by E. E. Knight
Only one thing lacked to complete her happiness in the fall sunshine. There should be birdsong in the sheltered vales around Galahall, but the hammering and calls of dwarvish workers had chased them away.
The dwarf foreman, hearing some shouts from the roof, trotted over to her, whipped off his cloth sweat hat, and made a sweeping bow.
“Your Protectorship, there’s another difficulty . . . ”
Dwarfs were great ones for finding difficulty. The difficulty could usually be resolved at additional expense. This one had to do with the need for steel-reinforcing cable. There would be a delay of some weeks in completing the project, though they could finish other matters while they waited for cable.
Wistala felt her firebladder pulse with vexation.
Easy there, Wistala, she could almost hear her old guardian elf—and adoptive father—Rainfall say. Civilization is founded on mastering your emotions and guiding your tongue.
There’s nothing less civilized than stomping a workman you hired into hot, soggy mush.
“I’ll give you some funds to purchase it. If it’s light enough, I can fly it here myself. That would be a savings, yes?”
The dwarf bowed again. “Of time and monies. Your Protectorship is judicious.”
The foreman always complimented her when she agreed to his solutions for difficulties. It lessened the sting of suspicion that the dwarfs were padding the bill, but didn’t do much there for the vexation. At this rate, she’d be beggared before she could assume the dignity of her office from a proper resort.
Wistala, even by buying and eating blacksmith scraps and rusted tools to feed her scales, still had little coin left over for her own expenses—particularly since she insisted on purchasing her own cattle and sheep for consumption. Other Protectors demanded feed and metal as their just due, but Wistala asked only for a small yearly contribution from each town and village she “protected” (mostly, she admitted to herself, just by being in the thanedom), leaving it to the local thanes and heads of households and mining interests and craftsmen to work out among themselves. But they tended to pay her in chickens or knitwork, neither of which did much to fill her gold-gizzard.
The dwarfs were putting up a roof over the old ruins of the thane’s manor house, once called Galahall but soon to be renamed Northflight Resort, the local seat of the Thanedom’s draconic Protector. Long ago, as an unfledged drakka, she’d infiltrated the place to retrieve her elvish guardian Rainfall’s granddaughter, who had come under the spell of an ambitious young Thane. The Thane died in the vicious human-dwarf race-wars which had seen the Wheel of Fire, a clan of violent dwarfs who’d murdered her mother and sister, humbled. Since then, it had fallen into disrepair—Ragwrist, while technically the local thane though he considered the office well-managed by attending celebrations to offer toasts at births, marriages, and deaths, didn’t care for tall, gloomy halls. To add insult to negligence, Galahall had been sacked by marauding Ironriders a few years ago in the war that ended with the Grand Alliance.
Wistala had grown sick of sleeping in a barnlike structure, half cave and half thatched roof, near Mossbell. Though warm, it made her feel a bit like a cooped chicken, and her fellow Protectors of Hypatia, when visiting, almost dropped their griff in amazement at the rusticity of her dwellings. They’d all long since at least started on stone palaces surrounded by gardens of water and stone. They’d laughed at her and said their thralls lived better than the sister of their Tyr.
She had plans to make Galahall her official residence, or resort, as Protector of the Northern Thanedoms of Hypatia. All the walls would be linked by a single roof, lined with her own dropped dragonscale and supported by iron melted and recast from captured Ironrider weaponry. She had great plans for its height. Such a roof didn’t exist in the north, not in any temple or old Hypatian hall. Perhaps one of the great Golden Domes of old Ghioz, now reduced to dozens of quarreling baronies under an overgreedy dragon Protector named NiVom, could match it in size. Or the vast hall of the Hypatian Directory, but that was a wonder of the world.
Then of course there was the Lavadome, a crystal bubble an entire horizon wide buried deep in a volcano, but that was more than wonder. The Lavadome couldn’t even be called architecture; it was a mysterious miracle of a forgotten age, claimed long ago by the dragons who went into hiding from their enemies in the Upper World.
