Rebel: Book 1 of the Flight Trilogy

By Dawn Meredith

A wounded flying hero struggling to accept his destiny, a shy girl of dark, mysterious secrets unaware of the power within her and a lonely youth out to prove himself worthy of his warrior father. Flight is a high fantasy novel which will appeal to readers of Twilight and fans of Avatar and Thor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Shooting Star Press
• Release date: Jul 1, 2020
• ISBN: 9781925821451

Dawn Meredith

Dawn has a head full of dragons and robots but somehow managed to teach children with learning disabilities for 28 years, rather successfully.She has always been a book worm, annoying her family while growing up and now as a mum, she has passed on that habit to her daughter.Dawn moved with her family to North West Tasmania in 2018 where she has a gorgeous little studio facing valleys and mountains, the perfect setting for flights of fantasy. She absolutely adores gardening. Dawn is keen to try archery and blacksmithing. She has a Fine Arts degree & speaks fluent Norwegian

Book preview

Before it was a trilogy Flight was a single story I began writing way back in 2008 for a younger audience. Over the years I have published other books but kept coming back to Flight. There was something about the Dragonkind which kept calling me. Not to mention their really cool language and culture! And so as I submitted to various publishers (and was rejected 13 times) I begged for feedback. I am so lucky to have had the mentorship of some really wonderful writers and editors through this process. And so I wish to thank the following people:

Lindy Cameron saw Flight quite a few years ago, and although she passed she gave me an extraordinary gift – a whole page of comments and ways I could improve the manuscript. We’ve never met (except on Facebook) but thank you so much Lindy! Also Abigail Nathan, who was with Etopia Press at the time they were going to publish Flight. Abigail’s insight and kindness to me will never be forgotten. Stephen Ormsby of Satalyte Press was very supportive of the story and gave me great advice. Zena Shapter helped me write a killer proposal which eventually landed me a publishing deal. Jenny Hale advised me on dialogue and the balance between rescue and revolution. Thank you, Jenny! Sherryl Clark helped me through her workshop on The Hero’s Journey and afterwards with advice and encouragement on Reeve as hero.

In 2011 The May Gibbs Literature Trust awarded me a Creative Time Fellowship which gave me four glorious weeks in Adelaide to work on this manuscript. That time away was priceless. With no distractions I wrote at all times of the day and night, in between episodes of Big Bang Theory and Star Trek NG. For musical inspiration I listened to Two Steps From Hell – a production company that produces thrilling and beautiful music for films and television.

And finally to my magnificent test readers who over the years have remained committed and still in love with this story – Judi, Andy and Jamie.

And really finally, to publisher Cath Brinkley, at Shooting Star Press, who fell in love with the story and decided she wanted it out there. Yay!

Who would have thought of a flying hero who can’t fly? A young man dealt the harsh blow of disability when his future is all ahead of him. I would. When people ask what the inspiration is for a story we authors can seldom pinpoint one particular thing. I am oft heard to say my mind is a swirling tornado, complete with cows and bits of sheds spinning around inside it. But I know for a fact that Reeve’s disability and constant pain in his back, right between his wings, is a symbol of my own chronic pain as a result of a car accident. As I wrote those scenes of agony I tuned in to what I tune out to all day every day. Pain is like a bad friend. They insist on accompanying you even when you distinctly do not want them around and they mess with your head, despite your efforts to resist them. But through Reeve’s story I wanted to express the idea that pain can be a learning tool about yourself, your resilience, your determination to keep going and to keep your dreams close. Help can come from the most unlikely places too, like an old codger who seems past his use-by date!

Keep flying, no matter how cold the wind gets.

Chapter 1

The Flayer raised his powerful arm. The dark whip coiled in the air like a snake, ready to strike. Crouched and shackled to the platform, a half-breed youth tensed for the impact of that first slash, his breath strangled into tiny gasps. His leathery wings of turquoise and purple hung limp at his sides, his long, flaxen hair matted to his scalp with sweat and blood, his blue eyes bloodshot. Reeve was the only son of The Supreme Commander, but the blood that bound him now to this horror came from his Dragonkind mother. That same blood had called him to do the forbidden in this land – fly.

