Of Blood And Fire Ryan Cahill (nice books to read .txt) 📖

he pulled the linen shirt over his head. It was like wearing a cloud compared to the leathers he had grown used to. Arthur had provided each member of the group with their own private chambers, as well as fresh clothes for the feast, while the clothes they had travelled in were washed by the maids.

“Maids!” laughed Calen to himself. If only you were here to see me now, Dad. You would slap me across the back of the head for even saying the word out loud.

A touch of sadness crept into Calen’s heart. He dropped himself onto the edge of the bed. In that moment, as he sat there, alone for the first time, everything came crashing onto him like a waterfall.

They were all gone. His mother, his father, Ella, Faenir… Haem. His entire family. He didn’t even want to guess how many others might have lost their lives in the chaos that day. Faces flashed through his mind. Jorvill Ehrnin. Mara Styr. Tach Edwin… Anya. A sickly weightlessness filled his body.

The next face he saw was Rist’s. He had left him. Left him with Dahlen. Left him to be taken, and he was too scared to go after him. Anger mingled with his sadness, bubbling through it. Anger at Dahlen, anger at himself, anger at the world.

Once I’m stronger… I’ll find you.

The sound of smashing pottery reminded Calen that he was not truly alone. He puffed out his cheeks, wiping the nomadic tear from the side of his face. He allowed himself a subdued laugh. “Get over here!”

Valerys’s head poked up from amidst the rubble of two flowerpots that had previously held tulips and daisies. Like Faenir would do when wet, Valerys shook his body from head to tail, sending bits of shattered ceramic darting around the room.

“Hey!” shouted Calen as he shielded his eyes. “Watch it!”

The dragon puffed back at Calen in response. He spread his wings and leapt from the ground, up onto the bed.

Calen stood, his eyes falling on his sword that lay in its scabbard, resting against the far wall. Instinctively, he reached for it. But he knew well enough that it would be insulting to bring a sword to a king's table. He felt a moment of hesitation as his hand touched the leather scabbard. We’re safe here, I don’t need it.

“Come on.” He scratched under Valerys’s neck, producing as close to a purr as the dragon was able. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for supper. It’s been a while since we’ve eaten anything decent.”

As the porter guided him through winding staircases and maze-like hallways, Calen thanked the gods that Arthur had sent someone to show him the way back to the main hall. He would have wandered haplessly for hours otherwise.

The young lad, fifteen or sixteen summers at most, continually peered over his shoulder to gawk at Valerys, who padded along at Calen’s feet. Calen allowed himself a wry smile. He often forgot what a strange sight it must be. Only a month ago, he had never even seen a dragon, and now Valerys was as normal to him as the morning sun.

“Thank you, Conal,” Calen said, as the young porter brought him to the entrance of the hall. In truth, he wasn’t much younger than Calen. But he seemed younger.

“My pleasure m’lord,” the boy said. He bowed around a corner before Calen could correct him. He was the furthest thing from a lord that someone could possibly be.

Calen took a deep breath before he entered. The hall was much the same as when Calen and his group had arrived earlier, with one exception. There was now a massive rectangular table right in the centre.

The table was piled high with fruit in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and colours. Some he recognised: apples, oranges, pears. Others, he could not even imagine what they might be called. Curved, yellow fruit with leathery skin sat beside a small fruit with brown skin that was covered in fur. Calen had just picked up one of the furry fruits when Dann made his way into the hall.

“By the gods!” called Dann, his voice echoing through the hall. “I’m never leaving here, Calen. I could have sat in that bath for hours. And these clothes!” He lifted his arms up in the air, rolling his eyes back in his head. “Do we sit?”

“I’m not sure,” Calen replied, still rolling his thumb across the surface of the hairy fruit. “Look at all this fruit. I don’t think there would be as much in all the market stalls in The Glade combined.” Calen found it hard to match Dann’s enthusiasm. He couldn’t help but think how much that amount of food would cost back home.

“I know!” exclaimed Dann, his voice muffled as he bit deeply into an apple.

It wasn’t long before the rest of the group found their way to the hall. Everyone looked so different with the dirt scrubbed from their faces and hair, and clean linens on their backs.

“I don’t know about you,” Erik said, wrapping his arms around Calen's and Dann’s shoulders, “but I’m starved. I intend to eat until I can no longer fit in these trousers!”

Dann muffled out the words, “Me too,” through a mouthful of apple, which earned him a laugh from Erik.

“Calen, Dann, Erik, Dahlen. I would like you to meet my son, Daymon.”

Calen had not even seen Arthur enter the hall. The young man now standing beside him was the spitting image of the king, only about thirty summers his junior by the looks of it.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Daymon said, bowing slightly at the waist. “My father tells me that you have all come a long way to be here. I hope your journey has not taken too much of a toll on you.”

Daymon did not yet possess the effortless charisma that oozed from every word that left his father’s mouth, but Calen figured that was something earned, not something you were born with.

“It took