The Summer Dragon

by Todd Lockwood

  “I don’t know. He’s bigger than Shuja. Is he? I think he’s bigger!”

  The Ministry dragons climbed in a tight spiral, and we looked up, knowing what was next. Cheers arose from the crowds in the village. Shuja, Rannu, and Audax were high above and mounting higher still, circling. They unfurled silk banners from their saddle packs as they twisted upward—red for Rannu, white for Audax, black for Shuja—each banner two hundred feet long. Eight Brood Days ago, Mother and Grus had carried the third banner. It was the last time we’d put three banners in the sky. Grus moaned nearby, watching intently, poised as if she might leap to join them. It was a melancholy sound only Grus ever made.

  Then they dived, slowly at first, but accelerating quickly with their wings pulled in tight. The banners streamed behind them, tracing their maneuvers in color on the sky—first a spiral to the left, then a spiral to the right, then a complex braid that made the crowds gasp in delight.

  “Audax did it!” I shouted. “A perfect braid!” Jhem and the others had been working with him for weeks.

  They dove straight through the ring of Ministry dragons, then pulled up and made a hair-raising pass just above the rooftops of the village. The banners cracked and snapped behind them. The people’s roar of approval followed them back into the sky.

  They made huge, vertical loops that spun in opposite directions, then linked them together in a chain, then interlocked the three, and finally took off in three different directions just as the nurse dragons and the lancer climbed to join them. When they assembled again they redrew their braid as a serpent crawling across the clouds.

  More loops and exaggerated barrel rolls followed weaves and zigzags. Shuja put on a solo display of swirls and coils and knots in the air, while Rannu and Audax framed him with a giant circle. They finished with all three banners interwoven into a knotwork, separated briefly, then dove one last time in an ever-tightening spiral that came apart at the last instant. Three dragons skimmed the rooftops in three directions, roaring, as the people waved their arms and cheered.

  It was the best part of the Brood Day celebrations. Once again my heart soared to heights of longing and joy. It was so beautiful, and I wanted so badly to be a part of it. I looked for the little brown and buff but couldn’t find her in the confused milling of excited baby dragons.

  “They’re coming in!” Darian started shooing qits back toward their mothers to clear space for landing. I joined him, and with the mothers using their wings as fences, we soon had all the dragonlings corralled. Shuja, Rannu, and Audax landed first, each rider stuffing the tail end of a banner back into the saddle pack. Behind them came the nurse dragons and the big, white-and-striped Dragonry lancer.

  SIX

  “KORRUZON’S LEFT ASS-CHEEK, that thing is huge,” Darian muttered next to my ear.

  “Darian!” I couldn’t help laughing. “Don’t ever let Mabir hear you say that.”

  “Well, look at him. Only the biggest and strongest dragons get to be lancers.”

  With Shuja and the newcomer side-by-side in front of us, it was clear which of the two was bigger. If I hadn’t seen the Summer Dragon only the day before, I might have been awestruck by his size. He was a magnificent specimen, a cliff dragon from the ocean shores far to the east, judging by his coloring and minimal frill.

  The rider sliding down off the saddle was no less impressive. A big man, though not as tall as Father, I was pleased to note. His gravings surprised me. More than mere tattoos, gravings were the work of Temple priests. Imbued with special properties, they enhanced skills, strengthened muscles, assisted in healing, or created bonds. He was covered with them, from the top of his shaven head, surrounding the bond mark on the back of his neck, down his arms—practically engulfing the marks of rank—and even onto his hands. He walked with the easy gait of a man accustomed to respect, the swagger of the Dragonry rider.

  Father offered him a hand, quickly taken. I tried to sidle closer to hear their exchange, but was swamped in a tide of baby dragons rushing forward to investigate.

  “Darian! Maia!” Tauman waved us over. “Come help with these saddles!” As Father greeted each of the visitors in turn, Shuja stepped under the saddle jib, with Rannu and Audax lined up behind him. Darian climbed onto Shuja’s back to hook the saddle while Tauman and I worked below.

