Chapter 4 #2
The door is wrenched open, and King Aylard storms out. When he sees me, he roars, “Take my son down to the barracks and teach him to be a proper Alpha, dragonmaster.” He thrusts a righteous finger into the air as he marches away, long robes flying behind him. “Beat it into him if you have to.”
Inside his bedroom, the young prince stands amid wreckage.
There’s an astonishing quantity of books, plants, and glass vessels all over the floor, awash in different colored liquids, with strange, wet, unidentifiable objects from broken jars floating among the mess.
It looks more like an alchemist’s laboratory than a hopeful young dragonrider’s quarters.
Emmeric notices me, and his bereft expression turns to embarrassed fury. He comes out into the corridor and glares at me like he wants to pick a fight. He can try. The boy might be a burgeoning Alpha, but he’s still growing, and he trains very little.
Emmeric swerves away from me and shoves a nearby guard, a Beta who daren’t raise a hand to the prince. “What are you looking at? What the hell do you think you’re looking at?” Emmeric screams in his face, shoving him repeatedly while standing over him.
“S-sorry, my prince,” the Beta replies, going pale with fright. He can’t raise his weapon or defend himself against the king’s son. Emmeric draws a dagger from his belt and brandishes it.
I grab Emmeric’s wrist and wrench it behind his back, digging my fingers into his flesh until he gasps in pain and drops the dagger.
Emmeric struggles back and forth in my grip. “Get your hands off me, you prick. You’ll rot in the dungeon for this.”
If I twist just one inch higher, I’ll break his arm. “Will I? Call your father back and explain how you were attacking his guards. Or shall I do it for you?” I take a deep breath and raise my voice. “Guards, send for King—”
“Shut up. How dare you touch me!”
I let him go and shove him back into his room, where he can’t hurt anyone. He slams the door in my face.
Emmeric has always given me a bad feeling. He reminds me so much of his father, but with a calculating, ambitious streak that’s worrying in a younger son. I wonder what the hell he gets up to in his bedroom.
It’s always a proud day for me when a dragon brings her hatchlings out from the nesting caves and introduces them to the world.
Yersia is one of the flare’s most experienced dragon mothers, who’s raised several broods already.
This time, she has just two hatchlings, but they are very beautiful, strong, and healthy young dragons.
The hatchlings twine around Yersia’s taloned feet as she paces out of the cave mouth at dusk.
One is a black female with green eyes, and the other is a deep, deep blue with gold speckles in his eyes.
The hatchlings are only a few feet long, but very energetic, and they keep up with their mother as she circles the flare, showing off her babies to the others.
I notice a small figure off to one side. Zenevieve has come to watch the flare settle down for the night. She’s sitting with her arms wrapped around her knees and her back against a rock, keeping a respectful distance.
I catch her eye and tip my chin up, indicating that she may come closer if she wishes. Zenevieve doesn’t have to be asked twice. She scrambles to her feet and joins me. The hatchlings are wary of us, and so I sit on the ground and indicate to Zenevieve that she should as well.
Yersia’s two hatchlings are overcome by curiosity and eventually patter over to us. I keep still, but I can’t help my smile as the midnight blue dragon chews the toe of my boot. My legs are extended in front of me, and he and his sister romp back and forth over my thighs.
The black and green dragon goes up on her hind legs with her front legs on Zenevieve’s shoulder so she can sniff the girl’s hair, making her laugh.
“Why are you always down at the dragongrounds?” I ask Zenevieve. “Do you have nothing else to do?”
“Nothing else I want to do,” she replies, stroking a forefinger along the little dragon’s neck. “Dragons are all I think about.”
I felt the same way as a boy. A place that didn’t have dragons or dragonriders couldn’t interest me. I still feel that way.
“What shall we call them?” I ask, nodding at the hatchlings.
“How do you usually name baby dragons?”
“The first day they emerge from the nesting caves, I ask all the nearby dragonriders for names. Sundra named Omaira. Tish named Lethis. Zabriel named Scourge. That boy has no poetry in his soul,” I mutter. “You’re the only dragonrider around tonight, so what do you suggest?”
“I’m not a dragonrider yet, but I’ll happily offer some names.
This one should be called Minta,” Zenevieve says with a smile, caressing the female dragon.
Minta is a green plant that grows by rivers and streams and has a peppermint taste.
“And this beautiful dragon… He should be called Shar, the Prince of Midnight from the old story. Oh, that’s two names. Can I name two dragons?”
She’s so careful with them that I think I would let Zenevieve name a dozen hatchlings. “Minta and Shar are beautiful. Do you like your names, little ones?”
We play with the hatchlings as the stars come out and the moon rises over the mountains.
Zenevieve is silent for a long time, and then she asks, “Dragonmaster, if someone tried to stop me from being a dragonrider, would you do something about it?”
