The Dragoneer Trilogy

by Vickie Knestaut

  She told Prince Aymon how the Western horde immediately absconded and bonded to Elevera, and to her surprise, the Prince did not interrupt and ask how that had happened. His dark eyes watched her intently, his face expressionless, void of reaction. She told him of their unconventional approach to the Second Horde, using the Western dragons as a screen. She spoke of how the Second Hordesmen chased her across the land until her own horde came around and Paege’s dragon collided with the Second Horde’s Dragoneer. She detailed how she looped back, drew the village sword and used it to slay the other Dragoneer as he stood upon the ground next to his crippled mount.

  When she explained the response of the Second Hordesmen to their Dragoneer’s death, the dragonslayer swords, the dragons falling lifelessly to the ground with their riders on their backs, the Prince blinked and pulled his head back as if trying to escape the picture she painted. It was the only reaction he had shown since the start of her tale.

  “None of these men lived. None of their dragons,” Prince Aymon said, his voice hushed. It was more a statement than a question.

  Trysten shook her head. “None of them. They all died. Dragons and riders. By their own swords.”

  Prince Aymon shifted in his seat and leaned forward. “Do you have any of the bodies? The men or the dragons?”

  Trysten shook her head again. Her right hand gripped the back of the left. “They were buried where they fell. It is our custom. We…” She knew the people of Aerona would talk. “We brought back a few of their swords.”

  Prince Aymon stood. “You will show me one now.”

  Trysten glanced at the empty corner of the den, then nodded. “Galelin has one. I will go…”

  The Prince stood and walked into the antechamber for his cape. Wrapping it around his shoulders, he strode to the door to the weyr.

  Trysten hurried after him. The whole weyr watched them descend the stairs. At the bottom, Prince Aymon stopped long enough to spot Galelin.

  “Galelin!” Prince Aymon called. “I am told you have in your possession a sword taken from the hordesmen who died by their own hands. You will show me this blade immediately.”

  Galelin glanced from Prince Aymon to Trysten, and then back. He nodded, then handed off a jar of salve to one of the young boys who apprenticed in the weyr.

  As the Prince watched the exchange, he nodded. “You are the healer of this horde.” Again, it was more statement than a question.

  “Yes,” Galelin said as he picked up a rag and wiped his hands. “I look after the dragons.”

  “Then you are versed in their lore as well.”

  Galelin placed the rag over the stall’s edge. “I like to be well-versed in a little bit of everything, but consider myself no expert.”

  “Your humility serves no one,” Prince Aymon said. “Show me the sword and tell me what your own studies have revealed.”

  Galelin looked to Trysten again, as if seeking permission to continue. Trysten merely held his gaze for a brief moment before he returned his attention to the Prince. “Right, then. This way.”

  As Galelin led them out of the weyr, Prince Aymon called for Muzad again. The man bounded across the field once more, mud and water splashing from each of his footfalls.

  When Galelin stopped at the door to his cottage, Trysten held her breath. What if Paege had also taken the sword from Galelin? Surely not. It was one thing for him to slip inside her den, but it would be another thing entirely to remove something from Galelin’s cottage without his permission.

  Galelin opened the door and stepped inside. Prince Aymon and Muzad entered behind him, spreading out, one to the left, one to the right as if they had expected an ambush. Instead, they found the customary piles of books and baskets of scrolls, but no enemies other than dust and time.

  The dragonslayer sword rested on the table where Trysten had placed it after she had shown it to the prisoners. Galelin had taken his blanket back, so the sword lay naked and brutal in the shadows and half-light that fell through the rain-wracked windows.

  “Is this it?” Prince Aymon asked as he stepped up to the weapon.

  Galelin nodded. “That it is.” He gave Trysten a curious look.

  Prince Aymon plucked the sword from the table and held it upright before himself. He examined it slowly from tip to hilt, then turned it sideways, allowing the blade to rest on his open palms so that he could study the detail of the handle.

