The town of Tyvonell had been a lively, cheerful sort of place, full of laughter and never
boring. People bustled about, some hurrying to wherever they were going, some stopping to take
in the fresh, sea air, some just standing there watching. Children ran about, playing and
shouting. Merchants sold their wares, attracting many customers.
That was how it had been, before vermillion fever had struck. Now there were nearly as many
people with the fever as without, and the streets were all but deserted. A lone figure walked
slowly down one of the main streets.
Myra paused to look at a spot under a large, old oak tree near the road. There was a nice,
grassy area underneath it where she had once told stories to some of the younger children in
Tyvonell. Now not one person sat under the tree.
A strong wind howled through the empty streets. Myra's long hair was pulled back into a bun
instead of hanging loose like it usually would. Practicality was now more important than looks.
So she felt the chill on the back of her nech as the wind grew, and then died down. It sounded like
a child crying mournfully.
"Rather lonely, isn't it?" remarked a female voice from behind Myra. She jumped, having believed
herself to be the only person out, and turned around to see who it was.
A young woman with long, curling, dark blonde hair stood there. She had bright green eyes,
brighter than even Myra's. She was very pretty. Not strikingly so, as Myra's sister Lisie was, but
in a more subtle way. Perhaps the oddest thing about her was that despite the fact that she was
very elegantly dressed, she wore a falconer's glove upon which was perched a white gyrfalcon.
Realizing that she was staring, Myra reddened with embarrasment and apologized quickly,
"Oh, beg pardon, ma'am. I didn't expect to see anyone else out here. That is, with the fever
and all..."
The woman smiled a bit. "No need to apologize. But why are you out here wandering like there
is nothing that can be done?"
"Nothing that can be done...?" Myra asked, assuming that she meant chores. "You don't
mean to say that there is something that I can do, surely. I don't see what I could do,
what with this fever spreading about like wildfire."
"Oh, but it is the fever which I was referring to," the woman said to a rather astonished
Myra.
Myra shook her head slowly."There isn't any way for it to be stopped," she said. "Though
I wish that there was. But everyone says that it cannot be stopped. And even if it could be,
what could I do?" She couldn't help but feel especially useless then, as she though of all
of the people who would soon die, and she could do nothing.
"Actually, you are mistaken," said the woman, and she now looked very serious. "There are only
a handfull of people in the land who are able to bring the cure to Kragrom. And you are the only
one who is not ill with the fever. If you wish to stop the vermillion fever, it must be soon. Things
with Elythia are not going well, and if they see it fit to attack, Kragrom will not be able to fight
back."
"But...I don't know what the cure is," said Myra. "I couldn't possibly..."
"You know the cure, storyteller," said the woman. "I cannot force you to go to where you would
find it, nor can I tell you how to get there, but I know that you can do it, Myra."
She turned to walk away. As she turned, Myra noticed a small, oddly-shaped scar on her
cheek. She saw a small object fall from the woman's pouch, and she bent to pick it up. It was
a gold coin or token which looked old and probably rather valuable.
"You dropped this..." she began, standing up. The woman had vanished. Myra looked around,
puzzled. Seeing no trace of the woman, she examined the object more closely.
On one side of it was engraved a picture of an ancient-looking dragon. Even though it
was only an image, it somehow looked alive, and seemed to stare back at Myra. She quickly
turned the coin over and looked at the other side. On it was inscribed the word 'Byrn'. Having
no idea what the word meant, Myra slipped the coin into her own pouch, resolving to return it to
its owner the next time they met. If they met again.
Feeling chilled by more than just the cold air, Myra began to walk down the path towards
her house. As she walked, she thought about what the woman had said. She had said that Myra
knew the cure.
Normally, Myra would dismiss someone who said such a thing as crazy or strange. But there
was something about her which seemed so...knowing. It was only then that Myra realized that she had
known her name. And there was something else that she had called her...
"Storyteller," said Myra aloud. Of course vermillion fever could be cured in the stories.
But that had nothing to do with real life. But she thought again of the woman and the fact that she
had known Myra's name. And then she thought about the scar on the woman's cheek.
Vermillion fever always left a mark on those who caught it. Even in the stories, when the
people were sometimes cured, it always left a small scar in the shape of a vermillion flower.
That had been what the scar on the woman's cheek was, Myra was sure.
She shook her head. "Too much excitement in one day for my taste," she said aloud. But she
had a strong feeling that from that day on, she was going to be having a lot of exciting days.
When she reached her house, the weather was much nicer than it had been, though it was still
a small bit windy. She opened the large door, walked inside, and almost bumped into a man who was
talking to Myra's mother.