  “Is that a new officer?” I asked Tauman, indicating the lancer and his mount.

  “So it would seem.” Tauman squinted. “A tough character—look at all the gravings. The ones on his arms are for strength. I don’t recognize the ones around his eyes. Those can’t be cheap. He comes from money, I’d say.” The swirling characters and strange patterns seemed to define the natural lines of the muscles and veins beneath. They wound under his jerkin, suggesting that his torso was covered, too.

  “Four talons in his mark of rank. And four talons on his pennant.” Tauman pointed at the banner waving from a slender, flexible staff mounted to the back of the saddle. “He’s a captain, commissioned officer. Career Dragonry with political aspirations, no doubt. Could be a valuable ally. Riat will need friends in the capital.”

  “That dragon is enormous. Chalk cliffs?”

  “That’s right. From Gul. They’re big, but they’re a little wild. Look at the size of the rider’s bond mark. It’s been enhanced a couple of times.”

  “What does that mean?” Bond marks were important—the most important gravings of them all. They enhanced communication, intensified instinctive cooperation, nurtured the bond between a rider and his mount. Every dragon and rider had one, on the nape of his or her neck, a circular pattern of runes and other symbols. The captain’s was large and densely written.

  “Well . . . he needs more control over his mount for some reason. The dragon might be a bit unmanageable. It might be his second dragon, so the bond mark from the first had to be countered and overwritten. Injury to the dragon can sometimes weaken the bond. Or the rider could be abusive and so he needs more control.”

  “So why is he here and not off fighting in the war?”

  “Good question.”

  “Aph!” said Shuja—off. We were neglecting our duties.

  “Ha! Look who’s in charge.” Tauman winked at me.

  Together we winched the saddle with Darian riding it off Shuja’s back and into the tack house. Shuja bounced out from under the jib and Rannu stepped in place. I climbed onto Rannu’s back and waited for Darian to return. We would trade places this way—one above, one beneath with Tauman—until all the dragons were unsaddled. It was a dance, an efficient choreography of machinery and muscle.

  I hooked the saddle before my brothers finished below, and took the spare moments to study the lancer and his mount some more. The rider was younger than Father, but older than Tauman. Thirty-three or -four, perhaps. He wore a scowl, as if a great weight dwelled inside him, accentuated by the gravings around his eyes that wrapped over the top of his shaven head like intricate wings.

  From my vantage point, I couldn’t see the dragon’s bond mark where his neck joined his head, but what I’d thought were stripes on his neck and shoulders were actually complex patterns and characters. They didn’t have the same finish as the military symbols painted on his wings. They were gravings too. The beast had a particularly wicked scar on his upper lip, decorated with medical gravings to assist in healing, which gave the impression of a permanent sneer.

  Tauman and Darian finished with the harness, and swung me into the tack house on Rannu’s saddle. I unhooked it quickly and rejoined Tauman. Audax stepped under the jib and Darian climbed up.

  I watched the riders of the nurse dragons dismount. Two looked to be military men by their dress, older retirees whose dragons, too old for combat, still proved their value to the Dragonry by comforting the babies in the cages. They were familiar. I’d probably seen them on previous Brood Days. The third was a merihem, or Ministry priest.

  “T
hat’s a new merihem, isn’t it?” I pointed with a nod of my head.

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Tauman. “There seems to be a new one every couple of years.”

  The dhalla, like our Mabir, were priests whose primary duty was to teach and shepherd the commoners through their daily lives within the Dragon Temple. They were versed in essential graving skills, such as healing—and many, like Mabir, had to know how to administer the bond marks for dragons and their riders at the base of the skull.

  But the merihem were elite priests, the healers and practitioners of Temple Science in the military hierarchy, especially in the Dragonry. They studied for long years in the capital city, Avigal, at the Maktaa—the religious school of the Dragon Temple. Their understanding of the subtlety and range of Temple Science was unsurpassed. It would have been one of the merihem who drew the elaborate gravings on the lancer and his mount. I got the impression they were closer to the Temple’s center wheels of power. Closer, at least, than our country priest would ever be.

