by GARY DARBY
The result? Absolutely nothing. Not even a tiny spark or flame out of the gem.
So I lost sleep and woke up grumpier than usual, but I did resolve to get a look at Phigby’s book that he had last night. I’m positive it has the answer to how to unlock the jewel’s secrets. Secrets that I badly want to learn because I just know that they will lead me away from this wretched life I lead.
Just at high sun, I’m finishing with the last outside paddock when Malo scurries up. He throws me a hunk of bread for middle meal. “Make for the top meadow,” he orders bluntly, “and do a count. Everyone else is on guard, and Master Boren wants an accounting by the time he gets back. I’ll take care of the lower two pastures.”
He snaps his fingers at me and gestures at the nearby open glades. “Go! Make it fast and don’t force me to come lookin’ for you either.”
“What about these four?” I ask, pointing at the sprogs rolling around in the dirt.
“Leave’em here,” he says in an irritated tone. “I’ll fetch'em back to their mothers.”
“With pleasure,” I mumble under my breath. I can’t believe my luck. I not only get away from my dung duties, but I get to leave my pests behind, too. The world must be coming to an end. What else can account for such miracles happening all on the same day?
I hurry over the creek and hasten toward the meadow’s center where the bulk of the upper dragon herd now roams. I pass by two drogs, who stand atop a small knoll, watching over the meadows. A bit farther down, I see two more plodding along the tree line.
I give them all a wide berth; nevertheless, the breeze carries their scent, and I scrunch my nose up at the odor. I stare at them and confirm my suspicions. Drogs never bathe and the olive-colored streaks running from their jutting jaws down to their protruding bellies is what I smell.
Dragon blood.
And I have no doubt where it came from, either.
I jerk my head away as I abruptly realize that I’ve gazed at the closest two for too long, and now they’re returning my scrutiny with a hard, threatening stare. I scurry away and glance over my shoulder, once, to make sure they’re not trailing. They follow me with their eyes, but thankfully, they stay where they are and let me continue into the meadow.
I hurry on till I’m wading almost knee-high through the pasture’s lush grass. The high meadows are a series of three broad and spacious glens that step their way down from Draconstead toward Draconton, where the lower, warmer winter pastures begin.
Most of the dragons are lying in the soft new spring grass and not moving around, which will make my counting a bit easier. Folded tight against their bodies are their leathery wings, held there by body chains, making it impossible for them to fly, and the drog guards ensure that they don’t leave the meadows and wander into the forest.
The dragons are free to roam throughout the three expansive green pastures, but the drogs prevent them from going anywhere else. Sometimes, a dragon will try to make its way down to the lower fields where the goat and sheep flocks are kept, but the drogs drive them back, usually.
Last season, a crimson dragon managed to evade the guards and made its way all the way down to the winter meadows. The beast had a grand feast of several heads of mutton, which, though bothersome to Lord Lorell, he wouldn’t have minded all that much.
But when the dragon somehow caught m’lord’s favorite black stallion for dessert, well, let’s just say that we never saw that drog pack leader again. I suspect he became drog stew.
Not only do the drogs keep Draconstead’s dragons in the meadows, they also prevent the occasional wild dragon from getting into the glades. The Dragon Master is very careful with his breeding and doesn’t want any other dragons, especially wild ones, intermingling with his herd.
And lastly, the brutes ensure that no one but stead workers enter the pastures, either. Lord Lorell has made it known far and wide that if a dragon thief is caught by the drogs attempting to pilfer one of our dragons, m’lord will not turn him over to the king’s High Sheriff, or to Draconton’s Low Sheriff.
The drogs administer their own brand of justice.
It’s been quite a while since anyone tried to steal one of Draconstead’s dragons.
I catch sight of one big red moving ponderously near the tree line. It’s Wind Thunder, one of Wind Boomer’s offspring. Already his size is causing a stir among the Dragon Knights as well as some of the other Houses. They would like nothing better than to have a sire like Wind Thunder in their stables.
