by T M Miller
Its eyes fixed on him, a bright, luminous yellow with narrow black slits for the pupils. Jaron instinctively froze. With its wings held out it nearly filled the large courtyard. Beast and boy stared at each other, neither moving, Jaron’s brain still trying to register the huge reptile. Its scales glinted like jewels in the midday sun and the top of its neck bristled with raised plates fanning out to frame the massive head. More scale plates protruded between its narrow ears and ran down the top neck ridge.
Jaron noticed all this with astonishing clarity in his silent terror. He couldn’t look away, couldn’t drop his eyes as he knew he should do. With a slithering motion, the thick, tapered tail slowly slid over the cobblestones and tucked against the firedrake’s side, the end coming to rest over its scaled front paws, but not before Jaron had noticed each of them was as big as the pig roasting on the spit in the kitchen. The narrow tip of its tail quivered and raised slightly off the cobbled floor as the boy stared, revealing curved black claws as long as his forearm. He saw the ridged nostrils quiver as the beast took his scent. It blinked and with a rustle folded its wings, snaking out its head – and to his horror reaching out towards him with its nose. Carefully, Jaron’s searching foot found the top of the stairs and he retreated down one step. For the first time, he noticed it wore an empty saddle on its back.
The beast suddenly pricked its ears. Raising its neck high it swung its head to one side. As it did so the sky-blue scales on its chest were revealed. Jaron’s eyes narrowed.
Through an open door a man stepped into the courtyard. His head was bare, revealing short-cropped brown hair. He walked with long strides across the yard, heels ringing on the cobbles. He wore a leather jacket, open at the front to reveal a worn leather tunic, and in the crook of one arm he carried a helmet. As the man reached the red beast’s head, he turned in the act of putting it on – and saw Jaron for the first time.
‘Hello,’ he said, lowering his arms again.
Jaron didn’t answer. He saw the chiselled, tanned face frown a little, the deep-set eyes narrow. Without saying a word, Jaron slowly turned and carefully walked back down the steps, one hand on the stone wall to support his trembling legs.
4
That night, the palace dining hall was packed with Tiara’s finest and their guests. The atmosphere was merry after the first two courses and bubbling chatter and laughter fueled by fine ale and rich wine rose up to the high beams of the large hall.
‘Watching your diet, eh?’ Sprague leaned in towards Jaron and nodded in approval at his unfinished beef. ‘I usually have to get the jockeys to hold off devouring everything on their plates on these occasions.’ His broad face was red and sweating as Sprague was already on his fourth tankard.
The truth was Jaron didn’t feel hungry at all. The race was only two days away now and his stomach was in knots most of the time.
‘Well, your rival doesn’t seem to be bothered about his weight,’ his other neighbour leaned in to whisper and gave a meaningful look to where Pache, Jaron’s main competition and rider of Teller, sat. Teller was the favourite entry of neighbouring Kyrinda and for two years had been the winner of the Great Wake Trophy. Pache sat swigging at a tankard of ale behind his empty plate. He was tall for a jockey, lean as a whip, and even slouching in his chair exuded a predatory air. His sharp eyes narrowed as they studied Jaron without smiling.
‘He looks like he could eat me too,’ Jaron whispered back, and when his neighbour chuckled looked at him properly for the first time. The young man had shoulder length brown hair and a smooth, clean-cut face that was evenly tanned. He met Jaron’s gaze and grinned, teeth startling white against his browned skin. He stuck out a hand. ‘I’m Flick,’ he said.
Jaron took the offered hand. ‘I’m–’
‘Jaron, yes, I know. I heard you getting yelled at on the track the other day by your trainer.’
‘Did you?’ Jaron was surprised.
‘I get a good view from Tarp’s back.’
‘Tarp?’ Jaron asked, not understanding.
‘Not much escapes us from up on the roof.’
‘Oh?’ Then Jaron understood. He stiffened and looked down at his plate.
Sprague had heard and shifted towards Jaron’s other elbow and frowned across him at the young man. ‘You’re one of the firedrake riders, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’ Flick sounded proud.
‘Well, you want to keep away from my jockeys when they’re training.’
Jaron looked up in time to catch the young man’s smile fade a little.
‘We always do, sir.’
