Pariah of Dragons

by Cordelia Castel

  By the time Fyrian landed on the stage of the drogott arena, the two bluebirds had flown off and sat side-by-side on the stands in their fairy forms. Uncle Orel’s hair shone like quicksilver in the moonlight, while Uncle Rouen’s hair glimmered like spun gold.

  Fyrian and Flavo stood side-by-side, positioned so Niger and I could make eye contact. He pointed at one pair of long posts at the edge of the arena and then at the set opposite. Each held different color flags: red and burgundy, which represented the riders’ and mages’ uniforms.

  “There are six players in a team,” said Niger. “The captain, two offenders, defender, shooter, and keeper.”

  I nodded. Fyrian had taught me the basics of the game, and Rufus once explained the players’ roles. The offenders needed to get the fireball to their opponent’s side of the arena so they could pass it to the shooter who would score. It was the defender’s job to stop both offenders, and the keeper’s job to catch the fireball before it reached the goal. “So, I’m watching out for the shooter?”

  “And the captain. He can perform any of the tasks, so he might try to score.” His face split into a grin. “You are lucky to be on our team. We produce duplicate fireballs to confuse the rider’s keeper.”

  “Can’t one of the riders take control of your fireballs?”

  He snickered. “They can try. You will see what I mean when we practice.”

  I nodded. “Is there anything else I need to look out for?”

  “The riders cannot generate fireballs, so they often swap dragons midway through the game to confuse us.”

  “Isn’t that cheating?”

  He puffed out his chest. “They do what they can with their inferior skills.”

  I pressed my lips together to suppress a smirk. Muti would be furious if he heard Niger disparage riders. “Do I need to catch the ball with my hands?”

  “Catch it, break it, bat it, lance it with the bident.” He threw a two-pronged trident at me. “Anything goes, as long as you do not let it pass through the goalposts.”

  “What about me?” asked Fyrian. “Am I just carting you around?”

  I furrowed my brow and stared at the instrument. Its shaft felt like the handle of my parched sword. Perhaps it was a mage weapon. “We’re playing together. I thought you wanted this.”

  “But not if you get to do all the fun things.”

  I turned to Niger. “Fyrian wants to know if she can stop the fireball, too.”

  “Of course. This is a game for dragons, too.”

  “Maybe I can start my own team,” she said. “Greens versus reds.”

  “You could make Byrrus the captain of the other team,” I replied.

  “Then no one would want to join.”

  My heart lifted. This was the most Fyrian had said to me since our incident with the wild dragon. I patted her side. “Good point.”

  Niger clapped his hands together, and Flavo leaped into the air. “We will practice with a fireball of my own making instead of the official ball produce by Master Fosco. That way, I can control its movements.”

  “Wait,” I shouted. “Mages can do that?”

  He smirked. “Not until their third year!”

  Fyrian crouched low, ready to leap, and I let out a happy sigh. It was reassuring to learn that there was a lot more to becoming a dragon mage than using fire-based weapons producing flames from one’s fingers.

  “Pristis was a mage before he became a tamer.” Fyrian flew around the mages’ goalpost. “You saw how he stopped those swords.”

  “I didn’t know you were watching.”

  “That’s the best part about being bonded to you. I get to experience another life at the same time as mine.”

  Warmth flooded my insides, washing through the knots of unease that had formed since the wild dragon had gotten into Fyrian’s head. It no longer surprised me that the Council of Dragons would keep them in isolation before sending them for taming. Having lived outside the community, wild dragons didn’t understand the sacrifices the master dragons made to keep Mount Fornax a safe place for the dragons and their ogre-hybrid companions.

  Flavo glided around the arena, while Niger raised his hands above his head and brought them together. I leaned forward and squinted. From the light glowing from within his joined hands, it looked like he was compressing his flames. The fire between his hands grew and spun in a tight ball of red and amber and black. My brow furrowed. I’d only seen black flames once before. What in the Known World did they do?

