Lorondrias, the City of Emerald Spires, capitol of the Duchy of Lorond, commanded the Bay of Jewels from a promontory above the Reed Lands, the vast delta where the Pontyd River flowed into the ocean, and trade flowed across Bodhael and the Sea of Llyr.
Erran had visited this grand port city once before, in his childhood. His foster parents, Master and Mistress Gelnney of Lefford, had attended a conclave of grain merchants there, and they’d made a trip of it with all their children, including the little orphan they had taken in.
There may have been a row about it afterwards among the other relatives and caretakers, but those arguments always passed well above child Erran’s head. All he retained were impressions of colors, towers and ship masts, he and his foster siblings running like rabbits among noisy crowds, and a sense of adventure that informed his childhood fantasies for years.
He never went back, though, nor was there any talk of him visiting such a place again. In time, any yearning in him for city life yielded to the serene quiet of the forests.
The journey was two days from Chesny by road or water, but Maedrephon flew the distance as fast as the wind, bending trees before him and rippling meadows in his wake. He landed on a hill overlooking the city just as the sun touched the bay in a glory of orange sky and purple clouds.
The sunset cast the Emerald Cape and the Jewel Islands into stark silhouette and gilded the green-roofed towers of Lorondrias in fiery light. The waters mirrored the sky into the Reed Lands, creating golden pools among the marshes. Flocks of birds rose and fell like dark clouds over the wetlands, and the breeze carried faint echoes of their cries to the trio on the hill, along with scents of brine, and smoke, and pine pitch.
Erran caressed Maedrephon’s neck, feeling the thrill of the aura-beast’s power in his fingertips and through the core of his own body. “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “We’ll walk from here.”
Maedrephon nodded and obediently vanished. Erran used his own energy to summon his familiars. Maedrephon felt his master’s fatigue as well as Erran did himself.
With his pack on one shoulder and Nutkin on the other, Erran hiked down the hill to join the traffic on the Pontyd Road into Lorondrias.
“We could have ridden a bit closer,” Nutkin muttered as night descended with them not much nearer their destination.
“Enter the forest without bending a leaf,” Erran quoted the ancient scrolls of Nimrie.
Nutkin snorted.
It was true that Erran wanted to avoid attention, which would be difficult if he flew in over the rooftops on a magical horse, but as a grown man, his days of rabbiting through crowds were long done. Lorondrias was an open city and had outgrown its walls long ago. There were no gates to be barred, and no end to comings and goings. The city proper seemed to grow up around them like brambles as the river road split and branched, and the wagons, riders, and walkers slowed, crammed into the narrowing ways.
Fortunately, the Duke of Lorond dressed his city guardians in gaudy yellow and blue tabards, so whenever Erran saw such a figure loitering at an arch or crossroads, he asked directions. Thus, he was sent this way and that, from one to the next, until he found the shrine grove.
Here, on the terraced hillside beneath the Ducal Palace, was the consecrated park where all the gods had their shrines. The night was well along by now, but still the place was full of devotees and petitioners walking among floating lanterns.
A few more inquiries brought Erran and Nutkin to Nimrie’s shrine, a simple, cottage-sized structure under flowering trees, busy with supplicants lined up in the small courtyard to make offerings and seek charms and divinations. Erran stopped an acolyte, displayed the token of the Grand Temple, which he wore on his belt, and asked for the minister.
“I’m sorry,” said the youth, “but he may have left for the day. Reverend Huyel lives in the town with his family.”
“If he is here, please tell him the Ranger of the Western Woods wishes to present himself.”
Looking confused, the acolyte went to check, and soon a flustered, balding man in the robes of a shrine minister came rushing to greet Erran.
Reverend Huyel, Minister of Nimrie at Lorondrias, had indeed been preparing to close the day’s work and go home, but he greeted Erran with warm declarations of love and trust. The two men exchanged apologies, honors, and pleasantries. Huyel offered tea, Erran begged him not to take the trouble. The Reverend Minister asked how he could help the Reverend Ranger, and Erran laid out his needs: a bed, a bath, a meal, and a dragon-charming bard.
“Nothing easier than to grant your first three wishes,” Huyel said. “You must come to my house. I insist upon it. You don’t know what a treat this is – a ranger in the city, and the Ranger of the Western Woods, no less, who cares for Llenead Maera, our Lady’s own home. My wife will have none of me if I do not bring you home. No, no, you and your friend shall be our guests.”
Nutkin squeaked uncertainly, but Erran was ready to end the day. He accepted the invitation.
