“My mentor would understand,” Artegal said. “Others will, too. So we should practice. In case.”
“In case?”
“In case we’re needed.”
She couldn’t imagine when that would be or what it would entail. But she remembered the first few times she went climbing, how she didn’t make any progress at all, and how her hands and arms hurt so much, she cried. But she’d practiced, until it came naturally. Artegal was right. They had to practice, if for no other reason than they may need this someday.
That was a good excuse, anyway. Really, she just couldn’t wait to fly with the dragon again.
11
Kay returned to the book, Dracopolis, continuing to try to ferret out some kind of translation. She had decided, mostly by looking at the pictures and the kind way the dragons and people regarded each other, and the angry way the men who carried the swords and spears appeared toward the end of the book, that the person who had written and drawn this had loved dragons, and hated when people fought with them. Maybe the author had some advice for a person who lived in a world where humans and dragons feared each other.
Copying out the Latin from a page that seemed to recount when the fires and wars started, she found a word she recognized: virgo. And variations: virginem, virgine. From the pictures surrounding the text, she could work out a meaning before she found a translation.
There was a sacrifice. A woman in a white gown—one of those characteristic medieval figures, flattened, with large, oval eyes, a tilted head, thin curving limbs—stood on a platform raised up in a clearing at the edge of a forest. Iron shackles, painted black, bound her to the platform. Her brown hair flowed loose down her back. She was neither smiling nor frowning, and it was hard to tell if she was really so calm or if she was simply a flat medieval drawing incapable of showing emotion.
Amid the trees, the dragon came for her. His mouth was open and filled with sharp teeth.
The virgin sacrifice. They really did it. So, according to this scene, Artegal was supposed to be eating her, not flying with her. But Kay looked, double-checked words in the online Latin dictionary, and didn’t find anything on the page that meant “eating.”
It was all so vague.
She studied the pages with references to flying. If she ever were caught and needed to defend herself, maybe she could bring the book. Work up some story about doing a history project. That would go over well.
In the meantime, they flew again. It was an all-day activity, because of how far into the hills Kay had to hike in order to reach their valley. After flying for an hour, Artegal walked back to the border as close as he could, and Kay hiked the rest of the way to her Jeep, which was hidden on a turn-off near a little-used dirt road—with all the ropes and gear slung over her shoulders. Exhausted, she then had to call Jon and tell him she was too tired to go out on a Saturday night. He’d sounded hurt and asked questions about what she’d been doing, why she was tired. She couldn’t answer, of course, and she couldn’t blame him for being grouchy. She kept assuring him that she really wanted to see him, but she wouldn’t be good company. The excuses sounded lame, but what could she tell him? The other alternative was to stop going to see Artegal, which she wasn’t going to do.
Two weeks later, she and Artegal flew again. Kay felt she was starting to get good. Or at least better. She didn’t scramble every time he swooped or dived. He started to be able to do corkscrews and loops without her yelping and wrapping the ropes around her hands in a death grip. She learned to let the force of movement keep her steady. By balancing and steadying herself instead of gripping as hard as she could, the flights were much easier on her hands. She stopped getting blisters.
Part of it was Artegal simply loved flying, and so was willing to be very patient with her, was willing to fly and circle as she grew more confident and secure. He said that not all dragons loved to fly. Some of the older ones stopped being able to. They tended to stay underground, guarding hordes, raising the young. Kay realized that the human military could never be sure of the number of dragons by counting the ones that flew. They based their estimates of dragon population on this. She wondered how far off those estimates were.
The Dracopolis manuscript described a system of communication used by dragons and their human riders. Kay had worked out some of it, a few phrases, including a section admonishing the reader that riding dragons was not like riding horses and you couldn’t use bits or bridles. That seemed clear to Kay. Why would you need a bridle when you could just talk? Who could even contemplate putting a bridle on a head that large, and how did you talk a dragon into putting a bit in its gigantic mouth without it eating you? But in the air, dragons couldn’t always hear, so in ancient times riders would use a rope with knots tied in it and stretched across the dragon’s back. By pressing the knots into the scales, a rider could get the dragon’s attention and communicate simple ideas: Look left, turn right, I’m in trouble. Kay made up a rope like this for her and Artegal—it had three knots, one for left, one for right, and one in the middle to get his attention. They tested it and found their own code to use.
In mid March, they made their third flight after the jet crash. Life had gotten back to normal, everyone breathing sighs of relief because it seemed the dragons understood what had happened and didn’t hold it against the humans. It made everyone feel better because it meant that maybe the dragons weren’t so alien after all, and maybe the humans didn’t have to be afraid so much.
Kay could have told them that.
But the jets came again.
Kay and Artegal were in their valley, circling, enjoying the first day in weeks that was warm enough to melt snow. Flying, Kay felt so much closer to the sun, so much warmer. They’d had a lazy practice, and Artegal dipped lower, preparing to land.
Far overhead, far distant, a mechanical roar echoed. She could feel Artegal snort more than she could hear him, a vibration deep in his lungs. A questioning sound, confused. But Kay recognized the noise—the roar of a jet engine. She looked up, scanning the sky, searching for the plane. Hard to tell how close it was or where it was going, because sound was unreliable when it came from something moving that fast. It seemed far away. She hoped it was far away.
Artegal climbed, swooping upward in a wide loop, craning his neck, looking for the intruder along with Kay. She grew worried—the engine sounded loud. Probably just a trick of the air. No plane would cross the border into Dragon air space, especially after the crash. They needed to hide, just in case.
“Artegal, we should get out of here!” she cupped her hand and yelled. She pressed the left and right knots in the rope across his shoulders, which meant, We need to land. He cocked his head; she couldn’t tell if he’d heard her.
Then, the plane sped overhead. A narrow triangle, sharp nose, angled wings, engines in back—a jet fighter shaped like an arrowhead. It didn’t make a sound; the roar followed a moment later, which meant it was traveling very, very fast—faster than its own sound.
Artegal roared. Kay had never heard him make a sound like that. It surged through his whole body; the vibrations rattled her teeth. His lungs worked like bellows under her, and the sound echoed through the valley, like thunder, like a mountain falling. The appearance of the plane had startled him. It may even have scared him. She could only tuck her head in and hold on as he dived, flattening his wings to streamline his body and increase his speed.