At her feet, Aeronwind’s head lay motionless. For a brief moment, Trysten expected, or hoped that the dragon would lift her head up, rest her chin upon the stone and gaze out at the mountains.
Paege stepped up to her. “Move her head. She should face the village.”
Heat flushed across Trysten’s cheeks. She glanced out across the hordesmen. Half of them stood. The other half sat on stones or on the ground. Her father and Galelin remained standing. An open water skin hung from Galelin’s hand, as if he had offered it to Mardoc, but had yet to take the hint that Mardoc would have none of it.
Trysten sighed. How long would this go on? How long would it take her to learn all that she needed to know?
She crouched again, slid her fingers underneath Aeronwind’s jaw, then lifted. The head was heavier than she had expected, and the sensation of her fingers sinking into the yielding, leathery flesh under the jaw filled Trysten with an odd sensation. It wasn’t a dragon. It was Aeronwind, but it wasn’t a dragon. She didn’t want to touch it. But still, she straightened her knees and dragged Aeronwind’s head forward and to the dragon’s left until the head faced to the north, toward the village and the River Gul.
After she placed the dragon’s head on the ground, she retrieved the rock and placed it next to the head. She no longer had the sensation that Aeronwind would move her head. The dragon was lifeless, empty. Would a human body feel the same way? Her stomach sank as she thought of it. Finding out first hand was inevitable.
As soon as she stood, the rest of the hordesmen scattered and selected stones from among the dirt and heather and brush and grass that littered the plain. Even her father clutched his staff and stooped to pick up a hand-sized stone from the ground. The men brought their stones to Aeronwind and began to place them around the dragon. On they went, piling stones up and over Aeronwind’s body until the men and Trysten had to climb to cover Aeronwind’s back. As the work progressed and the sun crossed the sky, Trysten’s mind shut off, became blank. She thought of little but where to get the next stone and where to place it. She stopped on occasion to drink water, to pour a little on her hands and wash away the dust and grit and blood that gathered as the stones tore at her flesh.
Finally, the men stopped and stepped back, formed a ring around the cairn. Trysten selected a final stone, a large, flat one the size of a platter, and hefted it up. Her breath came hard and fast. Despite the cool weather, sweat prickled her forehead. She grasped the stone before her, and step by step, climbed up over the stones packed around Aeronwind’s body. At the top, she peered over her shoulder. Her father stood down near Aeronwind’s head. He leaned upon his staff more than usual. His shoulders heaved. He panted. It wasn’t the work, so much, as it was the strain, the pain of all he had been through. Physical and emotional. She had to remember that. She had no idea what the last couple of days had been like for him. She’d have to remember that. Someday she might be in his shoes, relinquishing the title to a child of her own.
She let the weight of the stone flex her knees as she crouched atop the cairn and allowed the stone to settle into place. She remained still a few seconds, then placed the palm of her hand against the flat of the stone. Her fingers ached. The knuckles felt sore. A long, rough scrape beneath her index finger burned and felt soothed against the cool of the stone.
“Thank you,” Trysten whispered to the dragon within. “Thank you for all you have done for us. We will remember you.”
After a moment of the wind whispering, she stood, turned, and picked her way down the stones. At the bottom, she approached her father. He straightened up, but didn’t resist as she drew him into an embrace. She buried her face into his shoulder and he wrapped his arm around her, drawing her close. She took a deep breath and smelled the leather and wool of him.
When she let go, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her to his side. She looked away, to the cairn, so that he wouldn’t see her notice the tears brimming in his eyes.
“Are we ready?” Trysten asked no one in particular. A scant collection of nods from the men indicated that their work was done. A few cast their attention back to the cairn.
“Then let’s go,” Trysten said. She pressed slightly against the small of her father’s back, urging him back in the direction they came.
He planted his staff before himself and leaned into it. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “That is not my place. You lead. The fallen bring up the rear.”
“Who says?” Trysten asked.
