Dragon Games

by Marisa Claire

  “He’s seen nothing,” I snapped.

  “He’s ridden a dragon!” Arlen cut in. “If he goes home and tells stories to your people—”

  “Then what?” I stepped forward, fists clenched. “Our people may ask why they have been lied to all these years?”

  Arlen’s face flamed red in the moonlight. “No one has been lied to!”

  “We were told this was impossible,” I gestured at myself and my dragon.

  “It is,” Arlen hissed, stepping right up to me until his infuriatingly handsome face filled my frame of vision.

  “Unheard of is not the same as impossible,” I hissed right back, standing on my toes to meet his cruel gaze. “It is the difference between despair and hope.”

  The future ruler rocked back on his heels, something like panic flashing through his blue eyes. He bared his teeth like a dragon. “I will reveal you for the imposter that you are, Dima of the House of Marren.”

  With a low growl, Thula knocked her head into Arlen’s chest, pushing him away from me. He lifted his arm like it was a reflex to strike things that challenged him. But he must have thought better of it because he took a long step out of her reach.

  “Little Lord Centrival may have met his match.” Hector chuckled. “Now about this boy—”

  “My brother. Raff…ael.” No one here needed to know that Riffraff was the only name anyone would recognize him by in Pithe. I gripped Raff’s arm and pulling him up beside me. “You will not harm him. Or I will take my dragon and leave.”

  Hector’s eyebrows lifted. “Take your dragon and leave? That’s not—”

  Thula’s tail swept around us, sharp spikes glinting in the space between Hector and us. He stared at them for a long moment and then squinted into Thula’s impenetrable yellow gaze. She clacked her teeth.

  Hector smiled, but not very nicely. “This boy… your brother…I will send him to the stables to clean up after your dragon. Since she likes him so much.”

  “No!” I shouted. “He needs to go home. Our Mother and sister… they are very sick.”

  “Then he should have thought of that before he followed you to Drakken Peak.” Hector sniffed. “It’s the stables or the dungeons. Take your pick. But I won’t send a peasant home to incite a riot.”

  Raff touched my shoulder. “It’s okay, Dima. I’ll go with Thula.”

  His jaw trembled, but his eyes were firm. Guilt swept over me. I should never have let him leave Pithe. Now, who would look after Mother and Pali while I trained? And when Devin returned to the Peak for him and he never showed up… I would have to get a letter home somehow right away. If Pali believed we were both dead, I feared she would become even more reckless with herself.

  “Raff, are you sure?” I asked softly.

  He smiled bravely and shrugged. “I don’t think I have a choice.”

  He was right. At least for now. Pulling him into a tight hug, I hooked my chin over his shoulder and whispered, “I will fix this. I promise.”

  He pushed me back, fingers gripping my shoulders. There was a smudge of dried blood over his earnest brown eyes. “You worry about you. I’ll be fine…. sister. It’ll be just like picking up after the cindragons.”

  “Just like,” I laughed, and then turned to Thula. “Take care of my brother, Thula.”

  She bowed her large head and blinked her eyes. A foggy green film had rolled over them. What did that mean?

  Hector brushed me aside and laid his hand on Thula’s eyebrow, using his thumb to pull up her droopy eyelid. “Arlen! Take the new recruit to the women’s quarters. This dragon has an infection. I must get her to the healer before it spreads.”

  “What? No!” I leaned over Thula, resting my hand in the center of her forehead as though that could possibly be how to check a dragon for a fever. “I’m not leaving her then!”

  Hector’s blocky head snapped to the side with surprising speed. “No riders in the dragon infirmary. You will go to your new quarters as I said.”

  A strong hand encircled my upper arm. “Lesson number one,” Arlen sneered. “When Hector says go to your room, you go.”

  “Go, Dima.”

  Fear roiled inside me. What if they did something to her to sabotage me? I couldn’t be a legionnaire without a dragon. Choosing me had maybe placed her life in grave danger. How could I possibly be worth the risk?

  “You are.”

