Daughter of the Dragon

Chapter 4: The Fire (UPDATED)

Darya and Valant made their way across the pasture, past the cattle still resting in the shadow of the Stelmond Oak, the highest tree between Whitebridge and Oakhill. They found Haran with the Sweton sisters, their skirts now down and mostly dried, at the crest of Old Green. All three were standing on top of the dry stone wall, right next to where two abandoned scythes leaned against it, looking to the south at something Darya couldn't see.

Andrea twirled around a couple of times, balancing on top of the wall, obviously bored. Finally, she saw them and waved—mostly at Valant—and smiled, taking care to show only her good side. "You must come look," the girl called, words slurred as always, "there is a fire." She pointed in the direction Haran and Ingela were watching, then resumed her balancing act.

Like she had many times before, Darya wondered if the horse's kick had done something to Andrea's head, not just broken her face. At times the younger Sweton seemed fine. Shy and a little awkward, but otherwise normal. But as they grew older, Darya noticed the half-faced girl didn't quite keep up with the rest. She was a year younger than Darya, but the way she acted sometimes, you'd think she was twelve, not fifteen.

Not that it mattered. Pretty or ugly, smart or dumb, Andrea would never get married. Whatever dowry her father could muster would go to her older sister, Ingela with the flaming hair. The best Andrea could hope for was a place with the Sisters of Anena—but even that would cost her family. A spinster then, lucky if she could find employment as a maid with one of the freeholders or village artisans.

Valant sprang forward and up the wall. He reached around to help Darya, but she was already on top. She didn't need Valant to help her with everything, yet he insisted on treating her as an old woman sometimes. That was something new he'd started doing this summer, and Darya wanted him to stop it. He was probably trying to be courteous or proper, but it was just stupid.

There was a fire, all right. A mighty column of smoke rose almost vertically in the still summer air, far to the south. Darya couldn't see what was burning—the source of the smoke was hidden beyond rolling hills and woods, obscured by the heat haze of the summer afternoon.

"What's burning?" Valant said to Haran.

"We don't know," Haran replied.

"I think it's Four League Forest," Ingela said, naming the only sizeable wood between Stelmond and Whitebridge as the source.

"It's not," Valant replied. "Four League is just past Rowlock." He pointed at the River White making its way around a hill and under a stone bridge some distance beyond the village. "The fire is further south and a little to the east. Maybe as far as Whitebridge. But it's impossible to be sure. If it was a clear autumn's day, maybe you could, if you had a spyglass and climbed to the top of the Oak."

The five youngsters were not alone in the meadow. Rather than working in field and forest as they should be, the good people of Stelmond were standing around in little clumps watching and talking. It looked like every villager who could walk had come to Old Green to watch the smoke—the grassy hillock was the best vantage point in the village.

Further down the slope, the Aldermen were surrounded by a host of concerned villagers. The throng of people was half a bowshot away, with no hope of hearing what they were talking about, but Darya didn't need to hear to understand. The people of Stelmond looked to their Aldermen for guidance in uncertain times, and this was a very unusual situation.

She turned the other way. Exemplar Harress, the village priest, was standing not twenty paces away. The big man was leaning against the stone wall, eyes closed, wearing that same intense expression he did during temple services. Perhaps he was communing with the Gods, seeking their guidance—as the villagers got theirs from the Aldermen? One massive fist rested on the hilt of a longsword. The other was holding something—probably the holy symbol of Zeyn—pressed against his chest.