Despite herself, Trysten peered up at the sky. The clouds above looked as thick and featureless as they had for weeks, since the last winter storm had covered the highlands with snow and left a clear, blue sky to dazzle them all before the dry winds off the mountains ate the snow up and left clouds blanketing all.
“You flew well today,” Yahi said with a nod. “You flew like I’ve never seen another fly, and as cloud reader, I can assure you that little takes place in the sky without my knowing. Be ready, dear. A new story is about to unfold.”
Yahi turned around. The mountains and the wall of clouds continued to hold the Western Kingdom back, but it did so ominously. It wasn’t a favor, but rather a taunt. It would lift that wall one day soon, and the hordesmen of the Western Kingdom would stream through the Gul pass.
Without a further word, Yahi turned away and followed in Paege’s footsteps. Her skirts billowed out behind her, and the wind pushed the hair from her face. At any minute, she looked as if she’d lift up off the ground, take flight, and sail on up to the clouds that she regarded as living beings.
Chapter 12
A pounding on the cottage door woke Trysten from her sleep. She sat up in bed.
“Mardoc!” Bolsar yelled from outside. “Mardoc!”
Trysten slipped out of bed and rushed into the front room. Orange and red embers in the hearth betrayed the late hour of the night. She cracked open the cottage door. Bolsar stood outside with a lantern.
“Where’s your father? Tell him to come to the weyr quick. Aeronwind has turned.”
“What is that?” Mardoc called from behind Trysten.
Bolsar pitched himself up onto the toes of his boots as if he needed to shove his words over Trysten’s head. “Come to the weyr, Mardoc! Aeronwind has turned.”
“Fetch Galelin,” Mardoc commanded from bedroom door.
“I just came from Galelin’s, sir.”
“Good man,” Mardoc said. “I’ll be right there.”
Bolsar gave a nod and hurried off. Trysten shut the door and hurried into her room to make short work of getting dressed. As she emerged from her room and crossed to the front door, Mardoc called out. “Where are you going?”
“Aeronwind is in trouble.”
“You are barred from the weyr.”
Trysten turned around. Caron knelt before her husband and guided a boot onto his twisted foot.
“Father,” Trysten pleaded, “if she is to die—”
“She is not going to die,” Mardoc said with a shake of his head. “At least not tonight.”
“Mardoc,” Caron said as she tightened the buckles on his boot. “What harm would there be in letting her see Aeronwind? Our time with her is short. She means as much to Trysten as she means to you.”
Mardoc locked eyes with Caron for a second, and then inclined his head slightly. “All right,” he said to Trysten. “This one time. You are not to interact with any of the other dragons, understand?”
Trysten nodded, then fled out the door.
Inside the weyr, several lanterns glowed around Aeronwind’s stall. A small crowd of weyrmen and hordesmen gathered. Elevera watched with obvious interest.
“Trysten,” one of the weyrman said as he looked up. “You are not to be in here!”
“My father is coming right behind me,” she said as she jogged up to the stall. “How is Aeronwind?”
She reached the head of the stall and peered inside. The dragon lay curled in a loose ball. Her sides heaved in rapid, short breaths. With each exhale, a low groan escaped her.
“It’s not good, I’m afraid,” one of the weyrman said. He reached up and removed the cloth cap from his head.
“Let’s not dig the poor girl’s grave before she is dead, shall we?” Galelin asked from where he crouched upon a short stool next to the dragon’s broken leg. His sleeves were rolled up and his forearms covered in an oily substance. A long scar snaked its way up from his inner wrist to just before his elbow. The greasy substance made the scar appear pinker than the surrounding skin, puffier.
He reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow with the cuff of his rolled sleeve. “She’s having a bad spell, but I think she’ll pull through. She’s a tough, old girl. She’s taken down many a Western horde. It’ll take more than a mere pustulence to bring this one down. She’ll be fighting in the season yet.”
