Sable woke early the next morning, called to life by the cries of the roosters in their shed. Even above the ever-present howling wind their crowing could be heard. The boy rolled over in his nest of blankets and groaned, wondering briefly why he felt a sudden rush of anxiety through his chest. The next second, however, reality flooded back to him and he remembered what the day held for him. Today his emissary would come to take him away. He shivered, and had to take a deep breath as he remembered all that he had ever been taught about Markings.
Emissaries were the middlemen for the families of the one being Marked. They arranged all the details set forth in the Marking Contract and established communication with the Marker. In cases of those who lived far out of the city, an Emissary came out to escort the selected member of the family to the trysting place. Sable knew that an Emissary was essentially a guardian, and would look after him until the business was done, when he would be returned home.
"I wonder what my Emissary will be like." Sable thought, having heard tales of some very strict Emissaries who had actually driven their charges to tears with overwhelming expectations. Sable knew he would be at the stranger's mercy while in his care, and wondered just how long he would have to wait until the actual night of the deed.
Some Markings followed a prologue of almost courtship behaviors between the Marker and the one receiving the Mark (called a Ward), where the two would enjoy what they could of the big-city scene. Sable had heard tales of extremely expensive Markings where the Marker would take their Ward to concerts, high-end stores, and fancy restaurants, treating them to everything. This type of glitzy 'wooing' was the watermark standard. There were lesser forms of this, like the Emissary taking the Ward out to experience the toast of the city in the Marker's place, and then only for one or two days. Any Marking that included at least one day for the Ward to relax and become familiarized with their surroundings, and/or spend time with their Marker cost a high price.
Sable had always thought the 'wooing' scenarios far more ridiculous than anyone seemed able to realize; whatever coin the Marker would shell out for their Ward would obviously be covered at least in part by their payment. It was nothing more than a charade, a false web of security woven by the high-priced Markers to ease the Wards into their beds more willingly.
"I wonder what kind of prelude there is to a dragon Marking…" Sable muttered to himself, as he realized that a dragon's price in itself was more than he ever thought his parents would be able to afford. Even if they had been saving for fourteen years since the day he was born, how could they ever be able to pay for more than a cheap lay in the afternoon with a politician? Then another thought struck him, and it was so powerful, so intense, that his eyes widened where he lay.
His sister's Marking…of course they must have been saving for her as well…He felt tears burn his eyes. His sister had been eight when she died two years ago, and that would have been a lot of money saved for her even with what little they earned. They must have pooled it together to give him such an expensive Marking. Sable gulped down the solid lump of pain in his throat. His father was right. No matter how he felt about the situation, his father was absolutely right; this was an incredible gift and he needed to make peace with it. Somehow.
Making peace would be easier if Sable knew a little more about dragons. His village was not so obscure that he had never seen a dragon before; Nardak was a tradesman's village and strangers came through on a daily basis. Two or three dragons had passed through in Sable's lifetime, but he had to be told that was what they were. It was difficult for Sable to point them out at a glance because of his colorblindness. He could run his ice-grey eyes right over a dragon and not even know that's what they were unless he took time to note the curved and pointed canines, the slit pupils of the eyes, and the pointed ears. These features could be overlooked completely from the right distance, but the hair was unmistakable to most people. From what Sable had been told dragons carried the color of their scales in their human hair, making them inescapably stand out. There were of course dragons who were black, brown, and gold, making them harder to identify in human form, but there were also more startling and unearthly shades. Bright blue, yellow, magenta, green, silver, essentially every color imaginable could be reflected in different dragons from different areas of the world. This was the reason that Sable would never be able to pick a dragon out from a crowd; he would never see the brilliant hair as anything more than a shade of black, white, or grey.