“Excellent,” Huyel beamed, “Now, I can see you’re tired. I have a goat cart waiting. Come, it is not far.”
So, having climbed a twisting route up into the shrine grove, Erran and Nutkin were carried down out of it again on another twisting route to Reverend Huyel’s small, pleasant house in a row of pleasant houses with a tree-shaded lane in front and small gardens in back. The minister’s wife, already cooking, managing four boisterous children, and not helped by a plump, striped cat lounging on the mantel, was not quite as overjoyed with her husband’s sudden guests, but she made them both welcome in the traditional manner.
A bed was made up in a sleeping cabinet. Cleansing water was set to warm on the hearth. The children were shifted to make room for Erran on the long bench facing their parents at the table, as their mother served up trenchers of steaming peas potage, poached eggs, and cheese, and their father poured a sweet and fruity mead.
Erran ate modestly and kept an eye on poor Nutkin, nervous under the petting and feeding of the children and the baleful stare of the cat, while the chatty Huyel explained why it was so unusual to see a ranger in Lorondrias.
“This city falls within the ward of the Ranger of the Reed Lands,” he was saying, “but Sister Gwyne seldom comes into town. She sends her curates in her stead. Now it is spring time, with the migration arriving and the birds all courting and nesting, and we shall not hear from any of them for months. They’ll be out in the wilds as long as there are fledglings in the marshes.”
Erran thought he understood the Ranger of the Reed Lands very well. Sister Gwyne was served by more than one curate, it seemed — reasonable for a range as big as the delta. The Western Woods were just as large, but it had been over two years since Erran had taken in a curate to train. Arch-Prelate Finda often mentioned it, but Erran was comfortable with the help of the beasts, who demanded little conversation. He thought of all the births soon to happen, and the rains and melt-waters soon to rush through his forests, and he wished himself done with his quest.
“I should visit our Sister Ranger,” he said, “but I don’t know if my business will permit it. I am under a pressure of time.”
“Ah, yes, as to that,” said Huyel, mopping up sauce with a crust of bread, “I know of some dragon-masters, of course, but they are not here, and they are not bards. The Divines specified a bard?”
“They did,” Erran said, a little bitter.
“I wonder why,” Huyel mused, echoing Erran’s own thought.
His wife looked up from wiping the mouth of her youngest. “If you seek a bard, go to the Golden Owl.”
“The Golden Owl?” said Erran.
Huyel clapped his hands. “Of course! How wise my love is. The best bards and players perform at the Golden Owl theater. Half the audience are bards and players as well. Your chances of finding a dragon-charmer are better there than anywhere.”
“The Bard of Perna is there now,” his wife added, “with the Lady of Arrak. I would like very much to see them both, my dear. I shouldn’t be surprised if either of them could charm any dragon you like.”
“I don’t think I care to go to a place full of owls,” said Nutkin later, as he and Erran settled into the cozy bed. Their hosts had retired to the bedchambers upstairs. Even the children had finally quietened, and the cat had gone to its work in the dark.
“I think it’s only named for owls,” Erran said, letting Nutkin curl up next to him, under his hand.
“Still, it’s not very welcoming to a squirrel.”
“Theaters are a human thing.” Erran yawned. “You squirrels have your own entertainments, don’t you?”
Sleep softened every muscle in his body, and his mind was readying itself for dreams. He tried to review all he had done that day, but the brightest visions were of the wyvern writhing in its madness and a pale boy clinging to life in Sabeth’s cottage.
“Do you think you’ll find your bard there?” said Nutkin.
“We shall see.”
The minister’s family did their best to let Erran sleep in the morning, but as one used to the outdoors, he was as alert to stealthy movement as to loud noise. At least the sun was up. These city folk started their day later than the Chesny farmers.
Nutkin, already up, declared his intention to go exploring. He had been talking with the cat and developed something of an itinerary. Erran decided to do the same, following his own interests, and so after a rambunctious breakfast, the mistress of the house was able to sweep the place clear of people. The children ran off to their schooling. Minister Huyel rode his goat cart back uphill to the shrine. Nutkin took off into the trees.
And Erran went a-strolling.
It was a purposeful stroll. He opened his senses as he walked, feeling for threads and vibrations of energy, making a subtle map of Lorondrias.
The city was as chaotic in the day as in the night. It was a complicated mosaic of beauty and grime, perfume and stench. Some spots radiated high, bright auras, and others roiled with invisible darkness. Everywhere he found laughter, shouts, commerce, and bards.
