Military Dragon
The next evening, the atmosphere in the kitchens is as dark and oppressive as the day before, everyone’s faces drawn and rattled.
“I need to speak with you,” I tell Yvan as he comes in from the cold and stoops to load wood into my stove, the heat blasting out like a hot wave.
He looks around warily, the evening shift thinly populated, Iris and Bleddyn blessedly elsewhere. “Now?” Yvan asks as he shoves a log into the stove, the lean muscles of his arms tensing as he does so.
“Soon.”
He pushes the iron stove’s door shut. “Meet me outside after you’re done with whatever you’re working on.”
* * *
I finish prepping an apple pie, then find Yvan near the livestock pens, a lamp in hand.
He silently leads me around the pens and past the kitchen gardens. Then up a long, sloping field toward a ramshackle structure set just inside the wilds.
The abandoned barn is huge, enveloped in the evening’s lengthening shadows. The door creaks as he opens it for me, and I step inside.
The barn’s ceiling is impossibly high with crisscrossing rafters. Bats flit back and forth, the lamplight illuminating them as they cast frenetic shadows on the walls.
“Is this your secret hideout?” I ask teasingly, glancing around as Yvan sets his lamp down on a dusty barrel.
Yvan nods, watching me as he leans back against a thick support beam.
I muster a small smile and he lifts his lips slightly in response, but the intensity of his gaze doesn’t waver.
The shadows play across his face, highlighting his stark, angular appearance. A tremor runs through me, heightening my awareness that I’m alone with him in a very secluded place.
Ignoring the breathless pull I feel toward him, I look at him levelly. “I want to help you free your dragon,” I say, steel in my voice. “There may come a time when flight is needed.”
Yvan’s eyes fly open with surprise, but he quickly gathers himself. “Elloren, my dragon can’t be freed.”
“Maybe not by you alone, but we have a large group...”
He coughs out a dismissive laugh. “Of inexperienced, naive youths.”
“Of people with a large variety of gifts and skills.”
“There’s a big difference between stealing a Selkie from the University groundskeeper and freeing a Gardnerian military dragon.”
Frustration flares in me. “What’s the harm in letting everyone...have a look at the situation?”
“Besides getting arrested and shot? None that I can think of, really.”
I press on, undaunted. “If that dragon can be saved...the Icarals might be able to go east. And others, too.”
He stands there for a moment, looking stunned by my words. “I don’t understand you,” he says, his expression going harsh. “Why are you even thinking about this? You’re a Gardnerian. And not just any Gardnerian...you’re Carnissa Gardner’s granddaughter. Your grandmother...” He pauses, as if angry and struggling to find the right words all at the same time. “She was...a monster.”
My back goes up at the word. How was my grandmother different from any other successful military leader of any race? “She was wrong about many things,” I counter, “but she was also a great Mage...”
“Who killed thousands and thousands of people.” His angular jaw tightens, his green eyes boring into me.
“Your people were just as monstrous to the Gardnerians when they were in power,” I challenge.
He glares at me as if struggling with strong emotion. “Your grandmother,” he grinds out, an unexpected fury breaking out around the edges of his words, “was responsible for the death of my father!”
Oh, Ancient One. I’m stunned into silence. But only for a moment. Pain seeps through me and quickly morphs into outrage.
“Your people,” I counter, my voice breaking, “killed both of my parents!”
We’re silent for a long moment, the constant, raw ache we both carry around suddenly unguarded and fully exposed.
“I know my grandmother did a lot of terrible things,” I finally say with no small amount of effort. “Since coming here, I’ve learned that my people do a lot of really terrible things. But don’t you think it’s possible for someone to be different from everything you’ve heard about their kind? Even if they look...like I do?”
Yvan takes a deep breath, his eyes intent on my face. “Yes,” he says, “I think it’s possible.”
I let out a long sigh and slump down on a hay bale, defeated. “I’m trying, Yvan,” I tell him hoarsely. “I really am. I want to do the right thing.”
“I believe you,” he says, and there’s kindness in his tone.
We’re quiet for a few minutes, just staring at each other.
“I’m sorry you lost your parents,” he finally tells me, his voice low.
Tears sting at my eyes, and I struggle to hold them back. “And I’m sorry about your father.” The words are stilted as I try to bring my emotions under control. “What happened to him?” I ask.
Yvan’s angular face tenses. “He was killed on the Eastern Front, a few days before Verpacia was liberated from the Gardnerians.” He takes a deep breath, eyes narrowed, as if sizing me up to decide if he can fully trust me. “My father...he was a prominent figure in the Resistance. My mother didn’t want anyone to know I was his son. So she moved me to a remote area and schooled me at home.”
“You must look a great deal like your father.”
Yvan smiles at this, as if I’ve inadvertently said something extremely ironic. “The resemblance is striking, yes.”
“Our lives,” I muse, “they’ve been similar...”
Yvan makes a contemptuous sound of disagreement. “There is nothing similar about our lives.”