Her father looked at her as if she had sprouted a second head. “Tradition. That is how it is done.”
“No one has taken the time to explain these things to me, to tell me about the traditions that I am supposed to observe, so how am I to know?”
Her father shifted his gaze to some unseen point over the horizon behind Trysten. “You learn as you go.”
Trysten shook her head. “If it was that important, someone would have explained it to me. How was Paege expected to know any of this?”
“He was a hordesman. He’s participated in burials before. He’s seen it done.”
“But I wasn’t allowed to be a hordesman. How am I expected to know any of this?”
Her father continued to not meet her gaze, to not look her in the eye. It was odd, strange. It was unlike him to shy away from a challenge to authority or tradition.
“You will learn as you go.”
Trysten shook her head. “Not good enough. If you can’t bother to tell me what I need to know, then I’m making up my own traditions. And from now on, I walk with the fallen—No,” she said with another shake of the head. “First of all, I’m getting rid of that word. There is no fallen.”
“It is not within the realm of the Dragoneer to choose which words we speak.”
“I will not speak it. And you will walk by my side back to the village. That is my order.”
Her father closed his eyes briefly. The look of pain in his expression nearly made Trysten back pedal, take away all that she said. But there would be no taking it away. What was said was said, was out there never to be unheard.
“Please,” he said, then finally looked her in the eye. “These are the traditions that I have fought for. These are the traditions that Aeronwind died for. Allow me to have them.”
Trysten took half a step back. She swallowed hard. The urge pressed at her to glance around, to see what the hordesmen were doing, to look at the expressions on their faces. She resisted, however. She didn’t want to look like she was seeking their approval or support. This was about her and her father.
She took a deep breath, then gave a nod. In response, her father merely gripped his staff with his other hand.
Trysten turned away from him, and as the other hordesmen watched, she began to walk back the way they had come. Paege followed her, just a step or two behind and to her right. Then she heard the boots of the other hordesmen picking through the stones.
As hard as she listened, she could not hear the light thunk of her father’s staff probing the ground as he leaned his broken weight into it.
Chapter 28
Upon their return, the villagers welcomed them with a feast. Trysten led them into the weyr, and true to tradition, a row of tables lined the center of the aisle. Plates and platters and bowls and tureens of food crowded the table tops filled with everything from mutton and fish to root stews and sweet breads. The entire village milled about inside the weyr and watched in near silence as they entered. Up and down the aisle, the dragons turned and looked to her. She glanced back to the middle of the weyr, to Elevera’s stall, and for half a second, her heart stuttered to see it empty, before she recognized the golden hide in the next stall, in Aeronwind’s old stall. There she stood tall, perhaps taller than usual, maybe slightly taller than she had been that morning even. She stared back at Trysten with her great brown eyes.
A new sense of authority flooded through her, coursed across her skin, down and within her muscles. She was Elevera, the alpha. Tryst
en shook her head, as if to clear it.
Paege stepped up to her and leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. “Sit. At the head of the table.”
Trysten gave a nod, though she knew that. She recalled it from when her father was Dragoneer and came back from burial processions. She felt quite proud to sit there, at the left hand of her mother, who sat at the left hand of her father, who sat at the head of the table in a position of honor. He was important, special, and she was important and special to him.
And until he had died, Paege’s father had sat to her father’s right. She nodded to the place at the first table. “And you will sit there,” she said.
Paege didn’t respond right away. She thought of him on Elevera, the time she had tried to work with them in secret. He had felt so closed off, walled away on the dragon his father had died upon. But she needed him, his help, and his experience. For the good of the horde and village, he’d have to be her commander.
He nodded, then moved to the assigned place.
Trysten stepped up to the head of the table as she had seen her father do. Across the weyr, all of the villagers moved to the tables and stood behind chairs and benches. Her mother smiled and stepped up to her place on Trysten’s left. There Trysten stood and waited to see what her father would do. Finally, he and Galelin entered the weyr. Would he sit to her left, or do something ridiculous like go and sit at the foot of the table, next to the village overseer?
