The Dragon Whisperer Page 15

  Embarrassed, Quenelda closed her mouth, which was still hanging open, and opened it again to say something. She glanced up. Root was staring down at his scuffed boots. She followed his gaze and saw that the stitching was coming apart so that the toes on his left foot were sticking out. And he was shivering, whether from fear or cold she couldn't tell. Maybe both: his thin clothes were hopeless for anything but Lower Sky flying in summer.

  Suddenly ashamed, she opened her mouth to say something. 'I—'

  Root beat her to it. 'I'm sor—'

  'No. I'm sorry,' Quenelda heard herself saying determinedly, her ears pink with shame at her arrogant behaviour. 'I'm sorry. Really.' She nodded, reaching a tentative hand out to touch his shoulder and pull him down on the bench beside her.

  'I ... er ...' she continued awkwardly, biting her lower lip. She swallowed and sprang back up to pace restlessly across the tack room. This was a secret she had not revealed to anyone. 'I ... I'm not used to having any companions ... friends ... apart from dragons.'

  Quenelda sat down heavily on a bench opposite and stared at her blue-buckled flying boots, suddenly looking very young. Root stared at her. Was she going to cry? She raised her head and smiled oddly, torn between pride and bitterness.

  'I'm different to other "young ladies" – other daughters of noble houses ... I flew with my father almost before I could walk – on his battledragon Stormcracker Thundercloud – and I could talk to dragons almost before I could talk to people. I mean, I really can talk to dragons and they can talk to me. That's why I'm so good around them.'

  The young gnome stared at her.

  'When I was young, very young, no other children could fly with me. And ... well, now,' she said, her lip trembling, 'no one my own age wants to be with me.'

  Quenelda sighed. She had never divulged this to anyone – not that she had anyone to share secrets with except for her dragons – that was the point. But in the midst of the hustle and bustle of Dragonsdome, she was often lonely.

  'None of the girls want to go anywhere near dragons – they think I'm peculiar. They're obsessed with clothes and court gossip. Sometimes gossip about me ...' Quenelda paused, remembering how she had questioned her father about who her mother was.

  'Ah, Goose,' he had sighed, 'many will ask why your mother's identity is a secret, and make their own judgement. Ignore them. Trust me when I say that I love and honour your mother and that one day, when the time is right, I will acknowledge her. But until that day comes, none must know who she is, not even you. Trust me, Goose. I have my reasons.'

  'Nasty gossip about who my mother is. And as for boys' – Quenelda frowned – 'boys just don't like the fact that I'm better than them. Most boys my age are still flying griffins. A few manage to fly a hippogriff if they're lucky, but none of them can fly dragons, let alone battledragons. Not many people get to do that before they've even got their first wand!' She smiled bitterly. 'I was angry with you because I wanted to impress everyone at the winter jousts, to show them what I can do. And' – she bit her lower lip as she stared at the floor – 'I thought you were going to ruin my chances.'

  Root shook his head. 'But how could I ruin that for you?' He shrugged his shoulders in confusion. 'I don't understand. What have I to do with it?'

  'Papa told me I couldn't take to the Open Sky until I had taught you how to fly.' She coloured as Root's eyes widened with sudden understanding.

  'With him being away at the war more and more, I'm just used to being on my own.' As she said the words, she remembered what her father had told her: that Root too was on his own. He really was on his own. A shiver of sadness ghosted over her skin.

  'I don't always think of others ...' She floundered for the right words. 'I'm sorry. I was just thinking of myself. I'll help you learn to fly. I really will. If you'd like me to.'

  Root stared at her. Had she really apologized? His oak-dark eyes fixed on her in sudden hope.

  'We won't fly on Two Gulps ...' She nodded, thinking on her feet. 'At least not yet. I'll ... I'll pick a dragon from the domestic roosts who'll be a really gentle ride, and we'll just fly around Dragonsdome, keeping low. No battledragons – I promise. And' – she hesitated, letting go of a lifetime of high society and court protocol – 'call me Quenelda. I'm happy with just Quenelda.'

  Root managed a nod. His hands were shaking. He thought he might be sick.

