Page 15 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Ten

Rosomon

O ne by one, the remaining candidates approach the dragon, some opting to follow my example, although most approach her assertively.

One unfortunate soul slams his hand against her hard—more like a strike—before turning to run away.

With one quick exhale, Surath incinerates the man.

And he’s not the only one to die, or to leave the group in other ways.

Several freeze with fear, refusing to take the test, and others flee into the woods.

While many survive, more than half do not, and none touches her scales for more than an instant. None except me.

The exercise significantly culls the remaining herd.

Quickly scanning the group, now merged into one, there are fewer than twenty of us in total, and I now suspect that our initial separation into groups was less about rejecting the smaller men, and more about minimizing the number of deaths while Saxon made his point about combat skills. Whatever cruel point that was.

The last to try is a boy even smaller than I am.

In many ways he reminds me of Olifer, except that his hair is light brown and not pink.

The boy is trembling, realizing he is now the only one who has not gone, fled or died.

He must now choose between completing the test or running off the field.

And even that second option doesn’t guarantee safety.

Surath has incinerated at least three of the men who chose to flee.

I step toward the boy. “Stay calm,” I tell him. “Don’t show your fear. Stroke her as you would a small child, or your favorite dog.”

At the mention of a dog, the boy looks toward me and nods.

“This one’s definitely going to burn,” Tynan says, but Saxon says nothing. He just stands, legs spread, arms crossed over his chest, his cloak and hair flaring in the breeze.

“Don’t listen to him,” I tell the boy. “Never be intimidated by a bully.”

The boy takes a deep breath and then steps forward, his body stiff, like it’s comprised of wooden boards tied together. When he’s about sixty spans from the dragon, Surath turns her head to face him.

He stops. Minutes pass and the boy doesn’t move. But neither does Surath.

“Is there a time limit?” someone mutters, and Saxon glares at us.

Tynan is pacing back and forth, shaking his head, and I fear he might do something to provoke the dragon. “Get on with it!” Tynan shouts.

Surath lifts her head, as if she’s about to breathe fire.

Barely thinking, I step forward. Moving steadily and as quickly as I dare, I join the boy and put my hand on his shoulder. He startles, clearly not hearing my approach.

“What’s your name?” I ask softly.

“Samyull.” His voice is so quiet I almost don’t hear him.

“You can do this, Samyull,” I tell him. “If you want to try, you can do it. Just stay calm.”

He nods, stiffly.

“But there is no shame in not doing it. We can back away together. She won’t burn us.” I’m not sure why I know this, but deep in my belly, I do.

Samyull glances toward me, terror and determination swirling in his eyes. He does want to try.

“Would you like me to approach her with you?”

He nods.

I glance back toward Saxon and Tynan. The latter seems beside himself with irritation, but that’s not unusual based on our acquaintance thus far. I think back to the original challenge set by Saxon. I don’t recall any rule saying we must approach the dragon alone.

Taking Samyull’s hand, I step forward. He hesitates for a moment but then falls into step beside me as we slowly approach the dragon.

Surath stays with her head facing us, snorting small threats of steam, but I sense that she’s calming.

At least I hope that she is, or Samyull and I will soon be ash.

When we get about ten handspans from her head, she turns to face forward.

I drop Samyull’s hand. “You can do it,” I tell him softly. “Her scales are very soft. Touch her gently for a few moments, and then slowly back toward me.”

He moves forward, each step taking him barely a handspan ahead, until he’s close enough to the dragon to touch her.

His hand slowly rises, and he places it tentatively against her scales. Instead of springing it quickly away, as the majority of the young men have, Samyull leaves it there seven seconds by my count, and then backs away.

His returning steps are longer, and he’s soon at my side. Then we back up together, keeping our gaze on the dragon until we’ve passed Saxon and Tynan.

“Well done, Samyull,” says Saxon.

Samyull is the first candidate he’s praised, as far as I know, and the boy’s face glows with pride.

“That was cheating,” Tynan says. “The other runt went with him.”

Saxon ignores Tynan. “The trial is complete,” he says. “All those who remain are welcome to volunteer as candidates.”

A murmur that could be interpreted as muted cheering flutters through our group, although no one dares raise their voice—none except Saxon and Tynan.

“Once again, I must warn you,” Saxon says. “Today’s exercise was nothing. Our losses were minor.”

Minor? Seven and ten men died, eight and ten counting the one killed by a fellow candidate. And far more than that number fled.

“If you continue on this journey,” Saxon’s voice fills the field, “many of you won’t survive. But choosing this path will bring you great honor. Your families will be proud, and every soul in the Kingdoms of Light will owe you their gratitude.”

Every chest in our group puffs out, and so I try to imitate the masculine pose. I’ve much to be proud of: I’ve not been caught out; no one knows who I am; no one knows I’m a woman.

And if I get into one of those wagons, I am volunteering to ride dragons.

The two wagons of recruits from Achotia join a caravan of six other wagons, and so far, we’ve traveled three days and nights over bumpy roads. Everyone still believes I’m a boy.

I’ve yet to come face-to-face with either Saxon or Tynan—the only ones who’ve met me as a woman. I’ve avoided Tynan and haven’t even seen Saxon. I long to catch sight of the dragon master, even more than I fear he’ll recognize me.

At least Saxon thinks I’m a stable hand. Tynan knows the truth.

While we’re awake, and when we can hear each other’s voices over the clatter of wheels, most men have shared their names and stories.

Whenever my turn comes, I stick as close to the truth as possible.

Like me, Rosshall has twin brothers, but I’ve reversed our ages, giving them two and twenty, and me five and ten.

