Dragonhaze: A Dragonhall Chronicles novel (The Reasoner Trilogy Book 1) Read online

  "I think he was born stubborn," she said, "like his mother."

  Well, I felt it impolite to say so, but yes, he is much like you. And his father in many ways too. In spite of the breakdown of the relationship, Risper didn't seem to hold any animosity toward Del. Perhaps dragons were above petty emotions, especially disliking people on behalf of someone else. When one was as old as he was, perhaps you learned that it wasn't worth the time.

  "Yes, Del might also have a streak of it." He'd certainly made up his mind about Risper and hadn't budged. Sometimes she wondered why he married her at all, knowing she'd take the bond if the dragon accepted her. Perhaps he'd had faith in his ability to talk her out of it.

  "I'd be happier if Daven didn't feel like being here is some kind of exile." He hadn't needed to say so for her to know he was thinking it. Coming back here, proverbial tail between his legs, was damaging to his young ego. Not as much as what he'd been through, but enough to add to his sullenness.

  He will get over it, Risper assured her. The past cannot remain the present indefinitely.

  "Well—no, it can't," she agreed,"but putting things behind us takes time."

  He hesitation to respond to that. She knew there were things in his past which bothered him, even though he was several hundred years old. Some of those things, he wouldn't even discuss with her, but she knew they were there, in his memory. Too many times he'd skirted around topics or changed the subject. In the early days of their bond she'd asked about it, but he'd refused to explain. His rebuttal had always been polite, but firm.

  Some matters are more difficult than others, he agreed, but Daven is strong of will and purpose. He will not let this setback be more than a minor hinderance.

  "I hope you're right." She sighed. "Maybe now I'll have a chance to talk to him about your bond. If he stays here permanently he might come to realise it's something he wants to do." Subconsciously she fingered her first-level pin. If he didn't gain his first-level ranking before he took the bond, he never would. She should have achieved hers, or at least second-level, but being draakin had taken her out of consideration for promotion. Traditionally draakin stopped working in their chosen profession when they took the bond; riding a dragon being a full-time occupation when they were in demand. Now the rule remained to keep her and the other draakin in their place. She could take on extra work to supplement her income, but she could only charge a fraction of what her work was worth. She could make braids by illicit means, selling her work to those outside government controlled channels, but her basic honesty kept her from doing so, at least for now.

  Perhaps, Risper agreed, perhaps not.

  "Shouldn't it bother you a bit more?" she asked. "I mean, if he doesn't take your bond…" The idea of Risper dying made her heart clench.

  I am old, dear Kaida, I will not live forever. I would certainly like to squeeze in another two or three hundred years more, but if it is not to be, then so be it. He tilted his head, which was easily the size of her entire body, and regarded her through solemn eyes of emerald green, with slitted pupils like a cat. Have I told you about the disastrous bonding of a dragon named Mult?

  "I don't think so, no."

  He settled his body, chin resting on the ground, muzzle near Kaida's leg, so warm breath caressed her thigh.

  Some time before the war, Mult was bonded to Camman Heross. Camman rather liked spending his time in the taverns, drinking wine and wooing bedmates. He tended to be less than discerning about whom he bedded, not bothering if they were married, betrothed, or whatnot. One day he bedded a woman who happened to have a jealous husband.

  "What does this have to do with Mult?"

  I'm getting to him, dear Kaida.

  "Sorry."

  That's quite all right. Now where was I? Ah, the jealous husband. Yes, he took a knife and stabbed Camman quite through the heart.

  Now, a dragon can go some time without a bond, but soon enough the body will start to wither away. Mult, never being the most sensible of personages took it upon himself to choose someone to take his bond.

  "Can a dragon do that?" she asked, thinking back to the day she accepted the bond and opened her mind to Risper.

  As it happens, they can, but not if the recipient is unwilling.

  "Wouldn't there have been people lining up to become draakin back then?" Being a potential bonded had been a coveted role once. Now it often went to the children, each having been raised to love dragons, not despise them.

