30. Orientation
30
ORIENTATION
The main lecture pavilion was located in the center of a well-maintained garden, which dominated the expansive school terraces. Unlike the city, which often used narrow, cramped stairs and steep switchbacks to accommodate human needs, the school was a place of wide paths and gently sloping walkways.
Gwydinion and Anahrod arrived exactly on time.
She’d timed it carefully, so they’d end up seated toward the back, but couldn’t be considered “late.” Storm clouds blanketed the sky outside, but had they been absent, it would’ve still been dark. Five bells was an unholy hour to expect anyone to show up bright-eyed and ready to pay attention.
Although if she were a dragonrider whose dragon had gone rampant after being flown exactly once over a century earlier, she too might feel a perverse desire to torture the students who were hoping to gain everything she’d been denied. Or perhaps she was overthinking the matter.
The simpler explanation was that Varriguhl was just an ass.
No one ever guessed the school headmaster was over a hundred years old. His appearance gave proof to the belief that bonding with a dragon granted longevity, if not immortality. He seemed at most a decade older than Anahrod, with dark, tightly curled hair he wore knotted in a style long since out of fashion. His eyes had the stare of a man who’d seen too much.
Some might have found him handsome, but Anahrod was incapable of seeing it. To her, he would forever be fixed as the hateful, horrid teacher who’d tormented her.
His most notable quality had nothing to do with his appearance: he sat in an inscribed chair set on wheels, the fabric of his trousers tucked up under legs that ended at his knees. The prevailing rumor had been that he’d lost his legs when Ivarion went rampant. Varriguhl himself had never seen fit to clarify the stories. He simply pointed out that a dragonrider had no need of legs when their dragon could fly.
No one had ever been brave enough to point out that was only true if one’s dragon was willing—and awake.
The headmaster was saying something as she entered, but she couldn’t hear it; the roar of her heartbeat deafened her. She closed and opened her fists, reminding herself she wasn’t a student, that no one knew who she was, that she hadn’t been fifteen years old for longer than these students had been alive.
A low murmuring filled the air as the candidates gathered, their guardians filling the back rows. That was the whole reason she’d arrived as late as possible: earlier students found themselves separated from their guardians. A plus or a minus, depending on how a student felt about the guardian in question.
“—to Yagra’hai.” His voice hit as hard as the thunder outside. “I am Varriguhl, headmaster of this school, First Rider of the city. You are all here hoping you will be chosen for the highest and most holy calling that any human can hope to achieve: rider to a dragon.
“This is not, as some of you may believe, a matter of presenting yourselves all in a neat row before an equally neat row of dragon eggs until they hatch and the dragon inside is drawn to their soulmate. In reality, the dragons will be adults and you won’t meet one until you have mastered the basic skills required for your roles. Reaching this point will not be easy. Many of you will never do so.” A flash of lightning punctuated his statement with such perfect timing that he seemed to be commanding the storm itself.
Unlikely. Ivarion’s attunement had been fire, not lightning.
Varriguhl scanned the students in the front row. “Not all of you have what it takes. And if you do, you still may not be picked. Let me be clear on one matter from the start, because every year this causes confusion: this is not a contest. I’m not saying this to be kind. I’m saying this because contests have rules. Contests are fair . Whereas nothing about this is fair. The person who scores highest on their tests is not guaranteed a dragon. You only have to pass—you are not required to surpass your fellow students. You gain nothing from sabotaging others, as you don’t know what criteria a dragon will use to pick a candidate. I don’t know what criteria a dragon will use. No one but each dragon knows that, they are under no obligation to explain themselves, and they rarely do.
“That said, if you fail your classes, if you cheat, if you misbehave, if you cause problems, you will be expelled from this school, after which you become the Church’s problem. I will do this without hesitation.
“I do this not for my benefit, but for yours. This bond is for life. There is no breaking it, there is no changing your mind. Once done, it is done forever.”
Anahrod’s jaw ached. She realized she’d been clenching her teeth so tightly she was in danger of pulling a muscle. She exhaled slowly.
Meanwhile, the headmaster continued: “You are here for one reason. It may surprise you to learn that the reason is not bonding with a dragon. That is the means, not the goal. You are here for one reason, which is the sole reason that Eannis put all humans on this earth: to keep dragons sane. That is your only purpose in life: to keep your dragon from going rampant. If you cannot handle that responsibility, leave now.”
He paused, as if expecting some teenager might actually do it.
Anahrod was glad beyond words that Ris had insisted on the veil. She could only imagine the faces she’d been making during his speech. Varriguhl’s orientation speech hadn’t changed by so much as a word from when she’d been one of the excited babies sitting in the front row. He still spouted the same lines.
She’d missed a detail when she’d been younger and more eager to become a rider, however: Varriguhl hadn’t lied. Not once.
He had laid out the truth with diamond-sharp precision. To become a dragonrider was to be all but a slave, perpetually locked in obedience to a single master, from whom one could never be parted.
Not in the human’s lifetime, anyway.