Her brother had changed all that. Tyr RuGaard, Lord of Worlds, First Protector of the Grand Alliance, slayer of the Dragonblade—
If she recited her Copper brother’s ceremonial titles she’d be remembering and counting all day. No, the dwarfs needed help steading their dragonscale-laden machine—crane, it was called a crane—as it lifted its burden to the workdwarfs on the roof.
A green dart fell out of the sky. Suddenly its wings opened and it landed with a gust of wind that silenced the workers and sent ropes rattling against wooden bracing scaffolds.
Yefkoa, the swiftest dragonelle in the Firemaids, landed.
Wistala liked Yefkoa. The dragonelle had the energy and interest in long journeys and had good directional sense. She rarely got lost, even when flying over unfamiliar lands. She also had an unusually passionate loyalty to Tyr RuGaard and would threaten any who disparaged his odd looks and awkward ways.
“Fill a trough for this dragonelle,” she ordered one of the dwarfs. “What brings you in such a hurry, Yefkoa.”
“The Queen requests your presence at once,” she panted.
“What, another war?” Since forming the Grand Alliance a generation ago, the Hypatians had acted high-handed toward their neighbors. They enjoyed the power of dragons at their back. Oddly enough, the Tyr encouraged their campaigns and excursions as though he thought to gain by all this enemy-making.
“I don’t believe so, but it is a matter of some urgency. She bade me to fly quickly, though she gave no commands about you making haste. She simply said ‘as soon as Wistala can manage the trip.’ ”
Nilrasha, Queen of Worlds, with other titles thanks to her being Tyr RuGaard’s mate, must be obeyed. The Dragon Empire had an unspoken “or else” attached to such commands—most of the consequences involved loss of position.
Luckily, the northern thanedoms needed little protecting at the moment. Winter had already settled into the mountains, so Ironrider raiders would find all the seasonal passes closed, and the northern barbarians would already be filling their barns and cellars to wait out the snow and ice heaped about their mead-halls and hovels. “I shall attend her. But there must be a delay of a few days, thanks to minor difficulties in building my resort. The dwarfs need me in the air to lift and set the capstones.”
It might be in my advantage to be away for a while, Wistala thought. The dwarfs can’t spend my last coin if I’m not around to buy them out of any more difficulties.
The air was full of eagles.
It was good eagle country, here in the tangled foothills of the mountains with the ocean in sight and a dozen river-fed, cliff-shadowed lakes beneath. The inaccessible heights guarded future generations of eggs, and the ample updrafts made flying almost effortless for feather wings.
The vultures, bigger than the eagles but keeping a polite distance—of all the creatures she’d encountered in her travels they were the most sensitive and genteel of creatures. No raucous fighting, no territorial displays, and a philosophical diffidence as they waited to do their duty in disposing of bits and pieces, lest the flies grew so thick on offal they’d carpet the world.
Wistala marked an occupied nest above the Queen’s look-out, and dropped to give it a wide berth. Though an eagle couldn’t do much more to a dragon than put an eye out, a desperate attack in defense of eggs wasn’t unknown.
AuRon told her once that his friend Naf—now long since King Naf of Dairuss—had hidden in this tangled border country while hiding with his rebels from the Red Queen of the Ghioz. It was a good land for someone who wanted to hide. Vesk after vesk of steep-sided river valleys, thickly wooded and vined, were i
nspiring from the air, but even a long-necked dragon would easily become disoriented on the ground.
She made a gentle call, both to alert the eagles so they wouldn’t be startled by her presence and to announce her arrival.
She glided into the Queen’s cave. It had a good view of the west and was warmed by the setting sun. She marked a few reinforcing pillars—someone had gone to the trouble to enlarge the cave. She’d visited a few times before, years ago when the flightless Queen had first been installed in her high resort. Since then, it had been much improved.
A few blighters, long-armed, hairy collections of appetites known for their strong backs and quick quarrels, greeted her with offerings of water, sweet wine, and toasted meat on wooden skewers. They wore colorful ponchos closed with brooches of green dragonscale. She accepted a little of each offering as an unusually tall blighter, with a careful request for permission in passable Drakine, massaged her wing tendons, first on one side, then the other.
