“Fang!” Ren shouted and held out his hand to the young man.
“Fang?” Tyber asked.
“It’s not what you think,” Ren said, then laughed as the young man blushed an uncomfortable shade of red.
“I didn’t think you’d actually do it, man!” Ren said. “I looked for you out on the range, but I never saw you.”
Fang mumbled an excuse lost to the general ruckus of the recruits around them.
“Fang, this is Tyber. Tyber, meet Fang.” Ren wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulders and gave him a shake. “Best man you can have when you need a man who knows when to shut up.” Ren laughed and slapped Fang on the shoulder, then gestured at the bench on the other side of him. “Sit, man! Sit!”
Fang nodded at Tyber, then did as instructed. The boy’s clothes were much better than Ren’s but not nearly as nice as the reds and yellows worn by the handsome boys who sat ahead of them, in the middle of the auditorium in a group.
As Ren and Fang exchanged hushed words, a man exited a narrow doorway near the back of the stage and approached the lectern. He was an odd-looking man with a strange presence. He seemed tall and walked with confidence, like a large man who entered a room and surveyed it to see if he was still the tallest. Yet he was hardly any taller than Tyber. His face was long and narrow, and he stepped up to the lectern and surveyed the crowd with his arms folded behind the back of his dark robe.
The noise in the room began to subside.
“Welcome to His Majesty’s Royal Academy of Dragon Riders,” the man said. His voice rang clear and true as if he stood next to Tyber instead of across a small auditorium. “I am Master Groal.”
The man took a moment to survey the crowd, his eyes darting through the auditorium. His gaze stilled the boys, quieting their teases and banter like a touch upon the shoulder.
“I want to thank each of you today for your commitment to the Cadwaller kingdom. The service of the kingdom’s brave young men is needed now more than ever, as our enemies have grown bolder and stronger. They are mighty. Their dragons fly high, and their breath burns hot. Their arrows are sharp. Yet each of you has seen the recruitment clerk despite the news—accurate or otherwise—flooding the city streets.”
Master Groal shifted his weight and surveyed the crowd. “Yet, here you are. Here each of you sits despite the fate of our fallen Wing Master Gerig and his swell of brave hordesmen. Perhaps you knew one of the Fallen. Perhaps you lost a brother. A father. A friend. If you lost nothing more than a countryman, then you have still lost. But you have gained as well.”
As Master Groal surveyed the crowd once more, Tyber slouched a bit. His cheeks reddened at the suggestion that he was here because he was brave.
“You have received from the Fallen the gift of their honor, and I say to you that there can be no greater gift!” Master Groal thundered. “Our heroes died in defense of this kingdom, and what has each of you said in response?”
Ren rocked forward slightly. “I’ll take the silver, please,” he said under his breath.
“I am next,” Master Groal said. “I am next!”
He scanned the auditorium once again. “I stand among heroes. I stand among our kingdom’s future. I stand among honor, hope, and a terror that will drive the Western Kingdom back behind our mountains for good!” The man nodded his sharp chin in a definitive, final way.
“Thank you,” Master Groal said. “You have stepped up when called upon. Now…” He held his hands out at his side, pale palms open.
Tyber stared at the man’s fingers. They were extraordinarily long. His mother’s fingers had been long and thin, but nothing like Groal’s. Tyber shivered despite the heat settling into the auditorium.
“We don’t normally do things this way,” Master Groal continued. “The academy normally runs at the start of the peaceful season and elevates its recruits to hordesmen at the conclusion of the following peaceful season. But these times require us to be more flexible and more forgiving in our expectations. This class will be an accelerated one. You will be asked for a lot, and in return, you will be given a lot. The men who place their lives between our kingdom and its enemies are never forgotten.”
Master Groal slipped his hands behind his back, the movement fluid but slightly awkward at the same time. He looked across his audience again. The light from the windows reflected off of the dark hair swept back from his high forehead. It gave him the appearance of being bald.
