Page 2 of The Dragon Sacrifice

But ever since Father had died, a great fear had grown in Seela. The trees made darkness, and darkness hid monsters. Magic that seemed friendly and fun when she was small seemed threatening and dangerous now.

Tugging her cloak tight around her, Seela jogged through the shadows toward the road, eager to get to town. The trees cried overhead as the wind shook their branches. She thought about her mother, home alone with a dead body, and shivered.

Twenty minutes later, the path wound its way out of the trees and she spied the village below. Sloping green hills rolled down into a little basin flecked with thatch-covered roofs and with muddy streets cutting between them. There was the spire of the Church of Lords, and the patch of dirt near the center was the square. From this height, the houses looked the same, small brown boxes with muddy livestock yards on one side and gardens on the other. A pasture ran along the far end with small brown dots that were horses munching away at the weeds. A path rose opposite her hillside that she knew ran up and over the ridge and down to the docks, where many of the men labored and they imported and exported goods to the other valley villages. Mickey, her best childhood friend, worked at the docks. She wondered if she’d see him at Festival.

She skidded down the hill and wove through houses, taking in the familiar sights and smells. It was so very different from her little forest cottage. Here, the houses were crowded and close together. Hovels beside the houses were full of pig squeals, and the yards with the shouts of children too young to go to school. Although, there was no school today. It was Selection. She kept forgetting.

Where her house was quiet, the village was all noise. The sloping hillsides seem to hold in the noise—shopkeepers in the square hawked items, unruly packs of children with no shoes and dirty faces ran through like dogs. As she walked by the tavern, a song slipped between the bat-wing doors from an out-of-tune piano. She remembered that Mr. Whelp, the proprietor of that establishment, was now dead and lying on her kitchen table. Who was running the bar?

“A little late to the party, aren’t ya, Speckles?”

Seela whirled toward the familiar voice in time to catch Mickey stepping up beside her. Unruly brown curls fell in his eyes as he grinned at her.

“If this is the party, I wager I should’ve stayed home,” she joked. “Is that a wake for Mr. Whelp?”

Mickey’s eyes trailed to the tavern doorway and the drunks wavering within. “Drink all the dead man’s liquor. Then cry and stumble into the streets. Sounds like a wake. Care to join?”

“No, thank you. To market, I go.” She gestured down the path to the butcher.

Mickey ran a hand through his curls, tired looking but still bright-eyed, dressed in his dock attire and smelling of fish from his hours of slinging it. His lanky form and long arms gave him a unique talent for wrangling slimy sea life, and his wit and humor kept the dock hands rolling. He’d been her friend since he’d been a blond, freckle-faced boy one year her senior at the one-room schoolhouse. He told more jokes than he studied, and he drove the teacher mad. But he’d always made Seela laugh, even if it meant a rap on the knuckles. He hadn’t lasted at school very long—neither his knuckles nor their teacher couldn’t handle it—so he’d left for work at age eleven, but he would often walk her home on rainy days or check on her during the winter when the slope down was treacherous. A true friend, Mickey. Her mother thought she’d marry him one day, though Seela couldn’t imagine it. He was like a brother to her.

The tune on the piano jumped into something jaunty. Before Seela knew it, she was in Mickey’s arms and he was spinning her in a jolly jig right on the street. Seela laughed deeply, whirling, her cloak floating out around her body like a sail. Mickey slipped a hand around her waist and dipped her, bringing her head low to the road before pulling her up again in a graceful arc.

She spun away from him, laughing and clutching her chest while gasping for air. “Dancing in the street. You’d think it was Festival.”

“It is Festival,” he said joyfully, but then his face clouded as he watched hers fall. “Oh, Lords, Speckles, I’m sorry. Didn’t know it would upset ya.”

“It doesn’t,” she said with a fake brightness. “I won’t be picked. What are the chances?”

“Slim to none,” he said, but then he stepped closer to her. “Are you scared? If you want, I can talk to my friend at the dock. He knows a smuggler who can—”

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head. “I couldn’t leave Mum. And besides, it’s fine. It won’t be me.”

“We could get married,” he said in a rush of words. When she stared at him in surprise, he blushed. “Just for the sake of removing you from Selection. A safety net. You know…”

“I appreciate your willingness,” she teased, patting him on the arm.

He nodded, but his expression was tense. His normal jovialness gone, he glanced back at the tavern. “I need a drink. Join me?”

She smiled, shaking her head. There’d be mead and dancing in the street after Selection. She’d partake then. “I need to get to the market before the shops close. Mum needs a few things.”

He stood still, taking her in. Then in a move she was totally not expecting, he leaned in, planting a kiss at the top of her cheek where her eye creased. Seela flushed, blinking at Mickey in shock.

“Be safe, Speckles,” he said, staring at her with an intensity she felt herself shirking away from.

“It’s just the market,” she said, but they both knew he was talking about something much more.

---