CHAPTER
ONE
CAL
Cal
needed to kill something. He needed to eat.
He
prowled the desert as if he were king of the
sand—a
far cry from the truth. His sweaty palm tightened on
his
hunting knife, his prized possession. Steps quiet, he
neared
the Sahana River. No animals, no tracks, no life. The
dead
bank glistened in the heat, taunting him. He glowered
back.
Cal
followed the curves north to where a jumble of rocks
crossed
the river, making it more secluded than the open
banks.
Water splashed ahead. He crouched behind a boulder,
stomach
clenching in the hope that he’d found prey. His
tongue
rasped over chapped lips.
Peeking
through the slabs, Cal spied a girl digging for
fiddlers.
He swallowed his spit and ground his teeth. She
would
have scared any larger prey far away. Unhappy fingers
twitched
on his knife.
The
girl was young, maybe nine or ten. She knelt in the
languid
water, twisting her hands into the riverbed. With a
grunt
of pain, she yanked her arm free. A palm-sized
creature
with a thorny shell and squiggly barbed legs clung
to
the flesh of her thumb. Teeth-tight, she levered a knife
between
the shells and pried them open, revealing one bite
of
meat.
Cal
had zero skill at catching fiddlers. It took patience.
Lots
of patience.
She
tossed the prickly brown shell onto the sand and held
up
a glossy muscle tinged pink with her blood. Instead of
putting
the morsel in her mouth, as Cal would have done,
she
set the meat in a basket on the far riverbank. The inside
of
the wicker shone with the gleam of dozens of fiddlers.
Cal
stared; saliva coated his tongue. There were enough
for
a real dinner. Enough to satisfy the ache in his belly.
Enough
to take some home to his ma.
He
swallowed. He needed to get across the river and
within
arm’s reach of that basket.
He
jerked behind the rock, squelching the thought of
stealing.
Cal wasn’t a thief. He focused on a black bug
burrowing
in the sand—all crunch and goo, no meat. Images
of
fiddlers sprang back to his mind. Stealing was wrong. And
yet,
his hunger was wrong too.
He
craned his neck, peeking over the boulder. The girl
yanked
another fiddler from the earth. It dangled in her
fingers,
taunting him. He should join her in the hunt, dig for
his
own fiddlers. He’d managed to catch a few before, but
tonight,
the thought of doing the tedious work repulsed him.
His
whole body hummed with impatience. He rolled to the
balls
of his feet as hunger took control.
He
buried the tip of his hunting knife in the sand by his
feet.
His long tunic and leather sandals landed next to it.
Wearing
only his shorts, he stalked toward the water. Her
back
was to him, her focus on her work. He should turn
around.
Leave her alone. Stealing was severely punished by
the
Elders. He’d promised Ma he wouldn’t get into more
trouble.
He told himself to stop, but the meal beckoned.
Darkness
rose in his breast, forcing him forward. As silent as
a
breeze, he waded across the slow water. His calloused palm
shot
forward and dug into the basket. Raw fiddlers squished
in
his grip.
The
girl turned, her eyes wide. He was sixteen, much
bigger
and stronger than she. She shrank back as her focus
flicked
from his full fist to his bare chest to his hard-set jaw.
He
told himself to give back her fiddlers, that this was
wrong,
but his body had come untethered from his mind. An
invisible
force seemed to control him as he brought the
fiddlers
to his mouth, but before the tenderness passed his
lips,
a rough palm gripped his shoulder and yanked him
back.
Cal
whirled. Fiddlers flew and disappeared under the
brown
surface of the water. “No!”
“What
do you think you’re doing?” The deep voice was
hard.
Rage
replaced Cal’s hunger as he stared at the ripples in
the
water. A good meal, gone.
Hands
on hips, a large man glared down at Cal. “I
recognize
you, Callidon Mirrason. It’s not the first time
you’ve
broken the pact. Wait until the Elders hear about you
stealing
from my daughter.”
Dread
curled in Cal’s belly. Not another tribunal. He
refused
to stand before the Elders again and be told how he
was
a disgrace. How he was cursed.
Apologize
and promise restitution, that’s what he needed
to
do, but the words wouldn’t come. The violent force
growing
within him seemed to flex and crackle to life. Cal’s
fingers
curled tight.
“I
don’t think even your ma can convince them you aren’t
cursed
now.”
Cal
swung for the man’s nose, but he ducked as if he’d
been
expecting it. He threw out a punch, slamming his fist
into
Cal’s stomach. Cal stumbled and fell, crashing into the
river.
The girl’s scream pierced the water as her father’s foot
pinned
Cal to the muddy bottom. Rocks sliced his back. Hot
panic
swirled through his chest as he fought the urge to
inhale.
He shifted left, and the foot shoved harder. His back
barked
in pain. His lungs howled for breath, but his mind
sharpened
and calmed.
Water
distorted the man’s voice as he yelled down at Cal
under
the surface. “Are you done fighting?”
