Zannis grinned. "He wouldn't eat me, he likes me."
"You hope." But Laynin smiled back. She shook her head and turned back to the waiting chosen.
"Who's going first?"
They looked at each other in mute surprise.
"We could let the dragons decide?" she suggested. When she'd agree to oversee this, she hadn't expected to play nursemaid to two dumbstruck chosen. Fortunately she had a little more patience left.
"She can go first," Varn offered. Perhaps he was being chivalrous, but he looked about ready to wet himself.
"Um, all right." Marlia looked paler than usual.
Zannis laughed. "They're not going to bite you. Stop being so scared. Come on." She grabbed Marlia by the arm before Laynin could stop her, and pulled her over to Karm. At least she knew which dragonet had chosen who.
Laynin had no choice but to follow. "Put a hand on his neck. Yes, like that." Marlia's hand was shaking, her eyes wide.
Karm is speaking to her, Risper supplied. He is reassuring her that he really doesn't bite, and that he liked what he saw in her mind. The bond will deepen in the next few days, but it is done.
Laynin gestured Varn forward. He walked with a gait that suggested he'd be running for the latrine as soon as he was able. Maybe she should send him off to go now, but he'd already touched Zald and the bonding commenced.
"See? Easy," Zannis declared. "Now, let's eat, I'm starving." She looked around, but waited until she and Laynin had taken a few steps away to ask, "Where's Ara? She never misses important events like this."
Keeping her voice low, Laynin explained, not sure how much she was allowed to share, but telling her friend most of it.
"So she's gone to deliver people and messages. That's no big deal." Zannis shrugged.
"You don't think war is a big deal?" Laynin asked.
"It's not like it's our business," Zannis replied. "You know Ara doesn't like to involve the draakin in other affairs if she can help it. Or course she'd want to warn everyone, so they can be ready, but we don't need to worry."
"I suppose so." Laynin turned back to the two new draakin, both smiling blissfully. "I'll need to get the robes back from them before we can start the feast."
"You'd be in trouble if they spill food on them." Zannis grinned.
"Only until I made them wash them," Laynin growled. "Or one of the hopeful."
"As if you'd trust them to anyone else."
Laynin sighed. "I hate it when you're right. Especially if it means I have to launder them. I better get them back now, before it comes to that."
Zannis patted her shoulder before starting toward the dining room.
Even hangovers didn't deter too many draakin from indulging again before noon.
"Scale of the dragon," Zannis said. She raised a glass of wine. The deep red liquid shone in the sunlight that poured through a nearby window.
"Dragons don't bite people," Laynin reminded her before taking a sip of her own wine.
"It's just an expression," Zannis retorted. "If you eat—or in this case drink—the scale of the dragon that bit you, the pain will go away."
"That makes no sense. Why not just say to drink more alcohol to cure a hangover?"
Zannis shrugged. "Why not find a magin healer to take the hangover away?"
"See, now that makes sense."
"Not everything has to make sense," Zannis said. "Look at Fanad. How is it that a man never smiles? He really needs to find a bedmate for the night."
Laynin grimaced. "Not me."
"Why not you? You can be serious together."
"That sounds like the least fun thing I've heard of since spit duty."
Zannis giggled. "Maybe he'd relax a little."
"Why do you care?" Laynin asked.
"Oh I don't." Zannis waved a hand. "I wonder if Varn is any fun."
"I don't know if he'll be thinking about anything but his dragon for a while now."
"That's what I'm hoping." Zannis grinned.
Laynin snorted. "I mean the one with four legs and wings."
"Sure you did." Zannis waggled her eyebrows. When Laynin didn't respond, she pouted. "All the Gods, Laynin, is Ara rubbing off on you or something?"
"I'm just thinking about Alvarios. What if there's more to this than we know? I'm not sure Ara told us everything."
"All the more reason to relax and enjoy yourself. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?"
