It wasn’t too hard not to look, though. Vespir always knelt whenever one of the family entered the aerie to get their dragon. She’d gotten to know the Pentri boots and slippers well. Lady Pentri favored jewel-tipped toes that were out of fashion, but which she felt properly conveyed her wealth. Lord Pentri kept his boots so immaculately shined that Vespir could see herself in them.
As personal dragon handler to the only child and heir of the House Pentri, Vespir was permitted to live in the palace at Khoryv, the noble House’s seat. She had more honor than a servant could usually dream of. The food was much better, too. Most of the time, it was just her and the dragons, all the company she needed.
Most of the time.
Vespir swept the flagstones with a wicker broom, humming to herself in the quiet. Usually, she had four snorting dragons to deal with. Old Lord Pentri’s beast in particular was a hassle, always shitting sulfur and snapping when Vespir tried to clean. But the entire family and their dragons were at the calling circle now, waiting for Antonia to fly away. Vespir’s stomach rippled at the thought.
“She’ll be fine,” Vespir said to her own dragon, the sole occupant of the aerie at the moment. Karina was perched behind a curtain, taking an afternoon nap. “She’s going to win.”
“Yes. She is.” That voice. Vespir knew it as sure as she recognized the pair of green satin slippers, the mint-green silk gown, the swell of chest, and, finally, daringly, the perfect, smiling face of the girl to whom that voice belonged. Antonia of the Pentri stood in the aerie’s doorway, the sunlight warm around her. Vespir was no poet—she never read poetry because, well, she couldn’t read. But she imagined Antonia was the type of girl poets wrote about.
The sight of her stole Vespir’s breath.
“Shouldn’t you be at the calling, my lady?” Vespir prayed her nerves didn’t show.
Antonia took a hesitant step nearer.
“I was thinking,” she said, worrying an amethyst ring upon her finger. Her cheeks reddened. “There’s a chance I’ll never come back. The Trial is…dangerous.”
Vespir’s heart pounded.
“Yes,” she murmured. Antonia drew even nearer, and Vespir tasted her pulse.
“If I’m going to die,” Antonia said, “I want to die with no regrets.”
She came in a whisper of silk, stood on her toes, and kissed Vespir. They had kissed before, a few days ago, a too-brief moment stolen down by the river, but not with this much feeling. This much abandon. Antonia kissed Vespir as if she had nothing to lose.
Vespir wrapped an arm around the noble girl’s waist and forced herself not to muss up Antonia’s long black hair. If their daughter showed up looking rumpled, the Pentri might notice. Antonia gave a delicate sigh. She tasted like honeysuckle and peach blossom. “You taste like jam,” Vespir had told Antonia breathlessly after their first kiss. Again, she was far from a poet.
Reluctantly, they broke apart. Vespir wondered what she should say. She wondered if she could still speak.
“I wanted to say”—Antonia’s breathing shook—“I love you.”
Vespir trembled, holding this girl in her arms. Seven words, all it took to give her the greatest happiness she’d ever known. Vespir could say nothing in reply. Nothing except—
“I love you. Too. I love you…so much.” For years now Vespir had lain awake nights, mouthing those words to the empty darkness. She’d closed her eyes and wished and hoped that one day, if she were fortunate, she might hear those words returned. She couldn’t believe it’d actually happened.
Vespir had never been particularly lucky before. Perhaps a lifetime’s worth of luck had been held in reserve for this one perfect moment.
“I wanted you to know that I’m coming back for you.” Antonia looked up at her, those dark eyes shimmering with hope. “If you feel the same—”
She couldn’t finish that thought because Vespir’s lips were on hers. Vespir kissed her again, twice more. Once more after that for good measure.
Finally, they broke apart. Antonia ran her fingers through Vespir’s bob of black hair.
“Make sure you win,” Vespir whispered, heart aching.
“If I know you’re waiting, I will.” Antonia sighed in contentment. “And you’d better be ready to come to Dragonspire when I do.”
“So I’d be the empress’s personal dragon handler and lover? That’s so much work,” Vespir groaned. Both girls laughed, giddy. That was one nice thing about the imperial throne: Antonia had told her that the emperor or empress could never have children, but lovers were fine.
