The Dragoneer Trilogy

by Vickie Knestaut

  But the river banks were empty now. Not a soul was to be seen among the reeds and grasses bending in the breeze. The water sparkled in the sunlight, teasing how delightful and cold it would feel in the building heat of the day.

  Trysten paused and looked out across the plains to the north. Behind her, she could hear a few people shouting. A pile of lumber fell over, clattering to the ground. Someone yelled about being careful.

  She took a deep breath. The impending battle had consumed the village. Behind her, the sound of crunching grass announced that someone approached. She turned to see Paege just a few feet away. She really needed to be more alert to her surroundings these days, but she was so tired.

  Paege stepped up to her and nodded his head. "Here at your command, madame," he said, feigning a bow.

  He looked at the sky and closed his eyes, letting the sun bake his face. Trysten couldn't help but notice his healing battle wounds and the blows he'd taken from Muzad. Paege's face seemed to hold every color of the rainbow.

  After soaking in the sun for a few moments, Paege opened his eyes. "What's on your mind?" he asked Trysten.

  Trysten sighed. "What else? The army. Muzad. Rodden. I need to know what you think, Paege."

  "About what?" Paege asked, turning his face to the sun again.

  She snorted slightly with impatience. "About all of it. But let's start with Rodden. We need to be able to speak with him. He has the answer to many of our questions."

  Paege gave a slight shake of his head, barely visible. “If you say so.”

  “You would say different?”

  “It’s not up to me,” Paege answered.

  “I’m asking your opinion.”

  Paege took a deep breath. “I don’t agree with Muzad,” he finally said.

  “Well, that’s comforting. But what do you think about this, about Rodden, about the situation?” Trysten asked, gesturing back to the weyr.

  Paege placed a hand on a flat rock near where Trysten stood, then sat down. He hung his head for a moment, then looked back up to Trysten and took a deep breath.

  “To be honest," he said, "I have a hard time with the way you treat him. Just a few weeks ago, he was on Maejel’s back, trying to kill us. He shot arrows that wounded our dragons. And now we bring him a warm breakfast on a tray, let him sleep next to his dragon, and ask nothing of him in return.”

  “I’m asking him to learn our language and to teach me his.”

  “What makes you think he even wants any of that?” Paege asked. "Why would he want to help us? Because he believes you are an Original? Or maybe he thinks you have slain the Originals? You wear the sword of their guards. You want to really convince him, show him that pendant beneath your tunic.”

  Trysten glared at Paege. "You're not helping.”

  He shrugged and turned his attention to the south. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know what it is you are trying to do.”

  “I’m trying to save lives. If we could speak with Rodden, then we could find out what is going on, why we are fighting.”

  “I know,” Paege said. “You’ve said before. But what I don’t understand is...”

  He looked at her, and his expression was unreadable. A bit of a breeze blew in, rustling the stiff reeds before it ruffled Paege's hair.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Paege said. He turned his attention back to the west.

  “Don’t do that to me,” she said, sitting down on the rock near Paege. "Please."

  Paege’s shoulders heaved in a sigh. He looked at the ground for a second, then looked at Trysten.

  “You ask a lot from us, Trysten. We try. We know you’re the Dragoneer, and that you saved the horde from absconding. We’re grateful, and we will follow you into battle at a moment's notice.”

  “But?”

  Paege looked away, into the distance, as if looking at Trysten right now was too hard for him.

  “How do you think it makes us feel to be sleeping not twenty yards from him? He tried to kill us in battle. And it is his countrymen who just bloodied our noses this morning. Seeing his reaction to your sword back in the weyr only makes me that much more convinced that the Westerners have something to do with the Originals.”

  Paege looked back to Trysten. “We are hordesmen, soldiers. We have sworn our lives to the protection of the kingdom and the village. This meant that we flew behind the Dragoneer into battle every year, every fighting season. But now, we find ourselves following you into battle, and it's a different thing.”