“No, there is,” I counter, a bit put out by being so summarily dismissed. “When I was about five years old, my uncle moved us out of Valgard and to Halfix. It borders the northern wilds, in the middle of nowhere. I was schooled at home, just like you. I realize now he was trying to protect me from the attention looking exactly like my grandmother would bring. Just like your mother, he wanted me to be safe.”
Yvan considers this, and I can tell he sees that I have a point.
“So,” I say, after a few minutes of awkward silence, “you’re becoming a physician.”
“Yes.” He nods. “Like my father. And you? You’re becoming an apothecary?”
“Yes, like my mother,” I reply. “I’ve always been interested in growing herbs, making medicines. But I never dreamed I’d be attending University. I always wanted to. Before I was sent here, I thought I’d be a violin maker, like my uncle...”
The words catch in my throat, and I can’t help it. At the thought of Uncle Edwin, I start to tear up. “He’s...he’s very sick.” I look down at my feet, struggling with my emotions.
“So...you know how to make violins?” Yvan’s voice is low and kind.
I nod.
“From...wood?”
This strikes me as funny, and I smile, wipe my tears and look up at him. “With the right tools, yes.”
He thinks about this for a moment. “That’s...impressive.”
“I suppose it is,” I agree, feeling unsettled by the compliment.
“But the Guilds...”
I shrug. “Won’t let women learn the trade. I know. My uncle taught me in secret.”
He stands there for a moment, a surprised look on his face. “Have you played violin for a long time?”
“Yes,” I reply. “Since I was a small child. And...and you? Do you play any instruments? Anything?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head, looking as if he’s distracted by his own thoughts. “I heard a Fae violinist once, though. I was very young. I can still remember it. It was...beautiful.”
The look of longing in his emerald eyes as he says the last few words catches me off guard, and I find myself flushing and needing to look away.
As I glance around the barn floor, I become aware of papers scattered about. I pick one up. It’s a page from The Book of the Ancients. Puzzled, I get up and pick up a few more of the papers. More pages from The Book.
“That’s odd,” I say as I continue to pick up pages, a stack growing in my hands. “Someone ripped up a copy of our holy book.” When my eyes meet his again, I’m surprised by the look he’s giving me. He’s grown as still as stone, his expression gone cold...and defiant. “Did you do this?” I ask, very slowly.
He doesn’t move, but his unwavering look of defiance is answer enough.
“Oh, take care, Yvan,” I breathe. “This is a major crime in Gardneria.” I hold up the stack of papers in my hands and gesture toward him with it. “Vogel wants to execute people for defacing The Book. Were you aware of that?”
“I suppose it’s a good thing we’re not in Gardneria,” he replies, his green eyes hard.
“You’re treading on very dangerous ground.”
“Oh, really?” he shoots back. “And where would the safe ground be, Elloren? Because I’d really love to find it. Maybe if I looked exactly like Carnissa Gardner, it would be easier to find.”
“That’s hardly fair.”
“What about any of this is fair?”
“I’m sorry. You’re absolutely right,” I say acidly. “My life has been so easy lately. I’m so happy that my looks offer me complete protection from all difficulties.”
He looks momentarily surprised, then ill at ease as his brow knits tight. “We should be getting back,” he says. “The other kitchen laborers will notice that we’re both gone, and it will seem...odd.”
“Why on Erthia would the two of us going off together seem odd?” I ask sarcastically.
Yvan smiles slightly at this, but his eyes remain serious and sad.
I reach up and touch his arm. “I want to help you rescue your dragon. What they’re doing to her is wrong.” My face tenses with frustration. “There’s so much we can’t change. But maybe...this is one thing we can do. And...” I think of the danger Tierney and the Icarals are in. And Trystan. And Yvan. My resolve hardens. “Dragonflight is a pretty good means of escape.”
Yvan takes a deep breath and looks down at my hand. His arm is sinewy...and so warm. It feels good to touch him. Too good. The air shifts between us, to something kindled and sparking. Flustered, I let my hand fall away.
“All right, Elloren Gardner,” Yvan relents, his eyes steady on mine. “Let’s see exactly how much trouble we can all get ourselves into.”
* * *
“You want to break into a Gardnerian military base and steal a dragon?”
I’m facing Rafe, sitting on the chair by his book-strewn desk. Trystan, Rafe and Yvan are all poised on the edge of their beds, facing me in turn.
Rafe is grinning widely. Trystan wears his usual guarded, unreadable expression, and Yvan looks like he’s recovering from finding himself firmly in cahoots with a bunch of Gardnerians from a family such as ours.
“You’re serious?” Rafe prompts.
“Yes.”
Rafe shakes his head from side to side as he tries, unsuccessfully, to keep from laughing. “Well, I tell you, Ren,” he says, “things are a hell of a lot more interesting with you here at University.”
“We always thought you were quiet and reserved,” Trystan observes, and I can see a small glimmer of amusement in his eyes, as well.
“And now you want to steal dragons and rescue Selkies,” Rafe continues.
“I don’t think our grandmother would be proud,” Trystan tells Rafe.
