Dragon God (The First Dragon Rider Book 1)

by Ava Richardson

  I left the tower room trudging behind the others, none of us having the energy or strength to talk, but just feeling pummeled and exhausted. It was little Maxal Ganna that I feared for the most, as he appeared to be taking the physical side of the Abbot’s lessons much worse than the rest of us. I reached out to touch him on the shoulder as we crossed the courtyard and he flinched, but nodded as he acknowledged me silently.

  The Abbot’s going to end up killing us, I thought in alarm, wishing that I had energy to do anything other than collapse into bed. Every other student here had been in the beds for hours by the time that we crept into our respective dormitories. With less sleep and what felt like insane tortures, I wondered which of us Mage trainees would be the first to stumble or mishap. But I was too tired to even think anymore. As I pulled the scratchy woolen blankets up to my chin and felt the darkness of deep, dreamless sleep rise to take me, one last question hovered, and what does any of this have to do with dragons? And how will any of these cruel exercises help me keep Paxala safe?

  Chapter 22

  Neill, The Feast, & The Dragon’s Bargain

  My life turned into a whirlwind of activity. The next few days blurred, and I saw even less of Char, apart from her ghostly, pale appearances at dinner with the other Mage trainees. I couldn’t tell her about Paxala needing more food, and needing to learn how to hunt.

  My mornings started by getting up as early as I could – still in the middle of the night, really, unless I was on watch with Dorf before dawn (we were all seemingly being given more responsibilities now that we had been selected for our different paths; we had to take turns guarding the monastery, sorting the grains, cleaning, running errands, feeding the dragons with the others – all of which was supervised, of course). If I managed to get up before Dorf, then I would have to calculate if I had enough time to get dressed, sneak down to the Kitchen Gardens, pick up whatever scraps Nan Barrow would have left for me by the back door, and run across the mountaintop to feed Paxala, before racing back for the dragon call at the break of dawn, and to get washed and breakfasted. I hadn’t had time at all to continue my own investigations of the monastery for the source of the Order’s magic – but now, since what Nan had told me about the scarcity of actual Dragon Mages, I was more and more certain that the information that my father so desperately desired would be up there in the tower, with Char and the Abbot. He was the only monk who had magic here, so I would instead find out the secret of his power.

  And that meant getting access to Char, which again, I couldn’t do. If I could just get to her to ask her questions about her practices, about what incenses or magic rocks or whatever it is they use up there…

  Yesterday, in the late afternoon I had managed to accompany Dorf down to the Library where the Scribes could now freely spend more time, saying that I still needed to practice my penmanship skills. I had tried to ask him about the components of dragon magic, and all that he had come up with were a few dusty compendiums of folk tales.

  “No magic stones? Crystals? Magic rings?” I had said bewilderingly, looking at the list of strange and unusual words and names of things that didn’t make any sense to me.

  “Magic stones? There’s loads of stories about magic stones,” Dorf almost laughed. “But they’re all just folk stories. Not the true teaching that we get here.”

  What teaching? So far, the only people actually getting taught seemed to be Char and Maxal and the others. Not the rest of us!

  “Look here, at Fibinola’s Tales: here’s a woman who has to steal a piece of dragon eggshell that she uses to heal her baby. Here’s a story of a talking ax…” Dorf carried on. “But it is just rumor and superstition. We’re told in Scribe class…”

  My ears had pricked up especially at this point.

  “…that most of this is mistaken or forgotten herbalism. So, the dragon mystic with the eggshell probably crushed up the eggshell with a lot of Meadowsweet, or Nettles or something and it worked because of the healing properties of the plants. But we still collect all of that lore anyway, as it has to do with dragons, you see?”

  Well, no, I hadn’t seen. My father’s mission was becoming ever more frustrating, like chasing my own tail. It seemed as if most stories of the Draconis Order’s magic were false, and no one would talk about it. But I had seen the magic with my own eyes, I kept reminding myself. I had seen that boulder fly through the night. I had seen that suit of armor.

