1st 5 Pages January Workshop - Grigorova-Schaarschmidt

Name: Lily Grigorova-Schaarschmidt
Genre: New Adult Fantasy
Title: Dragon Season


From the second book of Aalyn Stargazer, prophet of the Change: “It is the year of the Dragon, age third of this earth, and it has come to the birth of what will bring us to ruins. It will be a time of sinking hearts, evil powers, and empty souls. Fear, death, and dishonor will roam the earth unpunished, and good people will hide and keep silent. All hope will go into the ground faster than water on sand and no trace will remain.”


The old road wound along the crest of Alya hill, as it had wound for hundreds of years before the House of Carnelian had settled in the plateaus of the Footmark. Its smooth cobblestones were polished nacreous by feet, horseshoes and wheels, and their age no one could tell. The old Baian Carnelian, father of boyar Baian, used to tell his grandchildren the story of this road, and every time they listened to him open-mouthed. He told how it was built by the sons of czar Aristo, last of the Great Warriors of the Riding People, in the year when he left the steppes to found his dominion here, among the ancient plateaus. “The czar’s sons placed the stones with their own hands and chose them even and smooth so that his footfalls would be heard far and wide and resound over the whole plain; they wanted all the people of the Hand to hear that there is a new czar and lord coming. When the royal procession passed along the crest of Alya, the czar dismounted from his horse and asked his sons: “Why did you make this white road?” His sons answered him: “With toil and blood did we build your road, father, to make sure that this land will remember for all eternity the coming of its new lord.” “Why did you build it with your own hands and didn’t order the villagers to build it for you?” “Because what a man builds from stone with his own hands, he will never leave.” And the czar, pleased, descended into the valley and galloped toward the plateaus of the Footmark to sit on his new throne.” With these words the old Baian Carnelian would sit back in his chair, sucking his pipe, and his grandchildren would jump up eagerly asking him to tell them more. Which he did. And whether his stories were true, nobody knows…

So the road winds along the crest of Alya hill, as white as ever, so old that no chronicle records who and when has built it. And with each passing year its cobblestones look more and more like nacre. Now the stones are reverberating with the impatient gallop of Marya, a young and stalwart mare of the purest Amahrah breed, and on her back is bent the last of the Carnelians. Only she remains of the four grandchildren, who listened open-mouthed to their grandfather’s stories about the great czars of the Riding People. She is the last one who remembers. If she has remembered. Her name is Elena.


It was the month of winds of the year 2207. Elena Carnelian, daughter of the boyar of Alshanai Baian, and granddaughter of Baian Thundervoice, was returning to Khania after six years in the royal courts of the Federation. She spurred her mare along the frozen cobblestones in pursuit of a black shadow that raced ahead of her. The shadow glided over the uneven body of the hill, its outline rippling on the frosted earth as it passed over boulders and bushes. It had the most unusual shape, but Elena had seen it before, back in the colorful years of her childhood. From the moment she had crossed the border river, she had been looking forward to seeing it. And there it was, on the very doorstep of her hometown. The shadow darted over the white frosted meadows of the hill like a wild trick of the light, gradually approaching the open plain beyond Alya’s crest, where the silhouette of Alshanai was emerging from the mist. Elena pressed her heels into the mare’s sides, spurring her on. She couldn’t lose sight of it. For this was no ordinary shadow. It was the shadow of a child.

As it neared the edge of the hill, the shadow got larger and then in the blink of an eye disappeared, sank somewhere beyond the ridge. Elena pulled Marya’s reins and peered at the sky, searching. Up there, in the colorless winter air, a pale shape materialized, rushing headlong towards the ground. The owner of the shadow was a boy, not more than six or seven years old. His arms were outstretched, his feet slightly apart, his head up, his gaze in the distance. He whizzed by a dozen meters above her, without even noticing her, but Elena managed to see his face. There was pure exultation on it. She watched his graceful dive over the plain – a swift black spot, led by its even blacker shadow, skimming the treetops – until she lost him among the wavelike downs at the skirts of Alya.

With a sigh, as if for something irrevocably lost, Elena Carnelian jumped from the saddle. Her feet landed softly on the hard packed earth.

It was a late winter afternoon, and the valley had wrapped itself in silence. A pale sun had emerged from the greyness of the sky, shedding unusual warmth over the frozen land. Elena drew a deep breath, and her heart leapt, awakened. The earth smelled of strength and life, of truth and purpose she had almost forgotten. Alshanai was hiding against the foot of Alya, enveloped in pre-evening mist, but through the grey air she could discern silhouettes of buildings and streets so familiar they touched her soul. Beyond the city, along the east horizon where evening was already draping its first veils, loomed the outlines of the Footmark – the tangle of rock plateaus, among which Khania’s ancient history had begun its regal course.

Somewhere there, amid the winding plateaus, was the city of Baarr, and in Baarr, maybe, was Ivaylo …

Marya nudged her hand, and Elena tore herself away from the view. She opened her saddlebags, fishing out a small mirror, round and pretty, engraved with a silver wood-nymph rose. Her lips were chapped after the long ride, so she moistened them with rose balm. Fatigue had drained the velvet glow from her olive skin; under her eyes, hazel, with the green-brown hues of winter woods, had gathered shadows. She pinched her cheeks to bring out some color and for a moment stared at the tiny star-shaped birthmark on her right cheekbone, just under the eye. In the courts of the Federation her slightly dusky skin, flowing auburn curls, and this birthmark had won her a reputation as a southern beauty. Once, in the late morning of her youth, before the university, before the Federation, this star-shaped freckle had made Ivaylo call her “Errie” – after the brightest star on the east horizon. Because stars, he said, marked their favorites with their beauty …

In a moment of weakness her hands quivered. The small silver mirror slipped through her fingers. Paralyzed, like in a dream, Elena watched its merciless flight to the ground, unable to stop it. Upon its impact with the nacre of the road the mirror burst like a teardrop. She remained petrified, her eyes on the shards, while the sun disappeared behind her, taking its warmth from the world.