Crimson dragons have the hottest fire stream, able to set a grove of trees ablaze with a single pass, and their wings are the strongest and widest. They have the most stamina and are able to carry a Dragon Knight, sometimes two if necessary, far and fast.
Their dragon scales, from horned heads to their long, sinewy tails are akin to metal forged by a skilled blacksmith, and only the deadliest of lances or arrows can pass through and harm the dragon.
Pacing through the meadow, I use my short field knife to cut a large notch in a branch for each red I count. When I’m finished, I have four notches. Then I start with the sapphires. I make a smaller notch for each of those dragons so that I can show Malo the difference in the count.
Sapphires and violet dragons, or as most people call them blues and purples, are smaller than reds, but much faster in the air. Sometimes they’re used in fighting, but more often they’re used as speedy flyers to carry their riders swiftly to and from almost any point in the kingdom.
Some blues are almost turquoise in coloration. They’re sea dragons and spend most of their time in water, usually the deep oceans. Slender and sleek for gliding underwater for long stretches of time, they can fly, but rarely do, preferring to spend their time in seawater.
Phigby once gave me a book that had drawings showing merfolk or MerDraken as they’re sometimes called, riding water dragons in the South Ocean, but I’m not sure I believe the illustrations. After all, some books are pure fantasy, you know.
Only in the wild do you find emeralds or green dragons. They’re as big as reds, and their dragon fire as powerful. They can fly, but they prefer walking in the thick forests. Sometimes they’re called the Protectors or Friends of the Forest.
But that’s not what I call them. For me, cold-blooded murderers is a more apt name.
Orange and yellow dragons are also known as sprite dragons, or just plain sprites. Some are not much bigger than my hand, some twice as big as Scamper. They live almost anywhere, forest, mountains, high and low meadows, forest glens and even along the seashore, but you never find them very close to where Drach or other folk live.
They can be shy one minute and intensely curious the next. If you see one in the forest, then quickly look around because there’s a good chance that there’s probably a dozen or more peeking out from behind the leaves and branches watching you.
Seven dragon types, each the color of the rainbow.
Then there’s our golden dragon. She’s as big as any green, supposedly as fast or faster than a blue or sapphire, and as powerful as a red. Whether she is or isn’t, I really don’t care. My hope is that King Leo sends for her quickly, and we’re rid of her and the trouble she causes, at least for me.
Among the Great Houses, it is a Forbidden Law for a House to try and steal a golden from another House. If it happens, then there must be war and the remaining Houses will join the offended House’s cause against the rogue House. This has happened only once, and the transgressor, the House of Radoc no long exists, and there is no hereditary line of Radoc, nor does anyone carry that surname.
A short while later, I’ve finished my count and sadly, head back to the stead proper. Even though I had to spend my time around dragons, still it was a bit of a lark for me, and I enjoyed being away from the dull routine of sprog sitting and manure slinging. It even gave me a chance to think about my dragon jewel, but other than getting ahold of Phigby’s book, I still have no idea of what to do with the crystal.
After I finish giving
my numbers to Malo, he throws my shovel at me and jerks his head toward the far row of stalls. The meaning is clear, get busy. Hooper, the lord and master of all that comes from the south end of a northbound dragon, is back in business.
I’ve just finished Wind Flame’s corral, a crimson dragon who’s finishing the last of his sky battle training and will soon go to the Dragon Knights, when I hear dragon wings overhead. If you’ve spent practically your entire life around dragons, you know that the sound that each dragon makes while skying is distinct. Just as each person’s voice is different, so is the beating of dragon wings.
It’s Wind Song, Cara Dracon’s sapphire dragon.
I quickly glance upward as Cara guides her dragon in tight circles over the paddock and barn. Her lithe body sits confidently in her saddle while her long, auburn hair streams behind her, whipping back and forth in the rush of wind. Even from here, I can see the gleam in her apple-green eyes as she guides her dragon as if they sky-danced in the air.
