Chapter Six

The Hatchings

Tyr

Tyr tried to stop himself from tapping the toe of his boot against the ground. The leather alone was worth more than most peasants would make in six months, and he didn't want to risk scuffing it. But, as he drew closer to the front of the line, he gave up and let his foot do as it pleased. If all went well, his father would be too happy with him to be angry. If all went well.

It was a simple enough task: touch an egg. But that was the problem—the simplicity. There was no clever way to do it, no trick, no cheat. He could do it no differently from anyone else waiting in line. They would touch the egg. He would touch the egg. But only the dragon could decide.

The girl in front of Tyr shifted, and at last, he could see it. The egg. He took a deep breath, held it a moment, and let it out.

It was big. That was his first thought. More like a stone than an egg. A deep purple stone, inlaid with veins of white and flecks of gold. He looked at it long and hard, then closed his eyes.

He almost left then. Something was strange; something was wrong. He was having doubts. He was doubting himself, yes. That was not unusual. But, in doubting himself, he was doubting his father, his father's judgment of him. His father had called him strong, but what if he was wrong? This thing, this egg, it was beautiful. So beautiful that Tyr could not believe it, could not believe he would be chosen.

But his father had told him he had to do this. And so he would.

"Tyr!"

A cry came from the watching crowd, and a woman ran forward, towards the children in line for the test. Towards him.

Tyr breathed out sharply through his nose.

"Tyr!" shouted the woman. She reached him, grabbed his hand, tried to pull him out of line. "Tyr, don't do this."

Tyr jerked away from the woman.

"Mother," he hissed, trying to draw as little attention as possible. "Go away."

His mother had no such reservations. Her voice was shrill and high, echoing across the city square. "Tyr, please, you don't have to. You don't have to do this. You don't have to leave."

He sighed, glanced around at the onlookers, and touched her shoulder. "Don't worry. Father said—"

"I don't care what he said!" she said. "He's in jail, Tyr; he's not here."

"But I can help him. I can get him out with this."

"I don't care!" she said again. "I want you to stay here. I want you to stay with me."

"But Father—"

"You don't always have to do what he tells you, Tyr! He's not a god!"

"Mother, people are looking."

"Tyr, please!" she begged. "Please don't go!" The shoulder beneath his fingers shook with sobs.

"I might not even be chosen. Just let me try. If I'm not chosen, I'll stay."

She glared at him, her lower lip trembling. "And if you are chosen?"

He squeezed her shoulder once, then turned away.

The girl in line ahead of him stepped forward to try her luck with the egg. Tyr didn't know whether his mother was gone or not, but right now, it didn't much matter. His foot was still tapping on the ground, making a little cloud of dust in the air.

The girl touched the egg. She picked it up, cupped it in her hands. He waited, holding his breath.

Nothing happened. The elf standing behind the egg's pedestal reached out and touched the girl's hands with gentle fingers.

"Wait, it's not done yet!" the girl said. But she let the elf lead her hands back onto the pedestal. She placed the egg on the cold stone, looked at it for a moment longer, then walked away.

And it was Tyr's turn. He took a slow step forward. The egg was right there, in front of him, sitting, shining in the sun.


Ilian

Ilian was the youngest in line. He knew all the children in his hometown of Reavstone, a small village in the south-most part of Surda. Most of them were older than him, and the ones who weren't were too young to be considered. Yes, he was the youngest, so he was the only one who had a family member with him. His sister Trianna stood next to him, gripping his hand. Her nails were digging into his skin, but he didn't want to pull away. They stood in silence, staring ahead at the egg that sat only a few feet before them.

It was a beautiful thing, the most beautiful thing Ilian had ever seen. It was the color of sunset, the kind of sunset you see only once in a lifetime: rays of rich oranges and reds, shot through with speckles of white and yellow. It was light and fire and life all mixed together and held in a glass oval, swirling around so strong that it burst through the glass like flares of laughter.