Ah yes, the brilliant hair. Sable blew out a breath when he remembered another fact he had picked up long ago. In a regular Marking the Ward received a quick sonic brand during the act, usually applied by a signature ring worn by the Maker. The side of the neck was the normal place for the mark to be placed and it didn't even hurt. Apparently, a dragon Marking was reflected in the Ward's own hair once the deed was done; a single lock would forever carry their Marker's color. How this was possible, no one could explain apart from the magic that was said to hang about dragons in general; no technology was used to make the mark, thus increasing their price. Sable remembered a girl of about sixteen who had come to the shop one time when he was young. She had a lighter strip of hair on one side of her dark head. He heard that the color was called aqua. While he could not see the color, the difference in shade was starkly noticeable, even to him. Her mother had bragged to Sable's parents about how wide the strip of color was, indicating that her daughter had been granted extremely good fortune. Apparently the larger and more noticeable the color, the more blessed the Ward was by the joining, and the better their future would be.
Sable had always thought this was a complete sham. Of course anyone with a strip of dragon hair could be guaranteed a good future because everyone around them would make it happen, simply due to that belief. It was a future of people's own making; everyone thought they were blessed, and therefore they were. Ridiculous. Even so, it was a proven system, and it would be the making of Sable and his family. There was nothing he could do to deny that, much as he'd like to.
Knowing that lying there any longer was simply avoiding the inevitable, Sable threw back his many layers of blankets and crawled off his mat. He shivered a bit as the cold managed to nip him even through the thick sweater he had worn to bed. He even had socks on as well and his feet were still bitten by winter's icy teeth. He slipped quickly into his tall leather boots, his cold fingers trembling as he did up the many buckles on the sides. He didn't bother changing his clothes, as he was still fully dressed from last night. This was a frequent occurrence in the wintertime. He walked out his door and through the short hallway to the kitchen. His mother was there at the sink, scrubbing the eggs she had collected from the chicken coop. A frying pan was already sitting on the tiny stove, butter sizzling on the bottom.
Wordlessly, Sable stepped up to the stove and turned down the heat of the burner, taking the handle of the skillet and tilting the pan this way and that to let the butter coat the bottom evenly. He could sense his mother's eyes on him, and he turned to smile at her. She smiled back, and handed him an egg when he reached out a hand for one. He began cracking eggs into the skillet expertly, keeping all the yolks intact. His mother patted his back, which was her way of acknowledging his skill. He grinned and helped her dry the clean eggs as the ones in the skillet cooked. It was always nicer to cook during the winter, as the stovetop provided heat. They had an electric heater as well, but it was not enough to heat the entire house evenly, just enough to keep the cold from becoming dangerous. It was situated in the studio, to give as much heat to the workspace as possible, so that the job would be easier during the cold months. Sable knew his father was in the studio now, filling the tubs with water, mixing dyes, and laying out the cloth for Sable to prep. It was the one contribution he could make. That and cooking.
Sable flipped the eggs over and seasoned them with salt and pepper before slicing bread and putting it in the toaster. As he waited for the second side of the eggs to cook, he bit his lip and couldn't help but ask softly,
"Mum, do you know what time my Emissary will be here?"
She paused where she had been taking plates down from a cupboard, before putting them on the counter and holding up two fingers.
"Two o'clock?" Sable asked, but his mother shook her head.
"Eleven o'clock." He tried again, and she nodded. He felt his heart sink. It was eight now, giving him only a few short hours before he had to leave. Before his life would change forever. Something of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because his mother came over to him and pat his cheek softly, reassuringly. She was taller than him, and Sable wondered how strange it might be to look down at your own child and know what you were paying a complete stranger to do to them. It was almost…heartless. But reality was cruel, and this was how it had to be. Survival of the fittest, in a sense.
"I'm fine, mum." He lied, as her eyes watered, "really. I'm fine."
At that moment he heard the telltale creak of his father's footfall on the creaking wood of the hallway. His mother turned away from him, fishing out silverware now. It was not as if his father was in any way a bad or frightening person, but he spoke his mind, and at times that could be very hurtful. Sable had no doubt that if his father were to walk in on his mother coddling him he would make a very scathing comment. As it was, Sable was just sliding the eggs out of the skillet and distributing them to each plate when his father entered.
"Morning." He said in a tone that he hoped was steady, while avoiding his father's eyes.
"Morning, son." His father replied, "breakfast?"
