Olam laughed. He had gotten that impression, too. Village homemaker or not, the woman was quite a force to be reckoned with, another reason why he liked her. “I should help you. We are supposed to be at the dragons’ cave by sun up.” He looked out the window; the grey horizon was just beginning to turn to blue. “That does not give us very long.”
Lance really had taken them all; the shelves in the kitchen were empty. But it did not take long to put the pots and pans away. While they worked, Bre’ach told him that Fran and Olg said goodbye. Olam wished he could have seen them off, but things had been moving fast since Brea woke from her dream. He had spent most of last night helping Gialyn write a letter to his father. The poor boy was more worried about what Daric would think than he was about his own safety. The young lad seemed happy enough with the letter, though – after nearly three hours and five attempts – and especially happy when Olam agreed to give Daric the note the moment he saw him. For all the boy’s father knew, Gialyn and Elspeth were home in Albergeddy. It would be an awkward meeting. Promise or not, he was not looking forward to telling the man that his son was off on a rescue trip to Eiras, of all places.
Job done, he and Bre’ach walked the half mile to the dragons’ cave. The sun barely made a line over the eastern ridge, but it already looked like another fine day. The few clouds there were would burn off before long, and they would be flying in a clear sky. He wondered if Tor and the others had considered that. Every farmer, soldier, townsman and merchant from here to Bailryn would see eleven dragons flying east along the Karan. It was not as if they could cut north, though. Tor was right about that much; they could run into the enemy. Risky or not, the good folk of Aleras’moya were about to find out that stories of dragons living amongst them were not just old travellers’ tales.
The den was empty when they climbed up through the bottom passageway, and Bre’ach led as they made their way through the upper tunnels. The map they were given was good, if not a little vague. For instance, what was the open cavern with the blue pool called? Staring into that water, Olam had a sudden urge to jump into the deep pool. If it were not for Bre’ach tugging on his sleeve, he probably would have. Where did that big blue rock come from? He was not as experienced with the Voice as Alacin, but he could have sworn the thing was talking to him. Although he could not understand a word: it must have been his imagination.
The sight of the dragons milling about at the top of the hill brought his thoughts back to the present. Two had already left, taking Arfael and the others. That left eleven, counting “little” Rek. A few villagers had remained to help the dragons with their departure. Two of them were fastening a harness to one of the larger dragons. The dragon next to it already had one fitted. Olam had a horrible feeling that that was where they would be sitting. It was not much more than a saddle. He was hoping for strapping, guide ropes, a covered wagon; anything would be better than a saddle. He was not sure that he trusted himself to hold on tightly enough – and where was he going to put his staff?
The saddles sat on a blanket at the back of the dragon’s neck. One leather strap wound around the chest and buckled to another secured behind the creature’s front legs. It certainly looked safe enough. Now if only there were a similar contraption to fasten him to the saddle.
As if reading his mind, Jorgan Kilmster brought him a belt – a thick leather belt with straps hanging from it. Looking back over at the dragon saddle, Olam could see where those straps were supposed to fasten. He did not mind letting out a long sigh of relief. By the look on Bre’ach’s face, it appeared that he, too, had understood what the belt’s purpose was.
Jorgan helped him fasten the belt around his waist. “I am assuming this is safe,” Olam asked him.
Jorgan shrugged. “Don’t ask me. The four of us are the first to try it in over a hundred years.” Olam thought he saw the man smile, as the belt tightened around his waist. After fastening the buckle, Jorgan yanked at the thick leather hard enough to hurt. “That should do,” the old sheriff said. Tapping Olam’s pack with his foot, Jorgan pointed towards one of the dragons. “That needs to go behind the saddle. There’s a bag with straps attached.”
Olam thanked the man and gave a quick nod before taking a tentative step towards the dragon – his dragon.
“Ribion, is it?” Olam asked, trying to get the dragon’s attention.
The beast was the largest among those of the hilltop. Sitting on his haunches by the edge of the cliff, the dragon slowly turned its head. “That’s right, Olam, I’m Ribion. It’s nice to see you again.”