I hate looking at dragons, whether they’re on the ground or in the air, but I fully admit, I could spend every moment of my day watching Cara on Wind Song.
And, I confess, my eyes wouldn’t be on the dragon.
Cara brings Wind Song to a smooth landing and before her dragon has actually settled to the ground, she swings her leg over its neck and slides down its shoulder scales to the ground. My eyebrows go up at the sight of her longbow and quiver over her shoulder.
It’s said that Cara is almost as good with a bow as Helmar, not to mention that she’s a better dragon rider though he’s loathe to admit that to anyone.
However, she typically doesn’t take her bow unless she’s going stag hunting in the forest and that she never does alone. She too must be carrying her bow because of the Wilder threat.
My eyebrows rise even more when I catch sight of a sword scabbard on her hip. Her blade is naturally shorter than Helmar’s. Nevertheless, I can see the hilt’s gleam. I knew she had skills with the bow as she and Helmar often hunted together, and from what I know, she was as successful as he in bringing home fresh meat.
But a sword handler, too?
With the nimbleness and grace of a doe in the woods, Cara briskly walks over to the paddock where I stand with my rake in hand. I stop what I’m doing and duck my head low as she approaches.
She opens the gate, steps inside, closes the gate and stands next to the railing giving Wind Flame the once-over before she turns and gives me a tiny nod in acknowledgment. It may have been an afterthought for her to recognize me, but even that small gesture makes me feel as if today is my Day of Miracles, and may it never end.
Cara, unlike her nasty brother, occasionally speaks to me, albeit it’s always just a cool greeting. I raise my eyes and murmur, “G’day Mistress Dracon.” I try hard not to be too overzealous in my greeting, but it’s hard not to where Cara is concerned.
“And to you, Hooper,” she answers in that low, husky voice of hers.
She settles her dark forest green tunic around her waist where it meets her even darker brown riding pants. She places her bow and quiver against the lowest fence rail before she climbs to the top rung. There, she sits by bracing herself with her soft, leather boots against the next lower rough plank.
Her eyes are very intent on Wind Flame, and she studies him from his four curved horns, clear to his spiked tail. I, of course, don’t interrupt her and stand quietly to one side. “How’s Wind Flame doing today?” she asks.
Her question catches me totally off-guard. She’s never said more to me than a quick greeting. But to ask me about a dragon, that’s a question for her father, or Helmar, or the Dragon Trainers. Not me. Then I remember that Malo said that everyone else is on guard, patrolling the boundary woods around the buildings. I glance around and abruptly realize that I’m the only dragon worker in sight.
I stammer for a bit before I gesture toward the scarlet and say, “Uh, he’s fine, miss, just fine.”
She’s listening, but her eyes are still on the red. “Did he go through his training yesterday?”
That I can answer because I saw the trainers working Wind Flame and two other crimsons through mock sky battles early yesterday morn. “Yes,” I quickly respond. “The trainers had him, Spark, and Flash aloft for quite a while before they took up their guard posts.”
“Good,” she replies. “While father and Helmar are away, I’m to get him ready to turn over to the knights in a few days.”
She jumps down to stand next to me. “You can help,” she orders.
“Uh, me, ma’am?” I stutter. “I’m not a — ”
“I know you’re not a trainer,” she curtly replies, “but there’s no one else and father explicitly ordered me to check on Wind Flame. Besides, Helmar says you know what you’re doing around dragons.”
I don’t move. I’m too stunned. First, I’ve never been this close to Cara before. Her hair has a faint fragrance like wildflowers, and she and her clothes have the odor of honey-scented soap. She’s clean, and her clothes are spotless, whereas I stink of — well, I just stink.
Secondly, Helmar Stoudtman gave me a compliment? I’m thinking that Cara must have heard wrong. But even if it’s a mistake, if it gets me this close to Cara, may the mistakes keep coming.
“I want to check his talons first,” she commands as she moves next to the red. “They need to be filed sharp as well as his tail spikes. Then we’ll inspect his wings, make sure there’s no lice in the skin folds’ under wings.”
