Pariah of Dragons

by Cordelia Castel

  “What’s that going to do?”

  “I’ll be looking through your eyes. If it’s the wild dragon, I’ll see him before he sees you.”

  I huffed out a breath. This plan made no sense whatsoever, but since I was the one who wanted to rush out into the common room, I wasn’t going to waste time complaining. After tapping on the wall to turn off the light, I pulled the door handle and opened the door.

  Stafford slumped over the back of a sofa, dangling a sword in his loose fingers. I glanced around the common room for signs of his assailant, but no one else was there.

  “What happened to you?” I whispered.

  A groan was my only reply.

  “He made a lot of noise for someone so small,” said Fyrian. “Do you think the wild dragon teleported out when you opened the door?”

  “Possibly.” I rushed over to my friend and hoisted him upright. “Stafford. Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Lean him against the wall and let me take a look.”

  “Right.” For someone larger and bulkier than me, Stafford was surprisingly compliant. After sliding my shoulder under his arm, I walked him to the wall and held him in place. A gust of chili-scented alcohol wafted from his breath, making me wince. “Oh! You’ve been drinking dragon’s tears.”

  “Just one.” He raised his index finger.

  “What else?”

  “Mead, mostly.”

  I tutted at the bruise blooming over his temple. “And you got into a fight.”

  His broad shoulders hunched around his ears. “Not just me. About a hundred warriors. Someone stole somebody’s something, and then there was some talk about honor and satisfaction. One thing led to another, and soon, the whole tavern was fighting.”

  I pursed my lips. “So, you had to join in? I thought you were going to see Evolene.”

  His head flopped down to his chest. “I wanted a drink first, then a group of riders said I wasn’t a real ogre unless I drank dragons’ tears.”

  “You shouldn’t listen to that type of talk.”

  He closed his eyes. “I’m going to sleep.”

  I shook my head. Stafford could have avoided all of this by going to see Evolene. “What time is it, Fyri?”

  “Just before dawn, judging by the light streaming over the mountains. If you let him go to bed, he’ll miss classes.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking.” I pulled Stafford out from the wall. “We’re going to get some breakfast.”

  “What about the curfew?” he mumbled.

  “Did anyone attack you on the way back from the Warrior Queen?”

  “No, but I had four riders walk me back to my dorms.”

  “At least they took responsibility after getting you drunk,” I muttered.

  “What?”

  “Come on.” I slung his arm over my shoulders, propping him up. “We’re going to the mess hall.

  Since all the attacks had taken place in the outdoors, we kept to the dark hallways, hiding in alcoves whenever footsteps approached. I was almost certain the attacker was the wild dragon but couldn’t shake off all the talk about Asproceros returning to Mount Fornax for his final act of revenge. With the spriggans desperate for dragons, it would make sense for them to hire someone with a track record of breaking into the mountain.

  Stafford huffed and exhaled chili and alcohol-scented breath, making me wrinkle my nose, but we finally reached the entrance to the mess hall.

  I pushed open one of the doors, and the warm, rich scent of roasted chicory root wafted into my nostrils. It was a hot beverage, naturally sweet and far richer than tea, that Mother enjoyed in the morning. It came from plants we grew in Mount Bluebeard to supply those who could not afford or stomach Elixir of Coffea. The tables at the cadets’ corner lay empty, and a few males dressed in homespun tunics sat around a table, playing a card game. They were probably civilians who worked through the night having a break at the end of their shift.

  Stafford staggered to our usual table on the left, then he flopped his arms on the surface and lowered his head. I headed to Eyepatch’s station, where a younger, two-eyed version of him stirred a tureen of chicory.

  “Is Mr. Cobbs working tonight?”

  His face split into a grin. “I’m Cobbs.”

  “Umm…”

  “Are you talking about Uncle Eyepatch?” asked the server.

  I nodded.

  “He doesn’t start work until six. What can I do for you, young sir?”

  I rocked forward on my heels and smiled. “Two bowls of chicory, please.”