  And still the spring equinox was drawing closer, and I was no closer to any of my goals. A few mornings I missed breakfast and claimed I felt unwell, just so I had more time to feed Paxala and then to run down to the Library and again look at old fairy tales and superstitions - but this only made me even more tired during the long days ahead.

  There were other times when I couldn’t even get away before Dorf woke up, and Paxala had to wait until after dinner. I would announce to any nearby student or monk that I was going to study, or to the bathhouse, when in fact I would be running to the Kitchen Gardens, and then to the hungry dragon hidden on the other side of the mountain. Otherwise, my days were spent mostly on the practice ground, either during advanced Protector’s class, or through the day-on, day-off regular Protector classes and physical exercise with all of the other students. I was getting leaner, and taller, and the aches and knocks and pains started to fade from my body, to be replaced by new ones. My off-lessons were spent either in the Library or, through the next few days, in the Great Hall, where the Abbot himself would lead us in his obscure and strange ‘meditation classes.’ These would be held in near complete silence, after a short lecture by the Abbot at how important it was to clear the mind and to think only of one image at a time, which he would supply, such as a candleflame, a sword, a crown, and a dragon’s fang. We were to concentrate on that image alone until all other cares faded away from our mind. Always, his especial Mages-in-training would be separated and taken to the front of the class as they did their meditation exercises, and so I got a chance to at least observe how Char appeared to be doing, if not actually talk to her. She was growing paler and thinner if that was possible. She wouldn’t even catch my eye when I tried to get her attention. What were they doing up there, in that tower? How long could I go on feeding Paxala like this, in the off times between my many other duties?

  I never managed to achieve the same states of blank serenity that the others did, however. Always, I had worries gnawing away at me, destroying any carefully cultivated image the Abbot had us construct in our minds. Images of my injured and stricken father would replace those of the candleflame, or the sword, the dragon fang, or the crown. Or else I would think about Paxala and the strong curve of her back, or the sinuous tail that could already knock down young trees.

  My muscles started to ache and it wasn’t long before I managed to strain my ankle, and had to have it wrapped up and physicked. Luckily it for me, it wasn’t Monk Olan or the Quartermaster Greer who ordered me to show them the state of my swollen and bruised feet, but Monk Feodor, who took the Protector advanced classes.

  “What are you doing, boy, running up and down the tower stairs all night?” Feodor asked me when he saw me limping during practice. I sweated, knowing that was precisely what I had been doing.

  “Boots,” he demanded in the cold practice ground, as he marched over to me and ordered Lila instead to take the class in advanced blocking techniques (diving, rolling, and turning the body). Lila the Raider was getting good at fighting, really good, and it wasn’t a surprise that Monk Feodor was giving her more responsibilities, even talking about the possibilities of studying strategy and group tactics with her.

  I shucked off my boots and he tutted at my feet. “Warmth, air, and support,” he berated me. “Those are all that you need to keep you on your toes, and you seem to be spending too long in the cold, and putting way too many leagues under your feet.” He called for a healer to get him some bandages and a poultice, and proceeded to treat me himself. The poultice eased the muscle pain almost immedia
tely, leaving my skin feeling warm, and then wrapped the poultice up tight with multiple layers of clean gauze. “Take it off every night to let your feet dry out, and re-apply every morning.” He plonked a tub of unguent and bandages at my side. It wasn’t such an unusual sight after the short while that we had devoted to advanced Protector’s class – each one of us had been wrapped up or bandaged from some knock or fall or another, but this injury was different as it seemed to not result from any fight that I had.

  “How do you know all this stuff?” I asked Feodor as he worked.

  “Used to be a soldier. A captain even, in the Old Queen’s Army before Vincent took to the throne,” he said brusquely.

  “But didn’t everyone try out to be a Draconis Monk at an early age, like we are?” I asked.