  “That’s advanced magecraft,” replied Fyrian. “It makes the fire do your bidding once it leaves your body.”

  “Like a homunculus?” I asked.

  Her wings rose into a shrug. “But without the rotting flesh and stale urine.”

  When the fireball grew to about the size of a watermelon, Niger hurled it at the goal. “Try and stop that!”

  Fyrian leaped to the skies, head raised. I clung to her back and pointed the bident in the direction of the fireball. If it worked as I suspected, it could shoot out enough fire to skewer the ball, and I will have saved my first goal.

  The fireball arched through the air, and I tracked its movement and stood, stretching out the bident to catch it as it passed. I pushed my magic into its shaft, setting its prongs alight. With a little more power, the fire lengthened and expanded my reach. Just before it flew into Fyrian’s range, the ball dropped abruptly and flew under us toward the goal.

  With a roar of fury, Fyrian dipped into a downward loop and followed after the escaping fireball. I clenched my teeth at the sudden movement, stretching out my arms for balance. The soles of my boots were enchanted to stay onto her back, but they didn’t stop me wobbling when she moved at speed.

  “Use your venom,” I said.

  Fyrian spat out a stream of menthol-scented liquid. I pointed the bident at her venom, transforming it into a line of fire that stretched to the fireball just before it reached the goal. Fyrian rose to the skies, towing it away like the fireball was a balloon on a string.

  “That was amazing,” I cried out loud.

  Niger flew over, eyes shining, teeth flashing into a grin. “I knew the pair of you would be perfect for our team!”

  My cheeks heated. “Fyrian did all the work.”

  “It was your idea to use the venom,” she said. “And you lit it in time for me to catch the ball.”

  We practiced with more of his fireballs until Fyrian said Flavo was bored with flying around with so few players and wanted to return to his friends. Niger mounted Fyrian, while his dragon flew back to the mountain. As Fyrian took the scenic route back over the expanses of meadows and fields, I leaned on his broad chest, resting my head on his shoulder. One of his arms wrapped around my waist, and Uncle Orel pecked him when he tried to put a hand on my hip.

  “Sorry,” I muttered. “He’s a bit protective.”

  Niger chuckled. “I did not know bluebirds could peck so hard.”

  I raised a shoulder. “They’re bigger and stronger than normal because they’re part-high fairy.”

  “But not enough to trigger the wards.”

  “Her Majesty doesn’t, and she’s only a half, but the wards keep out anyone who has more high fairy than that.”

  “What about spriggans? They cannot be full fairies.”

  I grimaced. “Who knows how the Forgotten King made them. But they had to trick Mount Fornax into lowering their fairy wards, so they definitely can’t come in whenever they like.”

  “How?” asked Niger.

  A lock of hair blew into my face, and I tucked it behind my ear. “I suppose it’s common knowledge now, but on the day of the opening ceremony, Her Majesty fell ill and needed to be taken to Elphame.”

  “And a high fairy needed to enter Mount Fornax to do the job?” he asked.

  “That’s how the spriggan sneaked in.”

  He grunted. “At least Madam Maritimus knows not to lower those wards for anything.”

  “That’s why the Prince Regent had to
leave the region of Mount Fornax to contact Elphame.”

  We flew over a patch of pastureland close to the mountain. Below us, red and orange light writhed within a hollow giant sequoia. This had to be the Lightning Tree and the location where the homunculi had thrown explosives at us. A chuckle reverberated in Niger’s chest.

  I turned around. “What?”

  “You refer to your family with their titles like you are a commoner.”

  “It’s nice to be like everyone else for a change.”

  He shook his head. “You always stand out.”

  I reached for the hand not holding my waist and interlaced our fingers. “You say the sweetest things. I think you’re amazing, too.”

  He harrumphed. “Griffons are not sweet.”

  “All right. Gallant, then.”

  “That is better.”

  Fyrian landed on one of the terraces closest to the dorms. Niger slid down and helped me off. This time, I didn’t bother to complain about being able to get off a dragon on my own. I’d called him gallant, and that’s what gentlemen did in the romantic scrolls.

