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WHEN IT COMES RIGHT down to it, eggs are eggs.
—Polgrin, master incubator
* * *
DRAGONS FILLED THE sky. The scaled forms stretched from one end of the horizon to the other. They numbered in the hundreds—the thousands. They all flew in the same direction: toward the setting sun, fleeing the night. Behind them, dispelling the darkness, came a multitude of comets. Like arrows from the gods, the comets traversed the sky, leaving golden trails behind them.
Dragons began to die. In growing numbers, they simply stopped flapping their wings and plummeted from the sky until it seemed to be raining dragons.
The eggs. There were eggs nearby in a nest scraped from the stone by immense claws. The shells were gray like stone but flecked with gold and silver. Other striations of brown and black wrapped over and around the shells. A strange pattern adorned the foremost egg, one resembling a birthmark. The marking took the shape of a shield.
Two ghostly eyes appeared superimposed over the egg. One bright yellow, the other sparkling blue like a gemstone. The shield-marked egg cracked, and the earth trembled.
Onin awoke with a start. The morning sun streamed through the open window of his bedchamber. The bed was empty next to him. As usual, Yolan had arisen before he and would be gone for the day or, more likely, had not yet returned from the previous night’s escapades. It was just as well; he was in no mood for her prickliness. In the months since their wedding, she had thawed toward him considerably, he had to admit. But she still relished vexing him on a daily basis. Staying out all night bothered Onin the most, so she did it frequently.
Unable to shake the visions from his sleep, Onin swung his feet to the floor. It was the first time the dream had visited itself upon him since coming to the Heights, but it was more vivid than ever. He remembered more of it as well. He had no idea what it could mean, if anything, or why it would leave him feeling so uneasy. In particular, the ghostly eyes haunted him and refused to relinquish their hold on his thoughts.
* * *
THE SUMMER DAY STARTED out hot and dry. The persistent breeze permeating the Heights provided the only relief from the glaring sun, but high-turreted walls surrounding the trial field denied that comfort to the magistrate’s court. The king’s champion stood in the center of the field, resplendently armed. The champion was a veteran warrior named Wrent. Onin and Fargin stood on either side of the magistrate, sweating profusely in full battle regalia.
The day’s petitioners stood in a line across the trial field. A group of fighting men, wearing the colors of House Strandor, faced them. Despite the sweat streaming down their faces, their expressions were set in determination.
The magistrate sat perched in a small balcony near the center of the field to better officiate the proceedings. A cloth awning and a pair of fan-wielding servants spared the graying man the worst discomfort. Even so, the heat wilted him. The magistrate rose to speak in a clear voice.
"House Strandor has petitioned His Majesty for expanded mineral rights in the mines of the northern slope. The king has refused, and Strandor has claimed the right of trial by combat to prove its case. We are assembled today to test the mettle of the fighting men of Strandor with the Royal Guard. If Strandor achieves victory, the king shall grant their petition.
"In accordance with our traditions, before the contest takes place, we shall read out the full accounting of the events preceding the contest . . ."
"Oh, for the sake of the gods, get on with it," Fargin muttered with exasperation. "We all know this part; it’s always the same."
"I think the magistrate gets paid by the word when it comes to his pronouncements," said Onin. "Have you ever noticed it takes him ten minutes to say ‘the people you see here want something, and they’re going to have to fight to get it’? It hardly requires skill in prose."
The reading of accounts ended soon enough, despite their grumbling, and the contest began. The challengers from House Strandor would pit their strength against the king’s champion, a veteran warrior from the ranks of the Guard. Onin and Fargin, fresh out of the academy, lacked the rank to represent the king in battle. Instead the two served as honor guards, whose sole duty was to broil in the sun and look impressive. According to the magistrate’s ruling, each victory gained by the fighters of Strandor would secure one-third of the desired mineral rights. If denied a single victory, Strandor would leave empty-handed.
The first challenger took the field against the champion. The largest of the three, the Strandor man stood a half foot taller than Wrent. The champion fixed a steely gaze on his opponent, unperturbed by the size difference. Onin saw the glint of sweat on the champion’s brow but no other sign the heat was affecting Wrent.
The fighters donned helmets and saluted one another, and the contest began. Onin was momentarily dazzled by the bright sun reflecting from their blades. The petition bouts were fought with real weapons, so the danger was significant. Deaths during contests were rare but not unheard of.
The Strandor man trusted in his size and strength, charging ahead with a hoarse shout. The champion sidestepped the overheard swing and delivered a slash to the back of the challenger’s thighs. The battle cry turned to a yelp, and the Strandor fighter fell on his face in the hot sand. The man struggled to rise, but the cuts were deep, and he withdrew from the field instead. The first bout was over as quickly as it had begun.
“That’s impressive,” said Fargin. “I’m not sure I could fight at all in this heat. The champion seems to be in top form.”
“I’d have trouble just seeing my opponent,” replied Onin, wiping sweat from his face. Onin nodded in appreciation of Wrent’s prowess, not only out of respect for the skill itself, but that the remaining bouts would also see quick resolution.
