Wingborn

by Becca Lusher

  One

  Nera

  On board the Skylark

  20th Fledgling Month, 579 Cloud Era

  NERA STUDIED HER reflection critically and straightened the collar of her flying jacket. It was pristine, cut so fine as to look moulded on, the midnight blue shade so much more palatable than the garish red of the Rift Rider officer dress uniform. Fiddling with the throat fastening on the high collar, she brushed her thumb over the gleaming silver stripes on her shoulder – still so beautiful, even six moons on – before she tugged her cuffs straight and ran nervous hands down the sides of her three-quarter length coat. Her white breeches looked so very bright beneath the dark blue, but at least her flying boots reached her knees, leaving barely a couple of unprotected pale inches to the vagaries of a dirty world.

  “You look fine,” Lieutenant Anhardyne told her for the twentieth time. The past moon and a half of sharing the confined cabin had given the older woman plenty of opportunities to watch her friend preen and fuss over her uniform. “Which is good, because we’re finally here and you haven’t even touched your hair.”

  With a squeak of dismay, Nera’s hands shot to her head, messing up all her last moment adjustments. Catching her friend’s grin in the mirror, she growled, “Not funny, Hardy.”

  Anhardyne ruffled Nera’s short black crop with a laugh. “Good to see that there is still a girl in there somewhere. You spent all that time in front of the mirror and not once did I see you look at anything above your shoulders.”

  “That’s because there’s nothing there worth looking at,” Nera said, turning away from the mirror at last, as familiar with her small, snub features as she needed to be. “My time is much better spent focusing on my uniform.” She rubbed her lieutenant stripes affectionately, until Anhardyne knocked her hand away with an exasperated tut.

  “You’ll wear them out if you’re not careful, newbie. Anyone would think you only got them yesterday.” Having earned her own stripes three years earlier, Anhardyne was far less impressed by such marks of rank. Winking, she stepped in front of Nera and tucked a few stray wisps of her own hair back into place. “I’ll tweak yours if you’ll tweak mine.”

  Nera turned and submitted to her friend’s fussing with a laugh. “Hold on while I fetch a box to stand on.”

  The two lieutenants couldn’t have been more different, looks wise. Where Nera was dark and kept her straight hair short and manageable, Anhardyne was tall and tawny and golden. Their only common features were their brown eyes.

  Looking up into those dark eyes now, Nera searched for any scrap of the anxiety she was feeling. Anhardyne looked as serene and amused as ever. Then again she was five years older and had seen considerably more of the Overworld than Nera. Still, not even Anhardyne had been to the Dragonlands before. Wasn’t she the least bit excited?

  “Settle down, Half-Pint. Don’t froth up.”

  Nera tugged firmly on Anhardyne’s lapels and narrowed her eyes at the irritating nickname. What had been fun and affectionate for a young Rider, was rather less dignified for a new lieutenant. “I’m not frothing. And don’t call me that. I’m trying to make a good impression.”

  “Aren’t we all?”

  They certainly should be. Being assigned to the Drakkan Embassy might not have been the most exciting post in the Rift Riders, but it was one of the most prestigious. Nera’s father, a well-respected captain himself, had covertly wiped away a tear of pride when she’d told him about it. That the news had arrived alongside her promotion to lieutenant made it all the sweeter.

  “Seriously, Nera,” the cool tone of her friend’s voice, along with the firm hand on her shoulder, warned her to pay attention, “stay focused. I know that this is a big day for you – for all of us – but remember we’re here to work. We have a job to do.”

  “I know that.” Nera brushed Anhardyne’s hand away, hurt that her friend could possibly think she had forgotten. “I’ve seen dragons before.” Well, a couple, here and there. At a distance. None to speak to, perhaps, but she knew the protocol inside out. It had been her favourite subject at Aquila, the Rift Rider training school, where she’d studied since she was sixteen, learning not only to fly her giant eagle miryhl, but how to protect the Overworld through words as well as deeds.

