Flight of Dragons(350)

“Britt!” Inge’s voice interrupted her thoughts and she jerked her head toward her friend, standing by the outside door. “We’re heading to the stables.”

Stables. This was why she needed to hold her tongue and be patient—slowly build relationships with people who had influence, so when she finally did speak, they would actually listen. Dragons couldn’t be stabled any more than men could be, and trying would have similarly disastrous consequences. She understood where the language came from, of course. She’d grown up a servant’s daughter on a horse farm on the Artisan Flats, and there were many similarities—a penned enclosure, a building where riding tack and other supplies were kept. Even feed, but not because the humans were the dragons’ keepers, but because it was nice to give them a treat in exchange for the best experience of one’s life.

Really, the very least one could do.

Taking a deep breath, Britt slowed her steps on the walk from the main house to the barns and pasture beyond. Sheep grazed and somewhere, a donkey brayed, and other than that, all she could hear was the wind and the rustle of leaves from the forest-covered mountain that rose beside the plateau where she was standing. The original monastery buildings sat on a rise above the river bed that bisected the mountain range. The river carried them to the ocean, where, in the name of expediency, a shuttlecraft would pick them up and fly them home.

Slowly turning her head, she took in the mountain range rising softly to one side of the valley—the path up to the newer monastery—and across the river to the other, more fearsome looking rock face, covered in snow at the top.

Home.

How she wished The Outerlands were her home. Even the Artisan Flats didn’t pull at her heart like this landscape did, and lately, she’d been employed at the horse farms closer to the capital city. She missed the lake district and the slower pace of life there, but only because it was the closest similarity to here.

“I didn’t see you at breakfast.”

She jumped. She really had to stop disappearing into her head like that. Beside her, The Monk (she really needed to find out his name) smiled, a tentative pull of his lips that constricted her chest and made her own mouth curve in a mirroring fashion. “Were you looking for me?”

He was such a confusing mix of confidence and modesty. His eyes bore into hers even as his cheeks pinked up. “I guess I was, if I noticed you weren’t there.”

“I was there.”

“We must have just missed each other then.”

She nodded dumbly. What were they doing? “Oh. I wanted to apologize. About last night…”

“It’s fine.”

“No, I think I was rude.”

“You were stubborn and opinionated, but not rude. But thank you anyway.” He tipped his head toward the stables. “Are you riding today?”

“As soon as the dragons arrive, yes.”

He didn’t look up at the sky. Instead, he cupped his hand around his ear and listened for a second, and her heart did a little jump at the gesture. This one is a friend of the dragons, she thought. He gets it.

As if he could hear her thoughts, his gaze sharpened and his brows pulled tight.

What are you thinking? she wanted to ask, but before she could, she felt the first shift in air pressure. Whoosh. Like wind, but from above. Then again. Whoosh. She grinned and tipped her face straight up.

The dragons were circling above. Dozens of them, from the steady, almost imperceptible downward pressure.

At first she couldn’t see them, but then a shadow appeared through the clouds. That impressive wing span always hit her in the solar plexus. These creatures that she shared a planet with were amazing.

When that first dragon broke through the cloud cover and descended, gliding right into the pen where they would saddle up, he was smaller than the shadow through the clouds would make one think. Eight feet fall and still light green, he was young. Eager to please, they usually were.

Three more young dragons joined him, all varying shades of green, and then they were joined by their elders. With age, dragons darkened in colour, turning dark green and purple or brown. Unlike horses, older dragons weren’t easier to ride—more like people, they grew crotchety and mercurial in their old age, and if they wanted to fly, it would be best if someone with experience was on their back.

Britt itched to be that person on at least one of them.

She hurried to the pen, and after the monk attendant at the gate gave her a nod, she stepped inside.

“Hi friends,” she said softly, holding out her hands, palms up. “I’m so glad you’ve joined us today. Did you sense that we wanted to ride?”

One of the young ones reared up on his hind legs, a huff of hot air his positive response to her question.