User:8bit BlackMage/Between Rock and Rain/Prologue

"Isa, isa!" The affectionate phrase for "father" in the old Deis tongue rang across the precipice in a seven-year-old's treble voice. The Drakeling unfolded his growing wings to greet his father's, which beat reassuringly as they broke out of the mist below. Tomas Hale landed with a practiced peace, mediating the force of the final updraft needed to reach the jumpoff point. His tail swept out a shallow arc in the snow, balancing out the lurch of a ponderous goatskin pack. Then it twisted around to poke his son lightly on the chest. Calderone Hale laughed - a quiet laugh, but one filled with delight. "What did you bring this time?" In reply, Tomas allowed him a glimpse into the bag. An eclectic mix of goods not native to Mt. Iola peeked out - bitter-smelling herbs, wrinkled folds of leafy vegetables, a glass vial of ink nestled carefully among spindles of cloth. After a brief scan, Calderone gave his father a quizzical look. "No sandalwood? You always trade for sandalwood on the new moon." Tomas's thin, cobalt-scaled face twisted in a near-grimace. "You have a very keen eye, Calderone." His son continued to stare in silence as the updraft extinguished itself in a howl, prompting the old courier to respond truthfully. "The sandalwood was too heavy for me today. Another courier will be bringing it up soon. You may wait for him if you like." Calderone took his father's hand. "I don't need to. I was just here to see you come back." The wind wound down to a whisper as they walked up the stone steps to Tyre together.

Like a giant's staircase, the eight terraces of Tyre fanned from the near-summit of Mt. Iola down along its eastern slope. The 8th Terrace was the highest, smallest, and coldest. Here Calderone's voice echoed off Mt's Iola's narrowing cliffs and the stone walls of scattered huts. "What comes after the third river crossing, isa? Is there another jump right away?" Tomas nodded. "Yes, and a northeast glide over to a grand fir. It stands alone, sheltering the exit of an abandoned mine shaft." They passed a clearing facing north, lined with emaciated trees and epitaphs etched in granite. The area always drew Calderone's gaze, but his father pressed onward to a lone, unassuming hut. "The Demi-rjian, we call it. Sentinel." He paused at the faded birch door marking the entrance to the Hale residence. "I must visit Elder Ettore. Your mother is expecting you for meditation. Please heed what she has to say." Calderone suppressed the next question on his tongue, as well as the desire to look back at his father for support. An atmosphere of absolute stillness greeted him on the other side of the birch panel. Taking care to tread through as lightly as possible, he passed into the small sanctum past the dwelling's lone staircase. Here Sonia Hale sat, statuesque, somewhere between dream and desolation, as she did every day. And every day, nearly every hour, Calderone sat by her side. "My son," she whispered, remaining with her back to him. To Calderone, that phrase could convey anything - pride, disappointment, concern, neutrality. He was still learning how to navigate through the practice of meditation, but he had learned that silence was usually a safe option. Sonia made no movement as he stooped to sit next to her, and only after he began to fidget did she deign to speak again. "Focus on what you are thankful for this hour. Think on how far we remain from grace, yet accept any consolations given with humility. Accept them not only for their own worth, but because the gods themselves have accorded them to our hearts." It was all Calderone could do to focus on her first sentence, and everything that fell after was no more than a flood of words. Still, it was easy to think of what he was grateful for. His mind flew back to the morning, at the cliff face, and cycled again and again through an image graceful wings returning home. When Sonia was sure her only son's eyes were closed, she opened her own, regarding him with a bittersweet muteness. Then she sank back into aridity.

"There is no better way to study Haevar than with the couriers in training. He has a inclination towards the language, and our relationship with the Humes of Forssa will only continue to grow. We cannot isolate him forever, Sonia." So Tomas Hale had persuaded his wife, and so Calderone had sat in a stone hollow of a classroom flanked by a dozen other Drakelings he did not know.

The first lesson passed in a haze of excitement and apprehension. Calderone loved the sound of Haevar, with its smooth syllables and rich inflections. It was like the soft ripple of rain on roofs during summertime. The classroom environment was foreign to him, however, and the its speed far outstripped his father's usual placid pace. He scribbled charcoal notes furiously on the vellum he had brought, and whispered each time the instructor called on the group to repeat after her.