  Finally, he held the sword out, hilt-first, to Muzad. “What do you think?”

  Muzad, his face marred by a scar that ran down his left cheek and interrupted his beard, took the sword and repeated the examination. Finally, he grasped the hilt and raked several swipes through the air inside the cottage. Galelin gasped as the tip of the sword barely cleared a chair, then a stack of books. Muzad turned the sword upside down and grasped the hilt with both hands. He made a downward stabbing motion to the space between his legs.

  Trysten flinched. How could Muzad have known the intent of the deadly blade? She had been with the Prince since she told him of the Second Horde. He could not have told Muzad.

  Apparently satisfied, Muzad handed the sword back to Prince Aymon. “It is genuine. They cannot craft such a fine sword in this village.”

  “Then it is agreed,” Prince Aymon said.

  Muzad gave a curt nod, his gaze dipping to Prince Aymon’s shoulders.

  Trysten and Galelin exchanged a confused look. What was agreed?

  “What have your studies revealed, Healer?” Prince Aymon asked as he turned to Galelin, the sword still in his hand.

  Galelin took half a step back. He glanced at Trysten.

  “I asked you a question, Healer. Not her.”

  Galelin turned to the Prince. “Yes, your Highness.” He looked at the sword in Prince Aymon’s hand, then gestured at the books on his table. “I only know what is commonly written in the shared lore. I know that swords such as these are rumored to belong to the Second Horde.”

  “What do you know of the Second Horde?” Prince Aymon asked quietly.

  “According to legend, the hordesmen of the Second Horde are the personal guards of an Original. That is all I know of them.” Galelin shrugged.

  “But you are a learned man, Healer,” Prince Aymon said. “You don’t believe in myths and legends. You believe in what can be observed and measured. You were applying a salve to the irritation of a dragon, were you not? You don’t believe in the old incantations, the healing by rites, do you?”

  “I do not,” Galelin snapped. He straightened his back and looked at Prince Aymon as if he had been insulted.

  “Of course not. Because such things…” Prince Aymon looked at the dragonslayer sword, let his gaze wander down the length of the blade. “Such things are myth. They are merely legends. If you could heal a dragon’s wounds by incantation, by the letting of blood, then you would do that, right? Because it would work.”

  Galelin shook his head. “That’s preposterous. There is no such thing as magic.”

  Prince Aymon gave a firm nod. “Correct. There is no magic. There are no Originals. There is no Second Horde, and most certainly,” Prince Aymon said handing the sword back to Muzad, but looking at Trysten, “there are no Dragon Lords.”

  Trysten nearly buzzed with the desire to run, to get as far away from the Prince as she could. Instead, she thought of her father and tried to mimic his reserve.

  Prince Aymon returned his attention to Galelin. “I believe our enemy has changed their tactics. They are apparently mining our legends for mental weapons, trying to undo our spirits, collapse our faith in the way things are. We are stronger than that. I will rely on you, Healer, to set a tone in this village. You are respected as a man of learning. I expect you to speak up against accusations of magic and sorcery and other such nonsense.”

  Galelin nodded. “Of course, your Highness,” he said calmly.

  “But,” Prince Aymon said, “unanswered questions still remain, and I do not care for unanswered questions. My investigation i
nto how this situation has come to be will continue until it is complete.”

  He gestured to Muzad, and they crossed to the door. The Prince turned to Trysten.

  “Despite these compelling mysteries, I have not forgotten the original intent of my visit,” he continued. “Trysten of Aerona, you are commended for your brave service to the kingdom, and I thank you for it. But you are still in violation of the King’s laws, as well as behaving with contempt for his direct orders. You are not fit for the position you hold. You are relieved of duty as of this moment. You are no longer Dragoneer of Aerona weyr. You are Fallen, Trysten of Aerona. You are forbidden from riding dragons, and you are banned from the weyr outside of any custodial arrangements the situation necessitates.”