Cal
was just getting started. Gripping a small rock, he
rammed
it into a hairy calf. The water slowed the thrust, but
he
twisted it into the muscles. Red swirls inked the murk.
The
foot recoiled, and Cal wrenched free. He plowed to the
surface.
Panting and dripping, Cal spun to face his foe. He
adjusted
his grip on the stone and raked wet hair out of his
eyes.
Anger throbbed, commanding him to strike.
“Stop!”
the girl cried.
Cal’s
nerves hummed in anticipation. Initiating violence
as
he had done was forbidden in Siccum. For sixteen years,
he’d
tried to keep his head down, eating porridge and mining
the
burning sand for precious little gold to live by. Cal had
been
a servant of the greater good, weak and obedient. Not
anymore, said a voice in his mind. A
menacing growl issued
from
his belly.
The
man swung, his fist aiming for Cal’s face. Cal ducked.
Following
through with the rock, he smashed the man’s
elbow.
The crack reverberated through Cal’s wrist. The man
staggered
back. Blood dripped down his forearm, which
dangled
awkwardly at his side.
The
painful angle of the arm, or perhaps the girl’s
symphony
of screams, jarred Cal out of his one-track rage.
The
bloodthirsty filter fell from his eyes. He blinked, and the
scene
refocused. He saw the cowering girl and the bleeding
man.
A father protecting his daughter. One of the families
from
his village who suered through the same searing
Siccum
summers as he did.
The
urge that had driven him to cruelty abandoned him,
leaving
him hollow and ashamed. The rock slipped from his
fingers
and buried itself in the slow current.
“I’m
sorry.” Even his voice had lost its strength. What
had
he done?
He
clambered up the rocks and snatched his belongings
without
pause. He ran north, away from his village. When
sand
burned his feet and sun scorched the scratches on his
back,
he put on his tunic and sandals. He trudged through
barren
desert, failing to find any prey, his mind preoccupied
with
the failures of the day. He knew stealing was wrong.
And
attacking that man was worse. How could he face Ma
and
Grandpapi now, especially after he’d lashed out at them
at
dinner? Loneliness and shame twisted like a knife. Bile
rose
in his throat, but his stomach had nothing to expel.
He
returned to the river, abandoned of all but discarded
fiddler
shells. He stripped and slid under the water. Regret
rolled
over him. Scrubbing at his limbs, he tried to wash his
wrongs
away. But as he plodded home, they clung to him, as
painfully
as his shirt stuck to the cuts on his back.
Like
a beacon far across the sand, the lights of Siccum
called.
As the night settled in, the heat of the day lifted. A
breeze
ran cool fingers through his wet hair. Come summer,
he
wouldn’t have any relief. He seemed to struggle with the
festering
heat more than others.
He
slunk around the north wall and entered the city gate
near
his two-bedroom home. Hunger gnawed. If only he’d
been
a second faster and gotten the fiddlers into his mouth …
He
entered his small yard and locked the gate behind him,
securing
it against night predators. In front of the house, his
ma
and her father, Grandpapi, sat on rocking chairs in the
sand.
Unlit torches dotted the circular wall protecting their
home.
The family hen clucked and pecked at Cal’s toes.
“Cal,
you’re home.” Relief softened Ma’s voice.
Grandpapi
scowled in disappointed silence. Cal knelt
before
Ma’s chair, forcing his knees to bend and his head to
bow.
“I’m
sorry about before. I’m sorry I said your dinner
wasn’t
good enough. I’m sorry I spit on the table. I don’t
know
what came over me.” That was the truth. And Cal knew
he’d
better get control of his new impulses fast. People
already
thought him cursed.
The curse of
Prince Nogard, the
Black
Dragon, was a myth meant to scare people into
submission.
Despite the stories, naughty children did not
grow
into monsters. “I lost my temper. I’m grateful to have
food,
any food. Please, forgive me.”
Night
shaded Ma’s expression, but he felt tenderness in
her
fingers when she lifted his chin. “I’m sorry we don’t
have
more. I know how you go hungry.”
“No,”
he lied. “You feed me well.” It wasn’t her fault
porridge
no longer satisfied. It wasn’t her fault greed had
possessed
him like a crazed beast.
“Shh.
Just a minute.” Her thin robes, smelling of citrus
and
sage, rustled against his face as she stood. She slipped
into
the house and returned a moment later with a ceramic
bowl.
“It’s cold now.”
He
took it with thanks, hunger snapping within him.
“She
wouldn’t let me eat it,” Grandpapi said. Starlight
reflected
o white hair.
Cal
wolfed down his meager porridge. “I’m sorry,
Grandpapi.
I acted terribly at dinner.”
“You
did.” Grandpapi’s tone cut like shards.
If
only that were the only thing he had to confess. He
sucked
in a long breath and forced the next words out.
“Something
happened down at the river.”
