A Secret Departure

Writers: Estelle
Date Posted: 30th December 2019

Characters: A'ten
Description: Arten slips out of the Weyr at night
Location: Dragonsfall Weyr
Date: month 1, day 3 of Turn 10
Notes: Mentioned: L'keri, Yanley

The lights had gone out in the living area of their foster-mother's
quarters some time ago, but Arten still lay awake in his bunk, listening
to the soft breathing of his sleeping sister. Ohanna usually stayed up
for some time after the children had gone to bed, reading or sewing or
tidying the room, but tonight she'd retired earlier than usual. It had
been a Threadfall day, and everyone was tired out after pitching in to
help, preparing hot food and klah for the riders, rolling bandages or
heating water for the infirmary, running messages for the Headwoman.

When he felt sure enough time had passed, the boy cautiously slid first
one foot, then the other out from under the covers. The bed creaked as
he stood and he froze for a moment, but Eluri only sighed in her sleep.

He'd rehearsed his movements in his head over and over, ever since his
conversation with the Headwoman when she'd told him he couldn't leave
Dragonsfall. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out the small bag he'd
packed in secret - spare clothes, his belt knife and sling, a water
bottle and some rolls he'd been able to save from dinner. Oddly enough,
he had his father to thank for the preparations, his memories of L'keri
telling him about weyrling training and the time when his class had
camped out as an exercise in working together as a Wing.

Arten felt a sharp ache in his throat at that memory, swallowed a sob.
**Just another time when he pretended to care,** he told himself
fiercely, **and you were too young to know that he didn't.**

Last, he carefully scooped up the sleeping Winter from his place on
Arten's pillow and set him on his shoulder. The young blue firelizard
stirred, but didn't open his eyes, his claws latching onto Arten's shirt
and his tail coiling around the boy's neck.

He allowed himself one last look back at the indistinct shape of his
sister, curled under the covers in her top bunk. It was too dark in the
room to see her face, but he could picture it, her long dark lashes
resting lightly on her cheek, already losing its childish roundness. The
pain welled up again. How could he leave her alone? Maybe he was just
like his father, after all.

Turning, he pushed open the door and tiptoed out into the main room,
feeling his way in the darkness. Over by the door, his winter coat hung
on a hook with the scarf Eluri had made him, and his boots waited below.
Arten picked them up and gently eased the door open. Outside, the
corridor was dimly lit by glowbaskets, giving him enough light to make
his way down the corridor to the latrines, where he changed into his
outdoor clothes, leaving his nightwear stuffed behind one of the
washbasins where it wouldn't be seen. Winter nestled sleepily into the
soft wool of the scarf as he wrapped it around his neck.

Now was the difficult part. Anyone who saw him wandering around at this
time would know he was supposed to be in bed, so he moved cautiously,
making sure there was always a shadowy side corridor to dart into if he
heard footsteps. But after a Threadfall day there weren't many people
moving about this late, and he made it safely down to ground level
without being recognised.

He was tempted by the kitchens, and the lingering scents of pastry and
hot klah, but decided that getting more food was too risky. There would
be staff there even this late, and riders coming in off watch duty.
Instead, he held his breath as he passed the kitchen door, then buttoned
up his coat and slipped out into the night.

Outside it was chilly, but not the deep, biting cold of a Dragonsfall
winter. They sky was overcast, with clouds scudding past the bright
moon, and the ground damp beneath his boots. Arten looked around and saw
the trader wagons he'd spotted earlier, holders bringing the tithe and
waiting out Fall in the Weyr. He walked over to them, trying to look
purposeful, hoping that from the watch heights he was tall enough not to
seem like a child. He could just make out the dragon up there, a dark
silhouette against the night sky.

The traders had covered their wagons for the night with thick
tarpaulins, sparkling with droplets of water where rain had fallen.
Arten stole as softly as he could up to one of them, keeping an eye out
for guards. There was someone slouched under the light of a lantern in
one of the family caravans, but it seemed they were more concerned about
people sneaking into the Weyr than out, and he was able to move into the
shadow of one of the big tithe carts. He scrambled up the side and, very
gently, lifted a corner of the canvas and pushed his bag into the dark
interior, then wriggled in after it.

Inside it was almost completely dark, the only light coming from the
place where he'd entered. Arten smelled damp wood and runnerbeasts, and
the dust from the grain tithe. As he felt around, he touched a heap of
coarse fabric. Grain sacks, now emptied into the large bins in the
Weyr's storerooms.

As best he could, Arten pulled the tarpaulin back into place and secured
it behind him. Then he crawled into the furthest corner of the wagon and
pulled the sacks around him, so they covered him from a casual glance
inside. It was a little warmer, but the wood of the wagon bed was still
uncomfortable to a boy who'd been used to soft furs all his life.

He folded up the scarf to make into a little nest for Winter, then
pillowed his head on his arm and closed his eyes. Now all that was left
was to wait until morning, and hope the traders left early.

Last updated on the January 4th 2020

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A Secret Departure