Chapter 8: Chapter Eight

The stables smelled of dung and old bones. Shera was too large to fit in the stalls, so she lay in the back part usually meant to store hay, surrounded by blood-soaked wool from her most recent meal. Armaila summarized the events she had missed, an easy task with their bond that relied on memories more than words.

You do not trust the king, Shera noted.

After what I’ve learned these past days, I don’t trust anyone.

Armaila double checked the contents for her trip—she was far more prepared than when she had left Greenfields—and fastened the sack to the dragon’s back. It rested securely above Shera’s sharp spikes that lined her tail.

“They told me you were here.”

Armaila turned to see her mother in a thick cloak and riding breeches with cheeks flushed from running, a stark contrast to her usual feminine attire.

“I would have been miserable married to Gregory.” Armaila returned her attention to the dragon and pretended to check the contents of her sack again.

“You’re right.” Mikayla stepped closer. “I made many mistakes and you deserve the truth.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

“You have a brother.”

Armaila’s focus on her inspection wavered and she met her mother’s gaze.

“I was the oldest of nine children and the responsibility of caring for them fell to me from a young age. I served drinks at a local tavern, and one night as I walked home, I was ambushed by two men.” Mikayla’s tone was flat, her emotion separated from the words. “My family disowned me and I gave birth nine months later alone on the streets of Normar.”

Memories of what Turoc had attempted flashed through Armaila’s mind. “What happened to the baby?” she managed to ask.

“I had no choice but to leave him at an orphanage. I could barely feed myself, let alone care for a small child.”

“That’s why you and Marie never spoke…” The pieces fell into place into place, and Armaila found herself frowning in disgust.

“We somewhat reconciled as adults,” Mikayla said, “but the damage was already done.”

“I suppose if I had married Gregory, I wouldn’t be in this predicament now.”

“As your mother, all I really want is for you to be happy. I thought the life Gregory could provide you with would ensure that, but I was wrong. I tried so hard to keep you from this life and it found you regardless, so I must believe it was fated.”

The acknowledgment lifted a weight from Armaila’s shoulders. “I don’t want to serve King Theodore, either”

Her mother glanced at the exit and frowned. “My orders demand that I must leave. We will see each other again in the coming weeks—you will have learned much about being a dragon rider by then.”

Armaila did a final survey of her belongings after her mother left, and then met Eric outside the stables. She couldn’t help but picture what her brother would look like as they rode. What similarities would they share? Would he have brown hair and green eyes like her?

“It must be exciting to be the first rider in centuries,” Eric said finally, breaking the silence and interrupting her thoughts.

“It’s not something I ever expected,” Armaila said truthfully. “I’m sure you would be much better at it.”

She felt Shera recoil at the thought, but Eric just laughed. “I’d be a bumbling idiot. I know swords and spears and even some horsemanship, but I could never communicate with another species the way you can.”

“You don’t think it’s weird that I’ll be a woman in battle?”

“Some people follow those traditions,” he said. “If someone can fight well enough to protect my back in a fight, I don’t care if they’re a man, a woman, or a river toad.”

“I… think toads are male and female, too.”

Eric shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”

“You must be happy to be named high knight commander,” Armaila said, remembering their first conversation and how strangely he had acted. “Was it in service to King Theodore that you traveled halfway to Fortharnor?”

“It’s not as grand as it sounds. I was a glorified water boy for a group of the king’s guards sent to negotiate with fairies over some matter I was never informed about.”

“You’ve come a long way since then.”

They road through the night and well into the next day until Eric finally called for them to stop. They had entered a small clearing with a cabin tucked into the far edge, difficult to see behind sweeping fir bows.

“Greetings,” Eric called.

Twang.

An arrow struck him square in the chest. His chestplate kept it from piercing the skin, but Armaila knew a nasty bruise would follow.

“What is your business here?” a gruff voice called. An old man emerged from the cabin, holding a bow in one hand and a dagger in the other. His gray beard reached just below his chin, and the ragged shape of it suggested the dagger's main use was for personal grooming.

“Veral?” Eric called out while trying to regain his breath. When the man didn't answer, he continued. “I come on orders from King Theodore—”

Twang.