I look up sharply. “Who is attempting such a thing?”
“Would you, though?”
I don’t like answering questions when I don’t know why I’m being asked them, so I wait in silence.
In the dim light, Zenevieve looks upset. “I thought we came to Lenhale so I could learn to fly and hopefully bond with a dragon, but I found out that Mother doesn’t want that at all. She thinks being a rider is dangerous, and she wants me to marry one of the princes.”
Everyone is suddenly obsessed with coupling up everyone who is unmated. Is there something in the drinking water? Zenevieve isn’t yet fifteen. Mirelle only just turned fourteen. Let the girls find their wings, for heaven’s sake.
I’m opening my mouth to tell Zenevieve to remind her mother that dragonriding is far less dangerous than childbirth, when a woman calls for Zenevieve. The very mother that we’re discussing. Zenevieve jumps to her feet, bids me a swift good night, and runs toward the castle.
Minta scampers after her, but she can’t keep up.
Realizing she’s alone in the darkness, the hatchling cries out sadly and then comes rushing back and burrows under my arm.
I stroke the little dragon absentmindedly.
I can’t save the queen. I can do nothing about the king’s cruelty.
But I can get in the way of any plans Zenevieve’s mother has to keep her from the dragons.
The next time I see Zenevieve, I tell her that she may approach Nilak and greet her whenever she sees my dragon at the edges of the flare. I also offer her additional flying lessons, which she enthusiastically accepts.
Meanwhile, whenever Zenevieve is down at the dragongrounds, I watch the riderless dragons for any sign that one of them might be favoring the girl.
It takes me a while to notice, because Minta still spends most of her time in the nesting caves or the Flame Temple, but the little black and green dragon perks up whenever Zenevieve is near.
One morning when I’m on my way to the dragongrounds, I see Zenevieve enter the Flame Temple. I quickly go to the nesting caves, collect Minta, and carry her to the temple. It takes some effort as Minta is getting heavy, but she’s still young enough that she doesn’t take offence to being carried.
Zenevieve is sitting cross-legged with her eyes closed by the Font of First Flames. I put Minta down just inside the temple.
As soon as the dragon sees the caramel-haired girl, Minta hurries past two dozen people and goes straight to her.
I watch from the entrance as Zenevieve opens her eyes, smiles, and allows Minta into her lap.
I watch them together for a long time. They’re not just comfortable together, they begin to move unconsciously together.
Zenevieve casts her eyes around the cavernous interior of the Flame Temple, and Minta does the same.
Minta stretches her wings, and Zenevieve stretches her arms over her head. They even blink at the same time.
When I go back that afternoon and see they haven’t moved, I’m certain. Minta is Zenevieve’s dragon.
I should be patient and allow the two of them to figure things out for themselves, as I know they will, but it will be Zenevieve’s birthday in a few days, and I can’t resist the idea as soon as it occurs to me.
First thing on the morning of her birthday, I scoop Minta onto my shoulder and carry her through the city.
The dragon chatters and trills as she takes in the sights, her little talons pricking me through my shirt.
When I knock on Alin’s front door, he opens it and looks at me and the dragon in surprise. “This is an unexpected visit.”
“I’ve come to wish Zenevieve a happy birthday.”
“And you’ve brought a hatchling with you. She’ll love that. Zenevieve, you have visitors,” Alin calls into the house.
I follow Alin inside, and a moment later, Zenevieve comes sleepily downstairs, tying loose, wraparound pants at her waist. Her mop of caramel hair is unbraided, and her feet are bare. Warmth spreads through my chest as I realize I’m about to make this girl radiantly happy.
She looks up and meets my eyes, and she smiles. “Good morning, dragonmaster.”
“I have someone here who wants to see you.”
As soon as Minta spies Zenevieve, she leaps down from my shoulder and scampers to the girl.
“Minta! Did you come to wish me a happy birthday? How sweet you are.” Zenevieve sits down on the rug and embraces the little dragon, who chirrups happily in her arms.
I glance at Zenevieve’s mother and notice her frown of disapproval. I have no sympathy for her point of view. A woman isn’t safe just because she’s married. Look at Queen Magritte. Consider whichever poor soul will be mated to Emmeric.
A dark thought flits across my mind. I’ll murder the young prince before I see him mated to Zenevieve.
I can’t help the queen, but I can at least keep Zenevieve safe from her mother’s ambitions and Emmeric’s cruelty.
The fastest way to ensure she’s safe is if she has a dragon to protect her.
Already, I can picture Zenevieve with silky black hair, dark lashes, and sparkling emerald eyes. She’ll be breathtaking.
I fold my arms and lean against the wall. “Minta’s not just being sweet, Zenevieve. She’s your dragon.”