  “Huh. In those days, no,” Feodor said with a frown. “I came from a poor background. No son of a prince or a warlord like some,” he said, and I thought he was angry until I noticed his bushy eyebrows creasing. He was teasing me. “I would have spent my life as a damn good soldier too, if it wasn’t for the Abbot himself, seeing the way that I had with the cavalry horses, and testing me for aptitude. It turns out I was good at handling dragons and scribing too.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence between us as the large monk looked worried – the first time I had ever seen Feodor worried about anything. Was he supposed to tell me that? I wondered as I looked at the mass of white lines, some as thick as a finger were clearly visible stretched from hand to top of his head. He broke the tension with a laugh. “I know what you’re thinking lad, not that good to earn these, huh? Well, – I’m still alive.” He grinned. “I survived a bull dragon attack, so the Abbot reckoned that I did know a thing or two after all.” I saw a flicker of something behind his usually calm-as-stone eyes. What was it – indecision? Wariness? I wondered how he had even been allowed into the dragon crater to train with the dragons, when we students were expressly forbidden to. He didn’t trust me yet, I realized. Which was something that I had to work on. As Feodor seemed to know the most of any other monk about the dragons, then surely dragon information was just the sort of information that my father would want, wasn’t it?

  And, more importantly, were there any records of those encounters? More hands-on information about how the monks approached and worked with the dragons other than just throwing bits of half-rotten meat down to them might help my father—might help me know what else I could do with Paxala, or expect from her. And had the Abbot been present at these encounters? Did he use his magic?

  “It’s sounds awful,” I tried, clearing my throat as I felt vaguely disloyal to this man who had so far been nice to me. But asking a few little questions didn’t hurt, did it?

  “It was,” Feodor agreed.

  “You must have been very brave to approach a bull dragon – was it the one before Zaxx?” I tried to ask in an innocent voice. “Was it just you on your own, or was the Abbot with you? Couldn’t he use his magic to save you?”

  “You’re done,” he said suddenly, throwing me my boots to catch, before standing up to bark at the others. I was left feeling like I had hit a brick wall with Feodor. The advanced Protector tutor was far more cunning than I was, it seemed.

  My time with the Crimson Red proved to be the few scant moments that I looked forward to in my hectic routine. She was growing fast, and would now greet me just under the ridge with a chirrup as I brought her food. If I had missed a feed for more than a day, then she would greet me by bowling me over and leaving me with a nip from her long fangs – always so delicate as to just bruise, and never break the skin. It was obvious she missed Char, and would often raise her head to the night skies, in the direction of the so-close Dragon Monastery, and let her haunting, whooping call echo through the ravine. I didn’t know how to stop her from doing it, and didn’t know whether I should even. It reminded me of the bond I had seen between the kennel dogs and the dog handler of Torvald– but more so. Paxala and Char had bonded together, the way young animals do to their guardian.

  Running through it all, of course, was the worry that my father might die, and I had to find something out to give to him by the spring equinox. Even if Healer Garrett saved his life, I had to warn my father of Healer Garrett’s affiliation to the Draconis Order. I felt torn between my need to look after the dragon for Char (and for myself) as well as fulfill my father’s wishes. There was no way that I could do both of these things without someone getting hurt – either a young dragon starving, or my father being at the mercy of the Draconis Order.

  How could I choose between them?

  And so, it was with a terrified urgency that I decided to do something to break the deadlock in my heart, as soon as the first opportunity arose. I would concentrate my efforts on the Abbot’s Tower. Perhaps it would yield information that would benefit my father and help me understand what was happening to Char.

  My chance came in the form of the First Day Feast. The First Day Feast was a way to mark the first day of spring, which was different from the spring equinox by only a matter of days. I knew that during the actual spring equinox, everyone would be expected to be in the fields or their gardens or at home, as the spring equinox was a Three Kingdoms-wide celebration to announce the end of spring and the start of summer proper —and prosperity— to the land. From now the days would be getting noticeably warmer and longer, and all of the crops that the land grew would start coming up in earnest. It was customary for rulers, warlords, and captains to celebrate spring a few days early, so their servants could then prepare for their own festivities. In our case, it was announced that would come in the form of none other than Prince Vincent visiting the monastery for a grand feast.