Mercifully, this proved to be the case. The Strandor men, while respectable fighters, proved to be no match for the king’s champion. Wrent dispatched them with ease, giving each man a painful wound but no more. Within minutes, the magistrate was making the final pronouncement. Onin knew his time in the blazing sun neared its end.
“. . . and so, having failed to prove their worth on the field of battle, House Strandor shall leave with no additional mineral rights and shall be required to pay the costs associated with today’s contest. Long live the king, and glory to the Heights.”
As the wizened magistrate made his way out of the proving grounds, the champion approached Onin.
“Ye gods, that sun is brutal.” The champion removed his helmet, his hair dripping with sweat. “Pass me that waterskin, will you?”
“Glad to oblige.” Onin pulled the sloshing bag over his shoulder and tossed it to the veteran Guard. Wrent tipped his head back, drinking deeply from the skin.
Fargin approached the two of them. “Well fought, Champion. Onin and I were just saying we doubted our ability to fight in this heat, let alone win against three opponents.”
“Like anything else, it takes practice. After some time in the field, you’ll be able to endure as much,” said Wrent. He passed the skin back to Onin. “Onin here I have heard about. We don’t have so many Midlander Guards, especially this big. I don’t know you, however . . .”
“I am Fargin. The two of us are classmates from Scaleback.”
“Been deployed yet?”
Fargin shook his head. “No. We are both set to go in a few months. Until then, we will continue to serve as honor guards.” Fargin’s tone betrayed his disappointment.
Wrent chuckled and laid a hand on Fargin’s shoulder. “When you’re out there, you’ll begin to long wistfully for these days of standing around, even with this heat.”
“I’ve heard stories,” interjected Onin. “Torreg once told me about spending an entire winter in Saltgrave waiting for an enemy that never came.”
“How is that rascal?” asked Wrent with a smile. “I hear he is back, but I haven’t caught up with him.”
Onin shrugged. “I don’t see him much myself, frankly. He seems to spend most of his time at headquarters, meeting with people. He does seem happy to be home after such a long time away.”
“Well, hopefully he’s learned his lesson. He’s a man of conviction and a fine officer, but sometimes he doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone.”
“Forgive me, Wrent. But what exactly did Torreg do to be stationed in the Midlands so long?”
The champion looked shocked. “You don’t know? Perhaps I’ve said too much, then. Suffice it to say his words—not his deeds—landed him in hot water.” Wrent paused to wipe sweat from his brow again. “And speaking of heat, I am ready to get out of this sun.”
Without another word, the king’s champion turned and strode from the field. Onin and Fargin were quick to follow his lead and retire to cooler places shaded from the unforgiving sun.
* * *
"THIS IS UTTER BLACKMAIL," said Sergeant Noreth. Sensi could tell the Guardsman teetered on the edge of a conniption. Veins were bulging on the man’s thick head. Sensi could measure the sergeant’s pulse by them.
"I find your terms unacceptable," said Lornavus in an even tone. The tall, thin man sat behind a simple wooden desk, armed only with writing implements. The Guard’s outburst did not disturb him in any noticeable way. "It is as simple as that."
Sensi had trouble adjusting to a lone brother's presence. They had been inseparable for as long as he had known them. He kept looking around, expecting the other twin to be nearby.
"What you’re demanding will ruin me," said Noreth. His anger took on a pleading tone. "My family can’t handle the debt. It will bring too much attention to me."
"Your problems with the Traders’ Guild are just that," remarked the twin with the hint of a sneer, "your problems, not mine. I am only asking you to repay the debt you rightfully owe me."
"When we made that arrangement, I never dreamed it would come to so much," spit the sergeant. "You knew it!"
"Again, your lack of foresight is not my problem," countered Lornavus. Noreth glared at him with murder in his eyes, but Lornavus met his gaze unflinchingly. "I will have what you owe me."
"What if I refuse?" said the sergeant. He thrust his jaw out, pulling his cape aside to expose the sword at his waist.
"You will not," stated the twin with irritation. Sensi started to sweat. He certainly didn't share the twin's confidence. "Because if you do, certain individuals with massive influence within your order will learn some uncomfortable details about your dealings, past and present. You think the paltry sum you owe will ruin your family? You have no idea what is in store for you should you defy me."
Noreth shook with rage, but his internal struggle came to an abrupt halt and his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I concede," he said with resentment. "You shall have your coin, Altavus." He left the cramped, poorly lit chamber in a hurry.
"What is he involved in to make him give up so easily?" asked Sensi.
"It is unimportant," said the twin. "Suffice it to say his lack of mathematical proficiency allowed him to take out a loan at a poor rate of interest. I am due to report to the lord chancellor. This will have to be quick."
Sensi spread his hands. "You called me here," said the chubby man. "I notice you didn’t correct him on your name, Lornavus. Where is your brother these days? I haven’t seen him in weeks."
"Altavus has secluded himself to go about his studies uninterrupted. We are at a critical juncture in our research, and the next months are crucial," said the twin.
"What is it about those old documents that obsesses you?" asked Sensi. He’d wanted to ask for years, having fetched text after text in their academy days. "What can you hope to gain from them?"
