Aerona Stands Read online

  Muzad stopped. He stood close enough that the heat of his breath washed over Trysten.

  “You dare to raise your sword to the Dragoneer of the Royal Horde? You know nothing of honor. Stand aside,” he spat.

  “Lower your weapon,” Trysten said, as two more of the former Western dragons stood and ruffled their wings, reflecting her agitation.

  Muzad looked at the dragons, his self-confidence waning. He pulled in a long breath as if he felt the need to puff himself back up.

  “What do you think the Prince will say?” Muzad asked.

  “He will say that I am Dragoneer of this weyr, and as such, I decide what happens with the weyr’s prisoners. That is the law.”

  A sneer crossed Muzad’s face. “The law? You have the wild nerve to tell me the law? That same law doesn’t recognize you as a dragoneer.”

  “The wisdom of dragons recognizes me as the Dragoneer of Aerona weyr, and that is all that matters. Prince Aymon himself has decreed I am the Dragoneer of this weyr. His word should be more than enough for you since you have declared it your sworn duty to protect the interests of the Royal family.”

  Even in the flickering light of the torch, it was plain to see Muzad’s color darken a shade as his shoulders lifted with anger looking for an outlet.

  “Return to your tent, Muzad. You are standing in my yard.”

  Muzad shifted his attention from Trysten to Paege, and then on to the dragons who stood at attention behind her. He swallowed once, then glanced down to the prisoner. His eyes hardened, and finally, he took a step back.

  “You will regret your foolishness one day,” Muzad said. “Whatever enchantment you have over these dragons protects you now, but you will soon meet with a force that even they cannot protect you from. You will regret your misplaced pride on that day. You will wish you had remembered your place.”

  “And your place is somewhere other than my weyr yard. Return to your tent before I have you arrested for trespassing.”

  Muzad stood a moment more, long enough to try and make a point of turning only because he decided it was time to turn around and retreat. His sword whispered as he returned it to its sheath and his shadow grew long and jittery as he retreated from the light of the torch and back to the yard.

  “Carlus!” he yelled. “Were you sleeping at the fire, man?”

  The watchman stood at attention, his shoulders tight and rigid, his chin lifted as if awaiting a blow.

  Chapter 2

  Trysten let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Then she remembered the prisoner behind her. She whirled around and found that he hadn’t moved. He remained on his back and rubbed absently at his wrist while staring up at her.

  “Should we find a cottage to use as a prison again?” Paege asked.

  Trysten didn’t look up from the prisoner. He could have easily delivered a blow to the back of her knees, grappled for the sword. Of course, Paege stood nearby with his own sword drawn. Perhaps the prisoner had realized that Trysten was trying to save him from Muzad. Regardless, he had made no effort against her. He appeared to have surrendered.

  Beside them, Maejel stared down at the prisoner. She held her head out toward him as if she were waiting for the right moment to offer a bit of comfort and assurance. A knot of emotions radiated from the dragon and hit Trysten all at once, threatening to overcome her if she gave into them. She forced herself to focus on the real world around her, not the half-world that the dragons saw.

  The prisoner turned his attention to Maejel. By the wilds, Trysten swore that she could nearly see the man’s heart hammering against his chest, fluttering the grimy sweater that covered him.

  Trysten looked at Paege. “Take him to the weyr. Maejel, too. Find a stall for them both.”

  “Both?” Paege asked.

  She nodded. The prisoner watched her, holding his breath.

  Paege shifted from foot to foot as if unsure of what to do. “Are you sure... Is that wise?”

  Trysten looked back to the prisoner. “He’s here because he couldn’t stand to be apart from his dragon. As long as we’re treating her well, he won’t be a problem.”

  “Just in the stall,” Paege said. “You want me to just put him in the stall? With the dragon.”

  She took a deep breath. How much easier everything would be if she could speak to the Western man. She looked off to the west, to where the mountains hid in the night. How wonderful it’d be if at that moment Rast approached, having returned on the back of his courier dragon with some shrewd merchant who knew how to speak both Cadwallian and the language of the West.

