Page 2 of Redeeming the Dragon

“Go on about your chores,” she said. “And make haste. I fear the storm will strike before we are ready. Ask the Powers of Good to safeguard your father.”

“He’s weathered many a storm,” I said again. Quietly. So quietly I think she did not hear as she went back into the house.

Was I attempting to convince her or myself?

The best way to shake off the nervousness was to dive into work. Scurrying into the house, I darted around Marisa, who was headed for the door with a load of wet laundry in a basket. Normally, I kept up with the laundry. Mama must have forced my sister to take her turn this morning.

“Mama says it’s to storm,” I informed my sibling. “You might want to string the line in the common room. I’ll help you hang those indoors.”

“Mama does not know everything,” my sister grumped, brushing off the warning.

I shrugged and hurried on. Very well. Once Marisa’s mind was made up, one could tell her nothing. Honestly, one could tell her nothing, anyway. She was obsessed with the young chieftain of the neighboring island, and her mind dwelt on him alone. Chores were beneath her, no matter how often I reminded her that, even if she wed him, she’d have to do household tasks.

“Vren has four other wives,” she’d remonstrated each time. “Plenty of hands to share the workload. Furthermore, as the youngest, I’ll have the place of honor. I am not concerned.”

I dashed into the kitchen area, snatching a sweet roll from the pan Neena had just brought in from the cookhouse, and set on the rough tabletop to cool. My nose wrinkled in distaste. Not at the roll. I loved sweet rolls. But at the notion of sharing one’s husband with other women. The practice was common among the Sanlyn, and seemed to bother some women, like Marisa, very little. Others on the other hand…

Well.

I remembered once asking my father why he’d taken no wives besides Mama. He’d chuckled and replied, “I like my head on my neck too much to consider another wife besidesyour mother.”

I wasn’t sure how much of the remark was a jest and how much the truth. I considered it briefly as I tossed glances at my mother, who stood next to Neena. Together, they labored over more dough, punching, kneading, and twisting it for the week’s baking. Typically, they did seven days’ worth of breadmaking in one day, which freed the remainder of the week for other tasks. I knew how to make bread, of course. It was a chore I hated. I’d rather do nearly anything else, which I did now, heading through the empty back door and out on the porch, quickly munching my breakfast.

On the back porch, in a lean-to as shelter from the rain and storms, we kept the feed for animals, as well as cleaning supplies for the house and outhouse.

Cramming the last bite of roll in my mouth, I chewed and swallowed as I opened the lean-to and began measuring out grain in buckets for the horses, the cows, and the goats.

“Lorna!”

My oldest sister’s call spun me from where I stood, hunching over the wooden buckets.

“Mama says to leave the animals in the barn. She doesn’t want them out in the storm.”

Before I could answer, my sister drifted back into the kitchen. I froze over my job, frowning, my mind racing.

How bad did Mama fear this storm to be? Like my father at sea, our handful of animals had certainly weathered many a gale. We only locked them in the barn at night, or during the worst of maelstroms. Was that what Mother feared?

This storm feels—charged with an energy I can’t explain. An energy I…fear.

Tingling music filled my ears. I glanced towards the corner of the house, where wind chimes hung beneath the eaves.They were made from bits of sea glass, stones, shells, and scrap metal that had been washed up on the shore and gifted to us by the ocean. A silent wind, invisible yet cold, stirred the shiny, dangling objects, making them sing.

It should not have filled me with anxiety. It did.

I glanced over my shoulder towards the water. Was it my imagination, or was the sea’s color subtly morphing from blue-green to gray? Was the kiss of the water against the shore harder, more forceful? Demanding, instead of coaxing?

‘Tis your imagination, Lorna,I thought, fighting off the premonitions with a shudder. To distract myself from my folly, I settled into my work, scooping out sweet, dusty cups of brown grain and dumping them into the pails until they were full. The animals would need extra feed if they were to be locked inside their shelter and denied access to the island’s middle, higher grounds, where forest pastures were green year-round since winter never truly touched the Jeweled Isles.

As I tromped back and forth over pale paths, hardened by feet, sun, and weather, Mama’s words burrowed into my brain like a worm into the heart of an apple.

A storm.

Energy.

Energy I fear.

Others must have been feeling that energy too. I could glance across the main road leading into the village and see the home of our nearest neighbor. They were doing the same as I—feeding animals and performing morning chores, while occasionally glancing nervously at the sky. Further down the way, I could see the cottages on the outskirts of our village. Several neighbors scurried about, but there was an unnatural hush over the entire place, and no one had let out their animals. We were not alone in our anxiety.

This does not bode well.

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