“‘Again?’ I am sorry, have we met before?” Now the dragon mentioned it, his voice did sound familiar, but he was sure he would remember meeting a dragon. Maybe he was mistaking him for somebody else.
“Not recently, no. You’ll remember, one day.” Ribion looked right at him as if trying to work something out.
Olam hoped the dragon was talking about somebody else; the idea of not remembering whether he had met a dragon was… troubling.
Ribion continued, “Best we get this started. It’s going to be a long day, not to mention tiring.”
That was something Olam had not considered: One hundred and ten leagues was a long way – over four hundred miles – and these dragons had not been out of the Bren’alor Valley for over a century. Clearing his throat, and trying not to sound too anxious, Olam asked, “We will… uh… be having a rest along the way? Or two… maybe.”
Ribion laughed, a rumbling laugh that sounded like a herd of cows stampeding. “Don’t worry; we will rest as needs be, my friend. I know a nice stream that rolls between clusters of low hills, just north of the Broan. We’ll stop there for an hour or two, providing of course no one has built a village there over the years. We could have a picnic, maybe, if you brought food. Did you bring food? If not, Verine has plenty. She always makes sure there’s plenty of food, my wife.”
Wife? No, do not say anything. “I am sure I have enough. If we are still travelling tomorrow, I might need… What sort of food does your… wife have?” Olam asked, hoping the slight pause was not too noticeable. He knew Tiama was Tor’s partner, but married? What would a dragon wedding look like?
“Oh… uh… sheep, a couple of goat halves, a few legs, you know; the usual. She’s carrying the meat pack; there’s plenty for everyone.”
Olam stopped himself from scratching his head. He was suddenly very keen that his own food did not run out. “Very kind of you, Ribion; it is always nice to know someone has come prepared.”
Ribion nodded. Taking a few steps back, he turned his head to Olam. “Well, you had best climb up. Looks like Tor has almost finished talking to Altor. We should be off soon, once the old coot has taken off south to Redgate.”
“Oh, is he not coming with us?” Olam asked. Tor was talking with the old dragon. Both were close to the edge of the cliff. From what Olam could see, it appeared that the older one was lecturing while Tor patiently nodded. A moment later, Tor backed up, and Altor ran for the cliff’s edge. After what seemed like a few seconds of freefall, the old dragon soared towards the south with wings outstretched. It was quite a sight.
Olam took a deep breath. This was it; no turning back now. Patting himself down, he made sure nothing would fall out of his pockets. He could feel Gialyn’s note in his inside pocket. He made a special effort to make certain it was safe. Daric would be a thunderhead as it was; losing his son’s letter would likely feed the storm.
Ribion crouched down as low as he could and Olam climbed into the saddle. One of the other villagers – a young lad; Balwei, Olam thought – came to fasten his straps; Jorgan was already securely strapped in. The lad took Olam’s staff and tied it behind the saddle, in between the bag containing his belongings and the high backrest. Olam thanked him. With all the fuss, he had forgotten about his staff.
Once set, Ribion lined up with the other dragons. They all stood facing Tor, who was at the front of the queue. Behind him, the sun, just clearing the Karan Ridge, made l
ong shadows in the valley. Olam felt a cool breeze blow, and then immediately wondered if it was indeed cold, or just a shiver running down his spine. Tor cleared his throat.
“Like I said before, we travel south towards Crenach, and then continue along the river. We’ll try to keep away from the villages, but folk are going to see us. Which is why we will be flying out of arrow range, higher than most of us have flown in a long while. If you have any problems, then don’t keep them to yourself. After a hundred years cooped up in this valley, we are heading towards the battle that could see us on our way home. I don’t want anyone getting injured before we have started.” The big black dragon looked stern-faced as he gazed along the line. “If there are no questions, then follow me when you are ready.”
With that, Tor spun and launched himself off the cliff. He disappeared below the cusp for a few seconds, and then, thrusting his black wings hard against the morning air, he rose above the cliffs, before turning south along the valley.