The flaying platform squatted in the centre of the city green, its oppressive boards worn smooth and black with the blood of those who dared defy the Avendorean Protectorate, government of the Meer overlords. Eager citizens of Avendor gathered to feast upon the spectacle, like ants surrounding a dead bird, devouring its still warm remains. The few hundred Dragonkind dotted among the crowd obediently wore their wings caged in leather harnesses, but remnants of their ancestral pride glittered in their eyes.

The Sky Wardens were zealous in their duties and one of them was now hefting a full purse in his grubby hand, grinning with gratification as a result of Reeve’s moment of foolish disobedience.

Reeve squinted up at the sky and remembered his mother’s words to him:

‘Be strong. Think of your father, Reeve. How proud he’d be to see you take your punishment like a man’. Like a man…. Like a man… Like a man…The screech of children was momentarily drowned by the erratic throb of hundreds of drums. The Flayer snorted like a bull about to charge.

It’s only five strokes, Reeve told himself again. Five strokes. That’s all. He stared up at the Flayer, a huge Meer with arms like twisted tree trunks. When he caught the brute’s eye he saw nothing but grinding malice there.

Reeve gulped down the bile in his throat. When he’d stood at the edge, up there at Eagle Lookout that day, the wind in his hair, the sun on his golden skin, his beautiful wings half opened in readiness, it had seemed worth the risk, worth rebelling against the stupid laws. It was his right to fly! But a century of Meer rule had reduced Dragonkind to a worker race and slave soldiers. Dragonkind had once soared among sun-blazed clouds above Avendor valley, masters of their white stone city. Now they were prisoners of it.

Through his matted hair he tried to see his mother, Gathena, whom he felt sure was in the crowd, but the veil of fear over his eyes showed him only images of horrific cruelty and pain rehearsing themselves in his mind. The weight of his selfishness began to crush him, like the side of a mountain had slid down and buried him beneath it. Trembling, he screwed his eyes shut in readiness for that first blow. The Avendorean Protectorate was making an example of him, regardless of his father’s position. Or perhaps because of it.

A horn sounded.

A CRACK. Rushing, singing wind, and the whip came crashing down upon Reeve’s back. Bits of finely scaled skin flew off and Reeve felt tiny bones in his right-wing splinter. He gasped, his eyes bulged in shock, his body contorted in sharp agony. Salty blood seared down his back, igniting rivulets of pain. He fought against the restraints and the crowd cheered ecstatically. Tears stung his eyes, but he was determined they would not fall. There was no escape. No clever retort could get him out of this one. It was no dare, no joke. And he had four more lashes to go.

The horn sounded again.

With tiny, terrified gasps, Reeve clamped his teeth together, his eyes clenched shut, his whole body tensed as he tried desperately to take his mind somewhere else. The familiar scene of weapons training with Fenac sprang to his mind and he grabbed it thirstily.

Two weeks earlier….

Up! Eyes up, boy, unless you want your head to be severed from your body! roared Fenac, a great blonde bear of a man, as he swung the heavy sword with ease. His heavy, corded arms, scarred in real combat, swivelled the deadly weapon as if it were as harmless as his walking stick. Seventeen-year-old Reeve dodged, his own sword trailing in the dirt, his face dripping with sweat. If you don’t lift that point immediately, you insolent pup, I’ll wallop you so hard on the arse you won’t walk for a week! Now, look at me eyes, not me hands!Fenac’s bright blue eyes glinted, his face set in a grim scowl. Puffing, Reeve obeyed. Fenac was Dragonkind - a tall, fair race with minutely scaled, faintly golden skin. An adult male had a magnificent wingspan of fifteen feet of elegant, leathery wings tinged with turquoise and purple. Despite his purebred Dragonkind appearance, Reeve was a half-blood, with a human Meer father, but had the appearance of full blood dragonkind. Already he was tall and muscular. Even so, with youth on his side, he couldn’t hope to match the former warrior’s stamina.

