The others arrived at about the same time as the bundles. Kalamadea, who had not been the one fighting and flying yesterday, shifted quickly into his draconic form of Father Dragon. He was huge, easily twice the size of Keman, perhaps larger, and Keman was large enough to easily carry one two-legger rider. Dragons grew for as long as they were alive, and Father Dragon was the oldest dragon Keman knew of. Not even Alara knew exactly how old he was. He had been alive at the time of the very first Gate-opening, when the dragons had lived in a world with far more perils in it than this one.
We've grown soft and lazy, Keman thought, contemplating Kalamadea's huge wings fanning the morning air. If those old ones could see us, hiding in our Lairs from mere two-leggers, they'd laugh at us. They had to worry about things so deadly that they would burrow into Lairs to kill and eat the occupants!
Kalamadea might have read his thoughts. :The elven lords, given enough incentive, could be just as deadly to us as the perils our kind once escaped from, Keman,: he said quietly, so that no one else would overhear. :Don't think too badly of those who only want to hide. That was why we escaped here, after all. To hide. We were running away, technically speaking.:
Well, maybe.
He was resolutely keeping his mind on anything and anyone except Dora. He awoke this morning resolved to assume that she would not be coining along. He had tried not to feel too disappointed or hurt.
Unfortunately, as he had learned all too often in the past, resolutions are usually not heeded by the emotions. All the resolve in the world did not help the feeling of disappointment and—yes—loss as the sun rose higher and Dora did not appear. He wasn't sure if it was his heart that was aching, but there was certainly something holding a core of dull pain, deep inside him.
He waited patiently while the others rigged him and Kalamadea with harnesses, both for the benefit of their passengers and to strap the bundles of supplies to.
You aren't going to like this at all, Shana was telling Lorryn and his sister, as she explained how the harnesses worked. He sensed her tightly wound nerves, and guessed that she was chattering to relieve them. Poor Shana! It was not only the threat of the elven lords that disturbed her, it was, he knew, the threat of revolt from within the wizards' ranks. That was what had undone the wizards in the first war. He only hoped history was not about to repeat that tragedy. And don't listen to Kalamadea or Keman—dragons don't get flying-sick. I mean, think about it; they couldn't fly if they got sick every time they took wing. But here's the problem. The first thing that happens is that the dragon jumps into the air; if you've ever jumped a horse over a huge obstacle, you'll have a very slight idea of what that feels like.
So unless we are strapped in, we're going to go tumbling over his back, Lorryn observed dispassionately. He turned a little to look Keman in the eye. I hope you'll forgive me, my friend, but I have a very hard time reconciling this— he slapped Keman's shoulder —with the young wizard who snored all last night.
I did not snore! Keman exclaimed indignantly.
You did, Shana told him firmly. Most of the night. Loudly.
He snorted, and ignored her, examining those straps of his harness that he could reach himself with ostentatious care.
Now, at the top of that leap, Shana continued, as if she had not been interrupted—another sign of her nervous tension— he's going to suddenly snap open his wings and start a series of very powerful wingbeats to gain altitude. They're just like the leap; a series of surges. You're going to be thrown backward with every wingbeat, and if you don't hold on and hunch yourself over like this— she crouched down, demonstrating the position —you're going to feel as if your head is going to snap off the end of your spine.
Lorryn nodded, and his sister sighed. This sounds worse than riding the worst-gaited horse in the universe!
It is, Shana assured her. In fact, it's worse than riding a pack-grel. All right, at some point he's going to reach the height he needs, and that's where the discomfort really begins. These folks don't fly in a straight line. They swoop, like this— She made an arcing motion with her hand. Wing-beat, swoop, wingbeat. Your poor stomach is going to think you're falling during part of each swoop. That's where you'll get flight-sick, if it happens at all, and if you have to—well—just tell Kalamadea; he'll bank to one side so that you can—ah—straight down. And Ancestors help whatever is below you.
Keman listened with real interest; although he had carried passengers before this, he'd never heard any of them explain what it felt like to them. Of course, flying felt perfectly natural and right to him, but evidently that was not how it felt to those who rode his back.
There's also turbulence up there; Keman has done sideslips, been bounced as if he was trying to buck me off, and dropped halfway to the ground, and even turned upside down by winds. I don't get sick, and I hope you won't, but I won't promise anything. She shrugged at their expressions of dismay. No matter what, make sure that every strap is tight, every buckle fastened. Check them while you're flying. They are all that is keeping you on his back, and believe me, you need every one of them.
Mero came up as she said that, and nodded solemnly. If we have to fly through a storm, you're going to wish you had more straps than you do, he added.
But—the stories all made it seem as if flying was so easy, Rena said plaintively. As if—you just got on, and off you went!
Keman laughed. Well, do remember that it was Myre telling you those tales, right? For us, flying is easy. And anyway, she wouldn't have wanted to discourage your romantic image of dragons. He thought for a moment, men added, I can at least promise you this—it's easier flying with Kalamadea man with me. I have to take more wingbeats to stay aloft man he does, because he's bigger. Have you ever watched birds?
At Rena's nod, he went on.
You've probably seen the way small birds fly; it's very jerky, and it takes a lot of wingbeats. But a big hawk, now—he can glide quite a bit, and when he does take a wing-beat, it's slower because his wings are larger. That's the difference between Kalamadea and me, and you two will be riding Kalamadea, because you're less experienced.
Shana was testing every strap; the leatherworkers had worked all night on the harnesses, and Kalamadea rather approved of them. They certainly fit better than anything he'd had rigged up before.
Ah—here's something else, Shana said as she came around from the other side. Rena, Lorryn, see the pad here, that's like a saddle? Don't let your legs slip off it and don't ever be tempted to wear cloth breeches instead of leather. Dragonscales are very abrasive and they'll scrape you to the bone in a few wingbeats. She had them slide their hands the wrong way along Keman's shoulder, and nodded when they winced. That's why I asked the leatherworkers to make more than two sets of harnesses and lots of extra straps, so that if some of this gets sliced up, we can just discard the pieces instead of wasting time trying to mend it.