  She’d excelled in all her etiquette and political history lessons – that was why she’d been personally recommended to Commander Bethnelm by Dean Renlyn. It was why she’d spent the last five years training under Captain Wellswen, ever since she’d graduated. Her life had been leading towards this moment for the last eight years. She wasn’t about to ruin it all at the welcoming ceremony by being an overexcited fool.

  She hoped.

  “Hm.” Anhardyne sounded far from convinced. “Just remember that we’re here for five years, all right, so there’s no rush to get to know everyone. Take it steady.”

  “Har-dy,” Nera whined, in the same tone she used to use on her mother when she was twelve and didn’t want to practice her court dances anymore. It would probably take her five years to get to know anyone. Unlike Hardy, who never seemed to meet a stranger, Nera was shy and not good at meeting new people. That didn’t mean there weren’t still a thousand ways to embarrass herself and the others, but rushing to get to know everyone wasn’t one of them.

  “All right, lecture over,” the older lieutenant sighed, tapping Nera on the nose and taking a final look at herself in the mirror. “I think we’re ready.” She tucked her waist-length golden braid into the belt loop on the back of her flying jacket. “Though why we went to all this bother when it’ll just get ruined on the flight in, I do not know.”

  Nera cast one last anxious glance at her reflection and tugged her cuffs straight again. “My mother always says it doesn’t matter what you’re wearing or what you look like, if you feel comfortable in your skin you can take on the world.”

  “Well, your mother should know,” Anhardyne said. “Chin up, Half-Pint, we’ve a world to take on.”

  “All set, lieutenants?” Captain Wellswen poked her head around the door after a cursory tap. “Ambassador Jesken would like a word before we leave.”

  Both women saluted as the captain vanished again to round up the others. Anhardyne raised her eyebrows at Nera. “We’d best put off the excitement a little longer then.”

  Feeling fidgety at the prospect of yet another lecture standing between her and the chance to hop on her miryhl and fly some of her nerves away, Nera flexed her fingers and shook out her tingling hands. “I supposed we’d best see what Her Excellency wants.”

  The friends shared wry smiles, having been called into the ambassador’s cabin every second day since leaving Aquila. Nera just hoped this wasn’t another tea ceremony. Not that she had anything against tea, but the ambassador was from Etheria: the day an Etherian could teach a Sutherelli like Nera anything about the beverage, was the same day the clouds disappeared.

  “Try not to sigh so loudly this time when she adds sugar to her red leaf, please,” Anhardyne muttered, opening the door.

  Nera wrinkled her nose at the memory of such sacrilege and followed her friend along the narrow skyship corridor. “I make no promises.”

  “Snob.”

  “Barbarian.”

  They grinned at each other, then Anhardyne took a deep breath and knocked on the state cabin doors.

  “ELDER B-BLAZEBORN. ELDER B-BLAZEBORN?”

  Khennik kin Blazeborn Clan Sunlord sighed and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. Ringed by hanging fronds of fragrant seisflowers, the sun was perfectly framed by the circular opening, pouring its life-giving warmth over his bare head. Seated in the brilliant spot cast upon the floor, Khennik had been deep in meditation, dreaming of his home far to the west, where the clouds were thin and the mountains dry. Every breath there tasted of dry heat, stoking the fire that ran through his veins, where to fly was to bathe in Father Sun’s glory.

  “Elder B-Blazeborn?” The voice this time was much closer, even more timid than before and
full of apology.

  Khennik glanced towards the irritant with narrowed eyes. “What is it now, Mastekh?”

  Mastekh kin Rainstorm Clan Flowflight sweated with nerves as he stood on the edge of Khennik’s precious sunlight. Barely past his change time, the youngster had only just mastered a human shape, though his skin was blue-grey instead of a more acceptable shade, his hands were clawed and he wore scales instead of clothes. Merely being in Khennik’s annoyed presence loosened what little control Mastekh had and a soggy tail uncoiled behind him.

  Trying not to snap at such a poor showing of focus, Khennik closed his eyes again and lifted his face towards the sunlight. “You will have to work harder than that, wingling, before the humans arrive. Else you will unsettle them and be asked to leave.”

