stare into the void with me

As always, he makes you wait for him outside his office until he bids you to enter. Waiting is mandatory, he checks; you’ve been caught out before.

You work as his apprentice, training in the mercantile arts. A profession that will open many doors eventually, and you reflect that the apprenticeship could be worse. Your master magnanimously allows you to sleep in one of his warehouses, where you’ve arranged some crates to allow yourself some privacy. A nearby bathhouse lets you in on the cheap if they’re not busy, and your wages are enough to afford food from the street carts around the city.

“‘Prentice!” he calls (as ever referring to you as such - he says he will learn your name ‘when you make something of yourself’) “Come here!”

You let yourself into his lavish office and stand (he affords himself a chair, but not guests) at his desk. About the wood-panelled room are pigeonholes for maps, records, and receipts. An ornate gold-chased globe stands proudly in one corner. At the window, a fine brass telescope pointed at the harbour, so he may watch the ships.

Your master is a man past his prime; once a sailor but now too many rich meals have taken their toll. He makes a show of tidying away papers before speaking. “I have it on good authority that the West-tower Mages are negotiating a lucrative contract regarding the sale of exotic flora to a wealthy collector. I have recently secured a shipment of rare plants from the southern territories. I am sending you to meet this dragon-” “Dragon.” You repeat in disbelief. “I know you heard me!” He snaps, then continues. “The wealthy collector is a dragon. I have arranged for you to meet with it and discuss details of my wares. I want you to convince it to purchase from me instead of the Mages.” From a drawer in his desk he takes a satchel and a coinpurse, which he hands to you. “Here are the details and expenses for your travel. You are to leave now. Do not mess this up, ‘prentice. If I do not get that contract then I do not want to see you again.” With that, he waves you away in dismissal. He pulls a journal from the cabinet behind him and studies the tallies within, ignoring you and entertaining no questions. You let yourself out.

It is coming up to midmorning as you hasten through the white-cobble streets. The sky is blue, clear, and through it wheel seagulls screaming their dulcet cries. You take stock of the money you’ve been given, and calculate that with the distance you’ve to travel it is not enough for a return carriage ticket. Thankfully there are the mail wagons, who are always willing to make a little extra taking passengers if there’s room.

As you leave the city, heading inland, you review the documents your master supplied. For your client, a list of various plants, their descriptions foreign and beyond your knowledge. For you, details of the location the meeting is happening - you’re visiting it’s home - and information about dragons.

The information supplied is basically a historical summary: long was there war between dragons and mankind. The losses for both sides grew too steep: dragons live long but breed slowly, and could not replace those killed by humans. For humans, the dragons razed whole cities, whole civilizations lost forever, obliterated. Thus, the Pact was formed: besides a few rare, sacred places, dragons must share their territory with humans. They must not harm humans without provocation. If entering human lands then they are bound by human laws. In return, humans must not provoke dragonkind, not encroach uninvited into the small area the dragon marks as its lair (where their hoard is kept), and humans must obey the laws of the dragon’s lair as stipulated by the dragon themselves. Of course, there have been a few examples of both sides violating the Pact and earning the consequences - if one side breaks the Pact, the other is no longer bound and free to retaliate - but things are mostly peaceable. Nevertheless you are nervous - you have never met a dragon before, and it does not help that your entire apprenticeship is on the line. You resolve to do your best, and hope things turn out alright.

A proper day of uncomfortable travel brings you close to your destination, to a small crossroads town. The mail carriage is continuing north after changing horses, but you need to travel east towards a dense forest. Regardless, it is already dark and further travel would not be sensible (for you - the mail coaches are known for laughing at such petty concerns as ‘danger’). You have enough gold for a stay at the inn. Inside it is not too busy. You take a table and a pretty barmaid makes her way over to take your order. You order some stew. She returns with your food and makes friendly conversation. “Where are you headed?” She asks. “I’m taking the eastbound road tomorrow. I have a meeting with a, er, client.” Her face falls, and her whole demeanour changes. “Oh. I see.” she says “Please excuse me. I’m needed in the kitchen.” You didn’t hear anyone calling for her. Your stew is tasty, but you don’t think too hard about what’s in it. Inns like this usually have a perpetually-going pot, kept constantly on the fire and bubbling, topped up with water and whatever’s available. You had hoped to while away the evening people-watching and re-reading your notes, but the other people in the inn act oddly towards you. You catch them stealing glimpses, speaking of you in funeral tones. You resolve it would be best to simply get an early night and head to bed. When you pay for your room, the innkeeper does not meet your eyes.

-

You sleep well, and after a quick meal of bread and breakfast beer you head to the coachyard. However, after asking around you’re informed that nothing travels on the eastern road - if you’re headed that way, it’s on foot. Your master’s directions state that the meeting location is a “short ways” into the forest, so with nothing else for it you set off at a steady walk. It’s strange, as you approach the forest there isn’t the usual gradual gradient of small trees and shrubs. You’re on the road with meadowgrass either side of you, then a few steps later you’re surrounded by dense, mature trees, the air cool, the sunlight filtered through oakleaf. It’s a pleasant journey. The path is disused but not derelict, lined with Lords-and-Ladies and Herb-robert. Chiffchaffs, Blackcaps, and Pipits sing from the trees. Somewhere in the distance a Jay complains angrily, disturbed from its roost.

