The Sail Weaver by Muffy Morrigan

absolutely cannot refuse, Tristan,” Brian said, raising his voice. “The only one.”
    Tristan knew it was true, and he knew they had to find out what was going on with the Winged Victory, but still there were so many reservations. He was not a Warrior, he could Weave and Bond the sails, but could he make the ship fly? And what if they engaged in combat? “Just until we find out what’s going on,” he said firmly, coming up with a solution he thought was a reasonable balance between his hammering heart and their insistence.
    “Of course, that is all we ask, Tristan Weaver. Just the maiden voyage, and we will find a Warrior or perhaps Alden will have gotten used to working with one arm by then.”
    “One…?” Tristan shook his head. “I’ll get my things.”
    “Don’t worry, we’ve already got your apartment ready for you,” Brian said. “You leave now.”
    “Why the hurry? I just got here!” Tristan protested.
    “Because the shuttlecar that brought you back from the Weaving area has caught fire. Your life is in danger and you are better off with the dragons than here. No one is getting up there.”
    “Only dinner,” Fenfyr said, still growling but with a note of humor in his voice. “I will take you myself. Get a coat. It is cold.”
    “What?” He looked up at the dragon.
    “I’m flying you,” Fenfyr said. “I am in charge of security, and from here on out you are under my personal protection.”
    “Until I reach the Victory. ”
    “No, I’m going with you. All ships have dragons, you are closer to the dragon than most,” Fenfyr growled. “Now, get your coat and let’s fly.”
    Tristan stepped carefully over the dragon’s claw and headed to the closet to get his coat, hiding his smile. From what Darius and the Guild Master had said things were grim, but the prospect of flying on Fenfyr with permission for a change made his heart sing. He remembered the night he was declared Master Weaver of the Guild. The warm buzz of happiness that filled him every time he remembered that moment tingled along his spine, a laugh bubbling up as he recalled Fenfyr’s antics at the news. The dragon had launched himself over the ocean, silver, black and pearly gray feathers puffed out, his wings fully extended, skimming the waves, trumpeting at the top of his lungs, returning to grab Tristan in gentle claws before carrying them far from the land, soaring on the wind as the sun set and the stars flickered to life over their heads. They had returned long after the Weavers’ Guild compound was closed, the watchtower firing warning shots before they identified themselves. Fenfyr, as usual, thought it was a game and chased the missile before swatting it out of the sky with one sweep of his tail.
    Tristan turned back from the closet, coat in hand, and caught the sparkle in the dragon’s eye. Fenfyr was remembering one of their adventures as well. That night they had managed to get away with more than usual, since Tristan had just been raised in rank and Fenfyr was on the Council of the Dragons. Even so, since then they had gotten a stern talking to from Darius more than once.
    “We will continue this at the mountain,” Darius said, turning and leaving. “Guild Master?” he called from the hall.
    “I am summoned,” Rhoads laughed and left.
    “How bad is Alden?” Tristan asked as the others left.
    “He is badly wounded. He lost his right arm and eye. They saved his leg, but he will walk with a limp for the rest of his life. He is awake, but on many pain medications. The Healers have been in as well,” Fenfyr said.
    “Not good.” Tristan pulled on his coat and walked out of the office. The fact they were calling in H ealers did not speak well for Alden’s chances of survival. Medical science had advanced to the point that magical healing was very rarely needed, and Alden needing it was worrying. The Winged Victory project was beginning to seem sinister.
    They reached the Dragon’s Portal and Fenfyr