  If it were up to Khennik the youngster would have been long gone. Whoever had decided to pair a nervous Rainstorm dragon with a Blazeborn elder, not well known for his patience, was a fool indeed. Yet it was a rule between the kins and Clans that youngsters had to gain experience with others outside their own, especially those opposed to their nature. To toughen them up, the Starshine elders claimed. Khennik thought it was all rather cruel, when he thought of it at all.

  “That’s j-just it, Elder B-Blazeborn,” Mastekh stuttered, his voice turning bubbly – a clear indication that he was about to lose his hold on his form altogether and revert to dragon shape.

  Khennik’s eyes flashed open in a glare. “If you’re going to liquidate, do it outside.” The only water he permitted in this sunroom was for the plants. Everything else took too long to dry, and if he had to see to it himself the flowers might not survive. Which would put him quite out of temper.

  Gulping nervously, Mastekh clenched his clawed-hands together and stared at the ground for a long moment. A shudder rippled over his scales and skin, the blue shade darkening as more water dripped from his nose and elbows, but he finally mastered himself.

  “Ap-p-pologies, elder,” the young dragon whispered, lowering his head as if expecting a beating.

  Khennik had never been one for physical punishment. He sighed. “Fetch a cloth and clean up after yourself, then leave me be. I have too much preparation to do for the arrival of our human guests’ tomorrow to be disturbed now.” If meditating and brooding over his poor fate could be considered preparation. Which in Khennik’s book it definitely could.

  Humans were useless. Once they arrived they would need constant supervision and support, leaving him no time for anything other than irritation at their hopelessness. A foolish task for a Blazeborn, especially one with as important a mission as his.

  “N-not tomorrow, Elder B-Blazeborn,” Mastekh squeaked, wringing his hands so hard that yet more water dripped onto the beautifully dry floors. “N-now.”

  “What?” Khennik snarled, losing patience as he opened his eyes yet again. “Stop this brookish babbling, Mastekh, and speak clearly.”

  “The h-humans are er-er-early, elder,” the Rainstorm dragon bubbled in a rush. “By a whole d-day. They’re h-h-here. Now!”

  With that Mastekh lost all control, bursting out of his human form and leaving a large, soggy dragon drooped pathetically across the floor and a completely sodden elder glaring at the mess.

  “AH, LIEUTENANTS. PLEASE, sit down and forgive this rather late request for a meeting.” Ambassador Jesken waved a hand in welcome without looking at either of them. That was because even the slightest twitch of her head made her maid twitter in protest, since she was working hard to ensure the ambassador’s wealth of curly brown hair was arranged just so.

  Following Anhardyne across the room, Nera stared in fascination as the little maid tucked and crimped and pinned, transforming the ambassador’s usual messy bun into a stunning confection of loops and swirls and shining silk, all held in place with delicate gold net and diamond pins. As remarkable as the performance was, the result also turned the ordinary, plain-faced woman with an air of amused command into a dignified lady of wealth and stature. All because of a hair-do. Nera was most impressed.

  “I know we have spoken often this last moon and a half about what to expect over the next five years, but there are two final topics I need to address before our arrival.” Regardless of her looks, Ambassador Jesken had a beautiful voice, rich and mellow, rolling with only the slightest hint of her Etherian origins. “Being as they are also the most personal, I had hoped to discuss them over dinner tonight, but as you can see, events have overtaken us somewhat.”

  She waved a plump hand towards the wide window that allowed them a perfect look back over the glowing Cloud Sea, now peppered with forested islands and hints of stone buildings. The best view of this moment would have been found at the front of the ship, but still, even from the stern, the sight was breathtaking.

  A flurry of squeaks drew Nera’s attention away from the window, realising that she hadn’t been the only one who’d turned to stare. The ambassador’s eyes crinkled with humour as she apologised to her maid for moving her head. Then she looked at the women in front of her again.

  “There is little about our role here that you do not already know, and both Captain Wellswen and Commander Bethnelm assure me that you are each fine Riders, well-versed in etiquette and dragon behaviour. However, there is one topic that the books do not discuss: sexual relations.”