Ilian could not stop watching it. He walked forward, step by step, without noticing. And it was only when Trianna began to speak that he snapped back into himself.

"Ilian," she said. "You know how to use magic. You know how to control your mind. You can do this."

A chill ran down his spine, and he tightened his clasp on Trianna's hand.

"I can't." He said it quietly, more to himself than anyone else.

"Listen," Trianna said, kneeling down and putting her lips to his ear. "When you were asleep last night, I cast a spell. It will make the dragon choose you."

His eyes widened, and he looked at her.

"So you don't have to worry. It will choose you."

"Really?" he asked.

She nodded and pushed him forward, towards the egg.

It was his turn.


Caelan

Rowan led him through the winding streets of Dras-Leona to the square, the city's heart. Caelan had always done his best to steer clear of it. When the old king was in power, it had been the center of Alagaesia's slave trade, and they weren't picky about who they chose. But the new queen had gotten rid of all that, and Caelan was none too sad to see it go.

"It's there," Rowan said, pointing. He, too, seemed reluctant to enter the crowd. Old habits die hard.

Caelan walked forward, through the people. Rowan was at his back. At last, he cleared the mob and came out into the square. A line of children worked its way across the square. It ended at a pedestal. Standing by the pedestal was what Caelan assumed was an elf. He had the pointy ears and graceful stature, at least. And on the pedestal….

A hand stopped him, pushing backward against his chest. Caelan looked up. A guard stood before him.

"We don't want no urchins here, boy," the guard said, pushing Caelan back again. "We want riders."

Caelan gave the guard a smile and reached into his pocket. With a flip of his fingers, he tossed a coin at the man.

He knew the ways of the streets. If there was one thing guards loved more than beating children, it was gold. So he had foreseen this problem. As he was passing through the mass of people, he was also slipping his hands into purses. It didn't require much effort to be a thief in a crowded place.

The guard caught the coin and held it up to the sky. It shone yellow in the sunlight. And with that, he stepped out of Caelan's way.

Caelan joined the line of children and looked again at the egg. There are things in this world that words cannot describe without giving insult. Beauty had never much impressed Caelan. But this? It made emotion, something he had long since thought was dead, rise in his throat.

It was the deepest of blues, dark, but not murky. Little tendrils of black braided around it here and there, branching out and fading away. Clear and pure, like the ringing of a bell. Clear and pure and so unlike Caelan.

And he knew that he was not worthy, knew he would never be worthy.

But he would try nonetheless.

Quick enough, it was his turn.


Jeyne

"It's beautiful," Eoin said when they saw the egg.

Caer shrugged. "I guess."

Jeyne looked at him out of the corner of her eye with a soft smile. He would never admit it, she knew, but Caer was probably more affected by the egg than Eoin. She could tell from the way he said it: too nonchalant, too casual.

"It is," she agreed.

And it truly, truly was.

It was a rich brownish-gold, the color of mead in the sun. She could almost taste its sweetness.

They got in line, Caer first, then Eoin, then Jeyne.

They stood in silence, looking at the egg. This had begun as a joke, something to pass the time. But it was more than that now. It was a chance, a hope. She didn't even know why.

When it was Caer's turn at last, he reached out with eager fingers and grasped the egg. Jeyne almost laughed at the way his muscles flexed; he was showing them off for a dragon that could not see him.

But he was not chosen.

Eoin went next. He was tentative, hesitant. He didn't pick up the egg, just touched it with the tips of his fingers.

Nothing happened.

And then it was her time.


Tyr

He reached out and took it. He could see his face reflected on its purple surface. It was smooth, perfectly smooth. It felt good to touch, like silk. Like cool water on a hot day. And he forgot his fears, forgot his doubts. In their place came certainty.


Ilian

Trianna's words played in his mind as he touched the egg. A spell. She had cast a spell on him to make the egg choose him. So really, there was nothing to worry about. He smiled as he looked at the egg, holding it as a witch would hold a crystal ball, gazing into it.


