My island on Lyra was just like any other. At least, I suppose that’s true. I grew up with my Pappy - a farmer - and never travelled much except to the market town. I was just like every other kid in the village. Except without a Mammy, she had died, of course. Vana, the nice woman who lived next door, would come over every now and then, and show me how to cook and make the house nice, and such. Sometimes she’d spend time with my Pappy too, but I was always told to go out and play then. Vana’s own boys were already gone to have kids of their own, and Pappy said that she needed grown up company.
 
Like every other island, I suppose, we were occasionally visited by dragons. Some had to be sent away from the towns with dirty great crossbows. Others picked off sheep and otherwise left us alone. When a magical flying lizard helps himself to a hogget or two, you don’t complain - you just thank the moons that it found you less appetising.
 
And then one night, the dragons had fought amongst themselves. And that, really is how my Mammy died.
 
Old Cratchet tells the story sometimes, if he’s had enough ale. He’ll strum his harp, all jingling with broken strings which he can’t tune worth a damn, and start to sing about the night the skies glowed with colours. Two great dragons, a black and a white, had set themselves at each other. The white glowed like a rainbow. The black was just a shadow against the coloured lights of the sky.
 
Folks were so curious about this - a fight between dragons was practically unheard of, and with them lights too, it seemed like some work of the gods or such - that they stood outside and craned their necks up, while ice and acid plumes cut up the night almost as loud as the shouts and roars up above them. And then it seemed like the white dragon was going to win - old Cratchet’s voice always goes up high then, all thin and husky like a bad whistle - as the black dragon turned over and showed its neck, the white plunged in for the kill. And then the black let out of burst of acid, burning the white’s eyes. When it couldn't’ see, the black sunk its teeth into the white and a great river of blood spurted down to the earth, like when you stick a pig.
 
Well, the song ends there, but the story don’t. Because most of the folks watching were too struck to move themselves inside. And one of them was my Mammy, all fat with me. She got a whole facefull of blood, and was struck so hard by it she choked and fell down.
 
My dad tells the last bit to his pals sometimes, when he thinks I’m asleep. They cleaned her off and put her to bed, hoping she’d sleep it off and wake up. She was a right healthy woman, all rosy cheeks and brown hair. But her hair went white, and she lay three days in bed, stone cold and not waking. Then her body started to shake and moan and what-not, and out came me, with a bit of shoving - runtish and white haired, but otherwise normal. And then she up and died.
 
Having a dead Mammy ain’t something so special. Birthing’s a risky business, dragons or no dragons. We got on ok, my Pappy and me. And there were wolves at the sheep as well as dragons - you know, life goes on. Until my 18th birthday.
 
It was the mid-summer equinox. I’d had a funny dream, just one in a long line of them. But this time, I was shaken awake by my Pappy, and he was bleating like a slapped sheep. There’d been a frost, or some nonsense. But when I looked out the window, the sun was shining off frosted carrot leaves. Snow dusted the summer squash. The crops would be ruined. It’d be a hungry year.
 
Well, to cut a long story short, there was icicles hanging off my bedstead and snow on my pillow. I was the problem. Pappy wept a bit and said he’d hush it up, but then he told Vana, who told her husband, who told Old Cratchet, and then in a summer second the whole village knew everything. There was a meeting then, and Lord Orthol came in. I was told to pack up my things and go. He even gave me money to help me on my journey and told me to go see the mages - they might know what was wrong with me and how to fix it. And then I could come back.
 
That was a few years ago. Money doesn’t last long outside a village, and nor does people’s goodwill. There’s always something to pay for. I did go see a mage, like Lord Orthol told me. Not that she was much help. She said there wasn’t much that could be done, that my magic wasn’t the “right kind” for training. I’d have to figure it out the best I could by myself. She got a bit angry at me for freezing off her door knobs, too, and sent me packing.
 
Since then I’ve learned a few tricks. I don’t wake up in an icy puddle so often, except when I forget to use up all my magic before bed. I make a few coins tending sheep in summer, in a village where no one knows more than my name. It’s boring out with the sheep, and lonely. But it’s peaceful, at least, and no one calls me names. And I don’t cause trouble. The Mages might spin their highfalutin stories from up in their tall towers, but Magic’s a curse for us regular folk. It’s best kept hidden away.
 
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