  “A different thing? Because of what? Because I am a...” Trysten stopped. She didn't want to have to ask it again. Would she ever be accepted by everyone if even Paege still struggled with her being the Dragoneer?

  “Because you are a sa yalla,” Paege said.

  Trysten jumped. Where was he going with this?

  “Everything is different," Paege said quietly. "We don’t learn how these people speak, we learn how to defend ourselves against their attacks. They attack us. We don't invade their kingdom. And you want to learn their tongue so that you can hear their excuses for slaughtering us for how many centuries? Do you know anyone who hasn't lost a loved one to a Western attack? My own father fell in battle with those devils.”

  Trysten blinked. Her throat tightened. How much Paege sounded like Muzad and Prince Aymon. She stopped herself from saying as much, because Paege was right. Maybe there was no good defense of her plan.

  Paege took a deep breath and looked away again. He plucked a piece of grass and fidgeted with it. “It’s just tough. That’s all. Have some patience with me. With us. Nothing is as it once was, and we all have to adjust.”

  She swallowed again, worked on loosening up her throat. “I understand.”

  “Really? Do you?" he asked. "Can you?"

  Trysten nodded and took a deep breath. She stood and walked a few steps away.

  “When I was waiting for you to get here, I was thinking about how we used to play along this river as children. And how I wish I could go back there. You were my best friend, Paege."

  Paege looked up at her, his hands stilled. "We’re not friends anymore?”

  “Of course we are. It’s just that... Things change, you know? I never thought that things would come to this. That we would be...” She shifted her hand between the two of them.

  “Dragoneer and subordinate?” he asked.

  “Not really. When I pictured the future, I pictured us both riding behind my father. For the longest time, I just wanted to be a hordesman. It wasn’t until... Until Aeronwind...” She swallowed and looked away. A breeze blew again and wicked the hints of sweat from Trysten’s brow.

  “Really?” Paege asked.

  Trysten looked back to her friend. “Why? Is that so hard to believe?”

  “Yeah, actually, it is. When we played Dragoneer, you were always the Dragoneer. I was always your commander." He chuckled quietly. "All my life, huh? All my life, I’ve been your commander.” Paege pushed himself to his feet and stretched.

  Trysten stepped closer and looked at him, his hazel eyes squinted against the sun. His spine straightened, and he drew his shoulders back like a soldier under review.

  “Don’t,” Trysten said with a shake of her head.

  “Don’t what?” he asked, meeting her eyes.

  “Don’t be like that. You’re not a dragon. You don’t have to be a soldier every minute I'm near.”

  Paege shook his head, holding her gaze. “Didn’t you hear me? I am your commander. Until I die will always be your commander.”

  Trysten turned away, to the north. She blinked hard and looked up at the clouds that lay over the horizon, thin and white, like a wedge of worn and weathered stone. A wedge that sharply divided sky from ground and sun from shade.

  She envied such clear distinctions.

  Chapter 22

  A knock sounded on Trysten’s door.

  She looked up from her knitting. Her father returned her gaze. He didn't move or say anything, but she co
uld tell he wasn't expecting anyone either.

  She went to the front of the cottage and opened the door. Galelin stood outside in the last of the dusk. He pulled a cloth cap from his head and held it in both hands before himself.

  “I thought you might want to hear about my day before I retire for the evening,” he said.

  “Of course,” Trysten said. She stepped out of the doorway and motioned toward the chairs. “Thank you for stopping by. I was hoping to see you. Can I fix you a cup of tea?”

  “That would be lovely. Yes, my dear.” Galelin ambled in, stiff-legged and weary-looking.

  As Trysten busied herself with filling the kettle and stuffing tea leaves in a pot, Galelin nodded to Mardoc, then sat heavily across from the fallen Dragoneer. He let out a sigh, then rubbed at his brow.

  “Belara?” Trysten asked as she crossed the room to place the kettle on the hob.

  “Belara... Yes. Yes. The pink one. She will be fine. She took several arrows to her wings, a number to the abdomen, and one to the throat. Fortunately, the arrows seemed to have all missed any critical spots. She will take some time to recover, but recover she will.”

