Drifters: Chrysanthemums

CHAPTER 1

***

Dragon lairs were not how one would usually imagine them. Some were shallow caves dug in raw stone and carved by claws and fangs, but that was not for true dragons. That was for youths and adolescents, little beasts who were still finding their way in the world and lived by catching the crumbs fallen by the jaws of dragons greater than them. True dragons had the gold to pay for their lairs to be built for them: huge castles and golden palaces, impenetrable fortresses and floating buildings in the sky nobody could see nor hear, endless caravans that traveled through cities and deserts bringing gifts and marvels in exchange of worship and adoration. And then there were the weird ones, the ones who did not care to have a lair at all. They did not mean to be worshipped and did not mean to be adored. They wanted to travel: for what reason, only they knew. The legends said they brought bad luck to the places they visited, so the other races avoided them. Even the other dragons were wary of them, because they were considered weird at best and insane at worst. The wyrm races called them ‘Askugama’, which means ‘they who do not rest’. Other races called them Drifters.

***

They found the child’s body impaled on the branches of a devil tree one cold black winter morning under a full moon and the sight of him made half of Ribia throw up while the other half cried. Whatever had gotten him had opened him from the front and eaten all the guts and the organs and the muscle they could find, torn him apart so much the limbs were resting at the feet of the tree like ripe fruits, but it had left enough of the head to tell it was the youngest of the Wyllorn brothers. His mother had died of the flu years before, so she was not there to see it, but his father was and when he saw what was left of the boy he sat down in the snow and took his head in his hands and that was it. He didn’t scream or cry or sob, he just curved on himself and gave up. His other sons carried him in their house while the rest of the men tried to pull the corpse down with ropes, but every time they managed to get a hold to a bone or a piece of hanging guts all they managed to do was pull it off. In the end they got ahold of the vertebrae immediately below the neck and pulled. The head fell in the snow with a wet thud, and the one eye the corpse had left rolled out of its orbit and got lost amid the white. They called Old Ben. He was seventy and half-way to senility, but he’d taken military service and was the only one there who had seen a body who had not been killed by frost or bear. He arrived with a bottle of beer in his hand, then he gave one look at the little bloody head laying on the snow. “Well, fuck me sideways” he said, “they ate the little sucker like a fucking shrimp,” and then laughed all the way back to his shack.

There was nothing else they could do, so they put together what pieces they managed to gather in a sack and brought them to the church. When they opened it in front of the parish he made a disgusted face and gave him the blessing, but only after asking they close the sack first. In the end the boy’s brothers carried the corpse behind the church, dug a hole in the ground and threw the sack in it. A few days later they got their stuff and their still catatonic father in their cart and left town in the night without saying a word. Nobody protested. Nobody was saddened. They said that if whatever had butchered the Wyllorn boy had chosen him there had to be a reason. With the rest of the family gone, the danger would pass.

The next full moon, they found two more bodies. This time they were adults, and all that was left of them was the skin.

I

It was the time camelias started to die out. Kyril knew them and he knew that they resisted well the cold and that if they were starting to die too then it was a rough winter they had in front of them. One night he had nothing better to do so he walked outside of the temple and watched the patch of pink flowers grow weaker and weaker as the night went on and by the morning they seemed almost ready to fall before the first rays of the sun poked their way through the clouds and fell of them as if the heavens themselves did not want them to die, but some did. Some just did not have the strength to raise once more. Some recovered a little, but not by much, and the next night the cycle started all over again. Every time less flowers went back up and he wondered how long it would be before none could stand it anymore, and they all just stayed on the ground where they would remain. One morning he woke up from a troubled sleep and went outside of the temple in time to see a woman get close to the patch and cut the last flower with a sickle, put it in a pack and then walk away. She did not see him. He watched her walk away with a pain in his chest he couldn’t explain and then went back inside to sleep again. He slept a lot lately. Unless he escort şişli had to train or study or rip the lungs out of the few manticores that had the guts to venture in the forest that surrounded the temple, he slept. He didn’t know why. He felt like doing nothing and doing nothing he did. Feiras was supposed to scold him for that, but she did not. She trained him and made him read the ancient tomes of history and science and mathematics and then she slept too, her beak tucked under her left wing while balancing herself on the right leg, and he looked at her and laughed because for all the might and magnificence of a phoenix she looked like a crane. They all felt sleepy and they all felt tired and it was not the winter, it was not the winter at all.