Caelan

He picked it up with sweaty hands. He realized that he was smudging mud on the beautiful colors and almost put the egg back down. Who was he to dirty this beautiful thing? And then he saw that it was not mud on his hands, as he had thought. It was blood. The blood of the boy he had just killed. Brecht's blood. He sighed. Now that—that was more like him. Blood had its own sort of beauty.


Jeyne

She saw the fingerprints of her friends still clinging to the egg as she picked it up and studied it. But she did not wipe them off. And she would not wipe off her own when she was done. They would remain as the marks of those past, those rejected, until new hands eventually rubbed them away.


It's a strange thing, the hatching of a dragon. None can predict its time, its catalyst. But it comes when it must, when it is needed. It comes when it senses the rightness and warmth of its rider. And these four dragons were needed. And these four dragons sensed their partners. And these four dragons came.


Tyr

The egg began to shake in his hands, but he held it steady and returned it to the pedestal. A crack appeared on its surface. Then another. And another. All at once, it shattered, sending little pieces of shell flying.

Before him stood a dragon. It looked up at him with shining eyes, and its whole body seemed to hum.

Tyr felt as though he were in a dream, as though none of this was real. He reached out to touch the dragon's scaly forehead.

The moment his hand made contact with it, an electric shock ran from his fingertips throughout his body. Pain, raw and red, paralyzed him, tugging at his nerves. He fell forward, hitting the pedestal and rolling off it, and a scream ripped itself from his throat. A hand touched his shoulder, held him steady as his body jerked and twitched. Murmurs shot through the crowd behind him, and he fought to control his flailing limbs. He would not be degraded like this.

But, as suddenly as it came, the pain vanished, leaving him aching on the ground.

Slowly, he got to his feet, trembling, gripping the pedestal for support. The elf in front of him helped him up.

He looked at the dragon again. It blinked back at him, unfurling its great wings.

The elf took Tyr's hand. He pulled away, affronted, but the elf said, "Show me."

Tyr looked down at his palm. There, shining in the sun, was a silvery circle emblazoned on his flesh. He looked at the elf, then held out his hand to show him.

"Argetlam," the elf said.

Tyr watched the elf, mouth open slightly.

"Does this mean…?" he trailed off.

"You are a rider now."

Tyr's eyes widened, and he looked back at the dragon. And all at once, he was smiling, beaming. He turned around, searching for his mother in the crowd. But she wasn't there. No, in the back was a woman resembling her, but she was walking away. She looked to be sobbing, her head in her hands. Tyr took a step forward, towards her. But then she was gone. He stared. At last, he turned back around. He reached out again and petted the dragon's head, and no pain came this time. The dragon rubbed itself against his hand.

He had done it. He had done it! He was a rider! A dragon rider! His father had been right. He was strong, strong enough for this. And now his father would be freed and restored to his former position.

The dragon flapped its wings and jumped onto Tyr's shoulder.

"Argetlam," said the elf. "There is a ship waiting for you in the harbor."

"Don't I get to say goodbye?" Tyr asked.

"We must make haste."

Tyr glanced back towards the castle. His father was there, beneath the spires and towers, in the dungeon. But someone would tell him. And he would be proud.

With that, the elf led Tyr off.


Ilian

The first crack came as a surprise. Ilian jolted back, nearly dropping the egg as a piece of shell flew towards his face. Bit by bit, the shell crumbled away. And beneath it was an orange dragon.

Ilian gasped as his left hand brushed against its flank. A bolt of lightning seemed to strike him. The dragon leapt from his hands to the pedestal. He fell backwards. But someone was there, holding him up. Trianna. He let himself lean against her, waiting for the agony to pass. And when it did, she pulled his shaking body into a tight hug. He smiled weakly, his lips trembling.

She released him, and he swayed on his feet. But he had enough strength to turn around and raise his palm for the elf to see. On it was the white gedwey ignasia.

