“But I like you,” he said. “You don’t have fire; you are fire.”
I let a ribbon of smoke curl from my nostril, making the point, but deep inside my belly, I felt the uneasy glow of embers, the flicker of fire signalling my fate about to change yet again.
Chapter 18
THE SKYROOM
Rue learned much about dragons in those next few weeks, and as a matter of course, so did I. He learned how to tell the age of dragons by our teeth and that while our spikes and spines feel like iron, they are really fibre like our claws and scales. Our horns, however, are bone and continue to grow as we do. In very old dragons, their horns can reach the tips of their wings and Celarus’ Landing was filled with many magnificent, enormous skulls.
He learned about the acid in our bellies and how it can alternately burn and then heal. He learned about the arcstone that, once swallowed, lives for years in our crops and how the crushed mineral creates a spark when we call the acid across it. And he learned how we need all three working at once to create our fire – acid, arcstone and air. It was the ultimate weapon in a dragon’s arsenal.
He confided that he thought it easier to think of our fire as magic. To me, it was just the way of dragons, as natural as breathing or hunting or flight.
I saw Rue rarely in those next days and I knew he was undergoing training on his own. They had shaved his curly head and clad him in leather but still, he crawled into my nest every night, bruised and battered and too weary even to play the pipes. He would slip under my wing and together we would sleep until the blast of a horn woke everyone at dawn. Then he would crawl out from under me, run his hand over his shorn head and stumble off. It was a good thing I was not a worrier, else I may not have enjoyed my first weeks as a Flight Dragon. Which, I must confess, I did.
I shared the novice aviary with three other drakes - a moss green by name of SeaTorrent, a brown called Darkling and a red with a love of food named Majentrix. All were young, perhaps half my size, and afraid of me. Understandably so. Flight Dragons were taken in after their first year but before their second, making me the oldest recruit in the Citadel. I wasn’t bothered – my treatment at the hands of the dragoneers was better than I had expected and better than I had ever been given in my short, rather tumultuous life.
It wasn’t difficult to stand for their handling – the inspection of teeth, the filing of spikes, the rubbing of sweet-smelling oil into my scales. In fact, I don’t recall ever enjoying the touch of sticks as much as I enjoyed this and I wondered if the Emperor’s Dragons were treated this way. Meals were noxen, delly bucks and shearers, all freshly butchered and I knew that these dragoneers understood our need for the hunt and kill.
I had been fitted for a head harness that they called a bridle. It was similar to the head harnesses of Bangarden, minus the eye-covers and bits. These bridles were merely a means for the rider to indicate direction and speed, as a dragon with free access to his fire could not in all truth be controlled. Free access to fire also rendered the bit (the name for that insulting slip of metal between our teeth) pointless, for one blast would cause the metal to melt and the bridle would fall apart, useless. This new design was much more comfortable but truth be told, I approved of it less for comfort than for the dignity I was allowed to retain.
And for dragons, dignity is an important consideration.
So after several weeks of conditioning, I was brought to the tannery to be fitted for a saddle. This was a type of body harness that fastened across the chest, with straps along the spine and under the tail to prevent it from sliding forward. It also fit snugly over the hump-and-hollow of a dragon’s shoulder, allowing a rider to sit comfortably for long periods of time. Although Rue could ride without one, I had seen what my scales had done to his clothing and skin (not to mention his chin.) A well-fitted saddle would be comfortable for both dragon and rider, although the tail strap took some getting used to.
The tannery was one of the lower complexes in the Citadel valley, and the smell of animal hide was a delight for my nostrils. It had a high dark ceiling with few windows, and dust floated like snowflakes in beams of light cast down to the floor. The walls were filled with rows of saddles, bridles and harnesses and ladders leaned against them leading up to a wooden second level. Some saddles were very large and I marvelled at the thought of the dragons that might fit them.
There were also silverstones reflecting light along the walls and I stole frequent glances at myself. The leather for both saddle and bridle was night-black and I admired how it gleamed against the starry expanse of my skin.
