Alta

quite enough admirers as it is, and I weary of women flinging themselves at me.” He fanned his face with a languid hand, and got the laugh he was looking for.

“Because I want them—” Toreth jerked his chin at the Jousters practicing in the sky above them “—to get the attention. Not us. I want them to be the heroes all the time. Let them come watch us if they want, and try some of what we do if they can, but I don’t think they should have to share the attention and the glory with a wing of boys who’ve never flown in battle. It’s not fair, and it’s not right.”

Orest tossed his head to get his hair back over his shoulders. “Rumblings of discontent?” he suggested.

“Not yet,” said Toreth. “I want to prevent them.”

Pe-atep nodded. “They’re good men, and right now, they’re grateful to you for coming up with ways to counter the Tians, but I’ve already heard some jokes about us being the ‘pretty ones’ that everyone wants to watch. Once the jokes start, there’s the possibility the joking will be covering resentment.” Pe-atep tended to spend more time around the senior Jousters than anyone other than Kalen, since his experience with training lions and cheetahs for hunting made him very useful in training the wild-caught dragons.

Kalen seconded that. “I’ve heard the same.” The falconer shrugged. “Better safe than sorry, I always say. We make it clear that we don’t care about having an audience, that we’re serious about our training, they’ll be more inclined to take us seriously, too.”

He was right. Kiron wouldn’t have thought of any of that for himself, but Toreth was right, and so were Kalen and Pe-atep. At the moment, the wing had the respect of the older Jousters, but if fighting men thought that a group of boys just coming into their beards was trying to “steal” what they had actually fought to gain, there would be resentment and anger. Kiron nodded. “Frankly, I think we ought to concentrate on targeting anyway. It makes no sense for us to even think about traditional Jousting until our dragons are bigger. I think we will be able to fight soon, but it will have to be our way.”

“One day,” Orest said, looking at him comically, “you will say something that is less than practical and sensible, something that is driven by no forethought and nothing but passion, and I will probably collapse with shock.”

The bottom dropped out of the world. The universe jolted. Kiron sat straight up in bed with a yell of fear.

His mind was blank, but his gut was a-roil, and inside he was nothing but a chaos storm of sheer terror. He was so terrified, in fact, that for one mind-numbing moment, he didn’t realize that every dragon in the compound was keening with a fear that at least equaled his.

Including Avatre.

And the ground was moving, in rolling waves.

How could that be? The ground was moving!

But it didn’t matter that the ground was shaking—and it didn’t matter that he was frightened out of his wits. Hearing Avatre cry out for him shook him back into his wits, and he fell off his cot and flung himself at the door. Avatre needed him! That was more important than anything else, including his own terror.

It was exactly like trying to move in a nightmare.

The shaking floor seemed to pitch itself out from under his feet, and he tumbled over sideways in the thick, hot darkness, bruising himself all over when the floor he’d thought was farther away hit him. The groaning of the stones around him made him sure he was going to be buried at any moment, and when he fell, he hit his elbow wrong, startling another yelp out of him. But Avatre needed him, and he crawled across the floor on hands and knees, felt his way past the door. The ground heaved again, and he was tossed into the sand of her pit. There was dust everywhere—where was it coming from? He couldn’t see it, of course, but he could feel it in his eyes, taste it in the oven-heat of the air. And the sand seemed unnaturally slick, and it kept trying to suck him down—fortunately, he knew it was no more than waist-deep, but the way it kept pulling at his limbs was as terrifying as everything else, as if it was alive and wanted to devour him. Following Avatre’s cries, he got to her side, where he got both his arms around her neck and hung on for dear life, closing his eyes and trying to soothe her when he himself was certain that the end of the world had come.

And then—it was over. Just like that. A strange silence filled the humid darkness, where a moment before there had been nothing but the cries of frightened humans and dragons, and the roaring of the earth.

“By the Great Ram’s horns!” said a shaking voice just on the other side of the wall, “That was a nasty one! Bethlan’s fine—is everyone all right?”

It was Menet-ka. So at least one of his wing was fine.

The dragon keening began again, starting with one of the babies—not Bethlan, it was farther away than that. A ragged chorus answered him. Kiron tried to speak but found he couldn’t. His throat seemed paralyzed. All of his fear seemed to have filled his throat and choked it.

“Kiron?” Menet-ka called, then, more urgently, “Kiron?”

“Kiron!” Toreth shouted. “Wingleader! Are you all right?”

It’s over. It’s over, he told himself. He uttered a strangled croak, coughed, and managed, “Here—here—”

Then he got a little better control of himself. He was the wingleader—the trainer—as he cradled Avatre’s head against his chest, he managed to suck enough air into his lungs—air still strangely full of dust—to call out, “Dragons all right? No one hurt? No one trapped?”

This time the ragged chorus answered him instead of Toreth, all in the affirmative. He tried to think of what they should do next—except that there was nothing they could do, because they must all be as disoriented as he was. “All right,” he said. “Don’t move. Not until there’s light and we can see—” because all of the lanterns were gone, smashed, he supposed, and without the moon it was as dark as a cave. “Don’t crawl around; there’s no telling what’s fallen over and what’s broken, and if you slash yourself open on a broken jar, nobody’s going to be able to come to help you.”

The keening from the Nursery eased, then stopped, as the boys got their dragonets quieted. Outside the Nursery, dragons were still complaining; he could only hope that darkness and tala would keep them calmer than they might have been were they not drugged.

“Well,” said Toreth’s voice, sounding far more philosophical than he was feeling, “I suppose you’re right. The sand is soft enough.”

The others agreed. “I’m going back to sleep,” said Huras, his voice sounding muffled in the distance. “It’s not as if I haven’t slept in the pit before this.”

He heard nothing more than whines and murmurs then, as the rest of them soothed their dragonets. He stroke Avatre’s snout, and wondered—though it was hard describe a thought so fearful as his as mere “wondering”—just what had happened. Had it been some evil spirit that had attacked them? Was it the anger of a god? How could the ground move like that? Had it only been the Jouster’s Compound, or had the whole city been rattled like this? If so—he’d heard the stones groaning, how could any building stand under something like that? The soldiery here on Third Ring were probably all right; they lived most of the time in tents anyway. But what about the temples? What about the manors and palaces?

What about all the mud-brick buildings on Fourth and Fifth rings? The mud-brick farmhouses on Sixth and beyond? He began feeling sick; mud brick was only stacked with more mud between in lieu of mortar. It surely couldn’t have held. And at night, in the dark—if he’d had trouble getting out of a single room, how hard would it be to get out of a house?

Avatre whimpered and shook, and he held her, talking soothingly until she stopped shaking, then stopped whimpering, then, impossibly, fell asleep again. And he felt the heat of the sand soaking into him, so at least whatever had happened hadn’t broken the magic on the sand pit. Her head was in his lap, but she was big enough now that he could lean over sideways and rest against her chest and just shut his gritty eyes for a moment and let the heat soothe his bruises.

He woke for the second time with a yell—

And blinked in the soft, monochrome light of predawn at Aket-ten, who was crouched in the sand beside him, one hand on his shoulder. It hadn’t been the earth moving that had awakened him this time, it had been her, shaking him.

“Are you all right?” she asked. “Nothing worse than bruises?” She looked disheveled; hadn’t bothered with even eye makeup, and looked as if she had just thrown on the first shift that came to her hand.

“I’m fine,” he managed, willing his heart to stop racing. “What—was that?” He