  A warmth spread from my hand all the way to my arm, pooling somewhere around my heart. A great affection surged in my chest for this magnificent animal. She had to be okay.

  “If anything happens to her, you will regret the day I came to Legion Academy,” I snarled at Hector.

  Arlen laughed mirthlessly, digging his fingers into my arm. “Oh, we already do.”

  ***

  Torches flickered within bronze sconces shaped like dragon heads, casting eerie shadows on the corridor’s white stone walls and arched wooden ceiling. Arlen’s armored boots clanked loudly on the smooth marble floor. A bronze plate covered his chest, back, and shoulders, obscuring the true shape of his body, but his muscular arms were able to move freely, save for the awkward-looking gloves. Underneath the armor, he wore a simple white tunic and brown leather breeches. He carried his helmet under one arm, and his hair fell around his shoulders in inky black waves. A faint smudging of stubble accentuated the sharp angles of his cheeks and chin.

  All in all, he seemed much more suited for being looked at than being listened to. None of the dozen or so words he’d spoken on our winding castle journey had been pleasant.

  “Is that heavy?” I asked, eyeing the armor.

  “Not for me.” He puffed out his chest and lifted an eyebrow. “Having second thoughts?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Just thought I might learn something on the way. This is an Academy, isn’t it?”

  Arlen scowled, but after a moment he sighed and said, “This is light armor meant for sentry duty and non-lethal training exercises.”

  Goosebumps prickled my neck. His words implied there were potentially lethal training exercises as well.

  “Battle armor is a different matter entirely.” He lifted his chin. “I’ll be wearing mine tomorrow during the First Trial.”

  “What’s the First Trial?” I asked.

  Before he could answer, a ghostly figure appeared just in front of us, polishing one of the dragon sconces with a white cloth. He was dressed in a loose, gray tunic and matching trousers that rendered him almost indistinguishable from a shadow. His dull eyes flicked to my clothes and, for a moment, curiosity crossed his bland features.

  “Hello,” I said, nodding politely.

  The boy ducked his head and polished the sconce with exaggerated fervor.

  “Don’t do that,” Arlen snapped as we passed.

  “What?” I asked. “Be polite?”

  Arlen’s brow furrowed. “It’s not polite to speak to the help.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I forgot. Only people like you matter.”

  Arlen’s boots squeaked to a halt, and he turned to me. “It’s impolite to speak to the help because it implies they are not doing their job. Servants should be invisible unless they are directly assisting you. If you acknowledge them, they may be frightened of a reprimand. If you don’t intend to reprimand them, then you’ve caused them anxiety for no good reason. Do you find it polite when someone causes you anxiety for no good reason?”

  I gaped at him. There was something like compassion in his twisted Noble logic—but also a whole lot of nerve for asking me that question.

  “No,” I said slowly, narrowing my eyes. “I don’t.”

  He smiled thinly. “Proof that you belong in their quarters, not these. Nobles don’t experience anxiety, which is why we make the only legitimate Legionnaires.”

  A rough laugh jumped out of my mouth and probably whopped him upside the head with my not-so-fresh peasant breath. “That’s interesting. Since you’ve been a bundle of nerves from the moment my dragon’s claws touched the ground
.”

  His face clouded red, reminding me of the blood-infused eyes of the dragon Huskell back at Drakken Peak. I was surprised Arlen hadn’t been called by him. They seemed like such kindred spirits.

  “I am not anxious,” Arlen ground out through his perfect, white Noble teeth. “I am furious that you’ve found some way to steal a dragon and Hector is going to let you get away with it.”

  My fists balled up, aching to punch every last tooth out of Arlen Centrival’s skull. “Thula called me, same as Elanich called you. I am here for a reason, whether you like it or not.”

  “Don’t you dare speak my dragon’s name with your… your filthy peasant mouth.” Arlen loomed back into my personal space like he had out in the courtyard, but I refused to let him move me.

  His eyes rested on my curled lips, and the hatred sizzling between us roared to such a fever pitch that it nearly flickered out—for a half second, I could have sworn the future ruler didn’t find my mouth all that filthy after all.