Trysten studied Aeronwind’s face. Her eyes were closed. It was unusual. The dragon seemed never to sleep, never to cease watching. Trysten got no sense from the alpha, no indication of how the dragon felt or what she thought. All that came to Trysten was a feeling of uncomfortable warmth, of a wish for a cool breeze, the flow of air beneath wings.
Trysten glanced up at Elevera. The gold dragon met her eyes. She lowered her head the slightest bit and Trysten was flooded with a feeling of sadness. Woe. It was enough to make her grasp the half-wall before her knees gave out. And there, underneath the woe, discernible only after the woe had broken over her like a spring flood, Trysten found resignation. A defiance. She lifted her face to Elevera to confirm again what she sensed. Elevera wanted Aeronwind to know that she was ready. She assured her alpha that the horde would be fine, that she would take care of it, see to it, keep it together.
Aeronwind was dying.
“What’s going on?” Mardoc cried from the end of the weyr.
Several men trotted down to meet the Dragoneer, to tell him of the new development.
“Galelin?” Mardoc asked.
“In the stall, of course.”
Trysten took a deep breath. She gripped the top of the wall and raised her face to the gold dragon once again. Was she sure? Elevera glanced to Aeronwind, then back to Trysten. Soon. Elevera would step up soon.
Trysten’s breath stalled as her heart fluttered. It nearly paced up and down her breastbone as the implications hit home. Elevera would be thrust into the role of alpha soon, and if she wasn’t ready to bond with Paege, or he wasn’t ready to bond with her, then Elevera would abscond. She would leave the village. She would either go wild, or latch onto another horde, one with an alpha who could sway her. But worse yet, if Elevera absconded, the horde would follow her. The village would lose all twenty-one dragons, and not one would remain to offer up any kind of defense if the hordesmen of the Western Kingdom came screaming through the Gul pass.
She had to tell her father.
Mardoc slipped past her and into the stall. He surveyed his dragon. Trysten couldn’t see his eyes.
“How goes she?” Mardoc asked.
Galelin sucked in a deep breath as he straightened his back. “The pustulence has taken a turn for the worse. She is fevered.”
Mardoc gripped the staff with both hands. “Is this the first fever?”
Galelin studied the wound, then gave a slow nod. “The first that I know of.”
“Is there anything you can do to stave off the next one?”
Galelin regarded the wound a moment more, then lifted his hands as if suddenly remembering that he had them. “A new compound. I sent word to the Dragon Master in the mother city. His healer sent me some new herbs to try in a salve. I’ve tried to get her to drink cool water, but she will have none of it.”
Bolsar crossed his arms over his chest and nodded. “She tastes battle in the waters.”
“Battle?” Galelin asked. His face twisted into a look of incredulity. “What does battle taste like?”
Bolsar’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He lifted his chin slightly. “Blood. Like iron. It gets in the water ahead of the start of the fighting season. It’s what opens up the passes. Don’t tell me you’ve never tasted it in the river?”
“I think you’re confusing it with fish pee,” Galelin said.
Amid a smattering of chuckles from the hordesmen, Bolsar’s hands fell to his sides. He flushed and stepped forward. Mardoc lowered his staff so that the tip of it landed against Bolsar’s chest and stopped him.
“Is there nothing more you can do?” Mardoc asked Galelin.
Galelin considered
the wound again. The light from the various lanterns appeared to get stuck, mired in the greasy liniment that the healer had slathered upon the dragon’s leg. He shook his head. “It’s in her hands now. These herbs are supposed to draw the fever out, balance the humors.”
Galelin leaned forward a bit and held his open palms over the wound as if warming them on a fire. “But that’s the thing with dragons. Their humors run to the hot side as it is. It’s why they breathe fire and seek out the cold of the sky. It keeps them balanced. If these herbs do their job, they might sustain her until she can get on her feet again, at least long enough to take wing and feel the sky.”
Mardoc lifted his face to the front of the weyr, to the end that looked out over the mountains. Trysten saw in his face that he was calculating what it would take to ferry snow and ice back from the frigid peaks. But then the Dragoneer in him eclipsed the man desperate to save that which he loved. He shook his head, glanced at Elevera, then on to Aeronwind. His head inclined, and in the space of a few seconds, he appeared to age twenty years.