  But there wasn’t time to hope for that. The Western army would be on them in days. The Westerners always attacked on the backs of dragons during the fighting season. To send an entire army on foot was a drastic shift in strategy and no one in Aerona knew why the West had changed tactics except for the prisoner.

  Trysten turned to Paege. “We need to learn how to speak his language. And we need to learn fast. He’s the only chance we’ve got to do that.”

  “Five days? You expect to learn to speak his language in five days?”

  “Hopefully we can hold the army off a little longer than that. We don’t have to learn how to compose poetry in their tongue. We just need to know why they are attacking us.”

  “I agree, but still... Just in a stall?”

  Trysten sighed. “Fine. Tie a rope to his ankle. Bind him to one of the posts in the stall.”

  “Rope?”

  “We don’t have shackles in this village, do we?”

  Paege nodded in the direction of the royal encampment. “Something tells me that they do.”

  Trysten's stomach nearly turned at the idea of asking Muzad for anything other than to leave.

  “Post a guard. An armed hordesman will stand watch over him every hour of the day. But it won’t be necessary. I’m telling you that this man...”

  She looked down at him again. He would have become the Dragoneer of his horde, and Maejel the alpha, if Elevera had not killed the horde’s original dragoneer and allowed Trysten to absorb the horde into her own.

  She looked back up at Paege. “This man should be Dragoneer of his horde, and Maejel should be alpha. I know that bond. I tell you that he will not give us any trouble as long as he sees that we are treating Maejel as one of our own, as she is, along with all the other captured Western dragons.”

  Paege looked at the man for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Trysten crouched and extended an open hand to the prisoner. He regarded her for a few seconds, and then grasped her hand. He glanced back at Paege quickly and then allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.

  “Take Maejel to the weyr,” Trysten said to Paege.

  “Maejel?” the prisoner asked.

  “Yes. Maejel. We’re taking her to the weyr. We’re going to put both of you into a stall. It will be all right.”

  Paege replaced his sword and approached Maejel. The prisoner's eyes widened.

  “It’ll be all right,” Trysten repeated. She placed her hand upon the prisoner’s shoulder. He jumped at the touch, glanced at her quickly, then moved toward the dragon.

  Paege’s hand flashed to the hilt of his sword.

  “Easy,” Trysten said and held her hand out to Paege. “Give him the reins.”

  “Excuse me?” Paege asked.

  “The reins. Go get a harness, and then give him the reins. He’ll relax a bit. It’s not like he’s going to get on her and fly away.”

  “Because of you?”

  “Because of Elevera. She’s the alpha.”

  Paege’s attention went to the prisoner, then back to Trysten. “Shall I leave the torch with you?”

  She held out her hand. As she took the torch, two hordesmen ran up to her. Their hands went to the hilts of their swords when they saw the prisoner.

  “He’s under control,” Trysten called to them. “Have you made sure there are no others?”

  The hordesmen slowed their approach. “We’re looking now,” one of them said as he nodded to the darkness beyond the torch’s light. “But we haven’t seen anything unusual yet. Isn’t he one of the ones we captured before?”

  “He is. Make sure there are no others.”

  The hordesmen stood a few seconds longer and then retreated to the edge of the village.

  Trysten turned her attention to the prisoner, then pointed to his dragon. “Maejel.”

  The man nodded. “Maejel. Yallis bock.”

  She placed her hand over her heart. “Trysten.”

  “Trysten,” the man repeated.

  “Maejel,” Trysten said again and pointed to the dragon.

  “Maejel.”

  She pointed at herself again, then lifted her brows in what she hoped would be considered a questioning gesture.

  “Sa yalla,” the man said.

  She shook her head. “No. Trysten. Trys-ten.” She pointed to the dragon. “Maejel.” Then pointed to herself.

  “Trysten. Sa yalla.”

  Trysten jabbed her finger at her chest. “Trysten.” She then pointed at the dragon. “Maejel.” Then she pointed at the prisoner and lifted her eyebrows again.

  The prisoner regarded her for a second. “Rodden.”

  “Rodden?”

  The man nodded. He held his palm to his chest. “Rodden. Rodden lea nauchet wesliss yalleese domp.”

