The Dragoneer Trilogy

by Vickie Knestaut

  “Forward,” Trysten called out, and the weight of the platform propelled her out of the stall. They maneuvered the tight corner with their load, then proceeded out of the weyr and onto the wide path cut through the rocky landscape with Aeronwind upon their shoulders, her father and Galelin in the rear. The bright sunlight promised to heat the day quickly.

  Chapter 27

  By the time the first burial mounds came into view, Trysten’s back and shoulders screamed with pain. Her sweater and leather armor felt hot and heavy. As the procession passed among the cairns piled up on either side of the trail, a shiver ran up her spine despite the heat. She recalled being here as a girl and feeling as if she and Paege had ventured to the edge of the world. The cairns stood tall and silent, wide as small mountains themselves. In some of the older ones, stone heather had taken root among the rocks. The emptiness of the graves amplified the emptiness she felt from the dragon behind her. It left her feeling hollow and alone, despite the nearly twenty men behind her who made up the procession.

  When they cleared the existing cairns, she directed the hordesmen to leave the trail and pick their way back over the rocks and through the heather a bit. Once they were a respectable distance off of the trail, she called for the others to lower their load. She stopped and crouched as the weight of Aeronwind pressed down on her. Finally, with relief, she lowered the post off her shoulder and set the funerary platform among the stones.

  She stood and stretched, pressed her hands into the small of her back. Slight groans escaped some of the hordesmen as they stretched as well. Waterskins were opened and passed around. Bits of cheese and dried meat were shared beneath the sun. As the wind blew in from the north, the sweat evaporated from her skin and left a chill in its place. In silence, they rested and watched as Mardoc and Galelin bought up the rear. They had fallen behind, but not by as much as Trysten had feared. She wanted to go out to her father, to meet him, to bring him a skin of water even though she could see Galelin had water. But it would only embarrass Mardoc, so she stayed put. She glanced around at the other hordesmen as they chatted in quiet, sparse tones and looked at the cairns and stole glances at the cloud-shrouded mountains in the west.

  As Mardoc and Galelin came to a stop at the outer edge of the group, Trysten stood. She walked a short distance off, picked up a rock, and carried it back to Aeronwind. As she crouched next to the dragon, her back ached and her knees throbbed. She placed the rock next to Aeronwind’s head. She stood and gritted her teeth against the complaint in her knees. It seemed that the rest had only made matters worse, given her body a chance to catalog its gripes.

  At her feet, Aeronwind’s head lay motionless. For a brief moment, Trysten expected or hoped that the dragon would lift her head up, rest her chin upon the stone and gaze out at the mountains.

  Paege stepped up to her. “Move her head. She should face the village.”

  Heat flushed across Trysten’s cheeks. She glanced out across the hordesmen. Half of them stood. The other half sat on stones or on the ground. Her father and Galelin remained standing. An open water skin remained clutched in Galelin’s hand, as if he had offered it to Mardoc, but had yet to take the hint that Mardoc would have none of it.

  Trysten took a deep breath. How long would this go on? How long would it take her to learn all that she needed to know?

  She crouched again, slid her fingers underneath Aeronwind’s jaw, then lifted. The head was heavier than she had expected, and the sensation of her fingers sinking into the yielding, leathery flesh under the jaw filled Trysten with an odd feeling. It wasn’t a dragon. It was Aeronwind, but it wasn’t a dragon. She didn’t want to touch it. But still, she straightened her knees and dragged Aeronwind’s head forward and to the dragon’s left until the head faced to the north, toward the village and the River Gul.

  After she placed the dragon’s head on the ground, she retrieved the rock and placed it next to the head. She no longer had the sensation that Aeronwind would move her head. The dragon was lifeless, empty. Would a human body feel the same way? Her stomach sank as she thought of it. Finding out first hand was inevitable.

