“What’s wrong with wanting extra meat?” I asked Fyrian.
“He’d steal food from right under the noses of other dragons. Shameless! No matter how much the others beat him down, he would be back for more.”
“Did Percoquo have parasites?” I asked the groom.
“In his brain, perhaps,” Fyrian muttered.
I ignored her comment and focused on the groom’s answer. “The healers checked him for everything they could find. Even Master Hyacinthus said he was normal. Then the witches filled his stomach with water to test its capacity. Normal. Percoquo just hates missing out on extra portions!”
I chewed my lip. That still didn’t explain why the dragon would hate Silkie. “What happens to Percoquo now?”
“Silkie uses bait to lure him into a solitary spot to have his own meal. It’s enchanted to trap him while everyone else eats.” The short groom shook his head. “I never heard a dragon wail until then!”
Fyrian snorted. “He cries like a hatchling begging to be fed. It’s so annoying.”
We reached the doors of my dormitory, and I thanked the warriors. The door clicked open at my touch, and I stepped inside.
“Fyri,” I pushed the door to my room open, took off my sword belt, and sat at my study desk. All traces of the robbery were gone. Knowing that the thief used a leave-no-trace cloak was some kind of comfort. At least there weren’t traces of him left to clean up. “I’ve worked it out.”
“From a conversation about the greediest dragon who ever lived?” Fyrian replied.
“Yes. Think about it. Locking him up is cruel.”
“To you, maybe, but he once snatched a rabbit rex from my jaws and gobbled it in four bites. Solum wouldn’t let me have another. If Percoquo hadn’t been so stronger than me, I would have ripped open his belly there and then.”
I grimaced and slipped off my flying jacket. At times like this, Stafford’s propensity to take a share whatever I put on my porridge seemed quite endearing. “Um… All right. Do you want to hear my theory?”
“Go on, then.”
“To Percoquo, being locked up is cruelty.”
“Which he richly deserves.”
“That’s why the groom got attacked.”
“Percoquo wouldn’t go that far,” said Fyrian. “Apart from his habit of stealing people’s meals, he isn’t all that bad.”
“I wasn’t talking about him. It’s the wild dragon.” I toed off my boots and walked to the washstand, pulled the spigot and let the sandstone bowl fill with warm water.
Fyrian paused. “Why would he care about a greedy guts?”
“Everyone who was attacked did something to a dragon.” I opened the washstand’s cupboard doors and pulled out a washcloth and bar of apothecary soap. “Livens drove his under the Cursed Sea and got him bitten by a sea serpent. Muti punched that rapier red in the face.”
“Yes, but how would the wild dragon know?”
“You all communicate telepathically, what if someone’s giving him all the news about Mount Fornax?”
“That makes sense, but Fosco said the dragon can’t teleport out of his cell. I think my other theory might work better.”
“Which one?” I lathered up the soap.
“He’s a new type of mind-controlling dragon, and he’s inciting those who get angry with ogre-hybrids to rebel.”
Chapter 12
All night long, I lay in bed, mulling over Fyrian’s words. The wild dragon certainly had the power to poison minds, as he had caused a wedge between Fyrian and me that had lasted several hours. But could he persuade a dragon to attack someone? I couldn’t picture Rubens hurting Muti maliciously. Theirs had been a fair fight. And while I didn’t know Livens’ dragon, Cymatilis, it made no sense for a dragon to attack their bondmate to the point where they were kept in a healing coma to recuperate from their trauma. Fyrian had vouched for Percoquo, the greedy dragon, even though she found him an irritation.
I shook my head. If the wild dragon controlled minds rather than poisoned them, he would be capable of inciting dragons to do anything. But why not use that power to gain his freedom or to avoid getting caught? Closing my eyes, I pushed away my speculations. Everything would probably become clearer after a few hours of sleep.
Hours later, the clang and clatter of furniture outside my room shook me from my slumber. My eyes snapped open, and I swung out of the mattress.
“What’s happening?” asked Fyrian.
“There’s someone in the common room.”
“Who?”
After slipping on my leather armor over my silk underclothes, I picked up my sword belt from where I left it on my desk and fastened it around my middle. The sound of a body hitting the door made my heart flip-flop. What if this was another attack?
Unsheathing my Parched Sword, I crept toward the door and placed my fingertips on the handle.
“Wait!” hissed Fyrian.
“What?” I snatched my hand away.
“If that wild dragon has teleported into the common room, a parched sword isn’t going to fight him off.”
“What do you suggest?” Another thump reverberated on my door, followed by a groan. “Fyri, someone could be out there, getting hurt.”
“All right.” She paused for a moment, seeming to think things over. “Turn the lights off, open the door a crack, peep out, then slam it shut.”
“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 r
iders 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 t
o 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.
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