“I’ve finished my work. It’s your turn, now.” His dragon stretched in the sun. “I could roast one, if you like.”
“I’m saving my appetite for the feast tonight.” Roberto bent to sort the fish, killing the large ones and throwing the small ones back.
“Harrumph.” Erob hooked a fish with his talon and roasted it with a moderate dragon flame.
“Erob, just because you’re hungry, doesn’t mean I am.” The aroma of cooked fish making his mouth water, Roberto put their catch into sacks.
Erob shot another tendril of flame at the fish. Its juices sizzled. Shards, it smelled good.
“All right, if you insist.” Roberto carried a flat stone to Erob, who placed the cooked fish on it to cool. He flopped on the grass and leaned against his dragon’s sun-warmed side.
“A great invention of yours, that net,” melded Erob.
He’d always been a good fisherman. It was part of his Naobian heritage. Before the net, he’d hunted for hours from Erob’s back with a long-handled net or spear, but now they could catch fish quickly and then take time to relax.
“I bet it’s just a rumor that humans can mind-meld.” Roberto took a bite of fish.
“When I was an embryo, I met another couple who were mind-melding.”
“And?”
“I don’t know them, only the timbre of their minds,” Erob replied. “I’d recognize her again, though.”
“Her?”
“Yes, her. She was melding, so I sensed her mind. Through her, I felt his. Their love was like dragon and rider.” Erob nudged Roberto with his snout.
Dragons didn’t lie. It must be true, then. “I’m glad we imprinted. Life was grim until you turned up,” Roberto mumbled. “Without you, I’d be dead. Or worse.” He bolted the last of his fish.
“Most relationships are not like your parents’.” Erob flicked the tip of his tail at Roberto’s ear.
Roberto batted his tail away.
“Many humans are happily bonded.”
Bitter memories rushed through Roberto. His throat tightened.
“Your father’s betrayal was—”
“Not now, Erob,” he barked.
“You’re not like him,” insisted Erob.
His father’s face loomed in his head, mocking him. Zens’ bulbous eyes leered at him. The bodies of maimed slaves, piled high, stinking. Whips cracked. Screams. Muffled moaning. His forehead broke out in sweat. Roberto threw the sacks of fish into Erob’s saddlebags and climbed on his back. It always came back to his father. “Drop me at Fire Crag.” He broke mind-meld.
Erob landed at their usual spot, an hour’s run from the top of Fire Crag.
Roberto dismounted and slapped Erob’s flank. He eased his mind open. “I’m sorry, Erob.” He could never stay mad at Erob for long. His dragon was right—his father had been a traitor.
Erob nudged his shoulder. “I’ll take the fish to the kitchens and be back in a couple of hours.”
Roberto nodded. Letting his dragon’s fire blaze through his veins, he set off on the punishing climb to the pinnacle, hoping the burn of his muscles could obliterate his searing memories.
§
Just before dusk, Ezaara and Zaarusha flew down to the feast.
“Finally, you’re a passenger fit for a queen,” Zaarusha teased. “Could you spare Adelina for a while so I could have my scales polished and talons clipped?”
Ezaara swatted Zaarusha’s neck. Although her fine clothes and fancy hair made her self-conscious, she knew she looked good.
Zaarusha spiraled upward, sending Ezaara images of a steep dive down to the feast. Heart pounding, Ezaara leaned forward, tightening her grip.
Zaarusha roared.
This was it.
The dragon queen chortled. “I was only teasing. I wouldn’t dive and mess up your hair.”
Ezaara laughed as Zaarusha made a gentle descent.
§
Around Roberto, masters chatted quietly at the head table, which was laid with a creamy linen cloth edged in silver dragons. Murmurs from the crowd drifted on the evening air. Zaarusha roared, and everyone looked up, a hush falling over the crowd. Roberto squinted in the fading light. What were Zaarusha and Ezaara doing up so high? Showing off? Then he understood. Zaarusha was ensuring all eyes were upon Ezaara.
They landed and Ezaara sprang down, rubbing Zaarusha’s eye ridge.
Roberto shook his head—the crowd was in awe again.
Ezaara’s hair, tied in coils and loops, trailed fine silver and green threads that highlighted her eyes. A silver tunic and matching breeches hugged her curves, and she wore a healer’s pouch at her waist. She glanced at him, cheeks flushed from flying.