  As soon as she stood, the rest of the hordesmen scattered and selected stones from among the dirt and heather and brush and grass that littered the plain. Even her father clutched his staff and stooped to pick up a hand-sized stone from the ground. The men brought their stones to Aeronwind and began to place them around the dragon. On they went, piling rocks up and over Aeronwind’s body until the men and Trysten had to climb over the stones to cover Aeronwind’s back. As the work progressed and the sun climbed over the sky, Trysten’s mind shut off, became blank. She thought of little but where to get the next stone and where to place it. She stopped on occasion to drink water, to pour a little on her hands and wash away the dust and grit and blood that gathered as the stones tore at her flesh.

  Finally, the men stopped and stepped back, formed a ring around the cairn. Trysten selected a final stone, a large, flat one the size of a platter, and hefted it up. Her breath came hard and fast. Despite the cool weather, sweat prickled her forehead. She grasped the stone before her, and step by step climbed up over the stones packed around Aeronwind’s body. At the top, she peered over her shoulder. Her father stood down near Aeronwind’s head. He leaned upon his staff more than usual. His shoulders heaved. He panted. It wasn’t the work, so much, as it was the strain, the pain perhaps of all he had been through. Physical and emotional. She had to remember that. She had no idea what he had been through the last couple of days. She’d have to remember that. Someday she might be in his shoes, relinquishing the title to a child of her own.

  She let the weight of the stone flex her knees as she crouched atop the cairn and allowed the rock to settle into place. She remained still a few seconds, then placed the palm of her hand against the flat of the stone. Her fingers ached. The knuckles felt sore. A long, rough scrape beneath her index finger burned and felt soothed against the cool of the rock.

  “Thank you,” Trysten whispered to the dragon within. “Thank you for all you have done for us. We will remember you.”

  After a moment of the wind whispering, she stood, turned, and picked her way down the stones. At the bottom, she approached her father. He straightened up but didn’t resist as she drew him into an embrace. She buried her face into his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around her, pulling her close. She took a deep breath and smelled the leather and wool of him.

  When she let go, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side. She looked away, to the cairn, so that she wouldn’t see the tears brimming in his eyes.

  “Are we ready?” Trysten asked no one in particular. A few nods from the men indicated that their work was done. A few cast their glances back to the cairn.

  “Then let’s go,” Trysten said. She pressed lightly against the small of her father’s back, urging him back in the direction they came.

  He planted his staff before himself and leaned into it. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “That is not my place. You lead. The fallen bring up the rear.”

  “Who says?” Trysten asked.

  Her father looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head. “Tradition. That is how it is done.”

  “No one has taken the time to explain these things to me, to tell me about the traditions that I am supposed to observe, so how am I to know?”

  Her father glanced away, to some unseen point off over the horizon behind Trysten. “You learn as you go.”

  Trysten shook her head. “If it were that important, someone would have explained it to me. How was Paege expected to know any of this?”

  “He was a hordesman. He’s participated in burials before. He’s seen it done.”

  “But I wasn’t allowed to be a hordesman. How am I expected to know any of this?”

  Her father continued to not meet her gaze, to not look her in the eye. It was odd, strange. It was unlike him to shy away from a challenge to authority or tradition.

/>   “You will learn as you go.”

  Trysten shook her head. “Not good enough. If you can’t bother to tell me what I need to know, then I’m making up my own traditions. And from now on, I walk with the fallen—No,” she said with another shake of the head. “First of all, I’m getting rid of that word. There is no fallen.”

  “It is not within the realm of the Dragoneer to choose which words we speak.”

  “I will not speak it. And you will walk by my side back to the village. That is my order.”

  Her father closed his eyes briefly. The look of pain in his expression nearly made Trysten backpedal, take away all that she said. But there would be no taking it away. What was said was out there never to be unheard.

  “Please,” he said, then finally looked her in the eye. “These are the traditions that I have fought for. These are the traditions that Aeronwind died for. Allow me to have them.”