I still don’t move. She just spoke more to me in the last few moments than in the twelve seasons I’ve been here. I have one foot in heaven, and the other in hell. I’ve thought feverishly about having a conversation with her since I first noticed that girls are delightfully different, and Cara the most wonderfully different of all.
But now that the moment has arrived, I can’t move, I can’t speak, afraid that I’ll make a complete fool of myself. I whip my head around, hoping that one of the trainers or even Malo has made his way back to the paddocks, but there’s no one in sight.
I turn back to find her staring at me with a frown on her face. She cocks her head to one side and slowly says, “You do move, don’t you?”
I swallow, place my rake against the railing and mumble, “Uh, yes, Miss Cara, I do.”
“Good, now get over here and lift up his front talons so that I can see.”
As I scurry over to Wind Flame’s head, Cara commands, “Wind Flame, up!”
The big dragon obediently rises to his feet, and I duck under his neck to hold up the first of his three huge talons on his left foot. One by one, I hold up the other two, holding them until Cara nods at me. We repeat this with each sharply pointed and curved talon until Cara gives a final nod in satisfaction.
It doesn’t take long for us to inspect his wings, his horns, his tail spikes, the fitting for his neck saddle and reins and finally his body rivets. Once finished, Cara gives the dragon a good scratching between his eyes while crooning, “You’re a good boy aren’t you, Flame?”
She steps back, gives him one last scuff between the eyes and announces, “He’s ready. Tomorrow, give him a good washing with a stiff brush so that his scales shine.”
“Yes ma’am,” I dutifully answer.
She strides toward her bow and quiver, quickly dons them and says, “Thank you, Hooper.”
“My pleasure, Miss Cara,” I murmur.
She starts to open the paddock gate when she suddenly stops and turns back to me. She eyes me for a moment before saying, “Phigby tells me that you like books.”
I can’t tell by her tone if she’s saying that’s a good thing or not. I hold my gaze down as I mutter, “Yes, Miss Cara, I do.” I raise my eyes and say, “But I don’t get too many chances to read, not with the work here, and all.”
I see a little gleam in her eyes. “He also told me that when you’re down in the lower meadows during the winter you often come to his shop during the night, just to read.”
Uh,
oh. I’ve been caught. Master Phigby just opened the barn doors and let the dragons escape. I’m in for it now.
She must have seen the anxious look on my face for she laughs lightly and says, “Don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. Besides, I know of only one other person who sneaks out at night to visit the bookstore just to read.”
“Really?” I ask. “Who’s that?”
“Me,” she answers with a straight face. We stare at each other for a moment, before smiles creep over our faces that turn into wide grins.
“So,” she asks, “what do you like to read?”
I shrug my shoulders in response. “Oh, most anything, I guess. Master Phigby and I have a deal. When I have the time, he picks out a book for me, and he lets me select one for myself. Of course, I choose those that have the most artist drawings and illustrations. He calls them children’s storybooks but I like to look at the pictures.”
I frown and grouse. “He chooses books that talk about math or science, or history. No pictures, either.”
She throws her head back and laughs. Have you ever heard a beautiful melody that’s carried on the wind? Or wind chimes in the breeze? Put the two together and that’s Cara’s laugh.
She delicately covers her mouth with one hand as she laughs again. “You too?” she says. “I thought I was the only one that Phigby pulled that stunt on. Drives me crazy, too.”
I smile at her and say, “Well, since he told on me, I’ve heard that you’ve read all of his books, some two or three times.”
She sighs in answer. “It’s true, I have. I can’t wait till he gets a new book so that I can get my hands on it.”
“He has a new book,” I immediately answer and stop with my mouth open.
I’ve gone and done the exact opposite of what Master Phigby ordered of me. He specifically told me not to mention that book of his to Cara. Helmar was right, I need a tight leash on my mouth. I’m doomed. When Phigby finds out that I’ve spilled his secret, I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t turn me into a pumpkin or a mush melon at the very least.
