A Fifth Daughter [Book 1: The Dragon Rider]
Chapter 1: Don't Forget the Forgotten Steps

“Mother Tyra?” I knock timidly on the door, but after carefully given orders from Carma, I know to enter immediately.

Step one: Knock on the door. Check.

The floorboards creak as I make my way through; like they might break under me with one wrong move. If the house didn’t look so homey on the outside, I’d think it was haunted on the inside.

Step two: Cross the threshold. Check.

The house smells of vanilla and a hint of thieves, maybe some lavender too. Contents of many varieties scatter amongst the two room house. A door closes off one room and a kitchen and couch make up the other area. The various sorts of things strewn about the house come in all shapes and sizes. From knitting needles to swords, from cats to toads, from cauldrons to books, and everything is strewn everywhere. The house scares me. I’ve already established that it is a booby-trap waiting to be sprung when the front step tried to kill me and snapped in half.

What was the third step again?

“Despicable little humans.” Says a voice; old and creakily, sounding very much like sandpaper run over cardboard. It echoes about the room like it’s coming from the walls. I travel deeper into the living room, hoping to find the voice. My forgotten steps are forgotten.

“They seem to get younger and younger every year.” Continues the odd voice. “Or am I getting old? What do you think child, do I look old?”

A woman appears in front of me presumably from nowhere, or perhaps she had been in the walls. She is the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the word hag; an old, wrinkly, ghastly thing with skin hanging off her jaw bones and large bags under her crystal blue, beady eyes. Her white hair seems to have been electrocuted, because I have never seen hair stand on end like hers does. Her dark skin just accents the whiteness of her hair. She wears blue and grey tattered robes; is also barefooted and very short. All in all, Mother Tyra looks well over a thousand years of age.

Aside from her looks, I answer timidly, “Err… no ma’am,” – Mother said to always be polite, she even went far enough to add: especially in the presence of a Sage – because I really wanted to say; “You could be my dead great-grandmother.” But that probably wouldn’t have gone over so well.

“Of course I am; I’m well over ninety-six.” Mother Tyra regards me for a moment then leans back on her bare heels; a fingernail finds it way between her teeth as she stares thoughtfully somewhere above me.

“But at least you have your manners about you.” I want to laugh. I must be a good actress if she thinks this politeness is real. She waves off whatever thoughts she’d been thinking and gives me a quick glance up and down. My dirty jeans and cream-on-the-verge-of-being-a-dull-yellow sweater are not something I would like to be wearing in her presence, but the whole thing was quite a surprise; sprung upon me as an unwanted birthday present this morning.

Living in the Burrows of Folklore means two of a few things; 1) No child is to talk to, or speak about a Sage, and 2) no child is to go near the Tanglewood Forest. We are considered a child until we are sixteen which is the age we are either to find a job or get given a Choice. And today – August twenty-sixth – I turned sixteen and I just broke the two biggest rules that have governed my entire life. I’ve also chosen to get a choice from the Sage instead of searching for a job on my own, which basically means I want a government job instead of shuffling groceries behind a cash register.

Which – no offense – doesn’t sound like a lot of fun. Too many people to be nice to.

And when – if – Mother Tyra gives me a choice then I am six days from starting my first of four years in college but – out of the three employment options – I’m no closer to deciding what job choice I’ll be given to riding a Pegasus. At least only one person can be queen, and that job option is already full.

“Follow me, girl.” Mother Tyra points a finger at me and beckons towards the closed door. I assumed it to be her bedroom, but she must sleep on either the floor or the couch, because inside the room is bare, except for two white, wicker chairs and a matching table between them. Two tea cups rest in the middle, with a kettle waiting impatiently to be poured as steam escapes the top.

The room is dark. Thick blood-red drapes hanging over the windows. The wood floor is a creepy brown with splatters of black that flows between the cracks, and the walls look like someone threw up a black sky and the brightest yellow they could find to replace the sun. The ominous bright chandelier hanging directly above the table is the only source of light, and it barely drives back the shadows.

Creepy doesn’t really begin to describe this room.

Mother Tyra takes a seat and motions toward the opposite one. I sit hesitantly, feeling vulnerable as I am now nearly at eyelevel with her.

“Tea?” She asks, already pouring.

I eye the cups, wondering what could be going on here, other than drinking tea of course. “Are you going to tell me my future by reading tea drains?”

She chuckles. “Don’t worry. I don’t read omens from tea cups or glare into crystal balls, I leave that job for them Witches; they enjoy it more.” She then adds under her breathe; “Although they can’t tell the future worth a hoot.” She clears her throat and smirks darkly at me, as if we just shared some horrid secret. Even if it isn’t any grand, unknown secret that Witches fail at being fortune tellers. “The room is just dark so as to show true colors. For example, your way of ignoring things is very well controlled.”

Well, that’s not confusing. What was that supposed to mean? Was it a compliment? I’ve never understood compliments. Was it an insult? If so, I really don’t know how to respond to that. I’m not usually one to be stumped on what to say. Typically things just tumble from my mouth like water from a faucet. Only difference there is you can turn that off. She smiles as if sensing my predicament and hands me a teacup. The steam wafts up my nose smelling like peppermint.

