Page 35 of The Dragonrider and the Void
“Save your strength,” he told her softly.
Quinthara moved her head in close behind him, examining the stains. She again sent him the same on-edge sensation to be cautious.
“It’s not mud,” Hardin said, wiping his finger over the dark streak on her neck. The stain was like ink set into her skin. He pulled back her hair, seeing more streaks creeping up from under her sweater. “This almost looks like the tattoos the Morsythians had when under Joc’s control, only much thinner and splotchy.”
Anger flooded Hardin’s shared senses, emanating from Quinthara.
“Hardin. The dragon. You found help in Astral City?” Marra managed to ask.
“You could say that,” he said as he turned to Quinthara, who was studying the shambling townspeople.
A handful worked to carry water to sluice boxes at the edge of the square, while the majority trekked toward the caves at the edge of town. Within moments, Hardin realized they were working to haul buckets of rock out by hand, spread them in the sluice box and then return for more.
“Those caves were always considered sacred,” he said. “No one ever worked them. Why are they being forced to now?”
Quinthara pulled his attention to the runes carved into the cobblestones again.
“Whatever’s in those caves, whatever Thorgan found, has something to do with the runes,” he said, voicing her suggestion.
Marra’s fingers dug into his arm. “Be careful, brother. Thorgan has done something to Rodjex. He’s not what he seems. None of this is what it seems.”
Hardin studied the unfamiliar runes more closely, careful not to step directly on them. They formed a pattern that didn’t look like a formation of letters or pictographs. It was more like a naturally created geometric patterns, just like frost forming orthe unique shape of a snowflake. Dirt and rock being dumped into the sluice boxes drew his attention again.
“That’s odd,” he said, noticing several people picking through the washed rocks, placing them back into their buckets and returning them to the caves. “Why would they be bringing the ore back into the cave?”
Quinthara’s attention directed him to runes etched into the cave entrance.
“Those markings,” he said, remembering the philosophical discussions he’d had in his Dor Bishdo training with Sense Kalu. “What if they aren’t forcing the curse onto the people. What if they’re feeding into something else...” As he said it, they picked up on a faint trail of power waving through the earth. It was like an invisible river, flowing toward the cave.
Quinthara’s unease forced Hardin to focus back on his sister and the dark stains on her skin.
They’re connected to the flow of magic?
Quinthara shared a vision, pulling him to her thoughts. Images presented themselves. Dragons forcing lesser magical creatures to work. Among the beings, Hardin recognized fire fae, their life energy forced into the dragon eggs.
No, that can’t be right. They’re forcing them to give their lives to hatchlings?
What she showed him next was a split of dragon kind. War broke out among them. Those against forcing creatures to give their life force to the eggs crossed the realms. A rectangular stone became the focus; a confusing image ended the sudden dump of information.
“Was that what caused the first dragons to come to Sataran? Their kind was using other’s life essence to hatch more dragons?” Hardin surmised.
Quinthara nodded.
“What about the stone at the end?”
When more insight didn’t materialize through their shared mental connection, he realized that she didn’t know. These images had been passed on to her from her ancestors; she had not experienced them.
“The amulets were crude compared to whatever this is,” he said, watching his mother make another mechanical trip to the well. “The magi found a way to bind people directly, without requiring physical tokens. Like they had with the Morsythians, using…”
The realization set in. He should have returned sooner. They moved toward the cave, Marra following as best she could.
One of the townspeople stumbled. Young Pell struggled to keep moving, clearly driven against his will. His arms trembled under the weight of his rock-filled bucket. Before the boy could fall, Hardin caught him, steadying both him and the bucket. The contact sent a jolt through Hardin’s hands, like touching a frozen metal rail. Through that brief connection, he felt the pull of the runes on him, feeding from his essence.
“The caves,” Marra whispered, still fighting against the curse to help him understand. “Thorgan goes there, at midnight. When only starlight… touches the peak… of Ram’s Head.”
Hardin’s gaze lifted to the mountain looming above them, its jagged summit already touched with evening light.
Quinthara’s growl deepened as more townspeople emerged from the mouth of the cave, their clothes stained with dust and dirt, their exposed skin marked the same as Marra’s.