  Nera felt her eyes widen, while beside her Anhardyne choked.

  The ambassador smiled. “Indeed. My own initial reaction to the subject was much like yours. They are so much bigger than us, of course, and an entirely different species. But you will find that, inside their own lands, dragons are a little different to the ones we glimpse at a distance in our cities. The ones we do meet in their human forms tend to be the highest ranking officials, ones who have little interest in humans beyond political negotiations. Which is why they were chosen, of course. Things are a little different here.”

  As the maid stepped back with a sound of satisfaction, Jesken thanked her and dismissed her to finish packing. “As you will soon discover, dragons are quite sensuous creatures, curious too. They can be rather flirtatious and are not afraid to touch. A new influx of humans is quite a novelty and you will find yourselves the centre of attention for quite some time.

  “For the most part this curiosity is harmless. However, dragons can also be quite alluring. It is perfectly understandable to be drawn to them and personal relationships, while not encouraged, are not expressly forbidden either. Humans are a novelty to dragons, and they do not always take as much care with us as they should, but as long as you are aware of this, and make sure that your partner is also aware, little harm should be done. Provided that your partner is thoughtful.”

  The ambassador’s smile was soft, her gaze distant as if recalling fond memories. Then she cleared her throat and fixed them with a stern gaze once more. “There are a few risks that rise alongside the obvious physical disparities. Some humans, for example, experience strange reactions on contact with certain dragons’ skin. No one is quite sure why, or who will be effected, but it can be treated with the right herbs and lotions and is something to bear in mind. The reaction can range from a small rash to something quite painful and debilitating, and may not be obvious on first contact. A good dragon lover will be aware of such possibilities and provide you with adequate care, but please know that myself and Captain Wellswen are always here if you need us.”

  She settled back in her chair, taking on the same stance that Nera had grown familiar with during their journey: a lecture was coming. “But there is another, much greater risk to be found when lying with dragons. Despite the differences between a human and a dragon, when a dragon takes on a human form, they do so in all ways. Some trick or slip of magic means that when you lie with a dragon in human shape, you face the same risks you would with any human male.”

  Anhardyne was the first to make the connection. “Do you mean pregnancy?” Her forehead scrunched in a frown. “We could end up having dragon babies?” The incredulous squeak of her
voice made Nera smile.

  Ambassador Jesken’s lips also twitched. “In theory, yes, though it is doubtful that you would carry any offspring to term. Dragon pregnancies are long and arduous. A female dragon will gestate her egg for a considerable period even before laying it and leaving it to incubate.”

  “We’d have to lay an egg?” Anhardyne sounded horrified, and Nera didn’t blame her.

  This time the ambassador chuckled. “No, no egg laying, just an excessively long pregnancy that will likely end up with a still born child and an infertile mother.”

  Which sounded worse than trying to lay an egg.

  “Human and dragon blood doesn’t mix well,” Ambassador Jesken continued firmly. “Just well enough to create a spark of life, one which burns up all too quickly. Best for all involved if you never fall pregnant in the first place.”

  She would get no argument from Nera on that point – nor Anhardyne either, if her expression was any indication of her thoughts.

  “So you’re saying we should stay clear of bedding dragons?” the older lieutenant asked, shifting in her chair.

  Jesken smiled. “It is probably the safest course, yes, but I believe there are herbs that take care of such things. Slightly different to ones you may already use, but easy enough to obtain if necessary. You should investigate all the options thoroughly before taking any risks – should the opportunity arise.”

  While Anhardyne looked thoughtful, Nera wrinkled her nose. It was unlikely that she would ever need such knowledge, especially when Anhardyne was close by. Her friend was golden and beautiful, bound to draw attention wherever she went, while Nera was small and plain and quiet and far too easily overlooked. Which was how she preferred things.

  “I must also warn you about your hair.” The ambassador reached up a hand, as if to check that her elaborate arrangement was still in place. “When assuming a second form, most dragons take a human shape, but because they are more akin to reptiles and birds, hair does not come naturally to them. The most skilled and powerful dragons can produce a small amount of hair, but it tends to be short and straight and of only one shade. The prospect of curls and many colours absolutely fascinates them. Lieutenant Fennik will become very popular.”