“When I’m empress, you’re going to have a much higher rank.” Antonia sobered. “No one will ever make you look down again.”
Vespir’s heart fluttered even as a dark, unhappy voice whispered in her mind. What about the other servants? Would they still have to keep their eyes down? But Vespir pushed those thoughts aside. No, she trusted Antonia.
The girls started as the bells tolled midday. Antonia shivered in Vespir’s arms. It was time. The calling waited.
The start of their life together was mere days away. Vespir was not losing Antonia; she was about to gain her.
“Go win.” Vespir kissed the girl once more, savored the delicate feel and taste of her. Antonia’s soft hand passed through Vespir’s rough one, and she vanished out the door. Vespir picked up the wicker broom from where it’d fallen, then dropped it again; she couldn’t stop shaking. Euphoria and misery clashed inside of her. Sighing, she glanced around the aerie, a much happier and, simultaneously, colder place than it had seemed a minute ago.
Usually, the aerie was the heart of Vespir’s world, where she felt entirely safe. Since she’d been twelve, she’d spent most of her waking hours here, unless she was learning how to fly and to train dragons out in the Pentri arena. A domed, high-ceilinged building of gray stone, the aerie had housed generations of Pythos, the official Pentri dragon.
Vespir had spent much of her life learning to care for these beasts. She had broad horsehair brushes to smooth scales, tubs of beeswax to polish talons and horns, and rosehip ointments to rub into the thin membranes of wings during winter months when the air became dry. She knew how to ride a dragon without saddle or bridle, a custom all the Pentri observed. Antonia had scoffed at the other families’ custom of forcing bridles onto six-week-old dragon hatchlings. Barbarians, she’d called them.
The decorative wall hangings had always cheered Vespir. They were beautiful, but more importantly they were a single reminder of what the eastern Ikrayina territory had been before Valeria Pentri’s arrival hundreds of years ago. Images of dragons formed from stark geometric patterns of red and blue and yellow greeted Vespir wherever she turned. The hangings were edged in sharp lines of horns and talons to convey strength, and Vespir liked to imagine these woven tapestries hanging in homes out on the wide plains, back when her people had gone wherever they pleased with horses and hawks and bows.
For so many years, she’d been home here. Now the aerie was simply another reminder of Antonia. Of when Vespir had first glimpsed her at twelve while hiding in the rafters. Of how she’d placed her hands on Antonia’s hips to adjust her riding position, cheeks flushing with the contact. Of years spent watching from afar, wishing. Of these last few perfect moments, these whispered promises.
But…what if Antonia did not come back?
Vespir suddenly hated this place. Wiping tears from her cheeks—she couldn’t cry when there was work to do—Vespir hung up Antonia’s extra tack and brushed out her dragon’s stall. Daedalus wouldn’t be coming back. Not for a long while, if ever.
Behind the curtain, Karina gave a cough and a yowling yawn. Vespir pushed the tarp aside and smiled. “Bet you wish you could see the calling,” she said.
The greatest honor of being a dragon handler was receiving a dragon all your own. Of course, Vespir hadn’t received a top-tier dra
gon egg; she wasn’t nobility. But Karina, to her, was perfect. Sure, she was smaller than most dragons. The average length was twenty feet from snout to tail, while Karina barely passed nine. Her wings didn’t curve, but appeared more batlike. She had no horns, a short face, and her scales were the brown of a riverbed, not green like a perfect Pythos. But her amber eyes were quick and intelligent. The dragon unfurled her wings on her perch, an iron bar set at the back of the stall. Straw littered the floor, and Karina’s pet goat, Barnabas, stretched and bleated at his dragon friend. Dragons were like horses in their need for companionship. Karina leaned down and snuffled the tuft of white hair on top of Barnabas’s head, then touched her snout to his. The goat’s tail waggled.
“Boop.” Vespir grinned. She always made a “boop” noise when they touched noses. It seemed right. Wiping a tear, she said, “I’ll get your lunch, girl.”
Vespir was tenderizing a fresh, bleeding leg of lamb with a wooden mallet when Karina began to cry. Dropping the mallet, Vespir yanked back the curtain. “What is it? Karina?”