While the tanners tugged and measured, Rue’s scent floated in and I let out a call that sounded like the music of stars. The tanners jumped back, startled and they grumbled at me, cursing my name. I didn’t care. I called again and again until the wooden doors slid open on Rue’s gangly silhouette.
“Stormfall,” he answered.
As he approached, I could see he also had been fitted in a uniform of night black. Dark-dyed linen tunic and leggings, leather breastplate, gloves, greaves and kilt of black leather strips. A heavy cloak to keep him warm in these snowy mountains and a satchel draped from shoulder to hip. No armour however, unlike Cassian Cirrus and his iron drake and I wondered if armour was reserved for War Riders.
I was fine with that. Armour would be heavy and I had no wish to be working harder than needed. I was still a free dragon and this experience with the Flights no more than a trial.
He moved in closely to inspect the tack, tugging at the buckles and running his hands along the straps.
“It’s good,” he said quietly. “The black looks perfect on him.”
“He’s a vain one, he is,” grumbled the Master Tanner. “Always looking at himself in the silverstones.”
Rue grinned.
“You’d be vain if you had a pelt like his.”
The tanner grunted.“Now, you make sure all the straps are snug but not tight,” he said. “Too tight will cause blisters. Too loose will chafe. Both are irritating and you have a bad tempered dragon to begin with.”
“Yes, Master Tanner,” said Rue.
“Also too loose and the saddle might slip,” said the tanner. “It would cause you to lose your seat and falling into those spikes at full speed would not be good either. You’re skinny. They would go right through you.”
“Yes, Master Tanner,” said Rue.
“And here, these are the rings for the draw reins,” said the tanner. “But he wouldn’t let us put them on. Most dragons don’t like them but yours, well he refused.”
“Yes, Master Tanner,” said Rue.
“Vain and bad tempered. I don’t know what Plinius was thinking.”
“Yes, Master Tanner,” said Rue.
“Now ask him,” said the man, and he backed away. “Ask him how it feels.”
Rue swallowed and moved close to my head, ran his hands along my face up past my eyes to the hollow beneath the horns. Like the wrinkly man, I heard a sound, a whisper of a voice inside my skull. I didn’t like it. I lashed my tail in irritation.
“Oh he will be a difficult one,” said the tanner.
“He’s proud,” said Rue and he leaned against me, his forehead touching mine. My face was now almost as long as his entire body. “I can’t assume that just because it works for other dragons, that it will work for him. Besides…”
He reached down to scratch under my chin. I grumbled, but this time there was pleasure in it.
“We have an understanding. This lasts as long as he wants it.”
“And when he doesn’t want it?”
“I go back to fishing.”
Rue laid a hand on the neck strap, slipped one foot up into a stirrup and swung the other over my shoulder, settling in as if home. The leather squeaked as he adjusted his weight.
“How does that feel, Stormfall?”
I grumbled one last time, just for the tanner and lumbered forward, getting used to the feel of the straps along my body. It was snug, as the tanner had said
, but made so well that it flexed when I did and held its shape while not annoying mine. The rein fell across my neck and I leaned with it, marvelling at the difference in sensation. Bitted bridles worked by avoidance of pain but this – this was intuitive.
“Yes,” said the tanner as he watched my moving. “It fits well. A Dragon Flight is only as strong as the leather that binds them.”
“That’s not what my instructors say,” said Rue from my back.
The tanner snorted.
“Welcome to the Citadel.” And for the first time all morning, he smiled. “You are ready. Go, meet up with your Flight.”
“Are we ready, Stormfall?” asked Rue from my back. His weight shift and I could tell he was looking at the doors. I didn’t need to see him to know that. I could feel it. Intuitive.
I turned as bright light spilled into the dark room. Within three strides, I was leaping out to the sunshine and into the sky.
***
Dragon lessons were not held indoors.