When the students were dismissed, most of them drew into a tight circle, abandoning the rows of flattened rocks that served as desks. Calderone heard his name murmured more than once. Cross-legged, he looked down at the notes he had zealously compiled. Too tightly, he rolled up the sheets of vellum, not knowing whether to remain seated or leave as quickly as possible. Whatever words came to mind, his mouth did not have the courage to utter. The gathering began to disperse, but slowly, so Calderone bided his time by daydreaming through a recreation of the lesson. He would learn how to learn, the same way everyone else did. He would speak like them, maybe, no, definitely...! Perhaps he could even speak Haevar with a Hume one day... The last thing he expected was a sudden clap on the shoulder. With much panicked unfurling of wings, he spun around, not hearing the expected chorus of laughter. Everyone had left the hut but the boy that had startled him. He was the tallest in the class, and sported a growing garland of black scales around his neck. Calderone gaped at him. The boy waved a wing and a broom in one hand genially. "Didn't mean to scare you, but I thought you would never leave! I'm Hollin, by the way. It's my job to clean the room after each class." Calderone continued to stare at him like he was a ghost. Though Hollin managed to sustain the full force of his grin, his eyes crinkled nervously, and he retracted his hand. "Um, unless you need this space for something? I can, um... arrange? I can arrange for -"

"Oh, no! Sorry. I have to go... back. Thank you!" Calderone stood in a hurry, folding his wings and nearly tripping over the earthbound desk as he reeled towards the door.

"Hey!" Hollin called after him. "...What's your name?"

It was an unnecessary question, and Calderone knew it. He appreciated it all the same.

"I'm Calderone. See you next class!" "See you!" As Calderone neared the exit to the hollow, he noticed another broom leaning against the wall. The swishing sounds of Hollin sweeping up charcoal dust filled the room. He grabbed the second broom. "Hey, Hollin!"

"I have asked the Stel family to bring Calderone with them tomorrow as they work in the mines. To observe, of course. My hope is that he will understand how vital their role is." Tomas's suggestion was met by some skepticism, but Sonia eventually relented, given that Calderone's training in Haevar was proceeding smoothly. The older members of the Stel family had been kind enough to Calderone when he showed up early next morning, but were hesitant to allow him too far into the depths.

After several stumbles in the near darkness that permeated the pits laced with silver veins, he found himself ushered worriedly closer to the surface. The well-muscled miner uttered an apology and left him at a union of tunnels, well-lit by scores of oil lamps strung along the cavernous ceiling.

Only two others remained at this level. A girl near his age and an ancient male whose scales shone a scant slate-blue busied themselves with scattered piles of rock. Occasionally, a miner from below would emerge from a tunnel and deposit a fresh assortment of boulders in front of them. Calderone pressed himself against a wall, trying not to be in the way. He stole glances at the others' work, and while the girl thoroughly ignored him, he could not escape the older Drake's eventual inviting gaze.

"Come learn, Master Hale. That is your purpose here, no?" The cordiality he exuded was so unlike the elders of the higher terraces, so Calderone drew closer. He surmised that the two were separating the rocks brought by the miners into smaller heaps that seemed identical to him. The older Drake, noting his confusion, chuckled and shuffled away from Calderone and the girl.

"Elissa can teach you of our purpose. I will be working over here. Please don't mind me."

The girl sighed and rolled her eyes. "Grandpa..." Her lament was met by a gravelly laugh and temporarily deaf ears.

"Well, okay then. Grandpa and I pick out ore the rest of our family brings up and place them into piles based on how much silver we think is in them." Elissa spoke in a sort of cadence as she worked, snatching, scanning, and sorting stones with rhythmical fierceness. "So what do you do?" "Um. I meditate, and learn languages and history. Nothing like this. I don't know how you do it," he finished lamely, immediately wishing he had spoken more positively. Elissa's hands continued to fly through pieces of ore. If she was offended, the tempo of her voice did not betray her. "Well, if you can't do something, don't. Just do what you can." So he did, observing in silence, trying to determine what Elissa saw in some scraps of rock that he did not. Her hands flew too fast for him to scrutinize every stone, so instead he focused on where her eyes lingered as she weighed each one. "The good ones feel lighter for their size," Elissa announced, matter-of-factly. She picked up a rock with a beautiful argent streak and waved it at Calderone without looking at him, before placing it with passable gentleness into one of the smaller piles. "And sometimes it's just obvious."

Several minutes passed, and several miners appeared to take away Elissa and the elder's work. Calderone decided to hazard a question, buoyed, if anything, by faith in repetition. "Does anything larger than this one go into a 'good' pile?" Calderone pointed to an unassuming, nearly spherical stone that Elissa had never touched but was constantly hurling glares at. She raised almost invisible eyebrows, and for once, slowed. "Yes," she granted.

"And you always place the 'good' piles closest to you, so your family knows which is which?"

"That's right." Elissa waited for another question, inspecting a fresh deposit of rock. Hearing none, she resumed her normal pace. Another chuckle from afar echoed quietly against the silver-black towers. The sound filled Calderone with a strange confidence. "Do you think I could help you?"

She pushed two clawfuls of unsorted ore forward immediately, and finally targeted him with a mildly approving gaze. "Of course you can."