Given Page 7

  Her mouth dropped open and she let out an astonished laugh. “Longer flights? Listen to me well, Dragon. If I see so much as your shadow after today I am going right to the authorities.”

  Weysh was so stung he took a step back. “En? You would report me? Like a criminal?”

  She said nothing, only stared him down, the smell of fear ever present. Never in all his fantasies about meeting his Given could he have come up with this. To think that she would treat him this way, with all he had planned for them. All he meant to give her and do for her. It was base. It was sacrilege. He felt the heat rising in him, anger flushing the skin behind his ears. It was best to leave now, before he said something crude and somehow made things worse.

  “Very well,” he said tersely, the only words he trusted himself to say. She clearly needed more time. Once she was better acquainted with Creshen culture, and fully understood the concept of Given, surely she would see reason. His bag still bulging with flight gear, Weysh bowed silently to Yenni, changed, and flew off.

  All night Weysh stayed in dragon, sleeping among the trees of the rooftop garden of his townhouse. But the next morning meant classes, so he had no choice but to switch once he flew back to school. And with the switch came the feelings.

  His thoughts tormented him during the walk across the quad. Blessed Byen, why did she have to look at him like that, as if she thought he would rip her limb from limb? Cursed Movay, what a mess. He’d never heard of someone being rejected by their own Given.

  Telltale wingbeats announced Harth’s arrival. He was the only one who flapped at the air like that, quick and frantic, like he was struggling to stay aloft. Sure enough, when Weysh looked over his shoulder he saw a skinny green dragon gliding toward him. Harth switched while still a few feet in the air and hit the ground at a jog, falling into step beside him.

  “Look at that face, en? I take it things aren’t going so well?”

  Weysh grunted. “Can you at least pretend you’re not enjoying this?”

  “En? Why would I be enjoying it?”

  “Because you’re like a bedridden old woman with a farscope. You’re always looking for a good scandal.”

  “Come now! That’s not true. I just want you to be happy with your Given. You’re like the little brother I never wanted.”

  Weysh shoved him. “I’m bigger than you, you ass.”

  Harth shoved back. “But not smarter,” he retorted.

  “I suppose I’m glad to have finally met her. I was worried.”

  “You sound like some old maid sprouting mole hairs. You’re twenty, for the blessing of Byen. The oldest I’ve heard of someone finding their Given is approaching thirty.”

  They continued across the quad, ribbing each other until they reached the mouth of the training plain, a green expanse surrounded by rocky, moss-covered cliffs at the far west of campus. General Sol nodded her golden head in greeting as they passed. She always had them walk to the grounds in human form instead of just flying in. She said they needed to learn to observe protocols if they wanted to be leaders in the military someday.

  The sight of the bluffs cheered Weysh somewhat. Advanced Aerial Tactics was the class he looked forward to the most this year. The sky overhead was blue, and fluffy clouds lined the horizon like cotton. The air smelled fresh and clean. He grinned at the large, glowing hoops that floated in midair. It looked like they’d be doing precision training today. Some of the others were already there, a colorful array of people lounging on the grass.

  “Messer Nolan!” shouted a very familiar, and very unwelcome, voice. “I heard you’ve met your Given!”

  Weysh closed his eyes, letting out a loud breath through his nose. If there was any good to be plucked out of the dung pile of the last two days it was that he’d completely forgotten about Luiz Noriago. He was the only one, other than instructors, who called him Messer Nolan like that, a jab at his adopted parentage. Weysh whipped his head toward Harth and glared, but Harth held up his hands.

  “It wasn’t me, I swear! I hate him just as much as you, remember?”

  No, it was most likely what Weysh liked to call the Dragon Daily—that network of gossip and speculation that plagued dragonkind. He briefly recalled the group that bore witness to his earlier performance with his Given and frowned.

  Weysh turned his glare on the man striding up to them. He’d been afflicted with Noriago’s presence ever since the dung worm had transferred to Prevan last year. For some nutty reason Noriago had taken an instant dislike to him.