  “We here at the Draconis Order are honored to welcome the Good Prince Vincent back again, to feast with us on the first day,” the Abbot announced after a particularly frustrating meditation class. “Leading up to it, you will all have extra duties, but the day of the feast itself will be considered a holiday.”

  There was a ragged cheer from some of the more naïve of the students around me. Poor fools, I thought a little piously. They hadn’t heard what the Abbot had said to me privately in his tower (obviously), they didn’t quite know yet what sort of man was running this place, and how nothing could be taken for granted here. If the Abbot was ‘giving’ us a holiday, then I was sure it was for his own ends, not for our benefit at all. Even so, I could have joined in – but for entirely different reasons. If it was a holiday, then the free time was also my opportunity to try and sneak into the Abbot’s Tower.

  My plan was simple. To sneak up to the Abbot’s Tower – the same one that Char and the others took their classes in–and take whatever I could: scrolls or lesson plans or whatever material they used, and somehow get them to my father. And especially that cane that he walked around with, if it was there, and the little silver chain he sometimes wore. One of these things had to be the source of the Abbot’s power, surely! If what I found wasn’t good enough, then maybe he would be happy with just a primer or a grimoire.

  Maybe, I thought with a grimace as I re-adjusted the scratchy and uncomfortable cream-white tunic we had all been given to wear for the feast.

  “After all that sweeping that we’ve done for the celebration, my back is breaking!” Dorf Lesser moaned from beside me.

  “Well, you can thank Prince Vincent for all of this effort,” I muttered. It was no surprise to Dorf that I had a very low opinion of our prince, especially after the ‘example’ he had made of me on the mountaintop.

  “Well, I hope that Prince Vincent appreciates all the hard work we put in here this morning…” Dorf agreed with a moan.

  “It’s not like you to criticize your prince,” I muttered under my breath, my mind on other things.

  “Our prince, surely?” Dorf corrected (ever the keen observer of words and grammar).

  Oh yeah. I wondered why I had said that, and realized that I no longer thought of Prince Vincent, ever after that night on the m
ountaintop as ‘my’ prince at all. He was just some bully.

  The monastery fairly shone from our efforts. Every tile, mosaic, flagstone, brick, slab, and block had been brushed, scrubbed, and mopped. Every piece of martial equipment tidied away, and from somewhere large crimson and black tapestries had been produced, to flow down the walls, with pictures of dragons whirling, fighting, and swooping. Gold candelabras stood by every door, their beeswax candles burning steadily and slowly. Fresh herbs scented the air with lavender and citrus.

  “At least you can say the monastery is clean,” I muttered, taking note of Dorf’s already stained white tunic. Of course, my comments, however fleeting, was not appreciated as we walked to the feast and caused an angry snap from the Quartermaster as he led us.

  “Is this how the Good Prince wants to see his money spent? On two squabbling brats?” The Quartermaster called out in the echoing chamber.

  So, he’s funding this place, then is he? I thought. No wonder the Abbot wants us to swear our allegiance to him.

  We kept our heads lowered and then were hurried down the hallway toward the feast.

  “I am so hungry!” Dorf said under his breath after we’d gone a bit further.

  “You’re always hungry, Lesser!” said a voice, and I turned around to see that it was Faris, one of Terrence’s cohort. The kid had given way to let Terrence become a Protector instead of him, even though he was clearly the better fighter. He was like a string-bean with dark hair, from some rich merchant’s family from the south, and hated Lila with a passion. Faris and Terrence had seemed to know each other before coming here, and it hadn’t taken long for Terrence to convince Feodor to allow Faris to become a Protector too, meaning that me and Lila were evenly matched versus those who supported Terrence in our class.

  “Haven’t you got something better to do, Faris?” I snapped at him. He was a good fighter, but I thought that I might be able to beat him. I still didn’t particularly want to brawl in the hallway, right before the feast.