One night he stayed awake from dusk until down, for no reason other than the fact he had slept too much through the day. Feiras did not sleep either: he could tell from the sounds and the whispers coming from her chambers. Whether she was meditating or praying, he couldn’t tell. The next morning she came to him and didn’t even greet him. He jumped on his feet and waited for her to speak.

“Did you sleep tonight?” she said.

“No,” he said.

“You should have.”

“Why?”

“Winter has come,” she said. “The day of your rite of passage comes closer and closer.”

“You still haven’t told me what this ‘rite of passage’ is.”

“You’re not supposed to, know ” she said. “Only dragons who already passed it do, which means only the adults of the clan, and they do not reveal it to the young no matter what.”

“You’re no dragon.”

“I’m a phoenix,” she said. “I know enough about your kind to act like one.” She unfolded her wings and stood up. “I’m leaving. I’ll gift some of my feathers to Gillipsia. The winter will be bad this year.” She stopped dead in her tracks, as if in deep thoughts. She lowered her head and closed her eyes shut. “We will need chrysanthemums,” she said. then she opened her eyes, brushed her feathers against his arm and left the temple.

Kyril remained where he was, now awake and aware of the darkness around him and the nothingness it contained. The old hag could sometimes say strange things, but she usually did not speak in riddles. Hours passed until it was clear she wouldn’t be back anytime soon, so he spent his time how he usually spent it when Feiras wasn’t there: lazily training, pretending to read, dozing off in the pound until the feeling of water on his scales stopped being soothing and started being annoying. When nothing else could distract him from the boredom anymore he climbed out of the subterranean temple and walked through the frozen woods to see which plant what animal was dead and what wasn’t, what plant had succumbed to the cold and what had resisted. He kept on like this until it came to him he hadn’t seen the old mountain troll in a long time, and so there he went.

The troll was awake when he found him. He was cooking a skewered boar on a bonfire, a hand on his cheek to sustain his massive head and another to roll the stick so the hog wouldn’t be burned. He had a pipe in his mouth. When he saw Kyril his eyes widened and a smirk broke his rocky skin. “Kyril,” he said. “It’s good to see you. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be training with the old birdie?”

“Rully,” he greeted him, lowering his head. “I suppose I should, but the queen’s not here today, so I’m doing whatever I want. Killing time, I suppose.”

“That’s good, that’s good. Killing time is good.” He rolled the hog on the least cooked part. “Killing time is good.. Killing things is good. You know I killed a giant yesterday?”

“Truly. And how did you do that?”

“Broke his knees, of course. Then broke his head.” He grabbed the huge, knobby club next to him and swung it around. “You should’ve seen it, what a mess it was. Blood and gore everywhere, like the battles from the old times.” He pointed the club at him. “By the way, how long have we known each other?”

“I’m not sure. You know time is hard for dragons. I’d say twenty winters or so.”

“Twenty winters,” he said, stupefied. “Twenty winters is a lot. You should be dead by now.” He laughed. “Your skull would also make a great decoration for my cave. Yes, yes, great decoration.”

“You’d have to be careful where you hit me,” Kyril said. “If you break my skull, no more decoration.”

“Oh, I know. I’d simply cave in your chest.”

“You’re free to try if you want to.”

The troll gave a yell of triumph. He grabbed the club with both hands, the boar forgotten, and stood up. He was about seventeen feet tall and towered over him by four. He swung the club on the right and then on the left as if to calibrate the strength of the blow. “Alright, here it comes, Kyril. It was nice to know you. “

Rully swung the club over his head and hit him in the chest. The club broke and splintered in a million pieces as if made escort mecidiyeköy of rotten wood. The blowback hit Rully harder than the mace had hit Kyril and the troll fell on his ass with a howl of pain. Kyril remained where he was, his head tilted to the left and his eyebrows raised. “Are you alright?” he said.

“Gods be damned,” Rully said. “Gods be damned. My club is gone.”

“Be glad your wrist did not break along with it this time.”