  This merihem looked to be younger than the Dragonry captain—twenty-eight perhaps—with long, black hair in multiple braids, wearing the black dress and cylindrical cap of the position. He surveyed the swarming dragonlings with interest and showed no alarm when they sniffed at his clothes or brushed against him in the course of rambunctious play.

  “Done.” Tauman slapped my back, bringing me back to what I was doing, and we hoisted Darian into the tack house on Audax’s saddle.

  As Darian climbed down to rejoin us, Father approached with the lancer and the merihem beside him. “Tauman, Jhem, Darian, Maia, I would like you to greet Captain Rov ad Reanag, commander of the acquisition this year.”

  The lancer bowed, crisply and very correctly. Tauman was right; he came from money.

  “And this is Bellua ad Reitleh, merihem of the Rasaal.” Priest of the Ministry’s inner Temple. The Rasaal was the Temple authority, the Head of the religious structure.

  The merihem also bowed, though with somewhat less formality. Up close, he was very handsome. He had a square jaw, straight nose, and dimples that winked in his cheeks when he smiled at me.

  Father bowed in return. “Gentlemen, my eldest, Tauman and his wife Jhem, his brother Darian, and my daughter Maia. They are at your service. Do not hesitate to ask them for anything you might need. First order of business, of course, will be to unsaddle your mounts and feed them while you look over our fine brood of qitlings.” Father smiled, gesturing toward us, palm up.

  Tauman bowed—quite nicely—and then shook hands all around. Jhem did likewise. Darian bowed like a tangled marionette, then shook hands as well with a huge, beaming smile on his face.

  I did my best to make a presentable bow, but the soldiers were already engaged with Father. The lancer, Rov, turned away to speak with Jhem and Tauman. Only Bellua took my offered hand. “A pleasure, my lady.” He bowed. “Certainly you are the flower of this aerie—a wildflower in the wilderness.”

  I felt my cheeks flush and hoped he wouldn’t notice. He bowed again, and then wandered into the sea of qits with his hands clasped behind his back.

  Very quickly, Captain Rov had summoned his big white under the jib and boosted Darian up onto the saddle. Darian patted the animal’s neck. “What’s his name?”

  “This is Cheien.”

  “He’s gorgeous!” Darian examined the saddle with his fingers. “This is real lancer armor?”

  “Yes, though we’ve removed the lance track, winch, and stop. Unnecessary for the task at hand.” Why any of it was necessary for the job of buying and transporting baby dragons eluded me. Did people attack the acquisition train?

  “How old is he?” Darian seemed oblivious to the officer’s taciturn manner.

  “He’s twelve.”

  “Father was a lancer. Shuja is twenty-eight—that’s Father’s dragon.” Darian pointed helpfully. “I hope to get one of these dragons for myself this year.”

  Rov’s expression was impenetrable. “Is that a fact?”

  Darian’s mouth snapped shut. “Well, that was before.”

  “Pardon me.” Tauman was under Cheien, casting a dubious eye at the straps of the lancer’s armor. “May I trouble you for some help with this?” He gave me a surreptitious wink; he’d interrupted to save Darian further embarrassment. Yet something about his expression was guarded, as if there were more than Darian’s honor at stake.

  “Of course,” said Rov. “Start with these straps.”

  Just then the bell on the gantry rang, indicating that someone at the base of the cliff desired a ride up. “That will be Mabir, the dhalla of our Temple.” Father gave a courteous bow. “Gentlemen? If you’ll excuse me.”

  Every emotion asserted itself at once: hope, fear, desire, anticipation, dread. Darian’s refusal to speak to me earlier had alarmed me. Would Mabir see the appearance of Getig as a sign that we would get our qits, as Darian thought? Or was I still in trouble over yesterday’s events? I had no idea what to expect. I could still feel Fren’s warm blood on my hands.

  I looked for Jhem, but she was busy shepherding qits toward the nurse dragons. I swallowed, then joined Father on the gantry platform. “I’ll help you.”