Songs poured from taverns. Minstrels strummed and dancers twirled in the squares. Storytellers and gossipmongers held forth in the markets. But none displayed any special abilities.
Eventually, Erran made his way to the so-called “flower quarter” where he would find the Golden Owl Theater, according to the directions he asked.
The walk took him up a winding street overshadowed by taverns and pleasure houses. Most were closed in the late morning, though a few did business with the casual air of serving the people who worked in the district.
The street ended in a plaza from which more alleys and streets sported more places to drink and gamble and indulge. Directly opposite him, dominating the space, stood the Golden Owl.
The theater’s tall, ornate facade was hemmed in by its close-set neighbors, which hid most of the structure. What could be seen was brightly painted and patterned around and above massive doors bound in bronze and framed by two monumental owls, every carved feather chased in gold.
The place was closed.
In the plaza, laborers were knocking together a stage platform, while some minstrels amused them and themselves by trading variations on a common tune. They ignored Erran, until his obvious interest in getting into the theater prompted a little pity.
“Come back at midday,” one of the workmen called.
Erran, who had been searching for a bell or knocker, stepped back from the great doors. A pall of silence hung over the theater, no doubt a glamour against the curious.
“Will there be a performance?” he asked.
The workmen laughed. “What do you think we’re doing?” one said. “The outdoor show is short but free. Come back at the midday bells – or stay and get a good spot before the place fills up.”
Erran took the man’s advice. He went into the nearest open tavern, ordered some pasties and a jug of ale, and was shown up to the top-floor balcony in the shade of the eaves. He took a single seat at the smallest table in the farthest corner, and settled down to wait.
The men finished hammering and set about decorating the stage with garlands and rugs. People began to gather. More of the taverns opened.
Erran’s balcony filled up, as did the one below him and those in the other taverns. He even saw people perching precariously on the sloping roofs.
He had done that sort of thing too, years ago, with his schoolmates. They would sneak past the innkeeper with snacks and gourds of beer, whenever a bard came to Lefford. They knew all the songs, plays, and jokes back then, and could debate the merits of their favorites for days.
He also remembered more recent years, nights full of liquor and beauty, lonely mornings, and bright afternoons like this, giving glimpses of the slapdash planks beneath the scenery.
A shiver ran over his skin. He was being watched.
He scanned the plaza — faces like leaves and voices like sparrows in a hedge, students and workers, the kinds of people who would break their day to see a free show. No one was taking any notice of him, but he felt the pressure of eyes, so he kept searching until he found them.
Owls – real ones, all bundled together in their feathers. They stared at him from their perch in the theater’s woodwork across the plaza. Erran nodded, and they tilted their heads and blinked their huge eyes in response – except for one, behind the others, who did not move, did not blink, and whose eyes were human.
Bells rang out across the city.
With a heavy clank, the theater doors swung open and out came a band of drummers and pipers belting out a fanfare to loud cheers. They cleared a path to the stage and greeted the crowd with a medley of jigs as they took their places.
Next came the principles, the Lady of Arrak and the Bard of Perna, presumably. A bigger cheer burst forth. Erran leaned forward like the rest to get a look.
The Lady was veiled in the style of the Jin people of Arael, the Fire Realm. Translucent layers fell from a tall headdress, obscuring but not hiding the woman. She moved like a cat, or maybe like a serpent, or like sand rippling under burning winds.
The Bard walked beside her, her hand on his, and a wrapped bundle under his other arm. He was tall and slender, dressed in blue robes, cut and layered in the highest Bodhean fashion with trailing sleeves and dangling amulets. Nearly black hair cascaded down his back, elaborately braided and studded with crystals.
An attendant took the Lady’s headdress, and she knelt within her veils in the center of the stage.
The Bard bowed, smiling to the audience, making eye contact around the plaza. When he looked at Erran, the ranger gasped at the sight of such dark eyes and rich lips, features so strong and refined, skin so clear and dusky.
The gaze did not linger. Erran’s cheeks flushed. At least his was not the only gasp or sigh in the audience. Apparently, this man had many admirers.
The Bard arranged himself on a large cushion and unwrapped the bundle, revealing a lute. It could have been taken for a harp with its many strings, but it was a lute, crafted strangely from gnarled wood. He cradled it in his lap and arms, long fingers resting on the strings.
The plaza fell silent.
Erran felt the pull of aura rising, being drawn into the center, to that stage that was now the focus of all attention.
The air tingled.
The Bard of Perna closed his eyes and began to play.
Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this chapter of An Alchemy of Dragons. Words and images are my original works. Let me know what you think in the comments below.
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