The sounds were terrible. The dragon unfurled her wings, pitched her head back at the ceiling, and groaned like a dying cow. Barnabas bolted past Vespir, bleating in fear as he raced out the door. Vespir grabbed the soothing stick, a five-foot-long staff with peacock feathers clustered on one end. The color, movement, and sensation of the feathers often calmed a crying dragon. Teeth gritted, Vespir tried touching Karina, but the dragon flapped her wings and surged forward. Vespir barely had time to drop to the ground before Karina sailed past, skidding across the flagstones to hobble out the aerie’s door. In horror, Vespir watched as her dragon took to the sky.
“Not today. Oh, why today?” she gasped, chasing after Karina. Servants gaped as Vespir shot past them, waving her arms over her head. “Come back! You’re going to get us killed!”
She wasn’t exaggerating. If this interfered with the choosing, the Pentri would take both their heads. Vespir tailed her dragon through the peach orchards and across the back lawn of the Pentri palace. The day was bright, the sun hot, and Vespir sweated as she vaulted over a fence and down a sloping hill. Her boots sank in the mud from a fresh rain, splattering her trousers.
But when she saw where Karina was headed, Vespir nearly screamed. She would’ve if fear hadn’t closed her throat.
Karina flew toward a circle of white standing stones, where much of the household guard, all in the green livery of the Pentri, clustered together. They surrounded Lord and Lady Pentri, Antonia, and their dragons. Karina was headed for the calling ceremony. Vespir was going to die.
“Stop,” she whispered as Karina sailed past the family dragons. “Stop,” she pleaded when Karina banked and lowered herself into the center of the circle. “Stop,” she prayed when everyone—the Pentri, the guards, a horrified Antonia—turned to face her.
Vespir bolted through the ranks and halted before Karina. The dragon swished her tail and blinked her amber eyes. She appeared pleased.
“Why?” Vespir whispered. Her knees gave out. Vespir collapsed and prostrated herself before the Pentri family. Grass tickled her forehead. “Forgive me, my lord. I don’t understand,” Vespir cried as the faceless Lord Pentri’s shiny black leather boots strode over to her.
Oof. A boot struck her in the hip. Stars of pain exploded behind her eyes as she tried to crawl away. “Forgive me,” she wept.
Another blow, to her stomach. Vespir tasted acid in the back of her throat and curled into a ball.
“Thieving bitch!” Lord Pentri boomed. Vespir waited for another blow, but it didn’t come. The ringing in her ears nearly blocked out Antonia’s voice as she screamed at her father. Vespir lay in pain, knowing none of the guard would help. If Lord Pentri asked, they’d kill her.
But they didn’t touch her. Antonia did, lifting Vespir to her feet. Vespir kept her eyes locked on the ground…but Antonia raised her chin. Their dark eyes met.
Vespir heard the absence of everyone’s breath.
“Don’t,” she choked out. But Antonia cradled her face and kissed her. Their tears mingled. Vespir’s head throbbed. Her stomach trembled. She was going to be sick.
“How dare you.” That was Lady Pentri’s voice. Vespir didn’t look at her. She stared only at Antonia, who stroked her cheek. Vespir’s chin quivered.
“Promise me you’ll try to win,” Antonia whispered, tears streaming down her face. Vespir would have promised the world to this girl, wrapped it in ribbon to make a present. She would have told her any comforting lie under normal circumstances, but…
“I don’t know how,” she whispered back.
To Ajax, the word family tasted like blood, probably because his family always made him bleed. Like right now. Lysander’s fist connected with Ajax’s face.
Coppery warmth flooded his mouth as he fell backward to squint at his elder, and legitimate, brother. Lysander had it all: square jaw, shining blond hair, good height. He was also dumb as a block of below-average wood. Ajax might not have had the Tiber family name, but he had the brain.
Unless he got caught doing something dumb. Like right now.
“I told you to stop rigging two-bones-in-a-cup!” Lysander squared his already square jaw. Ah, two-bones. The finest dice game imaginable, allowing you to con so many mouth-breathing older brothers. Ajax had a ton of those.
“It’s not my fault Demetrius never learns that I cheat.” Ajax shrugged. “I’m the little brother, after all. I’m supposed to test him.”
“Little bastard brother,” Lysander corrected. Ajax stood and pulled his shoulders back. He came up to Lysander’s chest. At five foot three, he still had all his growing ahead of him. Hopefully.