In my altered life story, I still lost my mother, but it was my birth, not my brothers’ which claimed it. I give myself a father who’s always busy with his work and largely ignores me. None of that is a lie.

So far, no one has asked my father’s trade, but if they do, I’ve decided that he is a stable master, since I know horses quite well. Everyone knows I’m from Achotia, and most in my wagon are my father’s subjects.

Hair as softly pink as mine isn’t common, so I’ve been told, but no one mentions it when a few strands fall out, and I go to great lengths to keep my braid well contained in the cap.

Thus far, our caravan of wagons has traveled even at night, only taking short breaks to rest the horses, while we eat our meals, wash our faces and empty the piss buckets. I take those opportunities to dash far away from the group to relieve my bladder and bowels.

I can’t use the piss buckets in the wagon without revealing my sex, and so I limit my intake of water, and avoid even a taste of the ale that’s offered with meals.

Our wagons are pulled by massive horses.

Their legs rise nearly as high as I am tall and are covered in thick shaggy hair.

The coats on the horses’ backs are thick too, not like the near fur on their legs, but less sleek than the coat of any horse I’ve known, and the beasts seem well prepared to face any weather.

They certainly possess extraordinary stamina.

So far, our trip has been mild and dry. Not even a hint of rain, but we are about to leave Achotia and enter the mountains of Verax.

The wagons themselves are more comfortable than I expected.

While they are nothing like the royal carriages I’m used to, they are several rungs better than the open apple cart I road after my escape.

The benches lining the sides of the wagons are padded with horse-hair cushions which we also use as pillows to sleep upon, and as seats for our evening meals.

Small windows line the sides, with covers that open to let in light and air whenever it’s not too dusty.

When open, the portals allow us to catch glimpses of the passing countryside, and that’s helped me keep track of where I believe we are.

Each wagon has three drivers, who also serve as our cooks, and at least one of the three drivers is typically sleeping at any given time, presumably in one of the wagons that carry our provisions.

Prince Tynan has been traveling either ahead or behind us, on his stallion, but always finds us when it’s time for the evening meal.

Tonight, as we sit to eat, the arrogant prince ignores me, per usual, barely glancing my way. Not that I want him to. I have many reasons to avoid his company, beyond the fear of recognition.

I can’t deny the physical attraction I felt the night I believed him to be my intended, but I since discovered that he’s arrogant and rude and all together unpleasant.

Physical beauty is shallow and fleeting, and I’m determined to look upon Tynan as the ugly man he’s revealed himself to be, beneath his undeniably appealing external attributes.

Tonight, Tynan rode in on his horse just before we sat to eat and pushed one of the smaller boys off his seat to claim it.

I was about to say something, but my breath and attention were stolen as Saxon and Surath flew above us.

They circled a few times and landed in the large field beside our wagons.

Luckily, my personal excitement was matched by that of my fellow travelers, and no one took notice of my flushed cheeks and rapidly beating heart.

Saxon and Tynan now sit together, at the end of the low dining table the servants construct each night, using planks stored atop the wagons.

Tynan catches me looking. When our eyes meet, his fill with derision, and I quickly cast mine away.

“How many more day’s travels do you think it will be?” Samyull asks from beside me. The only other candidate close to my size, Samyull has seven and ten years and has become the closest thing I have to a friend. The first real friend I’ve had in my life.

“I have no idea.” My response is mostly true.

Traveling both night and day has me confused, and I’ve lost track of the distance, but I’m certain we’re close to Verax by now if not already inside that kingdom.

It’s clear that my fellow candidates have had little schooling, most can’t even read—so I don’t want to share more knowledge than the son of a stable master should possess.

“Attention candidate recruits.” Saxon’s commanding voice draws our attention.

Tynan stands at Saxon’s side, as if he’s his Second. And while I don’t know anything of Tynan’s status at camp, I suppose that, in this group, Tynan is Second to the Master, and for some reason that irks me.

“We shall camp here overnight,” Saxon says. “And from now on, we won’t travel in darkness. The upcoming terrain is more treacherous, and the horses will require more rest. We shall depart at sunrise.”

Cheers ring through the group.

“Any questions?” Saxon asks.

“Do we need to sleep in the wagons?” a large boy called Egon asks. He’s riding in another wagon and is someone I’ve decided to avoid.

“It’s your choice,” Saxon answers. “Surath’s presence should keep predators at a distance.”

The group murmurs, clearly debating whether to face the usual stuffiness of the wagons, including the snores and farts of the others, or face being devoured by a bear or wildcat—or worse, a creature of Darkness.

“How much farther?” asks another man, whose name I’ve forgotten, if I ever knew it.

“With good fortune,” Saxon replies, “we should arrive at camp after five more sunrises, perhaps six.”

Cheers flow again. Many men rise from the table, and the servants start to clear it.

“Isn’t it grand having servants to cook our sup?” Samyull asks.

I nod, only just now realizing I’m likely the only candidate who has never lifted a finger in support of their own upkeep.

“Are you going to sleep outdoors?” I ask Samyull.

He rapidly shakes his head. “No. I don’t trust the dragon to keep the beasties away.”

A warm hand lands heavily on my shoulder, and I’m enveloped by Saxon’s distinctive and captivating scent. My entire body heats as if he’s a raging fire behind me. Why does this man affect me so?

“Rosshall.” Saxon’s luxuriously deep voice washes over me. “I’d like a word with you.”

I start to stand, but he keeps his hand firmly on my shoulder, holding me against the cushion.

“Come by my tent,” he says. “I have an important matter to discuss. News of your family.”

He moves his lips very close to my ear. “Come after everyone else is asleep.”