Eventually you come to a tree scored with massive, fresh claw-marks, as if a giant cat had scratched here. The intent is obvious: the tree marks a boundary. Just as you’re wondering how to proceed, someone clears their throat behind you. You spin around in an undignified manner, for you did not hear anyone approach. Before you: the dragon, and you suppress a sigh of relief to see he (oh-so brave of your master to disparage them as an “it” from the safety of his office so far away) has chosen to greet you in his human form. Though he’s clad in this guise it would be impossible to mistake him as kin - his skin speckled with willow-green scales, proud flaxen-yellow antlers, golden eyes, and - of course - the tail. He wears an assortment of clothing from various cultures, all in mineral-green colours, and rather odd to your eyes. Much of it is centuries-old fashion, and the combination is clearly chosen for aesthetic reasons rather than any symbolic meaning. There is a fey and wild air about him. It puts you on edge. You find your tongue “Um. Hello” excellent start, you curse yourself “I’m here on behalf of-” He waves you into silence, and offers a serpentine smile “I know. I received your master’s letter.” He speaks softly, which isn’t what you expected. “Let’s not talk business out here. Follow - we’ll have tea.”

He moves past you and leads the way deeper into the forest. You move off the road and take a level, cleared side-path. Not long after, you enter a clearing.

You practically gaze slack-jawed at the magnificence of it - you have entered a beautiful, lovingly-curated garden finer than that of any royal palace. Underfoot is not grass, rather creeping thyme and pennyroyal which releases their scent when tread upon. At the centre of the garden is a dome-shaped glass house, the entranceway clearly not made for humans. The dragon leads you into the greenhouse, past exotic plants hailing from faraway lands. In here it is hot, humid, but not unpleasantly so.

Pride of place is a large, twisted weeping fig. Underneath is a wrought-iron garden table with two chairs of the same make.

“Please, sit” he indicates a chair. “I’ll be a moment.” You take your seat, and the dragon disappears behind the fig tree, reappearing shortly with a tea set. He begins preparing your drinks. “I hate to speak of such grave matters so soon.” He begins. “But we must address this before all else. This place is my lair, and the Pact dictates you are bound by my law. You must leave this place before sunset. That is all.” You nod, mute, and he smiles again. “Don’t worry.” he says “”Now…” With some ceremony, he places before you a rectangular plate, a saucer, and a cup. All three are a deep emerald green, chased with gold. Into your cup he pours hot green tea. Onto your plate he places three small pastries: one in the shape of a fish, one round like half a ball, and one square biscuit. You notice he isn’t sitting. “Ah,” he apologises “my garden is in dire need of tending for a bit. Please, have your tea, and we’ll get to your proposition soon.” As he busies himself elsewhere, tentatively, with some trepidation, you try the fish pastry. To your relief it is not fish flavoured: rather a soft cake-like exterior with a delicate floral filling. The round pastry is similar but more savoury - it is filled with chestnut paste. Lastly, the biscuit is delicious shortbread, infused with orangewater. It dries your mouth, so you take a sip of the tea (which has cooled somewhat). It is fresh and herbal, slightly grassy, with a hint of chamomile and lavender.

The dragon potters about your periphery, quietly managing his garden. From outside the greenhouse you can hear the soft sighing of the trees and the dutiful buzzing of bees. Periodically your tea is topped up, or a new delicacy is put on your plate. You are warm, and comfortable, and relaxed. The air is still, the garden is beautiful, and gently, you are lulled to sleep

-

You’re awoken, startled, to the sharp rapping of papers on the table. The dragon sits across from you. He has taken the papers out of your satchel, and is now shuffling them back into order.

It is dark. The sun has long since set. The moon and stars watch you from above.

The dragon is grinning at you, flashing his fangs, his golden eyes glinting despite the gloom. “I am sorry to inform you that I have no want for your wares.” He does not sound sorry at all. “The… West-tower Mage Collaborate, they call themselves? Have items more in my interest. And you… You should be leaving, should you not?”

You stand, and so does he. You back away, and he follows, still grinning, eyes still locked upon you. A deep, primitive part of your brain - that, indeed, had been vying for attention ever since you stepped foot into the forest - takes over.

You turn, and you run.

The night is not your friend, and though you are sure you should be on the path you came in on, the ground is scattered with hazards; brambles tear at your clothes in your desperate scramble, low shrubs and knotted tree roots trip you, and there is no sign of the clear road that should only be a short distance away. It is silent, absent of the usual night-creatures that should be present. The shadowed forest hides much. As you blunder through the undergrowth, however, you can see a large, sinuous shape following you. Herding you. Golden eyes tracking you. No matter which direction you flee, it is there, in front to stop you in your tracks, at your side to harry you onwards.

A sudden lack of obstacles sends you sprawling, and you throw out your hands. They crush the plants beneath you, and you smell thyme and pennyroyal. You choke out a sob - you’re back in the garden, having run in a circle. Back on your feet, you turn, but the trees behind you are too close together to get through. Bars of a cage.

Languorously, unhurried, the dragon emerges from the forest in front of you and crosses the clearing. He stalks towards you on silent feet, claws marking the earth as he passes. He licks his lips with a rose-red tongue, and rears his head to strike.