“What do you mean ‘this time?” This is the first time we fight.”

“Never mind.”

“Never mind my ass,” Rully said as he stood back up. “You know what, I don’t need my mace,” he said, and laughed. “I can just choke you out with my hands.

“No, you can’t.”

“What do you – “

He did not end the sentence. Kyril throw himself at him at the speed of sound, so fast the eyes of the troll couldn’t follow his movements. His skull crushed against his chest and every bone in the troll’s torso shattered like old glass. Both the troll’s arms dislocated from the force of the blow and as he fell down his back cracked. The troll screamed again, his eyes wide and pupils reduced to slits as the pain almost made him pass out. He started trashing on the ground though every movement brought more pain. Kyril walked around him and reached his head. He looked at him in the eyes.

“Everything fine?” he asked.

“You cursed lizard!” Rully yelled. “You turned me into a cripple!”

Kyril sighed. “Not the first time I do it. Listen, once Feiras comes back she’ll heal you. When you’re better I I’ll let you try to kill me again. You must promise you won’t try to hurt anybody else though.”

Rully calmed immediately. “Oh, shit. Can I try again? Truly?”

“Sure. Just stay here and don’t cause problems to the city folk.”

“That’s fair. When will Feiras be back?”

“I don’t now. Evening, I suppose. You want me to keep you company?”

“Oh no, thank you,” said Rully. “Though we’re friends, my defeat by your hands shames me. I’d like to scream my frustrations without having you around to hear me. I wouldn’t want to offend.

“As you wish,” Kyril said. He turned back to return to the temple, and as he did so Rully started to scream a long list of swears and insults, mostly directed to Kyril, his mother and the entire dragon race. Kyril flew down the mountain, took a bath in a pond in the near woods and went back to the temple. He could still hear Rully screaming, but it had started to rain and he couldn’t hear what he said anymore. He shook his head and went back to sleep.

Feiras came back at dusk with less feathers than she should have had and a bunch of chrysanthemums in her beak. Water could not touch her, it evaporated the moment it brushed her feathers, but she was disheveled and her expression was cold as stone. He was awake when she returned, but she said nothing so neither did he. She put the chrysanthemums in a vase in the corner of the room and sat in that weird way birds usually sit. For a long time none of them said something, then she turned toward him. “What have you done today?”

“Trained a bit,” he said. “Read some books. Hadn’t seen Rully in a while, so I gave him a visit.”

“I know. You broke his spine.”

“Didn’t mean to.”

“Liar,” she said. Another moment of silence passed. “He’s fine now. Says next time he sees you he’ll offer you a roast and then rip your balls off.”

“As long as he stays away from the peasants and the townsfolk, he can say whatever he wants.”

“You should have killed him,” she said. “He’s too dangerous to be left alive.”

Kyril barked a laugh.

“What?” she said.

“If you think he’s so dangerous, why not kill him yourself?”

She didn’t answer.

“Are you hungry?” he said. “I can go hunting if want.”

She glared at him in silence for an instant, then sighed. “Yes. I would appreciate it.”

So he went. He wasn’t very hungry and Feiras never ate a lot, so he decided one manticore would do the job. He chose the biggest one and killed it in one blow, a precise cut on the back of the neck that dropped the beast dead where it stood. The others ran away screaming as he loaded the carcass on his shoulders, then he spread his wings and flew back to the temple. “Thank you,” Feiras said as he dropped the animal in front of her, and they ate together under the thaumaturgic lights of the temple lanterns as the rain fell outside. They spoke of the weather and the sudden cold that had arrived in those days and the visit of the son of The Soltarian Empire’s emperor touring Gillipsia for a day. Once they were done eating she asked him to tell her what books he had read during the day and why, and he did his best to remember titles and words and concept he’d already forgotten and had never cared about in the first place. They spoke for a long time, much longer than usual, and Kyril had the feeling she wasn’t interested in what escort taksim the books were about. She just wanted to stay with him.

It was almost midnight when Feiras looked outside the window and saw the moon and the stars shining tall above them and then sighed. “It’s late,” she said. “We should go to sleep. Tomorrow we’ll have to wake up soon.”

“Why?”