Laynin didn't, and that was the problem. She was uneasy. Zannis was right, delivering people and a message weren't usually tasks undertaken by the most senior of the draakin. Why then, had Ara gone herself instead of sending someone with Luthin?
"I suppose so. We'll find out soon enough."
7
The sun had passed its zenith and descended toward the horizon by the time Travin awoke. He opened his eyes and wished he hadn't. His head pounded, eyes burned from the light. His mouth tasted like the inside of a beer keg, dregs and all. The sharp smell of warm vomit reminded him of the events of the morning.
His shoulder was stiff and caked with dried blood. The recollection of why he'd slept here, instead of seeing a healer, was vague, as was his oath not to drink again. He smiled. There was always a next time, but maybe not to such an extent.
Movement above and to one side caught his eye. Two dragons soared just above the tops of the trees. Sweet Euru, they were magnificent.
He couldn't make out who rode them from here, just a silhouette of a pair of draakin. Travin suppressed a stab of envy. Whoever they were, they were lucky.
Travin's gaze followed as they winged toward the beach. It was a short flight from the Dragonhall. Truthfully, it wasn't a long walk either, but why use feet when you had wings? He thought about following so he could sit on the beach and watch them swim. He decided against the idea. What he needed now was a wash and an ocean of drinking water to help with his hangover.
He stretched his muscles and started back toward town. He half expected to find people lying about in various bushes, but saw none. They either had more discipline than him, or a better sense of direction. Maybe that was why neither dragonet had chosen him; they didn't want to get lost.
He smiled to himself. Dragons knew where they were going, with no help from their riders. If he lived to be several hundred years old, he'd probably find his way better too.
He'd just finished that thought when he tripped over a root hidden in the grass and had to windmill his arms to keep from falling.
"I bet they don't do that either," he muttered. Even the hatching dragonets had more grace. Well—almost.
He reached the road and waited for a horse and cart to roll past before stepping out. The road was wide enough for both of them, but the sound of clopping hooves hurt his aching head.
The short walk to the boarding house included a stop to take a look at the ocean, spread out to the west of town. While he enjoyed looking at the vastness of the blue, and daydreaming about places across it that he'd like to visit someday, he really just hoped the horse would move on more quickly.
"Ale bad," he muttered.
"I beg your pardon?" Another traveler stopped to give him a funny look.
"Nothing." He smiled, which made him wince, and resumed walking.
The boarding house was quiet. Most of the people who lived there worked during the day and came home when he left to sing at the tavern.
Fortunately, today was no exception. He stepped through the front door to be greeted only by Whil, the owner of the house. He was at least a hundred years old, sporting wrinkles to match, and a face all but made of leather. He eyed Travin, who nodded to him, but he said nothing. He always wore that expression of disapproval, but he took braids readily enough, and asked no questions. That was all Travin wanted. That and a comfortable bed.
He stepped into his small room and closed the door behind him. He could walk to the opposite side in four steps, but the bed was nice and firm and the table under the window was sturdy, as was the chair. When Travin
had first come to Tsaisa, and sought out lodgings, Whil boasted that he'd made them himself, before he got the bone ache in his hands.
Given the size of his swollen knuckles, Travin understood that was some time ago, but the craftsmanship was excellent. He hadn't heard more than half a dozen words at a time from the man since. That suited Travin. He sang and talked all night, most nights. During the day he preferred solitude and silence.
He rinsed his face with water from a jug on the table before pouring water into a cup and drinking it in a gulp. He poured another and sat, a sheet of paper and a writing implement in front of him. He wanted to write a song that captured the essence of the hatching, but the only rhythm he felt was his pounding head.
He picked his guitar up from the corner and strummed a few chords. Something a little discordant to suggest the wobbling of eggs, the cracking of the shell, the protrusion of clumsy legs. He wanted to keep it light, for listeners to tap their toes to. His job was to entertain, not inform. People in distant Aarle wouldn't care about when the dragons hatched, but they might like to feel the sensation of being there watching.