Another arrow struck his chest, half knocking him off his horse. He slid the rest of the way out of the saddle and hid behind a large tree, followed by Armaila and Shera.

“I will have nothing to do with that mangy, flea-bitten son of a snake!” Veral yelled.

“Sir, the Legion—”

An arrow flew past Eric's ear.

“Go back from where you came, boy. And take the dragon too.”

Armaila stepped into the opening with her arms up, hoping it was obvious that she wasn’t wearing armor and eve more so that Veral wouldn’t shoot a woman without any. “We’ve come a long way—can we at least talk?”

The old man growled and lowered his weapon. “What do you have to say?”

Armaila stepped closer with caution and Shera followed closely, ready to spring into action if required. “They want us to go to war and we know nothing about it. I’m told you’re the only one who can prepare us.”

Veral cursed and turned on his heel toward the small cabin. “Wipe your feet before coming inside,” he barked.

Eric followed Armaila inside while still rubbing his chest, and Shera peeked her head through the doorway, unable to fit her entire body. The structure was not well furnished with only a homemade table and two stumps that served as chairs and a simple cot in the corner.

“Tell me how a young girl like you got involved in all this,” the old man said. He grabbed a mug and filled it with strong-smelling liquor.

“I found an injured fairy in the woods,” Armaila said.

Veral set down the cup. “Florine?”

Armaila recounted the events leading up to her arrival in Normar as best she could, and Veral’s scowl deepened with every word. He was silent for some time after she finished speaking.

“I will help you out of respect for dragons and riders that served our people for generations,” he said finally. “Do not mistake that as sympathy toward Theodore.”

“Great,” Eric said. “You will come with us to Normar then.”

Veral laughed. “We will go to Greenfields. It is a long-standing tradition that a dragon rider trains in a place they are familiar with, and by now, the Legion won’t expect her to still be there.”

“That’s too dangerous, I can’t allow—”

A sharp look cut off further protest from Eric, and Armaila was glad at the thought of returning home.

Veral packed his bedroll and, within minutes, they left. When dusk fell, they made camp along the river several leagues downstream from Two Forks crossing. He had been careful to lead them over terrain that they could not be tracked on, and so far, there was no sign of the Legion pursuing them.

“You'll have to learn to hone your craft,” Veral said as he tended the fire.

Armaila remained quiet as she waited for him to continue. She wrapped herself in her blanket to ward off a night chill and Shera lay with her head resting a handbreadth from the flame.

“You can sense the presence of living things around you. Of all the gifts riders had, it was the most useful and highly prized.”

“I don’t think I can,” she said.

“You can and you will.” Veral’s face softened somewhat. “It will come in time with proper guidance.”

“Does that mean I will be able to feel my enemies as I kill them?” she asked. The thought—of killing again at all—terrified Armaila, but not as much as marrying Gregory had. What is wrong with me?

“War is art, and art is balance. You will learn yours.”

The trip home seemed shorter to Armaila than when she was fleeing for her life the first time. The sight of familiar hills and the river she had crossed so many times sent her heart racing—she could not yet see the little town through the branches and rolling ground, but the smell of smoke and fresh bread was strong.

They skirted around Greenfields, far enough to be hid from prying eyes. She tried to peer through the branches, to get a look at the familiar buildings, but it was in vain. She hoped most of the families in Greenfields would be sitting down to supper, oblivious to the danger lurking on Erithor’s doorstep. They made camp in the woods several leagues northwest of Armaila’s home.

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Armaila sighed and leaned up against Shera’s side after finishing her meal. Scales dug into her back every time the dragon breathed, but she didn’t mind.

I feel helpless. People will not accept you as a dragon or me as a rider.

Shera stretched her long neck so that her head rested next to Armaila. The ways of humans are difficult to understand.

Why did you hatch for me? Armaila sensed confusion as the dragon considered the question.

I don’t know, Shera admitted. I have no memory of when I was in my shell, but I know it felt right.

A warrior, like Florine, would have been a better choice.