  Mardoc nodded in approval.

  Galelin leaned forward and placed his elbows upon his knees. “Which leads me up to the greatest concern that faces us.” He looked from Mardoc to Trysten and held her gaze. “One of Muzad’s dragons will not make it. Her injuries are too great to heal. I suspect that she will not see the sunrise again.”

  Trysten tightened all over.

  “We’re lucky that is the worst of the wounded to return. There are two more, in addition to Belara, that have a shaky convalescence before them. I suspect they will pull through. I’ve learned never to underestimate dragons. They possess the best of us.”

  “By their wisdom,” Mardoc mumbled with a nod.

  Galelin took a deep breath, then rubbed his palms together quickly, as if to warm them, before pulling them apart and looking down at the flesh. “But they may not heal fast enough.”

  “How bad is it?” Trysten asked.

  Galelin’s hands went limp at the wrist. He looked up at Trysten. “All told, between the two hordes, four dragons will not be able to fight in the coming battle.”

  Trysten shook her head. “Four?”

  Galelin nodded. “Along with Muzad’s fallen, and the fallen from today’s battle...” Galelin’s gaze drifted off.

  “Fewer than thirty with riders,” Mardoc said, and his voice was solid stone, a figure dropped from the heavens without apology.

  Trysten reached up and rubbed her shoulders briefly, suddenly chilled. “We have plenty of dragons. We have all of the Western reserves. They will fight.”

  Galelin nodded absently and continued to stare off into some distance beneath the dining table. “Yes.” He looked up to Trysten. “But you are short of riders, as well, and they heal even more slowly than dragons.”

  “How many?”

  “Four.”

  “Muzad’s men?”

  Galelin shook his head. He rattled off the names.

  Trysten’s breath stopped. Four of her hordesmen injured. When Galelin ordered her out of the weyr, she hadn't received the count yet.

  “Four men won’t make the difference,” Mardoc said. “The dragons will win this battle. Once the reinforcements arrive, the army will not be able to stand against our numbers. That is just a natural fact.”

  Galelin looked down to his hands again. He splayed his fingers wide and peered at the backs of them. “I suppose so. But from what I heard...” He looked up at Mardoc. “They know. The Western horde knew about Trysten. Her powers.”

  It was Mardoc’s turn to shift in his seat, to sit forward and place an elbow on his knee. “All the more that they should fear us.” He gave a single nod as if he had just put the argument to bed.

  “True,” Galelin said. “But they have played their hand today. They have shown that not only do they not fear going up against us but that they are not defenseless. They bloodied our noses good.”

  Mardoc sat back and waved a dismissive hand. “It was nothing. They got lucky. It was that fool Muzad who was responsible for most of our losses. Had he fought with Trysten, instead of against her, we’d be having a much different conversation.”

  “But we’re not having that conversation, are we?” Galelin asked. “We’re not having it because it didn’t happen, and so what does it matter? The fact is that they have shown that they know about Trysten, and they are prepared to fight us anyway.”

  “Next time,” Trysten said partially to remind the men that she was still in the room with them, “they will not be so lucky. We will be ready for them. And it’s not like they got away without a scratch or two themselves. They lost a number of dragons and riders of their own.”

  Galelin looked at Trysten. “I heard about the Original as well.”

  “For all the sky,” Mardoc grumbled. “No one can keep a secret in this village.”

  “I don’t think it is any coincidence that he showed up and that the horde attacked right after you threw his offer back in his face.”

  “You’re not the first one to suggest that,” Trysten said.

  “No, it’s pretty obvious,” Galelin said. “As it was meant to be. They have a plan. They have something in mind. Their actions today were those of men filled with confidence.”

  “They will have a surprise coming then,” Mardoc said, “once the reinforcements arrive.”

