Page 31 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Twenty-One

Rosomon

O ther candidates push past me as they clamber out of the wagon, everyone cheering and crying out with surprise.

Calling this place a camp is beyond misleading. The wagons’ portals were covered for the final ten or so leagues before our arrival, and I now think that was done for maximum impact.

We’ve stopped in a mountain valley, the air is fresh and clear, and the courtyard we’ve entered isn’t only far larger and finer than the one in my father’s castle, it’s decorated with more flowers than I’ve ever seen in one place.

The scent is heavenly, far sweeter and stronger than Achotia’s fields in springtime, and so beautiful Othrix himself would be impressed.

In fact, this place seems to have been built for a god, not for a bunch of rag-tag, travel weary rider candidates.

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Samyull asks. Turning toward him, I shake my head.

“This way,” a female voice calls out. “Give the horses room to pull the wagons.”

We all drift toward the voice, and I tug the strap of my rucksack higher on my shoulder, unable to stop staring as I take it all in. Behind us, wagon wheels clatter over stones as the horses pull the carts back through the gates we came through.

“Come,” says the same female voice.

A woman, about the same age as Nurse, if I had to guess, beckons us to step through a large archway at the end of the courtyard.

Her silver hair is piled atop a smiling face with a bright complexion and darkly pinked cheeks.

Her dress is simple in design but sewn from what looks like very fine fabric, red with flowers embroidered in burgundy and pink, accented with sparkling gold threads.

As we pass the woman, she welcomes each of us in a friendly voice.

The space we enter is yet another courtyard, also open to the skies.

And this one is even more awe inspiring than the first. A portico lines all four sides of the ground level square, its stone arches supporting two rows of galleries above.

Everywhere I look there are more flowers.

Garlands adorn every column and balustrade, and ring the basin of a stone fountain standing in the center of the space.

“Gather forward,” says a strong male voice, and I duck around the fountain. At the end of the courtyard stands a platform with three men atop, and one of them is Saxon.

My heart skips when I see him. As if sensing it, his eyes flick toward me but quickly shift away.

The three men are dressed in dark leathers.

Heavy, fur-trimmed capes with hoods, rest over their shoulders.

Saxon’s garments are much like the ones he wore when we first met, but even finer.

Together, the three are an impressive display of masculinity and strength, but it’s Saxon alone who commands my attention, far more handsome than the other two.

I force my eyes off him. It only hurts to think about what I can no longer have.

Hearing voices, I glance up. The galleries are lined with young men, leaning over the balustrades and looking down. Rider candidates I presume. Perhaps some are already dragon riders, like Tynan.

One of them meets my eyes, and he sneers, shaking his head.

Clearly Prince Tynan isn’t the only one who thinks I’m too small.

Saxon steps to the front of the platform, and I can no longer pretend to ignore him.

“Welcome rider candidates,” he says, in his deep booming voice. “What do you think of camp so far?” He grins.

Cheers ring out through the crowd.

“During your time here, you will face many perils and endure many challenges, both mental and physical. The least we can do is provide you with a comfortable place to sleep, and good food for your bellies.”

Cheers ring out again.

“We—” he gestures to the men on either side of him “—are your Dragon Masters. Each of us will train you in our particular speciality and prepare you for your first attempt to mount a dragon.”

Murmurs drift through the group.

“I am Master Treacher.” A man a few fingers taller and somewhat broader than Saxon steps forward. His face is scarred, his eyes mean. “I am commander of the qualified riders. For the few of you who live long enough to try, I will guide your attempt to mount a dragon.”

The third dragon master steps forward. “I am Master Roule.” This man is rounder than the other two and has lost much of the hair on the top of his head, but he still strikes a formidable presence. “I will provide most of your classroom training: theory, history, and battle strategies.”

He gestures toward Saxon, who steps forward. “And I will be your combat and weapons instructor.” His stance widens. “All three of us are fully qualified to teach all of these subjects.”

The woman steps onto the platform. “Welcome. I am Asa, your House Mistress. As the newest candidates, your rooms will be on this level, and they are already labelled with your names. Every grouping of four rooms has an assigned house maid. She will introduce herself and provide for all your needs. For now, you’ll be sharing sleeping quarters.

