her eyes. “Those naughty boys are fighting again,” she grumbled.

  “I’ll check on them,” Ezaara offered. She ducked down the side of the stall.

  Behind the barrels, Paolo and Marco were going at it with sticks. Marco, a littling of only six summers, was blocking his older brother’s strikes, even though Paolo had the stronger arm and longer reach. Then Paolo gave a mighty swing—too hard, too high.

  “Watch out!” Ezaara leaped forward, too late.

  Paolo’s stick smacked Marco’s face. Marco howled and clutched his nose, blood spurting between his fingers. Paolo’s face froze in horror.

  “Go fetch some water, Paolo,” said Ezaara, striding between them. “Quick.”

  As Paolo dashed off, she sat Marco on a small barrel and checked his face. Luckily, his nose wasn’t broken. “Bleeding noses hurt,” she soothed him, “but you’ll live to fight another day. Here, lean forward.”

  His blood dripping onto the ground, Marco was still crying.

  Ezaara leaned in, whispering, “Even though Paolo’s bigger, you almost had him.”

  “I did?” Marco’s tears stopped.

  “Definitely.” She grinned.

  Paolo returned, passing Ezaara a waterskin.

  She pulled a cloth from the leather healer’s pouch at her waist and sloshed water over it. “Now, be brave, like a warrior.” She gently wiped Marco’s face.

  “Sorry,” said Paolo. “We was trying to fight like you and Tomaaz.”

  Ezaara winced. She’d never thought of littlings copying them. “The first lesson Pa taught me was not to hit too hard,” she said. “Remember, you’re training with your brother, not slaying a dragon. You need to keep your sword nice and low, and aim at the body, not the head.”

  Paolo nodded wisely as if she was a great master.

  She scooped some healing salve out of a tiny tub in her pouch and dabbed it on Marco’s nose. “As good as new.”

  “You’re lucky your folks taught you,” Marco piped up, looking a lot better without blood leaking out of his nose. “Ours can’t fight, but we’re going to battle tharuks when we grow up.”

  Paolo nudged him. “Hey, I told you there are no tharuks in Lush Valley.”

  The boy had a good point. If there was no one to fight, why had Ma and Pa trained her and Tomaaz with the bow and sword since they were littlings?

  Marco jumped down from the barrel, swinging his sword arm. “Don’t care. Want to fight tharuks anyway.”

  She picked up their sticks. “I’ll tell you what, I’ll talk to Tomaaz. Maybe we can teach you to fight.”

  The boys’ eyes lit up. “Really?”

  She nodded. “We might have a couple of wooden practice swords you can use.” The boys grinned. “But not now,” she said. “Today, you two need to find something quiet to do.”

  Paolo put an arm around his brother’s shoulder. “What about a game of scatter stones, Marco? You like those.”

  Ezaara laughed, leaving the boys clacking stones instead of sticks, and wandered back through the market.

  “There you are.” Tomaaz approached her. “I was looking for you.”

  “Marco got a bleeding nose from Paolo.”

  Tomaaz rolled his eyes. “Those two again.”

  “Now you sound like Klaus.” Ezaara grinned. “They don’t know the sharp end of a sword from a hilt, and Paolo swings way too hard. We should teach them.”

  “Good idea,” Tomaaz said, tugging Ezaara toward their parents’ produce stall. “Now, what was Bill showing you, on the quiet? You looked fascinated.”

  “Cloth—speckled with dragons of gold and bronze,” Ezaara whispered. Her heart started thumping all over again.

  “Contraband cloth?” Tomaaz’s eyes flitted nervously. “Old Bill’s bad news. And his daughter’s strange too.”

  “You’d be strange too, if Old Bill was your pa.” Ezaara nodded at a mother with littlings clutching at her skirts, waiting until they’d passed before replying. “Even if dragons are evil, the fabric was beautiful.”

  Ezaara and Tomaaz skirted a pen of piglets. “Lofty says dragons are honored beyond the Grande Alps,” said Tomaaz. “One day, I’m going to look for myself.”

  She elbowed Tomaaz. “Someone will hear you.”

  “So what? I’m not going to live here forever, you know.”

  Turning to face him, Ezaara stopped. “You’d leave us?” Although they sometimes bickered, life without her twin would be like losing a part of herself.

  His eyes slid away. “Don’t know. Maybe.”

  Ezaara frowned. “That’s why Lofty’s ma wanted owl-wort—you and Lofty are planning to go tonight, aren’t you?”

  Tomaaz burst out laughing. “If only!”

  So, he wasn’t planning anything. “If you ever leave, take me with you,” she insisted. There had to be more to life than Lush Valley.

  “All right,” Tomaaz said, “but no running off without me, either.”

