The tavern was crowded, as usual, but the usual hubbub was conspicuous by its absence. Everyone had huddled around the authorities’ table in silence, where An Long was telling, without needing to raise his voice, how he had managed to get hold of his dragon. Most had arrived in the middle of the story, so they didn’t know where the rider and his difficult childhood had come from.

“Just jumping into the void? What kind of airhead would do...glup... something like that?” Alden scoffed. “The altitude makes you fools in those mountains.”

“You have to have faith, my boy,” said Harald in defense of his honored guest.

“Faith? Then what? Faith has never bought me wine. Another ju... glup. Another jug!” asked Alden.

“You’re right. You have to be a moron. Or very drunk...” An Long winked at Harald. “Or just have nothing to lose. That was my case. The only friends I had were going to jump too. We would share a fate. We would all jump. That’s how we decided. I thought it was beautiful, like a pact that united us all even more. No one backed out. Not in my group, at least. Because after all, out of the thirteen of us in the first year, ten of us decided to continue in the second, and only seven in the third.”

“I heard that, before your generation, ten years passed without any apprentice managing to be matched by a dragon,” commented a voice in the crowd.

An Long smiled.

“It is true. In the peaks we call it the lost decade. It wasn’t for lack of dragons, but because the apprentices weren’t up to the task. The selection test consisted of questions that appealed to answers from the heart, and the applicants always had to answer truthfully. The problem was that no matter how much the questions changed, the applicants already knew what kind of answer was expected. The most illustrious families paid to prepare their children for the test, and many managed to pass with answers that weren’t really theirs. But when it came to the moment of truth, the last test, at the top of the Eventel, it was impossible to fool the dragons. The well was filled with corpses during those ten years.”

“There must be some other way to get... hip... a raccoon,” Alden was convinced.

“Sure, you put garbage in a trap and you’ll see how fast you’ll catch one,” said Sigurd who had just made his way over with another jug of wine.

Alden looked at him with a blank face, then grimaced and played it down as his hands grabbed the offered jug and began to swallow.

“I suppose there are. But in the Tiber, that’s the only way. Taming a dragon is impossible. They are free animals, and will only submit to the master they deem fit. That is why a pure heart is needed, a heart in which there is no room for evil. They are beasts aware of their power, and they know that if they fall into the wrong hands, they could wreak terrible havoc.”

“In my heart there is no room for evil. Glup. There is only room for wine and joy.”

“And a woman perhaps?” Harald asked mockingly. He no longer seemed to be bothered by the drunk's presence.

Alden looked at him with a grim look on his face.

“However,” continued An Long, “no one knows exactly how the first of the riders Darwen Redeye did it. But there are several legends circulating on the subject.”

“Well, I want to hear them,” Alden demanded, raising his mug and then slamming it down on the table and spilling a few drops.

“Most of them have no historical basis, and the wet nurses tell them to their little ones, changing the details as they please. But Master Dun Gar once told me what, in his opinion, is the version that comes closest to the truth.”

“Well, tell me that one!” the drunkest of those present became impatient.

“Thousands of years ago, when the first men were fighting their fratricidal wars, a small group of pacifists rejected the way of arms and traveled hundreds of leagues to hide in the peaks of the mountains of tranquility, the Khaz’Tiber. In Khaaz, my language, Khaz means ‘peace, quiet, tranquility’. Tiber, as you may have guessed, means ‘mountains or hills’”

“And Dolu?” Alden asked.

Everyone in Dareniel knew who the Khaz Dolu was, the ruler of the neighboring country, the enemy enclave. However, no one knew what the title really meant.

“Sage. The Khaz Dolu is the wise peacemaker,” some nodded, others did not seem to understand, others frowned, for the Khaz Dolu had often ordered the massacre of the Daeni invaders. “Anyway, as I was saying, men came to the Tiber to hide from the wars and live in peace. There in the highest cave of Mount Eventel, the explorers met Pondara, a woman of divine beauty. She allowed them to take shelter there, in her cave, and even showed them a box wrapped in flames that held three dragon eggs. She told them that she would read the future to the person who was able to open it. One of them tried and burned to ashes. The other two scouts returned to the village and told what they had seen. Few believed them, but from time to time, Pondara was visited by some intrepid climber. No one managed to open the box, until Darwen arrived. The young man had the gift of talking to fire. He whispered something to the flames and they were extinguished. Darwen opened the box. Then Pondara told him that he would become the most famous general on the continent and that he would fight for good. She also warned him that he would plant the seed of an unstable son, and that he would do well to be careful. Darwen Redeye flew on the backs of his three dragons and founded the dragonriders’ guild back in the Sky Comb.”

“Darwen Redeye. In Magnalia they say he never existed,” Alden said as he yawned. “Besides... I think the odds of me meeting a woman who offers to read my fortune for opening a box of three dragon eggs are... Glup! Close to one in... Glup! A very very very very high number.”

Everyone stared at him with an astonished look on their faces. And no wonder. Even An Long looked disoriented.

“Magnalia?” said someone at last.

“Arg. I passed that way. Hip. Who cares,” Alden almost threw up those words.

“Not a magno?” whispered a voice next to An Long, at the authorities’ table.

“Magnos are forbidden to drink alcohol,” Sigurd assured, bringing (oh, surprise) more alcohol. “Right?”

“And do I look like I want to suck the royal balls of that asshole Dagan? Glup. That brainless guy who has The Crescent for a king?” No one seemed to see his face, for no other voice was raised. “Let’s get on with the story, please. I may decide to... hip... throw myself down that well someday, tied to a very very very very long rope. I’m not a moron. Glup.”