It had been late in the afternoon when Holt started trialing food for the Matriarch. After many attempts to please her, legs of lamb stuffed with anchovies and olives was the latest attempt. Holt carried the meal down to the hatchery inside a cumbersome silver dish to keep it warm.
Huffing and puffing from the effort, Holt rounded the bend of the stairwell and Brode threw out an arm to stay him. The old rider placed a finger against his lips and pointed to the matriarch in the center of the chamber.
The hatchery was a cavernous space under the Crag, cut into the cliff itself, as though it were the great nest of some giant stone bird. The north wall remained open to the world, allowing dragons to fly in and out as they pleased. Outside the sun was setting; the sky a red-purple bruise over a darkening ocean. Piles of straw and feathers sat stacked in the bays where the dragons would sometimes rest, and of course it was where the eggs were laid, although Holt knew little of that matter.
The Matriarch of the Crag’s dragon flight – and Commander Denna’s dragon – inspected the latest batch. Ysera was her name, and her scales were a pale green flecked with white. While green would normally indicate an emerald type, Ysera was quite different. In all things, mystic dragons didn’t follow the usual rules. They barely followed any rules at all.
Unlike the colorful dragons, their eggs were all the same stony gray. Ysera stared at one of the eggs with intense concentration, her four legs braced as though expecting to take flight at any moment. After a time, Ysera lowered her neck and pressed her nose carefully against the egg
under scrutiny. Then, with a growl of pleasure, Ysera raised her head and moved onto the next.
“That’s a good sign,” Brode said quietly. “What would be a bad sign?” Holt asked. He found out on the very next egg.
Ysera lowered herself toward the next one slowly, her eyes narrowed. She gently touched the shell with her snout then immediately recoiled, snorting great plumes of green-tinged smoke, and backed away from the egg as though it had burned her.
“What’s the matter?” Holt asked.
“Could be any number of things. I doubt she knows for sure. All she knows is that egg is malformed in some way.”
“Can it be helped?”
“The egg will be thrown into the sea. Never to hatch.” “What?” Holt exclaimed.
Ysera turned her narrowed eyes upon him. A darkness seemed to touch his very heart. His spirit sapped, as did his strength, and his grip upon the dish of lamb weakened. It slipped from his now too weak fingers. Brode dove for the tray. He caught it but the lid fell off and clanged against the stone floor.
“Was that necessary?” Brode directed at Ysera. Her glare turned upon Brode, but he withstood the effect far better than Holt had.
“More effects of a dragon’s magic?” Holt asked. His fingers felt numb and he tried flexing them to little avail.
“An angry flare in her song,” Brode said. “Normal humans have no mental guards against such things.”
“Err—” Holt began stupidly. He felt like he shouldn’t ask any more questions, that he may have already pushed his luck by interrupting the ceremony. Clearly there was a lot about dragons he didn’t know.
Ysera still glared at Brode.
“And now she’s warning me against revealing rider knowledge to a lesser being.” Brode faced the Matriarch down. “Give the boy a break. Curiosity isn’t a sin and what’s he going to do with a few scraps? Overthrow the whole Order?”
Ysera growled low in her throat and bared a few teeth. She sniffed, and then her growling ceased as she sniffed again. With the lid of the silver dish removed, the enticing aroma of lamb had been unleashed. She snorted
another cloud of green smoke, then settled down. Holt’s darkened mood lifted at once.
Brode smirked. “She says she’ll forgive our insolences so long as the lamb is satisfactory.” He placed the lid back on then handed the tray to Holt. “No pressure, pot boy.”
Holt took the tray, gulped, then faced down the mighty dragon. What had he boldly told his father earlier? That he’d rather face down the dragon than live as a mouse forever. Now the moment was here, he wasn’t so sure.
He took a few steps forward. His hands shook. The tray rattled. “She says, hurry up.”
“Yes, Lady Ysera,” Holt said. Wary of how her gaze had affected him before, he averted his eyes, staring at the talons on her right foot instead. Despite his nerves, Holt couldn’t help but feel excited at approaching the Matriarch herself. He wished she would speak to him directly rather than through Brode. But dragons never spoke to lesser beings, meaning anyone who wasn’t a rider.