The Queen had a homey cave. It had better air flowing through than the cave of her birth and the faint sounds rising from the thick forest below soothed when the air was still.
An aged griffaran, almost featherless and droopy, stood sentinel on a hidden perch. A platter that smelled of fish stood near him on its own treelike stand. She wondered if he was some veteran of a dozen battles, now in a pleasantly airy sinecure as honor guard to the Queen. His beak and talon still appeared razor sharp, so perhaps it wasn’t just for show.
Later it occurred to Wistala that the Queen might have encouraged eagles to build their tangled nests and settle about her quarters like a kindlewood crown. A dragon couldn’t have too many sets of wary eyes to give the alarm when living above ground.
There would be many an eagle jealous of that view, Wistala thought. Her cave looked out over sharp, rocky pillars with little soil, but what had collected in the nooks and crevices sprouted wind-twisted trees. Low clouds made the lush valley floors, echoing with the sound of rivers and waterfalls, hazy or invisible. Off to the west, a thin strip of the inland ocean could just be seen. Wistala, judging the sun’s descent, decided that no matter what the Queen’s concerns she wouldn’t miss the view of the sunset.
She heard breathing from deeper inside the cave.
“My Queen, you called for me?”
“Ages ago, it seems. Thank you for coming. I long for company.”
Wistala ambled into the Queen’s presence and they clacked griff in greeting. Neither bothered with bows, they were relatives by mating fight. Nilrasha had lost her taste for courtly gestures since the war injury that left her with stumps for wings.
Queen Nilrasha was still beautiful, but it was the beauty of a ruin, like the old, fern-sided, weather-shaped stones of Tumbledown where she’d hunted for metals as an unfledged drakka. Her scales were still well-shaped, and she was still strong-limbed—probably stronger-limbed than most dragons, having to rely on them for climbing all the way up to her resort. She had a well-shaped head, which reminded her a little of AuRon’s mate Natasatch about the nostrils and eyes, though the Queen’s fringe, the pride of any dragonelle or dragon-dame, was clipped and stiffened and shaped into pleasing waves running down her back. Natasatch had a natural crest, much like Wistala’s—a little ragged and bent from wear and fighting.
Only a little paint highlighted some of the scale around her eyes, nostrils, jawline, and griff. White polished teeth added to her other carefully groomed attractions. Wistala was relieved that the Queen didn’t color her scale any of the garish pinks and purples that seemed to be in vogue in the Lavadome. She’d been told that many a firemaiden recruit needed a thorough scrubbing with a wire-tipped brush to get the paint off her scales.
Her cave was simple, adorned only with a few trophies of the Battle of Hypat, where she’d lost her wings in a dreadful crash.
She offered Wistala wine, or honey-sweetened blood, or hot fat. Wistala chose the fat, as she’d flown hard and fought winds. The Wind Spirit was sending air from the south and the north to do battle over Hypatia and the Inland Ocean.
Nilrasha called a female blighter and issued orders.
“Did you send for me all this way just for company?” Wistala asked. Nilrasha had become a much more serious dragon since losing her wings, she’d matured into a Queen to be respected and regarded, if remote.
“Wistala—I’m afraid.”
Nilrasha, afraid? Wistala, from her time in the Firemaids, had heard the stories of the Queen’s legendary ferocity in battle. She’d been the sole survivor of a futile attack on a well-fortified Ghioz city in Bant, struck hard in the uprising against the Dragonblade’s hag-riders, and sacrificed her wings in battle against the Ironriders.
She couldn’t say she knew Nilrasha well enough to know whether she was being entirely honest. According to some of the Firemaids, Nilrasha was an expert at playing politics, hiding the jump and the tear behind a apparent interest in only your betterment. But Rainfall had taught her to start politely, and return courtesy with courtesy doubled.
“I am sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to allay your fears?”
Nilrasha loosed a quiet, friendly prrum. Wistala had an awful griff-tchk in which she wondered if she hadn’t asked precisely what Nilrasha wanted her to ask.
“There is, sister. I need you to take my place.”