He scribbled down a few chords, and words that might work as lyrics. For him, the tune always came first, the words afterward. The inclusion of some, however, were a given: shell, dragon, egg, draakin.
He chewed the end of his writing tool and added chosen to the list. He put the tools down and strummed a few more chords.
"From shell, you fell," he sang softly. "Uh, maybe not. The eggs they rocked back and forth. A little better." He wrote the words down.
He glanced up at the window to see people filing from the annex to the Dragonhall and down the street. He'd missed the bonding, and the ensuing feast, but the festivities would continue for as long as the excuse remained. The crowd at the tavern tonight would be big, and still ready to hear about dragons.
"They never get boring," he muttered to himself. "A crack, a rent, a leg kicks for all it's worth." Forth and worth didn't rhyme as well as he'd like, but he added the words to the page. "A shatter and a wing…"
Voices from outside drew his attention. "Did you see the draakin just drag the girl over?" one said, laughing. "I thought the girl would wet herself on the spot."
His companion laughed. "Tasty piece, that draakin. I hear she likes a bit of…" They passed out of earshot while Travin wondered who they were referring to. Some of them might be described as tasty although he wouldn't be so crude. Would they be surprised to know he'd learnt all their names? He'd studied each every time he was at the Dragonhall. He'd even written songs about some of them, although he'd left out their names. He'd written several about draakin in general, but listeners preferred other songs. They either were draakin, or they worked for them, or served them in their shops. They didn't idolise them to the extent people in other parts of the four kingdoms might.
No, listeners preferred songs about buxom maidens, extraordinarily well-endowed men, water dragons, fierce battles and heroes, both male and female. They liked to hear about kings and queens of old, and the favourite—the tale about the woman who rescued a prince who was locked in a tower by a wicked weaver who made cloth from his hair. He doubted a night passed without him being asked for that one. He could probably play and sing it in his sleep, regional variations and all.
With a sigh, he bent back to his work. He only had a few hours to write the song and get a quick meal before he had to work. Hopefully his head would have stopped pounding before that. Otherwise it would be a long night. Could any magin use magic to write songs? He smirked, but pushed the idea away. Even if they could, he couldn't.
He'd just have to do it the hard way.
8
Travin's back ached from sitting bent over for so long. Absently, he rubbed it with both hands. His stomach growled. At some point over the last couple of hours his headache had receded to a dull, but tolerable level. The song was finished; just in time by the look of the low-hanging sun. The tune was a good one, maybe one of his best.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside, and people talking low. The other boarders must have finished work for the day. One was the gravelly voice of Falix, the baker, and the higher pitch of Gauran the stonemason. They had come to Tsaisa separately, but had become firm friends. Travin suspected they might be more, but that was none of his business. If he asked no questions of those around him, then they did the same for him.
Travin folded the completed song and tucked it into a pocket. His guitar, he placed carefully into its leather case, which he closed before setting it aside to make room to get changed. It wouldn't do to appear at work in the same clothes as the night before. He might not be the only messy one, but bards had a reputation of fastidiousness bordering on foppishness. Travin didn't consider himself that bad, but he liked to take some care with his appearance.
He pulled on a clean pair of dark trousers and a white shirt that tied at the front. A leather jerkin and his usual boots completed the outfit. He combed his hair and remembered Gallia's suggestion that he get a big hat with a feather in the brim.
"Perfect for a bard," she'd declared, "no one would miss you."
"I think I'd want to punch myself in the face if I wore a hat like that." Or someone would do it for him. Needless to say, he left his head bare. He preferred to let his singing speak for itself, not his flamboyance, but he knew bards who liked both. He wouldn't judge them for doing so, as long as they gave him the same courtesy.
He grabbed his guitar and headed toward the door. Hearing no one speaking, he opened it slowly, making no assumptions about what he might see out there. A glance in either direction showed an empty corridor. The creaking of a bed further up suggested where the two men had gone.