It’s getting too heavy. My arm… Reeve complained. Fenac gave a strangled cry of rage and lunged, spittle on his beard, his red-blonde hair flying. Reeve barely had time to raise the point of his sword and block Fenac’s attack. The swords clanged together, the impact shuddering down his arm. Fenac stepped back and shifted his feet, spun on his good leg and raised his sword high, two handed, to bring it down upon Reeve’s head. Panicking, Reeve grabbed the tip of his sword in his left hand and raised the weapon horizontally as a shield. Crash! He fell backwards and Fenac stood puffing over him, his sword pricking Reeve’s neck.

Your revered father would be laughing to see his only son fight like a girl. Fenac shook his head in disgust. And boy, for the gods’ sakes, wear a wing harness! He pointed at the manor house where Reeve’s mother had just disappeared through the doorway. "By Bran Efne’s teeth, you’ll bring trouble to your Dozjika."

Why should I? I’m at home. And there’s no one here to report me. Reeve sat up and wiped his bloodied hand upon his trousers, squinting up at his mentor.

Why do I bother? Fenac muttered as he walked away.

Does this mean we’re done? Can I go now?

Fenac ignored him, heading for the barn to clean his weapons and wash up before lunch. Reeve stood, brushing himself off, watching Fenac’s retreating back. It was ten years since his father, Supreme Commander Garit Surehand, had left to fight The Great War in the East. Ten long years. If he closed his eyes Reeve could still hear his father’s deep voice, see his tawny brown eyes, feel the bristly beard on his cheek as he was bid goodbye. He remembered squinting up at the man in the saddle of his black warhorse, Greatheart. Watching them clop out of the courtyard, down the mountain path, the young boy of seven had felt an ache in his chest like a vice was squeezing him. A boy’s dream, crushed.

Fenac was determined to train him to become a solider. It was Reeve’s duty, Fenac said, to serve Avendor and make his father proud. Dragonkind were naturally bigger built than their human overlords, the Meer , which was why their lives were controlled so mercilessly and their numbers kept small - just enough to produce a workforce and expendable soldiers. There should never be any hope of a rebellion. But unfortunately for Reeve’s father, the most distinguished Meer of his generation, his half-blood son had the heart of a rebel and the common sense of a gnat.

Unlike the rest of their people, Reeve and his Dragonkind mother Gathena lived a life of privilege, as the son and wife of The Supreme Commander. Garit had chosen a slave wife – highly unusual and frowned upon, but Garit had distinguished himself as a soldier, rising to the highest rank and in the fight against the terrifying Herkosh, now just three weeks’ ride away and moving slowly closer to Avendor, Garit’s skill was needed. His father’s position kept Reeve and his mother safe from the life of slavery their race endured down in Avendor valley. Gathena maintained a successful manor house and farm and used her position to help her downtrodden people as much as she could. But her position was perilous, this she knew, with her protector and husband away so long.

Despite the avid training Fenac imposed, happy-go-lucky Reeve doubted he would ever live up to Fenac’s hopes for him for the simple reason that he wasn’t interested in fighting in a war. In any war.

All he had ever wanted to do was fly.

From an early age he had watched the kestrels soar around their manor house, Ballich Ry Ana, the ancestral home of the Surehands. He saw how their bodies were lifted by the warm winds. He saw them surge forward with a glint in their eye after prey. He watched them dive and snatch the food out of the air, play together high up in the sky, far from danger. Free. That was what he wanted, with a deep and burning lust that must be kept a secret. But it was hard, so hard, to keep the forbidden fire inside.

Reeve sauntered into the kitchen where his mother, tall, slender and golden haired, was washing fresh picked vegetables and fruit.