Ma
and Grandpapi tensed as if expecting a blow.
“A
girl was digging for fiddlers.” Cal gulped. “And I sort
of
tried to take them.” He stared at the flecks of gray sand to
avoid
their disappointed faces. “I didn’t see her father at
first.”
Insects
hissed and fluttered across the silence.
Head
down, he whispered, “I attacked him when he
stopped
me from eating the fiddlers I’d taken.” His voice
cracked.
“I hurt him. Badly.” He roughly swiped at watery
eyes
as he waited for a response that didn’t come. “I will be
summoned
to tribunal. Again.” His previous oenses had
been
petty things, nothing like this. What would his
punishment
be? Working the giretorbie pits was the worst.
The
smell unbearable.
Eyes
glittering with fear, Ma reached up and wrapped thin
arms
around his shoulders. “Everyone makes mistakes.” Her
voice
lacked conviction.
He
straightened his spine. “I’m going to apologize. Maybe
I
can talk them out of telling the Elders.”
Grandpapi’s
raspy voice was hard. “Tomorrow you can
see
if that does any good. But it’s time to put this day to bed.
You
must rise better. Your heart must be stronger than your
flesh.
Do not give in to dark desires.” Grandpapi stretched
out
a wrinkled hand, and Cal lifted him easily from his seat.
“Too
strong for your own good,” Grandpapi mumbled as
the
boy helped him into the house.
Cal
brought the rocking chairs inside. They would need
them
for breakfast.
“I’m
sorry,” Cal said, wishing he could erase the hurt
he’d
caused his family. Wishing he could start the day over
and
end up the conqueror instead of the accused.
“Good
night, my love.” Ma’s voice was kind, but her eyes
betrayed
deep sadness. She looked so tired.
With
regret wedging between his ribs, Cal slipped out the
door
and sucked in the cooling air. The curious hen waddled
over
to his feet.
“I
don’t have food for you,” Cal said. “You’re supposed to
have
food for me. You look plump enough for a good meal.”
He
plucked the bird o the ground. Tying the rope around
the
hen’s neck, while trying not to think about breaking it,
he
tethered her to the far wall. His family depended on the
daily
egg, and he had no right to kill his mother’s hen. Last
year
he’d saved his spending money for months, foregoing
food
and a new tunic to buy that bird for Ma. That was a long
time
ago. A dierent Cal. A good one.
Cal
flung out his thin rug and spread it on the flat sand.
As
he lay on his back and looked at the bright stars, hungry
jaws
snapped in his gut. Sleep. Tomorrow there would be
porridge.
He wrapped his arms around his belly, trying to
squeeze
out the sharp demands. It failed. Rolling to his feet,
he
paced, debating the fate of the chicken.
Near
the house he heard their whispers.
The
window rug was pulled back to let in the night air.
The
hush of Ma and Grandpapi’s voices drifted through. Cal
crouched
below the window.
“Can’t
prevent it,” Grandpapi said.
Ma’s
sigh was heavy with despair. “It’s happening so
quickly.
I’m scared.”
Cal’s
ears strained as his mind scrambled over the words.
“It’s
time to go north,” Grandpapi said quietly.
Go
north? Cal had begged to leave Siccum for years. He
looked
forward to the caravan’s rare appearances, not just
for
the treats and trading, but to ask the travelers’ questions
about
the wider world. Each time he built hope they could
travel
north with the caravan; each time Ma flatly refused.
“We
can’t do this on our own anymore,” Grandpapi said.
“It’s
time to find the Lion.”
The
hairs on Cal’s arms rose at the weight of the
whispered
word, Lion. He risked a peek over the window
sill.
His
family huddled at the table.
“Oh,
Papi, I’d hoped we could have escaped it. Fifteen
years
in this forsaken sandpit and still …” her voice
dissolved.
She
hated it here too? The realization rocked Cal. She’d
always
been so cheerful. Annoyingly peppy. Fake.
Ma’s
head drooped in her hands as she sobbed. Her loose
hair
blanketed her arm, the golden hue so dierent from
Cal’s
dark brown. A trait he assumed he inherited from his
father.
He knew so little of the man.
Grandpapi’s
withered fingers rubbed Ma’s back with
tenderness.
“Don’t despair for things you can’t control. You
did
your best, my dear. But the boy is changing. His father’s
poisonous
blood is ripening.” Unfamiliar rancor hardened
Grandpapi’s
voice.
Cal
reeled, falling back on his heels. They were talking
about
him. His fingernails dug into the clay
wall, anchoring
him.
The rare times Ma spoke of his father, she painted him
a
hero. A hardworking fisherman who died in the silver
waters
of the Scorpion Sea, aptly named for the sting in its
waves.
She lied.
Outrage
spread through his skeleton. “I’m poisoned?”
Cal’s
sharp accusation blasted across the room.