It made sense, naturally. While Rue had some classes inside, dragons do their best work in the open. There were times when we were called into the tannery or the dracorium (a large stone agora for tending injured dragons). There were even times when we would be summoned to Celarus’ Landing for presentation or debriefing but for the most part, we dragons worked outside. At stations all along the Crescent Mountains, Flight lessons took place and I could see dragons working in precision within their teams. Sun and clouds were our ceiling, peaks and valleys our walls. They were called skyrooms and were perfect classrooms for both dragon and rider.
As new recruits, we joined the ranks of the first season dragoneers, skipping some classes, making up others as needed. There were upwards of twenty recruits training in the Citadel but we shared a skyroom with only six others, including my aviary-mates Majentrix, Darkling and SeaTorrent. There was another green, a brown and the instructor’s large bronze. Seven was the base number for a flight, with some being smaller and others larger, depending on the commission. Master Quintus was our instructor but I wondered if we might see Cassien Cirrus and Ironwing in our lessons. They were the reason we were here and for some reason, I imagined flying with them once again.
“A Dragon Flight does not insist on privacy,” said Quintus. He was a tall lean man in bronze armour. Behind him sat his dragon Claysheen, bronze wings folded across his back. “You will be sleeping together night after night after long, weary night, in battle and in peace. You are the Emperor’s Skyborn. Abandon any thoughts you may have of leg room or wing room or personal space.”
The Emperor’s Skyborn. I wondered about the Emperor, what sort of stick would inspire such fealty. I remembered Septus Aelianus, first senator of Bangarden who had spoken so powerfully for Towndrell. He’d become Primar of the Eastern Provinces who had set two dragons upon one. I wasn’t sure what to make of that, but I was certain that I hadn’t burned enough of his men.
“Stormfall,” growled Rue from my back. “Hush.”
“Get close now!” shouted Quintus. “Move in. Fall in!”
I looked around at the crew gathered here in the skyroom. We were on a ridge several valleys away from the Citadel, I must admit, it was gratifying to be wingtip to wingtip with dragons who were not trying to kill me.
“I said, fall in!”
The riders of six dragons muttered as they tried to manoeuver their mounts. Wings beat, tails lashed and I hissed as a young blue pressed onto my flank. He hissed back and I snapped.
“Stormfall!” barked Rue. “Restraint. You are a Flight Dragon now.”
“He’s not a Flight Dragon yet,” said Quintus in a voice that carried over the wind. “None of you are. You must learn to control your dragons and they must respond to your commands. If not, there is no place for you – any of you – in the Flights.”
A rein across the neck, slight pressure of the leg against the shoulder; all ways for a rider to communicate with his mount. But none of us were good at that communication. Majentrix bumped into SeaTorrent, getting stirrups caught in the leathers and others tripped over lashing tails. Riders shook fists at each other and dragons snapped and snarled. I snorted, having little patience for any of it. It was not what I expected from the Skyborn.
“I hear you, night dragon,” called Quintus. “And you’re quite correct. You are all fledglings when it comes to discipline and training. It takes months for a Dragon Flight to be forged. This is merely to show you the shortcomings of dragons and their riders. But there is another way.”
I cocked my head. In fact, all of us looked at him, desperate.
“Catch me.” He smiled. “If you can.”
He sprang onto the back of his bronze and immediately, they took to the skies. I needed but a nudge from Rue to follow, the rest of the fledgling Flight flapping like sea snakes in our wake.
We were fast but Claysheen was faster and I instinctively veered up for altitude. If I was going to catch him, I reckoned, it would be the way I caught all dragons – as a wraith sweeping down from above. But I found myself bound by rein and stirrup as Rue leaned away from my soaring. I could do little but obey and I suddenly realized that the instructor’s words had not been literal. I was not actually supposed to catch him.
It was an important thing to learn.
At first, we followed like a flock of fledglings, ungainly and disorganized but soon, we fell into a natural pattern, flying behind Claysheen in the shape of an arrow. He broke the wind with his body and we rode it behind him. The wind bit my eyes, stabbed the back of my throat but I have to admit I’d never felt anything like it in my life. Claysheen veered left. We veered left. He angled skyward. We angled skyward. Such speed, such precision, such grace and beauty and shared purpose. In fact, at that moment, there was no other purpose save grace, speed and precision and that, for a dragon, is beauty enough.