A dizzying rush hit Roberto, as if he was standing on the edge of Fire Crag. Colors, like a blazing sunset, filled his mind, then they were gone.
Ezaara appeared not to notice. She smiled. “Good evening, Honored Dragon Masters. Thank you for calling this feast.”
Roberto passed a glass of apple juice to Ezaara.
Lars raised his arms before the crowd. “We welcome Ezaara, Honored Rider.” He turned to her, voice booming, “Enjoy tonight’s feast as a token of our respect. On the morrow, you’ll commence training for your duties as Queen’s Rider. I propose a toast in your honor.”
Everyone held their glasses high. “To the Queen’s Rider.” Their voices echoed off the mountainsides. The crowd drank, then whistled and cheered as Ezaara drained her glass. Roberto gestured for Ezaara to step forward.
“Me?” she replied, wide-eyed.
She obviously wasn’t used to feast etiquette. “Of course. You need to reply to Lars’ welcome.”
She faced the folk. “Good people of Dragons’ Hold, I’m honored at your trust. I hope to keep it, and to come to know each of you well. Thank you for preparing this feast in honor of Zaarusha, Queen of Dragons’ Realm.”
Zaarusha roared at the applause from the crowd.
Ezaara turned back to him. “Was that all right?” she whispered.
Her response? It was a bit short, not very formal, but straight from her heart, and gave honor to Zaarusha. Folk loved it, but that would only get her so far. Roberto nodded. “It was fine, much better than you giggling through your vows today. As Queen’s Rider, you’ll need more decorum.”
“At least I didn’t forget my words,” she hissed.
It’s not as if he had to swear in a new Queen’s Rider every week. Anyone would’ve forgotten a word or two. He couldn’t expect a girl from Lush Valley to understand that, but a Queen’s Rider should. He guided her to a seat between him and Lars, and refilled her glass with apple juice.
“To a new era,” Lars announced, “and Ezaara’s successful training.”
Everyone raised their glasses again, then helped themselves to food.
Erob’s fish had ruined his appetite, so Roberto only put melon and sweet potato on his own plate.
Ezaara was staring at the laden platters, eyes as wide as a newborn dragonet’s. Coming from Lush Valley, she’d probably never seen such a feast. She helped herself to some olives, sweet potato and fish and they made small talk.
Lars put a hand on Roberto’s shoulder. “You did a good job this afternoon and last night, especially with only a short time to memorize the formal proceedings.”
“Thank you, Lars. I’m happy to serve the council and my queen.” Well, apart from serving with his mental gifts, but he wasn’t about to admit that his strength was his biggest challenge.
“Zens’ reach is growing, Roberto. You must train the Queen’s Rider thoroughly, but quickly. We don’t have the luxury of time.”
“I’ll do my best, Lars. We’ll have to see what else she’s capable of.”
“I know you’ll do a good job.”
When Roberto turned back, Ezaara was leaving the dais.
He frowned. The Queen’s Rider, abandoning the head table? Unheard of.
Queen’s Rider
Ezaara popped a tiny purplish-black fruit
in her mouth. So, Roberto hadn’t liked her laughing that afternoon? He was so moody—he could go ride a dragon, for all she cared. She swallowed, but the fruit left a bitter aftertaste, like vinegar. Below the dais, hundreds of people were eating and chatting. She’d much rather sit down with them, than be up here on show.
“Do you like the olives?” Roberto asked, leaning toward her. “We grow them in Naobia.”
So, he was being friendly again, was he? “I’ve never had this fruit before. What did you call it?”
“An olive. Fruit?” He laughed. “They do grow on trees, but we pickle them in vinegar, so they’re savory, you see, not sweet.”
“Oh.” She felt so ignorant and stupid. Had he meant to sound like such a know-it-all?
He smirked. “Don’t feel bad. Coming from Lush Valley, you’ve probably never seen them. You can’t help being ignorant, having lived there.”
Ezaara snapped her jaw shut. Conversation with him was as bitter as the olives. Everyone down below seemed to be having much more fun. The sooner she could get away, the better.
