Page 48 of Veiled Flames (Destiny of Dragons #1)

Thirty-Four

Rosomon

T he senior candidates didn’t train with us this morn, and I didn’t see Tynan when we broke our fast. After returning to my room last night, I barely slept. Fitful waking dreams tortured me with unending repeats of my time in Tynan’s room.

My thoughts offered so many iterations of our conversations and his actions—including lucid, lust-inducing variations on what might have happened. And I’m no longer sure I remember what truly occurred.

I can’t make sense of it.

I’m beyond confused by his actions, by his mood changes and by his words. Near the end, he seemed to forget his anger, and instead showed genuine admiration for how I escaped my marriage and how I won my place here at camp. He even seemed impressed by how well I’ve done here.

Whatever he truly feels, for now, my visit seems to have served its purpose. Tynan has not yet revealed my secret, thank Othrix. Everyone still believes I’m a boy.

Exhausted and exhilarated from today’s combat training with Saxon, who didn’t even look at me, I take my usual seat in the front row of the classroom and trace my finger inside a scratch carved into the edge of the seat.

Instead of imagining how it would feel if Tynan mounted me, I must focus on what really matters, improving my skills so that I’ll be given the chance to mount a dragon someday. And with every day here at camp I grow more convinced that my sex is no deterrent to becoming a dragon rider.

With a bow and arrow, and with a slingshot, I’m easily the best in our group and can hold my own with both swords and daggers.

Only hand-to-hand combat is proving a challenge.

But I’ll get better. And based on what Roule has taught us, hand-to-hand combat isn’t crucial in battling the demons currently penetrating the veil.

Master Roule is the only one of the masters who offers me true encouragement. More than once he’s told me that size isn’t the most important attribute of a dragon rider.

Roule steps up to the dais, and the chatter in the room dissolves.

“There was a major rupture in the veil last eve,” he says. “Another rider was lost. And since you’ve been at camp, several more senior candidates have died in their attempts to bond.”

The classroom joins in a collective gasp.

“Given our recent losses, Master Treacher insists that you visit the dragon enclaves today.”

Cheers rise in the room and excitement builds inside me.

Dragons don’t scare me. Not really. When I touched Saxon’s dragon, Surath, I felt her power—certainly the danger she poses to humans—but also her sense of sadness, almost as if she were calling out to me for help.

I wish I’d asked Saxon more about his bond with Surath when he was talking to me.

“Hush,” Roule says, quieting the room.

“Because your first attempts to mount a dragon may be accelerated by several weeks, your sphincter training will commence tonight.”

Sphincter training? What does that mean? The room goes silent.

I wasn’t aware of anyone speaking before, but now it’s like no one is breathing.

A servant appears, holding a wooden box.

“Each of you will take one of these trainers,” Roule says. “Starting today, your trainer should be inserted at least once each evening and worn for as long as you can tolerate.”

“Inserted where?” someone asks from the back of the room.

“Up yer bum!” someone else mutters.

The wave of reaction is palpable in the classroom, but all specific words are drowned by my shock and my pounding heart. We are meant to insert something called a trainer into our bum holes? My own clenches in protest, and I stare down as my fingers turn white from gripping the sides of my chair.

The box arrives in my field of vision. I glance up, and the servant nods, urging me to take one of the objects.

Each one is teardrop shaped and made of polished stone.

Pointed at one end, they widen into an orb of sorts, and then curve around, attaching to what I can only call a handle—a narrow bar with a disk at its end.

I select a shiny black one. Am I really meant to insert this object into my…my bum hole?

“To continue at camp, you must begin your sphincter training tonight.” Roule straightens. “In each of your rooms, you’ll find a dish of bear grease to assist your insertions.”

I stare at the object, the stone already warming in my palm.

“Any questions?” Roule asks.

Someone stands and states their name, but I can’t hear his words over my heart.

“No,” Roule replies, “you won’t need grease to mount a dragon’s pommel.”

Stepping to the large slate at the front of the room, Master Roule makes a simple chalk drawing of what I recognize as a dragon saddle.

I saw a pommel, when I first saw Saxon get off Surath, but assumed one sat in front of that pommel, not upon it.

Perhaps the flaps at the back of our riding breeches serve more than one purpose. A tremor ripples through me.

“Dragon pommels have lubricants to ease their entry,” Roule says. “If a dragon is willing to be mounted, the lubricant will naturally excrete.”

Sounds of shock ripple through the room. I still haven’t moved.

“After a successful mounting.” Roule scans the room, as if wondering whether even one of us will accomplish this.

“You can further secure yourself and help guide the dragon by holding these handles at the base of her neck.” He points to two bumps he drew in front of the pommel, well behind the spikes he depicted rising up the dragon’s neck.

“Mounting a pommel the first time isn’t easy,” Roule continues. “And yes, it might be painful at first, especially if you don’t relax your sphincter muscles. But you shouldn’t require grease, and if you are well prepared using trainers, the pain will be lessened.”

“Can’t we ride dragons without taking its pommel up the bum?” someone asks.

Roule shakes his head. “Without the mounting, there will be no bond. Even if the dragon could take flight, you’d be thrown from her back.”

“How long until I can try a real pommel,” Egon asks.

“First, you must progress to much larger trainers.” Roule pulls an object from behind the dais.

The entire room gasps, and my heart stops. This trainer is at least four times longer and far thicker than the ones we’re holding.

“Holy thrix!” Egon shouts.

I hear a thud as he drops into his chair.

“Are they ready?” Treacher’s voice booms from the doorway.

Roule nods. “Stash your trainers in your pouches,” he says. “There is no time to take them back to your rooms. Treacher is impatient to show you the dragons.”