  “How strong?”

  “One with three-quarters milk and the other with just a splash.”

  “Sweet salt on both?”

  “Lots.” I grinned.

  Mr. Cobbs the younger prepared our bowls of chicory exactly as I had asked, topping them up with creamy milk from a ceramic jug enchanted to keep its contents warm. His gaze flicked to where Stafford slumped on the table. “Your friend’s going to need a little bit more than chicory to be alert in classes.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “This.” He lifted the lid of a bowl and extracted a long, red chili pepper.

  “Won’t that be too strong?”

  “It’s sweet tornado. Gives a kick up the backside but no burn.”

  I glanced at Stafford. From the way he didn’t even twitch, it looked like he had fallen asleep. “All right.”

  Mr. Cobbs plopped the chili into the stronger bowl of chicory and gave me a nod. “There you go. Your friend will probably appreciate a thick slice of sweetloaf. It contains the same honey the brewers use to make dragon's’ tears.”

  “Thanks.” I took the steaming bowls to our table. As I had already guessed, Stafford had fallen into a deep slumber, complete with an expanding puddle of drool.

  After lowering myself into my seat and placing the bowls on the table, I gave him a sharp poke in the ribs. “Wake up.”

  He jolted upright. “Evolene?”

  “Why don’t you just go and see her?” I pushed the bowl in front of him.

  With a muttered word of thanks, he raised it to his lips and took a sip. His eyes squeezed shut, and the rest of his face twisted into a grimace. “Too strong.”

  “It will give you the boost you need to stay awake in classes. Drink up.”

  Nodding, he gulped down several mouthfuls before letting out a long sigh. “Thanks.”

  Warriors entered the mess hall in small groups. With their uniforms askew and bruises on their faces, most looked like they had been tussling all night at the Warrior Queen with Stafford.

  I bumped my shoulder on his arm. “Evolene could fix that black eye of yours.”

  Stafford picked up the bowl and brought it to his lips, hiding his expression. From the way his eyes didn’t crinkle shut with a grimace, he was pretending to drink the rest of his chicory.

  I raised my own bowl to my lips, making sure to nudge his leg with my knee. “I saw her earlier, you know.”

  His eyes widened. “How was she? Did she say anything about me?”

  Warm, creamy chicory filled my mouth, and I sighed. It reminded me of mornings spent in Mother’s cozy parlor, where we’d eat breakfast away from the servants and disapproving Bluebeard relatives. “I was a bit preoccupied. They had just finished a huge batch of poison, and I breathed in some of the fumes.”

  The clatter of a bowl to the floor made me turn around. Dark chicory spilled across the floor and over the boots of a pale man of about Stafford’s height and build. He hid his features with a hooded cloak, but he wasn’t shy about cursing.

  Mr. Cobbs the younger rushed toward us, holding a huge plate of thick, buttered slices of sweetloaf. After placing it on our table, he said to the hooded man, “I’ll take care of the spill, sir. If you wait a bit, I can make you up another bowl. Six chilis and no sweet sugar, right?”

  “Forget it!” he hissed and stormed out of the room.

  “He was rude,” said Fyrian with a yawn.

 
“He didn’t even say sorry for making a mess.” I turned to see Stafford’s reaction, but he seemed preoccupied with dunking the bread into his bowl of chicory.

  I sighed. Ever since he had been brought back from his interrogation at the Magical Militia, he’d become less cheerful. The witches had dosed him with a truth elixir, making him spill everything he knew, but had they tortured him as well? They could be particularly hard on their male prisoners.

  “Um… Stafford?”

  He glanced up from the chicory. “Huh?”

  “Something else is wrong, isn’t there?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” he muttered.

  “What happened at the Magical Militia that time you stowed away?”

  He glared into his bowl. “Nothing I want to tell you.”

  “What do you think they did?” asked Fyrian.

  “They never let first year cadets watch the torture of prisoners, but we could listen at the door. One of the witches could make a man cry in less than half a minute.”