Travin kept his footfalls light, not wanting to disturb them, and headed out into the town.
At this time of day, Tsaisa was bustling with people heading home after work, or starting jobs like his, that kept them up all night: tavern staff, healers, guards and the like. Many a face looked to have awoken not long ago. Still others looked to be going out for a night of fun. He hoped they were in a jovial mood, and feeling generous with their braids. His boots were getting worn and he was a few braids short of a new pair. A good night should help with that.
At the rear of the tavern was the worker's entrance that led directly into the kitchen. Travin sniffed, inhaling the delicious scent of freshly baked pies and the ubiquitous tavern stew. He'd never been to a tavern which didn't offer it. For the first year he had eaten it almost every night, but now the idea of it palled. The pies, on the other hand, were just what he needed right now; hot and full of meat and vegetables, and covered with flaky pastry.
He tossed a copper braid onto the bench and scooped a pie onto a plate, scalding his fingertips in the process. He cursed softly and blew onto his fingers while Targya, the cook, looked on and laughed.
"Serves you right," she chuckled. For a woman who spent her days making and tasting food, she was remarkably slender and dainty. She was quick with the wooden spoon if anyone tried to take food without permission. She gave Travin a discount, but technically he wasn't employed by the tavern, so he threw braids her way now and again to cover the cost of his meals. The boarding house had a small kitchen, but Travin's cooking was limited to boiling water. Even that was hit and miss; more often than not, he'd forget about it until it had boiled away. Was it his fault his mind was bursting with ideas for new songs?
"Thanks," he said sarcastically, "you're all heart."
"Of course I am." She offered him a fork which he accepted and used to lever open the top of his pie. A burst of hot steam and the smell of meat caressed his face.
"Venison?" he guessed. It might be worth burning his mouth just to get a taste of it.
"Of course. Came in fresh this morning." Targya nodded and turned back to her work.
They were lucky to get it then. The Dragonhall often had first choice after a hunt, but if the tavern keeper, Borvin, got in quickly, he could secure good meat. Betw
een hatchings, bonding and hangovers, the hall must have been too busy to send anyone. Their loss, his gain.
He skewered a piece of meat with his fork, blew on it and popped it into his mouth. It was tender and juicy.
"You've outdone yourself," he said, still chewing.
"Don't talk with food in your mouth." She waved her spoon at him.
He swallowed and resisted the urge to poke his tongue out at her. The one time he'd done that, she'd threatened to put it in a pie.
"Sorry, but this is good." He went on eating, while stepping from the kitchen into the taproom.
The crowd was small this early; most sat with plates of food and tankards of ale or glasses of wine. The idea of drinking either turned his stomach. He spotted the woman Gallia had made eyes at the night before sitting alone at a table, eating a meal of her own.
"Do you mind if I sit?" he asked.
She looked up at him curiously before waving toward the opposite chair. "Help yourself." Her eyes didn't leave him as he sat. For a moment he was confused, then he grimaced.
"Gallia didn't say anything bad about me, did she?"
"What makes you think we talked about you?" She stuck out her hand. "I'm Sami."
He shook it. "Travin, and I think that because of the look you just gave me. Don't believe everything she says."
She laughed. "All she said was that you're friends, and nothing more. Is she right?"
"Very much so," he said. "She's not my type."
"Funny, she said you're not hers."
"That works out then, doesn't it?" He looked sideways at her. "You know why though, don't you?"
Sami flushed slightly. "She said she prefers women to men."
"Right."
He contained his curiosity for a moment, but couldn't hide his relief when she said, "So do I."
"You could do worse than her then," he said nobly, "but I advise you to ignore her taste in headwear." He laughed. She gave him a funny look and shrugged.
His pie had cooled sufficiently for him to eat without having to stop and blow on every mouthful. While he ate, he watched people enter. The place would be full before long. He recognised most of the faces, but his eyes were drawn to one in particular.
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