Blood of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles #4)

Blood of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles #4) Page 6

Day the 20th of the Fish Moon

Year the 7th of the Independent Alliance of Traders

From the Bird Keepers’ Guild, Bingtown

To All Guild Members

To be posted prominently in all halls

It is essential that all members of the Guild remember that our profession is a time-honoured trade with rules, professional standards and secrets of bird handling, training and breeding that are confined to Guild members. Guild birds remain the property of the Guild, and the offspring of Guild birds remain the property of the Guild. Our reputation and the custom we have built up depend on our birds being the swiftest, the best trained and the healthiest. Our clients use Guild birds and bird keepers because they know they can rely on us and our birds for message transport that is quick and confidential.

Of late, there has been a spate of complaints and queries about possible tampering with messages. At the same time, we have noticed more citizens turning to private flocks for the transport of messages. To make matters worse, the recent plague of red lice led to many of our customers being frustrated at the lack of available Guild birds to bear their messages.

We must all remember that not only our reputations but our livelihoods are at stake. Our honour demands that members report any suspicions of message tampering.

Likewise, any members stealing eggs or fledglings for personal use or profit must be reported.

It is only by all of us adhering to our guild rules that we can maintain the quality of service that our patrons expect. Maintaining our standards will assure that we all prosper together.

CHAPTER TWO

Flight

The dragons looped in wide circles over the river like swallows. Their flight looked effortless. The scarlet one was Heeby, and high above her, flying in an ever-widening gyre was Sintara, a blue gem against the blue sky. His heart soared as he finally spotted a set of emerald wings. Fente. His very own Fente. She had been flying for three days now, and every time Tats glimpsed her aloft his heart swelled with fondness and pride. Tinged, of course, with anxiety.

Foolish one. I am a dragon. To me the skies belong. I know this is hard for an earthbound creature to grasp, but this is where I have always belonged.

He could only smile at her condescension. You fly like thistledown, beauty on wings.

Thistledown with talons! I go to the hunt!

May you find red meat!

Tats watched her tip her wings and peel away from the others, heading toward the foothills on the far side of the river. He felt a pang of disappointment. He probably would not see her again today. She would hunt, kill, gorge, sleep and in the evening she would return not to him but to Kelsingra, to soak in the baths there, or to sleep in one of the awakened dragon sanctuaries in the city. He knew it was for the best. It was what she needed if she was to grow and improve her flying. And he was so glad that his dragon was one of the first to achieve flight. But … but he missed her. Her success had left him more alone than ever.

On the shoreline before him several other dragons were attempting what she had mastered. Carson was standing beside silver Spit, holding the tip of the dragon’s extended wing as he inspected it for parasites. Spit already gleamed like a polished sword. Tats could tell that Carson was forcing the dragon to stretch his wing in the pretence of further grooming. Spit was rumbling in a way that was both unhappy and threatening. Carson was ignoring it. Not all of the dragons were enthusiastic participants in their exercises and practice. Spit was among the most recalcitrant. Ranculos was reckless one day and sullen the next. Midnight-blue Kalo simmered with dignified resentment that mere humans dared to supervise his efforts to fly, while Baliper was openly fearful of the moving river and would not attempt flight near it. Most of the others, he thought to himself, were simply lazy. Training to fly was demanding and painful work.

Some, however, were intent on achieving flight, regardless of the cost. Dortean was still recovering from crashing to the earth through some trees. Sestican had torn a rent in the membrane of one wing. His keeper Lecter had held the injured wing open and wept as Carson had stitched up the tear.

Mercor stood erect, his golden wings spread wide to the thin sunlight. Harrikin and Sylve were watching him, and Sylve’s face was pinched with anxiety. Harrikin’s dragon Ranculos watched jealously. The gold drake lifted his wings high and then gave them a short, sharp snap as if to assure himself all was working. He gathered himself, setting his weight back onto his hindquarters. As Tats watched, he leapt, wings spread and beating frantically. But he could not gain enough altitude for a full beat of his wings and the best he could manage was a long glide in parallel to the river before landing clumsily on the sandy shore. Tats let out a long sigh of disappointment and saw Sylve briefly cover her face with her hands. The golden dragon was growing thinner as he grew larger, and he did not gleam as he once had. Learning to fly and to hunt for himself was now a matter of survival. For the others as much as himself. Where he led, the other dragons would follow.