‘We are very careful not to upset the locals,’ a deeper voice interjected, coming from a man in his forties sitting opposite. His face, like Flick’s, was deeply tanned but his skin had a leathery quality to it.
Flick extended a hand towards the other firedrake rider. ‘This is Val.’
Val nodded to them but seemed disinclined to further conversation. Not so Flick who tapped Jaron’s arm to get his attention again.
‘The Plains of Wake make great flying.’
He grinned at Jaron, eyes alight with good humour, and despite himself, Jaron couldn’t help smiling back. He found he felt no animosity against this friendly young man. ‘Yes, the plains make good riding too.’
Flick shook his head. ‘You want to see it from the air. There’s nothing quite like it.’
Val coughed and eyeballed his younger colleague. Flick ducked his head and smiled at Jaron. ‘Sorry, I’m not boasting or anything. I bet it’s great going out there. What are the kelpra beasts like to ride?’
‘A challenge,’ Jaron answered. ‘But great when they want to work for you.’
‘Huh,’ Pache interrupted. ‘A good jockey, he has to be determined more than anything else. Make them work for you, don’t ask them if they feel like it, or you’ll never get the best effort. They need a master’s touch.’
‘Now, now, Pache my lad, don’t you go giving the competition advice.’ The Kyrindian trainer put a hand on his jockey’s arm.
Sprague’s mouth thinned. ‘Not that we need it,’ he said with a huff. ‘I wouldn’t be so sure this year if I were you, Tam.’
‘Really, my old friend?’ Tam replied, smiling. ‘Teller is in the finest form, so he is, the best form.’
‘Getting on a bit now, isn’t he?’
‘In his prime, Sprague, in his prime.’
The evening wore on. As home lead rider and trainer, Sprague and Jaron had the honour of being seated directly below and side on to the raised platform where Lord Bell’s guests sat at a long table facing out over the proceedings. Jaron recognized Lord Varne, an avid racegoer, and lord of the western city of Kyrinda. His fine long white hair had thin bands of silver woven into it for the occasion, as well as his beard. He was a lean man with a face so white it made him look insubstantial. As if to compensate he wore a heavy white fur cloak over his embroidered tunic, seemingly oblivious to the heat in the dining hall.
In contrast Lord Bell, leader of Tiara, sat next to him sweating profusely on his ornate carved throne. His blond hair and beard were just beginning to frizz in the heat, mingled with his own damp sweat. On the other chair next to Bell sat a very beautiful woman wearing a velvet red dress. Her hair was a mane of heavy, long black curling locks. Her skin was an unblemished creamy white and Jaron had noticed the men at his table often cast sneaky glances up at her.
‘That was a very satisfying meal you laid on there, Bell.’ It was Lord Varne who spoke and his thin voice floated down to Jaron’s table. He watched as the Lord of Tiara grinned and raised his tankard, spilling half of it in the process down his beard.
‘Yes, indeed, my compliments to the chef. In fact, let’s get her out here. Lale!’ he bellowed. An elderly servant creaked through the tables towards his master.
‘My lord?’
‘Get the woman, what’s her name? The head cook! Out here. We want to pay our compliments.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ The s
ervant turned and began to weave his way through the tables.
Jaron watched him go then frowned up at the table, more than a little annoyed at Lord Bell for calling his mother ‘the woman.’
‘So, the firedrake are to protect the grain this year, I hear,’ Lord Varne said to Bell.
The Lord of Tiara grinned. ‘Yes, a fine show your riders put on the other night, Lord Carna.’
Jaron hadn’t heard the Raken lord speak at all so far, although he had been casting surreptitious glances of dislike at the rider of the red beast, for it was the very same man he had seen in the courtyard that afternoon. Sitting next to the lady, he didn’t seem to have dressed up for the occasion and wore the same worn leather tunic with muscled tanned arms bare. Now Carna merely nodded at Lord Bell, who tried again.
‘Only complaint I’ve got is you didn’t kill any of those damned Ernots.’
Carna shrugged. ‘My men reported they started running, so why kill them?’
Jaron, on hearing this, was surprised. He stared up at the rider of the red firedrake. Feeling his focus on him, Carna looked down at his table, and their eyes locked. Jaron broke first, looking down to pick at the cheese on his plate.
