12. Eradin #2
A shimmering projection bloomed to life above the arena, the same enchanted viewing screen that would follow us through most parts of the race other than when we were given a brief rest between challenges. Assuming we made it into the Scorching, that is.
Lords and ladies didn’t have to be present to watch. That was the point. Distance made it cleaner. Distance let them call it sport.
Our retired dragons waited along the arena’s eastern wall, chained to the stone beneath them.
My heart sank.
Lykor looked worse in full daylight. His scales had dulled to ash-gray, and the scars on his jaw stook out starkly white. He lay with his head on the ground, his breathing shallow, his eyes half-closed.
The other dragons appeared no better. One’s wing hung crooked.
Another was missing the spiked tip of its tail.
A third kept blasting flames at the chain pinning it to the ground.
They’d been discarded. Used until they broke, then shoved into pens and forgotten.
I’d polished dragons until they gleamed, and the whole time, these ones had paid for that shine.
Officials moved among us.
“Prepare your mounts,” an older man called out.
One official shoved the wiry man toward the dragons hard enough he stumbled.
“You need to pay attention, or you’ll die before you reach the first course,” the woman said with a slick grin.
The wiry man’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.
We walked over to our dragons, me to Lykor. His tack sat in a pile beside him. I pulled the harness from the bag with shaky hands.
The runes threaded through the straps made my palms itch. I forced myself to check each piece, the reins for fraying, the saddle straps for weak spots, the throat latch for—
Boots approached on my right. Expensive leather, nearly silent on stone. I knew who it was before he spoke.
“Hello, Eradin,” he said. “You’re the woman who nearly spilled water on my boots in the stable.”
The stable. Not the quarry road. So we were pretending he hadn’t seen me since. Wise. The officials stood close enough to hear.
Elite competitors didn’t cross the arena to speak with commons. Whatever this was, it wasn’t protocol.
Yet here he was.
“And you’re the prince who made sure I knew it,” I said.
Up close, I could see dark smudges under his eyes, faint enough I’d have missed them if the sun wasn’t slanting just right. It appeared he hadn’t slept either.
I hated that I’d noticed. I hated more that I didn’t have to wonder where his sleep had gone. At midnight he’d been standing in a broken dragon’s stall, asking it questions about a dead man. And I was the only living soul who knew.
He stood close enough I could smell leather and something sharper underneath. Dragon smoke and sleeplessness and whatever cologne princes wore when they were trying not to think about the people they were about to watch die.
“Why did you enter the trial?” he asked, his gaze on my face.
“Does it matter?”
“I suppose not.” He turned his attention to Lykor, and I’d swear his hands twitched at his sides. “The dragons they give you remember being broken. They won’t trust you just because you’re desperate.” His voice came quieter than it had in the stables.
“Does Aristus trust you or does he just obey?”
His gray eyes narrowed. “You think I don’t know the difference?” His gaze dropped to my hands, still clutching the harness, the red lines faintly visible across my palms.
“The fire maze claims more than the canyon,” he said.
A canyon and a fire maze?
“Watch for timing. Spires. The net overhead.”
“Are you going to tell the others this same information?” I asked softly.
“No. Just you.”
Why just me? I peered around, though no one appeared to be paying attention to us. No, they were preparing their dragons, something I should be doing.
“We should tell them,” I said.
“And watch the others when you’re paired. The trials aren’t your only threat.”
I stiffened. “You think my fellow commons will try to kill me?”
He shrugged. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Share what you want, but be aware that others may not feel as generous about this as you.”
They’d use the hints to kill me, he meant.
It made me look at my fellow commons in a new light. Would Marda or the blonde woman who’d smiled actually hurt me?
Maybe.
“Thank you,” I said. “Sire.” I added the latter when I realized I’d been talking with him like I would one of my own, not the kingdom’s golden son.
He turned to leave but paused, not looking back.
“Lykor was my father’s mount,” he said. “Before.”
Before the last Scorching claimed his father’s life. Before this dragon learned what breaking felt like.
They should’ve left you in peace, he’d said. You were with him.
It all caught up to me at once. Last night, he’d apologized to Lykor.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“So am I.”
He left, striding toward the edge of the arena. I couldn’t drag my gaze away until he’d stepped through a gate and started climbing the stairs to the royal box.
I forced myself to slip the harness over Lykor’s head. He tolerated it the way he did everything else, his breathing stuttering when the throat latch settled into place.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
He’d carried a king once, a man who’d made it through two trials before the race killed him.
And now he was stuck with me.
Did he remember? Somewhere in his battered body, did he recognize the echo of the man who’d ridden him into fire?
Did he still mourn the king?
The saddle came next. I heaved it onto his back and urged him to rise, checking the girth strap twice, tightening it until it sat secure.
A horn echoed across the arena, and the crowd in the stands went quiet.
The trial mark on my hand blazed, the black stripe throbbing along with the horn’s echo. Around me, the other riders touched their own marks. The wiry man’s face paled. Marda’s jaw had set so tight a muscle in her jaw jumped.
We wore the same brand now, the mark that said we’d chosen this. The mark that would burn in our funeral pyre if we failed.
A voice boomed across the arena. “First flight. Two riders.” The official pointed at the sunburned man and the older woman wearing deep blue pants and a lighter blue tunic.
I started to leave Lykor to tell them what to watch for, but one of the handlers grabbed my arm, bringing me to a halt.
“No running,” he hissed. “Remain with your dragon.”
“I just wanted to—”
“Do you want to be disqualified before you’ve entered the first trial?”
I stared at the ground, my hands twitching at my sides. “No.”
“Then remain with your dragon.”
At my nod, he stepped back, but I could feel the weight of his gaze on my spine.
They mounted their dragons, the woman with ease, the man nearly slipping back down the dragon’s side before he could latch onto the saddle horn. That would be me in minutes. Clinging. Falling. Breaking.
I reached into my pocket and touched Tolross’s poem, the paper softening already. I didn’t pull it out. Just stroked the reminder of what I was fighting for. Then I let go and lifted my chin.
The horn sounded again.
The two dragons launched into the air, the beat of their wings blasting sand across the arena. They swept over me, huge and dark. The crowd’s roar couldn’t block one of the dragon’s screams.
The two disappeared into the canyon’s mouth, swallowed by shadows.
The crowd’s roar peaked, then fell to a murmur. They leaned forward, their gazes fixed on the screen.
A hoarse cry echoed inside the canyon.
I stroked Lykor’s neck. Both of us were broken things, trying not to die today.
And the first commons trial had begun.