Quintus grinned.
“We have the honour of adding Galla Gaius to our Flight,” he said. “She and her drakina, Aryss, have a year of experience with the Vigiles of Vaspar. That’s a privilege and an honour for us. Isn’t it, Torrent?”
Looked at the floor, scuffed the mosaic with their boots.
“Welcome to the Torrent,” said Rue quietly.
She beamed at him.
“Galla Gaius,” said Quintus. “This is Rue Solus and Stormfall, his night dragon.”
“Good health, Rue Solus,” said Galla.
“And to you,” said Rue. He’d never been one for words.
I breathed in the scent of her. There was something about her I knew, something from a time past.
As Quintus made introductions, I stretched my neck and breathed on her. She smiled, leaning into my warm breath instead of away, fluent in the way of dragons. I pushed my nose to the leather at her waist, down her legs to her greaves. She laughed.
“What is he doing?”
“I don’t know,” said Rue. “Stormfall?”
“He’s remembering something,” said Plinius. “Gads, you recruits have the brains of crickards. Help him to remember, girl. You know dragons. Help him.”
She held her hands up to my face.
The other riders gaped as I opened my mouth and took her hands between my jaws, slathering them with my tongue as waves of taste and scent and memory took me back, back beyond the Citadel, beyond the aviaries and the skyrooms to my time in the mountains.
I allowed the colour to form in my mind.
Gold like the breastplate, gold like the sunrise and dragonsong.
Her.
I pulled my jaws away, strings of saliva dripping from her hands, and sang.
“He knows her,” laughed the woman. “Aryss was right. He is her Night Dragon!”
Another song echoed down from the dragon arch.
I looked up now as one of the silhouettes launched through the high window, wings bringing her down through the clean and the cold.
I knew her, hard like stone and sharp like sticks, warm like fire and pure, pure gold.
“Oh yes,” said Plinius. “He knows.”
And he laid a hand on my neck.
I sang again and the answering song took me back to the mountains.
Wearing saddle and armoured bridle, my golden drakina with wing now healed, touched down on the mosaic of Celarus’ Landing.
Chapter 19
ARYSS
For dragons, the world is a world not so much one of sight or sound but one of scents. Some are rocky, others earthy, some are fleshly and others fire. We can smell when the clouds are about to release the rain or when the earth is under so much pressure it is about to split. I suppose it is similar to the way the sticks can sweep their eyes though a sea of other sticks (who all look the same to dragons) and instantly pick out those they know by face alone. In the same way, dragons can sift through a skyful of smells and instantly pick out those they recognize and those they know.
Aryss was one such scent.
She was beautiful, she was strong, she was skilled and she was clever. She was everything I remembered of her and more because she was a Flight Dragon.
It was early spring – the mountain air had grown warm while preserving the blanket of snow in the high places. With spring came the mating season, and both Aryss and Galla were excluded from the Torrent’s aviary, sharing one instead with those drakinas not released for nesting. Dragons caught in the mating fever are creatures of fire and destruction, not purpose and order. It was a pragmatic solution and we were soldiers in the Emperor’s Skyborn. Still, she drilled with us and her skills were remarkable. While I spent most of my days with the Torrent, thoughts of Aryss filled my nights. I knew it was the same for Rue.
He would sometimes come back late to the nest with Galla’s scent on him and it would set my blood racing. I remembered the girls on the docks, who would smile and wave but never come close. Galla was not like those girls. In-between training sessions, the four of us – black and gold dragons with black and gold riders – would race through the skies beyond the Citadel, wingtip to wingtip to practice our drills. I learned more of cues and response, reining and balance in those times than all the lessons taught by the masters and instructors combined. Perhaps it was my pride but more likely it was the fact that she was forbidden and for this season, however brief, she was mine.