“After a few words from Wing Master Yaris, the weyrboys will escort you to your bunks. There, you will meet the proctors who will see that you are initiated appropriately and that all of your questions are answered. Before I turn you over to Wing Master Yaris, does anyone have any questions for me?”
A boy raised his hand, and Master Groal nodded in his direction.
The boy half-stood, sat, and then stood again. “Uhm. I was wondering, when do we get our dragons, sir?”
Weak laughter rolled through the auditorium.
Master Groal grinned a toothy grin. “You do not get a dragon, young man. You never will. Every dragon in the kingdom is owned by His Majesty, and that will never change. Every dragon that enters the kingdom immediately becomes His Majesty’s property. But as a recruit, you are given the opportunity to earn the loyalty of one of His Majesty’s dragons. Those who do become hordesmen. Those who do not…” Master Groal lifted an eyebrow and shrugged as if the answer was obvious.
Tyber slouched a little further as if Groal were pointing a long bony finger directly at him.
“Now, if there are no further questions…” Master Groal looked out across the recruits. His expression suggested that he’d prefer there were none.
“Then I will send Wing Master Yaris to speak to you. Once again, my personal thanks to each of you. I look forward to watching you master the art of dragon combat in the following months.”
Master Groal turned on his heels and retreated from the stage and through the door he’d used to enter the auditorium.
“What happens to the people who don’t earn the loyalty of dragons?” Tyber asked Ren.
“What?” Ren asked.
“What happens to them? They fail out, right?”
“Of course,” Ren said. “What did you think would happen? They’d get fed to the dragons?”
The room grew quiet again. Tyber returned his attention to the stage, and approaching the lectern was the same man who had knelt on the balcony before Prince Regis the day all of this began.
Tyber drew a deep breath through his nose. Ren seemed to find this all to be a great lark, a scheme to get fed and a bit of money. But as Wing Master Yaris stepped up to the lectern and surveyed the audience with his stern face, Tyber had a disturbing sense that he was sinking in over his head.
Wing Master Yaris started into a speech that lasted for what felt like a long time. Tyber stifled a yawn and wondered if a prison sentence might have been preferable.
At the speech’s conclusion, weyrboys emerged from the shadowed corners and doorways. They ushered the recruits through a series of long, seemingly endless halls of stone lit by windows that looked out onto the courtyard or the archery range. Periodically, without warning, the procession stopped, and one of the weyrboys walked down the line of recruits, tagged certain ones on the shoulder, and pointed toward a wooden door.
When one of the weyrboys tapped Ren’s shoulder and pointed to the door they had stopped before, Tyber tensed. He relaxed a second later as the boy stepped forward, tapped Tyber’s shoulder, and indicated the same door.
“Thanks,” Tyber said as the boy moved on.
“Don’t do that,” Ren said over his shoulder as they shuffled past the remaining recruits. “You’ll get him in trouble. They aren’t to be addressed directly.”
“Why not?” Tyber asked. “Why shouldn’t I speak to them?”
“Just don’t,” Ren said but offered no explanation.
They followed the weyrboy into a room lined with bunks on either side. Two long tables w
ith chairs tucked in at even intervals hugged the wall at the far end of the room. There, a single window cast a lone figure in silhouette as he stood, arms folded behind him, feet apart as if ready to run or fight, whichever was required. Along with the stance, the long hair, full beard, and gray tunic and trousers pegged the man as a royal hordesman.
“This will be your bunk hall,” the man said.
Tyber’s shoulders drooped as recognition dawned on him.
“I am your proctor until you either graduate in honor, or you fail in disgrace. My name is Ander.”
Chapter 10
Ander motioned at the bunks on either side of the room. “You’ll find your belongings on your bunk. There are foot trunks underneath for personal items. Now, if you will follow me, we will make sure that each of you looks the part of a sip.”