"Yea. Just waiting on the toast."
"Extra butter on mine, thanks."
Sable saw his father kiss his mother on the cheek, which warmed his heart. There were not a lot of men who would treat his mother as kindly after she stopped speaking. Even with the occasional unwise comment, his father had been very good to her.
They ate in silence, almost as if they were all avoiding the topic at hand. When Sable's mother began to collect the empty plates from the table, his father finally spoke.
"Your Emissary will be arriving at eleven. I'll still expect you to prep a few of the bolts before then, but when you finish pack your things and put on your nicest sweater."
The tension in his throat was back, the anxiety. Sable nodded wordlessly before asking,
"For how long am I packing? An afternoon? A day?"
His father gave him an incredulous look, and then smiled.
"Try a week."
Sable's jaw dropped, and his father laughed as his expression.
"I told you this was a great gift, Sable, and I wasn't lying."
Sable found his tongue and managed to ask,
"How could you possibly afford…a whole week?"
"That's none of your concern, just be thankful."
Sable couldn't believe it. Everything was happening so fast and so unexpectedly, and now he'd be away from home for an entire week? The cost was mind-boggling. There had to be some other explanation. There was no way…
"Stop staring, lad, and get to prepping that roll of muslin I laid out. Snap, snap!"
Sable obeyed. The studio was the largest part of the house, it was the reason their rooms were all so small. It was a very large room, with shelves and tables lining the walls, and round tubs dotting the open space of the floor. In the back was a walk-in closet where the fabric bolts were kept. The ceiling was tall enough to accommodate huge hanging racks for the completed fabric, the tops accessible by a small platform with its own set of stairs. There was a washtub in the very corner, it's stone walls stained from the various colors that had been washed out of fabric and off their bodies.
Sable liked the studio, even if he couldn't see any of the colors that he knew must exist in here. Whenever anyone visited they would gasp and go on about how beautiful it was with the variety of different colored fabrics and dying tubs. 'Like a rainbow', they would always say, but Sable had no idea what a rainbow looked like in full color glory.
He tried to keep his mind off the arrival of their guest as he prepped the fine white muslin by rolling it out on the floor. He measured and cut and applied different oils that helped the fabric absorb the color. He loved doing this. It made him feel like he was truly contributing something. While he was prepping the muslin his father came in and began to dye a long bolt of silk. He had prepared this material himself, as silk was very precious and he didn't even trust Sable with its care. He was dunking it in the tub that was filled with a color called blue. Sable was able to distinguish the names of the different colors by their shades in the tub, but he still didn't always get them right. His father's apron would get stained, as would his long lean arms, but his face was so animated when he was plunging the fabric into the hot dyed water. He looked more alive doing this, his trade, than Sable had ever seen him. He used a long wooden rod to push the fabric about in great circles in the dye over and over, following an by now instinctual timing to know when to take it out.
Sable hung the muslin on one of the lower drying racks when he was finished, and looked to see his father drawing out the silk.
"Do you need a hand?" He asked.
"No, no," his father replied, waving him away, "the last thing we need is your skin inked up for when your Emissary arrives. You know how hard this is to get out, they'll never get you spotless in time."
He looked over his shoulder at Sable and shrugged, turning back to his task.
"Go ahead and start packing; that's all the work I want you doing for today."
Sable's heart plummeted, but he nodded and left the studio, leaving the strong stench of fresh dye behind him. Once in his room, he took a long time to fold the few articles of fine clothing he owned, along with quite a few practical ones and a few private possessions. He arranged them in his worn leather backpack, taking extra care to waste time on the buckles and ties before declaring it sound. He dropped down to sit on his mat, and took a few deep breaths. Now all that remained was to wait. It felt almost like waiting patiently for a wolf to come and bite him, with absolutely no way out.
