Garrick Maven's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

Garrick woke before first bell and walked to the training yard with the cord tight against his wrist. Frost lay on the weathered platforms. The inspector stood at the rail with a clipboard, watching handlers lead a green drake into the packed dirt circle. The drake's spiked tail dragged a line through the frost. Yellow slit eyes swept the recruits along the wall and stopped on Garrick. "Rivilin," one handler said, and spat. "Threw the last two. Good luck." Garrick climbed down into the ring. The drake lowered its head and let out a low sound from the back of its throat, not quite a growl. He kept his hands open and stopped six paces out. The saddle sat strapped between the shoulders. The reins hung loose over one horn. "Approach from the left," the inspector called. "Hand on the neck. Mount when it settles." Garrick stepped left. The drake turned its head to keep him in one eye. Up close, the yellow was split by a black slit that widened as the drake looked at his wrist. The cord had frayed further overnight. A thread lifted in the cold air. The drake huffed once, hot against Garrick's face. Then it did something the handlers did not see. It lowered its head to his shoulder and held there, still, so his ear was hidden against its jaw. Garrick understood. The drake had seen. The drake was covering him. He put his hand flat on the green neck. The scales were warm. He whispered, "Thank you." Rivilin snorted and knelt. Garrick swung up into the saddle in one motion and gathered the reins. The drake rose smoothly and walked the circle, then trotted, then took the low ring at a clean pace. Recruits along the wall stopped talking. The inspector wrote something on the clipboard and did not look up. Garrick brought the drake back to center and dismounted. His legs held. The inspector waved him out of the ring. "Seated," the inspector said. "Barracks. Oath at midday." Garrick walked past the rail. Rivilin watched him go, tail flicking once against the dirt. In the shadow of the platform he turned his wrist over. The cord had split along the darkened edge. Two more threads hung loose. He could feel the warmth in it thinning like a coal going gray. He had passed the test. At midday he would stand in front of the inspector again and swear the oath, the same oath that named his blood a crime. The bracelet would not last the afternoon. He pressed the frayed threads flat with his thumb and started toward the barracks.