  'So,' Quenelda said briskly to cover the awkward moment, 'you'll need to get some warmer boots, of course, and a cloak. Just pick ones that fit ...' She waved at the rows of flying equipment piled on racks and seats. 'It might seem warm outside, but when you're flying, the air is always colder. It's called the wind-chill factor,' she added helpfully. 'We won't go high, so you won't need a flying suit.'

  Root nodded mindlessly and pulled a pair of boots two sizes too large and shrugged on a warm cloak.

  They walked along the great tree-lined avenue between endless rows of paddocks, boot buckles cheerfully jingling. Past the unicorn stables and on to where the air was alive with glorious colours as griffins, hippogriffs and dragons wheeled and dived and swooped through the crisp afternoon air, roosting on trees and poles. The great hive-shaped roosts and terracotta-tiled stables stretched out in front of them. Every now and then Quenelda would stop to consider a dragon, pointing out its particular pedigree and characteristics to Root. He walked rigidly along beside her, eyes straight ahead, nodding automatically.

  'Root?' Quenelda sighed and tried again. 'Root?'

  She waved a hand in front of the gnome's face. Taking him by the shoulders, she turned him gently towards her. 'Listen, Root, there are as many breeds of dragon as there are of other animals. And each dragon is an individual. Just like dogs. Just like horses. Just like people.' She looked around for an example. 'Er ... see those dragons over there?'

  'Which?' Root's voice quavered. 'Th-th-those huge dragons with the h-h-huge back legs?'

  Quenelda kicked herself mentally, but ploughed on. 'They're called Three-toed Windgoul dragons. Windgouls are stocky and powerful. See that mare? Her heavily muscled flanks?' She pointed. 'And those short wings? Two pairs? They are great over short distances; the wings aren't good for flying but they help them take great bounds. They're very, very powerful, and they don't spook easily. So they're mostly used for hunting. Those spurred forelegs can bring down a wild boar, even a great cave bear! The Queen breeds Windgouls.'

  'Mmm.' Root remained unconvinced. A nerve in his jaw was twitching madly, giving him a demented look. One dragon looked pretty much like another to him; a variable assortment of claws, wings, scales and a double helping of teeth. He couldn't even always tell a herbivore from a carnivore. By the time he made his mind up, he would probably be dinner!

  Unable to keep silent now that she'd opened up, Quenelda maintained a running commentary as they went.

  'Look at that dark dragon over there roosting on the wall – no, not that one, look a little further back amongst the trees. That green dappled one with the triple wings? That's Whispering Wind. She's a three-year-old Spotted Cobblethwaite filly. A little too frisky for a first flight but gives a really smooth ride. And that dark blue dragon there, just coming in to land? She's a pedigree Tamworth Saddleback called Midsummer Murmur. Five-year-old mare. Very gentle and responsive – she's a possible. You might like her ...'

  Climbing over the paddock gate, Quenelda considered the dragons, dismissing first one breed, then another, trying to find one that might not frighten Root.

  'That's the one for us,' she decided finally, pointing to a beautiful small dragon shaded from magenta through to blue, drinking from a water trough. 'Chasing the Stars. She's a Windglen Widdershanks; they're intelligent, quick to learn and very gentle. Smooth action in flight ...'

  She looked at Root's taut face and white knuckles where he gripped the gate.

  'Sedate,' she threw in, watching him closely. 'Not easily spooked ... very good-natured ... blunt teeth ... vegetarian of course ... Although she accidentally ate a gnom
e or two last week ... gave her really bad indigestion.'

  'Mm?' Root nodded mindlessly. He wasn't taking in a single word.

  'Root!' Quenelda was mildly exasperated. She took hold of his shoulders. 'Listen. Chasing the Stars is a good choice. She's barely bigger than a shire horse, only nineteen hands at the shoulder. Strong back; strong enough to take two up. She's three years old and very well schooled.' She tried unsuccessfully to look modest. 'I raised her from the shell myself,' she said smugly. 'Slow wing beat too. She'll give you a smooth flight. We'll just fly around Dragonsdome really slowly, and we won't go too high this time. That will let you get the feel of being in the saddle and settle into the rhythm of her wings.'

  Chasing the Stars ... she whispered.

  The small dragon immediately leaped across the intervening space in two wing-assisted bounds.

