The others started moving back down the mountain. Only the craftsman remained. He had pulled to a stop a hundred paces from Camilla and dropped to his knees, catching his breath. When he raised his head, it was to watch the path behind himself as if making sure the others turned back, and it was not one of their tricks. He carried a rolled blanket similar to her own, a piece of rope over his shoulder, each end tied to the end of the blanket.
The boy in yellow seemed to have shared enemies with her. She had watched him often enough around the village but never spoken to him. However, common enemies can make good friends. Perhaps she should step into the open and say hello. Perhaps offer her help and support.
How do you ever know the manner a stranger will greet you? Will he smile and shake her hand, or will he scowl and kick her rump? Camilla stayed hidden behind the sagebrush, and as always, thinking before acting. The boy on the path now breathed somewhat evenly and stood on shaky legs. He climbed to the top of a nearby boulder where he could better see down the mountainside where he came from. Camilla realized the boy could have just as easily climbed to the rocks above her perch, and then what would she have said? Sorry, my name’s Camilla. I was just watching you run from your enemies like a scared rabbit?
Camilla could have smiled at her thoughts, but the events she’d witnessed were still a puzzle she needed to resolve. For now, she knew of the presence of the other boy, but the reverse was not true. If looked at in one way, she held the upper hand, and that was always good. ‘Knowledge is worth more than gold,' her father had said.
My father said that? Where had that thought come from? She barely remembered the man, let alone what he used to say. But there was a remembered friendly timber in his voice, and an odd accent, words pronounced slightly different from those around Nettleton. Different, but understandable. And a smell of smoke and sweat lingered about him that was comforting to remember. Camilla tried again to form an image of her mother in her mind and couldn’t. Instead, there were other things. Softness. And warmth. And laughter. But no mental picture of what she looked like.
Did she share the same dark hair as Camilla? Was she pretty, or slim and tall? Nothing came to mind.
But other children were floating around in her dim memory, all unnamed and older than her, but sharing her almost black hair. They bickered and fought, always taking her food and sweets in their teasing, then returning them with laughter. Warmth and smiles. A good life. Then one day came screams cold enough to freeze winter hawks. Cold and fire, as their wagon burned amid the snow and shouts of unknown men. She had gone to the edge of the trees to pee. An arrow had landed at her feet, only the last of the fletching remaining above ground. Horses carried shouting men and whirling swords flashed. They raced rampant in their campsite. More screams sounded. Then none.
Camilla remembered glimpses from the underbrush near an oak tree where she ran and hid. The horses were fine animals, their saddles polished and the men riding them wore matching uniforms. Blue and red. One soldier used a sword to cut one of her older brothers nearly in half as he tried running away. Then Camilla turned and ran. She ran into the forest as far and as fast as she could.
Her attention returned to the craftsman boy standing on the path. He stood still and watched down the mountain as if undecided what to do. The path led down to the trees beside the road. The three who were chasing him had gone down there, probably to join the other two that completed their pack of angry students. They couldn’t be seen in the trees.
The craftsman’s eyes moved down the side of the mountain and paused. Even if he didn’t follow the path, and if the boys were watching him from concealment in the trees, they could see him. They could move to intercept him wherever he emerged on the road. Camilla decided the boy would probably wait until dark before going down. That was the smart way.
It was easy to see the young craftsman’s intentions and follow his train of thought. Camilla watched him come to the same conclusions as if she could read his mind. The boy looked a year or two older, and he was slightly larger than Camilla, but not as big as the trainees at the academy. The academy accepted boys around twelve or thirteen, and they departed for duty a few years later. Camilla knew the sizes when they arrived and when they left. She also knew to avoid them, no matter their size. This was not the first pack to give her problems. Two summers ago, there had been another. They beat her once, but she escaped and avoided their attention until one fine spring day they rode off on horses together, under the command of an adult dressed in a blue and red uniform. The color of uniforms that set her heart beating in fear as she remembered her family and the same uniforms.
As she watched, a sensation of tiny crawling things tickled her back. Before looking at the sky, she knew a red dragon would be up there. She spotted it immediately and allowed the tingles and tickles to flow over her back like butterflies touching their wings to her back from neck to bottom.
She watched and thought back to when she had painfully twisted her ankle a year ago. And last winter when she fell after tripping on loose rocks on the side of her mountain and struck her knee so hard she couldn’t stand for days.
Both times a red dragon had flown overhead and circled above her. Looking up had made her think it watched over her. When the pain went away so did the dragon. She knew it was just a silly daydream of a girl without much to dream about.
The red dragon flew high and fast as if it had a place to be in a hurry. Dragons were not exactly rare, but they were not seen every day. When one did fly over, people paused in their endeavors and watched the majestic and dangerous beasts in fascination. Most found it almost impossible not to look.
Camilla was even more impelled to watch, no matter the color. But red ones were the best. Always.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sheriff sank to a knee and bowed with eyes lowered until King Ember ordered him to rise. It seemed the King kept him longer in the genuflected pose than normal, and the eyes of those at court this morning held a glint of amusement at his discomfort. Two female consorts of the King openly grinned. He smiled at them in return, as he memorized their faces for future retribution.
“Sire, I bring news of a boy of the Dragon Clan.”
The King had long ago outlived his usefulness in most opinions, as well as exceeding a normal lifespan. His major tasks now resolved around which of the court healers held the latest medical wonder cures to treat his illnesses and keep him alive another week or month. Yet, he held on. The King’s demeanor remained calm, but his voice trembled in the manner of old men, “Where?”
“A journey of five days, perhaps less on the King’s Road to the west.”
“Is this sighting verified?” The voice of the King was sharper and the eyes steady.
The sheriff had anticipated no less a grilling. “I have already dispatched a trusted member of my staff to verify the sighting and send word to me by messenger on a fast horse. I am reporting to you in person because of your great interest in these matters.”
“You said that you can trust this fellow you sent?”
A glance to his left found the Earl of Witten whispering into the ear of a pretty maiden, not his wife. He said, “He is one of my best, most trusted men, appointed to serve me only last year by yourself, your highness. Edward, the son of the Earl of Witten.”