Ma
and Grandpapi jerked their heads. Ma scrubbed at the
salty
streaks down her cheeks. “Cal. Honey. I thought you
were
asleep.”
Cal
vaulted through the window. Ma recoiled. His temper
cooled
at her fright. He perched on his chair and rested his
clasped
hands gently on the table. Slow breath. “What are we
escaping?
What’s happening too fast? What about my
father’s
blood? You talk like the Elders—like I’m cursed.”
Ma
cowered like the rats Cal trapped in his snares. He
counted
in his head to keep from lashing out with
impatience.
One. Two. Answer
me. Three. Four.
Ma
swallowed. “Your father did some terrible things.”
Grandpapi
didn’t refute it. He speared Cal with distrustful
eyes.
Cal’s
jaw dropped. “You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
Ma held his gaze, no longer quailing. “He’s dead.”
Her
voice was cold. Remorseless.
“You’re
glad.” His world shifted. He sucked in a dizzy
breath.
Ma
ignored the comment. “And so, I painted a new
picture
of him. I remade him into the honorable man I
wanted
you to become.”
And
he’d failed. He couldn’t hold Ma’s stare. Or answer
for
the things he’d done. He’d caused her tears and pain.
And
his father had been a bad man.
Apparently
brown hair and broad shoulders weren’t the
only
things he’d inherited from the stranger. And Ma and
Grandpapi
hated him for it.
Cal
stood. They didn’t move. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better.”
No
reassuring replies. No words of encouragement.
He
shued away. Forsaken silence followed him out the
door.
He crawled onto his mat. Questions bombarded. Who
was
his father really? What bad things had he done? Cal
wanted
the truth.
For
hours he lay sleepless, searching the starry sky. No
answers
appeared there. When the moon slipped behind a
lonely
wisp of cloud, he rose and crept into the quiet house.
As
if he were a shadow, he stalked into Ma’s bedroom. She
kept
her personal things in a tin box at the bottom of her
trunk.
He hesitated. He’d never dared invade her privacy
before.
It was wrong.
But,
she’d disrespected him first. She lied to him. He
undid
the latch. She rolled over in her sleep. He shifted some
cloth
and lifted out a small box. Creeping from the room, he
also
stole one of their precious candles before drifting
outside.
Sitting on his mat, he opened the box. An amber ring
glinted
in the low light. How much food could this have
bought
them? Pushing that unhappy thought aside, he took
out
a stack of papers. He skimmed dozens of letters from his
aunt
Elssa. Nothing of interest he didn’t already know.
Cousins
in Mitera. Gossip about strangers.
At
the bottom was a stier piece of parchment. Block
letters
blazed across the page. He held the candle flame
closer.
The bottom of the note and the signature were gone,
but
he gobbled up the remaining words.
DEAREST
MIRA,
I’LL
BEG YOU FOR THE LAST TIME. PLEASE COME HOME. I MISS
YOU
DESPERATELY. YOU’VE PROVED YOU WILL SACRIFICE
EVERYTHING
TO PROTECT YOUR SON. BUT YOU CAN’T PREVENT
HIM
FROM GROWING INTO A DRACO SANG. IT WILL HAPPEN—
EVEN
IN SICCUM.
Cal
rubbed his eyes. He squinted as he re-read the
shocking
words. What in the great skies?
YOU
CAN’T PRETEND AWAY OR OUTRUN THE DRAGON’S BLOOD,
MIRA—I
KNOW THIS. PLEASE FACE THE FACTS. PLEASE
LET ME
HELP
YOU. I CAN
HELP HIM.
I
FAILED TO PROTECT YOU ONCE. I CAN NEVER FORGIVE MYSELF
FOR
YOUR SUFFERING. I WILL NOT LET HARM COME TO YOU
AGAIN.
NO ONE WILL HURT YOU. I SWEAR IT ON EIO. COME
HOME.
WE WILL PROTECT YOU. I’VE DEVOTED—
The
paper was torn at the end of the line. Cal wheezed out
the
breath he’d been holding.
I
am Draco Sang.
Ma
had taught him a little about the Draco Sang. Warlike,
primitive,
and vile, they constantly fought amongst
themselves,
the weak becoming slaves to the powerful. Ma
had
said their leader, Queen Mavras, had risen to power
fourteen
years ago by killing the king, her brother.
Apparently,
that was a common tradition in their land. The
Draco
Sang lived in Skotar, the country just north of his
kingdom
of Elysium. The raging Rugit River separated their
worlds.
The
Draco Sang were the enemy.
CHAPTER
T W O - C U R S E D
CAL
Cal
stared at the paper; all inklings of fatigue blasted
away
by the words. He looked up at the stars, chest
tight
with anxiety as he remembered the common tale of the
cursed
Draco Sang.
Long
ago, there lived a prince. Nogard, the second son by
a
year and a day, wanted to be king. He killed his father and
moved
to end his brother, but the crown prince, Enosh,
discovered
the plot. Soft-hearted Enosh could not bring the
sword
of justice down on his brother. Instead, he banished
Nogard
from the Kingdom of Skotar.