Wistala thought she had heard wrong. First, she hadn’t been called sister by anyone since she was a hatchling. Second: “Take—your place?”
“By my mate’s side, in the Lavadome. He’s set me up in these lovely quarters, it’s like still being able to fly, in a way, not that I did much flying as Queen even in a place like the Lavadome. But I’m no longer able to perform even half my duties as Queen. There’s something about a broken-winged dragon that inspires contempt in enemies and useless pity in friends.”
Nilrasha waggled her wing stumps. It was a disarming gesture, so dreadfully unsettling it was humorous.
“Act as his mate?” Wistala managed, feeling her scales tingle as they resettled.
“Don’t look so shocked, sister, there is a precedent for it. Back in the days of Silverhigh, of course.” Silverhigh was a half-legendary dragon civilization, in an age long, long ago when dragonkind ruled the Earth and flew proudly in the sunshine. Before the assassins came.
Bother precedents and Silverhigh. Her brother? She didn’t hate him outright. In her opinion, he’d turned into a rather noble dragon even if he looked, walked, and flew a little offbeat. Wistala had given him his bad eye in her fury over his role in the discovery and murder of their parents.
Nilrasha waggled her stumps again, pointing one at Wistala. “I don’t mean you’d be his mate. It’s true, we’ve had no luck with hatchlings, probably because we’ve both been so smashed about in our youth, but I don’t mean a sort of substitute egg layer. Only that you’d act in my place in matters of rank and title.”
“Why me?” Wistala asked. Surely there were more famous dragonelles—Ibidio, for instance. She was the well-respected daughter of Tyr FeHazathant, the greatest and most legendary of the Tyrs. Since Tighlia’s death, Ibidio had always set the standard of how a great female dragon should act. If anyone deserved to display a proud side of green at court functions it was she. “Surely someone like Ibidio is more used to life in the Lavadome on Imperial Rock.”
Nilrasha’s wings froze and her griff flashed open and shut again with a snick that echoed off the cavern walls.
The Queen cleared her throat. “First, you’re his sister. When all is said and done, I trust blood. Second, you’re an outsider. You don’t belong to any particular clan, so I suspect everyone would find you assuming the position agreeable. If we tried to put an Ankelene in, the Skotl and Wyrr would object, if Skotl—I’m sure you have made the mind-picture. These jealousies of clan and class are more dangerous to us than any hominid. But I’m showing my radical scale again; I must get back to cases. Third, you have tremendous experience in the Upper World—rank and friends in
the Hypatian Protectorate, and no matter how knowledgeable some of us are in various wars and politics in the Lavadome or the Upholds, it’s just a little hidden corner of the world. My mate could use the advice of someone as traveled as you. Fourth, you’re one of the most impressive physical specimens of a dragonelle I’ve ever seen. It’s clear you didn’t grow up on scrawny bullocks and kern. If it came to outright physical intimidation, you’d make any of those pretentious, overgrown asps in the Imperial Line back off.”
Lavadome politics were still a vague business to her, but she did know the three “lines” of dragons mistrusted one another, a holdover from terrible civil wars generations ago. “I always thought myself rather thick and lumpy. Most of you are so sleek and graceful.”
“You’ll find there comes a time when you simply must draw yourself up and bellow with that collection of iron-brained self-importance of the Imperial Rock, Wistala. Even if you can’t break heads, you can give their ears a good pounding. You’re the dragonelle to do it, I believe.”
“I’ve no ambition,” Wistala said, wishing she’d stayed to see her roof finished. “I’m happy living among my friends in the northern provinces. It’s a fractious part of Hypatia, my Queen. Barbarians to the north with a few mercenary dragonriders left over from the Wizard’s days, grumpy, begrudged dwarfs in the mountains, infiltrations by clans of Ironriders in the woods and dales committing banditry, and the human thanes who are ostensibly our allies don’t care for the Hypatian Directory being high-handed thanks to our Tyr’s backing. You see ‘dragons out now’ scrawled on mile markers in some of the other provinces, especially where their ‘Protectors’ demand much in the way of food and coin. Not that I’m not immensely honored—”