  Trysten’s jaw dropped. Heat flooded her face. Blood rushed through her head, and she couldn’t think. By the time she put together a rebuttal, the Prince had departed, taking his shadow Muzad and the dragonslayer sword with him.

  Galelin placed a hand upon her shoulder. He said something, but Trysten couldn’t hear what it was. Her head swam with the words Prince Aymon had spoken.

  She shrugged away from Galelin’s hand and burst out of his cottage, into the rain which pelted down, cold and relentless. To her right, Prince Aymon and Muzad strode toward the weyr, their backs to her. Muzad held the dragonslayer sword before himself, as if it was an item of incomprehensible value, but still a sword.

  “Prince Aymon!” Trysten shouted.

  The Prince and his dragoneer stopped. The Prince turned halfway around. The rain had washed several locks of dark hair down before his eyes. He looked at her blankly, clearly annoyed that she was wasting his time.

  “You can’t do this!” Trysten shouted. She stomped forward, towards the men. Mud flew from her path.

  “But I already did,” the Prince said as he faced her, his shoulders raised in a nonchalant shrug.

  “I’m bonded to Elevera. You cannot just ban that. She obeys me. The horde will respond only to me!” She thrust a finger into her own breastbone.

  “Yes,” Prince Aymon said with a nod. “A most unfortunate waste of fine dragons. I will decide what will become of the beasts upon the completion of my investigation. In the interim, my own personal horde will see to the protection of this village and its people.”

  He turned away.

  “The lore says that women are not capable of bonding with dragons, yet I did,” Trysten shouted at the Prince’s back. “Are you afraid of what that means? Are you afraid of Adalina?”

  Prince Aymon paused and turned half-way around again. “You are no Adalina.” Scorn blistered his words. He turned and continued on to the weyr.

  “Prince Aymon!” Trysten shouted again, the air ripping at her lungs.

  The Prince did not pause, but continued on, lockstep with Muzad.

  “Prince Aymon, please,” Trysten repeated, her voice shredded by the downpour. She stood in the rain and watched as the men disappeared into her weyr.

  Chapter 16

  The cottage door opened. Trysten did not look up from the smoldering fire in the hearth.

  “Trysten?” Caron asked.

  Trysten didn’t respond. What was there to say?

  “I heard what happened. Here, cover up. You’re so wet!” Caron placed a blanket over Trysten, covering the knitting that had laid in her lap since she plopped down in the chair.

  She crouched beside the fire and added a few more logs. “I don’t want you to catch a chill while you’re brooding.”

  Trysten looked up to her mother. “I’m not brooding. I’m trying to think of a way to make Prince Aymon change his mind.”

  “And what have you come up with?”

  Trysten shook her head.

  “Have you eaten?” Caron asked, crossing to the kitchen area of the cottage.

  Trysten shrugged.

  “Your father and I stayed in the weyr after you and Galelin left. We were still there when Prince Aymon came back. By the wilds, he was in a foul mood. He is a disagreeable man, isn’t he?” A spoon scraped against a kettle.

  “He’s no friend of mine,” Trysten mumbled.

  “He was pulling the hordesmen up to your den one by one, starting with Paege.”

  Trysten’s head fell back against the chair. Paege. He still had the pendant and the sword. Surely he had hidden them. But where? And if she couldn’t get the horde back, would he mind so much being a carpenter? Would he be better off building the next weyr than serving as her commander?

  She recalled Prince Aymon’s words. There would be no next weyr. The dragons were bonded to her. Without a dragoneer and an alpha to lead them, they would lack the unity that they needed to wage a successful battle. The dragons would be sent away. Her horde would be cared for until she grew old and died or Elevera did. At that point, with her bond broken, the dragons that were still young enough to fight would be bonded to another. The older dragons would be pressed into other services, or allowed to die of old age themselves.

  In the meantime, a new horde with a new dragoneer would be brought to Aerona. There would be no more dragoneers from Trysten’s family line.

  Caron placed a small pot on the hob. “Some stew to warm you.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “That’s why it’s on the hob, Little Heart. It will be warm when you’re ready for it.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Trysten sighed.