Nogard
climbed the icy mountains where only beasts dare
go.
In the cave of a hibernating bear, he found his salvation.
Nourished
by the blood of the beast, he swore his revenge on
Skotar.
Wearing the bear’s fur as his own, Nogard returned
when
summer kissed the kingdom. His brother’s wife, Queen
Ima,
picnicked in the sun with her ladies. Only one man
guarded
the group. And he stood on the southern edge—a
fool.
Nogard took pleasure in killing the guard. And the
women.
Until only Queen Ima remained. She was beauty and
grace.
Lust ripened within him. She fought, but his soul had
turned
cold. When he’d finished with her, he held his spear
above
her heart. A fragment of her brightness struck him,
and
he could not kill her. “Tell my brother hello,” he said
with
a voice harsh from disuse. He left Ima bleeding on the
summer
grass.
Enosh
sent his soldiers to hunt his brother, but they did
not
return.
Inside
the queen, a baby grew.
High
in the mountains, through icy winters and frozen
summers,
Nogard’s heart turned to stone, and his skin
scaled
over as he transformed into The Black Dragon. When
his
leathery wings were strong enough, Nogard took to the
sky.
He descended on Skotar, tearing apart the castle with
talons
and teeth until he found his dear brother and the
queen.
Nogard held them in his arms, high in the sky, where
they
could watch the destruction as he burned to the ground
the
kingdom that was his greatest desire. Only a few farmers
in
the fields survived.
Nogard
set Enosh, Ima, and the small son in her arms
down
among the ashes. To suer life without their precious
castle
and kingdom—Nogard’s worst punishment. Little did
he
know the true punishment he’d given. The curse he’d
created.
That
little boy grew.
He
grew into a dragon, too.
And
if you follow Nogard down paths of hatred and greed,
then,
little child, you will become a monster, too.
People
always included that last line when telling the
story.
It didn’t feel so ridiculous now, not when Cal felt mean
and
angry inside. But, he didn’t believe in any cursing. The
Draco
Sang were no more monsters
than he was.
Blood
thrashing, Cal tore through Ma’s box for the rest of
the
letter, but it was fruitless. He slumped as he reread the
short
passage that changed everything. Who had written
this?
Who knew his father? Who knew about him?
Fingers
trembling, he carefully replaced Ma’s things and
tiptoed
the box back to her trunk. He wanted to scream at
her,
but he bit down on his tongue and swallowed coppery
blood
instead. Sleep veiled Ma with youth and peace. The
worry
lines around her eyes had disappeared.
The
letter had said, “You’ve
proved you will sacrifice
everything
to protect your son.”
Despite
her lies, she was his whole world. He loved her
with
all his wild heart. His frustration softened, but still he
wondered
what she was protecting him from. The same
thing
that had hurt her? He slipped out, replacing the candle
and
returning to his sleeping mat.
Stars
rained down. He rubbed the water out of his eyes,
and
the lights reaxed in the sky. Devastation mixed with
fatigue.
He was a Draco Sang pup. The enemy. And his
mother
had kept it from him—and his grandpapi hated him
for
it. Why?
Groggy
and grumpy, Cal woke to a jaundiced sky. Last
night’s
words replayed in his mind. Not the words about his
failure.
No. He buried that guilt. He thought of Ma and
Grandpapi’s
covert conversation about him. He thought of
the
letter. He was Draco Sang.
Whatever
that meant.
The
hen across the yard pecked at the barren ground. A
brown
egg shone from her pile of straw. He marched to the
spot,
picked up the egg, and cracked it into his mouth. Slimy
warmth
slipped down his throat, washing over his hunger.
He
cocked his arm and hurled the shell over the wall. He
peed
in the fresh hole he’d dug behind the house. Ma’s
shuing
feet and the clang of her breakfast pan called him
inside.
“Good
morning, son.” With a smile, she passed him a
handful
of kernels and scraps. He didn’t smile back. “Please
take
these to the chicken and bring me the egg.”
“There
wasn’t one. I already looked.”
Ma
frowned. “All right. Well. I guess we’ll do without. I’m
sorry,
dear.”
As
Cal fed the chicken, remorse failed to hack its way
through
the ice forming on his heart, ice that Cal hardly
noticed.
Back inside, he sat at the table. Ma fiddled with the
small
oil burner. She established a flame and set a metal
plate
over the top.
“Cakes
today?” Cal asked, delighted.
“I
thought we’d do something special. They’d be better
with
an egg.”
He
wasn’t sorry. She’d lied to him.
“But
I’ll mix in some porridge, and they’ll be just fine.
I’ve
even got three oranges left. We can put one on top.”
“I
thought we were saving those for Drosday fest.”