Over the succeeding days, I learned how sticks ran the Dragon Flights and I had to admit, it was a remarkable feat of organization. Flight dragons were usually the products of other Flight dragons, hatched in assigned aviaries until the Spring Tides, when drakes, drakinas and young returned en masse to the Citadel. I realized then, that the aeries I had encountered during my short time as a wild drake were, in fact, these aviaries. This network was called the Draco Curantora, and it was run by a branch of the dragoneers called Curantors. The Curantors chose the drakinas, they chose the drakes, they chose the nesting sites and they trained the fledglings from the central Draco Curantorum near the Citadel. It was an impressive set up, in use for more years than anyone could remember.
Through snatches of memory and Plinius’ skill, the Curantors were able to piece together Aryss’ story. She had been born of a Flight drake and a wild drakina, hatched with two siblings in the very den I had called my own. But there were (and still are) direcats in those mountains and one had managed to climb down the ledges and into the cavern. The cat had killed both siblings before the drakina returned, and she fought and killed it before succumbing to her own wounds. Barely a fledgling, Aryss stayed in the den until the sound of dragonsong drew her out. It was a Flight, calling out the breeding pairs and the new clutches for their return to the Citadel in the Spring Tide.
“She remembers the sound of their wings was like Hell Down,” said Galla. “Somehow, she slipped in and flew with them until they arrived in the Citadel. All the other chicks followed their mothers leaving Aryss lost and alone in the Curantorum. She was raised by my father.”
“Umberto Gaius,” said Vir. “Quintus served under him, yes? He says he was a great Dragoneer.”
“He would have been proud to know I was serving with Master Quintus,” said Galla.
“We’re all proud to be serving under Quintus,” said Cloe.
They nodded at that.
The sticks were sitting around a small snowy firepit near Aurelias’ Peak, running daggers across each other’s scalp and wicking the bits off into the snow. Recruits were allowed one of two hairstyles – a long braid or heads entirely shaved. With the exception of Galla, they all chose the shave. There was a certain quiet peace now as they groomed each other like dragons. The rest of us – Majentrix, Darkling, Bruno, Treeheart, Aryss and I – were perched higher up, wings folded across our backs, the sunset warming our scales. I was grooming Aryss, cleaning her spines with my tiny front teeth. Payment for when she had done the same for me.
“Did anyone see the Legions arrive this morning?” asked Vir.
“The First Imperator is here,” said Cloe. “Tinitian says they are making the declaration tonight.”
“I hope he does,” said Vir.
“I hope he doesn’t,” said Urbano.
“I don’t want war,” Manillus said. “Not with Lamos.”
“I do,” said Rue and they all looked at him.
“I want them gone,” he continued. “They destroyed the village I lived in. Everything burned. Everyone lost. And there was no reason. They didn’t take anything. They would have destroyed the whole city if the Flight hadn’t showed up.”
Galla leaned forward.
“Did you join the Flight just to avenge yourself on Lamos? That’s not a very good reason, Rue.”
Rue made a sound. It was like a young drake growling.
“I had friends,” he grumbled. “I had dragons. I had a life.”
“You have a dragon now,” said Galla. “You have a life.”
Rue looked do
wn into the fire. I saw his jaw working to control his tongue.
“It’s the new Emperor,” said Cloe. “He wants war so we go to war.”
“He killed his cousin,” said Manillus. “That’s what the Campari say.”
“The Campari don’t know anything,” said Vir. “They could be tried for treason with such claims.”
“Political assassinations happen all the time,” said Cloe. “Septus Aelianus had his cousin Maritus poisoned. Everyone knows that.”
I paused in my grooming. Septus Aelianus. I knew the name. Aryss nudged me so I continued.
Urbano grunted. “As if being Primar of the Eastern Provinces wasn’t enough.”
“Not if you want war,” said Cloe. “He hates Lamos.”
“I hate Lamos too,” said Urbano. “But I’m not sure I want war.”
“They have dragons now,” said Cloe. “Master Willas says dragons were the only thing that gave us superiority but now they have a laying drakina in Nathens.”
“A golden drakina,” said Vir. “Like the First.”
“Where would they get her?” Galla asked. “I didn’t think there were dragons on Lamoan soil.”