“You’re afraid, yes?” She blows on her tea cup. “You don’t want to be here but there’s no way out of it. So, you ignore the fact you’re here and concentrate on everything around you.”

“Are you sure you don’t read fortunes, or maybe minds?” I ask quietly, sipping from my tea to hide the shake in my breath, but I can’t even taste it past the nerves and I don’t think I’ll be able to taste it as I’ve just burnt my taste buds to sawdust. Only Mom and Carma know about my constant back-and-forth battle with myself over the fact that I can’t decide what to do with my life.

Mother Tyra smiles calmly trying to be somewhat reassuring. “No, that is not my – so to say – cup of tea.” She smiles at her joke. “But understanding people – that’s easy and I understand you just fine.”

Okay, this is just getting weirder, and weirder.

“Are you afraid?”

To answer or not to answer. “Well, can you be more explicit?”

Mother Tyra smiles, a challenge dancing in her blue eyes. She likes that I spoke up. “Are you afraid of me?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of this house?”

“Not really.”

“Are you afraid of being so close to Tanglewood?”

“No.”

“Are you afraid of the uncertainty with where your life could be going?”

“Dead on.”

She chuckles. “I suppose that is understandable. Most sixteen year old girls don’t know the direction of their life-choices either.” She relaxes back into her chair, the steam from her tea wafting up into the rafters like fog from a lake. “Tell me why you’re afraid.” She commands, closing her eyes.

“Don’t you already know? If you can tell I’m afraid, can’t you tell what has me fearful?”

She sighs and looks at me with exasperation. “You’re too quick for your own good. It’ll get you in trouble one day.”

She has no idea how much trouble my mouth has gotten me into – especially when I was younger. Mom liked to say that I could talk with just enough sass and command that anyone would do what I said. Thankfully – for the most part – as I’ve gotten older I’ve learned to think a little before I blurt out the first thing to come to mind.

“We’ll move on, since I don’t like fighting with teenage girls over their own thoughts. It’s quite stressing. I’d like to know a little more about you. Understanding and knowing are two different things when it comes to people like you.” She pauses to take a long sip of tea, and places the cup onto her coaster. I’ve finally been able to taste the herb mixture warming my hands as I lick the peppermint from my lips. “What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you think of school?” Her finger wanders into her mouth to clean her teeth like a toothpick

I’m completely taken back as the action both distracts and disgusts me. “Uh… what does that have to do with anything?”

“Not bright.” She notes, as if making a list of things I am and am not. I nearly snort. Not bright? Now that’s insulting. “When you hear the word school, what comes to mind? I’ll be asking things randomly throughout our short time together, so we might as well start now.”

“Okay… slow – somewhat desired – torture.” I go to take another sip of tea only to find that I’ve drained the cup.

“Ah, a writer. Or perhaps just a steady reader?”

“Some writing, much more reading,” I answer, smiling lightly. Books I can tell anyone about all day long. Except my sister Ginny Grace, she hates books.

“What do you think of your father?”

A well-practiced shrug is inserted here. I hate that question. It’s like asking how I feel about being the youngest child of seven, or just plain asking how I feel. That’s the worst question in Fantasy. “He died when I was two: Something along the lines of trying to stop a rebellion.”

“Ah,” she draws, then points a gnawed, bumpy, twisted finger at me. “You’re a Green child, hmm?” Suddenly she doesn’t sound so old, more like a record player repeating a track. “Charles Alan Green was your father. He died fifteen years ago today but is reckoned to come back.” Her voice flushes back to normal – well, as normal as her voice can be – and she looks to the floor, dropping her hand in thought and mumbling; “What would he think of you now?”

“Did you say my dad’s coming back?”

No, says some sane part of my brain, just ‘reckoned to come back.’ It’s a completely different thing.

The sarcasm of my own brain doesn’t help any, but thanks.

She waves off a hand. “Forget I said that.”

“Forget… Are you crazy? What were you talking about?”

“Yes, I’m quite crazy, now be quiet. I’m thinking.”

Why should I be quiet? “But –”

She stands before I can demand any answers.

“What’s your mother’s name?” She opens the door and glances back at me. Her blue eyes are tinted silver in the dim light. “I’ve completely forgotten. Rotten brain.”

I nearly stumble over my thoughts as I stand up to follow her. Mother’s name? “Uh – Allied Green.”

“Right.” Mother Tyra leaves the threshold and begins picking through her living room making for the bookshelf near the kitchen. “She’s a Fifth Daughter. Did you know that? Not many four fives survive, so maybe she never told you. Doesn’t matter. But you’re the fifth daughter in your family, correct?”

She doesn’t give me time to answer.

“Of course you are. There’s Carma, Alice, that one with a name that I told your mother would bring bad luck, Tempest, and you. That’s five. Right? Yes. Doesn’t matter. Come here girl. No point standing there staring.”