He turned and looked at her in suprise, then smiled when he saw who it was. "Papa!" she
exclaimed.
boring. People bustled about, some hurrying to wherever they were going, some stopping to take
in the fresh, sea air, some just standing there watching. Children ran about, playing and
shouting. Merchants sold their wares, attracting many customers.
That was how it had been, before vermillion fever had struck. Now there were nearly as many
people with the fever as without, and the streets were all but deserted. A lone figure walked
slowly down one of the main streets.
Myra paused to look at a spot under a large, old oak tree near the road. There was a nice,
grassy area underneath it where she had once told stories to some of the younger children in
Tyvonell. Now not one person sat under the tree.
A strong wind howled through the empty streets. Myra's long hair was pulled back into a bun
instead of hanging loose like it usually would. Practicality was now more important than looks.
So she felt the chill on the back of her nech as the wind grew, and then died down. It sounded like
a child crying mournfully.
"Rather lonely, isn't it?" remarked a female voice from behind Myra. She jumped, having believed
herself to be the only person out, and turned around to see who it was.
A young woman with long, curling, dark blonde hair stood there. She had bright green eyes,
brighter than even Myra's. She was very pretty. Not strikingly so, as Myra's sister Lisie was, but
in a more subtle way. Perhaps the oddest thing about her was that despite the fact that she was
very elegantly dressed, she wore a falconer's glove upon which was perched a white gyrfalcon.
Realizing that she was staring, Myra reddened with embarrasment and apologized quickly,
"Oh, beg pardon, ma'am. I didn't expect to see anyone else out here. That is, with the fever
and all..."
The woman smiled a bit. "No need to apologize. But why are you out here wandering like there
is nothing that can be done?"
"Nothing that can be done...?" Myra asked, assuming that she meant chores. "You don't
mean to say that there is something that I can do, surely. I don't see what I could do,
what with this fever spreading about like wildfire."
"Oh, but it is the fever which I was referring to," the woman said to a rather astonished
Myra.
Myra shook her head slowly."There isn't any way for it to be stopped," she said. "Though
I wish that there was. But everyone says that it cannot be stopped. And even if it could be,
what could I do?" She couldn't help but feel especially useless then, as she though of all
of the people who would soon die, and she could do nothing.
"Actually, you are mistaken," said the woman, and she now looked very serious. "There are only
a handfull of people in the land who are able to bring the cure to Kragrom. And you are the only
one who is not ill with the fever. If you wish to stop the vermillion fever, it must be soon. Things
with Elythia are not going well, and if they see it fit to attack, Kragrom will not be able to fight
back."
"But...I don't know what the cure is," said Myra. "I couldn't possibly..."
"You know the cure, storyteller," said the woman. "I cannot force you to go to where you would
find it, nor can I tell you how to get there, but I know that you can do it, Myra."
She turned to walk away. As she turned, Myra noticed a small, oddly-shaped scar on her
cheek. She saw a small object fall from the woman's pouch, and she bent to pick it up. It was
a gold coin or token which looked old and probably rather valuable.
"You dropped this..." she began, standing up. The woman had vanished. Myra looked around,
puzzled. Seeing no trace of the woman, she examined the object more closely.
On one side of it was engraved a picture of an ancient-looking dragon. Even though it
was only an image, it somehow looked alive, and seemed to stare back at Myra. She quickly
turned the coin over and looked at the other side. On it was inscribed the word 'Byrn'. Having
no idea what the word meant, Myra slipped the coin into her own pouch, resolving to return it to
its owner the next time they met. If they met again.
Feeling chilled by more than just the cold air, Myra began to walk down the path towards
her house. As she walked, she thought about what the woman had said. She had said that Myra
knew the cure.
Normally, Myra would dismiss someone who said such a thing as crazy or strange. But there
was something about her which seemed so...knowing. It was only then that Myra realized that she had
known her name. And there was something else that she had called her...
"Storyteller," said Myra aloud. Of course vermillion fever could be cured in the stories.
But that had nothing to do with real life. But she thought again of the woman and the fact that she
had known Myra's name. And then she thought about the scar on the woman's cheek.
Vermillion fever always left a mark on those who caught it. Even in the stories, when the
people were sometimes cured, it always left a small scar in the shape of a vermillion flower.
That had been what the scar on the woman's cheek was, Myra was sure.
She shook her head. "Too much excitement in one day for my taste," she said aloud. But she
had a strong feeling that from that day on, she was going to be having a lot of exciting days.
When she reached her house, the weather was much nicer than it had been, though it was still
a small bit windy. She opened the large door, walked inside, and almost bumped into a man who was
talking to Myra's mother.
He turned and looked at her in suprise, then smiled when he saw who it was. "Papa!" she
exclaimed.