Free i 09395b84668982fd by Unknown

“Beautifully written. Some of the most
    interesting dragons I’ve read in fantasy.”
    —Christopher Paolini, New York Times
    bestselling author of Eragon
    The AudiTion
    Rachel Hartman
    vidson
    ew Da
    Andry
    ations © 2012 b
    Illustr
    Prequel
    The AudiTion
    it is perfectly normal—human, even—to want moral support during a difficult audition. I couldn’t have taken my father. If he’d had any inkling that I wished to become the assistant to the court composer, he’d have tried to stop me, and auditions are ar-duous enough without climbing out my bedroom window first.
    My half siblings would have told Papa, and I had no friends to ask. So if I wanted a sympathetic face in the crowd, my only choice was my music teacher, the dragon Orma.
    He’s better than nothing , I told myself, but that was debatable.
    He’d spent years in human shape, but inside he was still a dragon: an unemotional, hyperrational being who, hard as he tried, could not quite master manners or understand why blurting out criti-cisms during my flute performance was utterly unhelpful. By the final day of auditions, I regretted having brought him.
    As we climbed Castle Hill that balmy autumn afternoon,
    © 2012 Rachel Hartman
    1
    I decided to send him back. It was impossible to hurt a dragon’s feelings, but I still felt guilty. He’d dressed up for our palace visit in a dark doublet and hose, and had even slicked down his shrubby hair, though it was slowly puffing back up as it dried. He saun-tered along beneath the golden linden trees, oblivious to my anxi-ety, probably solving equations in his head.
    When we reached the stern shadow of the barbican gate, I stopped him and said, “Thank you for accompanying me to these difficult auditions, Orma. Today I have merely to give Princess Glisselda her music lesson. That won’t interest you. If you’ve been neglecting work at the conservatory, I shouldn’t keep you from it.”
    “You’re one of three finalists,” he said, pushing his spectacles up his beaky nose. “You were the most inexperienced and the only female in a field of twenty-seven. I initially put your odds at one in fifteen hundred. The lute master and the troubadour are still in it, though—”
    “Get to the point,” I said, glancing over my shoulder at the helmeted guards in the gatehouse. They watched us with
    detached interest. Orma was exempt from the bell most dragons were required to wear; he looked like nothing more than a tall, gangly scholar. Still, I always worried that men with swords would use them in preemptive self-defense if they worked out the truth.
    Orma said loudly, “You have a twelve percent chance of
    becoming Master Viridius’s assistant.”
    My shoulders sagged. “Twelve whole percent? Thanks.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    © 2012 Rachel Hartman
    2
    His incomprehension of my tone nettled me. “And you still want to come?”
    “Of course.” He scratched his beard. “These are the best odds you’ve faced yet.”
    We walked on. The smile I gave the barbican guards was en-tirely fake, but I’d worn my best gown, the dark blue merino, and Orma managed to keep quiet. We looked respectable enough.
    The guards didn’t question us, though their eyes followed Orma.
    They probably thought he was bothering me; they weren’t wrong.
    I was the last finalist to arrive at Master Viridius’s office. The aged composer sat not at his desk but upon a gout couch, with his legs propped up to keep them comfortable. His clawlike hands were wrapped in bandages; his knees and feet were grossly swollen.
    The sight of him had filled me with horror on the first day of auditions and pity on the second, but had not diminished my determination to be his assistant. I had long admired the old composer’s music. His Fantasias were the first keyboard pieces Orma had taught me, and I’d instantly loved their liveliness and strength.
    Master Viridius frowned as I came in. “Maid Dombegh! You deign to join us,” he drawled.