  “Fennik?” Anhardyne laughed incredulously at the mention of one of her Riders. “But he’s a squashed-nosed bruiser, with hair so short you can hardly see what colour it is. Except brown.”

  The ambassador’s smile was indulgent. “The dragons won’t care what his face looks like. His hair may be short, but you can still see a hint of red amongst the brown. I’ve no doubt that before the first moon of our trip is through someone will have convinced him to grow it long, just to see what else is hidden in there. As for you, Lieutenant Anhardyne, you’ll be flooded with offers before nightfall. If you’re not careful, a bidding war might commence.”

  “Bidding war?” Anhardyne echoed, startled. “For my hair?” She pulled the long braid over her shoulder and wrapped it around her hand, staring critically at it. “But why?”

  “Wigs,” Nera answered before the ambassador could. Having spent her childhood watching her mother dance for the greatest courts across the Overworld, Nera had learned at a young age how a different hair colour could add surprise and a sense of the exotic to any performance with very little effort. “Your golden mop could make a fine few wigs, Hardy.”

  “Indeed.” Jesken nodded in agreement. “Whether or not you choose to sell will ultimately be up to you, of course, lieutenant. However, try not to make any decisions for a good few days. I have a list of reputable names for if you do wish to sell, but either way, you will need to pay close attention to your hair tonight.”

  While Anhardyne sat there blinking, Nera smiled at the ambassador. “I’ll remember for her, Your Excellency, thank you.”

  Jesken smiled back, but didn’t extend the warning to Nera. And why should she? Nera’s hair was short, thin, stick straight and dull black, with nothing about it to interest any dragon whatsoever. Not when Anhardyne and Fennik were around anyway, and especially not when she considered all the other Rift Riders they travelled with, whose hair included near-white blonds, vibrant reds, myriad brunettes, a deep black with an almost blue shine, rich thickness and curls glorious enough to make a temple dancer weep. Even the ambassador’s hair was blessed with abundant curls, though the shade was a non-descript brown.

  A brisk knock on the door interrupted Nera’s depressed thoughts and Captain Wellswen stepped inside without waiting for permission.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Your Excellency, but I’ve come to reclaim my lieutenants.”

  Nera eyed her captain’s wealth of dark, intricate braids, currently tied back in a simple knot, and wondered how much a dragon would be willing to pay for them. Not that Wellswen would sell. Mistrunan braids were gifts from friends and lovers, each design unique and highly personal to the wearer.

  Oblivious to her lieutenant’s thoughts, the captain nodded at her Riders. “The miryhls are assembling on the foredeck,” she said. “Leave your luggage in your cabin to be taken care of and get yourselves in the air with your flurries.” Pausing only to brush her fingers across her forehead, in a semi-respectful, non-military salute to the ambassador, Captain Wellswen strode out again. Brisk and brusque and busy as always.

  “Well,” Jesken chuckled, standing up. “Time you were off then. Thank you for your patience, lieutenants, and luck go with you. I shall see you at dinner.”

  Scrambling out of their seats to bow, Anhardyne and Nera mumbled their agreement and hurried out of the door. The corridor was awash with Riders gathered around the ladders that led to the upper deck. While the captain and embassy servants would remain on the ship with the ambassador, it was up to Nera and the three other lieutenants to fly their twenty-five Rider strong flurries across to the palace and settle into whatever accommodations the dragons had provided for miryhls and humans alike.

  As they awaited their turn for the ladders, Anhardyne smiled at Nera and raised her eyebrows. “So, Half-Pint, we’ve arrived at last. Ready to meet some dragons?”

  Squashing a burst of anxiety into the pit of her stomach, Nera took her place on the ladder and summoned up a confident smile. “I’m ready.”

  At least she hoped she was, as she climbed up to the deck where fifty giant miryhl eagles awaited their Riders, with fifty more already in the air. It was too late now to be otherwise.

  * * * * * * * * * *

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