As Ander approached the door, he surveyed the recruits. Tyber pulled his shoulders back and held his chin up, daring Ander to taunt him. Was the hordesman responsible for this arrangement? Ander looked over Ren, then stopped in front of Tyber. He held Tyber’s gaze for a second, then moved on.
Tyber let out a slow breath as he watched Ander work his way down to the end of the group. The hordesman’s expression didn’t change. He challenged each of the recruits as he looked them in the eyes.
Perhaps it was nothing but a fluke Ander was assigned to Tyber’s group. Would he try to torment Tyber or make it harder on him than the others? And what did it matter if he did? Tyber wasn’t staying any longer than necessary. He was here to meet Ander’s conditions, and once that was done, he would collect his bonus and hurry back to where he belonged.
The recruits fell in line behind Ander and trailed him through the halls for so long it seemed that the hordesman was deliberately trying to disorient them. Finally, they entered a wide, L-shaped room lined with windows on both sides. Light from the windows reflected off the water rippling in dark wooden tubs that sat in rows along the walls. Half of the tubs were occupied with bathing recruits.
In the middle of the room, chairs had been arranged in a large circle. Half the chairs held recruits who sat silently and stared straight ahead. Behind the chairs, weyrboys trimmed the recruits’ hair down to the scalp with large shears, then tossed the shorn locks into shallow baskets at each recruit’s feet. Tyber gulped. The last time his hair had been cut was by his mother many years ago. He doubted the weyrboys would be as careful or gentle. He’d never seen shears that size before today.
“Each of you will take a seat,” Ander said as he motioned at the chairs. “You will receive a haircut, and then a bath. Place your clothes on this table. Those of you who are unaware of how to take a bath will receive instruction.”
Nervous laughter passed among the recruits.
Tyber reached up and twisted a lock of hair in his fingers.
“It’s for the dragons,” Ander said, locking his eyes on Tyber’s. “It is how we begin the bonding process. If anyone refuses to have his hair cut, it will be taken from him by myself, and I may not use shears to remove it. Understood?”
The recruits muttered their agreement and moved as a group to the chairs.
“Why do the dragons need our hair?” Tyber whispered to Ren.
Ren rolled his eyes as he reached behind his head and untied the leather strap around his ponytail. “They don’t. It’s just a ritual. They want to remind you that you are a recruit, right?”
He motioned at Ander, whose full beard and long hair fell past his shoulders in stark contrast to the bare-chested recruits in the tubs. Their scalps were ragged fuzz, their faces clear of stubble and the patchy whiskers of a boy.
“Better than prison,” Tyber whispered to himself. “Better than prison.”
“What was that?” Ren asked as he slipped between two vacant chairs and entered the circle.
“Nothing,” Tyber said as he sat and faced all of the other recruits. Some looked proud. Others looked terrified. Tyber found his gaze hanging on the boys who seemed undeniably homesick as if they were so far away from the familiar that it would be impossible to go back, ever.
Ren sat heavily on a chair, then ran his fingers through the back of his hair, letting the strands lift on his touch, then fall to his shoulders. “Take a little off the top,” he said over his shoulder. “And not too much from around the ears.”
After the haircut, Tyber felt naked even before he stripped down and stepped into one of the tubs. He was stunned by the feeling of sinking into a tub of warm water. It was the first time in his life that he’d had a bath that wasn’t as cold as the River Gul. As the water folded around his muscles, his tension and worry melted away. He inhaled deeply as wisps of steam drifted up from the surface of the water. The sharp tang of soap nearly burnt his eyes. He washed briskly with a cloth, scrubbed, and dunked his head beneath the water and felt the strange sensation of his hair’s absence.
He sat back up and opened his eyes and it seemed that the room had grown wider. Light streamed from the windows as if the walls were merely decoration, included for a bit of privacy and to give the eyes a place to rest. Even with eighty other recruits, and nearly as many weyrboys and a handful of proctors, the room still seemed open and airy. Tyber’s weight rested against the wall of the tub and the warmth of the water seeped into him. His eyelids grew heavy as he marveled at the high, vast ceiling. Never in his life had he been in a room so large, and it seemed to be only a small part of the whole academy.