  May the wind sing under your wings, Chasing the Stars. Quenelda smiled her welcome as Root instinctively stepped backwards. As she had promised, the dragon was no larger than a big horse, but to Root's eyes she was impossibly huge. A long climb up and an even longer fall – and, given his track record on the wooden dragon, the fall was a certainty.

  And may the stars guide your path, Dancing with Dragons ... The magenta-blue mare returned Quenelda's formal greeting. She turned her dark, intelligent eyes onto Root, who stuck out his chin and chest and tried to look unconcerned.

  The young Wingless One is afraid of me, Chasing the Stars observed as she bent her slender neck to nuzzle the girl affectionately. I can see his knees knocking.

  He's never flown before and he's afraid of dragons.

  He's never flown with Dragonkind? Chasing the Stars was amused. Then he hasn't lived. I can show him how to chase the clouds, to dance with the stars ...

  In time perhaps, Quenelda conceded. But not today. Today we must fly slow and low.

  As you say, Dancing with Dragons, so it shall be.

  'Right, you wait here,' Quenelda told the petrified gnome, as if there were any chance he'd be able to move one step. 'I'll go and get her harness. She's a size-three bridle and size-eight saddle. I'll show you again how to put them on, and then once we're done, I'll help you to clean them, and then groom her.'

  Root nodded miserably. As Quenelda left, he tried to whistle but found he couldn't summon up a single peep; his mouth was too dry. Hooking his thumbs casually into his belt, he pretended to study a large stag beetle making its way through the grass, then glanced up at Chasing the Stars. 'N-nice d-dragon,' he ventured hopefully.

  The mare considered Root with deep lavender eyes framed by long eyelashes, before turning to groom herself with her long delicate snout.

  Root stood horrified as the dragon yawned luxuriously, baring her teeth and a long pink tongue that disappeared into her even longer throat. Seemingly ignoring him, she slowly stretched out her wings, then inspected her wing-thumb talons, all four of them. The gnome watched, swaying slightly, almost hypnotized by her languid movements. Then, with no warning at all, the dragon's head whipped down to where he stood.

  Greetings, little Wingless One ...

  Root couldn't hear the dragon speak, but he felt the delicate whisper of her breath. She suddenly grinned at him, baring a row of large molars barely inches from his nose. Her breath bloomed hot and damp on his face. She fluttered her luxurious eyelashes invitingly at him, tickling his cheek.

  Rigid with fear, Root quivered from head to toe. His own eyelashes fluttered for entirely different reasons. His eyes swam in their sockets. Then, with an almost inaudible squeak, he keeled over backwards.

  Over on the other side of the paddocks, a group of esquires hooted and jeered.

  'Fallen in love with a dragon, then?' Felix bellowed as the dragon licked Root's face. 'Fainting at her feet?' Their loud guffaws brought Quenelda hurrying out of the tack room.

  'Oh, Chasing the Stars,' she rebuked the dragon. 'What have you done to him?' But she was grinning as she bent over the gnome. 'Root? Root?' She took his hand and tried to shoulder Chasing the Stars' solicitous muzzle aside.

  'Ooohh ...' Root's eyelids fluttered. Something wet, rough and heavy was rasping his skin. He opened one streaming eye. A lavender oval iris filled his sight. He put up his hands to fight it off, slapping at the long muzzle.

  'Root, Root, it's all right.' Quenelda was feeling slightly alarmed at his ashen pallor. 'She's a herbivore, remember? Look, all her teeth are blunt. That means she's not going to eat you. She's not a battledragon. And their snouts are really sensitive. You could hurt her with your fist. You'd know that if you'd paid more attention to Tangnost.'

  'Oh ...' Root felt vaguely embarrassed. He couldn't imagine how he could hurt such a great creature. 'Sorry,' he said awkwardly, raising himself onto his elbows. He wasn't sure if he was apologizing to Quenelda or the dragon.

  He allowed the girl to help him to his feet. She looked at him thoughtfully, keeping a firm grip of his hand.

  'Wha—?'

  'Trust me.' Quenelda took his reluctant hand and placed it firmly on the dragon's hide.

  Root started with surprise. The skin was dry. Rough. Warm. 'It's ... it's like wood,' he said wonderingly, stroking tentatively as Chasing the Stars shivered appreciatively. 'It's warm and grainy. I thought it would be cold and hard, or slimy. Or scaly like a snake.'

