This is the book I’m writing for NaNoWriMo. I know I should wait till I’m done to post, but I just can’t resist any longer! So here it is, The Seven Dragons.

Chapter 1

Caleb got the best seat in The Dragon Inn, but this was no surprise. Special treatment was common place for anyone wearing a robe of the Church of Our Mother Earth. The monks were great scholars, clerics, and keepers of the holy word. Mother Earth was the creator of everything, destroyer of all, and her priests were considered an extension of her supreme rule.

There had been cases of some miscreants dressing up in homemade monk robes and going around town getting free stuff and propositioning young girls. The worst part was that the only reason they were caught was because they happened to go into a shop with a real monk and the comparison between the robes, and the true monk’s cry of “BLASPHEMERS!”, it was obvious they were not what they claimed to be. Worse yet, they had not been revealed for what they truly were two hours earlier when they had been unable to recite any of the sacred chants and had told a small child that eating mistletoe made your manhood grow three inches.

Caleb sat himself down at the table closest to the fire with a sigh and a frown. Food and drink was placed before him, but he paid the server no mind. He was used to fawning, or nervous, wordless worship, and was frankly not in the mood to play the benevolent priest at the moment. He would leave the man a large tip on his way out.

Little did anyone at the Inn know that Caleb was no longer a benevolent priest, or even a stingy priest; he was, in fact, no priest at all. Earlier this very same day, Caleb of the West Kerepity Shrine, who could recite all the sacred chants, knew precisely what mistletoe was for, and had absolutely never propositioned anyone in his life, had quit the priesthood for good. Now perhaps the reader is not exceptionally surprised by this development, but you may be assured that anyone who knew Caleb would be.

Caleb was orphaned at a young age, and before you ask, no, he has no idea who his parents were. He was left, a pudgy, blonde haired, blue-eyed baby on the steps of the West Kerepity Shrine, and that was that. He was raised, among other orphans such as himself, in the church, taught to pray and respect his elders from an early age. This isn’t especially odd; most of the orphans of Kerepity have similar stories. However Caleb was different in one major respect: he loved the church.

From an early age Caleb was enthralled with stories of great saints of days gone. Priests who fed starving towns, rehabilitated wrong-doers, and stood against evil everywhere. He wanted nothing more than to be one of those men, not for the notoriety, but for the sheer goodness of it. These tales, in Caleb’s mind, cemented a certainty that the church was a supreme force of good, above all else.

Once sworn in, however, Caleb was drastically disillusioned. One of his first lessons as monk had been how to gather donations, wherein he learned the delicate art of guilt. He’d watched while his senior monks stared down even the poorest members of their church until they scrounged around in their bags to place a coin or two in the basket. Sinners in confession were told that in order for the Mother to forgive them, they should give to the church, and sermons sang that hard times were primarily because of those who would horde their wealth away, and not give to the church.

“Our Mother Earth punishes those who are stingy.” Father Travis would chuckle heartily, holding his round belly. The man was privilege to a kind of fatness that most of his parish would never know.

There was no fighting it, for Caleb had tried. But when he suggested buying new blankets for the orphans, Father Travis bought all the monks new blankets and gave their old ones to the shivering children. Planting a community garden became a bucket of gruel and a ladle. Help one of the farmers out of town build his barn, became give the man a blessed last-nail. At least he’d sort of managed that one. He hadn’t been able to stand being that useless, and so shrugged off his robe to saw and hammer in his bare chest and leggings. He’d made some good friends that day, but nightfall had found his on his knees before Father Travis, trying to justify himself.

“You are a priest of the Church of Our Mother Earth,” the elder man had fumed, “you are not to be seen by other in anything other than your robes! This is an unbelievable breech of protocol!”

Caleb stared up at the man, his eyes narrow, mouth slightly open in disbelief. How could this all be about protocol? Nothing was even said about him being bare-chested and immodest. Nothing about the poor farmer’s sick daughter. It was all rules and bureaucracy, image and keep up the persona.

Caleb had stood very slowly, bowed deeply, and asked to be allowed to quit the priesthood. Now there were questions of his lack of dress and the farmer’s daughter, but nothing that he cared to dignify with a response. He left the temple head held high, but ideals thrown to the floor.