“No, I think Trystan’s right,” Rafe agrees, giving me a look of mock disapproval. “You are being a very bad Gardnerian.”
I glance over at Yvan, whose eyebrows are raised in surprise as he follows their unexpected banter.
As always, I feel a little off-kilter being in a room that Yvan lives in, too. It’s intimate and strange. I can’t keep myself from noting things about him whenever I’m here. The titles of his books, what type of clothing he has slung over his chair or on his bed. It seems to me, from the way he averts his eyes when we meet each other’s gazes, that he feels the vague inappropriateness of it, too.
“Ren,” Rafe says, his grin fading and his tone cautionary. “You do realize that, with the Selkie, if you’re caught, you’ll be fined for theft. If you steal a dragon from a military base, you’ll be branded part of the Resistance, brought up in front of a military tribunal and most likely shot. By multiple arrows. If you’re lucky, that is.”
“I don’t think the dragon can be freed,” Yvan interjects. “I think they’ll kill her long before anyone can figure out how to get her out of her cage...if that’s even possible. Damion Bane’s magicked the lock.”
“What’s the cage made out of?” Trystan inquires, suddenly intrigued. I can see that familiar light go on in his eyes. Trystan loves a mental puzzle.
“Elfin steel,” Yvan replies. “It’s so strong it can withstand dragon fire.”
“Ah. I’m familiar with it,” Trystan says. “It’s what the Elves make their arrow tips out of. It can only be manipulated before it sets. Once it sets and cools, it can never be worked with again.”
“Can you get your hands on some of it?” Rafe asks Trystan, a mischievous look in his eyes.
Trystan shrugs. “Some arrow tips, sure.” Trystan narrows his eyes at Rafe. “You want to experiment with it, don’t you?”
“Maybe there’s a spell that can break it.”
“Don’t you need a military-grade wand for that?” Trystan points out. “Wands that powerful are expensive, and I’m assuming that Yvan here, being a Kelt, probably doesn’t have one.”
“Well, you’re a military apprentice,” Rafe points out to Trystan.
Trystan shakes his head. “They don’t let us hold on to the wands. They keep them locked up in the armory. And we certainly don’t have the money to buy one—”
“I have a wand,” I blurt out.
Everyone stops talking and turns to stare at me.
“Are you stealing wands now, too?” Rafe asks, clearly ready to believe me capable of anything at this point.
“The morning we left Halfix, Sage gave me a wand. I think she stole it from Tobias, and... I didn’t want her to get into any more trouble than she already was in, so I sewed it into the lining of my travel case. I took it out when I arrived, and it’s been hidden in my pillow ever since.”
“You’ve a wand in your pillow?” Trystan says, incredulous.
I eye him sheepishly. “Yes. I do.”
“Why was this girl in trouble?” Yvan asks, and I feel my face beginning to flush as I struggle to put together the answer to his question.
“She...she fell in love with a Kelt.” I look away from him and catch Rafe’s eye as I do so. He’s studying me closely, one eyebrow cocked. “She’d been wandfasted to the son of a member of the Mage Council,” I continue, my eyes finding their way back to Yvan’s riveting green ones. “She ran away with the Kelt. She had a child with him. An Icaral.”
Yvan’s eyebrows fly up. “This Icaral,” he says, leaning forward, staring at me intently. “It’s the one the Gardnerians are searching for?”
“You’ve heard of him?” I say, surprised.
“I heard that the Gardnerians are aware of a male Icaral hidden somewhere, and that many believe that this Icaral is the one of Prophecy.”
“The Icarals that tried to kill me in Valgard thought that I was the next Black Witch,” I say. “And that I was sent to kill Sage’s baby.”
“But it turns out Ren here can’t even do a simple candle-lighting spell,” Trystan tells Yvan. “So, as much as she loves to stalk babies so she can mercilessly slaughter them, she’ll have to pass on this one.”
“He already knows how pathetic I am,” I tell Trystan, a little defensively.
“I don’t think you’re pathetic at all,” Yvan says, his voice low and even.
I blink, momentarily disoriented by his defense of me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Trystan and Rafe exchanging a quick, wondering glance. It makes me feel uncomfortably self-conscious, and I quickly look away from Yvan.
“Trystan,” Rafe says congenially, thankfully changing the subject, “you get hold of some of those arrow tips, and Elloren, you can fetch that wand of yours.”
Trystan shakes his head. “Even if Ren’s wand is powerful, it might take high-level spells to break Elfin steel. Spells I don’t have access to.”
“Aislinn can get those,” I confess.
They all gape at me, wide-eyed.
I turn sheepish and slump down under the combined weight of their stares. “Maybe, I mean. She’s going to borrow a military grimoire from her father.”
Rafe barks out a laugh. “Well, that’s settled, then. We have a wand, we’re soon to have a military grimoire—” he motions to Trystan “—and we’ve got our Level Five Mage here. Might as well see if we can tackle this cage.”
“Does this mean you and Trystan will help us rescue the dragon?” I ask, astonished.
Rafe grins at me widely. “Certainly looks that way, doesn’t it?”