ʺShe’s great,ʺ he said, and I thought I saw something of my feelings in his face too. ʺShe’s not even stiff.ʺ I risked a quick look at the old guy, and he was looking just a little amused. A little ironic maybe. Even a little guilty? No, I was imagining that. Authority stays in charge by never feeling guilty. Although when I say things like that at home my dad says wait till I have kids of my own.
There was a general air of barely suppressed frenzied impatience which began to make itself felt even in my still-half-zonked state. I was still in my clothes from First Flight—yuck—I had Sippy drool down my front and dragon dust and oil over most of the rest of me—next thing was a bath—but at least it meant I could sit in a chair too and pretend I was a part of the group. As long as no one asked me anything and I had to try to answer sanely. Like, ʺWhat the hells did you think you were doing???ʺ The kind of authority that had kept Dag in a classroom for a year and made him think about six hundred forms of correct address doesn’t like you doing stuff you shouldn’t, even when it works. Maybe particularly when it works.
Although I didn’t like this old guy looking amused.
ʺThere will be a council meeting about First Flight later,ʺ he said. ʺBut I thought a few of you—especially Dag and Ern as the most closely involved—might like the, er, simple version first. There will probably be a bit of an uproar at the meeting.ʺ He paused and looked thoughtful. And not at all amused.
ʺThe story goes back a long way. Most of it will be familiar to you from your studies—Ern, you can get Dag to tell you anything you want to know, or Eled, who knows more of the history of this place than I do.ʺ He flicked a glance over Dag and Eled and I was startled—no, shaken—by the affectionate look on his face. He almost looked like my dad, trying to explain about authority and guilt. But he was talking again: ʺThe Academy was founded on certain principles; the invisible structure of our Academy is based on these principles and they may not be broken.ʺ
He paused. Into the silence Eled said, ʺIntinuyun.ʺ Dag shifted in his chair and Setyep sighed.
The old guy nodded and waited, looking at Eled expectantly. You could imagine this guy standing in classrooms in front of generations of cadets, squeezing stuff they didn’t think they knew out of them. Ralas did the same thing to me. Some days I felt like an old dishrag.
Eled said reluctantly, ʺIntinuyun broke one of its founding principles. Their Commander wanted his own choice to succeed him as Commander, not the Seers’ choice. The Commander won out. But his successor died in a freak accident less than two years after he took over, and when the Seers tried to read for the next Commander, the signs only gave them nonsense. Intinuyun was disbanded about a year after that.ʺ
The old guy nodded. ʺOne of every academy’s principles is that dragons and cadets are matched for First Flight by augury and token, although exactly how this is done varies a little from academy to academy. Ours are called up and laid out very carefully, exactly and secretly every year by our Seers. Although most of our dragonmasters are almost half Seer themselves; those in charge of training cadets have to have a gift for deciding which cadets will learn most from which dragons, before we even begin trying to teach the cadets how to watch and listen and respond to their dragons.
ʺEven those of us not directly involved in the practical lessons follow this progress very closely, and when the First Flight lots are drawn and our Seers read the signs, we usually know what they will tell us. Sometimes there are surprises. But in the history of the Academy—possibly in the history of all the academies—so far as we know, no one has ever had quite such a surprise as this year when we were told—nay, ordered—that Hereyta was to Fly, and that Dag was to partner her.
ʺI know you, Dag, have held me personally responsible.ʺ
Dag scowled but didn’t deny it. Dag held him personally responsible? Then who was he?
ʺAnd if it’s any comfort to you—which it probably isn’t—I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since the drawing. I’ve looked for ways out—gods know I’ve looked for any possible way out—and there was none. I know Carn, who flew with Hereyta on the journey when she lost her eye; I had partnered her a few times myself, and thought she was the best dragon I ever worked with. I wished I was as lucky as Carn, who Flew with her so much oftener.ʺ
He sounded almost human when he said ʺI wished I was as lucky as Carn.ʺ That’s the sort of thing an ordinary person might say.
ʺCarn stopped Flying when Hereyta did; the official reason was the severity of his wounds, but as I say, I know Carn. That wouldn’t have stopped him. They might have invalided him out, but he wouldn’t have quit. But he told me he didn’t have the heart for it any more: not when the best dragon he’d ever known had crippled herself saving his life.
ʺShe’s produced some brilliant babies in the years since she stopped Flying and I swear that the cadets who’ve worked with her leave here with a better understanding of dragon-nature than any of the others. I’ve wanted to feel that this was a good use of her talents—but dragons were made to Fly. Other than Hereyta, all the other Academy dragons alternate a few years here and a few years outside, Flying with experienced riders, doing what they do. Hereyta’s been here almost twenty years, either raising babies—or raising cadets. And she’s not so old that if she had three eyes she couldn’t still Fly—there’s no strain on her wing in the Firespace.
ʺI admit that for all those sleepless nights since the First Flight auguries were read out I’ve been harbouring a small terrible absurd hope that maybe there was an answer in—in what you’ve called cruelty, haven’t you, Dag. In the apparent cruelty of sending Hereyta on a Flight she cannot make. That maybe a two-eyed dragon can find the way into the Firespace. I got a lot of reading done all those nights I didn’t sleep, and in one—just one—old tale there was a reference to a dragon who’d lost an eye, who still Flew. But it was only one, and it wasn’t even a history, but a ballad. Poets will say anything if it makes a good story.ʺ
ʺWhich one?ʺ said Dag, as if the words were torn out of him. I was sure he should have said ʺsir.ʺ The old guy was definitely a ʺsirʺ kind of guy. What was the title he’d used in the food hall?
ʺErzaglia and Sorabulyar,ʺ the old guy said. ʺIt’s in the Old Library; I’ll give you a pass if you want to read it.ʺ
I didn’t mean to move, I was just so startled. Then I was even more startled when everyone turned and looked at me. And I’d been relieved when the old guy had stopped staring at me.
ʺErn?ʺ said the old guy. I didn’t like the way he said it. It wasn’t unfriendly, but it had that interested, open-ended sound, like Ern? was only the beginning.
ʺIt’s just I know that story. A little,ʺ I said. ʺIf it’s the same one.ʺ The one I’d been trying to remember enough of to ask Eled about. I was thinking: Erzaglia and Sorabulyar, gods have mercy. No wonder I couldn’t remember the title.
ʺIndeed,ʺ said the old guy, sounding even more interested. ʺAnd how do you happen to know it?ʺ
ʺR-r-ralas tells it,ʺ I said, wondering if I was betraying her somehow. ʺIt’s got a foogit in it, you know. After I’d—uh—found Sippy, she used to tell me all the foogit stories she knew.ʺ I went on, knowing I was blithering, but the old guy’s interest was unnerving, ʺF-f-foogits aren’t very popular, at least not where I—Dag and I—are from. S-she was trying to make me feel it wasn’t s-s-silly or dumb to have—uh—adopted one, sort of. I mean, he stayed with Ralas most of the time.ʺ
ʺNot silly at all,ʺ said the old guy. ʺFoogits have a long and honourable history.ʺ