The elf nodded. "Argetlam," he said.

Argetlam. Silver-hand. He had done it. He was a dragon rider.

Trianna's spell had worked.

Ilian looked at the dragon. Its scales shone like the sun. He smiled at it.

"Ilian," said his sister from behind him. "Go."

He turned and looked up at her. She smiled at him and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was the most affection she had ever shown him. He wondered if it would be all right of him to ask for one last hug.

But before he could, the elf said, "Come, Argetlam."

"Goodbye," he said to Trianna.

"Goodbye, little brother."


Caelan

Caelan was staring at the blood when the egg began to shake. He put it back on the pedestal without thinking. Just in time, too. A crack appeared, growing and growing, until the egg split in half. The shell opened, falling away to reveal a dark blue dragonling. It opened its eyes and looked at him.

Caelan was silent for a moment, staring at it. Then he threw back his head and laughed, long and hard.

All at once, he stopped. The dragon was still looking at him with quiet and solemn eyes. He grinned at it and reached out to pet its head.

A sharp pain hit his hand when he touched the dragon, and he jerked back, screaming. He fell to the ground. With a twitching hand, he searched for his knife on instinct, biting down on his tongue to keep from making any more noise. What was this, this torture?

At last, at last, it stopped. He stood up and looked at the elf, narrowing his eyes.

"What was that?" he asked.

In answer, the elf pointed to his hand. He turned it over, stared at it. There was a silver moon on his palm.

He glanced at the dragon again. It had intelligence in its eyes. Wisdom. He chuckled again. So young and yet so aware of the world.

They would get along.

Then he thought of something. They must be giving out some sort of compensation for the loss of a child.

"About the money," he said to the elf.

"It will go to your family to compensate them."

So he had been right.

But Caelan had no family. He never had, not that he could remember. He lived alone. If you could call it living. He was alone. So who would they give the money to? No one? It seemed a waste.

It was not from the kindness of his heart, what he said next. No, not from any great generosity on his part. Indeed, he said it on impulse.

"My parents are dead, but you can give it to my little brother, Rowan." He found the boy in the crowd and pointed at him. "He'll be glad to take it."

"It will be done," said the elf. Caelan grinned at him. Let no one say that he was ungrateful. He would always pay his debts.


Jeyne

The egg exploded in her hands. Pieces of shell flew every which way, and Jeyne nearly dropped it, closing her eyes with a curse. But somehow she held on.

She barely had time to open her eyes and look at the small, brownish-gold dragon sitting in her palms before an icy pain shot through her. Hands caught her as she fell backwards, and her mouth opened wide in a scream.

When it finally passed, she stood again. The dragon had jumped back to the pedestal before she had fallen. It looked at her with mossy green eyes. She realized that she wasn't breathing.

A cheer went up into the air, and she turned to see Caer and Eoin running towards her from the crowd, whooping and giving her thumbs up. She couldn't move, couldn't smile back.

"Jeyne!" Caer shouted. "I can't believe it!"

"You did it!" said Eoin. "You're a rider!"

Caer reached her and clapped her on the back while Eoin grabbed her hand and lifted it above their heads, making a hooting noise.

The dragon gave a little squawk and jumped onto her shoulder. Eoin let go of her and took several steps back.

She reached up to pet it, and it shot its tongue out to lick her face.

"Gods," said Eoin.

Something occurred to her, and she looked at her friends. "Will you tell my mother?" she asked.

"Damn, I'll tell the whole world," said Caer. Eoin nodded.

"Thanks," said Jeyne.

"Argetlam," the elf said. "We must go."

"Right." Jeyne started off after him, then turned back around. "Goodbye."

"Have fun," said Eoin.

"Be a good girl," said Caer.

She grinned at them. "Well, I can't do both."

"Then just have fun," said Caer.

"I want to hug you two so bad right now," she said.

They came forward and let her throw her arms around them.

"Argetlam." The elf's soft voice came from behind her, and she let her friends go.