A small puff of smoke escaped Shera’s mouth. The bond of dragons and riders in ancient, and it is based on far more important things than your ability with a weapon.

Armaila pressed for more answers, but the dragon was unable to give any. She sighed and settled into a restless sleep.

Early the next morning, before the sun had cleared the horizon, Veral woke her with a cold splash of water.

“We'll start with the basics.” He tossed Armaila a stick roughly the size and shape of a sword.

Still half asleep, it hit her across the face before she caught it.

“The first lesson is blocking,” he continued, holding a stick of his own and circling her as he spoke. He lunged forward without warning and jabbed his pretend sword toward her abdomen.

Instinctively, Armaila raised her own weapon to block with both hands gripping the would-be hilt.

“Not bad,” Veral said. “Don't straighten your wrists as much and keep your feet further apart.”

He struck again, and following his advice, the impact wasn’t as jarring. They continued with the exercise far longer than Armaila would have preferred, with Veral pointed out her flaws each time.

“Straighten your back.”

“Your feet were too far apart.”

“Quicker reflexes next time.”

By the time Veral called for a break midday, Armaila questioned her decision to be trained as a dragon rider. She messaged the palm of her right hand as she sat down, knowing it would be various shades of purple by the next day. Shera rested peacefully nearby.

After five or ten minutes, hardly after Armaila had caught her breath, Veral tossed a blindfold onto her lap. “Let's see how well you observe your surroundings.”

She covered her eyes apprehensively, waiting further instruction. He took her hand a led her forwards into the forest.

“Your eyes may fail you,” Veral said as they walked. She could hear gravel and broken twigs crunch under their boots, and she knew Shera was following. “You must have other senses to reply on: your ears, your nose, your sense of touch.” He stopped. “What can you tell me of your surroundings now?”

Armaila inhaled deeply. She smelled sap from spruce trees. There were also deciduous trees, because she could hear their leaves rustling in the wind. The dirt was moist and, since the last few paces had been much quieter and the ground softer, she concluded it was covered with damp fallen leaves and needles. Sunshine warmed her face and arms. There was no sound of water nearby.

When Veral allowed her to remove the blindfold, she saw most of her assumptions had been correct. Still, she had gotten an incomplete picture, and there were several things she missed. A large bolder, covered in moss and years’ worth of fallen needles, stood under the sweeping bows to her left. A squirrel darted up a thick oak trunk, and moss and apparently scentless wildflowers carpeted the ground.

“You must relax,” Viral said, tying the blindfold against her eyes once more.

“I can't see everything without my eyes.”

“I am holding something in my hand,” he stated, ignoring her protest. “Describe it to me.”

“That's impossible, I—”

Veral cut her off mid-sentence. “Describe it to me.”

Armaila concentrated, straining to see through her blindfold to no avail. A little help, please? she asked Shera.

Veral said you must do this on your own.

Armaila relaxed her shoulders, trying to sense what was around her. Thump. Thump. Shera’s heart beat steadily, like the rhythm of a great river. She could feel the soil, moist under the dragon's claws. Slowly, a picture began to form. It was like the feelings she shared with Shera, yet different. She could almost see what was around her, but she was sure she wasn't looking through the dragon's eyes.

“It's a pebble,” she said.

“What color?”

“White.”

Viral smiled. Not heartily, just a slight curling of his mouth, a small sign of approval. “It is important to be aware of what surrounds you at all times. This will save your life, and Shera’s. You have been given abilities beyond that of man and fairy, and with proper training you will learn how to use them.”

The blindfold was still firmly in place, but she could sense him move around her. He reached for something—a ball of mud. He raised his arm, and Armaila reflexively moved out of the way as the dirt hurled at her face.

“What are you doing?” she demanded, pulling off the blindfold.

“One does not master a skill without practice.”

The day continued in a similar fashion. Veral threw objects at her or made her navigate obstacles. She found the longer she wore the blindfold, the clearer the mental image became. Her sense of touch and smell was also greatly heightened.

Sunlight stung her eyes when she finally received permission to remove the strip of cloth from her eyes. Viral rubbed his hands together to remove any bits of dirt that still clung to his skin.

