The first rank of ten was instructed to stand and place their right palm on their breast, their left set like a horizontal bar across the small of their back, head dead level and heels together. Some in the ranks behind surreptitiously tested the pose.
At a word from Caseen, the line of ten novices spoke their oath in unison, speaking toward the dragon and the audience. The lines of the oath broke up and came together as this or that novice stumbled over the words or forgot them until prompted. Ileth felt the sweat running down her back go cold and clammy as she agonized over the coming ordeal.
“I, _______________, affirm that I am free, understanding of the consequences, and fit in mind and body to take the following Oath: I, at the Serpentine, on the Midsummer of this, the two thousand nine hundred and sixty-sixth year of the Resolved Hypatian Calendar, promise to serve the Republic, its laws, its citizens, and its possessions. Every oathed dragoneer is my kin, irrespective of family, birth, or altar. I will treat each one and act at all times as though we are of the same Name. I swear I will respect the Serpentine’s best traditions and honor my superiors.
“I will exemplify our discipline and comradeship, proud of the trust those of this company have in me. I will display this pride in appearance, behavior, and speech, keeping myself and my quarters neat; continue my education, taking as example those who came before me; and pass my skills and knowledge on to those who follow behind, leaving the Serpentine better and stronger through my attention to duty. As one of the Republic’s assigns I will attend always to duty; keep well and respect those people, places, and tools necessary to carry out my commissions; and see to it that the dragons of the Serpentine are healthy, content, and certain of my dedication to their needs. Any commission or order lawfully given shall be my sacred duty to fulfill. I will adapt to any circumstance, obtain or improvise and use whatever resource required, and overcome any obstacle to accomplish the same, in the expectation of risk to everything but my honor. In fulfillment of those duties, I will respect the vanquished enemy and will never abandon the wounded or the dead, nor will I under any circumstances break the ancient troth between dragon and dragoneer.
“All this I swear on my honor without reservation or secret intent.”
The first rank, upon completion of the oath, was ordered to turn around, sit, and face the next row, looking up at them from a cross-legged position. Again, they fought through the words, sometimes together, sometimes a bit apart, and then turning, sitting, and listening to the next line.
Finally, the last rank came.
“I . . . Ileth, affirm-affirm that . . . I . . .” she began.
It was just as awful as she imagined.
The rest of her line finished before she was a third of the way through it, and on and on it went. She tried half reading from the Matron’s note and it didn’t help. She tried fixing on the undersized boy with the oversized name she’d met in Joai’s day kitchen. She sensed a restlessness in the audience; they were vague, out of focus, as though her eyes had willed themselves halfway blind. Her blood roared in her ears. Stinging sweat ran into her eyes, turning the audience into even more of a blur. She feared for a moment she’d faint out of sheer embarrassment.
“Of all the curses, we have an idiot,” Santeel Dun Troot, the third from last, muttered to the girl next to her as Ileth lurched through it.
“. . . w-without res-s-res-sa-reservation or s-s-s-se-se-secret intent,” she finished.
And with that, she broke, bending over and crying into her hands.
“Fffft, girl,” the boy next to her said. “It’s done. Straighten up.”
She took her mind off her embarrassment by considering the youth. His head was shaved clean. He must have arrived between Santeel’s and her admittance at the end of the testing. She didn’t remember seeing him arrive; perhaps he came in through the main gate.
She tried to blink away her tears. Cheeks glowing with shame, she wiped her eyes.
Galia and the male apprentices brought the novices to their feet and faced everyone toward the audience again. Ileth shuffled sideways, hiding behind a tall male novice as applause and a few cheers broke out.
The audience in the amphitheater rose and filed out, except for those who stayed to chat with friends, or because they had an interest in one of those onstage.
With that, they had to step forward, one by one, and give their name, year of birth, and place of birth for entry into the rolls. She was glad of the time to collect herself.
“Chest out, chin out,” the boy next to her said quietly, out of the side of his mouth. He had refined features and a restless manner, nervous and quick. He reminded her of a dog bred for running down rabbits. “You’re through it. Look happy.”
“Seal it, you two, the Master is watching,” Santeel Dun Troot, next to him and the third-to-last to have her name enrolled, whispered. Ileth’s Seal it must have been preemptive in nature, as she hadn’t said a word since she finished her oath. The Name flicked her delicate little chin toward the Master of Novices, who was looking at Ileth.
His countenance was unreadable. He was probably just as relieved as she was that the ceremony was over.
She looked up at the fine summer sky. It was a beautiful day. She was in the Serpentine. She was formally enrolled and oathed. She’d sworn herself to the Serpentine, and in a way the Serpentine had sworn itself to her. The Captain couldn’t touch her now, even if he had guessed her destination and attempted to retrieve her. She wondered how much bother he’d gone to over her desertion.
Each novice waited to sign their name on the enrollment. You were to write your name, then beneath it the exact date and place of your birth. By the time the quill came to her it didn’t take the ink well at all; it had been hastily recut at least twice. Santeel Dun Troot made a frustrated yip halfway through her signature and walked away with ink-smeared fingers.
The eastern boy before her was named Zante, born in Vallas, the same birth year as hers, she read.
It was her turn. Writing she could do easily enough.
As she bent and wrote, she felt a prod. Santeel had tried to clean the ink from her finger by discreetly wiping it on Ileth as she asked Zante polite questions about what his father did. Ileth didn’t have to bite her lip; staying silent at an insult came naturally to her. She did, however, make something of a show of turning the roster to Master Caseen when she finished. He scattered a little drying-powder on the fresh ink.
Well, everyone would blame the worn-down pen for her terrible script. Her signature and origin didn’t look much worse than that of Santeel Dun Troot, who’d left an awkward fingerprint on her famous Name. Though Santeel had done a better job with the width of her lines, thicker on the up and down and the curves and thinner right to left and at the inclines and declines, each letter elegantly drawn. She probably had had a tutor in penmanship.
With that, Caseen handed them their first badge of recognition, a little pin brooch fashioned out of a single white dragon scale. “From the Republic,” he said as he passed them out, but by the time Ileth received hers he was shortening it to the Republic. A tall dragoneer with a purple sash and pauldron, very good looking and clean-shaven, handed him the pins from a rich-looking jewelry case.