“They stole her,” said Vir. “That’s what they do.”
Cloe spat into the fire. I paused again in my grooming to watch him, curious that their spit did not contain acid. Pointless, I figured. Why have spit that did not burn? And I turned my attentions back to the warm golden scales.
“Cannons and dragons,” muttered Rue and he ran a hand across his bare head. “Why don’t we have cannons?”
“I don’t know,” said Vir. “Quintus says it’s not our concern because it’s not our branch of service.”
“It is our concern,” Rue grumbled. “Cannons can blow dragons out of the sky. All dragoneers should be concerned about that.”
“You’re not a dragoneer,” said Galla and she looked at him, grinning. “Not yet.”
“I’m an optimist,” he said.
“You’re an idiot,” said Cloe. “Your dragon’s too old.”
“That’s not what Cassien Cirrus said,” said Rue.
“We don’t serve Cassien Cirrus,” said Vir. “We serve Quintus and he says your dragon’s too old. He’s still wild.”
“You lie, Vir,” said Galla. “Quintus doesn’t talk like that and Cirrus said the Night Dragon could win the war for us.”
There was silence around the firepit and she looked away quickly. Ashes rose up to greet the rise of the Sleeping Eyes.
Rue leaned forward.
“What do you mean, Galla?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I spoke out of turn.”
“When did you speak to Cirrus?”
She glanced up sharply.
“My father trained Ironwing when he was a recruit. They’re here, in the Citadel with the First Imperator.”
Rue sat back, brow drawn, frowning. The silence that followed was blanket heavy. Finally, Cloe slapped the fire with his sword.
“We should do a Shadow raid tonight.”
The others groaned.
“Not on your life,” said Vir. “Not while the Imperator and his troops are here.”
“The Imperator is nowhere near the aerie,” said Cloe. “And if there’s going to be war, we might as well get used to flying in the dark.”
“We can get coal from the forge,” said Manillus.
“There’s no guard at Corantus Five,” said Urbano. “They’re all in for the proclamation.”
A roosting drakina is a fearsome thing. During a Shadow raid, we would attempt to slip through the aeries in the dead of night without waking a single one. It was not an easy task since dragons are sensitive to scent, and the drakinas woke to the smell of us rather than the sight or sound. Quintus suggested that rubbing coal into our skin helped mask our scent as we flew, blending us in to the scents of stone, slate and dragon-scorched rock. It was extremely effective but caused our skin to dry out after repeated use.
“Well?” said Vir. “Are we just going to sit here until the proclamation? Let’s go.”
“No,” said Rue. “Tonight, I’m going to try something else.”
Galla glanced at him.
“Celarus’ Landing?”
“Stormfall and I can do it.”
Cloe snorted.
“You’ll get killed.”
“Only if they’re going too fast and miss,” said Manillus. “We saw what happened to Peppe and SeaTorrent.”
“They won’t miss,” said Vir. He leaned back on his elbow and laughed. “No, the worst that will happen is that they might get in trouble with Plinius or his centurions.”
“If they get caught,” Urbano added.
“The Night Dragon won’t get caught,” said Rue. He sent a sideways glance to Galla. “You said Cirrus is here, in the Citadel?”
“I saw him,” she nodded.
“Good,” said Rue. “We’ll show him what the Night Dragon can do.”
“After the proclamation,” she said.
He said nothing so she nudged him with her thigh.
“After the proclamation.”
He grinned.
“After.”
I growled but Aryss trilled so I resumed the cleaning of her scales until the riders rose to their feet, ending one service in exchange for another.
***
It was early evening when we returned to the Citadel to find all the Dragon Flights on alert. Fires burned along the Crescent and the war flag – a red banner with a golden drakina surrounded by aurel leaves – flapped in the winter wind. We split up, Aryss and Galla arcing for their tower while Rue and I chose to light atop the mountain ridge alongside several of the Campari. The Campari were lone dragoneers who rode without a Flight. For some reason, both Rue and I felt at home with them, perhaps because of our solitary natures. Regardless, as we peered over the edge of the natural amphitheater called Crescent Prime, the sight of over one hundred dragons and even more sticks took our breath away.