Trysten’s mother stepped away with a nod to her daughter. Trysten watched over her shoulder as her mother took her husband by the arm and gave a slight tug. As Trysten feared, he nodded at the foot of the table. His wife gave another tug. Mardoc allowed his shoulders to heave in a sigh of resignation, and then he followed his wife back to the table and stood to Trysten’s left, between herself and Caron.
“Thank you,” Trysten mouthed as he gave her a sidelong glance. Caron squeezed his arm. Mardoc straightened his back.
With everyone in their place, Trysten raised her hands as she had seen her father do, and then lowered them to the table. With a bustle of rustling clothes and creaking wood, the entire village sat at the collection of tables. And finally, Caron, Mardoc, and Paege sat. Trysten then took her seat. Up and down the table, chatter erupted among the villagers. Utensils clinked and bowls and platters were lifted and passed around and the mouth-watering scents overwhelmed the scents of dust and hay and leather and even the odor of herself and the hordesmen who had been bathed in sweat all day. Pitchers of water and mead and wine were passed around and Trysten filled a goblet with water and downed it all in one great draught. As she placed the goblet aside, she looked over the villagers, trying to gauge their well being. How were they faring in the face of all that had changed?
After dinner, as the crowd of villagers began to thin out, and those that stayed began to clear the remains of the meal, Assina appeared at Trysten’s elbow. “Are you ready for your fitting?”
Trysten looked up at the young woman. She really wasn’t ready. She stank like a goat, and every muscle in her body ached from the day’s labor. She wanted nothing more than to head back to her cottage and collapse into bed.
As if reading her mind, Assina touched the tips of her fingers to Trysten’s shoulder. “Come on. It won’t take but a few minutes, and the sooner we can get you measured, the sooner Talon and I can get started on your uniform.”
Trysten had begun to think of the donated uniform as hers, but it would be nice to have something that truly was hers, and fit like it as well. And following Assina out to her cottage would certainly get her away from the steady stream of villagers who stopped at the head of the table and wished her well on their way out.
Trysten gave a nod of agreement, then pushed herself up from the table. As she followed Assina to the exit, several more of the villagers stopped her and congratulated her. She accepted the well-wishes with grace and gratitude, but part of her wanted to point out that it wasn’t her doing, that Aeronwind had died and if it was up to her, Aeronwind would still be alive and her father would still have the title.
But she smiled and shook hands and thanked those who congratulated her. Between interruptions, she looked back at Elevera, who stood tall and erect, watching over all as Aeronwind had always done.
Outside, Trysten drew in a deep breath of the cool air. She swore half the day’s heat had dissipated since she arrived at the weyr. She looked to the mountains. No horde of dragons from the Western Kingdom came streaming down. Instead, a dark band of clouds hung over the mountaintops.
“I hate social functions,” Assina said suddenly.
Trysten lifted an eyebrow at her.
“No offense,” Assina said as she shook her head and lifted her hand. “I understand the point of all that.” She waved her hand at the weyr. “But it’s just too much for me, you know?”
Trysten inhaled deeply. She gave a nod, then thought of the dragons as she ran the palm of her hand over the emblem on the armor. She glanced back at the weyr. How long would it be before everyone cleared out? How long before she could get back in and see Elevera and the other dragons?
Assina began to head on to her cottage. Trysten waited a second longer, then followed.
Chapter 29
Assina’s cottage stood empty when they arrived. She lit a candle from the embers in the hearth and led Trysten back to the work room. There she lit several more candles and a lantern.
The door opened. A moment later, Jalite and Talon stood in the doorway.
“I was about to get Trysten’s measurements,” Assina said as she looked up from a basket containing balls of yarn.
“I’ll get this one,” Jalite said to her son with a touch upon his shoulder. He nodded, then spared an odd look at Trysten, something that she didn’t know how to interpret, and off he went.