Ignoring Roberto and his arrogant comments, Ezaara examined the myriad of cutlery beside her plate. This place was dragon-crazy—even the dessert spoons had dragons on them. Luckily, Adelina had told her which cutlery to use for what. Picking up her two-pronged fork with a dragon’s tail wound around the silver stem, she nibbled some sweet potato, careful not to drop any on her lovely silver tunic.
Roberto turned away to talk to Lars.
Now was her chance.
Ezaara took her plate and headed across the dais, down the stairs. She glanced back and caught Roberto’s disapproving stare, then lost her footing. Her food went flying and she shrieked, landing in a heap, pain shooting through her ankle.
The babble of conversation ground to a stop.
Her cheeks burned. Great. That would impress everyone—the new Queen’s Rider, smeared in sweet potato with a busted ankle. People were staring, some concerned, others smothering smiles.
“What do you expect?” a woman murmured. “She’s from Lush Valley.”
Someone snickered. A few more joined in.
Right, enough was enough. She may be from Lush Valley, but she wasn’t deaf. “It’s all right, everyone, I’m fine,” Ezaara called. “Go back to your dinner and I’ll collect mine.” She plucked sweet potato and fish off her tunic, putting it back onto her plate.
Scattered laughter broke out. People resumed eating. At least they weren’t staring anymore.
Zaarusha melded. “You’re injured. Do you need me to fly you home?”
“No, my ankle’s not that sore. I’ll stay until the feast’s over.”
“Very well, but take it easy.”
A blond man, about her age, rushed over. “Honored Queen’s Rider, I’m the master healer’s son, Simeon. My mother, Fleur, sent me to assist you.”
No, not in front of everyone. “I’m fine, thanks. I’ll be on my feet in a moment.” Ezaara brushed the rest of the food off her tunic. The silver fabric was ruined, stained with dull spots of fish oil. As she clambered to her feet, another spike of pain lanced through her ankle. Oh gods, she couldn’t put any weight on it.
Simeon gave her a lopsided smile, offering her his arm. “You need to sit down.” Helping her to the nearest table, he asked people to move so she could have a seat. He put her plate of grass-speckled food on the table. “I’ll be back in a moment with some salve.”
He disappeared before Ezaara could tell him not to bother.
A girl passed a cup of apple juice to her. “Hi, I’m Gret. It’s a shame you slipped. Reminds me of the time I fell in a puddle during my sword assessment.” She flicked her long brown braids over her shoulders.
Ezaara pushed the food around on her plate with her fork, a plain one without dragons on it—so the special cutlery was only for those at the head table. “Did you fail your sword assessment, Gret?”
“My backside was soggy, but I passed, so it worked out in the end. How are you with a sword?”
Ezaara sighed. “Better than I am with stairs, fortunately, but nowhere near as good as my brother.”
Another girl laughed, making her blonde curls bounce. “I’m Sofia. If you need the latest news, come see me.”
“Gossip, more like,” a blond boy said, taking a bite of bread.
Sofia elbowed him. “Just because I keep up with what’s going on, doesn’t mean it’s gossip, Mathias.”
Mathias raised an eyebrow at Sofia, then turned to Ezaara. “Welcome to Dragons’ Hold.”
Sofia leaned in. “Tell us, what’s Lush Valley like?”
Ezaara shrugged. “I’ve never lived anywhere else.”
“Is it true dragons are outlawed there?” Sofia practically held her breath.
How could she admit she’d never been sure if dragons existed?
“Come on, Sofia, you can’t believe everything you hear. You also thought Naobia had never had rain. I’m never going to let you live that down.” He laughed, dark eyes twinkling against his olive skin, black curls gleaming. From what Roberto had said, he was Naobian too. “I’m Rocco,” he said. “You’ll get used to Sofia’s questions.”
“We all had to,” said another boy, spearing a piece of fish on his fork. “I’m Henry.”
The last of the group moved like a lethal predator around the table toward her. Huge, he extended his well-muscled arm. “I’m Alban.” His eyes were gray, flinty. “Welcome,” he said, although his stance was anything but welcoming. “You’ll be training with us.”
Thankfully he’d be on her side in a battle, not fighting against her. Swallowing, Ezaara shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Alban.”
Simeon appeared at her shoulder. “Let’s look at your ankle.” His amber eyes were soft in the torchlight.
