Page 37 of Veiled Flames
I was lucky in that regard, hardened long before Father offered me up to the dragon masters. I became strong and resilient through many beatings that started the day I could walk. Father beat me for my own good, just as his father did it for him, and it turned me into the strong man I am now. A man who’ll soon be a dragon rider.
Pride fills my chest, wiping away the remnants of unwanted stirrings for that boy. These candidates will need more than toughness. Some may get a chance to enter the dragon enclaves,but few of those will be brave enough to actually attempt a mounting. And most who do will die trying.
I chuckle. Runt or not, the small turd did prove himself brave. Not only today, but on selection day too.
But bravery isn’t enough. If the runt doesn’t die during drills, he’ll most certainly die when he attempts to mount a dragon. Touching a dragon’s scales is one thing, climbing up, controlling the beast enough to mount her pommel is an entirely different matter.
One even I have yet to master.
Twice now, I’ve attempted a mounting, only to be tossed. While I’ve suffered bruises and broken ribs—and the first time, a dislocated shoulder—I lived. Most do not.
Master Treacher, the toughest and best of the three dragon masters, has urged me to try a larger beast on my next trial. A dragon that’s likely male, like his, and might better suit my temperament. Rider candidates who attempt but fail to mount the bigger dragonsneverlive.
But I won’t fail. I never fail. Not at anything.
The dragons I’ve attempted to mount thus far were simply not good matches for me. Treacher is right. They were too small. He’s right to give me a chance to bond with a larger beast.
The caravan of wagons has disappeared into the distance, making its way down the switchbacks of the Drakmoor Pass.
Before I follow, I check all four of Thunder’s hooves for pebbles.
Fifteen
Rosomon
Our caravan is comprised of seven wagons of volunteer recruits now, we joined others on the road, and I have no idea how much farther we’ll travel. This valley, where we’ve stopped for the night, must still be in Verax, but the terrain defies the atlases I’ve studied in the castle library.
I sit for our evening meal, and as the sun prepares to set behind the mountains, disappointment pulls me down harder against the cushion between me and the ground. Three days have passed since I kissed Master Saxon, and I’ve had no sign of him, and have been deprived of the opportunity to accept my invitation to his tent.
Given my unwanted and inexplicable reaction to Tynan, I no longer understand a thing about my body—especially not its reactions to men—and for the first time I deeply regret my lack of experience. Saxon awoke in me a deep curiosity about what men might do with women—and that’s the only explanation forwhy I felt stirrings around Tynan. My body acted in complete opposition to my feelings for that man.
While Tynan held me pinned against the cliff face, his hard rod pressed against my thigh. Had I not touched Saxon’s rod, I wouldn’t have recognized what I was feeling, but it was unmistakable. And Tynan’s stiffness is even more confounding than my own body’s response.
After living with men for eight days, I know that particular part of a man is most often like a limp, uncooked sausage. Saxon told me they only turn into rods when a mandesiresa woman, and yet Tynan does not desire me. Not only does he think I’m a boy, he most certainly hates me, and the feeling is mutual.
Next time I see Saxon, I shall ask him if there are other reasons a man’s rod might stiffen. I must avoid all such situations in the future—especially now that I live amongst men and am masquerading as one.
“Look!” someone calls out.
I glance skyward, and butterflies dance in my belly. Saxon and Surath are circling above us. Her vast wings flap, beating the air as she rounds the valley. The setting sun tinges her underbelly shades of purple and pink, and glints off the sharp spikes on her head, neck and tail. These beasts don’t need fire to induce terror.
She lands in the clearing, two furlongs away from where we’ve set up camp for the night. The servants pull Saxon’s tent from a wagon, then they carry it across the field, preparing to pitch it. The sight of his tent turns the butterflies in my belly into a fleet of dragons, swooping and flapping.
With each day that’s passed, I’ve become more certain of the decision I made that night in his tent. I’m even more determinedto discover how it feels to have a man’s rod stab my cleft. Rushing through my sup, I say yes to a second cup of ale, enjoying its malty taste and the way it calms the dragons in my belly and loosens the steel bands in my neck. After the servants pitch Saxon’s tent, they extend a rainfly to its side, even though there’s not a cloud in the sky.
I try not to give my constant attention to his tent, but as darkness falls, Saxon enters with a small oil lamp, and the rain flap alters the shape of his shadow cast on the canvas. Was that flap there the night we kissed? I can’t remember. One way or another it will increase our privacy. Very thoughtful. And even better, I take it as an indication that he hopes I’ll join him.
As the Great Western star appears in the sky, the other men grab their bedrolls, most of them choosing to sleep outside, versus inside the stuffy wagon. Samyull might be the only one who’s still sleeping inside every night, and while I would appreciate the solitude, I value the fresh air.
I set up my bed and lie back, impatiently watching the stars move as my compeers joke and talk, and some of them start to fall asleep. Finally, Egon’s snores are no longer waking everyone each time he snorts, and so I slide out of my bedroll and creep carefully across the field toward Saxon’s tent.
As I get nearer, my belly squirms, as if snakes have replaced the dragons and butterflies, and I press my hand against it, willing it to quiet. Fear and excitement battle for dominance in my thoughts, and I tell myself it’s natural to feel both. I’m about to experience something new, something exciting, something potentially wonderful based on his kisses and the touch of his hand between my legs.
Light spreads from a small fire on the far side of his tent, and when I’m less than fifteen spans away, my nerves seize me, halting my progress.
What if I don’t enjoy this act? Or what if Saxon doesn’t enjoy it with me?
He steps out from behind the tent, and my breath catches. The soft firelight kisses his golden hair and highlights his shape, covered only by his linen chemise. The garment’s hem brushes his thickly powerful thighs, revealing so much bare skin below. Curly hair dusts his exposed legs, and my insides clench with a sharp stab that spreads warmth inside me.
