Page 22 of Veiled Flames
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 Iwantto 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.
