“Exploded? There’s no way it could unless…” Tristan stopped.
“Right. Someone tried to kill him,” Brian finished for him.
“Tried? Is he alive, then?”
“He is,” Darius said. “We have taken him under our wings and have him at our mountain. You must come and speak with him.”
“I will, of course,” Tristan said immediately. “We will need a new Warrior.” The silence that greeted that remark made him nervous. “Won’t we?”
“The Naval creatures have suggested a Warrior of their own,” Fenfyr said.
“They did what!” Tristan exclaimed. It was beyond unheard of, it was a breach of protocol that had been in place for two centuries.
“Yes.” Brian’s voice lowered to a growl that mimicked the dragons. “A Rogue Weaver, left Guild formally two years ago.”
“And they think we will allow that?” Tristan was shocked by the suggestion.
“They do.” Brian and Darius shared a look and Fenfyr growled again. That’s when Tristan realized there was considerable tension between the three. “We have a plan to trump them.”
“How?”
Fenfyr’s growl became audible.
“With you, Tristan Weaver. With the exception of the Guild Master you are the highest ranking member of the Guild. You created the sails, you do not need to be attuned to them, they are your sails. The Navy cannot refuse you as Warrior.”
Tristan was staring. He knew he was. When he’d entered the Guild, he’d actually thought about qualifying as a Warrior. The chance to fly one of the great warships was very tempting, but he had proved too gifted to be “just” a Warrior. He was fully trained in the Warrior’s art, of course, but had never served as such. Generally when he flew on a ship he occupied a position rather like an admiral—a ranking officer, but not part of the day-to-day functioning of the ship itself. This was something entirely new.
“Me?” Tristan asked, aghast.
“Yes, you, Tristan Weaver,” Darius said. “We need this ship launched because we must know what is going on, what better way than have you there? You will reside with us until you leave for Terra Secundus.”
“I will?”
“Yes, and the dragons will escort you there. We aren’t taking any chances with your life,” Brian said. “This is too important.”
Fenfyr growled again, and Tristan found himself in agreement with the dragon. “This is insane, I am no Warrior.”
“You are the only one they absolutely cannot refuse, Tristan,” Brian said, raising his voice. “The only one.”
Tristan knew it was true, and he knew they had to find out what was going on with the Winged Victory, but still there were so many reservations. He was not a Warrior, he could Weave and Bond the sails, but could he make the ship fly? And what if they engaged in combat? “Just until we find out what’s going on,” he said firmly, coming up with a solution he thought was a reasonable balance between his hammering heart and their insistence.
“Of course, that is all we ask, Tristan Weaver. Just the maiden voyage, and we will find a Warrior or perhaps Alden will have gotten used to working with one arm by then.”
“One…?” Tristan shook his head. “I’ll get my things.”
“Don’t worry, we’ve already got your apartment ready for you,” Brian said. “You leave now.”
“Why the hurry? I just got here!” Tristan protested.
“Because the shuttlecar that brought you back from the Weaving area has caught fire. Your life is in danger and you are better off with the dragons than here. No one is getting up there.”
“Only dinner,” Fenfyr said, still growling but with a note of humor in his voice. “I will take you myself. Get a coat. It is cold.”
“What?” He looked up at the dragon.
“I’m flying you,” Fenfyr said. “I am in charge of security, and from here on out you are under my personal protection.”
“Until I reach the Victory.”
“No, I’m going with you. All ships have dragons, you are closer to the dragon than most,” Fenfyr growled. “Now, get your coat and let’s fly.”
