Page 27 of Veiled Flames
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 evenseenSaxon. 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 wasmybirth, not my brothers’ which claimed it. I give myself a fatherwho’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.