At a respectful ten feet from Ysera he stopped, inclined his head, set the tray down, removed the lid, stepped back another five feet and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Please like this one, Holt thought desperately. His legs were beginning to ache from running up and down the stairwells while laden with meat.
Mercifully, Ysera descended upon the lamb and devoured it; bones and all. She licked her lips with her forked tongue. Another strange sensation swept over Holt, except this time it was pleasant. He felt bolstered, emboldened, as though he might leap into the air and take flight himself. His heart raced against his ribs.
“That’s the usual effect of her magic,” Brode called.
Holt twisted around and gave him a worried look. Ysera might be upset that Brode was revealing more information to him.
Brode shrugged. “Commander Denna gains great strength from her bond with Ysera. That’s hardly a secret. You’ve had a taste of it now.”
Holt blinked, barely believing his luck. Few would ever have such a privilege and it only made him yearn more for the life of a rider. To feel like this all the time.
Then he remembered the dragon egg that had caused Ysera to reel in anger and disgust. And he recalled the terrible fate it was to have. If you could call it a fate, for it would have none.
The egg itself was nearby. While it was a lighter shade than the others, the more telling sign was the jagged white scar across its shell.
Ysera snorted and clawed at the floor with a single talon.
Holt blinked and looked up to her. She tilted her head at the empty tray. Holt understood what he was to do. He picked up the silver dish but couldn’t take his gaze from the egg with the white scar.
“Move, Holt,” Brode called.
Ysera turned sharply, and her tail swung in an arc behind her. Holt ducked and felt the tail pass in a whoosh of air. A tremor ran through the hatchery floor as she took off. By the time Holt took his hands off his head and looked up she was gone. The silver lid still rang from where he had dropped it, again.
A firm hand hauled Holt to his feet. “Are you hurt?” Brode asked.
“I’m fine. I think. What happened?”
“She said Denna was calling. It seems Silverstrike wants a proper welcome.” If Holt wasn’t mistaken, there was a bitter tone in the way Brode talked about Silas Silverstrike.
Brode clapped him on the shoulder. “Best get back to the kitchens. I imagine there is plenty of work still to do.”
“Yes,” Holt said. He bent to pick up the empty silver tray then hesitated.
Brode might tell him. He could only ask. “Something wrong, boy?”
“I just, wondered, Lord Rid—” “Brode.”
“Lord Brode,” Holt went on; it still felt too strange to drop the formality completely. “What will… what will happen to that egg?”
Brode’s gaze moved to the egg with the white scar. “I will move it over there with all the rejects.” He indicated a pile to the right-hand side of the hatchery where a small mound of eggs already sat. Judged and discarded. There were so many.
“You said it would be thrown into the sea.”
“I did. So, it seems you know what will happen.”
“Can nothing be done?” It seemed terribly cruel to Holt. “Mr. Fletcher’s dog lost a leg and folk said to put it down, but he went to the physicians and they helped. The dog has a limp now but otherwise it’s fine.”
Holt knew he was rambling, but this didn’t sit easy with him. He’d never heard of the riders doing this before. Could dragons even be sick?
He blundered on. “And Mrs. Baker’s cat did stop hunting after he lost his tail but he’s still friendly and finds courage to come out if you just show him a bit of kindness.”
Brode gave him a pitiful look. “Do you think dragons can be compared to dogs and cats?”
“Well, no but—”
“You must have known,” Brode said, picking up the egg and returning to Holt’s side, “living here your whole life. What did you think a choosing ceremony was?”
“I… I don’t know,” Holt said. “I suppose I assumed it was where the Matriarch decided which dragons stayed in the Order and which ones were sent back to the wild flights
Brode raised an eyebrow. “Amazing how well we keep these things to ourselves. Even from those living alongside us.”
Holt looked at the egg, feeling pity rise in him.
“Put it out of your mind,” said Brode. “This is the way things are.” “That’s all anyone ever says.”
“And most people just get on with it.” “Doesn’t it seem wrong to you?”
“It’s not my place to say.”
“You’re a rider. If you won’t then who can?”
“I’m half a rider, boy.” A sternness entered Brode’s voice. “And that’s why I get to carry out delightful tasks such as these. Do you think I like sending the eggs down into those frigid waters?”
Holt shook his head.
“And do you see me moaning about it?” He shook his head again.