  Indeed, but Mult wanted the choice to be his. He was—a somewhat dramatic individual, and was certain he would pass away at any moment if he didn't act with all haste. He had the misfortune of choosing the woman Camman had bedded. She went mad and threw herself off the top of the Dragonhall.

  Kaida winced. "And Mult?"

  He bonded again, this time someone chosen for him. But then he died in the war. We suspect he was not entirely sane after his experience. He became reckless. But in the end, the moral remains.

  "You can't force the bond on anyone?" Kaida concluded.

  Indeed, you cannot. Daven will wish it when the time comes, or he will not. Whatever the decision, I will respect it.

  "And I should too?"

  There is no alternate option, dear Kaida.

  "You should too, what?"

  Kaida hadn't heard Daven approaching, but she managed to keep her startle to a small jerk. The look of preoccupation on his face told her he hadn't noticed.

  "Should—uh—try eating a sheep with its wool still on it."

  Daven blinked at her. "Pardon?"

  "Never mind." She smiled. "Have you unpacked everything?"

  "Most of it." He shrugged. "I just thought I'd get some air, and figured you'd be up here." His eyes went to Risper and his expression softened. It was difficult to be angry at the world with those big eyes looking back at you. "Hello, Risper."

  Kaida's body stiffened. She felt Risper take control of her, his will heavy on her mind, pressing down.

  "Hello Daven." Her mouth worked, but the voice which came out was deeper than hers by an octave or two. "I trust you are well?"

  "I guess." If seeing the dragon speaking through his mother bothered him, he showed no sign. He'd certainly seen it plenty of times, both with her and with his grandfather before her.

  "Kaida told me you've been through a trauma. Do you wish to speak of it?"

  "Not especially."

  "I see. Perhaps if your mother wasn't here—"

  "I said no," Daven snapped. "I don't want to talk about it. I don't want to think about it. I don't want to…" He shook his head. "Just let it go."

  "Very well. I had a pet kitten once."

  Daven looked taken aback. "What?"

  "Oh, a kitten. A small cat."

  "I know what a kitten is." Daven smirked, "what has that got to do with anything?"

  "Well, the kitten used to cuddle up to people. It made them smile. Perhaps a kitten would make you feel better."

  "Maybe. What happened to it?"

  "Rhemva accidentally stepped on it. She never did look where she was going."

  "That's awful."

  "Yes, it was, rather. I was trying to cheer you up too, but I don't suppose I helped. Perhaps a hug."

  Moving stiffly, Kaida rose and moved to embrace Daven. Risper had never quite mastered the art of making her arms curl around, so instead they rested, outstretched, on Daven's shoulders before she flopped forward.

  "Um, thanks." Daven hugged her and then stepped back.

  "You're welcome." Risper sounded pleased, then retreated from Kaida, leaving her to shake off the odd feeling of moving against her will. It took a minute or two to pass, as it always did when the dragon spoke through her. Her thoughts were hers, but Risper controlled every other part of her. Not that he'd make her do anything unpleasant, but the sensation could be disconcerting.

  "Kitten?" Daven asked, giving a lopsided half smile.

  "Risper is always full of surprises." Later, she'd ask him the truth of the a
necdote. At least the part about Rhemva was true. The small sapphire-eyed dragon was always tripping over things and bumping into people. She'd once fallen off the side of the hall. If she hadn't had wings, she'd have been badly hurt, or worse, as would all the people standing below them at the time.

  "I should go and check in with the other healers." He wouldn't meet her eyes, but his expression was transparent. He was going to get to work, which would keep him busy enough to make the excuse not to see her too often. Her fragile joy in having him home was washed away in the flood of disappointment that he too was ashamed of her. He'd done his duty by speaking to her, and now it was putting distance between them. Like Risper, she couldn't force her attention on him, but she'd hope he'd wanted it.

  "Yes, I suppose you should."

  He looked ready to say something more, but nodded and turned away.

  "Kitten?" she asked softly.

  Oh yes, her name was Feisty.