The lady spoke then. ‘Tell me, Lord Carna, is it only the Raken who ride the beasts?’ She twisted a lock of hair in her hand and smiled at him.
‘Yes, Lady Roser,’ Carna’s reply was short.
Lord Bell leaned over the table. ‘My son here has been pestering me for a ride on one of your firedrakes. Indeed, I should think all the boys in Tiara would like to have the chance to fly such a beast.’ He didn’t look best pleased at this even as he said it.
Not this boy, Jaron thought to himself. He caught the flush of excitement that suddenly spread over Lord Hawke’s face from further down the table. He had his father’s shock of blond hair but was, in stark contrast, thin and tall.
The Raken lord had made no comment and Bell studied him, now with narrowed eyes. ‘But surely you would give a ride to my son, Lord Carna,’ he pressed. ‘After all, I heard you arranged for my advisor to get a ride back to Tiara.’
Carna’s neighbour, who Jaron had assumed was another firedrake rider by his tanned face and similar attire, flashed a look at his silent lord and answered for him. ‘It is the firedrake’s choice, not ours. Should the firedrake have not allowed the elder on his back, then it would not have happened.’
Lord Bell raised his eyebrows. ‘Oh, come now…?’
‘Wing Leader Nave, my lord.’
‘Well, Nave,’ Jaron noticed Bell didn’t use the man’s title, ‘surely the choice is the rider’s? After all, who is the master here, the beast or the man?’
Lord Carna put his elbows on the table and turned his head to stare at the Tiarian Lord. Nave suddenly shot a look down at Jaron’s table and the boy caught Flick and Val exchanging glances. Val raised his eyebrows at the younger Raken and Jaron heard Flick sigh before he pushed his seat away and stood.
‘You can have a ride on Tarp – if he doesn’t mind.’
Hawke clapped his hands and laughed in delight. ‘Thank you…?’
‘Flick, my lord.’ The young man slumped back down in his seat, looking glum.
Jaron noticed then the old servant returning, and behind him came his mother, walking with her head held high between the tables. He saw she had taken off her apron and untied her thick dark hair, leaving it to fall across her shoulders for the occasion. She still looked hot from the kitchens, but on her it seemed more of a glow. He felt a surge of pride. Someone from the crowd whistled, and he frowned.
Bell clapped his hands. ‘Ah, here she is, my head chef. Come closer, my dear.’
Rella approached and stopped before their table. She gave the shortest of curtseys.
‘My lord.’
A tankard slammed down from the top table, making Jaron jump. He saw Lord Carna had sat up straighter and was openly staring at his mother. Jaron glared up at him.
‘My compliments to the chef, we very much appreciated the fine food.’ Lord Bell raised his voice to the hall. ‘Didn’t we, friends?’ At this there were calls of agreement and some clapping.
Rella dipped her head. ‘My lord is very kind.’
To Jaron’s surprise Carna spoke then. ‘Yes, in Rakenar we do not have such a wide range of dishes. I am sure our kitchen is missing one such as you, my lady; a mistress chef.’ He held her gaze and the lord’s normally hard look turned just a little too eager for Jaron’s liking, who stared at him and then at his mother. He was shocked to see a smile playing on her lips just before she looked down at her feet.
‘It is very good of you to say so, my lord Carna,’ her voice was low, husky even.
Carna continued to stare at her and when she looked up again to meet his eyes, a slow smile stretched across his tanned face. Jaron wondered how she knew the lord’s name. Kitchen gossip, he supposed. He missed what Lord Bell was saying for a moment until Flick nudged him.
‘…and her son there is my star jockey for the race. Stand up, boy.’
Jaron looked horrified at Lord Bell and Sprague had to elbow him in the ribs to get him to move. ‘It’s tradition,’ the trainer hissed in his ear. Jaron stood, gripping the table hard, but it would be rude to drop his chin in an attempt to hide his scarred face.
‘He’s very small,’ Varne said. ‘And quite pale. Do you think he will make the race to its end, Bell?’ Jaron flushed but then noticed his mother eyeballing him. When she saw she had his attention she lifted her chin a little. Jaron did the same and she winked at him, causing a smile to touch his lips.
Bell grinned through his beard. ‘Sprague speaks very highly of him.’