  “Should I call you Fallen Little Heart, instead?”

  Trysten glared at her mother for a moment, then turned back to the fire.

  “What are you going to do now that you are no longer a dragoneer?” Caron asked, as if making simple conversation.

  Trysten drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out.”

  “What have you come up with?”

  Trysten didn’t answer right away. “Nothing. I’m thinking.”

  “Do you have any interest in apprenticing with Galelin? He’s a man with lots of time to think if that suits you better.”

  Trysten’s brow furrowed. She looked from the growing flames of the fire to her mother. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “That’s what dragon healers do, is it not? They think. That is their stock-in-trade. They produce thoughts and ideas, much like coopers produce barrels, and blacksmiths produce iron goods. If you want to think, then becoming a dragon healer is probably suited for you.”

  Trysten turned her attention back to the fire. “Are dragon healers allowed to be women?”

  Caron chuckled. “That’s what I love about you, Little Heart.”

  Trysten smirked. “That I’ve fallen?”

  “That you asked if healers are allowed to be women, rather than asking if women are allowed to be healers.”

  “I don’t see the difference.”

  “Because you are not looking. But you already know the difference.” Caron tapped her forehead.

  Trysten shifted in her seat. “The difference isn’t doing me much good, now. How do I use it to convince Prince Aymon to restore my title?”

  “Why is it that he gets to be the one who tells you what you are?”

  Trysten looked up at her mother. “What do you mean?”

  “You know you are Dragoneer. Elevera knows you are Dragoneer,” Caron said. Her eyes glistened in the firelight. “It is far more than just a title bestowed by a King. There would be dragoneers even if there were no kings.”

  Trysten sat up a little straighter. Where was her mother going with this?

  “Your father was a good dragoneer, and he did the job with a sense of duty that would have made any one of his ancestors proud. But you, Little Heart, are something different. You are a true dragoneer. There hasn’t been a true dragoneer in many, many generations. Until now.”

  Trysten swallowed. Her hand gripped the arm of the chair. “How do you know?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  “I have wondered since you were born. The way you used to claim that you could speak
to the dragons when you were a little girl. When you forced Ulbeg to act against Elevera on the day you took Paege’s tassel, I was suspicious. The day you bonded with Elevera, I was pretty certain. The day you came back with a captured horde, I knew.” Caron smiled.

  Trysten tried to speak, but could not.

  “Your grandmother, my mother, was a remarkable woman. Strong-willed. Assertive. Every bit the daughter of a dragoneer. Just like you.”

  “You know about your grandfather!” Trysten gasped.

  Caron’s brow creased. “Wait. You know about my grandfather? Who told you?”

  Trysten clenched her teeth. Had she stepped into it or what?

  “How do you know about your great-grandfather?”

  Trysten’s shoulders slumped. “Father told me.”

  Caron planted her hands upon her hips. “How did he know?”

  “He… You’ll have to ask him.”

  Caron shook her head. “Yes, I suppose I will when he gets back. But my point is you are the Dragoneer. It is not a title that can be stripped from you. It is not up to some prince from a distant city to tell you what you are—who you are. What you are is more than that. It is inside. It is part of you. You were born with it. You are the Dragoneer. You cannot stop being who you are. It is impossible. And, you are not going to accomplish anything by trying to hide it.”

  Trysten took a deep breath. Her mother was right. She was the Dragoneer, and to the wilds with the consequences. Challenging tradition had never stopped her before. She stood and folded the blanket.

  “Where are you going?” her mother asked.

  “I have to speak with some people. I still have duties to perform.”

  Trysten laid the blanket on the back of the chair and started for the door.

  “Trysten,” her mother called out.

  She glanced over her shoulder.

  Caron reached into the pocket of her blue dress and pulled something out enclosed in her fist. She held her fist out, then loosened her grip until a dragon tooth pendant dropped and dangled before her on a delicate chain.

  Chapter 17