  Chapter Three

  Dashka Rinvae folded a piece of paper like a concertina and waved it at her face. At an hour past dawn, it was already stifling hot and muggy. The timber deck she stood upon was damp and smelled faintly of rot, unwashed men and oranges. Even out here, there was no breeze. The stained, white sails barely rippled. Instead the current carried the boat down the Durza river, a single man sitting at the tiller to be sure they remained a safe distance from the bank.

  Dashka wiped her brow. The makeshift fan did little to cool her. Hopefully rain would come, giving them all a break from the relentless sun. Since arriving in Eritsa she had burnt and peeled twice and freckles had popped up on her nose and cheeks. She might curse Great Aunt Mabyl for bringing her here, but that would be rude, especially since Mabyl was paying for the journey.

  Although just twenty-three, Daska had braids of her own. Jarn had left her several thousand following his untimely death. She preferred not to dwell on it too much, but they were likely still talking about it back down south. Half of Fledros seemed to have seen the reasoners removing Jarn's corpse from the Scarlet Orchid, the town's only brothel. According to a healer, his lust had been stronger than his heart. In a small town where little ever happened, things like this tended to be a source of gossip and amusement long afterward. She couldn't leave the house without people staring at her and whispering or offering words of pity. She didn't know which was worse.

  Mabyl had insisted she accompany her to a warmer climate, saying that it might take her mind off her grief. Perhaps the people back home would have forgotten about Jarn by the time they returned.

  Aunt Mabyl had also invited Great Uncle Huberth to join them, but he'd argued that he had too big a stomach to pass through the doors and onto a boat or train. Mabyl had rolled her eyes, and declared that if he didn't want to go, he could stay home. He'd made a show of moaning and groaning that he really did want to go, but perhaps they'd appreciate some time to do whatever women do, while he'd look after the house in their absence.

  Dashka translated this as staying home and drinking and probably spending hours a day at the Orchid, or having the third-level who owned the brothel send around a girl or two.

  "Dashkaaa!" Mabyl's voice was high pitched and loud, akin to a screeching great bird, and enough to make Dashka clap her hands over her ears. In her seventh decade, Mabyl could still make herself heard over a fair distance. Even her whisper was loud. It ensured that, however much she might want to, no one could ignore her.

  Dashka sighed. Maybe she should have stayed home too. The antiquities of Eritsa might be extraordinary, her friends—or those people with which she spent time before her official mourning period commenced—had said so on numerous occasions. They'd described in great detail the great ziggurats and statues which stood larger than the Reko Needle. The tallest structure in Aarle, the Needle was little more than a lighthouse with a fancy name.

  They'd shown off the purchases made in Paryos—the capital of Eritsa—of fine silk scarves and wigs made from human hair. Apparently, some citizens of Eritsa preferred baldness to wiping sweat-matted hair from their foreheads.

  While Dashka fanned herself, she considered her dark blonde hair and wondered what Mabyl would say if she followed the local fashion. From the red cheeks of her great aunt as she appeared from belowdecks via a stairway, she was in no mood to talk about something so silly.

  "You'll ruin your complexion if you stay out here," Maybl declared. She swept a hat up and over Dashka before pulling it down onto her head and tugging it into place.

  Dashka grimaced and pushed it back up slightly. "It's a bit late for that isn't it? Besides, who cares about how I look?"

  Mabyl gaped at her. "Why men, of course. You can't possibly want to be alone for the rest of your life." She clicked the back of her tongue and crossed her arms over her ample bust. "However will you look after yourself?"

  Dashka bit back a retort about Jarn's frequent absences—as often unexplained as not—and that she'd managed to take care of herself perfectly well until now.

  "You mean I need someone to leave Jarn's braids, too?" she replied instead. Perhaps if he'd been home more often, they might have had children. Thankfully, during the five years of their marriage, they hadn't. Besides, she intended to spend those braids on herself.

  Mabyl sighed heavily, her breath laced with garlic from the previous evening's meal. "Dashka dear, I only want what's best for you. You needn't act like a petulant child because Jarn wasn't the man you'd hoped he'd be."

  Dashka sniffed softly and pursed her lips. Perhaps Mabyl was right. She'd spent a great deal of time feeling sorry for herself lately and she really shouldn't. She lived well, had enough food, nice clothes and she'd be out of her mourning green in a few short weeks.