  But the moment passed. It may have left behind some strange new tingling sensations, but it definitely passed. Arlen Centrival had a face like the marble god statue he so obviously thought he was, but there were some lines I would never cross.

  Arlen flung his arm out, pointing down the hall at an arched wooden door. “The first-year women’s tower. Find yourself an empty room.”

  With that, he spun on his heel and stalked back down the corridor. Ignoring him as he deserved, my eyes probed the shadows for any sign of the servant boy, but either he had vanished or gotten much better at his job. Arlen turned a far corner out of sight, and suddenly I was all alone.

  In the Legion Academy.

  With a dozen brightly polished dragon sconces pointing me toward my new room.

  Chapter Nine

  I woke up in a bed for the first time in my life. The kind with four legs holding it off the ground so no mice or bugs could scurry across your face in the night. The kind with a mattress wider than my arms could span, every inch of it stuffed with something impossibly soft—no sharp pieces of straw or stray nettles poking into my skin.

  My head rested on a downy pillow encased in some smooth fabric like nothing I’d ever touched. A quilt lay over me, adorned with hundreds of dragons embroidered in gold thread, or at least that’s what I remembered it looking like last night after I crept through the only unmarked door in the women’s quarters, praying I wasn’t about to wind up tangled up with some Noble. My eyes had not yet opened for the day to confirm this memory when someone rudely yanked the quilt off my back.

  A woman’s horrified gasp chased away the last shreds of sleep that had been clinging to my brain. I rolled over, yanking the covers up to my chest. I had been too exhausted to rifle through drawers in search of a sleeping gown.

  “Your back!” The strange woman—girl actually—shuddered. She wore a gray tunic like the boy I’d seen in the hallway, but with a simple straight skirt. Her blond hair was pulled back in a tight bun that made her eyes look as surprised as I felt to see her here. “Why haven’t you taken a healing draught?”

  “For what?” I asked, smacking the sleep taste from my lips.

  “Your back!” She lifted a finger toward me. “It’s—it’s—”

  I scratched at my matted hair. “I’m not back, I’ve never been here before.”

  The girl dropped her arm and marched over to a dressing table where she snatched up a gem-encrusted hand mirror. She brought it over and held it just above my should so that glancing back, I could see my flesh was a crisscross mess of fire and frost burns. But even more alarming, I couldn’t actually feel it. And it looked like it ought to hurt.

  “You should have taken a healing draught,” the girl scolded. “You’re in no shape for the Trial today.”

  “I don’t understand anything you’re saying,” I groaned. “I don’t even know who you are. Why are you in my room?”

  “I am your hand servant, of course,” the girl huffed. “My name is Amelie.”

  “My servant?” I shook my head. “I don’t need a servant.”

  “Everybody needs a servant,” she said firmly, bending to pick up the filthy clothes I’d left on the floor.

  “Not where I come from.”

  Amelie shook my clothes out in front of her and wrinkled her nose. “Well, that’s obvious.” She wadded up the offensive clothes up in a ball and tucked them under her arm, forcing a smile at me. “I’ll have these things laundered today… unless you’d rather I dispose of them?”

  “No!” I shouted, making her wince. I softened my voice. “I’m sorry. It’s just, they belonged to my father…”

  Amalie tilted her head and smiled curiously. “A daughter wearing her father’s clothing? How strange your people must be.”

  “How poor,” I corrected.

  “Well, it’s just as well,” she said brightly, moving toward a large chest of drawers. “All the female students wear breeches and tunics here. Unless of course there’s a banquet or ball.”

  Banquets and balls? I cringed. “Do those happen often?”

  Amelie pulled out a drawer. “There’s a banquet to celebrate the survivors of each Trial, and a ball before the Games each year.” She patted something soft within the drawer. “I’ve put some spare tunics and breeches in here. They won’t be perfect fits, but once I’ve got your measurements, I’ll take them in or out as needed.” She eyed the bony ridge of my shoulders peeking out from under the quilt. “Most likely in.”

  “Thank you,” I said, wishing she would leave so I could put some of those clothes on.

