CHAPTER 7: Ivorie Rayanne, The One Year Bride

Ostarii, the town of Yrzat, the mountain range of the Western Waste

Thirty One Years Ago

It was the break of dawn at the small village atop the mountain passes of the Western Waste. It was a beautiful day, the horizon was rosy and all the shades of purple. But to Ivorie, this was just another day, she was a poor shepherd girl, out on a task that she had done for the last five years.

Life was hard up in the rarefied air of the mountains of Yrzat.

The spring moons were coming up and that meant that the sheep were going to be ready for the shearing. There were less than three hundred people in her village and the surrounding hamlets. They all looked pretty much like her, flaming red hair, a few strawberry blondes.

But even among her people, Ivorie was recognized as a beauty, she was taller than most, her limbs more proportioned. Years of walking and bearing a long knife on her hip, and a heavy staff on her right hand had turned her muscular. Her thick, flaming red hair was neatly arranged in two thick braids that hung to her waist. Grass green eyes fringed with thick red lashes stood out in her slightly freckled face. The rest of her town mates had light green eyes, like the first leaves of a tree.

But her eyes were unusual, the color of moss. Her parents died in an avalanche when she was younger. And her grandmother Zaphira raised her. Her grandmother was kind and gentle, but nearly sixty years old, and feeble. And that meant that all the chores were on Ivorie’s shoulders. She had her father’s flock to mind. And it was hard work even for a young man. Much more for a girl. But Ivorie was not the type to complain. She was resilient, and learned how to adapt.

The people of the mountain range were known to be lovely. There were songs that their early ancestors were angels, since they lived on the highest peaks of the mountains. Angels who had mated with humans. Most of the population of Ostarii were dark haired, dark eyed and olive skinned.

Ivorie hummed along the usual donkey path she had traversed for a thousand times. She skipped and prodded the plump sheep with her walking stick. It was so burdened with fleece that it ambled slowly along. She was hoping that she could get a decent price for the wool. Her shoes were so threadbare that she could feel the stones beneath. It was a good distance away from their small cottage. A good hour and a half walk away. Some seven miles away.

Perhaps she could buy a few yards of good cloth. Grandma Zaphira needed a new shawl.

Among other things. Their house was falling apart. The thatched roof needed re-patching. They only had two good plates. The other four were chipped and cracked in places. The grand daughter and her grandmother barely made it through last winter. They only survived by the grace of the neighbors who were kind enough to share their food and firewood. She hoped to make enough to pay them back. Maybe she could get more than two hundred crowns for her fleece this time. She only got a hundred and seventy-five last year.

Not enough to keep them in food for the rest of the year. Just enough. She was thankful for the tiny garden patch in the back yard. At least, they had a meager supply of potatoes and carrots.

Thank the gods for small graces.

There had been offers of marriage for Ivorie, but none of the potential suitors had agreed to take in old Zaphira. Besides it felt awfully awkward marrying boys she had grown up with. Like she was going to end up with cousins.

She shuddered. She could not leave her grandmother to live in a ramshackle cottage with a roof on the verge of falling apart! The people of Yrzat were kind and gentle. But the brutality of life did not allow them to be generous.

That’s how life was.

The people of Yrzat were followers of the goddess Sarutha and her twin Sitaion, and their dead were left behind on mountain top altars to be eaten by vultures. The vultures were believed to carry the spirits of the dead to the deities. Even the bodies of the dead were not wasted. Food and money were so hard to come by, that nothing was thrown out. Old worn clothes were carefully mended. Knitted and crocheted blankets and scarves were diligently unraveled and re-used. Dishes and plates were mended with glue made from sheep bone. The village of Yrzat was so poor, that hardly anyone went to Ostarii to study. The villagers couldn’t afford the coins needed to take the qualifying exams in the lowland towns. Ivorie only knew how to read and write. She didn’t need anything else besides that, except counting skills.

Ivorie sat on the familiar boulder where she usually frequented. It was on higher ground, she could see any predators coming from the nearby forests. She was busy assessing the state of her left shoe and wondering if she could afford to have it repaired when she heard the frenzied bleating of a sheep. She stood up, and gripped her knife on her hip with her right hand, and her slingshot with her left. The fine hairs on her arm stood up and she spotted them.

Wolves!

They were lean and obviously starving, snapping and drooling, she could see their ribs through the matted fur. The air was electric with the sound of their growls.

Three of them! She grit her teeth and ran towards them, flailing her staff over her head and making as much noise as she could!! The one on her left tucked it’s tail and ran, but the two larger ones stood their ground. One wolf had its jaws locked on the leg of the last sheep that was moving too slowly.

Ivorie loaded her slingshot and swung it above her head, she could not afford to risk to miss this shot. But as she was about to launch it to the nearest wolf, a great shadow fell on the ground at great speed. She heard the rustling sound of great wings flapping. The wolves ran off, terrified at the sight of the great beast. Ivorie fell to the ground, as an enormous beast, the size of a small hill, landed perfectly not ten feet away from her. She could hear her flock running back to the village. She dusted herself, and slowly walked to the fallen sheep.

It was bleating pitifully.

The animal’s foot was broken in three places, and the bone jutted out where the wolf had laid it’s sharp jaws Ivorie wiped the hot tears from her left cheek. She hated having to do this. That sheep belonged to her father’s original flock. She had grown up with it. It was a part of her father. She sighed and sang a soft lullaby as she cradled the sheep’s head in her lap. Calmed down, the sheep looked away. She seized its distraction and quickly twisted the sheep’s neck. The sheep lay its head down and no longer moved. She wiped her eyes. And cried into her hands. That sheep was worth at least 30 crowns, and the loss of a sheep, meant that she might as well have thrown food away. An unpardonable crime in her hardscrabble town.

“I’m sorry I should have been here earlier.”

Ivorie had completely forgot about the dragon. But that voice didn’t belong to a dragon. It belonged to a man. It was a loud, sonorous voice with a metallic quality to it, she looked around looking for the dragon. But it was gone. In the great beast’s place was a tall man, more than six hands tall, and Ivorie was nearly six hands tall. His body was giving off steam.