  Father set his jaw and put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t out of trouble yet, but perhaps there would be no reckoning after all.

  He released “the basket”—a railed platform ten feet square, suitable for moving goods and personnel up and down the cliff face. As it started to descend, I looked out over the parapet.

  One road snaked up out of the village to the base of the pinnacle atop which the aeries were built. It crossed a bridge over the river Wilding where the mists of the Roaring wafted around it, before it arrived at the gantry landing. The mechanism was designed so that the cages could be attached to our winch. We would haul them one at a time to the clifftop to be filled with babies and then lowered again. The first wagons were crossing the bridge, the river tumbling beneath them and on toward the village.

  But there was a small, black cart at the base of the pinnacle already. That would be Mabir. In years past, he’d had a dragon, as did all priests, and would have flown to the aerie with the others. But his ancient mount had died five summers ago. At his age, if he were to bond another, it would almost certainly outlive him and possibly need to be destroyed when he died. He chose instead to take a cart, to accept a ride on another’s dragon, or to walk.

  The basket landed at the bottom, and I could see Mabir’s tiny form move onto it. Shortly, the bell rang again. I released the brake, and started to crank the basket back up.

  “We can open the aqueduct, Maia—let the water wheel pull him up.”

  “Okay, but I’m going to get it started. I need to burn off these nerves. I don’t want to be shaking like this when I talk to him.” I smiled hopefully.

  Father nodded and joined me at the wheel. We turned it together. The axle creaked and groaned, and the ratchet clattered. It would take a few moments before the stream of water provided assistance.

  I closed my eyes. From the village far below came music and sporadic cheering. Nearby, the babies made playful noises; the nurse dragons would be engaging them, while their mothers held back reluctantly. My little brown-and-buff would be among them. It was the first stage of separation, of their ultimate betrayal.

  But she’s going to be mine, I reassured myself.

  The waterwheel took over. I stepped back and opened my eyes. Soon the basket arrived with a loud clank, locking automatically into grapples along the edge of the platform. Mabir had arrived.

  SEVEN

  HIS BLACK ROBES hung loose from bony shoulders. The cylindrical cap of his office topped a face like a withered potato. The wiry beard that clung to his chin sought escape in every direction at once. But his eyes had a bright twinkle that fit his humor better than the dark dress of his order. We all knew him as a patient man w
ith a ready laugh who gave much of himself to his brood. I’d always liked him; he was the closest thing I had to a grandfather. In my mind he was ageless.

  He wasn’t smiling now, though. “Hello, Maia. You have had an adventure, I hear.” Mabir ambled forward with some care. He refused to use a cane, and referred to staves with disdain as “props.”

  I nodded, unable to make my voice work.

  He placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Well, we’ll discuss it now. I’m sure you have been sitting on nettles while you waited for me. I am sorry about that.” A hint of a smile touched his lips. “Magha, we should do this before any other haggling or discussion takes place.”

  “I agree, dhalla.” Father nodded.

  “The nurses and their riders can watch the qitlings while we talk. The officer and the merihem will join us in your manor?”

  “Yes, dhalla.”

  “Good enough.” Mabir extended an elbow for me to take. “My dear?” Now he did smile, and I felt better. As we started toward the bridge, Darian joined us and offered the dhalla another arm to lean on.

  “Thank you, my boy. Not a word until everyone has gathered!”

  By the time we crossed the bridge and entered the shade of the veranda, Father and the others caught up to us. Father summoned Kaisi, our cook and housekeeper, and told her to set breakfast for all.

  Something was wrong. Father’s face was pale, his brow furrowed. He avoided eye contact with us, but cast a furtive glance at Rov and the merihem. Both visitors looked grim.

  Kaisi bowed, retied her apron a little tighter, and vanished.

  “This way, gentlemen.” Father led us through a hall to the inner courtyard, where tall bamboo shaded a patio of stone set with two heavy wooden tables and comfortable wicker chairs. Boulders around the perimeter peeked out from under ferns and hostas, with wildflowers and grasses at their feet.