He rubbed his hands over his face and looked again. A smile warmed his lips as he mulled over the novelty of it. What must it be like to have access to such things all the time? Warm baths? Rooms that weren’t cramped? Ceilings that were several times his height, towering overhead as if the masons who constructed the place had wanted to give the gods themselves room to enter and be among the lesser men.
“You need help on how to get out of there?” Ren asked as he stood from the tub next to Tyber’s. Water cascaded from his wiry, pale frame. A weyrboy hurried over and handed him a swath of cloth. Ren stepped out of the tub and dried off with the cloth.
Tyber did the same, and as he looked back into the tub, he glanced down at his reflection and marveled that he didn’t look any different. He’d never felt cleaner in his life. Yet the body he had grown used to over the last couple of years remained beneath him, although several shades lighter thanks to the water and soap.
After drying off, Ren and Tyber were led into another room and given black tunics with a red stripe that ran from the left shoulder to the right hip. They received matching trousers and boots of soft leather.
“By the wilds, these are new!” Tyber said as he shoved his foot into a boot.
“Of course they are. Can’t have the King’s men going around in shabby uniforms, can we? The King has to look powerful, like he has the money to keep his men well-shod.”
Tyber slipped on his matching boot and stood. He wiggled his toes and marveled at the room. He hadn’t had boots that fit since his feet had outgrown his father’s.
“Not bad,” Ren said as he stood and looked Tyber up and down. “You hardly look like an impostor at all.”
Tyber glanced back at Ander, who stood by the door and chatted with another proctor.
“What?” Ren asked. “Are you afraid he’ll find out you’re only here for the creature comforts?” Ren snorted. “They don’t care. Their bellies are filled and their backs clothed whether you pass the trial or not. Look at him. He fancies himself a babysitter. He’s not going to pay us the least bit of mind as long as we don’t create any trouble for him. Stay out of his way, keep your head low, and you won’t have a problem—except how you are going to fit a portion of pudding into your already distended belly.”
Ren patted his flat stomach. Tyber’s growled a reminder that it hadn’t had anything to digest since the bread and a scrape of beets he’d had that morning.
Still, Tyber recalled Ander’s words in his ears. Ander had forced Tyber into this situation to save his life, yet Tyber never felt m
ore like a thief than he did now. But unlike the thief that helped Nather with the hand-off, Tyber felt more like the confidence men who ran rigged games of chance outside the gate. He was misleading everyone, taking clothing, baths, and food that were meant for real recruits. Someone who wanted to ride a dragon.
Someone like Theola.
Tyber’s face dropped into a scowl. He wasn’t a thief. Not like that. Ander was the crook, the one who had forced him into this. If it were up to Tyber, he’d be at home now, helping his family. If he stuffed himself full, wore new boots, and took a bath every night, there would be no one to blame but that scoundrel, Ander.
Chapter 11
Dinner had been everything Ren said it would be. Tyber stuffed himself with delicious meats, vegetables, and fruits fresh from a nearby orchard. Pies and pastries were served after the meal. Along with the food, the recruits were given mugs of a sweet drink that left Tyber feeling warm and loose all over, as if he might be able to actually stretch far enough to touch the ceiling that towered over them.
Tyber laughed and chatted with Ren and several other boys in his group. They were good men, and a few of them had friends in common with Tyber. They hailed from various places around the city’s outer wall, but most of them tended to be from the northern part of the city.
After dinner, the group retired to a room filled with upholstered chairs and tables. Ren referred to it as a parlor. Some of the recruits played skittles, while others tested their strength in arm wrestling matches. Many sat around and chatted, laughing and joking, and telling stories of home that grew more outlandish with the hour until finally Ander appeared and told them all to retire to their bunks.
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