“Did your dog just die or something?”

Caleb looked up from the table, pulling his hands away from where his fingers had been running through his bristle-short honey-brown hair. Standing over him, with a heavily loaded tray balancing precariously on one hand, was the son of the owner of the establishment, Jacob. He and his mother were the only two Negros in town, and as well as owning the largest, most well respected Inn.

Jacob was short, more on the skinny side, but with a lean muscular way about him that was hidden at first glance. Only the arms holding the tray showed his muscles as he flexed them under the strain. His skin, just a shade darker than chocolate, was smooth with a slight shine, which was more pronounce on his cheeks, making his easy smile look even more bright. Big brown eyes sparkled with a joke unspoken, framed by long lashes and an expressive brown. Dreadlocks fell about his face, not quite reaching his ears, and he shook his head slightly to keep them out of his eyes.

“Excuse me?” Caleb asked, so surprised at being spoken to that he could no find room for much else.

“You look like you’re about to cry.” Jacob explained with a small smile, “You know, like your dog just died.”

Caleb opened his mouth to say something, but never got the chance, because just then two men from the other side of the crowded tavern started making a ruckus about getting their drinks.

“Alright! Alright!” Jacob called back at them, before turning to Caleb and saying casually, “I’ll be right back.”

The blonde monk watched as the bartender and waiter maneuvered through the sea of tables crowded with people and beer beakers, in various stages of fullness. Jacob had spoken to him. Not that it was unusual for the common people to speak to priests, but not so casually as the other man had. Greetings always began with “Father Caleb, how are you?” and were never, ever of a casual, social manor. One simply did not plop down next to a priest of the Church of Our Mother Earth and say:

“So, what’s on you mind, Father?”

Caleb withdrew slightly. Jacob was sitting right next to him on another chair he had pulled from a neighboring table, with his arms resting on the table near the pitcher of ale he’d sat down next to Caleb’s mug.

“I…you don’t have to call me that.” Caleb said, without thinking, “I’m not…I’m just Caleb now.”

“Alright then, Just Caleb,” Jacob grinned “What’s on your mind?”

“I would rather not talk about it, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Alriiiiight….” Jacob looked up slightly, as though thinking on something, “Hey, you know, I’ve always wondered, how come you guys aren’t allowed to have wives and children? I mean, isn’t Mother Earth all about the creation/life/death thing? Isn’t having a family and sex all a part of that?”

“Er…” Caleb took a sip of ale to give him some time to think, “Well, originally priests were allowed, even encouraged to have…sexual relations. It was even a part of some ceremonies.”

Jacob nodded, obviously interested, keeping eye contact and smiling pleasantly. Caleb cleared his throat and looked away nervously.

“Then what?” Jacob prompted.

“Uh, well, then…then there was a whole lot of children of priests who would automatically become priests, and the same family was head of the church for many years. There was a lot of talk about the church becoming too much of a monarchal system, being a higher order than the real royal family and king and everything, and it being the descendants of the high priests assuming the same role and everything. So they made it…against the rules for the children of a monk to become a monk, but that didn’t work so well, so instead they just said that all monks had to be chaste, and started the orphanage….uh…recruitment.”

“Ah.” Jacob turned away, looking into the fire and nodding, as if thinking really hard. Caleb let out the breath he’d been holding. He had never been very good at telling stories. Giving sermons, yes, telling stories, no.

“But you’re not a priest anymore, are you?”

“urg!” Caleb let out a little sound of surprise, but Jacob didn’t turn to meet his eyes. They stayed quiet for a few moments more, before Caleb said: “no, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“I was reprimanded for something I saw nothing wrong with, and then was falsely accused of committing lascivious acts.”

Jacob snorted loudly and moved his hand in front of his mouth in a failed attempt to cover his laughter. Caleb glared at him.

“It is not funny.” He spat, only now beginning to question his decision to confide in one so bold as would speak candidly with a man in monk’s robes.