  Fyrian let out a smoky huff. “Dragons don’t believe in torture. Either you speak up or get flamed.”

  I suppressed a smile. Maybe life would be simpler if we all thought more like dragons. A thick, brown skin formed on my bowl of chicory, and I pinched off a corner of sweetloaf and scooped it up. It was the best part of the beverage, and I hummed with appreciation.

  Stafford sighed. “Before you say anything else, I’ll have a word with Niger about Evolene. He’ll know what to do, seeing as he’s got a way with women.”

  My cheeks heated. “No, he hasn’t!”

  Stafford picked up his bowl and finished its contents. I took another mouthful of chicory, staring at my best friend through narrowed eyes. We were supposed to be able to talk about everything, and I was much closer to him that he was to Niger.

  “Maybe he remembers you looking pretty in the wedding dress Magnar forced Evolene to make you,” said Fyrian.

  I cringed at the memory and set down my bowl.

  “Where is it?” yelled a burly chef standing at the griddle stations.

  “I left it hanging on the knife rack, just as you asked,” said his bald-headed colleague.

  “Well, it’s not there now. You owe me a new carving sword.”

  The second male reared back. “Don’t pin it on me. Asproceros must have stolen it in the middle of the night.”

  The first male turned to Mr. Cobbs the younger, who was packing up his chicory station. “Oi, did you see a great big ogre with a horn for a nose walk into the kitchens?”

  “No, sir.”

  “There.” The chef spun back to his colleague. “You owe me.”

  A mixed group of tamers and riders, fresh from the Warrior Queen, cupped their hands around their mouths and shouted, “Duel!”

  Some of the stragglers slumped in far-off tables banged their fists on the surface. “Duel!”

  Even the group of civilians wearing homespun tunics joined the chant. “Duel!”

  I shook my head and stared out into the terrace. The first rays of sunlight colored the wings of the dragon moths orange. In less than an hour, Master Torreo would arrive for work and roar at everyone to calm down. “Maybe we should go out for a bit of fresh air and return later for breakfast.”

  “Good idea.” Stafford pulled himself to his feet and grabbed the last slice of sweetloaf.

  We walked around the left side of the mess hall, far from where the two chefs postured and shoved each other in front of the griddle station. I hoped for their sakes they hadn’t lit it.

  Up ahead at the floor-to-ceiling opening, Albens strolled in, flanked by a group of his mage colleagues. The half-ogre grinned, and the others clapped him on the back and laughed along with him.

  I rushed up to Albens. “Excuse me, has anything happened?”

  “Livens jumped out of bed, demanding his sword.”

  My brows furrowed. “Is that good?”

  The other mages snickered, and Albens’ grin widened. His pale eyes danced with joy. “When a warrior suffers such a devastating injury, there is a small chance he will retire from fighting.”

  “Not Livens, though!” said one of his companions.

  Albens threw his head back and laughed. “My brother has sworn revenge against his attacker. The witches had to strap him to his bed to stop him from storming the terraces!”

  Beside me, Stafford cringed, while the males all roared with laughter.

  “Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s take a walk. Between us, we might be able to work out who’s really going around attacking people.”

  Chapter 13

  It was too early to visit Evolene in the Healer’s Academy building, so Stafford and I strolled around the Great Lake. The sun reflected off its surface, illuminating the dark figures swimming in its depths.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” said Stafford. “Why doesn’t Asproceros just steal the dragonets and leave? That’s what I’d do if I were a poacher.”

  “I think Madam Maritimus has locked down all the wards. After the way people have snuck in and out, they’re probably closing off any of their former weaknesses.”

  Stafford rubbed his chin. “So, he’s trapped?”

  “Which means the dragonets are still here.”

  “Then why doesn’t one of the bigger dragons call out to them?”

  “They already tried,” said Fyrian. “It’s like they’re asleep.”

  I relayed the message to Stafford, who shook his head. A huff of frustration pushed its way out of my lungs. “Whoever stole the dragonets is far more cunning than the average criminal.”

