Incite, p.5
Incite, page 5
“This isn’t Lumierna. We can fly here,” Ignis reminds him. Stirling’s fears ooze out and seep into his thoughts.
Stirling’s eyes gloss over. Images of his father clenching the paddle, the Cavalry pursuing him, and the dark depths of the ocean surrounding him. The water crashing in. Everything is crashing in. Fingernails draw red lines down his throat to his chest. He can’t breathe, he’s suffocating.
Gasping and wheezing, Stirling struggles to pull air into his lungs, his face a vibrant red.
“SNAP OUT OF IT!” Ignis nudges Stirling’s side with his snout tipping him over. Stirling sprawls out on his side, his eyes watery with leaking memories. “We’re not in Wyverna anymore. We’ve made it to where they will never find us. We did what you wanted. We’re as far southeast as we can get. This is a brand new kingdom with a brand new way of life that accepts what we have to offer. Now get up so we can show them.”
Dead-eyed, Stirling blinks Ignis back into view. His ragged breaths begin to even out. What happened? His awareness gradually returns like the sun breaking through a thick fog.
Biting the back of Stirling’s shirt Ignis pulls him up to an unsteady standing position. Held up solely by Ignis, his knees bow under his weight. The seams of his worn-out tunic inform him they are ready to let go with sounds of tearing.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe. Breathe.
Gathering himself, Stirling shakes his head embarrassed. What had come over him? The sight of the city had seized him, it held him down and forced him to rewatch the horrors of his life.
“You all right to keep going?” Ignis asks, concerned.
“Yes and no,” Stirling confides. With his body still jittery, he hesitantly climbs back onto Ignis.
“You sure?” Ignis presses. Stirling hazily nods his head. “All right, because we’re not turning back now.” Ignis leaps into the sky no longer allowing Stirling a chance to change his mind.
Ignis lands in the fenced-off patch of land designated for arrival and departure. Fighting the urge to fold in on himself, Stirling squeezes his eyes shut. He imagines forcing the desire to run down into a box and closes the lid. He won’t run, he doesn’t need to run. So why does every scar holding him together scream to take flight and disappear? Why do his eyes play tricks on his mind by putting threat above everyone’s head?
He sits timidly on Ignis’ back, unable to dismount as he scans his surroundings. He was surrounded by festivities. Dragons of several different species and every shade of color sit hitched to heavy stone or cling to the sea cliff above. Children sit on the wooden fence watching the arrival of men on dragon back. With toothy grins, they point at Stirling and Ignis and clap before their eyes are caught by another racer. A mother pats her child’s head without regarding Stirling and Ignis.
A man in a brightly colored tunic and matching flags in each hand waves them at Stirling. Stirling’s nerves ignite, his body tensing at the man waving the flags.
“Disembark over here,” he instructs, one hand motioning Stirling forward and the other pointing to a spot out of the landing zone where another man is currently dismounting his draco species of dragon.
Stirling’s uneasiness begins to quell. They only see another owner of a dragon. Dragons can be bought by anyone here. He is allowed to be here. He can be here, it's okay. He can be here, it's okay. It's okay. It will be okay.
While Stirling argues with his instincts, Ignis follows the flagger's directions and leads them out of the pen making room for the next dragon landing.
Fascination lays over his uncertainty like a wool blanket snuffing out a fire. He cautiously dismounts. Finding his footing, he loops his fingers through Ignis’ harness for support and they set off through the maze of colorful canvas booths and tents. Item after item catching his eye, his head whips back and forth unable to stay put on a single object.
There are merchants selling blankets, capes, and cloaks stitched with silhouettes of dragons. Metal cloak clasps shaped as wings and claws glint against the fabric displays. The smell of bread baked into the shape of dragon heads and a side view of the whole body wafts through the air. Every booth offers trinkets to take home as a reminder of the annual event, there are soaps, candles, bowls, and mugs. Every item and each booth are in some way dragon-themed.
