Page 5 of A Matter of Dragons

But I wasn’t an easy mark. I had twenty years of training as a member of His Majesty’s Royal Army, even if His Royal Highness King Donovan had not yet seen fit to allow me to become an official member of that vaulted organization. Besides, I’d just seen an elf. An elf who hadn’t even tried to harm me. So, no, I wasn’t one of the foolish and gullible. Not yet.

The stone path curved and branched before me with seemingly no rhyme or reason. I stopped at one ambiguous intersection, listening. Running water sang to me from somewhere up ahead, lilting through the flowers and tree branches. I followed the sound up a small hill, through a series of tall, flowering bushes whose branches interlaced above the path to form a tunnel, and into a circle of birch trees whose paper-white trunks seemed almost luminescent in the fading light.

There, on a mossy bank between the birch trees’ roots, was a curved piece of wood. Water poured over the wood and tumbled into a small basin lined with smooth stones. It was only when I bent down before the spring that I noticed the wood wasn’t wood at all; it was a piece of silver carved to resemble driftwood.

“Damn,” I whispered. “That’s beautiful.”

Heat rose in my cheeks, and I glanced over my shoulder to be sure no one had just heard me curse in a sacred place. Even if it wasn’t a real sacred place.

I was alone. I turned back to the spring and tried to remember everything I’d ever heard about the healing powers of a Spirit Wood. There was a tiny metal dipper resting on the moss beside the pool. I picked it up and balanced it between my fingers. It was oddly heavy, although I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe it was made of real silver. Who would leave a piece of real silver lying on the forest floor? In this entire town, there had to be someone desperate enough to steal, even if it was from the Spirit Wood.

I let the dipper fall through my fingers. It hit the moss with a soft thud. I glanced over my shoulder again, searching the waiting birch trees for any figures, human or otherwise. Only once I had reassured myself yet again that I was indeed alone did I let my hand move to my left arm. My maimed and disfigured arm.

My dress had long sleeves, of course; all my clothes had long sleeves. This dress also had narrow cuffs with a series of delicate buttons and a silken V that nearly extended to my fingers. It was almost as good as my black leather gloves. It was almost enough to hide the pale white lines that streaked the back of my hand.

Biting my lip, I unbuttoned the cuff and tugged back my sleeve. The angry red waves of my own scarred flesh looked no less repulsive in the gently filtered dusk of the Spirit Grove. Not that I had expected anything to have changed. I rolled the sleeve up to my elbow, trying to touch my own skin as little as possible. Then I turned to face the spring.

What should I do here? Did I have to pray? Did I utter some magical words? Should I submerge my arm, or drink the water, or what?

What the hell, I decided. I’d do it all.

“Oh, spring of the Spirit Wood,” I whispered, speaking quickly, “I come to seek your healing powers.”

I reached for the silver dipper and plunged it into the pool.

“Please,” I added, for good measure.

My hand trembled as I pulled the dipper from the pool. The smooth stones lining the bottom shimmered as ripples broke the surface of the water. Quickly, I turned the dipper over and poured the water on my arm. It was bracingly cold; a shiver ran through my body as my scarred skin tightened.

But it didn’t change. Blinking back a sting behind my eyelids, I dropped the silver dipper into the spring a second time. This time I brought it to my lips. The water was as cold as the bottom of a well. It tasted faintly of stones and moss and the dark, secret places of the forest. I drank quickly, the cold burning its way down my throat to pool in my gut. Then I turned back to my arm. My twisted, burned flesh winked up at me, the angry red scars branching and twining like flames.

A dull, helpless rage twisted my chest. What exactly had I expected? Was I really desperate enough to believe fairy tales?

Biting my lip, I shoved my anger aside and thrust my entire arm into the pool. A strange prickling shiver danced across my skin, moving up my arm and radiating through my entire body. I closed my eyes.

“Please,” I whispered.

Somewhere in the trees above me, a hidden bird began to call in a soft, lilting trill. I imagined I could feel the water of the spring washing over my skin, carrying away the damage from the fire that had made me an orphan, that permanent reminder of the flames I couldn’t even remember. I took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly. Another bird called from over my shoulder, answering the first in their soft, secret language. I pulled my arm from the water and opened my eyes.

My vision swam for a moment as my brain tried to make sense of the twilight forest before me. The pool glowed with the last of the sky’s reflected light as though it were suffused with its own illumination. Shadows gathered beneath the trees and licked up through the branches, grasping at the burnished silver sky. I let my gaze slide down the pale birch trunks, glide across the surface of the spring, and settle on my arm.

My soaking wet, horribly scarred, ugly, ugly, ugly arm. Tears stung my eyes as anger rose hot and bitter in the back of my throat. Stupid fucking spring of the Spirit Wood. Stupid fucking me.

I stood, shaking the water droplets off my arm. I’d accomplished absolutely nothing by completing this ridiculous task, aside from proving that Blessed King Donovan of Valgros was right. The fairy tales were all lies, and I was a damned fool.

I shoved my sleeve down over my hideous arm. The rich velvet fabric was wet and cold against my scars. I came to my feet and brushed the moss off my skirts, silently cursing myself for treating such a fine dress so disrespectfully. This was the nicest outfit I’d ever worn; it was important that Eadberh and I looked affluent, rich enough to travel at a slow, leisurely pace. Able to easily afford access to the information we were seeking. And the information we claimed to be seeking.

I shook my hair out over my shoulders and stomped down the annoyingly picturesque little path through the Spirit Wood. I had to focus, damn it. I had to get back to my mission to turn Cairncliff upside down and shake out all the possible healers. That was, after all, what I’d told Eadberh I was going to do tonight while he hit up the dirty, dangerous pubs and taverns that wouldn’t look so kindly on ladies in order to sample the local gossip. And he’d probably sample a few of the local gentlemen too, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Either way, I’d return to our inn with an improved mental map of Cairncliff, the locations of a few plausible healers, and no mention of the Spirit Wood.

And I wouldn’t go back until my sleeve was dry.

CHAPTER THREE

Doshir

I stepped back, crossed my arms over my chest, tilted my head to the side, and examined my re-organized shelves critically. Yes, the historical records from the last four decades really had been a disaster. Yes, those scrolls, sheaves of parchment, and leather-bound journals really had been crying out for some attention. Still, as I bent to light the first candle against the growing darkness enveloping the windows, the knowledge that it had been nearly two weeks since Mother blew into town with her strange request gnawed at the inside of my ribcage. I’d had almost two weeks, and I had not yet made any effort to approach Mad Scarlett, let alone any inquiries into how I might find a spy in King Donovan’s court.