6. Eradin
CHAPTER SIX
ERADIN
The exhibition would be excruciating. I knew this before I’d finished gathering the equipment I’d need for the event.
Public display days meant nobles who treated dragons like furniture and servants like dirt beneath their boots.
Lords and ladies lounging in chairs beneath awnings that magically tilted to keep the sweltering sun off their skin.
Hours of standing in place while pretending to be invisible, which was harder than it sounded.
It meant watching things happen I couldn’t fix and swallowing opinions that would get me flogged.
I wound my way up the mountain toward the training ring complex, the queen’s castle looming above me, a threat dressed in pretty architecture.
Silk banners in house colors snapped at the tops of poles, each one announcing bloodlines and alliances I’d never be part of.
Musicians tuned instruments on a platform built specifically for this display, their notes discordant in the cold morning air.
Bright pennants marked viewing boxes where cushioned seats waited for people who’d never stood through a full day’s work.
My tasks came rapid-fire from multiple overseers: haul water buckets to wash stations, rake ash from fire pits where dragons would demonstrate flame control, and oil leather equipment in the tack room until my hands cramped.
Near the kitchen, two of the staff huddled by the wash barrels. Narlene, the woman who’d caught me outside the records room but said nothing to anyone, stood with her apron pressed against her face, her shoulders heaving while an older cook gripped her arm.
“They came in the night,” the cook said to a scullery girl who’d stopped to gawk. “Took her Dorresk straight from his bed. Twenty years scribing for the crown, and they sent him down the mines. No charges. No reason given.” She jerked her chin at the girl. “Move along. Grief’s not for staring at.”
I owed Narlene for not speaking, but anything I said would only pin more eyes on her.
I hurried to get back to work, keeping my head down while the spectacle built itself around me. Servants hung garlands. Others placed magically preserved food and drink at intervals inside the stands. A master of ceremonies practiced announcements, his voice booming across the sand.
But underneath the shine, rot thrived.
Scorch marks blackened the stone ring walls where dragons had been pushed too hard in training, their fire burning hotter than control allowed.
Old gouges in the arena sand had been covered with a fresh layer, but darker stains showed through in patches, blood that had soaked too deep to hide.
As nobles started filling the stands, we lined the dragons up like living jewels.
Scales polished to mirror-shine, harnesses oiled until they gleamed, and head-spikes wrapped in ceremonial decorations that served no purpose except to announce wealth.
Twenty of them, each one worth more than everyone in Shaleside combined would earn in a lifetime.
The event began with a parade of the dragons.
One near the end of the line trembled. Its handler spoke a sharp word, and the dragon went statue-still, locked in place by something that had nothing to do with training or trust. The handler nudged the dragon’s back heel with his boot, and the beast jolted forward, catching up to the others.
I took two steps toward them before catching myself. Did I truly think I could confront the handler in front of the entire gallery? I’d be dismissed or worse.
I forced my feet to stop. Forced my hands to remain at my sides.
I couldn’t save every creature in this place. But I wanted to. The wanting was a physical ache, and I hated how useless it made me feel.
Another dragon’s eye wept clear fluid. I had to tuck my hands under my arms to keep from striding over and wiping it away.
I gathered an armload of harnesses that needed oiling and went to the tack room that held the familiar scent of leather and polish. Dim light poked through the high windows. I settled on a bench in the corner and got to work.
The first harness I worked on was beautiful, leather dyed burgundy, with silver fittings. I ran the oil cloth along the straps, working it into the grain as I’d been taught.
When I touched one of the threads binding it together, warmth prickled under my fingertip.
I pulled my hand back and looked closer. The threads formed runes, small, complex, repeating runes along every strap that would touch the dragon’s head. I dragged the matching breastplate closer to examine, finding more runes.
“The elite use safety sigils on their tack,” one of the other servants had told me. “It keeps the bond stable and prevents wild behavior.”
Stable. Wild behavior.
I dragged one piece of equipment after another across my lap, examining each one.
Every piece in this tack room had the same stitching.
I looped a loose cheek strap over my forearm, and the hairs there lifted. A pulse tapped along the leather, a cold-hot thrum that made the skin underneath it twitch away.
This wasn’t decoration.
The hatchling’s pupils had contracted the moment the Unity Band closed. Not gradually, like a creature adjusting to a new sensation, but all at once.
