Page 13 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Eight

Rosomon

O ne of the apples and a pear in my belly, I explore the market as it fills with villagers, bargaining over prices, listening to minstrels and swapping stories.

The mood is festive and friendly, but I resist the urge to speak to anyone, lest I say something else wrong.

My belly grumbles at the sights and scents of the market, and it’s a struggle not to make another attempt to use my silver coins to buy some bread or sausage or cheese.

But I heed the kind woman’s warnings. Doing so would either reveal my noble birth or make me a target of thieves. Perhaps both. I consider eating my remaining apple but decide to keep it in reserve until I’m desperate for food.

Surveying the villagers at the market, I note the absence of young men and wonder if this confirms the fruit vendor’s story. Last eve, Prince Tynan claimed to be a dragon rider, but based on what that woman said, he was likely making false claims to impress my young brothers.

Loud male voices draw my attention to the road at the end of the square. A dozen or more young men and boys pass by—many carrying swords, or bows and quivers of arrows. They’re whooping and yelling, jovially pushing each other and mock wrestling. Excited and curious, I follow.

About a half-league down the road, men enter a clearing where at least fifty others are already assembled.

At the far end of the clearing sits a group of large, three axel wagons.

Near the wagons, strong horses are tied to trees and munching on sacks of oats.

Several clusters of men sit on the ground in the shade of the wagons and in the forest behind.

I raise my small looking tube, and the subject of the artwork painted on the wagons comes into focus.

Dragons. Excitement bubbles inside me.

The wagons’ paint is faded and chipped, but I’ve most certainly stumbled onto the dragon rider trials the woman warned me about. Some of the men and boys in the field are sword fighting or wrestling. Others are racing each other about, but it all seems haphazard. Utterly disorganized.

A shriek fills the sky. A shriek like the ones I heard yesterday. Everyone stops to look up.

A dragon! Is it the same one?

I stand in awe as the large beast soars across the field, flying lower than yesterday.

Its scales are multicolored, all of them as shiny as freshly polished silver and flashing different shades in the light, but with an overall hint of teal.

The beast is impossibly huge. How in Othrix’s name does it fly?

The dragon circles the field, getting lower and lower each time, and the men cower in groups that shift from one side of the field to the other, as if trying to anticipate which area will give them the least chance of being landed upon, eaten—or burnt alive.

I can’t move. My mouth remains agape, amazed by the strength and size—and beauty—of the beast. And as it gets lower, I notice its rider. Dressed head to toe in what looks like leather, the rider’s body seems like part of the beast as they glide in ever lower circles around the field.

I let out a huge breath as they come to rest at its center.

Many of the men press back into the trees ringing the field, but I find myself stepping forward, moving closer and closer before I realize what I’m doing.

The dragon’s scales seem greener now that the beast’s on the ground.

Perhaps its belly and sides are reflecting the foliage in the field.

Its eyes are multicolored and faceted like a finely cut gem.

Each small panel casts back the world around it from different angles, making it seem as if the eyes themselves are alive.

The dragon’s back is the height of three tall men, and the top of its head rises another two beyond that, putting the sharp horn on top of its head more than five tall men above the ground. I’d guess the beast is more than thirty spans tall, and I’m not more than five and a half.

Sharp talons, at least three spans in length, have scraped deep lines in the field below the dragon’s four muscled legs. When spread, the dragon’s pewter-colored wings looked as wide as the beast is tall, but are now folded down at its sides.

Atop the dragon, the rider is wearing a leather helmet. Helmet is the best word that comes to mind, although it’s not like the helmet of a knyght, guard or soldier. It’s more like a leather cap that covers much of his head.

The rider shifts forward. It’s hard to be sure from this angle, but it looks like the rider was resting his bottom against a growth that’s shaped like a pommel, protruding from high on the dragon’s back.

Resting his backside against that protuberance can’t be comfortable, but I suppose it keeps him from sliding.

And at least it’s rounded, not sharp like the spikes rising from the beast’s spine—spears stabbing out from its head, neck and tail.

When the rider moved forward from the pommel, the dragon’s eyes changed, turning darker, and the beast lowers itself, resting its belly and then its neck and head on the field.

All of its eye facets now seem as black as onyx but still reflective.

The dragon rider removes a cloth from a saddle bag draped across the beast’s neck.

Then, using a rope hitched around one of the spikes, he dismounts, gracefully pushing off the beast’s side with his boots as he slides down the rope to the field.

Once landed, the rider strokes the dragon’s neck, dangerously close to its mouth, as if murmuring to the beast.

As the rider continues to stroke the dragon, he removes his helmet, and wavy, shoulder-length hair tumbles out.

In the shade of the dragon, his hair is the color of oats mixed with dried tymothy grass, but as it catches both the wind and the light of the mid-morning sun, the top layers of rippling strands turn to gold.

Underneath the gold, darker locks are revealed, halfway between amber and chestnuts.

The rider’s back is broad and strong, and his clothing is so well-fitting it seems to be part of him.

I stand transfixed as his muscles shift under the tight leather, then my eyes drift lower, taking in the clearly hard mounds of his bottom, the strong arched shapes of the backs of his thighs and his calves.

I can see no visible separation between his breeches and boots.

In fact, his entire livery seems to be one piece, but it can’t be.

Picking up the cloth he brought down—a cloak it seems—he drapes it over his shoulders and dons a hood as he turns away from the dragon.

It’s my stranger.

I can’t be certain, but from this distance, this man certainly seems to be the one I met yesterday in the woods. Turning, he glances toward me. I lower my looking tube and take a step back, fearful to be called out as a woman.