Tristan stepped carefully over the dragon’s claw and headed to the closet to get his coat, hiding his smile. From what Darius and the Guild Master had said things were grim, but the prospect of flying on Fenfyr with permission for a change made his heart sing. He remembered the night he was declared Master Weaver of the Guild. The warm buzz of happiness that filled him every time he remembered that moment tingled along his spine, a laugh bubbling up as he recalled Fenfyr’s antics at the news. The dragon had launched himself over the ocean, silver, black and pearly gray feathers puffed out, his wings fully extended, skimming the waves, trumpeting at the top of his lungs, returning to grab Tristan in gentle claws before carrying them far from the land, soaring on the wind as the sun set and the stars flickered to life over their heads. They had returned long after the Weavers’ Guild compound was closed, the watchtower firing warning shots before they identified themselves. Fenfyr, as usual, thought it was a game and chased the missile before swatting it out of the sky with one sweep of his tail.
Tristan turned back from the closet, coat in hand, and caught the sparkle in the dragon’s eye. Fenfyr was remembering one of their adventures as well. That night they had managed to get away with more than usual, since Tristan had just been raised in rank and Fenfyr was on the Council of the Dragons. Even so, since then they had gotten a stern talking to from Darius more than once.
“We will continue this at the mountain,” Darius said, turning and leaving. “Guild Master?” he called from the hall.
“I am summoned,” Rhoads laughed and left.
“How bad is Alden?” Tristan asked as the others left.
“He is badly wounded. He lost his right arm and eye. They saved his leg, but he will walk with a limp for the rest of his life. He is awake, but on many pain medications. The Healers have been in as well,” Fenfyr said.
“Not good.” Tristan pulled on his coat and walked out of the office. The fact they were calling in Healers did not speak well for Alden’s chances of survival. Medical science had advanced to the point that magical healing was very rarely needed, and Alden needing it was worrying. The Winged Victory project was beginning to seem sinister.
They reached the Dragon’s Portal and Fenfyr hopped out, then reached down and clasped Tristan in his claws. The dragon waited until he was settled and secure, some of the dragon’s feathers holding him gently, yet firmly in place. After a moment, Fenfyr leaped skyward and Tristan laughed with happiness. No matter what was coming, flying with Fenfyr was always an amazing experience, and as they twisted through the port traffic, he noticed how the dragon buzzed too close to some of the Naval vessels, making them swerve, and he took the “long” way, flying out to sea before swinging in and back towards the mountain that housed the Guild Dragons. By the time they landed, Tristan felt lighter. He squared his shoulders and headed into the giant cave and towards the living quarters.
VI
The soft chiming of bells filled the apartment. Tristan lay in bed and absently counted them, three bells in the morning watch. He still had time before he needed to get up and go out for the meeting with Darius, Brian and Fenfyr. After the meeting he planned to go see Alden. He hadn’t had a chance the day before. Once he set foot in the Dragon’s Compound, he was whisked away by the human staff. They checked him over and the chief of medical ordered him to eat then straight to bed, threatening him with a sedative if he refused. Tristan hadn’t even considered refusing; he had a lot to think about.
The idea of becoming the designated Warrior for the Winged Victory was beginning to sink in, and as it did, it was becoming more and more terrifying. He knew the basics, but that was not what he did—he created sails. Understanding how the ships worked was one thing—and as Master Weaver, and a member of the Council, he had to qualify at a master’s level in all aspects of the Guild, but it was still mostly theory. He had flown a ship onc
e, briefly, on a calm day, between Terra Sextus and Terra Septimus. This was entirely different, because even a milk run in this ship would take them out of the solar system to the edge of the Rim Satellites. Deep space.
Four bells chimed and Tristan pushed himself out of bed. After showering he opened his closet and stopped—alongside the usual uniforms he wore as Master Weaver were five new coats in the deep sapphire blue of the Warrior Weavers. He stared at them for a long time before reaching for his usual clothing and dressing. With one last glance at the other jackets, he closed the door and headed towards the humans’ mess.
There was a brief hush when he walked in, every head turned his way, then back again as if they didn’t want him to know they had looked. He smiled to the room at large and nodded at two people he recognized. Grabbing a tray, he wandered along the buffet, aware that he was being watched again. It was hard not to react, but he focused on the fruit, got himself a cup of coffee and wandered towards an empty table in the far corner of the room. Once he sat down with his back to the wall, he felt better. After the first sip of coffee he improved even more. He sighed and took the chance to look at the other humans filling the room.