Olam’s teeth jolted as Ribion lumbered along with the queue. If he were shaking now, what would it be like flying? Bre’ach was one dragon in front. The young Salrian turned back and gave Olam a brave look that he knew was probably more for the man’s own benefit than his. Bre’ach’s dragon wasted no time taking its run up, and just like that, he was in the air. The smaller dragon hardly “fell” at all; he might have been able to take off without a jump.
That made Olam think how much effort it would be for Ribion to take off. He was at least half as big again as any other. Oh well, it was too late to worry now. Closing his eyes, he gritted his teeth as his dragon began his run.
The sensation of falling was followed by a jolt that turned his stomach over. He very nearly hit his chin on the saddle bar in front. Then he was aware of wings flapping on either side of him. Opening his eyes, he peered around. It was not as bad has he had thought it would be. The dragon was in control; he could feel the beast’s strength. Looking ahead, he saw Bre’ach waving back at him, and could not help but smile and wave, too.
All around, the land stretched out before him. To his right, Olam could see the dark horizon that was Crenach’coi. Not that he could see much detail; the Cren Forest was a good twenty leagues away, but the horizon was definitely full with a line of trees. That in itself was astonishing: to be able to see twenty leagues away. To his left, the Karan Ridges ran off to the east and out of sight. The jagged peaks shone grey-black in the morning sun. It was not hard to see why crossing them was impossible, and that the humans had made a map of the Tunnels of Aldregair. Ahead, the land lay before him like a patchwork of pastel shades. Early corn gave one field a green hue, while another all but shone with the yellow of mustard plants. Brown wheat fields were the most common, but now and then, long strips of fruit or olive trees broke the otherwise smooth carpet. From where he sat, Olam could see maybe twenty farms. Looking down, he realised that he had no idea there were that many farms this far west; none were on the Great Western Road. A stream bubbled over a small waterfall on its way to the Broan River, and after what felt like a few minutes, but was probably closer to an hour, Ribion and the other dragons lined up and followed the river east. It would not be long before they flew over Redgate, the first test on their voyage. How would the locals react?
A hawk flew into view. Olam watched as it circled above them and swooped down, settling its flight a short distance to Ribion’s left. Olam felt a wave of nausea; not bad, just a twinge in his stomach. Then the familiar veil fell over his eyes, a silver curtain of mist that resolved into an image of two dragons. The impressions of a long rocky spur and a small lake followed. He did not know how, but the hawk was warning him…
He sent back a question that he hoped said, “How far?”
The hawk returned with an image of the trees where Olam and the others had rested under on their way to Bren’alor. Olam realised that this hawk was the same one he had contacted on that day.
“There are dragons to the northwest,” he told Ribion. “I think they are headed towards Braylair.”
Olam grabbed the saddle as the dragon twisted its head around. Ribion dropped down a good ten paces before steadying. “How do you know this?” he asked.
“Uh … the hawk told me,” Olam said, nodding in the direction of the bird that was now flying out in front.
Ribion nodded as if understanding. “Well, they’ll not find anything; looks like we timed our exit well. Still, we should tell Tor. That’s a good trick you have there, my friend.” The dragon increased speed. Tor was probably a mile in front.
A good trick! That was one way of putting it, Olam supposed. If only it were he who had discovered it, instead of having to be told by a bird. Then again, how else would he learn if not with the help of others? He sent thanks back to the hawk and the silver curtain – opaque now, like a faint mist – vanished.
While they raced to catch up with Tor, Olam wondered who else he might be able to contact. He had not had a proper lesson since Alacin taught him how to “hear” the hawk. Looking down onto a field full of olive trees, he sensed a fox running in the shadows. Reaching out, he let the animal Hear him and was surprised to get an immediate answer. Normally, that would have taken a few minutes, and it had never worked from this distance. The fox sent an image of his cubs and warned him to stay away. Olam sent an image of him helping a sick fox, something he remembered doing years earlier.