But I needn’t panic. Not yet. There’s a good half furlong between us, my hair is well hidden, and my brother’s clothing molds my body into a shape quite different from yesterday’s frock.

“Gather, all ye who dare ride a dragon,” the man calls out in a deep booming voice. Carrying easily across the field, his voice is so loud I can’t be sure it’s the one I heard yesterday, but the way it vibrates inside me makes me think that it is.

“Step forward and form a line across the field.” As he strides toward us, he gestures to indicate where this line should be.

One of the largest men marches out of the trees, and six or seven others follow. Several race away through the woods, clearly changing their minds, but more and more join the first boy until the line holds more than sixty young men.

“And what of you?” The dragon rider drops his hood back as he turns toward me.

I’m standing alone in the middle of the field.

“Are you brave enough to face the selection trials? Or are your breeches already soaked with piss?”

The young men all laugh.

My pride kicks in, and I run to join the line. At this point I’m unsure whether I’m more afraid of the dragon, or being recognized by this man and sent back to the castle.

I try to compare what I’m seeing now to the mysteriously shrouded visage I saw yesterday. Based on his rugged face, he has more than thirty years of age, perhaps forty, but he comports himself with the command of a man even older—the command of a great leader or general—dare I say a king.

As he strides toward the far end of the line, his cloak flares behind him, and then he inspects the prospective recruits one by one. I’ll be the last to face his scrutiny.

As he continues down the line, I can’t keep my gaze away from this man.

I’ve been captured by the sturdy shape of his jaw, the authority of his brows, the hard line of his nose, and the confidence in his posture and movements.

But mostly I’m drawn to his hair. I’ve rarely seen hair this color.

It now seems a combination of spun gold and amber, and it’s so thick and alive it’s as if his locks are creating the breeze that stirs it.

As he continues down the line, he selects the taller, stronger looking men, and tells them to gather in a group in the center of the field, leaving the smaller ones behind.

Disappointment and a sense of unfairness fill my chest. I’m unlikely to be selected.

Several he’s already passed over are far taller and stronger looking than I.

Do I want to be selected as a potential dragon rider? I’m not sure about that, but something deep in my gut longs to be chosen by this man. Chosen for anything he wants me to do.

The closer he gets, the more my belly swirls with excitement and hope. Perhaps, if I become a dragon rider, I can find another way to help my kingdom and redeem myself in my father’s eye. But as long as I’m not recognized and sent home, I’ll be happy.

The dragon rider picks the boy three down from me and then passes over the next two. Suddenly, it’s my turn for scrutiny.

I cast my eyes forward, level with his broad chest as he stands before me.

I have no question about his identity now.

Like yesterday, my senses are overwhelmed by this man’s scent, tinged with the woods and fresh air and other things I can’t name.

As he stands before me, I’m drawn forward onto my toes, as if my body is pulled toward his.

My heart is racing with excitement, anticipation and hope. He hasn’t recognized me.

Reaching forward, the man grips my upper arms. I instinctively tighten my muscles trying to make them seem stronger and larger.

He grunts, and then his hand grips my chin to tip back my head. Unable to avoid it, my gaze lifts to collide with his probing eyes.

I gasp. His heavily lashed eyes are brown, as I noted yesterday, but so much more than just brown.

Around their inky black centers, shimmering browns and golds radiate in the colors of polished chestnut shells and amber stones.

And where the color hits the whites, the edges deepen into a rich brown that makes the lighter parts glow like flickering candlelight.

His eyes are flashing with what seems like intelligence and interest—interest in me. And as he continues his examination, his pupils dilate, turning his entire expression darker. The strange stirrings from yesterday return to throb inside me.

Does this man possess magic?

Magic is a high crime against Othrix, but perhaps it’s required to ride a dragon. Either way, there’s no doubt his mere presence has cast a strong spell upon me. My breaths are ragged as I fight to control myself.

“What is your name?” he asks gruffly, still holding my chin.

“Ros—” Barely catching myself, I snap my lips shut. How could I be so foolish?

But then my mind draws a blank, searching for male names that start the same way as mine.

An amused smile brushes his lips, and the knowing look in his eyes removes my hope. I am found out.

“Ross,” he says. “Is that short for Rosshall?” One of his fingers brushes my jawline on the side none of the others can see.

An unexpected flutter of pleasure joins the relief rushing through me. Either he’s fooled or is helping me maintain my disguise. “Yes. That’s correct. Rosshall.” I’ve heard the name before, although I’ve never met a soul who was given it.

“And how many years do you have Rosshall?”

This time I’m quick witted enough to lie better. I’m small for a man of two and twenty, my true age. “Five and ten.” I give my twin brothers’ ages.

He chuckles and then drops his hand from my face as he steps back.

I nearly lose my balance, as if I was relying on his hand for support.

“Stay in line,” he barks as he turns away.

His cloak flares up behind him, and I’m left drowning in disappointment as he strides toward the group of the largest young men. The ones he selected.

I’m still enthralled by the sight of him, when I realize that most of the boys are looking instead toward the field’s entrance. A stallion is galloping toward us, its rider bent forward and goading the beast directly toward our line.

Not ten handspans in front of me, the rider halts his steed, doing it so quickly the horse’s hooves dig trenches into the earth. Dirt and small stones spray toward me.

The rider dismounts with a showy flourish, and I suck in a breath.

It’s Prince Tynan of Khotor.

He’s come to take me back to marry his hideous grandfather, and I have nowhere to hide.