  “I pray that’s not your full name,” Trysten said.

  Rodden stared at her, almost expectantly.

  “Rodden,” Trysten said, then pointed at him.

  Rodden nodded. He then pointed at the dragon. “Maejel, yallis bock.” He pointed at Trysten. “Trysten, sa yalla.”

  “Yalla?” Trysten asked. “What does sa yalla mean?”

/>   “Sa yalla,” Rodden said with a nod. His gaze lowered a second, and he nearly bowed at the neck. “Sa yalla. Sa lea reem yallim.”

  A slight shiver passed over Trysten. Gooseflesh prickled her arms, and she was thankful for the long sleeves of the tunic.

  Paege returned with a harness and reins. As Rodden watched, Paege looped the harness around the dragon’s shoulders, then beneath her forelegs before buckling it. He then tied the reins to the metal loop over Maejel’s breast.

  “You sure about this?” Paege asked Trysten.

  “Where is he going to go?”

  As Paege handed the reins to Rodden, Prince Aymon called out Trysten’s name.

  She looked over her shoulder. The Prince stood in the entrance to his tent with Muzad hovering close behind. Prince Aymon leaned heavily upon a cane, and for a brief second, Trysten felt the same deep sympathy that took her by surprise when she looked at her father, his weight upon a staff instead of his twisted leg.

  “Is that truly one of the escaped prisoners you have there?” Prince Aymon called.

  “It is,” she called back, then turned her attention to Rodden. He looked at her with a stricken look upon his face, as if handing him Maejel’s reins had been a portent of grave danger. She placed a hand upon his shoulder and steered him around to the weyr.

  “Maejel,” she said, then jabbed her finger toward the weyr. “We’re taking Maejel to the weyr.”

  Rodden looked from the braided leather cord in his hand back to the face of his former dragon. His expression grew heavy, and for a moment, Trysten expected the man to toss away the cord and throw himself at the dragon’s feet.

  “Trysten!” Prince Aymon called. “I’d like a word with you. Now.”

  “It’ll have to wait,” Trysten called over her shoulder. “You can see I’m busy at the moment.”

  She nudged Rodden’s shoulder and pointed at the weyr again.

  Rodden turned back to Trysten, then bowed slightly again. His fist tightened over the leather cord until his knuckles blanched, and he trudged forward. Maejel fell in behind him, shuffling in the awkward manner of dragons on the ground, but it was not Rodden that she followed. It was Trysten, the Dragoneer.

  “Trysten!” Prince Aymon repeated.

  She held a finger up to the Prince. “In a bit, Aymon. I’m busy.”

  With Paege on one side and Trysten on the other, Rodden led the dragon across the yard. At the side door, the night watchman stood and stared. Borsal stepped out from behind the doorway. He started to plant his hands upon his hips, but then they fell limp to his side as his jaw dropped open.

  Trysten looked over her shoulder at the royal encampment. Prince Aymon had retreated back into his tent. She had not expected him to get out of his cot after taking an arrow in the thigh. With any luck, he’d remain in his tent for the rest of the night.

  As the three of them led Maejel into the weyr, Borsal stepped aside. “What is this?”

  “Which stall for this dragon?” Trysten asked.

  The night watchman pointed to the far end of the aisle, near the entrance to the hordesmen’s dining hall, where the courier dragons were usually kept. “Ulbeg’s stall,” he said, indicating the stall that had remained empty since Rast left in search of a translator.

  “What about Ulbeg’s stall?” Borsal asked. “What's going on?”

  Trysten placed a hand on Rodden’s shoulder and pointed to the end of the aisle. Rodden looked at the faces of the others and then gave a curt nod before leading his former dragon down the aisle.

  “We’re keeping him in here. In Ulbeg’s stall while it’s empty. I will post a guard at the stall at all hours, but he won’t be any trouble. I want him treated with the same respect and courtesy as we would show any dragon rider from another weyr."

  Borsal’s face grew red as he watched Rodden and Maejel shuffle away, Paege at their sides.