“Don’t question me,” she reprimanded, but there was no sharpness in her voice. “Just go to sleep. I’ll come wake you up himself.” She made to go to her chambers, but instead she stopped mid-step and turned toward him. “Goodnight,” she said, and then she flew away before he could say goodnight back.

Hours later Kyril woke with pain in his chest and his body on fire. His senses warned him of an imminent threat, but when he looked around his chamber in search of an intruder and checked the library and the main corridor he found nobody. He thought it a nightmare and turned back to return to his room but as he did so he passed in front of Feiras’ chambers and heard sobs coming from inside. The door was slightly open, so he pressed his hand against the wood and pushed it open.

Feiras was in the darkest corner of the room, curled up on herself as the sobs shook her body. She was crying. In all the years Kyril had spent with her he had never seen her cry. When he came in she raised her head and looked at him, her wet eyes narrowed and her beak slightly open as if about to attack him.

“What are you doing here?” she said. “Who said you could come in?”

“The door was open. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing is wrong. Go away.”

“But you’re crying,” he said. “Heavens above Feiras, I’ve never – “

Feiras swatted her wing toward him and a blast of wind as strong as a hurricane threw him out of the room. He pulled himself up in an instant but as he did so the door to Feiras chamber snapped shut.

“Feiras,” he said. “Feiras, let me in. I only want to talk.”

No answer came. “

Please, tell me what’s wrong with you,” he said. “I can help you.”

Still no answer. He waited long to hear her voice or for the door to unlock but no voice came and the door stayed shut. He could have just thrown it down, but that would have been a breach of privacy and trust and Feiras would’ve never forgiven him for it. In the end he admitted defeat and went back to his chambers and started to read again.

***

The boy saw the sad girl one cool night at the end of summer. She was a fresh young thing, no more than ten, and shouldn’t have been out there all alone. She sat down on the rocky edge of a pound and threw rocks in the water. She’d been sitting here for hours and nobody had come to her yet. She wore a long frilly white dress, the dress of those who follow the Faith, but her mind did not feel poisoned by the teaching of the Whore Mother yet. He climbed down the hill he stood on and went to her. When she saw him she stopped throwing rocks and stood up. Her hands ran to her chest and she took a step back.

“It’s alright,” he said. “I don’t want to hurt you. I saw you there and wanted to say hi.”

She nodded. “I’ve never seen you around here before,” she said. “You’re from Daffiel?”

“Me and my family arrived a few days ago,” he said. “We’re still sorting things out, so we haven’t been out much. “He lowered his head on the dress. “You’re covered in mud.”

“I know, she said, and let out a choked sob. “We were doing Mass, but then the Maeter said I did something wrong and slapped me.”

“And now you’re here? All alone?”

“It happens often,” she said. “Something bad happens, I can’t do anything but run away. Everybody says I’m a coward and they’re right.” She sat back down at the edge of the pond. “Someday I like to think I’ll run away and never return.”

“Will you?”

“Probably not,” she said. “But I like to think about it.”

He sat next to her. “Your Maeter sounds like a pain in the ass,” he said.

The girl sniffed, then nodded. “She says if I go on like this, I’ll never be able to master aether,” she said. “Some of my friends can already do simple miracles, like healing things. I can’t even do that. No matter how hard I concentrate.”

“Well,” he said. “I know something about magic, and I can tell you not everybody learns the same way, or at the same time. Some must wait more than others.”

She looked at him, eyes wide with incredulity. “You know about magic?”

“A little bit.”

“But…but you don’t seem like a follower of the Mother.”

“There are many gods who looks at us from the heavens,” he said. “The Allmother is just one of them, and not even the most powerful.”

She seemed put off by his affirmation. To her it must have sounded like heresy. She recovered fast thought. “Then who do you pray to?”

He shook his head. “Better I don’t tell you, “He said. “Magic is dangerous, and names are more dangerous still.”

“But can’t you teach me something?” she said. “Something easy. Some stupid trick so that my friends will stop making fun of me.”

He pretended to think about it. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” he said. “I told you magic can be dangerous. Painful.”

The girl trembled, but she stayed determined. “It’s fine,” she said. “Just teach me something simple. I can take it.”