  Galelin rubbed his hands together again. “That’s what I’m saying, Mardoc. Their plan was interrupted. I imagine that it was a mistake that Trysten, Kaylar, and Prince Aymon discovered them. They meant to march across the wild plains and not reveal themselves until the watch cried from the tower. What should have been their greatest strength—the element of surprise—was taken from them. Yet it doesn’t seem to have bothered them in the least. They march on, assured enough in their abilities and powers to actively taunt us, because make no mistake,” Galelin said as he jabbed his finger at the floor, “that is what they did today. The Western horde taunted us.”

  “Their overconfidence will be their undoing,” Mardoc suggested.

  Galelin sat back in his chair with a sigh that bordered on disgust and frustration.

  “You’re right,” Trysten said in a quiet voice.

  Mardoc lifted an eyebrow in Trysten’s direction.

  “There’s something more,” Trysten said. “They have something else up their sleeves.”

  “While patching up the hordesmen and their dragons, I heard how the Western horde behaved. They acted like a man who had tucked a knife inside his boot before attending to a fist fight,” Galelin said.

  “But what are they up to?” Trysten asked.

  Mardoc shook his head. “The Western hordesmen have always been like this. They attack us year after year, and year after year, we send them fleeing back across the mountain pass.”

  Galelin winced, no doubt remembering his father, the fallen Dragoneer of Drowlin. Trysten's great-grandfather.

  “I don’t know,” the old healer said. “But I wonder whether it is the Originals who are the hidden weapon. If they are indeed what the Western army has in store for us, then why contact you and make you such an offer?” Galelin asked Trysten.

  “Something doesn’t add up,” he said with a shake of his head. “There is something else here. Something we are missing. We are looking right past it.”

  “Rodden might know," Trysten said.

  Galelin and Mardoc both looked up at Trysten.

  “Would he?” Mardoc asked. “He is a hordesman. How many of your hordesmen know what is going on? It is enough that they follow the Dragoneer's orders.”

  “They know a lot more than you give them credit for,” Galelin said to Mardoc.

  “He knows why they attack us. And he knows...” Trysten let out a frustrated sigh before shifting her weight. “He recognized the sword. He knows about the Originals.”

  Both Mardoc and Galelin look
ed at her in surprise.

  “We would be fools not to figure out how to speak to him,” Trysten said. “If you want to know what is going on, then ask the people who are responsible.”

  Mardoc and Galelin each exchanged a look that Trysten couldn’t interpret.

  “I’m afraid we simply don’t have the time,” Galelin said. He slapped his hands upon his knees. “A commodity of which I am drastically short of on many levels. If you will excuse me, I’ve had a long day. I must get home and get some sleep. I dare say I will have a busy day tomorrow attending to wounds.”

  Trysten gestured at the hearth. “Your tea isn’t done.”

  Galelin pushed himself to his feet with a grunt that slurred into a groan. “It’ll have to wait, my dear. Keep it warm for me or drink it yourself.”

  As he rounded the chair, he patted Trysten on the cheek. It caught her by surprise. He’d never touched her in such a manner before. He grinned, and his eyes glistened.

  “Well, I must be off,” he mumbled as he turned away.

  “Sleep well, Galelin,” Mardoc called after him, starting to rise from his chair.

  “Bah! Don’t trouble yourself to get up,” Galelin called back and waved a dismissive hand behind himself.

  “Thank you,” Trysten said as she crossed to the front of the cottage and pulled the door open as Galelin reached for it. “For all of your work. For the dragons and the men. Thank you for saving them.”

  Galelin smiled. His eyes, rimmed in red, still threatened to overflow. “It is a life well-lived that has been spent seeing to the needs of others. Good night.”

  As Galelin moved forward to leave, Trysten inserted herself in his path and wrapped her arms around him a great hug. He let out a little huff of surprise, and then hugged back.

  “Thank you for that, dear,” Galelin said as he pulled away, and then after a nod, he shuffled out the doorway and into the new night. It filled Trysten with a quiet dread as he stepped out of sight as if his parting statement had been intended to be his last words.

  As she closed the door, the water began to boil. She hurried to the hob and picked up the kettle. She turned to her father. “Cup?”