“Is that the Imperator?” Rue asked one of the Campari, a hardened man with a dragon the colour of stone.
“That one there,” said the man. “The one with the spike-helm.”
And he pointed. It was all we could do to make him out, so far below and surrounded as he was by such a crowd, but when he took to the podium, the amphitheater fell silent. Even the wind held its breath.
“Hear, O Remus,” he began and his voice echoed through the mountains. “And hear ye lands of Lamos, let Justice hear! I am a public messenger of Septus Aelianus, Emperor of the Remoan people. Justly and religiously I stand before the most devoted servants of Remus, ye noble Dragoneers!”
The cheer that went up almost deafened me, being a dragon of unusual sensibilities.
It lasted for a long while, would have lasted longer had not the Imperator raised his gloved hand.
“It’s the proclamation,” hissed the Camparius. “They always use the same language.”
“Let my words bear credit! Hear, O Remus and you too, Lamos – Ruminor also, and all the celestial, terrestrial, and infernal gods! Give us ear! I call you to witness that this nation Lamos is unjust, and has acted contrary to right. The state of Lamos has offended against the Remoan People with its cannons and its warships and its soldiers. Now, we have witnessed the ultimate act of aggression – a brood of dragons for which Lamos has no precedent nor history nor divine right!”
Booing and hissing rose from the crowd, but the Imperator rose his fist higher.
“This is an act of war!”
The hiss became a roar.
Dragons added their voices, bellowing loud and long into the night.
“It’s all myth and legend and shat,” said the hardened man. “The High God Ruminor giving Selisanae to his son Remus, not to Lamos.”
“That’s a bad father,” said Rue.
“It’s shat.” The man grinned. “But that’s the High God for you. I only trust in my feet, my stomach and my dragon.”
Finally, the
roar died away.
“Upon the order of Emperor Septus Aelianus and on behalf of the Remoan People, I have ordered that there shall be war with Lamos. The Senate of Remus has duly voted that war should be made upon the enemy Lamos unless and until they abandon their dragons: I, acting for the Remoan People, declare and make actual war upon the enemy! Which noble Dragoneers stand with me?”
And lastly, one final roar to outdo all others, fairly lifting the snow from the mountaintops. Even Rue was cheering. I didn’t share his passion or his hatred for this nation called Lamos, even if they were responsible for the destruction of the Udan Shore. Sticks were sticks. They killed each other as easily as they killed dragons.
I looked for Aryss in the crowded, cheering, bellowing mass but did not find her.
***
There were no Eyes in the sky to guide me as we flew across the peaks and valleys of the Citadel. I was a Night Dragon and as such, didn’t need the Eyes of my father, Draco Stellorum, to see the Citadel. For me, it was as clear under the stars as it was in the sun.
Rue pressed low across my neck, fairly hugging the saddle as we swept silently through the night sky. This was why riders’ uniforms matched their dragons. They became indistinguishable on our backs, looking almost a part of our wings and spines. At night, it didn’t matter but during the day, the sight of a rider carried a weight of a very different sort.
Torches continued to burn along the Crescent Mountains but for the most part, the Citadel was sleeping. The tower of Celarus’ Landing was dark, without even a flicker of light to be seen through the many high dragon arches.
I opened my senses to the voices of the night. Stars sang. Wind whispered. Below us, trees brushed and rocks cracked. Snow wept as it dripped away for the spring and I could hear the distant crackle of fire, the voices of men and the heartbeat of dragons. There were no moons to guide me. No lanterns within or torches without. I remembered how I would descend on unsuspecting dragons in the Crown. Blackness in my wings and death at my claws. Warblood, undefeated Jewel of the Crown, Killer of Dragons and Men. How easily he could come back. I shuddered at the thought.
Dragon of Ash & Stars: The Autobiography of a Night Dragon Page 18