  She bade us good night and flew back to her stall, leaving Niger and me standing beneath a silver sycamore shedding its seeds. The breeze blew them down from the branches, and moonlight bounced off the wings of the swirling seeds, making them seem alive.

  I sighed. “You always know the nicest places.”

  “We’re still here,” said Uncle Orel from an overhead branch.

  I scowled up at the annoying bluebirds. Wasn’t it past their bedtimes? “Can you give me ten minutes privacy, please?”

  Uncle Rouen burst into a chittering laugh. “A girl can fall to ruin in less time.”

  “Two minutes, then?”

  “One,” said Uncle Orel.

  “Fine,” I growled. “One minute, then.”

  The pair hopped onto a higher branch. “All right.”

  “It doesn’t count if I can still see you!”

  Niger chuckled. “We can walk around to the other side of the tree. There is no door and less chance for anyone walking out to see us.”

  “All right.”

  He held my hand and led me around the thick tree trunk. We upset a cloud of dragon moths that had been hovering nearby, and they flew apart in a burst of light. Up above, the branches rustled, but I didn’t bother to look out for bluebirds. They had given us a minute, and I wouldn’t waste it.

  My foot caught something leathery. “What’s that on the ground?”

  He crouched down, spreading his lit arm for illumination. “Someone is unconscious.”

  I let go of his hand, unsheathed my parched sword, and created a huge flare. Four bodies, all warriors lay on the ground. They wore the green uniforms of grooms, and I think I recognized a couple from the day we used the tea stand to reach the bottom level.

  “No,” whispered Niger.

  “Do you know them?”

  “See the armbands? That means they are dragonet chaperones. We need to raise the alarm.”

  “Hold on.” I placed my hand on his arm. “Fyri? Can you see what’s happened?”

  “I’ll tell Fosco what’s happened and ask Hyacinthus to send some healers.”

  “Thanks.” I turned to Niger. “Fyrian’s raised the alarm.”

  He blew out a breath through his teeth. “I am glad you and Fyrian were here to help.”

  Two sets of footsteps thudded behind us. Uncles Orel and Rouen unsheathed their swords. “Be careful,” said Uncle Orel. “Whoever did this might be close.”

  “They took the dragonets.” My voice broke.

  Moments later, heavy footsteps approached. A quartet of healers carrying bright lanterns rushed down the terrace. “Step aside.”

  They tended to the fallen men. One of them, Master Hyacinthus, glanced up. “Cadet Bluford, isn’t it?”

  I gulped. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “We finished drogott practice, and Fyrian flew us back here because it was closest to our dorms.”

  “Why did Fyrian-Lacerta fly you both back?” Master Fosco stepped out from the shadows. He had probably teleported in his dragon form as soon as Fyrian told him and had chosen this moment to intervene.

  “Flavo left the practice early because he was bored.”

  He nodded. “Continue.”

  I cringed, hoping he wouldn’t ask why I was sneaking around a tree with an older cadet. “We found these four lying unconscious, and I asked Fyrian to get help.”

  Healer Alabio raised his head. “This groom had a concussion and a fractured skull. I’ve healed his injuries, and he should be awake shortly.”

  His patient, a dark-haired half-ogre, groaned. “The dragonets!”

  “What happened to you?” Master Fosco shoved his way to the front.

  “We were escorting a dozen green dragonets to their roost. Asproceros attacked us from behind with some kind of cudgel.”

  “Did you see him?” I asked.

  He shook his head and winced at the moment.

  I stepped forward. “How did you know it was Asproceros?”

  “Who else but a mighty ogre can hit four males with one blow?” he said.

  “A dragon,” I replied.

  Everyone conscious turned to look at me. Master Fosco frowned. “None of my dragons would harm the grooms and steal dragonets.”

  “But that wild dragon might.”

  He stepped back. “I will check.”

  Master Fosco disappeared, and I gaped. “I thought purple dragons had to transform to teleport.”