“Right. How could I forget for even one moment that you and Demetrius are the golden boys, while the rest of us”—he surveyed the arena of the calling circle, filled with twenty-seven of Lord Quintus Tiber’s finest, ugliest bastards—“we’re just lucky he squirted us out at all.”
Lysander’s lip curled. “Only a bastard talks like a commoner.”
Ajax shrugged. “Only a commoner punches a bastard.”
“Speaking of bastards.” Ajax knew what Lysander was going for. His brother ripped the gold chain from Ajax’s neck, the one with the Wyvern pendant dangling from it. The one Ajax had won almost fair off Demetrius. Ajax hunched his shoulders, pressure building behind his eyes as Lysander pocketed the pendant. “The official Tiber seal is for legitimate sons only.”
“Demetrius is even dumber than you. Better shoulders, though.” Ajax rasped his molars. His leg jiggled. “That should go to someone more deserving.”
“Maybe. But that will never be you, Ajax.” Lysander got in his face, smirking. “You’re not even a first-rate bastard. That’s why your mother couldn’t be bothered to stay five minutes after she gave birth.”
Ajax’s vision blurred; a muscle ticked in his cheek. He had only a few what he called “berserk” strings, but his mother was one. He got to be angry at her forever for dumping him out in this freezing castle with its gray servants and punchy brothers, but no one else got to say anything about her. Ever.
Still, this was Lysander’s big day. The choosing day, when his Wyvern would leave Vistlow, central city in the Wroclawian foothills, and take him to a glorious Trial that he’d hopefully lose. After all, Emperor Erasmus had been of the Tiber. Greedy to seat two emperors in a row, right?
So Ajax simply smiled. “If you’ve taught me anything, Lysander, it’s that you don’t have to be an actual bastard to be a first-rate one.” Lysander nodded, looking pleased. The insult had sailed right past his handsome, wooden head. “Good luck.”
The older boy sniffed. “Right. Remember your place, brat.” He left, and as he turned, Ajax palmed the dagger at his belt and sliced artfully through the material of Lysander’s trousers. They split down the center, revealing Lysander of the Tiber’s rosy ass cheeks. Some
of the boys caught sight of it as Lysander strode down the steps and they hollered with laughter. Ajax, meanwhile, crawled onto the stone ledge beside his dragon.
“You just sat there while I got my lip split?” Ajax scowled at Dog, the stupidest dragon in the empire. “You’re the worst.”
“Gawp,” Dog replied helpfully, expanding his batlike wings.
One reason the five families tended to have few children was the scarcity of dragon eggs. Everyone of high noble blood needed a dragon—bastard and legitimate alike—and dragons laid rarely. The finest, largest eggs were kept for official family, the lesser eggs for dragon handlers and bastards. Ajax was the twenty-first bastard of twenty-seven and counting. As such, he’d gotten a pretty piss-poor egg.
The red Wyvern was House Tiber’s dragon, but Dog looked like a brick-colored flying chameleon, with a curling tail that he liked to wrap around his perch…or Ajax’s waist. Blue fringe traced his gullet, tiny horns decorated his head and nose, and his protruding eyes could swivel at any angle. Right now, Dog’s right eye was trained on Ajax, while the left hunted a buzzing fly as it darted this way and that.
Eh. Ajax scratched the dragon’s chest. Dog thumped his tail in enthusiasm.
“Just wait till next year. The army has no idea what they’re getting.” He grinned, thinking about all the opportunity war offered. There were battles to win, gold to gain. If Ajax couldn’t make a name for himself in glory, he could at least get rich off being faster and hungrier than anyone else.
Far as he was concerned, the world was for the taking.
He looked out at the forum of the calling circle. The ring of marble stones waited below, while Lord Tiber’s twenty-nine children and all their dragons sat on the tiered steps of the massive arena. The place was a zoo of noise, dragons snapping at one another, boys shoving and spitting and laughing too loud. Ajax wasn’t sure if Tiber had never had a girl, or if he just didn’t accept female bastards into his house. Whatever the answer, Ajax had grown up in a sea of boys, all jabbing elbows and funky odors. He scratched his own long dirty-blond hair, tied back in a tail that swung to the base of his neck.
House of Dragons Page 3