  Trysten took half a step back. She swallowed hard. The urge pressed at her to glance around, to see what the hordesmen were doing, to look at the expressions on their faces. She resisted, however. She didn’t want to look like she was seeking their approval or support. This was about her and her father.

  She took a deep breath, then gave a nod. In response, her father merely gripped his staff with his other hand.

  Trysten turned away from him, and as the other hordesmen watched, she began to walk back the way they had come. Paege fell in behind her, just a step or two behind and to her right. Then she heard the boots of the other hordesmen picking through the stones.

  As hard as she listened, she could not hear the light thunk of her father’s staff probing the ground as he leaned his broken weight into it.

  Chapter 28

  Upon their return, the villages welcomed them with a feast. Trysten led them into the weyr, where true to tradition, a row of tables lined the center of the aisle. Plates and platters and bowls and tureens of food crowded the table tops filled with everything from mutton and fish to root stews and sweetbreads. The entire village milled about inside the weyr and watched in near silence as they entered. Up and down the aisle, the dragons turned and looked to her. She glanced back to the middle of the weyr, to Elevera’s stall, and for half a second, her heart stuttered to see it empty, before she recognized the golden hide in the next stall, in Aeronwind’s old stall. There she stood tall, perhaps taller than usual, or maybe even slightly taller than she had been that morning even. She stared back at Trysten with great brown eyes.

  A new sense of authority flooded through her, coursed across her skin, down and within her muscles. She was Elevera, the alpha. Trysten shook her head as if to clear it.

  Paege stepped up to her and leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “Sit. At the head of the table.”

  Trysten gave a nod, though she knew that. She recalled it from when her father was Dragoneer and came back from burial processions. She felt quite proud to sit there, at the left hand of her mother, who sat at the left hand of her father, who sat at the head of the table in a position of honor. He was important, special, and she was important and special to him.

  And until he had died, Paege’s father had sat to her father’s right. She nodded to the place at the first table. “And you will sit there,” she said.

  Paege didn’t respond right away. She thought of him on Elevera, the time she had tried to work with them in secret. He had felt so closed off, walled away on the dragon his father had died upon. But she needed him, his help, and his experience. For the good of the horde and village, he’d have to be her commander.

  He nodded, then moved to the assigned place.

  Trysten stepped up to the head of the table as she had seen her father do. Across the weyr, all of the villagers moved to the tables and stood behind chairs and benches. Her mother smiled and stepped up to her place on Trysten’s left. There Trysten stood and waited to see what her father would do. Finally, he and Galelin entered the weyr. Would he sit to her left, or do something ridiculous like go and sit at the foot of the table, next to the village overseer?

  Trysten’s mother stepped away with a nod to her daughter. Trysten glanced over her shoulder and watched as her mother took her husband by the arm and gave a slight tug. As Trysten feared, he glanced down to the foot of the table and gave a nod. His wife gave another tug. Mardoc allowed his shoulders to heave in a sigh of resignation, and then he followed his wife back to the table and stood to Trysten’s left, between herself and Caron.

  “Thank you,” Trysten mouthed as he gave her a sidelong glance. Caron squeezed his arm. Mardoc straightened his back.

  With everyone in their place, Trysten raised her hands as she had seen her father do, and then lowered them to the table. With a bustle of rustling clothes and creaking wood, the entire village sat at the collection of the tables. And finally, Caron, Mardoc, and Paege sat. Trysten then took her seat. Up and down the table, chatter erupted among the villagers. Utensils clinked, as bowls and platters were lifted and passed around. The mouth-watering scents overwhelmed the scents of dust and hay and leather and even the odor of herself and the hordesmen who had been bathed in sweat all day. Pitchers of water and mead and wine were passed around, and Trysten filled a goblet with water and downed it all in one great draught. As she placed the cup aside, she looked over the villagers, trying to gauge their well-being. How were they faring in the face of all that had changed?