  'They're not all the same' – Quenelda shrugged as she tried to find the right words – 'any more than we are. That's what I've been trying to tell you. Some dragons are armour-plated or ridged and pebbled like lizards or scaled like snakes. Others, like Chasing the Stars, are leathery or grainy-skinned like wood or even hard as stone. A few are feathered or furred like griffins and hippogriffs. Each breed is different.

  'Here' – she took some round cakes out of a small satchel on her flying belt – 'give her some of these. Compressed dragon-food tablets,' she explained. 'The SDS use them in the field. They're made of molasses, brimstone, coal, oil, hay and brambles. High-energy food. Go on. They love them.'

  Root hesitantly held out a couple in his shaking hand. The dragon's tongue snaked out and took them before he had time to grab it back. In a twitch the tablets were all gone and the long pink tongue was probing for more, its tickling forked tips curling around his fingers, searching up his sleeve then inside his cloak, seeking out pockets.

  Root giggled then squirmed. He felt ridiculously pleased with himself. 'Do you have any more?'

  With a smile, Quenelda slung him a small fodder-sack.

  Chasing the Stars munched contentedly and turned to nose at her. He is gurgling like a babe.

  Quenelda smothered her own grin at the broad smile plastered on Root's face. Now let us both introduce him to flying.

  'Kneel,' she asked the dragon, signalling with her hand so that Root could see what to do. Mounting the dragon's bent foreleg, she threw the saddle over her back and swiftly buckled it up. She tightened the girth straps and beckoned Root over. 'You must always make sure the girths are tight,' she reminded him.

  'What are—?' Root was too nervous to remember any of his training. He was feeling slightly sick again.

  'Don't worry,' Quenelda reassured him. 'You'll settle down. A first flight is always nerve-racking.' At least, she thought, that's what everyone else said. She had loved it! 'Girths are the straps under the dragon's belly that secure the saddle. If they're too loose the saddle will slip. Here ...' She put her hand behind the girth to show him. 'You need to be able to just slide a hand in behind the straps. Dragons will always try and outwit you. They have a wicked sense of humour. If you're inexperienced they always know. They'll test you. They fill their lungs and blow out their chests. Then, when you buckle up, you think it's a tight fit; only it's not. They relax and the saddle slips, and ...'

  'And I fall off and die,' Root completed her sentence gloomily.

  'No,' Quenelda said with determined cheerfulness, 'you won't be high enough to die. And anyway, you always wear a flying harness. Give them a gentle punch in the ribs – that lets them
know you're wise to their tricks. Here' – she bent down and picked up a wooden bowl – 'Tangnost thought this might be a good idea.'

  Root took it and turned it over as if the base might give him a clue. 'What's this for?'

  Quenelda looked at him thoughtfully. 'You'll work it out if you need to,' she said mysteriously. 'Just keep it on your lap. And now to mount ...' She tapped the dragon on the knee. 'Remember, there are three types of signal you can give dragons: verbal, visual and touch. When you're flying, the wing and wind noise often drowns out verbal commands, so then it's touch through rein and stirrup, or hand signals. The SDS have integrated helmet comms – communication systems – so they can hear each other, but they also have a whole hand language to communicate, and in the heat of battle they use buglers. I know Tangnost started teaching you those signals; well, I'll teach you all the hand signals – that'll be far more useful if you're to be my esquire.'

  Bending her front legs, Chasing the Stars half knelt down once again, head turned to watch the gnome's progress.

  'But your brother ...' Root was puzzled. 'He used a mounting block. Why ... ?'

  'Well' – Quenelda pulled a face – 'that's because he's such a bad flyer and he was scared of getting bitten. Mounting blocks are generally for children and the elderly.'

  'And gnomes?'

  Quenelda smiled. 'Well ... yes, but I can teach you to be a better dragonrider than he is. Not,' she added half to herself, 'that that would be hard. Remember, you mount her like this' – she took Root through it step by step – 'and dismount like this. Your turn.' She smiled at him brightly. 'Up onto her front knee ... Good. Now put your right foot in the girth stirrup and now your other foot in the saddle stirrup – no, your other one. Otherwise you, er – yes, you end up flying backwards! Now put your right hand on the pommel – remember the wooden dragon – and pull yourself into the saddle.'