Boreal

Chapter Eleven

The front door was cracked open when Ptarmigan and Shyam arrived back at their apartment. He could hear someone moving around, the shifting of pots and the bang of cupboards opening and closing. Soft swearing drifted from inside, quickly followed by someone else chiding them for using such foul language.

Siskin was in the kitchen, sat on the counter with his racing suit rolled down to his waist. The sight of the man's chest was enough to send Ptarmigan's stomach rolling.

The gashes were deep, three cuts drawn from the base of his stomach to his collar bone. It was the kind of wound only a dragon could inflict, and a nasty one, at that. He was halfway through wrapping gauze around them, red-tinted water dripping across his skin from a wet cloth resting over his shoulder.

Ciarran had draped himself across the couch, the dragon far too large for the piece of furniture. His tail twitched and writhed, swishing back and forth, anxious. His head swivelled around to face them as they slipped inside, closing the door behind them.

"Late, as usual. So, I suppose that makes you on time." The dragon snorted, stretching his wings. "I don't suppose you'll be telling us where you ran off to?"

Ptarmigan hopped up onto the dragon's back, throwing his arms around his neck as he made himself comfortable. The dragon purred, nuzzling Shyam as she settled beneath his chin.

"What happened?"

"Racing accident. Rook wanted me to show me some of the drills I'd have them running for this Emergence's main display." Siskin grunted, ripping the end of the gauze with his teeth. "Let's just say, the Show birders here aren't used to the level of precision we require in Hayd. Good thing we're here now, whip 'em into shape."

Ptarmigan frowned, clearly unconvinced. Siskin forced a smile, then winced.

"Isn't anything you need to worry about, Tarmy. Others didn't even notice, so it couldn't have been that bad. Just poor luck and even poorer timing."

His instructor's movements were slow and measured as he lifted himself off the counter. Still, despite his best efforts, the pain on the man's face was unmistakable. Every movement as he began tidying up was accompanied by a flinch, or a soft whimper. Ptarmigan's face twisted with concern.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?"

"Positive, barely even damaged my uniform," Siskin said through gritted teeth. "Had worse scraps before and will probably have worse after."

He hesitated, turning to face them. Siskin sighed, his voice softening.

"I'm sorry, both of you, about not coming back like I said I would. Though it appears you managed to keep yourselves occupied?"

"Aye, just showed Almas around the Academy."

"Avoided the Lanthorn, I hope. I know you like speaking with the Mappers, but they're very busy, what with planning the route for the Long race."

Ptarmigan's breath caught the back of his throat. He couldn't know, could he? They hadn't exactly been careful about hiding their activities, but there was no way Khollar could've told on them that fast, could he? Ptarmigan swallowed and tried to remain calm.

"Oh aye, we wouldn't bother them, when they're this busy."

"Good lad."

He couldn't help the relieved sigh as it escaped his lips. Fortunately, neither of their instructors seemed to notice. But now, it was time to see how far his luck would stretch. Ptarmigan continued, hoping they couldn't hear the waver in his voice.

"Actually...Almas invited us to stay over tonight, at the Citadel."

"I don't-" Siskin started, only got Ciarran to interrupt.