I see Fenac is grumpy with you again, she remarked.

Reeve bit into an apple and slouched in a chair at the table.

He’s always grumpy. I wish he’d just face the fact that I’ll never be a soldier, like Father. He shrugged. "It’s just not in me, Dozjika. She turned and he noticed the familiar lines of grief around her mouth, the way it twisted into a half smile whenever his father was mentioned. Ten years and not a single word. He sought to comfort her. I know, I know, I should try harder."

He’s only doing what he thinks is best for you. He’s a good man. She laid a platter of sliced fruit on the table.

I just wish I got to choose what I want to do with my own life that’s all, Reeve finished nibbling the apple core and belched. Mpf. Sorry, he grinned sheepishly.

"Hielah, just remember all those young men down in the valley who end up following their fathers into the mines, Reeve. She raised her eyebrow meaningfully. The poverty. The fatherless families. We must be grateful for what we have up here. And be useful."

Why? Reeve leaned back in his seat and picked at his nails. Why is fighting in a stupid war being useful?

Reeve! Your father has given his whole working life to the cause! It’s the only to keep us safe from the Herkosh. You know all this! She sighed, putting a hand to her head wearily. Why do you have to question everything?

Reeve got up. Well, I didn’t ask for it, that’s all I’m saying, he replied irritably disappearing to his room.

Lunch is almost ready! His mother called after him.

As he climbed the stairs to his room a lazy smile spread over his face. He had plans for the afternoon, plans which his mother and Fenac would never approve of. Weapons training – where was the fun in that? Flying was what he wanted to do, more than anything. Being the first, the bravest, the only one to challenge the law that bound Dragonkind to the Earth – that was his passion. That was his destiny.

Chapter 2

It was quiet and gloomy in the blacksmith’s workshop as a dragon girl of seventeen was preparing for tomorrow. Unlike those of her kind, she dressed all in black, wearing her glorious blonde hair dyed ebony and cut shaggy. Her green eyes were rimmed in black also, as if to hide the pain crystallised in those sparkling depths, hardened like quartz. Her heart shaped face with its delicate chin was wan and tired. Joy was an infrequent visitor to those elfin features, rarely coaxing her delicate red lips into a smile. If she’d had the words to express even a fragment of the passions raging inside her it would have been overwhelming for a listener to hear. Except perhaps for Gathena, the closest thing she had to a Dozjika. Instead, she infused her feelings into her artwork, twining love, joy and excitement with regret, longing and shame into the clever designs worked by her deft fingers .

Sye banked down the fire in its metal framed bed as she had been taught to do by the blacksmith, Fiel, also Dragonkind. The residual heat of the blackened coals grasped at the flesh of her bare arm as she dropped the cover in place. Looking around the blacksmith’s workshop she noted with satisfaction that all was in order. Above the forge bed a chimney took excess heat up through the roof like a huge monster’s mouth, sucking in great sooty breaths. Mounted on a massive tree stump was the largest of the three anvils; a strong, reliable arm, worn smooth by years of toil. A half-finished wrought iron bedstead the blacksmith had been working on leaned up against the wall, along with various other projects such as fire tool sets, fancy gates and shop signs. The big cast iron drill press in the corner had been cleaned; its sharp, corkscrew filings removed. Hanging from the roof were rows of odd looking and fearsome implements, frightening to some, but friends to her. All the blacksmith’s other tools were cleaned and lined up on the bench, the water storage replenished, ready for tomorrow.

In her own little corner, beneath a skylight, was a simple bench and high stool where Sye was allowed to work on her own projects, as long as her chores were completed. Her larger tools, such as tongs and heating irons, which the blacksmith had helped her to make, hung in order of size upon the wall. The smaller tools and equipment were safely tucked into the leather pouch she carried in her bag. Her apron hung on a fancy hook she had designed herself. She was pleased with the soldering she’d done on a silver bracelet today.

