Chapter 10 #2
She didn’t reply, even knowing the dragon’s words at least rang partly true. They could not kill her because they needed her. Just as much had been true all those years ago when she had been ripped from her family.
They approached a large, grassy clearing at the edge of the camp, figures awaiting them with torches.
The people grew larger and the ground loomed, but Thessa glided to it smoothly, though her landing was enough to shake the earth.
As the people saw her, their eyes widened, and Soren could see a few of their mouths dropping in shock.
Goodnight.
Soren took a deep breath. Goodnight, Thessa.
Shakily, she slid off the dragon’s back and unfurled the ladder. Her heartbeat doubled as she climbed down, her limbs aching from the position she had been holding all day. Ahead, Cion’s dragon landed, and she heard a dull thud behind her, signaling another.
But there was no fourth.
As she made it to the ground, Ilav swept past her, his hair windblown and his teeth chattering. She waited a moment to see if Elaana and her dragon were coming.
“She’s dead.”
Soren whirled to find the princess behind her, face pale and body trembling.
“What?”
“It’s fairly common, I hear. Elaana wasn’t able to stay on as her dragon took off. She fell off and impaled herself on a rock. I saw it.”
Soren swallowed, her throat tight. “I see.”
“Come,” Cion said, speaking as she always would. “We need to meet with our commander before bed.”
Soren resisted the urge to bow her head, instead keeping her back straight as she followed Cion out of the clearing. Whispers followed in their wake. She could guess what they were saying.
More eyes landed on them as they walked through the camp of small canvas tents. Some sat around small fires while others talked or simply stared. Soren supposed the three of them, the new riders, were the main attraction. Jealousy soured many of the faces along the dark path.
Cion stopped at a larger tent in what appeared to be the center of the camp. Soren watched her take a deep breath before calling, “Commander Eton. Princess Cion Levii, Heir of Aren.”
Soren wondered if it felt odd to announce yourself like that. Then again, others normally did it for her.
There was no reply for a few tense seconds, and then a gruff male voice called, “You’re late, princess.”
Cion walked ahead first, Soren following.
Inside, the tent was warm, lit by a fire in the middle, smoke funneling up through an iron tube.
A large table sat on one side of the tent, covered in scrolls, maps, and open books.
On the other side, Ilav sat cross-legged on a worn pillow. Only one pillow remained.
The gruff man, whom Soren assumed was Commander Eton, didn't look up as he said, “I assume you think because of your station, you will be treated differently here, princess. I would be remiss not to inform you, this will not be the case. You chose to join our ranks as a rider. There are certain expectations I wish to uphold. I do not like tardiness.”
“I did not receive any indication of a specific meeting time,” Cion said crisply. “I was only told to come here once we arrived.”
Commander Eton turned, and Soren held in a gasp.
“Another pup?”
“Barely,” the dark-haired man said, gaze darkening.
“Jadis. We’re not to touch them.”
Now she had a surname for him. This was the man who cut her mother’s head from her body, the same man who had torn her from Kelshie’s arms. Jadis Eton.
The scar cutting his features in half was his most notable feature, but what she really remembered were his cruel, jade-green eyes.
His hair had once been shorter, but he now wore it in a topknot.
Whereas he had been a grunt soldier all those years ago, he was now decorated in metals worn proudly on his leather armor.
From the way his gaze skirted over her body, she knew he had no memory of her.
“Watch your tongue,” he growled. “And send your slave to your tent. She isn’t permitted here.”
Cion smiled slightly. “She isn’t.”
“Isn’t what?”
“My slave. At least, not entirely. I’m surprised you haven’t heard the news, Commander.”
Now, he did look at Soren. It was a slow perusal, his eyes narrowing as he reached her face. “The Sisters sent word, but I hardly believed the scroll.” He spat on the ground. “You. A Vemon dragon picked you.”
Soren held his gaze. “Perhaps the dragons do not hold such prejudices as our kind.”
Commander Eton’s eyes flared with rage, and he strode over, towering above her. “You’re from Mise. You’re weak. I can tell just by looking at you.”
“She has never trained,” Cion cut in. “She’ll need to be assigned a mentor, or she won’t make it through basic training.”
The Commander snorted. “You want me to give a Misean slave special accommodations?”
Cion did not laugh. She only said, “As your future queen, I want you to ensure the rider of a Vemon dragon is fit for battle. If Soren is able to do this, she and her dragon may one day be as strong as Mòr Maslach. Do you not want our forces to have that?”
Soren held back a shiver at that name. She had no idea who it was, but she knew what the words meant.
Masked Death.
The Commander was nearly purple with rage, but he bit out, “Fine. I will confer with the other leaders and see what can be done. Now, sit.”
Cion smiled and bowed her head for a moment before sitting on the last cushion. Soren sat on the grassy floor beside her.
“Tomorrow,” Commander Eton began, “your basic training begins. From sunrise to midday meal, you will be tested in various weapons of battle and in your stamina. The rest of the day will be spent testing these skills while riding your dragon. If you can’t shoot a bow without falling off your dragon’s back during battle, we won’t have much use for you. ”
“Why do we need arrows if we have dragonfire?” Ilav asked.
Idiot, Soren thought.
Rat, as I said, Thessa replied.
Commander Eton laughed coldly, pacing in front of them.
“Being a rider does not mean sitting back and letting your dragon take care of everything. If you think that would be enough, you have no idea the chaos of battle. You will soon, though.” He stopped walking and stared directly at Soren as he added, “Out of my sight now. Training begins in the morning.”
He turned away from them, a clear dismissal. Soren rose to her feet to follow Cion and Ilav out of the tent.
“Come with me,” Cion said quietly to her.
Soren didn’t argue as the princess led her to a tent not far from the Commander’s.
Inside, there were two simple sleeping mats alongside neat piles of what appeared to be folded clothing.
There were no sleeping shifts in the pile, so Soren simply laid on the mat in her day clothes, pulling the thin blanket tight around her as Cion settled in too.
“I had no idea,” Soren whispered into the dark. “I vow it.”
Cion sighed. “I know, Soren. You do understand what this means, though?”
“As much as I can, yes. Thessa is rare.”
“There is only one other rider of her kind that we are aware of.”
“You said his name,” Soren whispered.
Cion turned to face her, her eyes shining in the dark. “I did. Mòr Maslach. No one knows his true name nor his face, but he is my father’s prized weapon. You may one day meet him, given what you share.”
Soren did not want to meet his masked rider, the one surely responsible for so much of the death and destruction that had been rained down on her people. But she didn’t say that.
“We should sleep, princess,’’ she only whispered.
Cion did not reply, shutting her eyes. Soren did the same, and when morning came, her limbs stiff and her eyes heavy, she resolved only one thing.
To survive the day.