Lornavus looked him up and down. Sensi felt a chill when their eyes locked, and the twin held his gaze, unblinking.
"You would be surprised what the ancients have to offer us," said the twin. "It’s more than the marvels from the legends, yet less than what the priesthood would have us believe."
Lornavus reached into a cabinet near his desk. He tossed Sensi a sizable pouch. It had the familiar clink of coin to it. By its weight, he guessed it to be gold.
"You have been granted an increase in your wages, scribe," said Lornavus in response to his questioning look.
"I am gratified to be so recognized."
"There is no need for humility at this moment, Sensi," said the twin. For once, he gave Sensi a smile with a semblance of warmth. "You are intelligent, discreet, and cautious. You bargain with foresight and negotiate with patience. With this wage increase, I hope to ensure your loyalty as well."
Sensi only nodded, overwhelmed by such an expression from this normally cold-blooded man.
"I am loyal," he said. "I’ve kept your secrets for years."
"I have every confidence in you," said Lornavus. "I must report to the lord chancellor now, but meet me here at dusk. There are some people I’d like you to meet."
* * *
INSTEAD OF HEADING straight home to Manespike Manor, Onin went out of his way to visit the breeding pits. He spent his childhood dreaming of getting close enough to touch a verdant dragon; to be involved in raising them was a thrill.
The breeding pits were far from the manor, out of necessity. They nestled on the lower edge of the mountain's interior, where the dragons floated on the crosswinds that constantly flowed through the hollowed-out space. The mating pairs drifted in the air currents, intertwined by neck and tail. The impregnated females then floated to the lowest air currents in the mountain and waited to lay eggs.
As Onin arrived, a ready female gave a honking cry as her body expelled the fertilized eggs. The gray shells were slick with a mucuslike substance as they released, and they plummeted to a net suspended beneath the dragon. The eggs often struck one another but never broke. The common wisdom held dragons were bred to drop their eggs directly on the rocks of the mountain, so the shells had to be tough. Onin doubted the truth of that since that would make the nets unnecessary in the first place.
Seeing the eggs drop reminded Onin of his own excitement. A Manespike dragon dropped a clutch of eight eggs just a week ago. After inspection, the master incubator declared them low weight but otherwise healthy. The dark gray or brown striations, which were considered indications of an unhealthy egg, covered many. If the shell became too dark and developed too many striations during incubation, it generally resulted in flawed hatchlings.
The current clutch of Manespike eggs were clear with sparse coloration. The shells were flecked with gold and silver particles, considered a good sign, indicating the eggs contained enough minerals for the developing embryo. When Onin arrived in the incubation chamber, he immediately caught sight of Master Incubator Polgrin. The man's visage created unease in many people, as a milky eye and facial scar made him look sinister. Children would run away or hide behind their parents when he walked among them. However, Onin considered Polgrin to be about the most jovial person he had ever met and enjoyed the man's company immensely. A moment of carelessness with a hungry hatchling had resulted in the scar, and the master incubator had been born with the eye.
"Good day, Polgrin," he said by way of greeting.
"Good day, young master," came the reply. The tone was light, but Polgrin’s expression betrayed his dismay.
"What’s wrong?" said Onin. "Has something happened to the eggs?"
"The coloration has gone bad on one of them, m’lord." Polgrin indicated one of the incubating eggs. They rested nearby in an array of metal cups, heated from beneath. Onin leaned in to peer at the one indicated. He couldn’t see what Polgrin meant at first but then noticed a set of thin, dark streaks emerging in the plain gray shell.
"It doesn’t look so bad. You can hardly see the color," said Onin, but the master incubator shook his head.
"I’ve seen this enough times before," said Polgrin. "Those stripes will be darker than storm clouds in another week. We’ll let it continue, of course, but if it hatches at all, I wouldn’t expect a healthy dragon."
Any dragon breeder’s reputation rested on having viable stock for the dragon riders. Onin bit his lip as he considered the implications. It had been some time, several years in fact, since the Manespikes produced worthy hatchlings.
"What can we do for them?"
"We continue to do what we always do," said Polgrin. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Keep the temperatures stable while in the setting phase. Once we’re seeing movement from the hatchling inside, we’ll move it to the hatchery. It’s warmer there, and we keep the shell soaked in water and steam to soften it, until it cracks open. After the shell softens, the hatchling will chip its way out."
"But if no movements come from the hatchling inside . . ." began Onin.
"They never make it to the hatchery," nodded Polgrin.
"What becomes of the unhatched eggs?" asked Onin.
"They get cracked open and . . . used,” said Polgrin. His sour expression gave away his distaste for the practice. "Medicines, foods, and other luxury items made from dragon eggs are quite fashionable these days."
Onin didn’t like it but could not form a solid argument to present to Yolan. Since the family hadn’t sold a dragon in years, selling the unhatched eggs presented the only recourse.
Onin continued to be optimistic, despite the setback. He surveyed the eggs with more than a little pride. He was certain a good, healthy dragon would come from this batch, maybe more than one. He smiled and rubbed one of the stony shells.