Sye was grateful that the blacksmith fostered her interest in metalwork and hoped he would recommend her to the Metalworker’s Guild next month. Otherwise she would be sent to slave in a manor house, or to backbreaking fieldwork pulling a plough, or worse, the mines. Many a pretty Dragonkind girl had lost her looks and her pride in the black pit. Many had succumbed to ‘Black Lung’, the coughing sickness that made your skin turn yellow and wrinkled and stole the breath from your lungs. Perhaps he’d felt sorry for her, poor, motherless girl with an alcoholic father. She didn’t care, as long as she could continue to work here. It was heavy work sometimes and she often felt too sore to fall asleep, but she belonged here. When he wasn’t instructing her in his rough, quiet way, the blacksmith didn’t speak, just toiled in his shroud of steam, shimmering heat and noise. When white-eyed horses reared in fright at the smell of their hoof burning under a hot metal shoe, she calmly did as he bid and kept a cool head. The horses were such sensitive and emotional creatures, though you wouldn’t know that from the way most of their ignorant owners treated them, flogging them with whips and sticks, yelling abuse.

Customers ignored her. Under the protection of the blacksmith, whose talent was relied upon heavily by the Meer government, The Avendorean Protectorate, she was exactly how she wished to be - silent, uninteresting, invisible. The neatness and tidiness of the workshop, the predictable routines and methods were a pleasing comfort. There were no loose, uncontrollable elements here.

She locked the door to the smithy and slung her leather satchel on her shoulder. It was beautifully tooled by her own hand, in the dragon design she favoured. He was black and glorious, rearing up with raised forelegs raking the air, a row of spikes down his spine and a great and terrible head. He was the stuff of her dreams, or nightmares. Lately the same dream had persisted, causing her headaches in the day and a fearfulness her pride would not allow anyone to see. She turned into the street, stepping over something smelly in the drain. It was after sunset. She’d stayed longer than she intended, which made her step quicken and her heart thump a little faster. The street lamps cast pools of gold on the paved road. A faint mist ringed the moon in rainbow colours but she did not stop to admire it. The streets of Koru Alley were empty. A Dragonkind girl on her own was vulnerable. The moronic sky wardens wandered about, swinging their batons and waving their loaded

crossbows, looking for a target. Sye slipped along the streets, head down, studying her boots as her feet thrust forward time after time after time into her vision. Then she heard their metal capped boots coming towards her and hunched.

Oi! Lizard girl!

Two uniformed wardens blocked her way. Without meeting their eyes she pulled out her identity papers. The warden snatched them.

Sye… He leaned in close, his hot, beery breath making her cringe. What’s wrong with your hair, lizard girl? He grabbed a handful and yanked it so hard she hissed in her breath through her teeth. Look at me when I’m talking to you, you stinking lizard!

Sye raised her head. Lamplight fell across her hardened features. She wouldn’t let him win. She wouldn’t speak.

I’m talking to you! He slapped her so hard her head jerked back. She dropped her gaze, willing him to tire of this game. But she knew he wouldn’t. The next second she found herself falling and landed heavily in the drain. She wanted to scream at him, punch him in his stupid face, kick him in the groin. But even fuelled by rage, she wasn’t dumb enough to go for two sky wardens. The warden gave her a final hefty kick but fortunately, his boot found only her bag.

Come on. She’s nothing, said the other warden.

He grunted. Their heavy boots scuffed the pavement as they turned away and her identity papers fluttered to the ground. She snatched them up before they soaked up too much of the smelly ooze and folded them carefully. Making her way home to the three room shack she shared with her father, Aled. He had been a tailor of renown in his younger days, but now her feet slowed at the prospect of what she would find within. She feared the lash of his slurred tongue as much as his fists, and had learned to keep quiet.

