Into the Myste (Dragons of Daegonlot Book 2) by Shanlynn Walker

Author:Shanlynn Walker [Walker, Shanlynn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Shanlynn Walker
Published: 2016-01-29T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

We all have our time machines. Some take us back, they're called memories.

~ Jeremy Irons

Trakon woke slowly. He had been dreaming about the world he used to live on, one that didn’t have dragons or dogs the size of horses in it. His father, Treven, had been an herbalist, and magicians and wizards would come from miles around to buy his herbs. He had the most extensive inventory for over one thousand miles in any direction. Although he did not consider himself a magician, it seemed he could certainly work magic with plants.

When Trakon had been but a boy of maybe eight years, his father had taken him on a trip to a very remote marshland located far northeast of their village. They had finally reached the marsh on the third day of their journey, and although it was just past mid-day, his father had called a halt and they had made camp. After they had eaten some sandwiches, Treven had passed the time telling stories about the many adventures of his youth. It was one of the best memories Trakon had of his father. Treven had even pulled out his cherished fiddle, hand crafted by one of the finest instrument makers of the time, which his father had received in payment for a large sum of herbs, and he had played for his son. When dusk finally settled over the land, his father had put away his fiddle and sat Trakon down.

“Tomorrow we will enter the marsh, son,” he had said. “You will need to stay very close to me, and always follow in my footsteps. It can be a very dangerous place for the unwary.”

Trakon, who, until this point had been having a fine time, was suddenly afraid of what tomorrow would bring and his father saw this. Kneeling in front of the lad, he put his hand on his shoulder reassuringly. “There’s no danger so long as you do what I say, son,” he said. He pulled out a damp cloth from his pocket, neatly folded into a little square. Once unfolded, it revealed a tiny basket woven from blue moss, no bigger than Trakon’s thumb. “I think I have found a way to transport and grow the valeri root myself, and if it works, it means we will never have to come to this god’s forgotten place again.” As he said this, he gazed for many long moments across the horizon towards the marsh they would enter tomorrow.

After a short while, he turned back towards his son and motioned for him to climb into the wagon. Seeing that Trakon was tucked into his cot with plenty of blankets, he then checked on their large draft horse, Girdie, to make certain she had plenty of oats in her bag and was hobbled so she couldn’t wander off. Trakon heard his father sit down around the campfire, pull out his fiddle once more and begin to play. He fell asleep to the tune of a lively jig, and dreamed of tavern girls dancing in a barroom full of laughing men and women.

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