With a nod of his head, he looked about the men gathered around the stall. “Back to bed, men. I will see after Aeronwind.”
The men stood a moment longer before breaking up. They slowly dispersed like a dollop of milk in water before Mardoc turned his attention to Trysten. “You, too. Tell your mother that I will be holding vigil in here tonight.”
Trysten looked up at Elevera. A flash of sorrow and resignation washed over her again. She swayed on her feet, then drew a deep breath.
“Is something the matter?” Mardoc asked.
“It’s Aeronwind. She isn’t doing well.”
“She’s in capable hands,” her father said. He straightened his back, and a little of his strength returned as if he were assuring himself as much as his daughter.
“No, it’s worse than we think it is. She isn’t…” Trysten swallowed hard, then took another deep breath. “She’s worse than we think. She isn’t going to last long. The pustulence is too deep. It can’t be drawn out anymore. It’s in her bones.”
“Have we been studying the healing arts when not raising a ruckus?” Galelin asked as he sat back and planted his forearms upon his knees.
“I know this,” she said to her father, completely ignoring the old healer.
“And how do you know this? Galelin makes a good point. I know you have spent most of your life with these dragons, but I haven’t noticed you spending that time in the study of their physiology.”
Trysten glanced at Elevera again. Dare she tell her father? If only Elevera could speak up. Or if only her father could listen. But telling him the truth would only further rob her of credibility. There was nothing she could do but hope for the best.
She hung her head.
Mardoc clamped a hand on her shoulder. It was heavy and strong and reassuring, like a solid post in the middle of a rushing river. It was something she wanted to cling to.
“Aeronwind will be fine. We have herbs from the Dragon Master himself. I know you love her, and so do I, but I will spend the night here to make sure she is all right. Go. Tell your mother the news, and of my plans.”
Trysten let out a sigh as she studied Aeronwind, who lay curled loosely in the hay, her shattered foreleg held out before Galelin.
Mardoc squeezed her shoulder. “Go.”
Trysten nodded, then looked at her father. His eyes were rimmed in red. They betrayed the strength in his grip and the solidity of his stare.
She walked away. The aisle to the entrance of the weyr had never felt longer.
Chapter 13
The following morning, Trysten and her mother found Mardoc in Aeronwind’s stall, asleep with his back against the dragon. His body rose and fell with each of her fevered breaths as if he were being rocked.
Caron called for him, and when he woke, she presented the breakfast she had prepared for him.
Mardoc tore into the fresh bread and eggs, assuring Trysten and Caron that Aeronwind would be fine. Her breathing was a little easier, a little less labored. The fever was being transformed into a vapor by the herbs. He could smell it. Sharp and hot. It cleared the head if inhaled deeply.
Trysten glanced up at Elevera and nearly expected the golden dragon to shake her head. Instead, she stared back with a resignation and sorrow that threatened to drop Trysten to her knees.
She excused herself and worked her way past the hushed conversations of the weyrmen, who fell silent as she approached and concentrated on the work of feeding the dragons.
At the back of the weyr, Trysten entered the bunkhouse where the hordesmen lived. There, in the cramped dining hall, she found Paege at a table in the center of the room. The men ate quietly as they stared at their plates. The boisterousness which they frequently displayed during meals was absent, and their collective silence was larger for that absence. They looked as if they were preparing for a wake, rather than another day of training.
Paege looked up from his plate and stood as if expecting a summons. When Trysten did nothing more than cross the room, he resumed his seat on the bench.
“I need to talk to you,” Trysten said.
Paege looked about at the other men at the table, then back at her as if waiting for her to indicate something.
“Alone,” Trysten added.
One of the men made a quick, quiet comment to another, his words hidden behind the back of his hand. The other man stifled a chuckle that brought a glare from Paege as he stood.
Paege ushered Trysten on to the bunk hall. It sat empty. Neatly made bunks lined the walls. It was a level of care that Trysten hadn’t expected to see.
“What’s wrong?” Paege asked as he shut the door to the hall.