  By the end of that year, things had finally devolved into a physical altercation. As the instructor and their classmates pulled them apart, Weysh had shouted at him, “What in the hells is your problem with me?”

  “You’re exactly like someone else I hate, you shameful excuse for a dragon,” Noriago had spat back at him. “You make me sick!”

  Noriago never explained further, just continued to look at Weysh with utter contempt. The feeling was mutual—Weysh hated Noriago’s stupid beady eyes. He hated his ugly moustache. He hated his annoying Espannian accent. There was a fairly prestigious academy in Espanna, was there not? Why in Movay’s name couldn’t Noriago simply train in his own country?

  Now Noriago ran a hand through his bronze hair. “I also heard she said you can take a swim in stone shoes,” he continued and laughed. “She sounds like my kind of girl. I’ll have to introduce myself.”

  “At attention,” called General Sol, and Weysh had to bite back his insults, rein in his rage, and fall in line. He stood steaming, the anger festering like it would burn a hole through his stomach. He sent up a silent prayer that he’d be paired against Noriago for whatever training they had that day.

  “Today we’ll be running paired aerial pursuit through a hoop course. You’re all old pros so we’re hitting the ground running, folks. Fire is authorized so no holding back. Zui! Make your switch.”

  “Yes, General!” Zui, who stood back and to the left of General Sol, nodded and switched to her dragon form. The dragons of Minato spat water, not fire, so she worked as General Sol’s assistant, putting out blazes during training. Weysh thought Zui made a beautiful dragon. She was long, serpentlike, and flowing, with silvery-blue scales that glinted in the sun. Harth was quite lucky.

  “You’ll be paired up by surname,” said General Sol. “Each pair will run the course while the rest observe. First up, Nicole Allard and Orah Baudin.”

  Weysh let a smug smile take hold of his face. He was almost sure to be paired up with Luiz Noriago. It was like they were fated to be enemies. He watched each match, making mental notes and criticisms, fidgeting with anticipation until sure enough, General Sol called them forward.

  “Weysh Nolan and Luiz Noriago.”

  They stepped forward together.

  “I should offer the poor thing some comfort,” said Noriago, so low only Weysh could hear and still staring ahead at General Sol. “Stuck as she is with you.”

  “Shut up, you stinking, wrinkled monkey’s scrotum,” hissed Weysh, also staring ahead. “If I smell you on her, I’ll rip that shit stain you call a moustache off your face and feed it to you.”

  “Messer Nolan, you’ll be in pursuit,” said the general.

  Perfect.

  “Switch!”

  Weysh tugged on the trigger inside, and a moment later his wings rested, wide and reassuring, against the muscles of his broad dragon back. General Sol now craned her head to look up at him.

  “Noriago, take off!”

  Noriago turned, smacking Weysh with his tail, and took off for the hoops.

  “Nolan, take off!”

  Weysh roared, spread his wings and pushed off with his incredible leg muscles, taking to the sky. He pulled his legs in as tightly as possible and leaned forward, pushing through the air with long, powerful wingbeats. Everything fell away and in that moment he had only one purpose in lif
e: to take down Noriago.

  Wind whistled in his ears and hot fire churned in his chest. Weysh opened his mouth and released his flame in a glorious jet, hoping to distract the other dragon more than anything, but Noriago darted down and it passed over him, the light of it flickering in his bronze scales. Noriago put on a burst of speed and soared ahead.

  Weysh growled and shot after Noriago, but Weysh’s fire breathing had only served to steal focus from his own flying and he dropped too low, causing an instant, icy burn that seared his stomach. Hissing, he pulled up. The hoops were floating rings of ice magic, and a bright patch of frost now stung his underside. Ignoring the pain he sped on, chasing Noriago’s skinny hide through the hoops. But the little snake was fast. If he could just catch him he would knock him into the rings and send him spinning to the ground below. Then he’d land on him and push him into the grass, maybe tear one of his wings and put him out of commission for a while. Show him his place.