Most of them were wearing the black of the Dragon Corps. It was an elite group that served out their lives in the Compound here or on the stations in space that specifically cared for and acted as representatives for the dragons. The dragons kept themselves aloof from dealings with humanity as much as possible and the Corps served as their buffer. Very few humans were chosen and even fewer made it all the way through the training. Some died, some left, some were killed by those opposed to the dragons’ existence.
“Master Tristan?” a baritone voice asked. “Might I join you?”
“Please do.” Tristan laughed and waved the man to sit. “I hope Fenfyr hasn’t destroyed anything important?”
“No,” the man, Chris Muher, said, laughing. The night they had met was the night Tristan had become the Master Weaver and Fenfyr had wreaked a little havoc. Muher, a man in his early forties, had risen quickly up through the Corps to become General and second-in-command of the Corps. Though a few years older than Tristan, Muher often sought him out at functions, they weren’t close enough to be friends, but Tristan enjoyed his company. “Are you okay, sir? We heard about the Weaving. I saw the sails as they were being rolled into their containers. They were perfect!” He grinned enthusiastically.
“I remember them, they were lovely,” Tristan said cautiously. “I’m okay, sails that large take a lot.”
“I bet! I heard the Victory sails with four full Aether level Air Weavers! I wish I could be there to see her sail.”
“I suspect everyone who can is going to find a way to get out to Terra Secundus to see her launch.”
Muher frowned. “Yes, I suspect the same thing. The Corps intends to be there in force, as well as Weaver security. Since the three attempts have been made, we are taking no chances.”
“Three?” Tristan asked, feeling a little stupid.
“Yes, the violation of the Sanctuary Lokey Fenfyr informed us of, the one on Alden, and then your shuttlecar deciding it wanted to catch fire.” He shook his head. “It’s too coincidental, so it has to be intentional. Someone nearly killed Alden and less than twenty minutes after the Guild informed the Navy you were to be the warrior for Victory your vehicle blows? Nope, no way is that chance.”
“You think it’s the Navy?”
“I don’t have a clue who it is. Some splinter group claimed responsibility for Alden, I’m not sure if they are behind it, if they did it on someone else’s request or just want their name in the news.” Muher slammed his cup down on the table. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s okay. I expect I’ll get a full briefing later, I like to hear what people are saying, though.” He smiled. “What are they saying?”
“Here or out there?”
“Both?”
Muher took another drink of coffee and sighed, looking at Tristan over the rim of his cup. “Here, the dragons and the Corps think it’s the Navy up to something, but what that is they don’t know. In the Corps, once we found out about the Victory, they think the Navy has gotten their hands on a Rogue Weaver who is willing to try to fly the ship for them to get their flagship completely out of the hands of the Weavers.” He paused. “Out on the streets, people think the Navy has come up with the answer to everything. They don’t know what it is, but they think it will stop the Vermin incursions and drive them back to where they’re from once and for all. An awful lot of them don’t care how it’s accomplished—and that’s a problem. Because the dragons think the Navy is withholding Vermin technology and the majority of the humans just want the war over, and if this would help them win…”
“Not good.”
The other man frowned. “Not good is an understatement, as you well know. If they are using that filth on a Navy vessel, the dragons will put an end to humanity!”
“At least the Navy,” Tristan said with a smile.
“No, sir, you don’t understand. I’ve heard rumors from my people who are out in the cities. The general population is terrified of the Vermin since the attack on Terra Undecimus, people want the Vermin stopped. They don’t care how. There are several groups openly agitating against the Weavers, saying the Navy needs to be in control. There are civilians who don’t care how the end of the war is achieved, they just want it over. And then there are the few whack-jobs who think we should try to make peace with the Vermin.”