Jalite shut the door behind her. “Those don’t fit you, do they,” she said with a nod to the garments Trysten wore.
Trysten shook her head. Her arms were too heavy, too weary to cross over her chest, and so they fell limp to her side feeling like lengths of old, worn-out rope.
“If you would, dear, please take that uniform off so that we may get an accurate measurement. Don’t worry about Talon. He knows better than to poke his head in here when it’s just us women.”
Trysten glanced at the door. She was too tired to think about it much. She crossed her arms over her chest, grabbed the shoulders of the leather armor, then leaned forward slightly as she tugged up on the shoulders as she had seen her father do. Once she wiggled out of the armor, she pulled off the sweater and let it slip from her fingers. It fell to the floor in a puddle of wool.
“Your shirt, too, dear,” Jalite said. “Your modesty will not help us get an accurate measurement. And again, you have my assurance that it is just us. Talon knows better than to walk in on us, or let anyone else in.”
Trysten blinked at Jalite, and her eyes burned with sleep. Taking off her shirt suddenly felt like an unreasonable amount of effort. Still, the sooner they got her measurements, the sooner she could go home. She pulled her shirt out from the waistband of her pants, curled her fingers around the hem, and pulled it off.
Immediately, Assina approached with a length of yarn and a bit of charcoal. Despite her undershirt, Trysten felt an urge to cover herself, but again, she was too tired, and so her arms hung at her side.
Assina handed the end of the yarn to her mother, who pinned it to Trysten’s shoulder with the tip of her finger. She drew the yarn across Trysten’s shoulders, then marked it with a stub of charcoal at the other shoulder.
“Oh, I can’t tell you how happy this makes me!” Jalite said, her voice near a squeal. “To think that a woman has not only joined the hordesmen, but even become the Dragoneer! I never dared to even dream that I’d be able to do this some day. Grandmother would be so proud.”
“Grandmother?” Assina asked as she nudged Trysten to lift her arms, hold her elbows out.
“Well, not your grandmother,” Jalite
said. “Not my mother, but rather my own grandmother. She used to tell me tales of how her own grandmother once made a uniform for a lady dragoneer.”
Trysten’s head snapped around.
“Her grandmother made armor for a female dragoneer?”
Jalite nodded. “She was quite proud of that. She said she saw it. She was too young to do much other than be in the room, but she said she remembered it.”
“Here,” Trysten said, then pointed to the ground. “In Aerona?”
Jalite nodded again. “Yes. She was the last. Or at least the last here. The way people talk, I assume there are no female dragoneers anywhere anymore.”
“Who was it? Why doesn’t anyone talk about it—talk about her anymore?”
Jalite shrugged. “Times change, I guess. A man succeeded her, and he’s been passing it down to his sons ever since, until we wound up with your father, who was a fine dragoneer, it’s just that I’m so proud to have a woman as dragoneer in my lifetime. To think that I get to be a part of that! That’s quite exciting. Isn’t it?” Jalite asked, then tapped Assina on the back of the hand.
Assina nodded, then pinned a length of yarn to the top of Trysten’s shoulder with the tip of her finger.
“But, there is a rule. I saw it.”
Jalite shrugged, then placed her finger on the end of the yarn to free up Assina’s. “Rules change to suit the times, I suppose.”
Exhaustion clouded Trysten’s head. She had seen the rule. She had observed it with her own eyes in the book of rules. It was there. And the book itself was already how old? How could that be? How could there have been a female dragoneer, and not that long ago if Jalite’s own grandmother had witnessed the construction of the armor and uniform. Could her father be lying? Simply mistaken? Could it possibly be true? What if it was nothing more than the fancies of Jalite’s grandmother, who was a girl herself when this supposedly happened. That was a long stretch across time to account for. Who could she find who might confirm or debunk Jalite’s claim?
The Dragoneer: Book 1: The Bonding Page 17