“no, no! of course not!” Jacob insisted, still with a grin that was decided of the shit-eating variety, “it’s just the way you said it: “accused of committing lascivious acts”” He made a stern face obvious meant to impersonate Caleb’s demeanor, and began laughing again.

“What’s wrong with the way I speak?” the blonde sniffed the air hotily.

“You know, I get the feeling you’re not nearly as high and mighty as you make it look.” Jacob was leaning his face on his fist, elbow propped on the table, looking up at Caleb from this lower angle.

Caleb colored. Was it just him, or was the waiter flirting with him? He wasn’t very practiced at this sort of thing, and had no idea what to say to a person who might want him in that way. He’d never been flirted with before.

The blonde said nothing, glancing away and fiddling with his napkin, which he had placed, in good manners, on his lap. He smoothed the napkin in his lap, leaned forward over his bread and chicken leg as if to eat, but merely picked at his food, uninterested, took a sip of ale, traced his finger through the condensation on the beaker lightly, all the while not making eye contact with the bartender.

Jacob grinned and watched the young monk go through the motions. Caleb was a little over weight, but not repulsively so. Just enough to make his face a little round and his fingers a little plump (he couldn’t tell what the rest of the blonde’s body was like through the heavy, white linen robe). His blonde hair was cut close to his head, bristly and probably a couple of shades darker than when it was grown out. His dark, almost navy-blue eyes were interesting to look at, and showed every emotion that passed through them.

“Why are you staring at me like that, Jacob?”

“Call me Jake.” The dark teen chirped pleasantly, grin never leaving his face.

“Jake, then.” Caleb turned to face him, feeling brave for a split second, “Would you like to tell me why you have taken a sudden interest in me?”

“It’s my job.” He said simply.

Caleb blinked a couple times and looked up slightly, brow contorted in confusion. Jake laughed.

“I’m a bartender, Caleb.” He smiled, something genuine and pure came to his eyes, “I listen to people’s troubles. I’m here when you need someone to talk to.”

Just then a loud crashing sound brought both boys attention away from each other and toward a rowdy group of patrons across the room. There was a group of about five or six, large, woodsmen, all big, with hair so dirty it was hard to tell the color, and beards so thick you knew what they’d had their last two meals. They all wore patched and faded tunics and long pants made of some kind of hide, with the telltale signs of spilled ale here and there. One of the larger of them had thrown his mug at the wall, which was now covered in ale and shards of broken stoneware. He and the second largest man were standing inches from each other exchanging shoves and rude words. The mid-thirties black woman behind the bar looked more annoyed than nervous, but still rather nervous.

“Jacob.”

A single word from his mother had Jake out of his seat grabbing a walking staff from beside the fire. He pole vaulted over two tables, barely missing the tops of people’s drinks with his feet, and land right in front of the arguing men. In a move most of the patrons couldn’t quite catch, Jake moved the end of his make-shift weapon between the two men and had them at a staff’s length apart within moments.

“You gentlemen want to take this outside?” Jake asked pleasantly.

The only very slightly smaller man nodded gruffly and started towards the door. Unfortunately, the man he’d had the disagreement was between him and the door, and the larger man evidently did not like the newly reacquired proximity. He charged at the other man with a drunken yell, arms wide, apparently not caring who he took with him on the way to his target.

Jake cursed quietly, almost as though he hoped his mother wouldn’t hear, and changed his stance and his grip on the staff. He spun, back to the two men for a fraction of a second, but too fast for the drunken patron to take advantage of the move. He used the momentum of the spin and brought the staff down on the back of the charging man’s head. There was a resounding crack, a grunt, and the woodsman fell to the floor. Jake flicked a dreadlock out of his face and announced:

“Someone want to get him out of here?”

Two of the large man’s buddies, the one he’d been fighting with included, step up to the job, and putting one arm over each of their shoulders, managed to drag him out of the inn, still unconscious. The other patrons of the Dragon Inn were slowly moving away from Jacob, as if they were afraid if they moved too quickly his wrath would come down on them. The staff wielder in question was just standing there, waving merrily after the encumbered friends, as if they’d just had a jolly party and he was simply bidding the adieu.