The shabby dwelling was cramped. The sound of babies crying and heated arguments pierced the thin walls. All city Dragonkind lived in Koru Alley. Few, Meer or Dragonkind, used her father’s services these days. She did manage to earn a little from the blacksmith but he had barely enough to feed his own family. A wicker basket of food was sitting outside her front door. Hastily she scooped it up, looking around for a clue as to their mysterious benefactor. But she was yet to discover who this kind and thoughtful person was and she was too ashamed to ask.

Her father sat just as she had imagined, his hair awry, his clothes filthy and stained. But not a sound escaped his lips. Was he dead? Panic engulfed her as she imagined herself an orphan. Though he mistreated her when he was drunk, sober he was often kind and loving. She knew why he drank. She did not wish him dead. Inching over Sye leaned as close as she dared. Yes, he breathed. She busied herself emptying the basket of its contents. They were poor, she and her father, due mostly to his drinking. When he was sober he could sew - create beautiful garments even now. But those times were few. She spent every spare minute up at Ballich Ry Ana, the home of Gathena of Ballich, wife of The Supreme Commander, and her Son Reeve. It was a sanctuary from this. If not for her husband, Gathena would be living in the Dragonkind quarter too. Sometimes Sye wondered why Garit had chosen a Dragonkind woman as his wife. If he hadn’t been a gifted soldier whose services were sorely needed, Gathena may have been executed. The thought made Sye shudder even now. Life without Gathena would be unendurable.

Sye tidied the small kitchen, washed the floor with bucket and mop and draped a light blanket over the man who was, despite his frailties, her father.

In her tiny room Sye lit the lamp and settled down to finish a bracelet she’d been making. It was made of twisted strands of silver wire, with objects she’d found woven through it - a coin with a hole in it, a tiny horse charm, a piece of smoothed ebony wood and an earring, the partner of which she had lost. Gripping the ends with pliers she twisted them and neatly tucked them back into the design where they would not prick her wrist. Satisfied, she looked it over. Tomorrow she’d begin a new one, more delicate, as a present for Gathena.

Sye went to the mirror and frowned. Her blonde roots were beginning to show through. She would have to take care of that too tomorrow. The root of the kincasta bush, when boiled, produced a thick black ink which women of both races used to hide grey, or in her case, blonde hair. It cost nothing to gather, but it meant she must slip away at night, past the wardens, to the foothills of the Black Mountains - an exhilaratingly dangerous mission for beauty. Sye avoided looking at the thin white scar on her left cheek, cut so deep that it never faded. Unbuckling her wing harness she eased it off, letting it fall to the floor. It was a horrible heavy thing to wear. Unless she wanted to be whipped in public. Arching her back she stretched out her soft wings in the lamplight, the tips reaching to the furthest corners of the ceiling. It felt so good! She shook them gently, careful not to blow out the lamp. The skin winnowed the air with a soft whooping sound that created a flutter of joy inside her chest. Unstoppering a small bottle on the beside table she put a few drops of fragrant Lox oil on a soft cloth and proceeded to moisturise her wings, holding the fragile bones carefully, gently smoothing the oil into the finely scaled skin to stop them drying out and cracking. A painful tear or crack could stings for weeks.

The rest of her body was finely scaled, so fine that it shimmered ever so faintly in daylight, like she’d been tinted in pale gold paint. All her kind were the same, but, ashamed of their dragon-ness, some of the men in particular covered their skin with dulling cream, giving it a slightly brown tinge that didn’t refract light. It paid to look more like the darker, shorter Meer. Stand out less, less likely to be targeted. As it was, Sye’s wings were pale golden, not tinged beautiful turquoise and purple like the rest of her kind. This was a source of shame to her, so she kept them hidden within the folds of her clothes, tightly strapped under her harness.

She had put it off long enough. That burden she carried all day, in a tight corner of her mind, always crept forward in the dark stillness of the velvet night. Reaching for her journal she began to write. They were always sombre, sad words, looping gracefully together her grief and her pain. She had tried to write happy thoughts, but they would not come.