Skyborn.
In this arrowhead formation, we flew to the next skyroom. It was a tall peak with a single wooden post rising from the top.
“This post is Lamos!” Quintus shouted as Claysheen banked high above it. “Tomorrow, we torch it to the ground! A second haunch of delly buck for the dragon and rider with the best score.”
I banked behind them, confident in the knowledge that tomorrow, Rue and I would retire to the aviary with very full bellies.
As in many things, I was not wrong and this victory was almost sweeter than blood.
***
It was a strange thing then, when we lost SeaTorrent. His rider always pushed him too hard, drove him to fly too fast, banked too sharply. One day, they miscalculated and did not pull up from a dive. He survived with only a shattered wing and shoulder. His rider was not so lucky.
In memorium, we took to calling our flight the Torrent. I thought it was laughable, given our initial ineptitude and the fact that we were named after a clumsy dragon and foolhardy rider but naturally, I had no say. Other than that, the name inspired. For dragons, that is an important consideration.
One week later, the Torrent was summoned to Celarus’ Landing. It was one of the last days of winter and snow floated in through the high dragon arches, settling on the mosaic floor for brief moments before melting under our heat. The Landing smelled good – clean and cold and filled with leather. Shadows cut through the shafts of light and I looked up to see the silhouettes of two dragons perched in the arches. One was Claysheen – I knew him immediately but the other was smaller, with a coat that glowed like the late-evening sun. It was tricky to see in the shadows but I could tell that it was a drakina and that she was gold.
“Replacement for Peppe and SeaTorrrent?” whispered Vir Belonnias, Majentrix’s rider.
“Probably,” said Darkling’s rider, Claudio Cloelius. The Flight just called him Cloe. “But we don’t need one. We’re fine the way we are.”
Standing beside their riders, the dragons seemed to agree.
“All Flights are odd numbers,” said Vir. “We can’t ride with six.”
“Wh
y not?” said Urbano Mass, rider of the brown drake, Bruno.
“Because that’s not the way it’s done, you beet head.”
“It’s because of the war,” said Vir.
“What war?” asked Urbano. “We’re not at war.”
“Just about,” said Vir. “Blame Lamos.”
“We’re not going to war,” said Cloe. “We’re just recruits.”
“It’s because of Peppe,” grumbled Manillus, rider of Treeheart the green. “They blame us for his death.”
“They do not,” said Vir.
“Are we in trouble?” asked Urbano.
“You will be,” said Cloe. “If you open your mouth again.”
They all snickered, save Rue. He merely smiled and held his tongue, as always.
Soon, the mosaic floor echoed with footsteps and I swung my head as Quintus and Dragon Master Plinius entered the Landing, accompanied a tall young woman. A scent came with her. Drakina. It set my blood racing.
The trio stopped before us. Plinius studied both dragons and riders for a moment before turning to me with his shiny, pebble-like eyes. He tapped his cane on the floor.
“Look, night dragon,” he said. “I have a new cane. Do you like it?”
I grunted. A curl of smoke escaped my nostrils.
As for the Torrent, they stared at the girl as though she were a cerathorn. No older than Rue but taller and strongly built with dark hair that fell in one long braid down her back. She was wearing a golden breastplate, cuirass and greaves. Armour when the Torrent only wore leather. But there was something about her. The scent on her metal was speaking.
“We won’t stand on ceremony,” he said. “Quintus, introduce your rider and get on with it.”
“Ruminor has smiled on us,” said Quintus.
“Ruminor has smiled on us all,” the riders repeated in unison although I doubted any of them meant it.
“In the wake of Paulo Peppe and SeaTorrent, we have been granted a new rider.”
The riders looked at the floor, scuffed the mosaic with their boots.
Dragon of Ash & Stars: The Autobiography of a Night Dragon Page 17
