hopped out, then reached down and clasped Tristan in his claws. The dragon waited until he w as settled and secure, some of the dragon’s feathers holding him gently, yet firmly in place. After a moment, Fenfyr leaped skyward and Tristan laughed with happiness. No matter what was coming, flying with Fenfyr was always an amazing experience, and as they twisted through the port traffic, he noticed how the dragon buzzed too close to some of the Naval vessels, making them swerve, and he took the “long” way, flying out to sea before swinging in and back towards the mountain that housed the Guild Dragons. By the time they landed, Tristan felt lighter. He squared his shoulders and headed into the giant cave and towards the living quarters.
VI
The soft chiming of bells filled the apartment. Tristan lay in bed and absently counted them, three bells in the morning watch. He still had time before he needed to get up and go out for the meeting with Darius, Brian and Fenfyr. After the meeting he planned to go see Alden. He hadn’t had a chance the day before. Once he set foot in the Dragon’s Compound, he was whisked away by the human staff. They checked him over and the chief of medical ordered him to eat then straight to bed, threatening him with a sedative if he refused. Tristan hadn’t even considered refusing; he had a lot to think about.
The idea of becoming the designated Warrior for the Winged Victory was beginning to sink in, and as it did, it was becoming more and more terrifying. He knew the basics, but that was not what he did—he created sails. Understanding how the ships worked was one thing—and as Master Weaver, and a member of the Council, he had to qualify at a master’s level in all aspects of the Guild, but it was still mostly theory. He had flown a ship once, briefly, on a calm day, between Terra Sextus and Terra Septimus . This was entirely different, because even a milk run in this ship would take them out of the solar system to the edge of the Rim Satellites. Deep space.
Four bells chimed and Tristan pushed himself out of bed. After showering he opened his closet and stopped—alongside the usual uniforms he wore as Master Weaver were five new coats in the deep sapphire blue of the Warrior Weavers. He stared at them for a long time before reaching fo r his usual clothing and dressing . With one last glance at the other jackets, he closed the door and headed towards the humans’ mess.
There was a brief hush when he walked in, every head turned his way, then back again as if they didn’t want him to know they had looked. He smiled to the room at large and nodded at two people he recognized. Grabbing a tray, he wandered along the buffet, aware that he was being watched again. It was hard not to react, but he focused on the fruit, got himself a cup of coffee and wandered towards an empty table in the far corner of the room. Once he sat down with his back to the wall, he felt better. After the first sip of coffee he improved even more. He sighed and took the chance to look at the other humans filling the room.
Most of them were wearing the black of the Dragon Corps. It was an elite group that served out their lives in the Compound here or on the stations in space that specifically cared for and acted as representatives for the dragons. The dragons kept themselves aloof from dealings with humanity as much as possible and the Corps served as their buffer. Very few humans were chosen and even fewer made it all the way through the training. Some died, some left, some were killed by those opposed to the dragons’ existence.
“Master Tristan?” a baritone voice asked. “Might I join you?”
“Please do.” Tristan laughed and waved the man to sit. “I hope Fenfyr hasn’t destroyed anything important?”
“No,” the man, Chris Muher , said, laughing. The night they had met was the night Tristan had become the Master Weaver and Fenfyr had wreaked a
VI
The soft chiming of bells filled the apartment. Tristan lay in bed and absently counted them, three bells in the morning watch. He still had time before he needed to get up and go out for the meeting with Darius, Brian and Fenfyr. After the meeting he planned to go see Alden. He hadn’t had a chance the day before. Once he set foot in the Dragon’s Compound, he was whisked away by the human staff. They checked him over and the chief of medical ordered him to eat then straight to bed, threatening him with a sedative if he refused. Tristan hadn’t even considered refusing; he had a lot to think about.
The idea of becoming the designated Warrior for the Winged Victory was beginning to sink in, and as it did, it was becoming more and more terrifying. He knew the basics, but that was not what he did—he created sails. Understanding how the ships worked was one thing—and as Master Weaver, and a member of the Council, he had to qualify at a master’s level in all aspects of the Guild, but it was still mostly theory. He had flown a ship once, briefly, on a calm day, between Terra Sextus and Terra Septimus . This was entirely different, because even a milk run in this ship would take them out of the solar system to the edge of the Rim Satellites. Deep space.
Four bells chimed and Tristan pushed himself out of bed. After showering he opened his closet and stopped—alongside the usual uniforms he wore as Master Weaver were five new coats in the deep sapphire blue of the Warrior Weavers. He stared at them for a long time before reaching fo r his usual clothing and dressing . With one last glance at the other jackets, he closed the door and headed towards the humans’ mess.
There was a brief hush when he walked in, every head turned his way, then back again as if they didn’t want him to know they had looked. He smiled to the room at large and nodded at two people he recognized. Grabbing a tray, he wandered along the buffet, aware that he was being watched again. It was hard not to react, but he focused on the fruit, got himself a cup of coffee and wandered towards an empty table in the far corner of the room. Once he sat down with his back to the wall, he felt better. After the first sip of coffee he improved even more. He sighed and took the chance to look at the other humans filling the room.
Most of them were wearing the black of the Dragon Corps. It was an elite group that served out their lives in the Compound here or on the stations in space that specifically cared for and acted as representatives for the dragons. The dragons kept themselves aloof from dealings with humanity as much as possible and the Corps served as their buffer. Very few humans were chosen and even fewer made it all the way through the training. Some died, some left, some were killed by those opposed to the dragons’ existence.
“Master Tristan?” a baritone voice asked. “Might I join you?”
“Please do.” Tristan laughed and waved the man to sit. “I hope Fenfyr hasn’t destroyed anything important?”
“No,” the man, Chris Muher , said, laughing. The night they had met was the night Tristan had become the Master Weaver and Fenfyr had wreaked a
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