  Mabyl patted her arm lightly. "Jarn wasn't who any of us thought he was," she said, her tone conspiratorial, eyes darting to be sure they weren't overheard. "He seemed like such a fine young man."

  "He did," Dashka replied, stunned at her great aunt's admission that she too had been wrong. He'd said all the right words, brought all the right gifts—for Mabyl. He'd given Dashka flowers and promptly disposed of them when she began to sneeze. He'd even seemed to love her, at least a little bit. If she hadn't exactly fallen for him, at least he took her from having to live with Mabyl and Huberth and gave her a comfortable home of her own.

  "Not to worry dear, we'll be in Paryos within the hour. I'm certain the city will more than take your mind off our late, unlamented Jarn. However…"

  Oh reason, Dashka sighed. Of course there had to be a real cause for Mabyl having cornered her up on deck.

  "Yes, Great Aunt Mabyl?" she asked warily.

  "Paryos is a city full of music," Mabyl replied, her blue-green eyes fixed on Dashka's almost identical ones. "I assume you know to refrain?"

  Dashka straightened. "Of course. I don't want anything to happen like last time…" She hadn't sung a note since childhood, however tempted she'd been. When she sung, peculiar things occurred. Things that had scared her mother into sending her off to live with Mabyl and Huberth.

  "My poor, dear niece turned grey overnight." For some reason Mabyl almost smiled at this. True there was no love lost between her and Rozine. Perhaps her mother had seen the dumping of a peculiar ten-year-old onto Mabyl as some kind of punishment, but Mabyl had accepted Dashka into her home without batting an eyelash. It didn't take Dashka long to realise this was because Mabyl thought she should parent all the children because only she understood the right way. That her cousin Frantin was a spoilt brat was apparently lost on her.

  Dashka smiled. She bore little love for her mother either. "Do you think—"

  "No," Mabyl replied immediately.

  "You didn't know what I was going to say," Dashka said.

  "Oh but I do. You were going to ask of maybe you'd outgrown it. Don't try it."

  Dashka gaped for a few moments and then nodded slowly. "I suppose you're right."

  "Of course I am. Now let's go and change before we reach Paryos."

/>   "It's even hotter here than it was on the boat," Mabyl moaned. She opened a parasol with a snap and lifted it.

  Dashka raised an eyebrow at her, but said nothing. Mabyl always dressed for modesty, regardless of the weather. In Aarle, where it was considerably cooler, a full-length skirt, long sleeved jacket and blouse buttoned to the neck might be suitable. Here, people worse loose-fitting clothes of thinner fabric, shorter sleeves, and single layers. Dashka had left all her jackets in her bag, and wore the lightest skirt she could find. She still felt overdressed.

  Stepping down to the dock, she watched a group of women pass and admired their brightly coloured dresses, each starting at the chin and falling to just above the knees.

  "Scandalous," Mabyl hissed.

  Dashka nodded her agreement, but resolved to get several in just that style as soon as she was able. Reason only knew she'd be hot as haze in them as well, but it'd be an improvement on sweating in clothes that covered her to her feet.

  "It could be worse," she whispered back, "they could be showing cleavage." The look on Mabyl's face made her choke back a laugh. She really shouldn't goad her great aunt, but it was too good an opportunity to pass up.

  "You poke fun, but remember it was because of cleavage that you're here in the first place," Mabyl replied.

  Dashka might have flushed, but her face was already red from the heat. "Uh, is that our carriage?" The poor horses looked ready to melt. Both stood with their heads hung low, tails idly flicking at the flies which tried to gather on their backs.

  "For you, yes." The boat's captain waved to two of his workers to move the women's bags from the deck to the carriage.

  "Poor horses," Dashka muttered.

  "Would you prefer to walk?" Mabyl asked sharply.

  "Not especially, no," Dashka replied. She wanted to bath in clean, cold water and drink to replenish the sweat she was losing by just standing still. How the workers, both first-levels, worked in the weather without passing out, was beyond her. Perhaps they were accustomed to it. She couldn't imagine getting used to it herself.