“I’m fine, thank you. Really. It’s only a sprain.”
“Fine is why you’re limping, right?” He unlaced her boot and eased it off.
Ezaara had to grit her teeth to stop herself from groaning out loud. What a fantastic impression she must be making.
“I hope you don’t mind me helping you.” Flashing his lopsided smile again, Simeon gently propped her foot on an upturned pail. He uncorked a small pot of salve. An arid scent wafted from it.
No way was she having that stinking stuff on her ankle. Ma’s salve smelled much better and worked wonders. She’d use that.
Before Ezaara could say anything, Roberto appeared behind Simeon, his voice slicing through the conversation. “I’ll take care of the Queen’s Rider. Go and enjoy your meal.”
“It’s no problem, Master Roberto.” Simeon leveled a challenging gaze at him. “I’m happy to assist.”
From the top table, Lars beckoned Roberto.
“Oh dear, duty calls,” muttered Simeon.
“Watch your step, Simeon,” Roberto threatened. He returned to the top table, boots thunking on the dais.
Irritable was an understatement. That man was downright hostile. “What was that about?” Ezaara asked Simeon.
“I don’t know—he’s always had a grudge against me.” Simeon shrugged. “Don’t worry, I’m used to it.”
Sofia leaned over the table. “He can be very rude. They say Master Roberto was once—”
“Sofia.” Gret gave an exasperated frown. “Ezaara can form her own opinions.”
A ripple ran through the crowd as Roberto held his glass high and proposed a toast to Queen Zaarusha. Simeon passed Ezaara her glass, and she nodded as the crowd toasted her dragon’s longevity and wisdom.
Glancing down, Gret said, “Wow, your ankle’s the size of an apple.”
“It looks tender,” remarked Sofia.
“It’s nothing.” Ezaara managed a smile. “I’ll be fine.”
“Not without piaua juice, you won’t,” Sofia said, gesturing at Ezaara’s healer’s pouch. “But then you’d know that.”
No decent healer would use precious piaua for a twisted ankle. “This is nothing, really.”
Op
ening her healer’s pouch, Ezaara extracted a strip of cloth and passed it to Simeon. “Could you please wet this for me?”
“Of course. Use plenty of my salve before you bind it. It will help.” Simeon went off to get some water.
Wincing, she rubbed Ma’s healing salve into her aching flesh, biting back another groan. She stowed it in her pouch and took the cork off Simeon’s stinking salve, letting the harsh aroma mask the smell of Ma’s.
Sofia’s keen eyes missed nothing, so Ezaara held a finger to her lips and winked.
Grinning, Sofia murmured, “Wouldn’t say a word.”
Mathias rolled his eyes. “As if.”
Simeon returned. “I’m glad you used my salve. That’ll help.”
Sofia giggled.
Simeon shot Sofia a puzzled glance as he bound the damp bandage around Ezaara’s ankle. The coolness of the wet fabric was soothing. Moments later, he was proffering a heavily-laden plate. “You must be hungry, Ezaara. They say you arrived from Lush Valley late last night. That’s a long way to travel.”
In more ways than one. “That’s so thoughtful, Simeon,” Ezaara replied. “Thank you.”
While she ate, everyone at the table chatted. They were courteous and witty, making her laugh, but although Ezaara thoroughly enjoyed Simeon’s company, she felt hollow. No one here really knew her. They were only talking to her because she was Queen’s Rider. If she’d failed the tests, it would’ve been a different story.
Ezaara turned to the top table. All of the other masters were there, but Roberto was gone. She scanned the crowd, but couldn’t find him. She shrugged. Why should she care where he went?
Lars stepped down from the dais and perched on a stool before a giant harp. He plucked the strings, his gentle melody weaving its way through the crowd. As the music built, low-pitched notes rumbled through Ezaara like the roar of a dragon. Eyes closed in rapt concentration, Lars caressed the strings, increasing the intensity and pitch until a sweet harmony floated through the dark, making Ezaara yearn for dragon flight, the wild abandon, the sheer color, of winging through the skies.
Her heart soared. She wanted to be Zaarusha’s rider, not a healer or a painter of scarves. This was her destiny.
Riders of Fire Box Set Page 6