Sprague stood up. ‘I do, my lord. He trained horses with his stepfather before coming to Tiara and Caliberion wouldn’t tolerate anyone else on his back. He’s young, but one of the best rider’s I’ve had.’
Jaron, surprised by the usually gruff trainer’s praise, shot a grateful look over at him. Sprague gave the slightest of winks.
The lady in the red dress was smiling kindly at Jaron. ‘Are you looking forward to the race, boy?’
‘Yes, very much, my lady.’ Jaron was pleased his voice sounded clear when his heart was hammering so.
‘And do you think Tiara has a chance this year?’ Varne asked. ‘Against my Teller?’
Jaron looked the Kyrindian Lord in the eye. ‘Yes, I do, my lord. Caliber is very fast.’
There was a ripple of clapping from the Tiarian guests at this.
Varne merely smiled. ‘I am glad you are so devoted, boy. I only hope you will not be too disappointed when you lose.’
Jaron kept his chin up. ‘Then I will do my best to avoid that outcome, my lord.’ Laughter from the guests but also applause and rumbles of agreement. Bell clapped his hands for silence.
‘All the lead riders from the lands entered, stand up with their trainers.’
At this there was a scraping of chairs as riders and trainers stood from various tables around the room. Tam nudged Pache who unfolded himself from his chair with feline grace and stood up next to his trainer. He towered over Jaron and grinned derisively.
Bell raised a tankard and stood.
‘Here’s to a good race, a clean race, we remember the Camorian entrant who died last year.’ Bell nodded along the table to the elderly lord of Camoria who inclined his head. There was silence in the hall as people bowed their heads in tribute.
After a moment Lord Bell raised his arms. ‘And the best of luck to Tiara!’ he bellowed, and the cry was echoed by those Tiarians in the hall. Bell raised his tankard to Jaron before taking a long swig.
‘May Lady Luck be with us,’ Sprague whispered and took a drink from his tankard.
Jaron looked over at his mother but Rella was smiling up at the top table, oblivious to the old waiter trying to get her attention to leave. Jaron followed her gaze straight to where Carna sat. The Raken lord was not looking at his mother, however, and with a jolt Jaron saw he was now staring direc
tly at him, with a frown on his wind-tanned face.
5
After the banquet, the next day was a rare morning off for Jaron. He dressed late and threw open the windows to his rooms before stepping out on to the balcony in his socks. He searched the sky warily, but no firedrake flew there and he could relax. The Plains of Wake shone golden in the morning sun and to the north, the Notresia range rose up in a blue haze. He closed his eyes and raised his face to take in the sun’s rays with a smile.
‘Hey!’
He started in surprise and turned to look back into his room but the landing door remained closed.
‘Jaron!’
Jaron frowned; it wasn’t a voice he recognized. He bent over the balcony but the walkway to the stables far below was empty.
‘Up here!’
Jaron turned, looked up – and gasped. The balcony wall pressed against his back and there was nowhere to go.
A green firedrake was making its way down the roof directly above him, the scales on its head catching the sun in an iridescent blue and purple sheen. Carefully, it placed one forefoot then the other on the steep gradient, wings held half out to balance itself. Green reptilian eyes looked directly into his, the pupils’ narrow vertical slits in the bright morning sunlight. Jaron couldn’t move. Stark terror left his limbs frozen like a rabbit before a hawk.
‘Morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?’
It was only then Jaron saw a face peering over the beast’s shoulder at him. His stricken mind remembered then, the rider from last night… Flick. Next moment a roof tile, dislodged by the firedrake’s weight, slid down the roof and smashed onto the balcony next to Jaron. Yet still he didn’t move nor take his eyes from the great beast; he couldn’t seem to make his legs work.
‘Oops, sorry about that.’ Flick looked genuinely upset. ‘Tarp!’ He slapped his firedrake on the neck. ‘Be more careful, would you?’ Tarp rumbled from deep in his chest and cocked his head at Jaron. ‘Tarp says sorry,’ Flick said. ‘Hey, where are you going?’
Jaron didn’t answer; able to move his limbs at last, he was already through the balcony doors and stumbling into his room. He fell on the bed, panting while he tried to still his hammering heart. The sound of another tile smashing onto stone caused him to flip over with a start. A scream threatened to form in his throat at what he saw next.