As your numbers dwindle, single quarters will become available. ”

Beside me, Samyull visibly trembles. I’m nervous too. But not about facing dragons. I’m nervous about sharing my sleeping quarters. It could be with anyone, even that bully Egon.

I’ve become more adept at maintaining my masculine disguise, but it will be more challenging in a shared bed chamber. Especially if there is nowhere private to use the chamber pot. And I’ve already been fretting about my courses, due in less than ten days if my memory is accurate.

“Tonight, you shall dine.” Saxon gestures to a large wooden door in the shadows behind him. “But first you must wash off the dust from the road. Go now and find your sleeping quarters.”

Cheers ring out, and the group scatters, everyone searching under the portico for a door labeled with their name. I hang back, and then head for the far corner, choosing to escape the frenzy and methodically search under the portico to find my room.

To my shock, I find my name, my male name, on the very first door.

And it’s my name alone. My heart floods with relief.

Saxon must have done this for me. My heart warms and heats with hope.

Perhaps he’s reconsidered what he said early this morn in his tent.

Perhaps he plans to visit my room, visit my bed.

That hope increases, because my room is in the corner farthest away from the dining hall.

It’s isolated and quite a distance from the next closest room.

Opening the door, I step inside, and my heart floods with joy.

While not as large as my bed chamber at home, it’s beyond comfortable and a thousand times better than what I expected.

I can’t understand why they refer to this place as a camp.

I assumed we’d be spending our nights under the stars, or at best, in tents.

In the center of one wall sits a good-sized bed, and I jump onto it to test the mattress. Flopping back, I sink so far into its luxury that I’m not certain I’ll be able to get up for dinner. Above me, the ceiling planks are painted an inky purple, dotted with tiny pink stars.

My eyes flutter shut as my body melts into the mattress. But I shake the sleep from my body and reluctantly roll off the bed. My stomach grumbles. I don’t want to fall asleep before dinner.

A large wooden wardrobe sits at the side of the room, its doors carved with images of wyllow trees, each long leaf meticulously shaped. Inside, I discover several sets of leather breeches and jackets, as well as linen chemises. All of them look to be my size.

Saxon must have sent word, or flown ahead on Surath, giving the camp all of our names and sizes. The stone floor is covered by a knotted wool rug with an intricate pattern, and I bend to run my hand over it to confirm its softness. I should have removed my boots before stepping upon it.

In addition to the bed and wardrobe, my room contains a small table, a few cupboards as well as two chairs in front of a fireplace.

To the side of the room sits a screen, and behind it, I discover the best surprise yet—a copper tub full of warm water, still steaming.

Quickly, I shed my dirty garments and climb into the tub, leaving my chest binding on.

If I wear my jerkin to dinner, or one of the leather jackets, it will hide the ring of wetness on my chemise.

After so many days of use, my binding cloth is filthy with sweat and dust, even though it’s been under my clothes.

A bar of lye soap sits on a stool next to the tub.

Discovering it scented with lemon oil, I scrub my skin, trying not to remember how Saxon bathed me last night.

The way he so carefully stroked my body—every part of it.

Was that really last night? It feels a lifetime ago, even though my lips and cleft are still tender and bruised from the kissing and drilling.

Lying back, I want to stay in this water for hours, but I’m startled by a knock on the door.

I sink all but my face under the murky water, grateful for the screen hiding the tub. “Yes?”

The door opens. “Excuse me for interrupting, sir. I’m Elly, your room maid. I’m here to assist, as you bathe and dress for dinner.”

“Please stay outside the room,” I tell her, and then hear her gasp.

I spoke too sharply. “I don’t require your assistance at the moment, Elly.” Lowering my voice, I strive to sound kinder. “I prefer to dress myself—tomorrow morning and going forward, as well.”

“As you wish, sir.” Her tone reveals her surprise. “In about thirty minutes, a bell will sound to signal dinner.”

I rejoin my fellow candidates in the courtyard, and we mill about in front of the still-closed doors at the end. With no handle or obvious way to open the large double doors, we wait.

Samyull steps up beside me. “Can you believe this place?”

“It holds more comforts than I expected.”

“I can’t believe they call this a camp.” Grinning, he shakes his head.