“Dragons don’t accept any weakness in their race,” Brode said. “They do the same thing out in the wild, so far as we know. It’s their choice. Not ours.”
Holt nodded, but then something rose inside him. He bit his lip, he tried to resist, but he couldn’t hold it back. “It just feels wrong.”
Brode closed the gap between them.
“You say you want so badly to be a rider but it’s not all glory and valor like the minstrels sing. I’ve tried to warn you. It’s a responsibility you don’t
understand. Nor do you want it.” His eyes flicked from the egg to Holt. A pained crease broke across his face as though he were wrestling with some inner demon, then he handed the egg to Holt. “You destroy it.”
“Me?”
“You.” Brode thrust the egg into Holt’s hands. “It will be hard. Perhaps the hardest thing you ever do. But being a rider is hard. Cruel at times. There are times when you must end life to save it, when you must follow your oath even if it means letting your loved ones die.”
Holt grew worried. Was Brode feeling all right?
“Go on then,” Brode said. “Just to the cliff edge right there. Drop it off.” “You’re not serious.”
“I am extremely serious. You’re of an age where rebellion and dreaming can often lead one astray. Life is hard, lad. Whether you are a rider or a pot boy. But if you think you’ve got what it takes to be one of us, do it.”
Holt stood dumbstruck. He clutched the egg close to his chest, as though for all the world that would cure its ailments. Despite being smaller than the healthy eggs, it was still the size of a watermelon.
Gulping, feeling he ought to show some courage to Brode, he edged to the opening. Night had fallen and the world outside mirrored his mood. As he drew near to the precipice, the full force of the sea wind greeted him, forcing him to bow his head against it. Even the crashing waves sounded dim and distant up here. The black depths of the water below made it all the more brutal.
He stopped just shy of the precipice. That was a mistake. He ought to have just carried on and thrown his burden without a second thought. Stopping made him think.
Just a few steps. Just a few steps.
He took another two. He stopped again.
A chill pricked his skin, the wind now as biting as it was loud.
Just do it, he tried to tell himself.
A bright moon and stars twinkled above. And then Holt made another mistake. He looked down at the egg. Under the faint moonlight, the white scar on the egg appeared brighter, shining in a faint silver glow.
It’s probably just a reflection off the stone, Holt reckoned. It’s only stone. Cold, rough stone.
A heat filled his hands, and the sudden onset of it nearly made him drop the egg there and then. But he held on, amazed, not sure whether to believe
it was real or his imagination. In the cold night it was welcome but as quickly as it had come it went, and the stone returned to its cool state.
What did that mean? He knew nothing of dragon eggs. Did the creature know he was here? Did it know what he was about to do?
Holt blinked and rallied his wits. Even if he chickened out and returned without doing the deed, Ysera would demand its destruction either way. Holt would not soon forget how intense her distaste had been in that moment when her magic had touched him.
Holt took the final step. He held the egg out before him, high over its soon to be watery grave.
A battle raged within him. Did he want to be a rider so badly that he’d do anything, take any slim chance to join them? Yet, to defy Brode and Ysera; to deny the whole Order would get him no closer to his dream.
I can’t do this, Holt thought miserably.
He stepped back from the precipice and drew the egg in tight to his body. Heat flared again from it, as though the fledging creature could sense what he had done and gave him thanks.
Well, that’s that. I failed Brode. I’ll never be a rider.
Clearly, he didn’t have the guts for it.
Holt traipsed back to the center of the hatchery.
Brode picked at his teeth. His blank face was unreadable. “I thought as much, Holt. Give it here. I’ll do it.”
Holt struggled to keep his hands steady as he passed the egg over. Brode accepted it and tucked it under one arm, then ruffled Holt’s hair and gave him a playful shove.
“It’s not a life for everyone, you know?”
Holt was about to respond when a change came over Brode. The old rider winced, his gaze going milky and his eyelids fluttering. Brode emerged from the episode a moment later with a groan.
“It looks like my old friend Silverstrike wants a proper reunion,” Brode said, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off lingering pain before he rallied. “Alright, we’re done here, pot boy.” He placed the egg back on the rejected pile, presumably to return and finish the grim task later. Then he grabbed Holt by the scruff of the neck and dragged him out of the hatchery.