“It’s Aeronwind. She’s not doing well.”
A bit of color dropped away from Paege’s already pale face. He gave a curt nod. “So we’ve heard.”
“No,” Trysten said and shook her head. “You don’t understand. My father thinks these herbs from the mother city will heal her, but they won’t. She’s dying. She’s dying more quickly than what Galelin or my father thinks. She’s going to pass the horde on to Elevera sooner rather than later.”
Paege leaned back some. His shoulders rested against the closed door.
Trysten took a deep breath, a little frustrated that she had to spell it out for him.
“My father won’t believe me, but you have to talk some sense into him. He’ll listen to you. You need to be ready when Aeronwind passes, or we’ll lose the horde. You have to be ready, and he has to make sure you are ready soon. We don’t have the kind of time that he thinks we have.”
More color fell away from Paege’s face. He was downright pale. Surely none of this was such a shock to him.
“Do you understand?” Trysten asked.
Paege gave another nod. “More than you would believe. Have you spoken to Yahi today?”
Trysten’s shoulders slumped slightly. She shook her head.
“She says the clouds are preparing to break soon. Spring will come early this year.”
The bottom fell out of Trysten’s heart. An early Spring meant an early fighting season. What awful timing.
Paege gave a nod as if agreeing with Trysten’s unspoken thoughts.
Her heart fluttered. “Oh, Paege. I’m so sorry.”
Paege took a deep breath, then let it out in a long sigh. His gaze drifted up over Trysten’s head and out beyond the rear wall, out beyond the eastern plains. “It is what it is. There’s no need to be sorry.”
He looked back down at Trysten. “I’ll be ready. I have to be.”
The look on his face lacked reassurance. He was the boy she had grown up with. The patchy beard and the hair caught in the awkward place between short and long highlighted how out of place he was. When growing up, he had spoken of being a hordesman like his father, but more often, he spoke of carpentry. He had helped build a number of cottages, helped put an expansion on the weyr. He was far more comfortable holding a hammer than holdi
ng the reins of a dragon.
Yet, here he was, hardly more than the boy she had known, and already he was willing to do what he had to do in order to secure the horde and protect the village. The fighting season loomed, now mere weeks away if Yahi was right, and like most cloud readers, she usually was.
By the wilds, here he was willing to give up everything for the village, and here she was feeling sorry for herself because she couldn’t be the Dragoneer, she couldn’t earn what she wanted more than anything, while it was being handed to a man who would take it as a responsibility, rather than a passion. But there was little room to quibble now. She had to do her part and tell him what she knew.
Trysten took half a step closer to Paege. His back stiffened, and he pressed himself even harder against the door as if bracing himself for an attack.
“You have to be ready, Paege. You have to bond with Elevera. I… ” She glanced to the floor briefly, then back up at him. “I can sense what Elevera is thinking. What she’s feeling. She knows that Aeronwind won’t survive long. She knows that her time is coming soon. If you aren’t ready to bond with her—”
“I know,” Paege interjected. “Believe me, I know full well what is at stake here.” He swallowed hard and averted her gaze to the rafters above them. “I lay awake at night and wonder how in the wilds I am going to pull this off. I have the whole village, the whole horde depending on me, and I can’t seem to even touch the kind of bond that you share with Elevera, let alone form anything like what is between your father and Aeronwind.”
“It’s just a matter of time. I’ll stay out of the weyr, and you can put in some extra time with Elevera. You’ll do fine.”
“No,” Paege said with a shake of his head. His eyes shone. “No, you don’t understand. It’s not going to happen. I can’t do it. I can’t bond with Elevera. She won’t have me. Dragons are sensitive, right? They know what’s in the hearts and minds of their riders. Look at the way you handle her. Look at the way you handled Ulbeg! By the wilds, Trysten, you should be the Dragoneer. Not me.”
His words pierced Trysten in ways that arrows and blades never could. She nearly grabbed onto Paege’s arm to keep herself from reeling backwards under the blow of his words.
The Dragoneer: Book 1: The Bonding Page 8
