8. Eradin #2
He stood. “I’m going to check the water line before dark.” He stepped outside, closing the door behind him.
I hummed through my teeth until I’d finished with the shirt. Rising, I stuffed my feet into my boots by the door, leaving off my jacket. The sun had warmed our world up nicely, and I planned to enjoy it. I might even roll up my sleeves and let it touch me. “I’m going to the market. We need meat.”
“We always need meat,” Tolross said.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m going.”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
The market sat in a crook between the western edge of Shaleside proper and the merchants’ quarter, a stretch of stalls and carts that sold what people could almost afford.
Grease smoke hung thick in the air, mixing with the scent of pickle brine and the dye vats’ sting that lived in the back of your nose for an hour after you smelled it. Iron ore grit crunched under my boots. I passed the vegetable stalls, the tinker’s cart, and a woman selling candles.
The butcher’s stall sat near the back, presided over by a woman with muscular forearms and a voice rubbed raw by smoke and years.
“Eradin,” she said when I approached. “Your usual?”
“Please.”
She wrapped a small portion of scraps in paper, then paused. Her hand hovered over a second piece, slightly larger.
“I’m clumsy today,” she muttered, adding it to the package. “It slipped right in.” She didn’t look at me as she bound the package with string and handed it over.
I took it without argument and thanked her. I’d choke on my pride later.
The fountain sat in the market’s center, a crumbling stone basin that ran water two days a week. People crowded around the notice board beside it, studying the work calls, missing livestock notices, and a reward for information about a stolen cart. I’d read them all myself last week.
I stopped, my boots grinding into the iron grit, and craned to see what had them pointing now.
A gilded proclamation announced the Scorching in formal script. The parchment gleamed, and tiny painted dragons danced along the sides, animated by magic.
Below it, tacked with a nail, a stack of pinned papers listed the Commons Trial Requirements. A man beside me ripped one off and turned away, hurrying through the crowd.
The entry was open to all subjects of the realm. Applicants not of elite bloodline could petition via preliminary trial. The entry fee might as well be my right arm, because it was nothing we could afford. One silver mark.
My eyes caught on the final line, in smaller print, almost hidden at the bottom.
Elite riders pre-qualified. No petition required.
Of course. They wouldn’t need to prove themselves. They were born proven.
I read the waiver requirements again, my finger tracing the words.
I’d started to turn away when my eyes caught the “OR” and I spun back, squinting to read the next line.
OR a service waiver.
The letters swam in front of me.
A service waiver. Not a silver mark I didn’t have. A signature from someone who’d vouch that my death wouldn’t matter enough to complain about.
The stack of papers fluttered in the wind. I reached up and tore one down, folding it small enough to fit in my pocket, placing it with the scale that had cooled to nothing.
The commons trial requirements burned themselves into my brain as I walked.
Service waiver. Hazard writ. Next of kin.
I could see Father’s name on that line, the ink bleeding into cheap paper.
My surged up into my throat.
Retired dragons would be assigned to common-born riders. The phrase sat sour. Brittle-boned, half-blind, and likely traumatized from whatever had broken them enough to be “retired.”
Widow makers.
Spectators could place bets.
The fee was due at signature.
Those using a waiver must present a service seal from their overseer. If I wanted to enter, I’d have to beg Nuant or another overseer to grant me permission to risk my life. They’d want a reason. I didn’t have one I could say aloud.
I kept seeing Father closing the window. Telling us about the man across town who hadn’t come back. And I still didn’t know what I’d do about the paper in my pocket.
Silvie’s dye stall sat two lanes over, marked by purple-black stains and the vinegar reek of mordant.
She took one look at me and pointed at her stool. “Sit.”
Hos wound between my ankles, purring after I’d done as she asked.
Her hands moved through my hair, gathering it back. The comb’s teeth scraped my scalp, and my chest loosened.
“You heard about the race,” she said.
“Everyone did.”
“Three commons entered the trial last time.” Her fingers worked through a knot. “Two died in the first trial. Have you heard about the one who made it through?”
“Yes. Orla.” My scalp prickled. “What happened to her?”
“No one knows. She made it into the Scorching but disappeared after the third trial. They said her dragon threw her, though no one saw it happen.” Silvie tied off the braid with a sharp tug. “Her family raised money for the reclamation fee, but there wasn’t a body to bring back.”
My stomach tightened. “Maybe she made it through.”
“And not return home to those she loved?” She scoffed. “She died, just like almost everyone who enters the race.”
“I’m not thinking of entering.”
The scale in my pocket flared against my thigh.
“Fail out of the trial,” she said. “And they’ll dock your wages until they’re paid back. They call it an ingratitude levy for wasting the crown’s time.”
“That’s not in the posting.”
“It wouldn’t be. If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking…” Silvie moved around to my front and tilted my chin up, making me look her in the eye. “Know that Nuant will make you beg. He’ll say no just to watch you ask twice.”
“He will.”
“There’s a second witness type, dragon-hand certified staff. Senior grooms. People who’ve logged fifteen years in the stalls and know what dragon’s breath means. If you could get one of them to sign for you, you wouldn’t need Nuant’s seal.”
I frowned. “That’s not in the posting either.”
“No.” A faint smile crossed her face, and she tapped her temple. “It’s up here. Nareem in the east wing has a stamp. So does Euan with the scarred lip. Ask after second bell, once they’ve eaten.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Yes you were.” She crouched, bringing herself level with me. “If you do this, little bird, plan it like a heist. Know every step before you take the first one.” She gripped my shoulders. “And tell me first. I won’t stop you, but I’ll measure the rope.”
The scale cooled against my leg, a warning I didn’t know how to read.
The walk home felt like running toward a cliff edge.
I had three days to decide.
If I stepped onto this path, I wouldn’t step off without being marked. This I knew in my heart. If I could get Euan or Nareem to sign the waiver. If I could survive long enough to reach the Oracle.
If, if, if.
I hurried down the alley, toward our home.
Inside, Tolross had fallen asleep with charcoal still in his hand, a smudge marking his thumb and cheekbone. His dragon sketch lay on his lap, half-finished, wings stretching off the page like they were trying to escape.
I pulled the blanket up and tucked it behind his shoulders.
Father sat at the table, nodded off as well.
I tugged the belt from his gnarled hands and placed it aside, shaking him gently.
“Bed,” I said. “Morning’s too close away.”
He looked up, his eyes finding mine.
“Sleep well,” he said.
The words landed like goodbye.