  “Not if they are as old as Master Fosco,” said Master Hyacinthus.

  Seconds later, he reappeared. “The wild dragon is still in his cell. The culprit has to be an intruder.”

  Another groom sat up. “Or a spriggan,” he said with a groan. They can do anything!”

  Everyone fell silent. The notion that spriggans had invaded Mount Fornax to steal dragonets made my stomach churn. The wards had been strengthened against them since the time the eggs were stolen. After everything that had happened, King Magnar’s sisters wouldn’t bring an artifact into the territory to give the spriggans an opening… Would they?

  Chapter 10

  Niger and I joined the search party, looking for the missing dragonets, but there were few clues except that whoever attacked the grooms had done so with one blow. When Madam Maritimus and her team arrived to illuminate the area, there were no footprints or signs that anyone with the bulk and power needed to incapacitate four half-ogres had even visited the terrace. It was almost as though the dragonet thief had appeared and reappeared at the scene of the crime by magic.

  The next morning, everyone in the mess hall talked about the missing dragonets. Even Eyepatch wiped a tear as he served porridge with oats he had harvested with the help of the other servers. With a yawn, I slumped at the breakfast table with Stafford, Gobi, and Rufus. Nothing about the thefts made sense. Why would Asproceros return to the territory where he had murdered a dragon rider, knowing there was a warrant for his death.

  A fight broke out in front of the griddles. A seven-foot-tall dragon tamer accused his much shorter colleague of having stolen his cloak. Master Torreo threw the larger male across the mess hall and out through the barrier, shouting a warning to anyone who wanted to fight close to his fine cooking equipment.

  I shook my head. “This is getting ridiculous. Why is everyone blaming each other?”

  Stafford mumbled something into his bowl.

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  He shook his head and shoveled a heaping spoonful of porridge into his mouth. This level of despondency could only mean that things hadn’t gone well with Evolene. Or that he had venture somewhere else instead of going to see her as we had discussed the day before.

  I narrowed my eyes. “You didn’t go to the laboratory last night, did you?”

  “Phoenix was at the gates of the Healer’s Academy.” Stafford leaned across, fingers stret
ching toward my jug of rhododendron honey.

  I pulled it out of reach. “So what?”

  His head snapped up. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

  “Anything.” I poured a generous amount of red honey into my porridge. “He might have been delivering a message for Master Fosco, talked to Dr. Duclair about a class, or seen one of the healers about a chipped claw. You might have found out if you’d bothered to go in and ask.”

  “It’s all right for you,” he muttered. “The person you like is less complicated.”

  Shooting a furtive glance at Rufus, I gave Stafford a gentle kick under the table and shoved the jug of honey into his hand. “Never mind that. What do you think’s going on with all these fights?”

  Stafford shrugged. “It’s Asproceros, isn’t it?”

  “That’s what they want it to look like,” I replied.

  Rufus set down his foot-long warthog sausage. “You think the real culprit is disguising his tracks?”

  I nodded. “He’s making everyone go crazy.”

  Gobi dunked his sausage in a bowl of green chili sauce. “You were talking about him yesterday.”

  “He tried to poison Fyrian against me,” I stirred my porridge, making it turn pink.

  Stafford’s eyes widened. “Who?”

  “The wild dragon the tamers brought in a few days ago.”

  Rufus shook his head. “Wild dragons are notorious for causing discord among their own kind, but they do not make warriors fight.”

  “He’s right.” Stafford held my jug of honey and raised his brows in question. When I gave him a nod, he poured half the contents into his porridge. “Not even a purple dragon can do that.”

  “They can teleport and hurt people with their roars, right?” I asked. “What else are purples known for?”

  Rufus broke his breakfast sausage into four smaller pieces and submerged them in his bowl of green chili. “Each dragon is strong in one particular sense. Greens have the best eyesight, whites and silvers have the best sense of smell.” He fished a piece out with his fork and stuffed it in his mouth. “Reds have the most sensitive taste buds, and blues have the best sense of hearing.”