  But the distance between them was increasing, and they were quickly approaching the end of the flight course. He couldn’t let that jackass get away. Weysh drew in a deep, gurgling breath and shot off another frustrated jet of flame, but when the plume of fire cleared Noriago was gone.

  Something slammed into Weysh from below, shoving him up into the top of one of the ice hoops. He caught a glimpse of the bronze-scaled dragon underneath him before pain zipped through his wings and they went numb. He roared, deep yet screeching, as he fell through the hoop and hurtled to the ground. He hit the grass hard, pushing all the air from his lungs, and lay there in dragon, dizzy and moaning. Noriago switched to human and stood over him laughing, and if Weysh could have moved he would have snapped him in half between his jaws, murder charges be damned.

  “All right, Noriago, take your place,” called General Sol, and then it was her standing over Weysh, disapproval all over her face.

  “Do you need to go to the infirmary?”

  Weysh changed to human, still on the ground.

  “I’m fine,” he wheezed.

  “Hmph. Sit out for five minutes, then rejoin the line.”

  “Yes, General,” he groaned.

  Weysh stumbled off behind the line and plopped down on the grass, head bent, fantasizing about ways he could kill Noriago and get away with it.

  Once class was ended and General Sol dismissed them, Weysh took off without waiting for Harth, begging Byen to keep Noriago away from him. He was in his last year; he didn’t want to get kicked out and throw away everything he’d worked for over that pig’s dunghole. He took to the white footpath that ran along and between the academy’s many buildings, absently following it to the lecture halls as he’d done a million times before, letting his feet lead the way.

  Harth rushed up next to him. “Weysh, what was that? I have a reputation to maintain. You can’t be my unofficial brother if you’re going to be falling for basic tricks.”

  “Shut up, Harth. I can’t focus today.”

  Zui glided up and took Harth’s arm, falling into step with them. “Are you still having trouble with your Given?”

  Weysh grunted.

  “Well, have you spoken to her since?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oho! And how did that go?” asked Harth.

  “Badly,” Weysh said.

  “What happened?” asked Zui.

  Reluctantly, Weysh recounted all that had passed between them.

  “Weysh,” said Harth once when Weysh was done. “Are you trying to make her hate you?”

  “I was in dragon! One minute I caught her scent and the next she was in my arms.”

  “I can’t believe she actually threw you out of that cave. By Byen! I like her more and more. I think you’ve literally met your match, Weysh,” said Harth.

  “I hope you apologized for snatching her off the ground like that. She must have been terrified!” cried Zui.

  “I tried! But she wouldn’t have it. I can’t afford this nonsense right now! This year is pivotal. I need the highest marks I can get to achieve the highest rank possible in the army, more so now that I have a Given to take care of. Perhaps if I explain that to her—”

  “No, no, no. If she’s two seconds away from putting up Wanted posters you should leave her be,” said Harth.

  “This is all so ridiculous. She would go to the peacekeepers and charge me with what, exactly? Loving her too much?”

  “Then you love her?” asked Zui.

  “Of course!”

  Zui paused and squinted at him. “What was her name again?”

  Weysh and Harth stopped with Zui. “Yena, Ajaya . . . something like that,” said Weysh.

  “You don’t even know her name?”

  “I, well, we have the rest of our lives to learn each other’s names!”

  “Even so, if you’re trying to win her over, that’s where I would start,” Zui said dryly. “I believe her name is Yenni Ajani, though I admit I’ve forgotten the rest. But I could ask her.”

  Weysh sighed. “Would you talk to her for me, Zui? Explain the concept of Given? It might help to hear it from another woman.”

  Zui crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow at him. “What exactly would you have me say?”

  Weysh shrugged. “Tell her the truth, that as Given we have a responsibility to each other and to the Kindly Watcher. She has to give birth to my dragonling.”

