Page 54 of Redeeming the Dragon

Notwhohe was, butwhathe was.

A Simathe.

One of the dread immortal warriors my mother had feared visited my bed at night.

There could be no mistaking his identity. Rare as the sighting of one of the immortals was on our islands, tales and stories abounded among the Sanlyn as they did amongst the rest of Aerisia’s folk. Details might conflict to some degree, but all spoke of ageless men with bronze skin, hair blacker than the deepest hour of night, and pupil-less eyes so deep and so dark that they sucked the light into themselves. He might have been garbed in the plain, sturdy leather and fabrics of a traveler, but the massive broadsword behind his back proved him a warrior. As did the daggers in his boot, at his hip, and sheathed on his wrist…

So many weapons. I stopped counting.

“I have a name,” he replied. “You would not know it. I am the tirlantha. The First.”

Struggling to overcome the shock of finding myself in the presence of one of the mysterious, powerful warriors, it took several moments for the information to pierce my confused brain.

“The…First?” I echoed. “Surely not the first of…all Simathe?”

Little did I know of the immortal ones’ history, save they’d been created eons ago by a Scraggen, a witch-woman. Could Braisley have possibly sent me to the very first Simathe ever created?

He gazed at me without blinking, without confirming, without denying. When I realized he’d given me all the information he intended, I released a shaky breath and pushed myself up to my elbows, then to a seated position.

“I am Lorna,” I said. “From the Jeweled Isles.”

“Sanlyn,” the Simathe nodded.

“Aye.”

Again, he watched me in unblinking silence. He was seated on an upended stump. Beside me, a fire crackled, warding off the chill. Beneath me was a thick, rough blanket, laid over bare ground, strewn with gravel. Over me was a cloak that had fallen to my lap when I sat up. Despite the warrior’s fearsome appearance and silent ways, he’d clearly taken care of me while I slept.

To initiate a conversation, I plucked gently at the cloak and said, “I thank you for this.”

The immortal warrior-lord nodded. I’d heard his folk were taciturn, unwilling to speak unless necessary. When it was necessary, they spoke in the fewest number of words possible. Realizing this conversation might not flow so well as it had with Braisley, despite her chilly demeanor, I girded up my courage and said,

“Braisley sent me to you. She believed you might be able to assist me in a search.”

The dark warrior nodded again. His deep stare seemed to assess me, to read more about me than I knew about myself.

“I sensed her magic,” he replied at last.

I pondered that statement a moment, then reached into my bag, unwrapped the perpetually frozen snowflake, and showed it to the Simathe. His pupil-less eyes flickered down to it then up to my face.

“Ah,” he said, and I took it to mean he was satisfied that this was what he had detected.

I put the snowflake away, feeling the weight of the warrior-lord’s gaze. I was also aware that he was doubtless waiting for me to tell him my tale and explain why I was here. I could not expect one of the immortals to linger all day with me, tending me like a mother hen minding her chicks.

“I am in need of help,” I said, and launched into my tale. I told him how a dragon had rescued my father from a storm off the coast ofour island, how the dragon had saved his life and demanded mine in return. I told him how I’d been kept by the dragon in an underground cave, how the dragon had turned out to be a Warkin prince, and how he’d been cursed by a Scraggen.

Some things I did not tell the immortal Simathe.

I was embarrassed to confess how the Warkin had visited my bed in the deep hours of the night. Nor did I confess how I’d wakened him with a kiss—a kiss that led to disaster. I also did not tell him how my heart clung to this Dragonkind, despite the differences between us, despite the odds of a Sanlyn and a Warkin falling in love. I kept these parts silent. I needn’t have said them anyway. The Simathe had probably lived for thousands of years. He was no fool, nor was he fooled by anything.

At the end of my recital, after telling him how the mirror had sent me to Braisley for help, what Braisley had told me, and how the mirror and fairy magic had then sent me to him in the Wastelands, he clasped his hands loosely in front of him, gazing into the scrubby forests in deep contemplation.

Drawing my legs up under me, I attempted to wait patiently and not fidget overmuch. Within, I felt a strong sense that I needed to hurry. Kidron had not conveyed how much time he had before the Scraggen would force him to wed her daughter, but my soul was pierced with the certain notion that saving the dragon prince was on me and I must make haste.

Yet, how did one hasten a Simathe?

While he pondered my tale, I glanced around curiously. Never had I heard of these Wastelands. I noted the ground was rocky, dotted with boulders, and few things grew here beyond the scrubby thicket of trees that passed for a forest. They were a gnarled, hardy pine that defied the harsh conditions. The air was thin and cold—at least to me, accustomed to the thick, humid air of the islands. I could see at once why the region was called the Wastelands. There was an emptiness, a barrenness, even a forlornness to the place. Beyond the circle of trees where we sat, I could see hills looming in the distance, but they were a far cry from the lofty mountaintops of the fairy’s majestic home.

Were I to climb the tallest hill and gaze out across the Wastelands, what would I see? Ravines and clefts? Surely little to no water. The lack of animal, bird, and insect sounds told me there was scant life here. I questioned why even a Simathe would be trekking such a vast lonely place. I didn’t inquire. A Simathe would not tell me his business.

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