The only tangible thing her mother had left her was a necklace of onyx beads. This Sye twined around her fingers and caressed as she wrote and later, as she waited for the veil of sleep to come.

An image of Reeve popped into her mind and a shy smile slid across her face. He was a reckless fool sometimes but his humour, his joy for life was infectious. When she was with him, she laughed. Reeve, with his Dare Club pranks, made life interesting. Socially, she knew she was lucky to have his friendship, and by default, Sharona and Boric’s too. She cherished the hope that one day Reeve would realise how she felt. She wanted to be kerikeh, loved one, to him, not fisilla, sister/friend. Of the few surviving words of their native language of Coronet, she did not want these two to be confused.

As Sye snuggled down into the blankets and closed her eyes the song her mother used to sing to her escaped softly from her lips and into the dark. She kept it like a precious jewel in of her memory, its words of unknown meaning, in the lost, ancient language of Coronet. The sweet, melancholy melody always made her feel sad, the part of her that thought of her mother, the part that wouldn’t let go. One question burned day and night in her consciousness – Why? Why had she done it, left them, destroyed the life they had together as a family? Her father refused to discuss it. Forbid her to even mention her mother’s name.

Elessa. A sweet faced woman who often sang. But Sye had clear memories of the headaches, the nights of terror her mother endured with frightening dreams. The depression, the manic days of cleaning their home spotless while the sun shone. Elessa. A gifted seamstress herself. Together, she and Aled had created so many beautiful things. But now all of it was gone. Hocked long ago to pay for food. As she sang softly, Sye tried to remember a happy moment with her mother, sitting at the kitchen table, sewing. As always, the melody lifted her spirit, like a soft blanket wrapped around her body.

Minak A’vri,

Atoah shi,

Ballich Ry,

Élan heim.

She’d often wondered why Ballich Ry, Gathena’s home, was mentioned, what it meant, but all she knew was what her mother had told her - The tune is soft and melancholy, but the words have great power. These words are special to you, Sye, and some day they will fall from your lips for a great purpose. Her lips moving silently as she recited the words, Sye slipped into a dream. She was in her mother’s arms again, could smell that familiar perfume, hear her mother’s heart beating against her ear.

She woke with a start. A crashing sound came from the kitchen.

SYE! You bitch, get in here!

She scrambled out of bed, hastily put on a robe over her flimsy night dress and ran to the kitchen. He stood, swaying, his hand gripping the table edge. The lamp gleamed upon his face, revealing a fanatical look in his eyes. Get me food. NOW! As she sidled to the cupboard he lurched forward to smash his fist into her face. She dodged awkwardly and fell, hitting her arm on the corner of the cupboard. Pain yanked up to her shoulder. She didn’t cry out; that would only anger him more. She opened the cupboard door and removed the platter of cheese and a small piece of cold meat which the neighbours had provided.

Now, damn it! I work hard to keep you fed, you little whore! The least you can do is put some food on a bloody plate for your own father!

With a trembling hand Sye placed the plate on the table and he fell to eating with hungry grunts.

Wine! Where’s that bottle? he demanded. She watched his hands, wary. Those very same hands which stitched so neatly and tidily could without provocation grab her hair and wrench it, could slap her face so hard she felt it sting for hours after, could bruise her for weeks. She grabbed a bottle from the cupboard and left him to it. Going to her room she locked the door and stood with her back pressed against it, biting her lip and listening. There were no footsteps for quite a while. Then she heard him go to his own bed. Only then did she breathe properly. Tomorrow she would escape to Gathena’s. And hope there would be no questions about the bruises.

As she snuggled under her blankets and forced her breathing to slow, Sye tried to focus on that familiar pleasant memory of sewing at the kitchen table and pray her dreams were not haunted tonight like they had been for weeks. A terrifying image of a great black dragon, straddled on a mountain top, roaring endlessly, his thunderous voice echoing over the valley. Even during the day she saw the image of his