  “Like a spriggan.” He picked up an oversized daisy from the lawn and plucked off a petal.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look at what the imps got King Magnar to do. All they wanted were dragon eggs, but they set up diversions everywhere.” He picked another petal from his daisy.

  I nodded. “The attack on Her Majesty just before she entered the wards. They knew she would have to get them lowered to let Prince Vanus into Mount Fornax and take her to Elphame.”

  “Giving the spriggan enough time to move the eggs into the royal carriage and disappear,” added Stafford.

  “Right. And the locusts attack on the capital and the rioting witches were diversions so no-one would notice Astri and Botilda breaking into the palace.”

  He shuddered. “They’re worse than their brother.”

  I shrugged. “I prefer less complicated villains.”

  Fyrian swooped down and landed beside a weeping willow. We both rushed over to her.

  “What’s wrong, Fyri?” I asked out loud.

  “You two are talking about spriggans when the real culprit is that devious wild dragon.”

  “What’s she saying?” whispered Stafford.

  I told him, and he shook his head.

  “Why’s he disagreeing?” asked Fyrian.

  I huffed and repeated her question. Why couldn’t all mages have mental connections to dragons? It would save me from relaying messages.

  “You don’t expect that wild dragon to think Mount Fornax is a paradise, do you?”

  “Why not?” I asked. “It’s better than living out in the wild among the angry villagers and dragon slayers.”

  Fyrian gave a sharp nod of agreement.

  Stafford shook his head. “Neither of you have ever lived in an institution, so you don’t get it.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “What are you talking about?”

  “We get new boys coming into the orphanage all the time. Some of arrive them half-starved, living like gutter rats all their lives. With all the ogresses abducting human boys for breeding, you’d think they’d be relieved for the protection, right?”

  Both Fyrian and I nodded. Mother had told me Aunt Cendrilla had set up the orphanage after encountering a woman trying to sell her baby boy in the Capital Market. If Stafford’s good looks and healthy physique was a barometer of the level of care given at the Perra
ult orphanages, it seemed a good place to live.

  “Your father seems to think he’s a worthy suitor,” said Fyrian.

  I turned to Stafford, pretending not to hear her. “You’re saying the boys don’t like having a home?”

  “Of course, they don’t.” He plucked another petal from his daisy. “Too many rules. You can’t leave the grounds unless it’s for an official outing, can’t eat outside meal and snack times, can’t fight, can’t do lots of things a boy can get up to out in the wild.”

  “Can’t starve, either,” I muttered.

  Fyrian let out a snort of smoke. “Ungrateful wretches. Auntie Rilla is good to those orphans!”

  “True.” Stafford inclined his head.

  “Do any of them run away?” I asked.

  “They try, but the orphanage is run by retired witches and former Queen’s Guardsmen.”

  “Did Stafford think it was a prison, then?” asked Fyrian.

  I passed on her question.

  He smiled. “It was home to me, but I can’t even remember when I was brought over.”

  Stafford bent down to pick up a stone. He threw it across the water, and it landed with a thunk. I found a larger stone and hurled mine as hard as I could, landing mine a few feet beyond his. He snickered and picked up a stone about the same size as mine and threw it double the original distance.

  “It’s not fair,” I muttered. “You’re so much stronger than me.”

  He shrugged. “You’re the better swordsman and the better mage. Look at how Captain Pristis stopped that fight between Rufus and Muti with his bare hands. He’s only a quarter, like us.”

  “I hope he teaches us how he did that.”

  “Me too. Something like that could come in useful when we’re fighting Asproceros.”

  I glared into the lake, where Stafford’s ripple still radiated through the water. “Or the wild dragon.”

  “I still don’t think it’s him.” Stafford sat at the base of the weeping willow. “Dragons don’t need gold coins, kitchen knives, or any of the other things that have gone missing around Mount Fornax.”

  “Actually, that’s a really good point,” said Fyrian. “Do you have your pipe? I want to hear some music.”