The Princess of Trelian Read Free

parents would be proud of her.
    Meg left Jakl lounging in the field. The castle carpenters had made him a nice big enclosure down in the part of the outer ward past the stables (well past, so he wouldn’t terrify the horses), but while he seemed to like it well enough, he usually preferred the field just beyond the gardens. Meg thought the enclosure was at least partially for show, in any case — something to make it seem as if her dragon were contained and housebroken. She smiled, thinking how he did seem to appreciate the enclosure whenever it rained. Perhaps he was just a little domesticated, at that.
    She yawned, regretting her missed nap, and found herself walking more quickly. She was glad of her increased lessons for another reason as well: the busier she was, the less time she had to think about . . . other things. Less time to sit and worry and wish Calen were back, so she could talk to him and he could reassure her that everything would be all right.
    She promised herself she would check in with the Master of Birds as soon as her lessons were done. Maybe there would be a letter from Calen, saying he was on his way home.

C ALEN GOT HIS FIRST LOOK AT the needle and fought the urge to close his eyes.
    This was important — his first real mage’s tattoo, his first mark beyond that of the initiate. The first one that he’d truly earned for himself. He wanted to remember every part of it. Even the slightly terrifying parts.
    Master Su’lira was holding up a long, slender tool with a needle at the tip, examining the tiny blade in the light. The needle looked very, very sharp. Soon, Master Su’lira was going to stick Calen with that needle and use it to paint a delicate design under the surface of his skin.
    It’s all right,
Calen told himself firmly, refusing to look away.
You’ve been through much worse than this.
    It was true. He had been lost in an unknown land, desperate to get home. He had been viciously attacked by villains and monsters. He had been forced to climb to heights no sensible person should ever, ever have to experience. Some of those heights had been reached while flying through the air on the back of a dragon, ridiculous distances above the ground. He had almost
died.
More than once. Being stuck with a needle should be easy compared to all that.
    Master Su’lira turned back to his workbench, making adjustments. Calen let out a shallow breath. Not quite time. Not yet.
    The marking room was small and private. Serek had explained that the process could sometimes take a long while, depending on the level of achievement of the person being marked. The official ceremony was always held separately, so all the other mages wouldn’t have to sit there watching and waiting for what could be hours. Calen had felt himself go a little pale at the mention of
hours,
but Serek had dryly assured him that his mark would not take quite that long. Later, the official marking ceremony would formally acknowledge Calen’s progress along the mage’s path.
    The room’s walls were covered with panels of drawings and designs, which Calen guessed were examples of different kinds of marks. Serek had never explained the meanings behind his own markings: an intricate landscape of lines, swirls, and symbols twining across both sides of his face. It wasn’t forbidden to explain the meanings; Calen suspected Serek just felt it was too personal to discuss. Or maybe he thought it would sound like bragging. Serek had more markings than most of the other mages they had met since they’d arrived, and each of those markings represented some new level of skill or achievement. Calen hadn’t realized before that Serek might be a mage of some distinction. It had never even occurred to him. Serek was just . . . Serek. It was strange to see him here, in this new context, among others of his calling. Calen’s last visit had been so long ago, and he had been so little, that he barely remembered anything beyond vague, half-formed