A
shadow passed over her face, and she paused her
mixing
of the dense batter. “We’re not. Please go wake your
grandpapi
for breakfast.”
Patience
fraying and questions buzzing in his mouth, Cal
clamped
down his retort and obeyed. He pulled back the
sheet
that hung in the doorway to Grandpapi’s small room.
Yellow
light streamed onto the old man.
“Up,
up. The Siccum sun awaits.”
“The
Siccum sun waits for no one.” Grandpapi’s eyes
stayed
closed.
“Ma’s
making cakes.”
“I’m
up.” He lifted his head and unsuccessfully tried to
sit.
Cal
chuckled. He moved to the bed and hauled the elderly
man
to his feet.
“Not
so fast.” Grandpapi wobbled. He tugged on his thin
tunic.
Cal clamped down on his impatience with the old man
as
Grandpapi shued out of the bedroom and through the
kitchen.
“Morning, daughter,” he said on his way outside to
visit
the hole.
Cal
sat in one of their three chairs, thinking about the
long
miserable day ahead at the mines. And then he had a
tribunal
to dread. Ma dropped the first cake onto the hot
plate.
It sizzled and pued in a drop of melted lard. She
arranged
orange segments overtop before setting it in front
of
Cal.
“Grandpapi
first.” He said it to show that he could be a
good
son. Fool, said the voice deep inside.
“Thank
you, Callidon,” Grandpapi said as he walked in
and
sat. He shoveled an enormous bite into his mouth.
After
an eternal minute, Cal’s was ready. Orange juice
soaked
the grainy cake, sweetened with flecks of date. There
was
nowhere near enough. Never enough. He licked his plate
clean.
“What’s the occasion?”
Ma
and Grandpapi shared a pointed look.
“We’re
leaving Siccum,” Ma said. “We’re going north.”
A
smile burst across Cal’s face. The north had tugged at
him,
silently summoned him, every day of his life. And now
he
was finally going to follow the call of adventure.
“We’re
leaving,” Ma said. “Tomorrow.”
He
blinked in surprise. “Cross the desert alone? Why not
wait
for the next caravan?”
“I
think it’s worth the risk.”
“Why?”
She
chewed on her lip. “You’re changing. You need help
controlling
your emerging desire for power and dominance.”
Cal
balked, exposed and embarrassed. She’d cut through
his
shields and seen straight to his heart.
“There’s
a man I’d like you to meet. Titus. It would be
good
for you to learn from him. He can teach you discipline
and
control.” Ma stacked empty plates. “You used to speak
about
being a soldier—”
“And
you always said no.” They’d discouraged his dream
of
fighting, his interest in war and strategy. He’d learned all
he
could about battle, but Siccum had little to oer in that
department.
“Well,
I’m saying yes now.”
“Why?”
And why hadn’t she told him his father was a
Draco
Sang?
“Because
I see you have talents. Ones that are wasted
mining
the sand.”
“What
talents?”
Ma’s
mouth opened, but no words came.
Grandpapi
watched Cal. His fingers drummed the table,
and
Cal clamped his hand down on the annoying beat.
Grandpapi
jolted back, pulling his hand to his chest as if Cal
had
burned him.
Cal’s
brow creased as he looked from Grandpapi to Ma.
What
else were they not telling him?
“After
today at the mines.” Ma’s voice was an anxious
rush.
“Close out your wages and inform the chief. I’ll settle
matters
around town. I’ll see what I can get for the house
and
gather supplies. We’ll leave tomorrow at dawn.” Ma’s
amber
eyes locked on Cal. “It’s a long, hard trek out of the
desert.
You will have to pull Grandpapi and everything else.”
“I
can do it.”
“I
know you can. Never forget that you are strong enough.
Good
enough.”
Cal
wasn’t so sure. An unfamiliar wild simmered beneath
his
skin.
“It’s
going to be a hard road ahead.” Her voice caught as
she
spoke, as though she wasn’t talking about the journey
across
the desert, but one far more serious—and dicult.
All
roads in Siccum led to Siccum. Where would this new
path
lead? What kind of welcome would he receive in the
north?
Could he find his place with the Draco Sang? He
anticipated
the journey with eagerness. May it lead him
home.
CHAPTER
T H R E E - C R O K A T O R
CAL
At
the mines, hunched-over figures searched for
precious
flecks in the endless sand. Cal hardly
noticed
the sun beating through his thin robes. People he’d
lived
with, played with, worked with all his life, silently
turned
on him. They glared their disapproval. News traveled
fast.
Opinions changed faster. He ignored their pointed looks.
His
fingers panned the sand without it registering with his
brain.
When
the pit chief berated him for messing up the line—
he
hadn’t—Cal thought solely of going north, of leaving
Siccum
and finding his people.
At
the close of the shift, Cal approached his chief.
“Today’s
my last day.”
The
man grunted. “I was surprised when they told me
what
you did. Thought I heard the name wrong. I hate being
wrong.