  “Would you like me to help you dress?” She held up a forest green tunic. “You’re expected at breakfast in the Dining Hall at seven o’clock.”

  I shook my head. Vigorously. “I think I can find my way into a shirt.”

  Amelie winced. “As you wish. But perhaps there is something else I could help you with?”

  Arlen’s lecture about being polite to servants came back to me. Perhaps it was also rude, by Noble logic, to refuse their assistance? I realized my reticence to be served might translate, for this girl, into not wanting her to have a job. For all I knew she was here helping grown women into their simple garments because she had a sick sister back home too.

  Pali!

  “Can you help me send a letter home?” I asked. “After I’ve dressed?”

  Amelie bit her lip. “I’ve been instructed not to send any correspondence on your behalf. Seeing as how…”

  “Seeing as how I’m a peasant.” I sighed. “Of course.”

  She offered an apologetic smile. “Is they anything else I can help you with?”

  I shook my head, silently fuming. They honestly expected me to leave my family thinking I died on the Peak!

  Amelie bowed her head. “Very good. Ring the bell when you’re ready for me.”

  “Oh, wait!” I said before she could slip out the door. “What about that stuff you said at first? The healing draught? The Trial? I still don’t understand.”

  Amelie frowned. “You should have been given a draught last night to take care of those burns. It really won’t be fair to send you into the First Trial like this. Especially without armor!”

  My mouth fell open. “Wait. I’m sorry. What? I haven’t even been to a single training session, and I’m supposed to participate in some sort of trial?”

  She gave an apologetic shrug. “All first-years must compete in the Trials. It’s the only way the Nobles will know who to bet on in the Games.”

  Of course. That explained why no one had shut down the gamblers’ camp at Drakken Peak. Nobody wanted to crack down on their own favorite vice.

  I swallowed hard. “And why without armor?”

  “I’m afraid there’s no time to have anything tailored, and ill-fitting armor is worse than no armor at all.” Her smile wavered like she might be lying.

  Was it really? Or was this Hector and Arlen plotting to get rid of me as soon as possible? I shouldn’t have been so bold last
night. I definitely shouldn’t have given that little speech about hope for the peasants. I may as well have painted a bulls-eye on my back.

  I sat up straighter, clutching the quilt to my chest. “Thula! Amelie, have you heard anything about my dragon? She was injured yesterday and infected—”

  “Full recovery,” Amelie smiled. “At least someone thought to give her a healing drought.”

  My mind reeled. Full recovery? From a chunk bitten out of her neck?

  “Amelie, can you get me one of these draughts?” I asked excitedly.

  “Yes, of course. I’m not sure it will do much good before the Trial, but I can have a vial delivered to your breakfast table.”

  “No, no, I don’t care about that. It’s not for me. It’s for my sister at home.”

  Amelie’s face fell. “Oh. Well, that’s not so simple. Draughts are free to students, but they must be purchased for friends or family members.”

  “Oh.” My shoulders slumped. “How much?”

  She bit her lip. “Depends on the draught. What is that ails your sister?”

  I looked down at the quilt, tracing the back of a frolicking golden dragon. It had been five mornings now since we left Pithe, which meant a week had passed since Pali’s last dose. Had Mother been able to earn enough to buy it this week? I should never have let her spend those precious gemlinks on sending Raff with me. Look what it had got him.

  “Miss?” Amelie prompted.

  “She has the Wasting Sickness.” My jaw clenched. “She’s already lost one leg, but it’s just… it’s just hanging there because we can’t afford to have a surgeon remove it safely. I had hoped that one of these healing droughts might restore her.”

  Amelie came to the foot of my bed, fidgeting with her hands. “You would need a Purity Draught for that, Miss. A single vial costs two thousand gemlinks, and it would take at least six vials to cleanse her body, maybe more to restore the leg, if it’s even still possible.”

  I studied the pale girl in front of me, with her eyes turned low. She seemed awfully well-researched on a subject that would rarely come up among her Noble mistresses. But I also sensed it would be inappropriate—even impolite—for me to ask her personal questions.