Staring is pretty hard not to do. I mean the woman can spew words faster than I can open a book I’m really excited about reading. She can also trip over everything in her way as she tries to get to the bookcase. When she does finally get there, she begins scanning titles, mumbling: “You’re not the first Pure One I had, so you’d think I’d have that book somewhere close by.” She starts flinging books off the shelves. “Where did I put it?”

The cat screeches from the couch as a thick tome lands on its tail.

“What’s a Pure One?” I ask, dodging a book at the same time I hop out of the cat’s way.

“Seriously?” Mother Tyra pauses and gives me a shocked look. “I know he only wrote one book, but seriously?” She turns back to the bookshelf and continues chucking books over her shoulder. She still got three shelves to go, and I’m getting really worried about my wellbeing and toes as a book thunks! against my foot. “You’d think more people would know about Pure Ones.”

“Okay. So, what is it?”

“Not an it, girl!” She turns and deliberately chucks a book at me. I barely have time to duck before it wheezes over my head. “A Pure One is a he or she. An inanimate object cannot be a Pure One. That’d just be weird.”

“That still doesn’t answer my question.”

Mother Tyra sighs like she’s speaking to a three year old and pauses in her rampaging. “A Pure One is the equal child of their equal parent. You are a Fifth Daughter. Just as your mother is a Fifth Daughter, and her mother, and so on. Do you understand now?”

“Sure.”

She sags giving me a pointed look; as if she can’t believe I can be so dumb, before turning to the nearly empty shelf. “Oh,” she chuckles. “That’s right.” She walks to the couch and grabs the book hidden under knitting needles and yarn. She gives a triumphant shout and shakes it out like it’s a dusty cloth. “My brain is not what it used to be. It’s covered in cobwebs, I tell ya. I forget that I set it out for you.

“Go home and read this,” she drops the large, thick book in my hands. It’s surprisingly light, but everything about it screams old, frail, and dusty. The cover says in exotic cursive letters ‘An Exclusive Look at the Most Powerful Race Ever Created: Fifth Daughters’ by ‘Esston Hays’. Esston Hays is a pretty well-known name around Fantasy. Most people remember him for his book; ‘Dragons and Werewolves.’ Although, I like his other adventures books a little more than his fact book. I didn’t even know he had anything other than those though.

“This is the only copy, so you take care of it. I’m not a library, but I do want it back.” Mother Tyra walks away from me toward the kitchen – as if it is a normal thing to hand a newly christened sixteen year old the only copy to a very old book. “Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk then. Around nine will be a good time.”

I realize now how it’d looked like she’d been part of the walls. The blue and grey of her clothes match the kitchenette area, and if you’re not looking for her; you won’t see her.

“Um… thank you.” I say unsure and leave the house standing beside the daunting Tanglewood Forest with more questions buzzing around in my head than I had come to her house with.

“Where you been, sis?” Ryler slides up beside me and does his brotherly bump of our shoulders as I walk down the driveway toward our home. I give him a raised eyebrow. “Right. Mother Tyra’s. Is the Sage really as creepy as everyone says she is?”

“Is the Warlock crazy?”

Ryler huffs. “Not really. He has weird cat eyes though. Felt like Alice’s cat was staring at me the whole time. I had to suppress a lot of shivers.”

“Humph… Mother Tyra isn’t creepy, just… strange.”

“That’s comforting. Did she give you your Choice?”

“No.” I sigh, shaking my head. “Not till tomorrow.” Sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ Find_Nøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Ryler gives me a worried look. “Are you scared of what your answer could be?”

Oh, yeah. Totally. “Not really.” Yeah, I’m completely terrified of what it could turn out to be.

His eyebrows shoot up in mock surprise. “You sure?”

“No.”

Ryler laughs. “Yeah. Guess it can’t be much worse than being the third one in the family to go to Battlemage. And what… the sixteenth in the entire family?”

I groan, but I’m also trying not to laugh. “I thought you were just going to humor Chase, not actually take the Warlock seriously. Oh, and it’s twenty-third.”

“Wow, the family got bigger since Chase went for his Choice.” He stuffs his hands into his jeans and slumps. “Maybe Glanes was convincing.” Glanes would be The Burrow’s Warlock. He does the boys who have become of age like Mother Tyra does the girls. Basically they’re the wise aunt and uncle of The Burrows.

“You let a Warlock convince you to go to Battlemage?”

He shrugs and I chuckle quietly. Ryler likes to think he’s an independent guy. He doesn’t like people making choices for him, or fighting his battles. But in reality. Ryler can’t make up his mind on anything. He still doesn’t know what his favorite color is. So, it’s not surprising that Glanes gave Ryler his Battlemage Choice and that Ryler is going to go along with it.

I just like to antagonize him about it.

“Just, leave me alone, won’t ya.”

“Nope.” I pinch his cheek. “You’re adorable to make fun of.”

Ryler swats me away and huffs, but he’s fighting a smile. He always is when I play Mom with him.

The house comes into view. “Race you home?”

“You’ll lose.”

“We’ll see.”

Sᴇarch the FindNovel.net website on G𝘰𝘰gle to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.