(((
It was a surprisingly short time later that he heard a knock at their front door above the howling wind. He gulped, feeling his heart speed up. He knew he should get up, should go boldly out to meet the person who would be his caretaker for the entire wee. Instead he felt frozen, paralyzed by uncertainty and not a little by fear. He had to wait until his mother came to his door and ushered him out. Her gentle face eased his nerves enough for him to sling the backpack across his slender shoulders and shove himself up to his feet. She embraced him tightly then, making a small sound in her throat. He hugged her back just as tightly, wondering the entire while which one of them was trembling the most. At last she pulled back and wiped the tears from her eyes, and she patted his cheek with a forced smile. Then she turned, and he followed her silent form back out into the kitchen, which was the main entrance.
A man was shaking hands with Sable's father when they entered. He must have cleaned up in quick time at the sound of the knock, even though he was still wearing his slightly spattered apron. The man looked very strong, with broad shoulders and large hands. Sable's father looked like a child beside him, regardless of the fact that he was not overly tall. Sable couldn't tell the color of his hair, but it was light, perhaps blond. His eyes, however were dark and deep, as were his brows. He did not appear to be gruff in manner, but his bulk suggested a sort of power. Sable noted quickly, though, that he had kind eyes.
"Ah, Sable!" His father said, as though greeting him after a long time apart. He came to Sable and put one arm around his shoulders, leading him over to the man. "Here he is, this is Sable."
The stranger was dressed in fine if simple clothes. They were not extraordinary in and of themselves, but Sable saw the intricate patterns woven and stitched onto the tunic, and the quality of the leather coat was far from lost on him. The man looked down at Sable with a blank expression, but his eyes remained warm as he held out one hand.
"I am pleased to make your acquaintance on behalf of my client, Sarik Eres. I am Marcus."
His voice was mellow, calming, and Sable took his large hand, and shook it as firmly as he was able. One of Marcus's eyebrows went up slightly and he held onto Sable's hand for a second after the boy had let go. Sable didn't know what to make of it.
"Feel free to ask me anything that you want to know. I am here to care for you while you are away from home and I want you to feel comfortable with me. Think of me as your guardian for the next week."
"Thank you, sir." Sable answered. Marcus finally released his hand and drew out a little screen from an inside pocket in his coat.
" I just need one last signature before we can proceed."
"Of course." Sable's father said, gesturing to the kitchen table. Marcus placed the screen down and tapped a button on the side. The screen lit up, and he opened the file with a password before pointing to a signature line at the bottom of the digital document.
"Go ahead, then, son."
"What?" Sable turned uncomprehending eyes toward his father, who was nodding at the screen.
"Your name, lad. Sign your name."
Sable felt anger pitch in his stomach. He had to sign? In order to proceed? He could make or break this choice, and his father had never told him? He set his jaw, but his face was far from showing his anger. It was more like hurt that reflected there.
"Come along, Sable," Marcus said softly, "I'm sorry but we do have a schedule."
Sable bit his lip and stepped up to the table, taking the little pen that the Emissary handed him and letting it hover above the signature line for a brief second before signing his name in long, curling letters.
"That's it then," Sable's father said, as if relieved. "Off with you now, son."
A thick leather hat, lined with fur was pulled onto his head, the soft ear flaps muffling the sounds of the wind outside. Lean arms wrapped around Sable and hugged him. It was a father's hug; quick, tight, and proud. Sable could not find any comfort in it, but some part of him appreciated it regardless.
Marcus tucked the screen back into his hidden pocket and opened the door for Sable. The cold wind blew at once, bringing a dusting of snow with it. Outside, Sable caught sight of a beautiful carriage with a gleaming copper propulsion system and ornate designs on the metal-and-leather skin. The driver was sitting in the little glass booth on the front, waiting patiently with the control knobs in his hands. Sable went to the door slowly, feeling his heart rate increase with every step. When he reached Marcus, a sudden fear seized him and his entire body turned quickly to look back.
"Father!" He choked out, his voice pleading and lost. There was no room for it in his father's expression. It was stern, commanding, unmoving. Sable took a few audible breaths and had to blink back a few tears. There was no turning back. This was going to happen and there was no escaping it. With one more shuddering breath, he turned again, and walked out into the bitter cold.
He heard the door close behind him, and he was never so happy in his life for the cold wind as he was now, when he could blame his tears on its icy breath.
