Total pages in book: 215
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 206625 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1033(@200wpm)___ 827(@250wpm)___ 689(@300wpm)
Mom will be here, on the dais in front of the bleachers, and maybe I’ll get more than a cursory glance, but her attention will mostly be on the seventy or so newly bonded pairs.
A ferocious roar of celebration goes up among the dragons as we fly in, every head swinging our way, and I know it’s in deference to Tairn. So is the parting of the dragons at the very center of the field, making room for Tairn to land. He releases the bands holding me in my seat, then hovers over the grass for a few wing beats, and I see the golden dragon flying furiously to catch up.
How ironic. Tairn is the most celebrated dragon in the Vale, and I’m the most unlikely rider in the quadrant.
“You are the smartest of your year. The most cunning.”
I gulp at the compliment, brushing it off. I was trained as a scribe, not a rider.
“You defended the smallest with ferocity. And strength of courage is more important than physical strength. Since you apparently need to know before we land.”
My throat tightens from his words, emotion forming a knot I have to swallow past.
Oh. Shit. I hadn’t spoken those words. I’d thought them.
He can read my thoughts.
“See? Smartest of your year.”
So much for privacy.
“You’ll never be alone again.”
“That sounds more like a threat than a comfort,” I think. Of course I knew that dragons maintain a mental bond with their riders, but the extent of it is more than a little daunting.
Tairn scoffs in reply.
The golden dragon reaches us, her wings beating twice as fast as Tairn’s, and we land in the dead center of the field. The impact jars me slightly, but I sit up tall in the seat and even let go of the pommel ridges.
“See, I can hang on just fine when you’re not moving.”
Tairn tucks his wings up and looks over his shoulder at me with an expression that’s the closest thing to a dragon rolling his eyes that I’ve ever seen. “You need to dismount before I rethink my selection, then tell the roll-keeper—”
“I know what to do.” I pull in a shaky breath. “I just didn’t think I’d be alive to do it.” Surveying both options for dismount, I move right to shelter my ankle as long as possible. There are no healers allowed in the flight field, only riders, but hopefully someone thought to pack a medical kit, because I’m going to need stitches and a splint.
I scoot over the scales of Tairn’s shoulder and, before I can lament the distance I’m about to have to jump on the wreckage of my ankle, Tairn shifts slightly, angling his front leg.
There’s a sound from the slopes that reminds me of muttering…if dragons mutter.
“They do and they are. Ignore it.” Again, there’s no room for argument in his tone.
“Thanks,” I whisper, then slide down on my butt like he’s a bumpy piece of lethal playground equipment, taking the brunt of the impact with my left leg when I hit the ground.
“That’s one way to do it.”
I can’t stop the smile on my face or the joy that stings my eyes at the sight of other first-years standing in front of their dragons. I’m alive, and I’m no longer a cadet. I’m a rider.
The first step hurts like hell, but I pivot toward the golden one, who is tucked in tight next to Tairn, surveying me with bright eyes as she flicks her feathertail.
“I’m glad you made it.” “Glad” isn’t even the right word. Thrilled, relieved, grateful. “But maybe you should fly off the next time someone suggests you save yourself, eh?”
She blinks. “Maybe I was saving you.” Her voice is higher, sweeter in my mind.
My lips part, and the muscles in my face go slack with shock. “Didn’t anyone tell you that you’re not supposed to speak to humans who aren’t your rider? Don’t go getting yourself in trouble, Goldie,” I whisper. “From what I hear, dragons are pretty strict about breaking that rule.”
She simply sits, tucking her wings in, and tilts her head at me in that should-be-impossible angle that almost makes me laugh.
“Holy hell!” the rider of the red dragon to my right exclaims, and I turn toward him. He’s a first-year from Claw Section, Fourth Wing, but I don’t remember his name. “Is that…” He openly stares with fear-wide eyes at Tairn.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling wider. “He is.”
My ankle throbs, aches, and generally feels like it’s going to come apart at any second as I limp across the wide field, heading for the small formation directly ahead of me. Behind me, wind sporadically gusts as more dragons land and their riders dismount to have their names recorded, but it’s softer and softer as the line spreads farther down the field.
Dusk falls, and a series of mage lights illuminates the crowd in the bleachers and on the dais. In the very center, right above where the redhead from Parapet is recording roll, sits my mother, dressed in all her military finery, medals and all, lest anyone forget exactly who she is. Though there is an assortment of generals on the dais, each representing their wing, there’s only one more highly decorated than Lilith Sorrengail.