The image that fox sent back was nothing he would have expected: a long road with a white surface, stretching on for miles. Creatures, some familiar, some bizarre and extraordinary, filled the fields on either side of the road. The fox seemed to be asking if this was where he came from. Olam did not know how to answer. He sent an image of his family home, a birthday party, a time when he remembered being very happy. The fox took the image and sent back … approval, though Olam could not have explained how he knew as much.
They caught up to Tor, and Ribion shouted over what he had said.
“There’s no point going back,” Tor said. “Let them waste their time. Everyone has moved on; homes can be rebuilt, as long as the villagers are safe. Let’s concern ourselves with what lies ahead.”
Ribion nodded as if he expected as much. The beast slowed a little and tucked in behind Tor.
They were gliding again. It seemed that every half an hour or so, they would make a five-minute effort to climb, and then spend the rest of the time gliding. It was a good idea, Olam supposed, and not just because gliding was much easier on him than when Ribion flapped his wings. He spent most of those five-minute climbs with his jaw clamped shut to stop his teeth snapping together. The gliding was peaceful, too. He thought he might never get used to the view, assuming dragon riding was to be a common occurrence. It truly was a wonder.
They did rest at the stream among the hills that Ribion had mentioned, but not for very long. Just enough to water themselves and check over the harnesses. Olam spent most of the break with Bre’ach. The Salrian would not stop talking about the flight: “Did you see this?” “Did you see that?” “Can you believe we are already half way to Bailryn?” Olam let him talk; after all, the young man was only repeating what he was thinking.
The second half of the trip seemed shorter than the first, somehow. It was not long before the Colaroy River came into view. Olam could see the city walls in the distance. It seemed foggy. It was only when Tor moved back and told Ribion and the other dragons to take their passengers to the field west of the Wickham, that Olam realised the fog was actually smoke.
“Have they been attacked already?” he asked Ribion, as they began to descend towards the field. “We should really go and help.”
“Leave it to Tor, my friend. He has good instincts.”
“But, if they have— ”
“It’s not an attack, Olam, at least not from without. Let Tor and the others handle it.”
“If you say so, Ribion. He does know the wolves are with us, does he not?” Olam asked. It was hard to miss the wolf camp. It was obviou
s, from the wagons and livestock, that a good number of the wolves were Rukin. Surely Tor would not start any trouble with them.
“Like I said, Olam, Tor has good instincts. Don’t worry yourself.”
He wished he could take the advice, but with a city full of what must be agitated Surabhan, a camp of probably ten thousand wolves, and now dragons in the air, he could not help but worry. One wrong move and they could end up doing Vila’slae’s job for her. “Do not worry!” How can I not?
CHAPTER 15
Princess Olivia
Princess or not, Olivia knew standing up to Miss Paulson would put her in strife. Mistress Coraley wasn’t one to shy away from giving her a good strapping, especially since the law clearly stated that all students attending the palace school must be treated in the same way. That was a strange law, Olivia thought. If they must treat all students as equal, then why not treat them all like royalty. Why lower her to the status of commoner, to be treated the same as a kitchen maid’s daughter? That’s a good question, she thought. I must remember to ask Mistress Coraley.
The corridors were empty. Her hard-soled slippers clicked on the stone floor, sending echoes along the hall. It sounded like a dozen people were walking with her. She called out “Hello” and smiled when her voice came back at her. Then she reddened when a maid she hadn’t seen gave her a puzzled look. The poor woman probably wondered if she was talking to her. Giving the maid a nod, Olivia raised her chin and strode past, barely holding in a laugh. The maid curtsied and smiled. Something the woman would never do to one of Olivia’s sisters, but she knew the maids felt… comfortable around her. Why? Well, her sisters could be cruel, not to mention needy and selfish. Not a bit like her, she hoped. But then they were only stepsisters. Her mother had been a commoner. A fact that Bryoni and Battina – they were twins – could not help but remind her. Still, her stepbrother, Otto, made up for it. He had always been kind and patient. And still was, despite his many other responsibilities. Being king had not ruined him; his sisters should take lessons.
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