Page 1 of Redeeming the Dragon

Chapter 1

Once Upon a Time…

Winds of change blew through my open shutters that morning and coaxed me awake, ruffling my hair spread out on the pillow. But how was I to know those stiff breezes heralded misfortune?

Opening my eyes, I glimpsed golden sunshine peeking through the window. Birdsong drifted from emerald leaves outside my hut, harmonizing with the melody of azure waves crashing gently against the sandy shore. In my mind’s eye, I pictured the blue-green waters, tipped with white foam, kissing the pale beaches.

“Lorna?” A gentle rap on my door. “Time to awaken.”

The voice belonged to my eldest sister, Neena. At nineteen years of age, I was the youngest daughter of Monreth, the Sanlyn chieftain who ruled our islet. It was one of the smaller islands scattered acrossthe South Seas, in an archipelago known as the Jeweled Isles. Whether that name had been drawn from the fact that many of the islands had caves, from which sea jewels were mined, or from the brilliant jewel tones of the jungles, birds, sea creatures, and coral reefs, I couldn’t say. But I loved my home. I was content with my humble, simple life. Even Neena’s insistence that I awaken didn’t disturb my mood.

“I’m up,” I called, pushing back the delicate coverlet that I’d stitched last spring, and dropping my feet onto the floor. Light, loose pants sagged on my hips, but all skin was covered by a long, thin tunic. I yawned, stretched my arms above my head, then shoved tangled hair out of my face as I opened the door to the common area. From there, I padded outside to the covered porch, where my rope sandals waited. These I slipped on before venturing across the sand towards the outhouse.

Following a visit along the shell-lined path to care for my necessities, I trooped back to the house, stopping at the wooden washstand on the porch. Here on the Jeweled Islands, our houses were built to be as open to the sea air as possible. Rather than edifices of cold marble, with thick doors and glass windows to shut out the weather, our homes had open casements with wooden shutters, to be closed only if the rain was driving into the house. We had no marble floors; only simple wooden planking carved from the trees that clustered in our thick jungles. No washrooms inside the house, either.

The outhouse stood a few dozen paces away, and the washstand graced the porch. The bowl was carved from a massive, shiny shell. Clean water filled the pitcher, drawn by my middle sister, Marisa, from the well in the yard. Soap made by our mother, Avigale, squatted on a thick, green leaf, weighted down by a stone. On the wall, above the washstand, hung a square mirror in a bamboo frame.

I used the soap and water to scrub my hands, then my face, before glancing into the mirror to examine my appearance. My copper-colored hair was bleached a shade lighter than my sisters’, due to the amount of time I spent outdoors in the sunlight, but the reddish undertones shone through brightly. My skin was also a shade or two darker than my siblings’—which pleased my mother not a whit. She was continually after me to wear a hat, but I loved the feel of the wind in my hair and refused to worry about hats.

“You’ll never be rid of the freckles on your nose if you don’t shade your skin,” Mama complained.

I leaned closer to the mirror, wrinkling my nose as I studied the freckles. They did not bother me as they did Mama. Father often chuckled, tweaked my nose, and declared I was his sea princess who loved the ocean too much to concern herself with bonnets. My father’s easygoing nature was reflected in my own. Why trouble and concern ourselves with matters that were out of our control? No matter what befell the sea, the tide came in the next day and left. The waves rolled in and slid away. The sea might be violent one day and calm the next. It was unbothered. I was happiest unbothered too.

“Lorna.” My mother’s footsteps heralded her approach even before she spoke my name.

“Yes, Mama?” I straightened from the looking glass, hastening to comb my fingers through my hair and weave it into a braid, pretending I’d not been studying my reflection. I didn’t wish Mama to give me another lecture on my hair, skin, or freckles. If I twisted the hair out of sight, perhaps she would let it pass this morning.

“A storm is brewing,” Mama announced. She emerged in the doorway where she halted, hands tucked in her apron pockets. Her green eyes lifted to the sky beyond the overhanging porch. “I feel it in my bones.”

Marisa would have laughed. She considered Mama’s “bone warnings” the amusing ramblings of the elder generation. Neena, on the other hand, believed Mama’s bones contained a bit of magic, for every time they warned her of a storm, one appeared. I was uncertain what to think. I knew the land of Aerisia—our homeland—contained magic. We all knew that, though we saw little of it here in the far-flung Jeweled Isles. Stories of powerful fairies, guarding the natural realms of Aerisia, reached our home. Several ancient Sanlyn, their weathered skin as lined and creased as the maps they navigated by, swore to have caught glimpses of Aemela, mighty fairy of the waters.

Even here, in this distant corner of the realm, tales abounded of the first Artan, the legendary warrior who had once saved our land from the encroaching Dark Powers before vanishing into the mists of legends. Prophecies abounded of her namesake one day returning to free Aerisia from their vestiges. We’d also heard stories of the mysterious Simathe, immortals who dwelt in the shadows; silent warriors whose lives were spent serving Aerisia. Some claimed to have seen the Simathe on their travels—they were an unmistakable folk with skin of unnatural bronze, their hair and eyes blacker than the depths of the ocean. I did not doubt it, though I’d never personally laid eyes on them.

In the end, I believed the tales of magic and magical races, even of mysterious creatures such as the dragons in the distant Warkin lands, home to the Dragonkind. But I’d never seen them. I’d seen no signs of magic, ever, unless it truly was Mama’s bones warning her of tempests.

“When will the storm arrive, Mama?” I asked, my hands dropping from my hair, now that it was mostly secured. A lively breeze still teased strands of it free. From far away, blown in by the same gusts, I smelled the scent of rain. Was that magic too, or merely the ability to read nature’s signs?

“Before your father returns, I fear,” she said.

I saw the fabric of her apron pockets wrinkle as she clenched and unclenched her fingers inside their depths.

Tilting my head, I studied her. “Mama? Is something wrong? Father’s weathered many a storm at sea.”

True, storms at sea were not ideal, but we were Sanlyn. The sea, the islands, fishing, boating—it was in our blood. What we did. What we lived for. I couldn’t ever recall seeing my steadfast, unflappable mother this concerned over a mere storm.

My mother’s features, similar to mine, except for the freckles and darker skin, tightened. “I know, love,” she replied. “But this storm feels—charged with an energy I can’t explain. An energy I…fear.”

Her voice quieted on the last note. Something cold and raw squirmed in my belly.

I glanced over my shoulder towards the surf. Strange. No longer did it seem so friendly and inviting.

“What would you have me do, Mama?” I asked, turning back to her.

Her green gaze was fixed on a point far out at sea, perhaps the horizon itself, as if she sought my father’s vessel, willing it to return to our snug, safe harbor.

“Mama?”

She jolted at the sound of my voice. Her chin turned sharply and she raked me with a look.

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