“Time for dinner,” he said, looking up at the sky. It was about four in the afternoon, earlier than she was used to eating, but she welcomed the rest.

Her feet drug in the mud as they walked back to camp, and she was glad to see that Eric had already prepared their meal. It was a simple stew with little depth of flavor, but it was enough to renew much of her strength. Shera, however, was forced to hunt her own dinner.

“You have done well for your first day,” Veral said once they finished. “Still, I sense there is something bothering you.”

Armaila’s cheeks involuntarily flushed and she felt Shera’s amusement. “I left Greenfields without a proper goodbye,” she said. “I left behind friends, my family, and my home, and to be so near now yet separate is painful.”

“The purpose of bringing you here is to uphold the longstanding traditional of training riders in a familiar environment, where their sense of duty to protect those around them can grow. It is not good to leave unfinished business, but we also must be careful not to move too quickly and put ourselves at risk.” He stroked his gray beard thoughtfully. “Who do you trust?”

The answer formed quicker than Armaila anticipated. “Gregory Smith. He is the baron’s son, and I’m sure he will understand the weight of my situation.”

Although Greogry had expressed his distrust of dragons and riders before, she knew his mind would change once he saw Shera.

Veral frowned and nodded. “Eric will accompany you to see him.”

Eric made a face at the suggestion. “Is this necessary? They will be much safer here, in secret.”

“I agreed to King Theodore’s request again my better judgment, and I will not bloody well have my authority questioned by his underlings.”

Armaila combed a tangle in her hair and straightened what wrinkles she could from her tunic. What would Gregory’s reaction be to seeing her?

When the arrived, Armaila paused below his window. How many times had she stood in that very spot when they were children, throwing pebbles and asking him to come play? That was before he confessed his love to her.

Armaila scooped up a small stone and turned it over in her hand, feeling the rough edges. It was gray and unremarkable, unlike the baron’s house. She threw it at the window and Gregory's head appeared a moment later, his blond hair disheveled.

“Armaila?” His eyes widened as they fell on Eric and Shera behind her.

“We need to talk.”

He disappeared from the window and exited the house fully dressed a minute later. “Why is there… Is that…”

“She is a dragon,” Armaila confirmed.

Gregory nodded as he tried to grasp the situation. “The legends are true, aren’t they?” He managed to break his gaze away from the dragon long enough to face Armaila. “The Legion attacked Greenfields a fortnight ago.”

“Was anyone hurt?”

Armaila’s stomach bunched into a knot as Gregory gave a list names. Fortunately, it was a short list, but she knew all of them. She had missed their arrival by days, and quite likely it was the same soldiers that had attacked Burn’s camp.

“I’m training to be a rider,” she said. “I swear to you that I will not let this happen again.”

Concern flashed across Gregory’s face. “Is that safe? I mean, there are only men on that battlefield.”

“It most certainly is not safe, but my gender has nothing to do with it.” Armaila frowned. Would convincing Erithor to accept her as a rider be impossible? “I don’t want to lose you as a friend,” she continued, changing the subject. She wasn’t sure what she had intended to say when she left their camp, but that was close enough.

“I can’t forget the things we both said.” There was an odor on Gregory’s lips, vaguely sweet and fruity, but she couldn’t place it. “Too much has changed that we can’t undo.”

His voice was gentle, and somehow that made the words sting more.

“I’m not asking to erase the past,” she said. “I’m asking to build something new.”

A long pause followed.

“I will try,” Gregory said finally. “Did you bring your bow?”

“Yes?”

“Remember that one year after the Harvest Festival?”

Armaila's eyes widened. “We were ten years old.” They had spent the evening shooting apples off each other's heads while their parents thought they were playing with the other children. At one point, an arrow had grazed her ear and she lied to her mother about catching it on a tree branch.

Gregory rolled his eyes. “We don't have to put the apples on our heads.”

He retrieved his own bow and a sack of apples, and they walked the short distance to a large pond on the property. Frogs and crickets sang together and the smell of honeysuckle filled the air. Shera followed closely but Eric chose a spot on the hill where he could keep watch from a distance.

