Page 34 of Dragons' Mate
"I mean if you are looking for recommendations, I'd suggest starting with that brown piece of shit that took me to begin with," I offer. Clearly, my sense of self-preservation is still on holiday, because even Tavias’s palpable fury is unable to pierce through my daze of drunken rush coursing through my veins.
"I don't know," Hauck scratches the back of his head in mock concentration. "The last I saw of Quinton, that brown piece of shit was not a singular entity anymore. More like... "
"Diarrhea?" I suggest. A new bout of laughter escapes me, and I start wondering if maybe I did lose my mind somewhere along the way. "Because, brown and—Oh stars." I meet Tavias’s furious gaze and double over in manic laughter, tears stinging my eyes as I try and fail to control the bouts of mirth. "You know, because when Quinton went after the brown—"
"I think I have a clear image, thank you," Tavias says tersely. At the edge of my vision, I can see Cyril's tight mouth fight against a smile, as he does an admirable job of looking appropriately menacing. Tavias sighs and mutters something to the stars that sounds less than complimentary of both my and Hauck’s intellect. "I imagine we should just be grateful that Hauck was there when that asshole decided to drop you from the sky."
"Oh, he didn'tdecideto drop me," I clarify. "I stabbed him."
Cyril’s eyes widen.
"You what?" Tavias clarifies.
I show him my dagger and make a stabbing motion. "You know, between the toes."
"You... You stabbed the dragon who was carrying you. Between the toes." Tavias annunciates each word. "So that he would let go. And you would fall. From the sky."
"Well, when you put it that way, it doesn't seem very smart at all," I mutter.
Tavias pinches the bridge of his nose and turns about military style before marching off, leaving me with Hauck and Cyril for company. Cyril and I still have words to exchange from our original conversation, but this isn’t the time.
I clear my throat, looking up at Cyril. "Did you, err, want to scold us as well? While there is time before the first trial?"
"Yes, because that seems to be a strong deterrent factor for you both," Cyril intones evenly.
"Fair point. In our defense, this is a competitive advantage, isn't it?" I point out. "I mean, how many of the other humans will have ever ridden a dragon?"
"None," Cyril says dryly. "Which bodes well for their claim of intelligence to continue the dragon line."
"There is that," I point out again.
“You also didn’t ride Hauck’s dragon as much as fall off him. Repeatedly.”
Practice makes perfect?
"Will you two at least promise to not do it again?" Cyril asks, though there is little hope in his voice.
"Would it make you feel better if we did?"
"Not if you lie," Cyril says.
"Well, then you need to make up your mind as to what you prefer," I say.
Before Cyril can come up with an answer though, three bells sound over the grounds, wringing all the humor from the air. The first trial was being called.
CHAPTER15
Kit
We meet Quinton at the base of the citadel. His gray uniform is soaked with blood that also speckles his face and hair. Before I can work out how much of it is his, a swarm of priests descends on us, wordlessly separating me and the other women from the dragon shifters. It’s such an abrupt start to such a momentous event, that my mind is reeling while trying to process what’s happening. The hooded figures leading us away offer no explanation. Fortunately, Cyril had flown back to the stream to get my boots, so at least I’m not going into the trial barefoot.
I quickly count the women as we walk, getting only to twenty two. A third of the competitors had died in the overnight skirmishes. Twelve dead since the pledge ball only a day ago. Or has it been a year?
I study the others’ faces. Most are wearing expressions of frightened shock, though there are a few vacant stares and several resolutely determined ones. Bianca is one of the latter, walking like a queen to her rightful throne.
Using their staffs, the priests herd us along like a flock of sheep through a set of heavy double doors into the citadel. The scent of aged stone greets me and it takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the torch-lit gloom after the bright day outside. Another set of doors open on silent hinges and the sunlight is blazing into our eyes once more as we are led onto a platform at one end of a grand cheering arena.
If the start of the trial was silently abrupt, this moment makes up for it. The competition arena is colossal, its architecture wrapping around us and stretching toward the sky. Countless rows of stone seats fill the circumference, the spectators piled in and cheering. Beside the uniformed contestants, the sea of gowns and formal tunics are like splotches of color against canvas. I make out Ettienne in the front row, the king’s face unreadable but intense. Autumn and Fionna are here too I realize, both clapping along with the others. The sound echoes off the stones, feeding on itself. Becoming even louder. More overwhelming.Bom-Bom-Bo-bom. Bom-Bom-Bo-bom.