Bernard taught him the names and descriptions of the different species but seeing them now in person leaves Stirling speechless.
Emerging from the main density of the tents they step out to a wider space where the majority of the competitors are walking about with their dragons. Racers and non-racers stand at enlarged booths compared to those selling memorabilia to the citizens. They lean over scrutinizing the gear questioning, the comfort of new saddles, the quality of reins, the structure of helmets, and the padding of shin guards.
Stirling’s gaze lingers on a stand selling goggles made from various metals, copper, iron, bronze, and even silver and gold. Each with leather straps dyed to compliment the tones in the metal. He absent-mindedly touches the cool metal hanging around his neck before turning his focus to the species of dragons around him.
Close to all of the dragons walk on four legs like Ignis with membrane wings similar to the Wyverns though unlike Ignis their legs are stalky. Their chests swaying close to the ground. Dracos. Stirling runs the names through his head as he spots each species.
Amphipteres. Legless creatures curled up like snakes beside their owners. Their membrane wings tucked close against their scaly bodies.
A long thin dragon called a knucker with short front legs and long hind legs trots past a breed called Lung. A species that resembles the amphipteres where Stirling can’t tell where their bodies stop, and their tails begin. Their major difference is they have four legs that are too short to lift their bodies. Their elongated bellies drag and slither along the ground like a skink.
“Incredible,” he utters.
“I’m not the brightest color anymore either. They’re every shade of the rainbow,” Ignis adds, staring at a yellow knucker.
“I believe that’s it,” Stirling says, pointing to a stand-alone tent with a flag sectioned into fifths fluttering in the breeze, each portion a different color with a silhouette of each species. “Wait here.” Stirling motions for Ignis to stay and approaches it.
A man in his mid-twenties stands centered at the table conversing with the young woman running the registration.
“Here’s your cape with your number. Remember it is to be worn at all times during the games,” the woman informs him.
“This isn’t my first year. I’m very aware of that,” the man grumbles impolitely, snatching the green and blue shoulder-length cape. Turning to leave, the man pauses on Stirling, glaring.
Stirling shrinks under the man's presence. Wishing to hide from the judgment, Stirling submits diverting his gaze down to the table. His scarred hands are hidden from view behind his back.
“They do just let anyone sign up,” the man sneers. Shaking his head, he shambles away from the tent. Every several steps he glances back over his shoulder to see if he had seen Stirling correctly.
Struggling to ignore the sting of the man’s comment, Stirling turns his attention to the woman. She scrunches her nose at him, “If you’re here for handouts, I don’t have anything. This is the registration. So, I need you to step aside for the professionals.”
“What?” Stirling shakes his head. “No. I’m not here for handouts.”
“Excuse me what?” The woman’s eyebrows touch as she struggles to understand Stirling, “What are you saying, talk slower.”
Stirling sighs and slows his words, “I’m here to reg—”
The woman cuts him short. “You can’t register for other people.”
“Huh?”
“Racers can’t have their lackeys come and sign up for them. I need the actual competitor here to sign the paperwork,” she explains bluntly, tapping her finger on the desk.
Stirling shakes his head confused, “Lackey? No, I’m here to sign myself up.”
The girl raises her eyebrows, “It’s required you own a dragon to participate in the games.”
“I do have one,” Stirling motions towards Ignis who is staring intently at a butterfly fluttering around the grass nearby.
“A pri’yanny svir?” she says with disbelief. “You can’t borrow other people’s dragons either. It has to be your own.”
Stirling’s initial hurt is slowly melting into frustration, “He is mine. He’s been my partner for nine years now. Can I just sign up already?”
The girl lifts her chin as if she has discovered a way to checkmate Stirling, “There’s a registration fee. If you can’t pay right now, upfront, you can’t sign up.”
Stirling pulls the coins from his bag laying them across the table, “Here. Happy? Now can I sign up?”