Eannis, she wished she could just throw Gwydinion over a shoulder and leave. If only Anahrod could do it without bringing the wrath of the dragons down on Crystalspire. If only leaving the school didn’t mean destroying the cover the team needed to justify their presence in the city.
But the moment the heist was done, she was taking Gwydinion and leaving. Let Tiendremos have his power-grab and Ris have her revenge; Anahrod would take her family and hide.
“Are there questions?” Varriguhl asked, one eyebrow arched as if daring someone to say yes.
A hand shot up immediately: the girl from the liner, Kimat.
Varriguhl threw the girl a withering stare. “Yes?”
“What if we’ve already met a dragon who’s going to pick us? Can we skip ahead?”
Varriguhl did not look amused. “ No. ”
“But—”
“No,” he repeated, in the same sharp tone one might use against an errant vel hound. “Anyone else?”
Gwydinion raised his hand; Anahrod groaned internally.
“Yes?” Varriguhl frowned at the boy.
“Are we going to learn magic?”
Given the other students’ murmuring, he’d asked a popular question.
An indecipherable look crossed the man’s face. “Yes, you will.”
The room exploded in noise.
“Silence,” he snapped, waving an arm.
When the children quieted, he continued, “You will. A dragonrider serves their master in a magical capacity. We are not children of Eannis, and thus not cursed by Zavad to become rampant. Dragonriders are expected to cast spells for their dragons whenever possible.”
“But what if we learn all this magic and don’t get picked?” a boy in the crowd called out.
“Raise your hand first.” Varriguhl deliberately ignored the boy. “Anyone else?”
Gwydinion raised his hand again. Anahrod pinched the back of his arm, but he ignored her.
“Yes?”
“What if we learn all this magic and we aren’t picked? Doesn’t that make us…” He fidgeted.
“Heretics?” Varriguhl suggested.
“Yes.”
“All of you are here because you’ve been chosen by Eannis, blessed by her grace. You all know some magic, or you wouldn’t be here. If you are not chosen by a dragon, you are still called to serve as members of the Church. So no, you will not be heretics, because none of you will be so foolish as to think you can just leave .”
Anahrod scowled under her veil, gut clenched with the unhappy reminder of her own mistakes.
There was more murmuring, more whispers. At least one or two students started crying.
His gaze swept over the group once more. He seemed disappointed in what he saw. “Classes will start in three days at dawn. Your guardians are welcome to escort you to the classroom, but this will be the only time they may attend any class themselves. This is not up for discussion. Unless there is a rampant dragon in the area, they wait outside.”
He paused, waiting to see if anyone would raise their hand one last time. No one did.
“Very well,” Varriguhl said. “You have the next two days to unpack and acclimate yourselves. I strongly recommend you rest. Let me also stress that you don’t have permission to enter the city. If you or your guardians discover you are missing some vital supply or equipment, talk to Administration. I will see you all in three days.” He made a dismissing motion.
Since Anahrod and Gwydinion were in the back, they were among the first to leave. Not a moment too soon, in Anahrod’s opinion.
One thing was certain: she still hated Varriguhl’s guts.
Yagra’hai wasn’t a city that encouraged greenery. Individual dragons might like gardens, but as a species, dragons were hard on their environments. Plants seldom survived any of the dozen different flavors of destruction that a dragon might favor.
But Varriguhl rarely granted dragons permission to enter the school grounds, giving flora a safe refuge on the campus. The gardens had become havens where plants flourished. Whether Ivarion would’ve tolerated such horticultural efforts was unknown: Varriguhl had spent the last century left to his own devices.
The gardens were a sculptured, controlled sort of prettiness. The grass had been clipped in layers, forming textural designs. Low hedges of fragrant simora blossoms surrounded walking paths of polished granite. Larger flowering trees of white, yellow, and pale pink sat farther back, like parents gathered together to watch their children go to school.
A piercing longing came over Anahrod, not for Crystalspire, but for the Deep, for fruit trees and flowering vines and wildlife everywhere.
“What next?” Gwydinion asked.
She hadn’t planned to return through the gardens, both because of an excess of caution and because the rain made it hard to appreciate flowers. They were cutting across the garden to one of the public tunnel entrances.
“You in front of a fire”—Anahrod adjusted the boy’s mantle—“with soup. Half the class will be out on the first day because they’ve caught a cold.”
Conversely, the rain-laden air was so humid, Anahrod found it pleasant, if still far too thin. She reminded herself to look through their supplies for sharproot, and make sure Kaibren created more emergency inscriptions for Sicaryon to help with the air pressure.
She should probably ask for one for herself, too. It didn’t matter that she’d been born in the Skylands—after seventeen years, her body had grown used to the Deep. She hadn’t even finished acclimating to the thin air of Seven Crests before traveling to an even taller mountain.
“It’s not fair!” someone yelled behind them.
Anahrod recognized the voice and sighed. Kimat came careening down a path, followed by her guard. “I was picked out personally by a dragon! I shouldn’t have to go through this!”
Gwydinion gave Anahrod a look; she instantly knew that he was about to volunteer that he too had been picked by a dragon.