Jacob casually made his way back toward caleb, smiling to himself, eyes bright with a job well down. He made to sit back down next to the priest, then seemed to think better of it.

“I should really get back to work before my mother starts throwing more than just a few pints.” His grin made a smooth transition from grin to wince, then back to grin, “Hey, why don’t you get a room here? Can’t go back to the monastery, right?”

“I had actually been planning to.”

“Go back?” he asked incredulously.

“Surely they wouldn’t throw me on the streets?” but even as the words left his mouth, Caleb knew they would. Keeping a roof over his head was extra money Father Travis most certainly would not want to spend.

“I…don’t have any money…”

The pity on Jake’s face was almost more than the blonde could take. He looked determinedly into the fire, willing the tears to stay in his eyes. He’d spent his entire life inside the church, pitying the poor and helpless. Now he had a new view from the other side of things, and he didn’t like it. No wonder those people always seemed to glare at him, only the lowlifes were pleasant and happy for the looks of pity. No one wanted pity unless they got something out of it, and those sorts of people sought it out.

“Hey, don’t worry.” Jake said pleasantly, collecting his plate, “stay here until it’s not so busy, and we’ll work something out.”

---

Taylor fit the soft leather corset over his plentiful breasts. He winced slightly, not liking the way they pressed together, and took a look at himself in the mirror. The heavy blue dress he was wearing brought out his eyes and would be nearly impossible to do chores in. His long, beautifully wavy, blonde hair fell just past his shoulders, and would always get in the way, even if he pulled it back. Taylor sighed heavily and straightened the corset so it was only slightly less uncomfortable.

It was times like this that Taylor hated being a changeling. Descended from faeries, he had the oh-so-wondrous gift of shape shifting. The only catch was he didn’t seem to be able to do much other than turn from boy to girl, and even that was sketchy. The change was completely dependant on the change in the winds, quite literally. The right gust of wind, winding its way through his hair, and the morph would begin. It had been extremely troublesome and socially awkward until a few months ago when, as a wedding present, his adoptive parents had given him the turquoise necklace he wore on a long chain around his neck. It was long enough to tuck between his breasts, oh Mother.

There was a knock at the door, and Taylor took one last glance in the mirror to get a good idea of exactly the level of embarrassment he would endure before answering.

Leaning one broad shoulder against the door frame, shaggy, sandy blonde hair falling into his face, was Taylor’s older brother and husband, Chris (his full name was never used, because he would hurt anyone who did). He and Chris had both been orphaned at an early age, Chris by the death of the daughter and son in law of who he would eventually come to call Mother and Father, and Taylor by the fae tradition of leaving a newborn on the steps of some unsuspecting human’s house. They grew up together, as siblings, and Taylor had gotten to preferring being a boy, simply because it was more fun to play with his brother that way.

Their parents, unfortunately, preferred Taylor as a girl, and when they were of age, and neither had prospects, it was decided the two should marry. Taylor had once overheard a conversation between his parents and Chris.

“He’s my brother!” Chris insisted, close to begging.

“She is not related to you by blood, Chrysanthemum.” Their mother countered easily, “And think of your sister. Can you seriously believe that anyone will have her? With that horrible…condition?”

“You will do this.” Their father said simply.

“You cannot make us consummate it.” Chris spat, “I will not do that to my brother, sister, whatever. We are siblings. You cannot change that. You raised us this way.”

And so, there was an extremely awkward wedding, in which the entire small town of Miri was invited, most of which disliked if not downright ostracized the two brothers. They ate soggy wedding cake, accepted cheep gifts of flowers and towels, and tried to pretend they had not just kissed. The only good present either of them received was Taylor’s necklace, which allowed him to change at will, and resist the changing of the winds. It was not, however given in the spirit of freeing him, but instead in the hopes that he might stay permanently female.

“Hey hot stuff.”

“Shut up. I hate you.”

“Aw, is that anyway to treat your hubby?” Chris snickered, and was rewarded by a punch to the gut. He slumped against the earthen wall of the hallway with a grunt, clutching his stomach. Taylor grew up with an older brother who didn’t care if he was a boy or a girl; he knew how to throw a punch and mean it.