Lips curling, she bares her teeth. “Fine. Here’s the paperwork.” She hisses, tossing the papers across the table. Picking up the sheets Stirling frowns. “What can’t you read?” She smirks. Ashamed Stirling shakes his head. “Of course, you can’t.” She scoffs. “Now I’m going to have to help fill it out for you.” She twirls the quill in her fingers annoyed, “Your name for a start?”
“Stirling of Patu.”
She lets out a short laugh after hearing the village's name, “Explains the speech.” Continuing with the form she asks, “Age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Species of dragon?”
“Pir’ ss—yanny something.”
“You can’t even pronounce the species correctly,” she mutters to herself.
“Dragon’s age?”
“Uh, I guess the same as me. We grew up together, but I’m not exactly sure.”
Exhaling, she turns her head, cracking her neck, and finishes jotting down Stirling’s answers, now and then muttering under her breath as she looks at Ignis for his color and guesses his approximate size and weight.
Completing, she looks back up at Stirling. “Since this is your first time, and you have no prior experience. I will be placing you in the beginner's category. If, emphasize the IF you win and deem yourself suitable to the judges you can advance to the more experienced categories. Here is a paper with all the rules, schedules, and any general information about the overall games and lodging,” she informs, sliding a paper scribbled from top to bottom with writing. “Of course, you’ll need to find someone to read it for you though. Because I will not.”
Rummaging through a crate beside her she pulls out an orange cape with the number zero stitched onto the front and back in white.
“Solid Orange?” he questions.
“Yes, it matches your dragon–” her smile is wide and fake, “The number is random. Most of the numbers have been claimed permanently by the veteran riders, and I’m out of other colors.”
Over the table, Stirling can easily see into the crates beside her, still plentiful of capes in different colors and number combinations. He spots several oranges with secondary colors.
“Oh, okay,” he grumbles, accepting the orange cape with his right hand exposing the inside of his arm.
The woman’s eyes lock on his scars. Repulsed, she releases her grip on the cape, yanking her hand back to the safety of her side of the table. Demeaned, Stirling tugs the undershirt sleeve down over his insignia for the first time for any other reason besides warmth. He drapes the cape over his arm as an extra barrier pulling it protectively into his chest. Without saying a word, he hangs his head and lumbers back to Ignis.
“We signed up?” Ignis asks Stirling as he approaches.
“Yeah,” his replies are short. “Beginners.”
“Only beginners?” Ignis inquires.
“Yep,” Stirling says, switching to his thoughts suddenly self-aware of the people already starting to notice him. Keeping his chin down, Stirling refrains from meeting the prying eyes. He watches his feet progress him forward one at a time. Bernard and Roesia are right. It might be legal for him to ride, but he is still a pariah. He isn’t part of their world.
“Ignore them,” Ignis advises, ushering Stirling along in the direction they believe the inn is in.
“It's easier said than done,” Stirling kicks a small rock with the inside of his foot.
“I think you’re reading into what people think too much. Lighten up and focus on the races,” Ignis repeats the knowledge the villagers have been guiding him on. “WHOA! WAIT HOLD ON!” Ignis hollers abruptly.
Stirling jumps, startled. “What! What is it!?
“There, look there. It is the most beautiful dragon I have ever been granted to lay my eyes upon,” Ignis says pointing his snout in the direction of a crowd of people. Stirling peers around Ignis.
An all-feathered dragon as blue as the summer sky rises above them, white specks in its feather coat glisten like melting ice. It has no legs like the amphipteres from earlier. Its elegant wings with sapphire undertones spread out in display with feathers the length of an adult woman. The crowd cheers at the sight. Its large royal eyes scan the audience before it, its racer obscured behind the masses.
“That must be the quetzalcoatl,” Stirling blurts out loud. “I wonder who it's racer is? He must be popular, bringing in a crowd like that.”
“I don’t care who the racer is. I want to know who the dragon is,” Ignis says, practically drooling.
“Do you even know if it’s a guy or girl?” Stirling asks, tugging on Ignis’ harness to get moving.
Ignis doesn’t budge. “Don’t know, don’t care.”