  “You still haven’t told me what is going on," Borsal said. "Is he not a prisoner now? Did we suddenly make peace with the Western kingdom while I was in my bunk?”

  Trysten stepped up to Borsal. “He allowed himself to be captured rather than leave his dragon. We can use his help right now. We need to be able to communicate with the Westerners now more than ever to find a way to bring an end to this cursed war.”

  Borsal looked from Maejel and Rodden to Trysten. “By the dragon’s breath, you’re dead serious aren’t you?”

  “Consider it an order, because it is.” Trysten nodded.

  Borsal’s mouth dropped open, but nothing came out. His face grew a more urgent shade of red, and then he shook his head. “All right, then. If you tell me there will be a guard on him from sunrise to sunrise, then fine. But how am I to care for the dragon?”

  “He will care for Maejel. You will provide him with the tools he needs and food and water for the dragon. As far as this weyr is concerned, he is a bonded rider. Treat him as such. But he is not to leave the stall. Find him a chamber pot. He will eat what the hordesmen eat, but he will eat in his stall. The weyrboys will serve his food and drink. Understood?”

  Borsal blinked, then shook his head. “And a blanket, then?” Borsal let out an exasperated sigh. “Right. A blanket then. I’ll go find that man a blanket and a pillow.”

  Borsal turned toward the equipment room beneath the Dragoneer’s den.

  “Borsal,” Trysten called.

  He stopped and turned back to her.

  “Thank you. I appreciate your cooperation.”

  In a move that surprised Trysten, Borsal grinned. “Don’t mention it, my lady. If all it takes to save this weyr from his countrymen is a blanket and a pillow, and a hot meal, then I’ll gladly be the first in line to serve him.”

  His grin echoed over Trysten’s face. Hopefully, this would go much smoother than she had anticipated.

  Trysten turned and asked the night watchman to get some food and water from the dining hall then resumed her place next to Rodden. The man gave her another grave look, full of fear and concern.

  “It’ll be all right,” Trysten said again. She attempted a reassuring smile, but it didn’t appear to convince Rodden.

  He glanced back at Maejel. The dragon stretched her neck out so that the tip of her jaw nearly rested on Rodden's shoulder. He turned away and continued to lead the dragon down the aisle.

  Trysten directed them into the stall. It was a bit cramped, as it had been built specifically for the smaller, male courier dragons, but it would do for their purposes. As Paege undid the harness, Rodden took Maejel's jaw up in his hands and placed his brow against the tip of her muzzle. He took a deep breath and appeared to recite something in quick, whispered words. The rolling cadence of speech nearly became a hum, a mesmerizing chant of sorts before he wrapped it up and looked into the great, brown eyes of his former mount.

  “Ah, Maejel,” the man whispered. His face flushed and his chest stilled as he held his breath. His throat bobbed with his effort to swallow the sorrow and torment hidden by his mask of resignation.

  Borsal stepped up to the half-wall that fronted the stall. “Here you are.” He presented a pile of wool blankets.

  “Thank you,” Trysten said. She took the blankets, then held them out toward Rodden to indicate they were his. He did not move, and so she placed them upon the straw.

  As she stood and turned back to Rodden, a quizzical look crossed his face. He looked at Maejel, planted a quick kiss upon the tip of her maw, and then turned his face to the vaulted ceiling.

  Trysten glanced up herself, and seeing nothing, looked at Rodden. He lifted his palms to the ceiling, as if presenting something, and with his attention still on something above, he knelt, lowered his hands, and hung his head, his neck extended. He looked for all the world like a man awaiting his execution.

  “What’s he doing?” Borsal asked.

  “Preparing to die,” Paege offered.

  “Trysten!” Borsal snapped.

  “We’re not going to kill him!” Trysten said. “I forbid it. In fact, keep Muzad and his men out of here and away from him. That is an order, no exceptions.”

  “Well, why does he think he is going to die, then?” Borsal asked.

  “Because that is what he would probably do if the situation were reversed,” Paege said.

  “Paege!” Trysten gasped.

  He looked up from Rodden to Trysten. “What? Why else would this occur to him? Why else would he think that he had to prepare to die like this? This must be how they do it in the West.”