“Mind you manners,” Taylor hissed, “We keep up appearances. No need for Mr. Bushido to grow suspicious because you’re being an ass.”

Mr. Bushido’s real name was James, a tall Asian teen, about Chris’s age, with training in martial arts and throwing various kinds of sharp objects. He’d come upon the brother’s home, and after the shock of finding someone living there, asked if he might stay in exchange for doing some manual labor for the newlyweds. Thus, the deception; Taylor and Chris could not afford to have their secret revealed to the general public, however much they both hated the idea of Taylor staying a girl for all eternity. One of the reasons they had moved into the strange home they now lived in, was its near absolute isolation, and the unique gift it had to almost completely disappear into the trees, as it were.

Chris and Taylor’s house was, for lack of a better word, a tree house. In the middle of the Great Forest, stood a grand oak, twice as big around as the Dragon Inn, and three times as tall. It had been hallowed out, leaving outer walls a good two feet thick, creating a living space and kitchen above ground. Below, chiseled out of well packed dirt and around ancient roots, were two bedrooms and a cellar. There was also a small attic, but Taylor didn’t trust it, and so the two didn’t use it much. When all the doors and shutters were closed on the main floor, it looked just as if it were what it was: the biggest fucking tree anyone had ever seen.

The tree house was obviously the work of faeries, no ordinary human could have such craftsmanship, but Chris and Taylor had never met the architects. The home was yet another wedding gift. Directions were given via a map with flowery script and detailed drawings of odd landmarks, like rock formations on the edge of The River and trees with twisted trunks. The faeries had given Chris and Taylor their blessing, or more accurately, had given them what their parents had taken away: a place to belong.

This was something even the faeries did not have. Ever sense the beginning of the reign of Baptista, ten years before, magically creatures of all kind had been accused of undermining the true order of things. The “true order” being with humans on top, and all other forms of life very far below, meaning that now, anything with magical powers of any kind was considered a beast. Legally, Taylor was an animal.

The creature in question made his way carefully up the short flight of stairs, dainty shoes undermining the efforts by tangling in his skirts. Every step was a winding, beautiful tangle of roots, each one imperfect, yet stable and practical, in its way. The simple banister along the side was also a root, but just the barest winding of tiny tendrils up and down it gave the impression of delicate carvings, without undermining the tree’s means of acquiring nutrients. Once above ground, Taylor let out a huge sigh, and made his way outside to face his oblivious tormentor.

---

James was sitting on his knees in the fallen leaves directly in front of the tree house, staring out at running water before him. The River, the only source of water in Kerepity, other than the few underground cashes in town, ran narrow and slow, in the Great Forest, before it hit the slope that fell down and directly behind the castle of Baptista, where it became a roaring force of nature. Here, however, it was gentle and peaceful, and James was using the rhythm of it as a sort of meditation focus point. He took a few deep breaths and willed the peace of the water to clear his thoughts. He failed desperately.

A little less than a month ago he had been turned out of his dojo, and orphan who had overstayed his welcome. Trained as one of a clan of the greatest, and most infamous, stealth killers, he had refused to kill for money. Being a mercenary was a part of the trade, one of the only ways his dojo made money, and the idea that he would stay and refuse to contribute was ludicrous. His master had put him out on the streets, saying simply that he would learn his only purpose in life was to kill, and he would either own up to that, or starve.

James could kill, he was very good at it, but he refused to kill another human being. The moment he left the dojo, he headed for the Great Forest, trusting the wilderness to provide game. It did, but shelter was scarce, and when he came upon the young couple living in the fairy made house, he offered up his services in exchange for a clean bed and three squares a day. He could hunt, he could chop wood, and if need be, he could protect them from any harm that came their way. They had taken him in that very night, giving him a bowl of the most delicious soup he’d ever tasted, and a soft bed in the room at the end of the hall. Whether they would accept his offer on a more permanent basis remained to be seen.

“James?” the boy in question turned to face Taylor. He thought of Taylor as the beautiful lady of the manor, his patron, and perhaps with time, good friend.

“yes, m’lady?”