Stirling yanks on the harness with futile attempts. Groaning, Stirling rolls his eyes, “All right we get it. You like the dragon. Now stop staring. Let’s get going.” He yanks again impatiently. “I want to check out the inn and get away from all these people for a bit.” His eyes shift across the huddled groups of spectators witnessing Stirling’s struggle to command his dragon.
Ignis protests, “Oh, come on, you had nine years to stare at a pretty girl, let me have this.”
“They’ll be in the races. You’ll see them then,” Stirling argues. “Also, I didn't stare at Amiria. She is my friend.”
“Not for the first six years, stalker,” Ignis heckles.
Stirling glances at the groups. “Please, let’s go. People are watching. It looks like I don’t have any control of you.”
“You don’t have any control of me,” Ignis stubbornly plants his feet.
Stirling can feel the heat in his cheeks, each set of eyes a hot dagger raising his body temperature. “Ignis! Let’s go!” he demands, jerking the harness.
Ignis lays off, cluing in on the dynamics of their surroundings. Giving in, he follows Stirling’s lead. Unable to resist the urge to steal one last view of the quetzalcoatl, Ignis twists his neck keeping his eyes locked on them for as long as possible. Closing his eyes he paints the dragon on his heart, memorizing the details of their stunning appearance.
Six
Past the competition grounds and the festival tents is a large plain of open land stretching from the base of the mountain wall to where the grass appears to drop off into the ocean.
The inn rests in the center of the two, the building four times the size of the alehouse back in Patu. Stables designed for dragons extending from the smaller horse stalls run the length between the inn and the mountains. It cuts around back with plenty of roaming in between the two separate structures. A farm can be seen behind the buildings and a stone structure Stirling can’t identify sits off to the ocean side of the inn.
A teenage girl with auburn hair and a face speckled with freckles sits on a bench outside the front door of the inn hemming a torn pillow.
She hears the shuffling of feet and sets the pillow off to the side of her. Her eyes darting back and forth between Stirling and Ignis, “Is the racer here himself? He can’t send his serfs ahead to check in for him.”
“I AM—!” Stirling begins before biting his tongue. “I am the racer,” he says, starting over calmer. “See here’s my cape and my paper,” he adds, holding up the two items as evidence.
The girl is stricken. “My apologies, sir. I mistook you because of your appearance. We can get you washed up and changed right away. Was the trip here rough? Where are you from?”
“Yes, well no, this isn’t because of travel–I’m from Patu” Stirling starts but decides against explaining further.
Leaving the pillow on the bench, the girl smiles and jumps up eager to serve a customer. “I’m Farah, my family owns the inn here. I can check you in if you are ready. Will you be staying here this week also, or will you only be here once the games begin?”
Stirling bites his lower lip. “Well, here’s the thing. I don’t have any coin yet. I won’t be able to pay until I win one of the rounds.”
Farah puts up her hand signaling him to stop talking. Her welcoming smile is suddenly absent. “This isn’t a charity house. We do not accept any I owe yous. This is the one time a year we make our real profit. This is how we make a living to support ourselves for the rest of the year. We’ve experienced too many people not paying after the games and leaving us high and dry. We’re a family with six children. Do you understand?”
“Okay, okay I get it,” Stirling says, backing down. “You could have said No and left it at that.”
Pinching the brim of her nose, she sighs. “Look. Try to win one of the first rounds and I’ll gladly set you up with a bed. Hopefully, the games coordinator won’t even know you weren’t here on those starting days and fine you.” She holds, waiting to see if Stirling has anything to say. Forgetting the basics of conversations, he stands there idle.
She raises an eyebrow at his silence and returns to talking. “We will be completely booked for the single-man rooms by then, but we can always squeeze another cot into the communal room. Most racers try to book in advance to get their own rooms, which is why I made that comment earlier.”
Afraid she will flip personalities again, switching from defensive, to helping then and back to defensive. Stirling dips his head, keeping his answer short. “Thanks for your advice.”
