The Ancient Elementals Book One: Sky Dragon

Wild Girl of the Woods

In the valley of Mount Orin, in one of the many small northern villages, business was bustling. The farmers were already out in the fields since daybreak, and the merchants were hawking their wares in the main square. Wives of wealthier men were home, while the less affluent were at the well with their laundry, buying daily groceries, or tending to the wealthy children while their own children ran loose around town. Each of these tasks kept the town alive. But each of these daily tasks would eventually bring about pain.  

And at the the forest, in the shadow of Mount Orin, Alya made her living off of pain. She did not relish it, she did nothing to bring pain about, but nevertheless, it was her main enterprise. Just last week, when a farm hand has almost lost his finger to an accident with the plow. He had bought medicine from Alya, as well as been stitched up without losing a limb. The merchant who sold imported cloth had a nasty cough, and sought out her tonic made from herbs gathered in the forest, herbs only she knew how to brew just so. The wives gave birth and called on her when difficulties arose, but then there were wives who wished to not give birth. They called on her also. There was always pain that needed fixing, and Alya was the one to go to when the local doctor started offering cures of bleeding or the holy leaders offered prayers. Alya of the forest tended to give better results. 

 At nineteen, Alya had been on her own the past three years. Her parents taught her everything they knew about herbology—which plants did what, where to find them, and which to avoid at all costs—but in the end they had no cure for the great sickness that had swept over them like a storm, obliterating countless in its path. Three years later, the town was still recovering, but with financial help from the capital,  signs of wealth and economic stability were returning.

Today was market day, and Alya had been set up at her designated stall for hours. Her usually loose hair was plaited down her head in a neat, dark row just as her mother had taught her. “Looks don’t matter my dear, until you need to sell something. Then,” she had been told, “you better look good.” In her nicest dress, clean and no holes, she tried her best to look a respectable merchant, rather than a wild girl from the woods. Usually, it helped. Once she was cleaned up, she made sure to position herself in ways where she was looking up at her customers, preferably from under a hood. Her large dark eyes in her small face gave off a mystic effect. When she showed off her wares, her delicate hands moved with flourishes meant to enchant and attract. They didn’t notice that her hands were a calloused from working her plants into powder with mortar and pestle. And as her melodious voice spoke, they didn’t notice the dark circles under her eyes from nights spent searching for plants that only bloom by moonlight. With the proper preparation, they only saw what she wanted them to see. And that was how she liked it.

 However, she had only sold little things so far today. A simple poultice for a bruised ankle, a tonic to help someone sleep, a few raw ingredients. She knitted her brow, doing the math in her head and mumbling to herself, deep in thought. It was hot that day, warmer than usual for the northern town which usually boasted mild temperatures and cool breezes down from the mountains. People were staying home, or visiting the lakes that peppered the valley. Alya began to sweat. If she didn’t sell something more before closing, she wouldn’t reach her quota. That was unacceptable. 

“Hello?” A snooty voice piped up, impatience and boredom heavy in the drawn out word. Alya opened her eyes, and a slow smile spread over her face. She quickly hid it, and adopted a more serious look instead. Jackpot. 

The customer had come to her stall followed by a retinue of servants holding bags and banners. Apparently from one of the larger houses, his hair was coiffed just so in the latest fashion. His skin showed not a callous nor bruise, and his clothes were of fine silk. His robe barely brushed the ground, showing a peek of his trousers and expensive shoes. Useless clothes for a worker, but this man clearly didn’t work in a field or a tavern.

“How can I be of service good sir?” Alya spoke with exaggerated respect oozing from her words. Dignity was overrated in her opinion, while cash was king. 

“Am I speaking with the herbologist of the Orin forest, Alya Brighton?” The dandy brushed his hair off his shoulder with a delicate flick of his wrist, and looked down his nose at her. 

“I am humbly at your service, good sir. Whatever you may need, please let me know how I can help.” And how I can ask for three times the usual price for whatever it is, Alya thought with glee. 

“I am in the service of the Lord Ali, of House Zayed.” Alya raised her eyebrows. Everyone knew House Zayed. It was one of the richer noble families from the capital. Lord Ali’s father had been a great warrior, but when he passed, Lord Ali took over. Shortly after, sickness had hit the land, and Lord Ali had taken great measures to help his people, and not only within capital walls. Rations were sent to hard hit villages, supplies and medicine given. His generosity was astounding, especially considering his father had been the opposite. What could bring his messenger to Alya?

“It is of grave importance,” the messenger continued, “and Lord Ali has sent out messengers to all the renowned healers and medicine workers. Yourself included.” He seemed to spit out the last part. Clearly, he didn’t enjoy the task of speaking to someone so low as herself, especially since she was not technically a trained doctor. But apparently her reputation around town was good enough. Or else, Lord Ali was desperate enough.

“The second born daughter, Lady Amina, has fallen sick. We fear it is the very same sickness that crossed borders three years ago. And the Lord Ali has set a reward for anyone able to cure her.” He spoke rapidly, as if repeating a memorized list. But Alya felt her blood run cold just the same. 

The Lady Amina was just a child, five years old this past spring, and it was known she was a favorite of her father’s. Alya had seen her last year at the Sun Festival, and it was obvious she was the apple of his eye. Dark, thick curls framed her angelic face, jumping and giggling as her father held her in his lap. She had older brothers and a sister so she was not an heir, but just the same, his love for her was clear. And now she had been caught by evil.

Alya was stunned silent, and the messenger didn’t seem surprised. Perhaps others had reacted similarly when he delivered the message. He went on. “The Royal doctor has been unable to do anything more than halt the fever increasing, and although she continues her treatment, she predicts Lady Amina has limited time. The typical course of the sickness in children is...unpredictable, as you may know. We will leave a royal messenger and horse in every town center. If you have any information, anything at all, the messenger will bring you to Lord Ali. And if your treatment is effective, a reward greater than any will be given. Is that clear?”

Alya blinked, and realized he was waiting for a response, and said, “Crystal. I will do my best.” 

The snooty messenger abruptly turned and strode off with a wave of his hand his retinue streaming behind like little ducklings. For someone bearing terrible news, you’d think he would be more solemn. But he only seemed brisk and businesslike to Alya. 

She began packing immediately. Never mind the market, she had to move.