Anahrod shook her head at him.
“Oh, it’s you.” The girl stopped short of easy reach, her attention now focused on Gwydinion. She gave a passable impression of someone who hadn’t expected to see Gwydinion.
Anahrod didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Kimat,” her guard scolded as he rushed over to hold a mantle over her head. “We don’t have time for this.”
“What’s your name?” Kimat ignored her babysitter.
Gwydinion glanced back at Anahrod.
“Do you need permission to talk?” Kimat’s tone was scathing. “Are you still a child? Is that your parent?”
He rolled his eyes. Anahrod only wished she could as well.
“I’m Gwydinion Doreyl,” he said. “My father’s the mayor of Crystalspire.”
“Oh? Well, I’m Kimat Kelnaor, and my mother is magistrix of Grayshroud.” She raised her chin, daring him to make something of it. Perhaps that’s just what she wanted: for Gwydinion to say something, make some inference about Kimat’s family or the criminal leanings of Grayshroud.
Some excuse for a fight.
“Nice to meet you again,” Gwydinion said pleasantly, “but we must be on our way. I’m not done unpacking.” To emphasize that point, he turned away.
“Hey! I’m not done talking to you!”
Anahrod wondered if she’d have to interfere. Before she decided, however, Gwydinion swiveled. “Really? I have time tomorrow. We both have the day off. Why don’t you come over to my apartment at eight bells? My cook makes the most amazing chena you’ve ever had.”
A long pause followed.
Kimat’s bodyguard, Waja, said, “Are you…? Are you asking Lady Kelnaor out on a date?”
Anahrod had wondered the same thing.
“Only if she says yes,” Gwydinion admitted. His smile was blinding, the sun peeking out from behind rain clouds.
Kimat held up her hands. “You’ve checked my rings, right?”
“Late-blooming?” Gwydinion nodded. “I noticed. And a good thing, too: I haven’t officially picked out my garden rings yet, but I already plan to pick flowers, so it’s lucky you qualify.”
Kimat began to say something, stopped, started to say something else, stopped herself again. Anahrod almost felt sorry for the poor girl.
Kimat finally settled on: “How old are you?”
“Fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” Kimat repeated. “Fifteen! I don’t date fifteen-year-olds. I’m seventeen .”
“That’s not a problem: I like older women.”
The other guard muffled a laugh. Personally, Anahrod was once again glad for the veil. She was really seeing the benefits of them as a clothing accessory.
This was adorable. Although by Eannis and all her scaly little children, Anahrod had never been this smooth at fifteen.
She wasn’t this smooth now .
Kimat sputtered. “I’m not an older—! How dare—!”
Then the girl ran off, leaving her guard still grinning for a moment before he realized his ward had abandoned him. He hurried after her, yelling.
Anahrod stared at her young protégé. “Are you secretly Zavad? Be honest now. I won’t judge.”
This time, her brother flushed. “It made her leave, didn’t it?”
“And what if she’d said yes?”
His eyes widened. “Why, I’d have asked you for your recipe for chena.” He bit his lip. “You would tell me, wouldn’t you? I mean, we’re—you know.”
We’re family.
“I would,” Anahrod said, “but you can’t make chena in a day.”
“Oh? That’s a shame.” Gwydinion brightened. “Good thing she doesn’t know what chena really is. We could just make something else and call it that.”
“She didn’t say yes,” Anahrod reminded him.
“She didn’t say no, either,” Gwydinion said. “Wouldn’t it be sunshine if she still shows up tomorrow?”
“Yes. Let’s invite the girl trying to get you kicked out of school into our quarters. What could go wrong?”
He grinned. “Bet you she shows up.”
“You’re officially spending too much time around Claw. Anyway, my mother taught me to never gamble against Zavad himself .”
Gwydinion just laughed.
“We should hurry back,” Anahrod murmured as they walked away from where they’d run into the spoiled girl and her taciturn minder. “Find out if Ris and Sicaryon have killed each other yet.”
“Or kissed.” Gwydinion glanced sideways at her. “Are you going to sleep with either of them?”
“That is really none of your business.”
“If I were you—”
“Gwydinion—”
He grinned. “I’m just saying, if I were you, I wouldn’t sleep with one of them.”
That hadn’t been the editorial comment she’d expected. “You wouldn’t?”
“Nope!” He shook his head. “No. I mean, how would you choose? They’re both so pretty. You should sleep with both of them.”
Anahrod stopped walking and put her hands on Gwydinion’s shoulders. “Does our mother have any idea how much of a problem you’re going to be the second you get your garden rings?”
Her brother shrugged. “She suspects. Kind of feel bad for Dad, though.”
“And they’ve talked to you about proper etiquette and safety—?”
“Yes!” He rolled his eyes. “And I know I have to wait until I’ve earned my rings, too. Stop acting like Mom.”
“Oh, no. You wanted a big sister. Now you’ve got one.” She grabbed his arm and all but marched him over to the tunnel entrance. She suddenly felt the need to keep an eye on her little brother for reasons that had nothing to do with impending threats.
Unless the threat in question was puberty.