Gregory placed an apple on an ancient bolder, covered in moss and lichen, and stepped back. Armaila drew her bow and released. The arrow found its mark and pinned the fruit to a tree.

Gregory ripped the arrow from the wood and shook it to clean off bits of the apple. “Pretty good, for a girl,” he teased. His own attempt split the next apple in half.

Armaila applauded. “Not bad, for a boy.”

For a moment, everything was normal again.

Out of the way, Shera said, brushing them aside with his wings.

“Gregory, you might want to move,” Armaila said with a laugh.

Gregory’s face turned white and they both stepped back several paces from where the dragon stood.

Shera inhaled deeply with a loud rumble. She hunched her shoulders and strengthened her neck, and fire flew from her mouth. A moment later, black smoke surrounded the rock and nothing of the apple remained.

“Remind me not to get on her bad side,” Gregorey whispered.

They continued to shoot until the bag was half empty and they had lost two of their best arrows. She tried to eat an apple, but it was bitter and green and she spit it out in disgust.

“I made mistakes too,” she said as they put their arrows away. “It was selfish of me to never consider your feelings.”

“Considering what you've been through, I think you were entitled to a little selfishness.”

Armaila smiled. “Thank you.” She glanced up at the disappearing moon. “I must go, I’ve stayed too long already.”

“Maybe I'll see you again?” he asked.

“I'd like that.”

It was late when Armaila returned. Veral poked the fire with a long stick, sending sparks high into the night sky. Eric had said little on the return trip and she didn’t press him—it was obvious he and Gregory did not care for each other.

“We you able to resolve your problem?” Veral asked.

“I think so,” Armaila said.

He smiled. “I remember what it was like to be your age, with so many ideas and equally strong emotions to match. That’s how I became involved in the relationship that angered more than one king and nearly saw me hanged.”

Armaila raised an eyebrow but Veral dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“A story for another time, perhaps.”

“How do dragons choose their riders?” she asked, thinking back to her previous conversation with Shera.

“Are you sure you wish to discuss such weighty matters at this hour?”

“What else is there to discuss?”

“Let us start at the beginning then.” Veral shifted into a more comfortable position leaning against a tree. “There are three known lands: Erithor, Drungatta to the eat and the Great Lands to the west. Men and fairies first came to Erithor by sailing from Drungatta. There were disputes over Erithor, a land rich in resources, and war broke out for eleven years. A truce was called and Erithor became divided into its present-day parts.”

“I’m confused,” Armaila said. “Erithor is the name of this kingdom.”

“It is both the name of this land as a whole and our kingdom. The Fairy Kingdom is part of Erithor.” Veral cleared his throat. “When the Great Lands were later discovered, so were dragons. They were wild creatures with no bonds to men or fairies, but it did not take long for magic to be used to craft such bonds as you have today. The exact mechanics of the spells are forgotten, but they paired dragons with riders based on overall strengths and weakness so that they complemented one another.”

Armaila noticed Eric leaning in intently to follow to the story. She moved over on her log and offered him a seat closer to Veral, which he accepted.

“Peace treaties were negotiated and a large celebration was held every fifty years to remember the thousands of lives lost. One day, a dragon and rider came across a small blue stone in the Great Lands, and they returned to Erithor with it to present it at the celebration. Within days, all of the dragons grew mad and many died.”

“What happened to them?” Armaila asked.

“The bluestone contains an energy that is toxic to dragons, and it poisons their minds. I watched many dragons tear themselves and others apart, but my dragon and I were lucky enough to be young riders that were not seated close enough to the bluestone to do permanent harm.”

“There’s believed to be six original bluestones,” Eric added. “Two of them coming in a contact caused the Land of Ash, leaving only four remaining.”

“That is true,” Veral said, “though we do not know with absolute certainty.”

Where are the bluestones now? Shera asked, and Armaila repeated her question.

“Officially, no one knows. Personally, I think Theodore has a good idea of where to find one. A fairy, or dragon rider, can use one to feed their magic and cast spells beyond normal limitations.”

They talked long into the night, until Veral finally unrolled his blanket and insisted she did the same. Armaila found herself looking forward to her next day of training.