“Didn’t the only attempt at that end up with the humans being eaten alive?” Tristan asked, digesting the information he’d just been given.
“It did, they were dressed out like a butchered steer, the films were sent back to the Worlds Council.”
“They were more hopeful in those days?”
“After a hundred and fifty years of world war?” Muher snorted. “No, I think they were looking for a way to stop our own wars.”
“Well, that worked, Earth is united.”
“Sort of.” The man’s communicator beeped. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course. I will see you again, I’m sure.”
For some reason Muher laughed at him and held his hand out, shaking it then walking away. Tristan stared after him, a sinking feeling beginning to overwhelm him.
“Ah, there you are, Tristan Weaver,” Darius said as he was ushered into the cave that served as the dragon’s office later that morning. The cavern was enormous and it was the only place Tristan had ever been that made the dragon look almost normal-sized. Fenfyr was leaning against the wall, his tail curled neatly around his feet. By comparison Brian and General Cairn, the ranking officer of the Dragon Corps, looked tiny in the vast space.
“How are you?” Brian asked, looking him up and down.
“Fine. I was fine yesterday too. You really didn’t need to set the medical hyenas on me.”
At this Cairn burst out laughing. He’d been the first to coin the term for the medical staff and it amused him every time he heard it used. “They were out in force, hunting everyone yesterday,” Cairn said when he finished laughing. “Someone decided to try to drop a bomb in.”
“Bomb?” Tristan asked in alarm.
“Nothing to worry about, it was just those idiots in the ‘Equality for Vermin’ group. We should feed them to the filth and have it done.”
“We’re better than that,” Brian scolded him.
“Only on Tuesdays,” Cairn replied.
“To business?” Darius interrupted.
Tristan sat down, aware that Fenfyr had moved to stand protectively behind him. “What’s going on?”
“It is our…” Darius began.
“Your,” Brian corrected him.
“Our opinion that the Naval creatures are trying to prevent a Weaver who is loyal to Guild and Dragon from controlling the sails of the Winged Victory. We sent a patrol out to see what they could find at the docks and the patrol found only a locked docking sphere. When they demanded to be sho
wn in, it was refused.” The dragon paused while Cairn swore. “Finished? Since then we have not been able to get any information at all.”
Tristan smiled, remembering the beautiful lines of the ship. “We have a set of the plans.”
“We do,” Rhoads said.
“Then what?”
“They do not want a Weaver onboard.”
“They need one to fly that ship. Those sails are massive. You need a fully-trained Warrior Weaver, not just someone with a back-station knowledge of Weaving and magic,” Tristan said.
“They might have one. Remember Taylor McKay? He’s been seen on Terra Secundus recently.”
Fenfyr’s low growl mirrored Tristan’s feeling. “That… That… Son of a bitch is on Terra Secundus? He actually has the gall to show his face this close to Earth?”
“Yes, and we think he is going to try and fly that ship.”
“Unless this is all for show and they have other sails,” Darius said grimly. “It is quite conceivable that they asked you to Weave those sails in hopes it would kill you, and they could convince the incoming Master they needed to fly sooner rather than later and it was just all part of something else. Something hideous.”
“I’m a little confused,” Tristan said, frowning at the dragons.
“Think about it, Master Tristan, if you were killed and the sails completed, they could be shipped and they could attempt to attune them to a Rogue.”
“Yes,” Tristan said “But a Rogue could never control those sails. We know they can only control the sails created by the Master that taught them, and even then it’s chancy.”
“Very true,” Darius said. “Or maybe they have another way altogether.”
“What?”
“We think they have slaved Vermin Tech on the ship.”
“No.” Tristan was shaking his head. The thought of the filth of any kind of Vermin technology touching the beauty of the ship made him sick. “So we have a plan to beat them at their own game,” Cairn said smugly.
“Yes, we do,” Darius agreed.
Fenfyr growled.
The Sail Weaver Page 5