Almost as much as I hate to lose a good miner. You
fooled
me. Just shows, you don’t truly know any man’s
heart.”
Cal
clenched his jaw, biting back the violence awaking at
the
chief’s words—even if they were true. “Please, can you
pay
my last wages now? I’m leaving at dawn.”
The
chief turned a leathered face to Cal and lifted an
eyebrow.
“Tomorrow? Where would you go?”
“North.”
He
snorted. “Oh, really? So you’re not going to throw
yourself
into the sea?”
Cal
wanted to send him to the waves. “Can I get my
wages,
please?”
“No.
You can’t. It’s not payday. And do I look like I carry
around
coin?”
Cal
choked back his rising temper. “Where can I go?”
“The
account chief comes on payday. How long have you
worked
here?”
Cal’s
fingers curled into fists. “I can’t wait until next
week.
Can you please help me?”
“You
think you can cross the desert on your own? Without
a
caravan? You’ll die halfway across, especially with that old
man.
It would be a waste of good coin anyway.”
Cal’s
fist shot forward, connecting with the chief’s jaw
with
a satisfying crunch. The man staggered back, clutching
his
face. His eyes bulged. Surrounding miners stared in
shock.
Cal bolted.
Panting
and overheated by the time he got home, he
slammed
the gate. A handcart sat in the yard. Grandpapi
rocked
in a chair, and Ma bustled about, humming while she
packed.
“Last
day as a miner,” Grandpapi said.
“Congratulations.”
“They
refused to pay me because it isn’t wages day.”
Ma
popped her head out of the house. “That isn’t right.”
“That’s
what I thought.” Cal paused. “I might have
punched
the chief to let him know.”
“That
isn’t right, either.”
“They
robbed me.”
“Cal.”
Ma’s voice sharpened.
“I’m
sorry. But he deserved it for cheating me.” Cal had
to
smash that smirk o the man’s face.
Grandpapi
shook his head.
Ma
sighed. “I guess we’d better leave now. I’d convinced
the
Elders to let us go without further punishment if we
never
return, but we can’t aord to stay here tonight and
give
the angry chief time to plan his retribution.” Frustration
flashed
over her face.
Regret
pressed down on Cal. “I’m sorry.”
She
looked away, jerking at the twine she was tying
around
a blanket. “I’m almost done packing. We got a decent
price
for the house, at least. We’ll need the money when we
get
past the sand.”
When
their belongings were settled in the cart, Cal lifted
Grandpapi
on top, tucking a blanket around his legs. Ma set
the
chicken in her father’s hands.
“Oh,
bother,” Grandpapi said as it clucked and flapped.
That
sound was going to get annoying fast. “Can’t we just
eat
it and be done with it?” Cal asked.
“We
might have to,” Ma said. “I hope it doesn’t come to
that.”
Cal
took his place at the front of the handcart, where two
pieces
of wood jutted out on either side. A third piece cut
across
the front, forming a rectangle frame around him. He
put
his hands on the front bar and pushed. Slowly, the cart
moved
through the sand. Ma closed the gate, and together
they
left the only home Cal had ever known.
A
smattering of people watched in hostile puzzlement.
Leaving
Siccum was as rare as rain. Siccum was a tribe of
close-knit
families who’d lived here for centuries. Ma and
Grandpapi
had transplanted from the north fifteen years
ago,
and they’d struggled to set deep roots. Their pale skin
and
sharp accents set them apart, but now Cal wondered if
there
was more to their shunning than that.
They
followed the river north, and Siccum disappeared
from
all but memory. Dusk fell. They stopped at the water’s
edge,
and Grandpapi stretched his legs as they filled their
canteens.
Ma passed out bananas and cheese, both rare
luxuries.
Cal savored every bite, thinking that life was
getting
better and better.
“I
know you’ve already spent a long day at the mines,”
Ma
said. “But we need to keep moving. The farther from the
village,
the better chance of going unnoticed by night
prowlers.”
Cal’s
excitement cooled. There would be no wall to hide
behind
tonight. He touched the hunting knife that hung on
his
rope belt.
“If
we keep a good pace,” Ma said. “We should get to
Branmar
in seven nights.”
Cal
loaded Grandpapi back into the cart and started
pulling.
Stars sprinkled the sky, and the waxing moon guided
them.
Ma set the pace, and Cal trudged behind, determined
to
keep up. Left foot. Right. Left. Right. Eyelids drooped.
Desert
faded as his focus wavered.
As
if through fog, the dreaded click of the crokator found
Cal.
Alarms rang through his nerves.
“Cal.”
Ma’s whisper startled him with her closeness. “It
might
not know we’re here. I’ll push from behind, and let’s
try
to outrun it.”
What
a waste of energy. Of course it had found them. With
a
jolt of adrenaline, he jogged. The clicks got louder. It came
from
behind. Where his ma was.
“Get
in the cart, Ma.” His voice came in hus.