  Zui exchanged a slow glance with Harth, who put a heavy hand on Weysh’s shoulder.

  “Let’s do the math on this one, my friend. What happened the first time you told her you were to be married?”

  How could he forget? “She attacked me with a spear,” Weysh said, scowling.

  “And your second encounter?”

  “She somehow threw me out of a cave.”

  “Your third?”

  Weysh simply glared at Harth. “Very well, I see your point,” he snapped. “Clearly I haven’t made the best impression. But I’m working to fix that. I mean, look at how happy the two of you are. How could she not want the same?”

  “Weysh,” said Zui patiently. “Would you like to know my advice, as a woman? Right from the source of the wellspring?”

  “En? Oh yes, that would probably be helpful. What do you think, Zui?” he asked hopefully. “How do I make her see reason?”

  “You don’t,” Zui said with finality. “She’ll decide on her own if she wants to be with you. Not everything can be fixed and solved, especially when it comes to love. And Given or not, if you continue to push her, you may just push her forever out of reach.”

  Weysh furrowed his brow, confused. “So I should simply leave her be?”

  “If that’s what she wants.”

  “But why? How would that endear me to her?”

  Zui threw a quick, fond glance at Harth. “Because respecting a woman’s wishes is one of the most seductive things a man can do.”

  Weysh shook his head. It seemed incredibly counterproductive, but everything else he’d tried so far had been nothing short of disaster. “All right, Zui,” he said, resigned. “I’ll try it your way. For the time being at least.”

  7

  Yenni frowned, bit her lip, and stared again at the interesting writing instrument they’d given her: a slim stick of something like charcoal wrapped in wood, so different from the slim reed brushes and black scribe ink she used at home.

  What sort of test was this? How did one pull ach’e by answering absurd questions on a piece of paper? Not only was everything written in Creshen, but half of it made absolutely no sense. Define the theory of otherspace. Other what? Name a negative effect of the Law of Self-Preservation. Law of what? With each passing minute, punctuated by the echoing tick, tick, tick of a large mechanical timepiece, Yenni’s confidence waned. She glanced around at the other students. So many. And they all had their heads down, scribbling furiously. She
stared, brows furrowed, at her own nearly blank sheet.

  “And pencils down!”

  Yenni jumped at the professor’s trilling voice. He stood at the front of the lecture hall beside a podium with his hands behind his back, eyes squinted as he stared into the rows of students to see who continued to write. Two tufts of gray hair stood up on either side of his head as if trying to make up for the lack of hair in the center. Yenni let her stick fall from her fingers onto the knotty wood of the table. It wasn’t as if extra time would have made a difference. She simply had no idea what to write.

  “The magical aptitude test is over,” said the professor. Two aides in long navy coats went around collecting the tests. “You will wait in this room as your scores are tallied, and we will call you individually to let you know your results.”

  As a young woman took her paper Yenni let out a heavy sigh. This test should have been easy, but there hadn’t been a single question pertaining to runelore, nor any chance for a demonstration.

  As the minutes ticked by and the room slowly emptied, Yenni’s anxiety grew. If she failed to gain entrance what was she to do with herself? How could she help her father? Yenni breathed deeply, bowed her head, and prayed.

  Father Ri, divine purveyor of destiny, I would not be here if it were not your will. Please receive my worries and calm my restless mind.

  After a few moments of reflection she felt the tightness leave her, felt more resolute in the certainty that admission was her course—her only course. She turned her attention to her surroundings. Though now mostly empty, the seats had held over a hundred students, she believed. Astounding. Back home education was largely left up to each compound. Only children of the chiefclan bloodline gathered daily to be tutored.

  And then there was this . . . what did they call it? Lecture theater. Her schoolroom back home was a wooden structure, open and airy, but this room was stony and closed, with only a few small windows high up on the wall to let in light.

  Time passed by, and Yenni focused on her breathing as name after name was called. She fidgeted, worried at her hair, hummed the hymn to the strength rune, until finally she was the only one left in the room.