I touched the runes again, not pulling back when the cold-hot feeling traveled up my arm.
This wasn’t guiding a bond. It was carving compliance into a living creature with magic it couldn’t refuse.
I pulled my trembling hands back and clenched them into fists until the shaking stopped.
The elite had given torture a pretty name.
My mother had taught me to calm dragons with patience and understanding. With the low hum that said, I won’t hurt you, breathe.
If bonds were natural and sacred, why would they need magical restraints?
I finished oiling the harness and moved to the next piece, my hands working while my mind turned over what I’d seen.
Out in the hallway, two handlers spoke in low voices.
“Tighten Heartsbrim’s noseband another notch. Lady Severine says the dragon is getting mouthy.”
“It’s already on the third hole.”
“Fourth, then. She wants compliance.”
Trumpets split the morning air, followed by an overseer’s bellow down the hall, calling all staff to the arena.
I abandoned the tack room for the ring, joining the line of servants along the back wall. We’d assist as requested, but were basically decoration, the same as the banners.
The master of ceremonies announced Prince Fenian and his dragon, Aristus.
They swooped overhead, Aristus sleek and powerful in a way that made the other dragons look like rough drafts.
Fenian sat astride him in hunting leathers dyed deep blue, his posture perfect. Sunlight caught his inky-black hair, and even from a distance I couldn’t miss the noble line of his shoulders, the controlled power in how he moved with his dragon.
As beautiful as a blade and equally deadly. Made for a purpose. Honed until every edge served a brutal function.
My watching had stopped being surveillance somewhere in the last few breaths and become something I recognized in the same way I did hunger.
Pointless. Too late to prevent.
They climbed in a vertical spiral that left the crowd gasping. Higher, tighter, until they were barely visible against the pale sky. Spinning, they dove straight down, the dragon’s wings tucked to his sides, Fenian leaning across Aristus’s neck.
The crowd screamed.
A short distance above the sand, they stopped. Aristus flapped his wings hard enough to make the pendants whip and sand blast across the arena.
Fenian sat back and spread his arms wide.
“A sacred bond,” someone in the crowd called out.
Aristus’s jaw trembled, a ripple of muscle where the harness’s strap pressed against the nerve cluster behind his jaw hinge. The same stitches I’d seen in the tack room marched across this dragon’s equipment too.
Fenian’s right hand spread dramatically for the crowd. He spoke words in High Aurian, and Aristus’s pupils contracted, a trigger being pulled.
How could controlling a dragon in such a cruel way be a sacred bond?
They swooped back up into the sky and completed the routine, including a barrel roll, finally landing so lightly the sand barely puffed.
The crowd applauded, calling out praise.
A young noblewoman clutched her chest. “Amazing!”
Fenian dismounted, moving like a man who’d never had to think about how to position his own body, as if every part of him had been calibrated for performance.
Did he realize what this performance cost the creature beneath him?
My palms prickled. I shoved my hands into my pockets, pressing my fingertips against the fine red lines that hadn’t quite faded.
The crowd left the stands, moving toward refreshment tables set up in the shade. Fenian remained beside Aristus, scratching along the beast’s jaw hinge. The dragon’s eyes half-closed and he rumbled, his nostrils releasing smoke.
Fenian murmured something too quiet to hear. His face stayed unreadable, but the gesture was tender. Real in a way the performance hadn’t been.
A dull ache spread beneath my skin.
A prince and heir to the throne, he must know what the runes did. Yet he still used them, making Aristus perform. Then he stood in the aftermath, soothing the pain he’d caused.
I wasn’t sure what to think of that. Cruelty I understood. Kindness as well. This was both at once, and it made my head hurt trying to sort which one mattered more.
Across the yard, Narlene passed with a tray, her eyes swollen from crying.
The prince’s head turned. He watched her the whole distance of her walk, then said a few quiet words to his aide.
The man slipped away and intercepted her by the wall, giving her a purse.
She stiffened, but stuffed it into her pocket.
The prince had already turned back to his dragon.
Why would he notice a weeping kitchen woman at all, let alone give her coins? Perhaps he knew why her husband had been sent to the mines and wanted to help.
But did the elite ever help anyone?
I turned away and nearly collided with Overseer Nuant.