by E. E. Knight
“I’d like to know more about your order,” Wistala said.
“It’s a matter of few words, or a great many,” DharSii replied.
“Tell me.” As far as he was concerned, she could listen to him forever.
“The Order was committed to learning from others. Hominids, avians, whatever. All the natural world holds a lesson.”
“That’s true. I learned courage from an old horse,” Wistala said.
“According to the philosophers of Silverhigh, dragons taught others to speak and record their thoughts. But sometimes I wonder if it wasn’t the reverse. There are so many odd words in the dragon vocabulary that are of little use unless you’re dealing with hominid concerns. Terms having to do with architecture, or agriculture. Dragons in their natural state don’t grow food and sniff out shelter more often than they build it. You’d think we’d only have three words for a cave, much as the bears do.”
“When would you like to leave for my home cave?”
“What about the Tyr?” DharSii asked.
“Talking about the past upsets him. That part of our shared past, I should say.”
DharSii planted his feet. “I’d rather talk about the future. Wistala, I’d prefer to have you as a mate.”
Wistala thought she’d imagined his statement. He’d like her to be his mate? “That’s it? I’m a preference? No song, no mating flight, no—”
“You’re a sensible, intelligent dragon. You really want to sit there and listen to me sing about my life? You know the particulars—the important ones, anyway.”
“That’s it,” she repeated, feeling the heat in her words.
DharSii looked puzzled. Perhaps he expected her to quietly agree, then have a long talk about the ideal Protectorate for a home cave. “These old traditions sound better than they live. My bellowing, you flying off and trying to outrace me. It’s silliness. I’m sure two intelligent dragons can come to a reasonable decision.”
Wistala spoke without thinking. “Reason, reason—everything with you is reason. Give me a reason to be your mate!”
DharSii stamped in confusion, looking at her first out of one eye and then the other as if to make sure his visual abilities were functioning properly.
“So we’re not to be mated?”
The Wyrr temperament he’d just praised disappeared. “Not without a proper courtship, no. Furthermore, I have my duties as Queen-Consort. I don’t know where Lavadome traditions stand on such matters.”
“Vent the Lavadome. There are dozens of dragonelles, in the Firemaids and in the hills, for your brother to choose from. Any of them could preside over ceremonies and sniff hatchlings as well as you. I don’t want us to be following old traditions that have outlived their usefulness. Let us start our own.”
“I swore oaths on my honor when I became a Firemaid. I cannot mate without breaking that oath. Nilrasha broke hers and look what happened. They think her capable of murdering a sister dragon.”
DharSii blinked and took a deep breath. She might as well have told him that his teeth needed a polish. Curse him, was he a wind-up toy, built by dwarfs? Didn’t a recognizable emotion exist in that great horned head of his?
“We’ll talk more. Let me see about helping you find this missing piece of the puzzle, or engine, or whatever this is.”
With that, she fled upward, afraid that if she stayed any longer she’d forget those oaths and her duties to a nation of dragons.
Wistala wanted to fly, wanted to touch the sun. DharSii wanted her to be his mate. But instead of flying, she had to find her brother to ask him to accompany DharSii on his search.
She found Shadowcatch with a great bucket of wine guarding the entrance to his chamber.
“Shadowcatch, I must see the Tyr.”
“My Queen, I suppose I should tell you that I’m to kill you,” Shadowcatch said, slurring a little. He was a great eater and an ever greater drinker of wine, and the Tyr had recently given him some barrels of brandy-fortified syrup, the tribute of grateful elvish winemakers on the Ku-Zuhu coast whose fields and cellars were no longer being raided by Inland Sea Pirates.
Wistala couldn’t have been more shocked if the world had turned upside down.
“My own mate’s bodyguard, an assassin?”
“Don’t misunderstand. I’ve no intention of killing you now. Your mate’s been so kind to me. I was hired by the Wheel of Fire dwarfs to hunt you down and kill you. But seeing as most of ’em are lying dead on the battlefield, I doubt anyone will be asking for their upfronts back.”
“Why tell me?” Wistala asked.
Shadowcatch looked discomfited. “I’m not a clever dragon like some here. But I know when a fight is on the way. I can just tell, the way some dragons look at me, they’re guessing which way I’ll jump if there’s an attempt on your mate’s life. I wanted to tell you about the dwarfs hiring me so you’d know that you could trust me. But at the same time, if I don’t kill you, I feel like I’m breaking an oath.”
Wistala thought furiously. “What were the terms?”
“Kill you, bring back your head to prove it, and then I’d get the rest of my coin.”
“Was there a time limit set on the job?”
“No, though they wanted one. But I told them with the whole world for you to hide in, it’d take a while to track you down.”