  After dinner, as the crowd of villagers began to thin out, and those that stayed began to clear the remains of the meal, Assina appeared at Trysten’s elbow. “Are you ready for your fitting?”

  Trysten looked up at the young woman. She really wasn’t ready. She stank like a goat, and every muscle in her body ached from the day’s labor. She had wanted nothing more than to head back to her cottage and collapse into her bed.

  As if reading her mind, Assina touched the tips of her fingers to Trysten’s shoulder. “Come on. It won’t take but a few minutes, and the sooner we can get you measured, the sooner Talon and I can get started on your uniform.”

  Trysten spared a glance down at herself. She had begun to think of the donated uniform as hers, but it would be nice to have something that truly was hers and fit like it as well. And following Assina out to her cottage would certainly get her away from the steady stream of villagers who stopped at the head of the table and wished her well on their way out.

  Trysten gave a nod of agreement, then pushed herself up from the table. As she followed Assina out, several more of the villagers stopped her and congratulated her. She accepted the well-wishes with grace and gratitude, but part of her wanted to point out that it wasn’t her doing, that Aeronwind had died and if it were up to her, Aeronwind would still be alive, and her father would still have the title.

  But she smiled and shook hands and thanked those who congratulated her. Between interruptions, she looked back at Elevera, who stood tall and erect, watching over all as Aeronwind had always done.

  Outside, Trysten drew in a deep breath of the cool air. She swore half the day’s heat had dissipated since she arrived at the weyr. She looked to the mountains. No horde of dragons from the Western Kingdom came streaming down. Instead, a dark band of clouds hung over the mountaintops.

  “I hate social functions,” Assina said suddenly.

  Trysten lifted an eyebrow at her.

  “No offense,” Assina said as she shook her head and lifted her hand. “I understand the point of all that.” She waved her hand at the weyr. “But it’s just too much for me, you know?”

  Trysten inhaled deeply. She gave a nod, then thought of the dragons as she ran the palm of her hand over the emblem on the armor. She glanced back at the weyr. How long would it be before everyone cleared out? How long before she could get back in and see Elevera and the other dragons?

  Assina began to head on to her cottage. Trysten waited for a second longer, then fell in behind her.

  Chapter 29

  Assina’s cottage stood empty when they arrived. She lit
a candle from the embers in the hearth and led Trysten back to the workroom. There she lit several more candles and a lantern.

  The door opened. A moment later, Jalite and Talon stood in the doorway.

  “I was about to get Trysten’s measurements,” Assina said as she looked up from a basket containing balls of yarn.

  “I’ll get this one,” Jalite said to her son with a touch upon his shoulder. He nodded, glanced at Trysten once with an odd look, something that she didn’t know how to interpret, and off he went.

  Jalite shut the door behind her. “Those don’t fit you, do they,” she said with a nod to the garments Trysten wore.

  Trysten shook her head. Her arms were too heavy, too weary to cross over her chest, and so they fell limp to her side feeling like lengths of old, worn-out rope.

  “If you would, dear, please take that uniform off so that we may get an accurate measurement. Don’t worry about Talon. He knows better than to poke his head in here when it’s just us women.”

  Trysten glanced at the door. She was too tired to think about it much. She crossed her arms over her chest, grabbed the shoulders of the leather armor, then leaned forward slightly as she tugged upon the shoulders as she had seen her father do. Once she wiggled out of the armor, she pulled off the sweater and let it slip from her fingers. It fell to the floor in a puddle of wool. She couldn’t explain why, but knowing it was Sallisen’s had sullied it. It no longer felt like hers. She had assumed it came from a hordesman no longer with them, but to know his name, and to know that he died in battle, upon Ollus’s back gave it the feeling of wearing someone else’s funerary shroud.

  “Your shirt, too, dear,” Jalite said. “Your modesty will not help us get an accurate measurement. And again, you have my assurance that it is just us. Talon knows better than to walk in on us, or let anyone else in.”