  “Course not.” They bumped knuckles.

  At their family stall, Pa passed a sack of beets to a customer and pocketed the man’s money. He faced Ezaara and Tomaaz, hands on his hips. “We didn’t teach you fighting skills so you could create a ruckus on market days. What have I told you before?”

  Tomaaz sighed. “To save our skills for battle.”

  “To practice in the meadows, not the market,” Ezaara added.

  Pa nodded. “Tomaaz, could you take this sack of carrots to the smithy?”

  “Sure, Pa.” Tomaaz shouldered the sack and left.

  Ma glanced at Ezaara’s basket. “So, you sold everything. I heard you beat Tomaaz.”

  “Only just, and through strategy, not skill.”

  “Strategy is also a skill.” Ma put an arm around her shoulder. “Everyone’s good at different things. Remember, you were climbing trees way before Tomaaz, because you weren’t afraid of heights.”

  “I guess so.” Tomaaz still couldn’t climb a ladder without turning green. Who was ever going to be impressed by a head for heights? No one she knew. Ezaara handed Ma the money and basket. “Ana wants owl-wort, today.”

  “Owl-wort?” Her mother’s eyes widened. “Collect some supplies for healing salve while you’re at it.” She gave Ezaara back a copper. “Get something to eat before you head back into the forest.”

  Pa winked. “Watch out for Lofty.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Heat rose in Ezaara’s cheeks. Had Pa heard already? Worse, had he seen Lofty mashing his lips on hers?

  “Soon everyone will be gossiping about something else.” Ma patted her arm.

  Ezaara groaned. This was worse than she’d thought. If only her first kiss had been private, special, not from her brother’s best friend. From someone who meant more.

  She hurried through the stalls, buying melted cheese on flatbread, then headed down the road to the riverbank, eating it. Water surged around the stepping stones as she crossed the river. Following familiar trails, she tucked peppermint and sage into the leather healer’s pouch at her waist. Lifting fern fronds, Ezaara picked some feverweed. The gurgling of the river gradually faded.

  Now, she needed arnica and owl-wort. Ezaara strolled deeper into the forest and came to the sacred clearing. Stepping into the sunlight, Ezaara stooped to pick arnica flowers. The ancient piaua, half as thick as a cottage,
rose before her at the edge of the clearing, its bark pitted and gnarly. Blue berries peeked from its dark foliage. As a tree speaker, her mother often talked to the piaua whenever she collected its sacred healing juice. Placing her palm against the bark, Ezaara strained to feel a whisper. Nothing—again. She sighed. Not a tree speaker, then. What would her vocation be? Ma was happy as a healer and herbalist, and Ezaara didn’t mind helping her, but she wanted something more. Excitement. Adventure. Maybe love.

  The owl-wort vines grew among the knobby piaua roots. She parted the undergrowth and plucked a handful of leaves. Rising from a crouch, she opened her pouch.

  A strange tingle ran through Ezaara, then a shadow fell over her. Something swished, a sudden breeze stirring her hair. She jerked her head up.

  A dragon was circling the treetops. Ezaara recoiled in fear. With a snap of fangs or a swipe of talons, it could kill her. The owl-wort fell from her shaking hands. She tensed to flee.

  But hesitated.

  Sunlight played across the dragon’s iridescent scales, making them shimmer. Its graceful wings swished ever closer, rippling with color. This beast was beautiful—beautiful, but deadly. She had to escape. But the tingling grew stronger. The amazing creature circled down toward her. Foliage rustled in the downdraught from the dragon’s wingbeats.

  A voice hummed in her mind. “Ezaara,” it crooned.

  This creature could talk to her?

  “We’re mind-melding, sensing each other’s thoughts and emotions.”

  She held her breath, drawn to the dragon. Rich colors cascaded through her mind. Sunshine poured into her soul. Ezaara wanted to soar. She glimpsed a vision—her riding the dragon, flying above the forest, over the Grande Alps and into the blue.

  “This is your destiny, to ride with me.”

  Warning cries reached her—villagers. If only they knew this dragon, they wouldn’t be afraid.

  The dragon’s hum built to a roar inside her. It dived.

  Familiar faces shot into her mind. Her family! She couldn’t leave them.

  Ezaara’s love for her family was swept aside as energy rushed through her. She was enveloped in a prism of rainbow-colored light, like reflections in a dewdrop. Music from the purest flute filled her heart. For the first time in her life, she felt whole. The energy coiled inside her and she sprang, lifted by the wind, hair streaming out behind her. In a flash of color, the dragon’s scales were beneath her. Ezaara landed on a saddle in a hollow between its wings. She wrapped her arms around the dragon’s spinal ridge, hugging it tight.