Taylor grimaced. This was not going to work. If the man stayed here any longer they were going to have to tell him the truth. The problem was it still wasn’t evident if he could be trusted to not turn them in. It was all so dangerous, such a delicate dance, between those who disliked Baptista’s rule and those who all but worshiped him. One had to be careful how things were worded, to weed out the undesirables, whatever side of the line you were on.

“Uh, listen…” Taylor began.

Chris cleared his throat loudly from the front door. Taylor glared at him, but James just glanced in his direction briefly, before turning his full attention back to the younger blonde.

“You can stay if you’d like, James” Taylor made an effort to keep his voice smooth and pleasant, “There’s a lot of work to do around the house, and we wouldn’t simply throw you out even if there wasn’t. You’re welcome here.”

“Thank you” James said, bowing deeply with is eyes on the ground, demonstrating his complete trust in the beauty before him.

“If you could get a few potatoes out of the storeroom, I’ll start dinner.” Taylor smiled congenially, motioning for the tall man to come inside. James stood his full height, and followed inside, silent despite the numerous weapons beneath his tight leather bodysuit.

As James headed down stairs, Taylor headed into the kitchen. He pulled down the handle on the pump next to the sink and began filling a large copper pot. He took some of the smaller logs from the woodpile next to the door and pushed them into the stove, lighting them with flint and blowing on the embers until a flame burst forth, crackling along the frayed bark. He sat the pot atop the slowly heating, flat surface of the stove top, and then turned his attention to his brother, who was sitting at the large kitchen table.

Chris ran his hands over the smooth wood of the tabletop, tracing the lines that ran through it, marking the years of the tree they lived in. All the furniture, cabinets, and anything else wooden in the house had been made out of what had been carved out of the tree, and the table was no exception. Even the legs, beautifully carved with intricate designs that looked like they were probably honey suckle, were made of dead wood from its branches. The wood was beautiful, not shiny with wax, but simply clean and well sanded. In a few years it would probably get a bit darker from use, and the top would be even smoother from ware. It could only make it more beautiful.

“We have to tell him, Chris.” Taylor stated calmly, “I will not live this way forever. I can’t live this way forever.”

“I know, kiddo, I know.” Chris sighed heavily and looked up at his little brother, “We’ll find a way. I promise. But it’s too soon.”

“Too soon? No.” Taylor turned to get a spoon out of one of the drawers, stirring at the barely warm water, though there was no real reason to, “No. It is too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?” a fight was brewing in the undercurrents on the conversation, they could both feel it.

“He calls me “m’lady”, Chris.” Taylor said, grabbing various seasonings from the cabinet and tossing them in the now bubbling water, finally deciding that he should be stirring something.

“So what?” Chris demanded, “Hate to brake it to you brother, but at this very moment, you are a lady. Physically, if in no other aspects.”

“I shouldn’t have to hide what I am!” Taylor spun on him, wooden spoon (also of the same wood as the tree) held threateningly above his head.

“No, you shouldn’t. And I’m sorry.” Chris said earnestly.

“Me too.” Taylor said quietly, turning back to the seasoned water and staring into it dejectedly.

James was careful to stay very still, not lean against the wall, and not adjust his stance, nothing. The bag of potatoes was heavy, but not so much that he couldn’t hold them for the few moments the brothers would need to move past the conversation. A few more moments, and they would not suspect he’d heard the conversation.

---

Marcus was huddled in a corner of the stables, covered in hay and worse things. The tears fell from his large, innocent looking brown eyes in large drops, turning to tiny rivers down his face. He gasped and gasped for breath, pretty lips swollen and looked almost bruised. He held his knees to his chest, face buried between his knees, mousey brown hair shading his delicate face and the bruise slowly forming on his left cheek. The foul taste was still in his mouth, and every time he thought about it the tears started anew.

He sobbed and sobbed until the tears would no longer come, and until the fear and shame was no longer overwhelming, but had become a waxy sort of lump in the pit of his stomach. Someday he would be bigger. Someday he would escape this place. The young teen rubbed his eyes roughly and caught a glimpse of the shiny burn scar on his wrist; a minuscule s had been burned there when he was but a child. The tears began again with a new vengeance.