“Shh.”
“Get
in the cart!” His shout rolled over the dunes.
“It
will slow us down too much.”
The
hissing accelerated.
“Get
in, or I’ll stop and throw you in.” A fierce need to
protect
her drove down his spine. Nothing would happen to
her.
The threat sharpened his mind and honed his senses.
The
cart lagged as Ma’s weight landed. Wheels groaned,
and
so did Grandpapi. Cal’s body ached, and his lungs
burned.
He whirled the cart so it faced backward. The beast
had
to kill him to get to his family. He ducked out of the
frame,
pulling his knife free.
The
hissing stopped.
If
the moonlight hadn’t cast a gleam on its eyes, he
wouldn’t
have seen the slithering creature in the darkness.
The
shadow attacked. Large as the handcart, it reared its
long
neck and drove poisonous fangs at Cal’s chest. He
swung,
knocking the creature o-course. The sharp scales
on
its face cut his hand as it struck again. He caught a fang
on
the edge of his knife. Venom slicked his blade. With a
grunt,
he heaved the beast back.
“Tail,”
Ma shouted.
Cal
jumped, staggering against the cart as a barbed tail
whipped
in front of his nose. Frantic, he grabbed the chicken.
The
gaping mouth dove at him. He thrust the bird between
razor
teeth as he sliced at the crokator’s short front leg. His
knife
barely penetrated the scaled skin.
With
the chicken in its mouth, the animal retreated into
darkness.
A part of Cal wanted to hunt it down and kill it, but
the
other part, the part that settled deeply in his chest, the
part
that had instructed him in this fight, told him to run.
Heart
pounding, bleeding hand on fire, Cal scrambled into
the
front frame of the cart and turned it north. He ran. He
ran
and he ran. Fear chased him even when the crokator did
not.
What
are your top 10 favorite books/authors?
Leigh
Bardugo, Robin McKinley, Naomi Novik, Sarah Maas, JK Rowling, Madeline Miller,
Ken Follett, VE Schwab, Brent Weeks, Jane Austen, Brandon Sanderson…. I must
stop, but it is so hard. There are so many great authors out there!
What
is your writing process?
Every book has been a little different, just like humans, I
think each of my books comes with a personality and unique challenges.
Dragon Blood is a trilogy, and I did more outlining on that
project than any other because I needed to be very organized to plan three
books ahead. But with Betting on Love that’s coming out in 2021, I saw in my
mind a scene from it and just went with it with very few notes. With the book,
To Unite a Realm, I saw an idea I wanted to explore. I wondered what it would
be like to marry someone you hated and what kind of pressure would a person
need to be under to accept that kind of marriage.
I have another manuscript that I’m working on that is an
adult fantasy, and it’s the hardest draft I’ve ever worked on. This story is
big and important and it’s really testing my patience and commitment and
creativity. I’ve left it and come back to it three or four times now and I’m
still not done with the first draft, but I think in the end it will be that
much better for the work and effort.
Usually I like to buzz through the entire first draft start
to finish within about three months. I live and breathe and sleep the story,
and it’s so much easier for me to stay deep in it than to come in and out and
try to keep finding the voice and narrative. Now that I have deadlines and
edits due, it’s harder for me to carve out exclusive time to one book, but I’m
learning and adjusting.
I will say that with each manuscript, I’ve had to see where
I was going before I felt comfortable starting. I don’t usually have a
full-fledged outline, but I know several important plot points I’m aiming for
and that helps the draft flow. I usually have a notebook full of ideas and have
spent months just thinking about the characters and the scenes before I ever
start on the first draft.
Do the characters all come to you at the same time or do
some of them come to you as you write?
I have to spend a good bit of time with my main characters
walking around my head before I start writing, but they are far from fully
formed until after I start writing and truly seeing them act and come to life.
Secondary characters get even less prewriting meditation time so it’s a lot of
learning who my characters are as I write and they start to do this. It’s
especially exciting when they start to do things on their own and unexpected
and interesting things happen.
Do
you see writing as a career?
YES!
Do
you read yourself and if so what is your favorite genre?
I read as much as I can. I think it is one of the best ways
to improve craft and creativity. I read all the genres—except horror and
erotica. My favorites are fantasy and historical fiction, but I love so much
that it was hard for me to even narrow it down to those two.
Do
you prefer to write in silence or with noise? Why?
Silence. Sometimes if I am really all over the place, I’ll
put on some classical music to pull myself together, but I just like to really
focus in silence. I very difficult for me to draft when my husband or kids are
home making noise.
Do
you write one book at a time or do you have several going at a time?
If you could have been the author of any book ever written,
which book would you choose? Harry Potter. Lol. Is there any other answer to
that? But I also thought of the Nightingale by Kristin Hannah.
How
long on average does it take you to write a book?
That’s a
range as wide as 5 months to 5 years.
Thank you so much for sharing! Mary Beesley
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