“Then let’s put off the day of reckoning. The way things are shaping up, I may very well end up dead in any case. Should fate overtake me, you’re welcome to my head and your reward.”
The Copper watched the questioning from the unusual perspective of the audience ledges.
The old dueling pit under Imperial Rock was roughly oval, sand-bottomed with lines of ledges that could accommodate many dragons, depending on how willing they were to be squashed. When very full, thralls pulled chains that worked winglike flaps moving in and out of the two exits, one leading to the Lavadome and the other up into Imperial Rock.
A unique, rising ledge projected out into the arenalike sand pit. When it was used for dueling, a neutral dragon would oversee the duel from that vantage, ready to intervene in the event one of the duelists received aid from a nonduelist or fought with non-natural weapons. Now the promontory held the Tyr as he listened to witnesses and heard evidence and held debates over important issues when he wanted to hear other opinions.
Now NoSohoth reclined on the Tyr’s ledge, and looked as though he enjoyed his view. There were enough spectators so that every fan-chain was employed, every oliban brazier was lit, and still the air was thick with stale air and dragon-musk.
The Skotl and Wyrr clans gathered on either side of the arena, with the Ankelenes scattered about. Drakwatch and Firemaid drakes and drakka were grouped around him and Wistala.
The Copper hoped he’d live to see the day when Wyrr and Skotl wouldn’t divide in this manner—they were all dragons, after all, and had enemies enough without dividing.
He’d heard rumors about the supposed witnesses, everyone had. Even his bats hadn’t been able to learn anything about their location or who was hiding them. He suspected they were among the thralls somewhere, but as Tyr and Nilrasha’s mate he had to remain above the controversy.
NoSohoth did an impressive job once Ibidio brought in her witnesses. The first was a down-at-beard dwarf who claimed Nilrasha stalked Halaflora as the just-mated couple traveled west to Anaea.
First NoSohoth quizzed the dwarf about how he came to be a ferryman deep beneath the surface. An Ankelene translated for those who didn’t understand the dwarf’s rough Parl.
“We were a labor team brought down to build a bridge for the Hypatians. A digger friend bought a map to a secret gold mine in what you-all call the Lower World. So we bucked off cutting stone for bridges and sought fortune. We tried to find it—got lost. Starving, we were, had to earn a living somehow.”
The actual story required a good deal of prompting from NoSohoth—dwarfs were notoriously recalcitrant about their histories. Many in the audience grew bore
d and one or two slipped out for air.
Then NoSohoth asked: “How did you know the dragonelle in question was Nilrasha?”
“She said so, your dragonship.”
With that, NoSohoth nodded to a thrall and three Firemaids entered.
“Could you please show us which one labeled herself as Nilrasha.”
Ibidio spat a torf into the sand of the pit and the Copper heard griff rattle.
“Err . . . the one in the middle, I think. The light wasn’t good.”
“The light wasn’t good,” NoSohoth repeated.
The next witness was an aged bat the Copper didn’t recognise, beyond his size and toothiness, thanks to being fed dragon blood.
NoSohoth’s questioning was brief. He spoke to the bat in a loud, stern voice and the bat crumbled.
“What would you be likin’ me to say, sir?” the bat cried.
“I think we’ve heard enough from him. Take the poor old sot away, he’s confused.”
Some of Ibidio’s allies hissed and clattered their griff at that.
“What does the Lavadome believe?” NoSohoth asked the assembled dragons. “Who will call Nilrasha a murderer?”
“Murderer!” Ibidio roared. A few other voices joined in, some loudly, some with half a voice. The number of voices grew.
NoSohoth looked at the Copper, alarmed.
Wistala muttered something about this process being subject to manipulation. The Copper thought it an immense improvement over the Tyr just passing judgement based on whether he liked the look on the accused’s face and the lay of his scale or no, but Nilrasha’s honorable name, and possibly his Tyrship, lay in the balance . . .
“Innocent!” shouted Wistala, which wasn’t according to tradition of trial by questioning.
“Innocent!” she roared again, also not according to tradition—if practice of such recent vintage could be called tradition—but the Firemaids joined in.
“Innocent! Innocent!”
Some of the poorer dragons from Nilrasha’s home hill took up the call. NoSohoth joined in. Soon, the shouts of “Murderer!” dwindled and fell off.
“Thank you, Wistala,” the Copper said.
“She blames herself, you know,” Wistala replied.
“For Halaflora’s death?”
“She told me she tried, but she was too late. I believe her.”
The Copper had long wondered about exactly what had happened that night. Sometimes he’d doubted Nilrasha’s version—privately, that is.
He couldn’t find words. Someday soon he’d have to ask Nilrasha to forgive his doubting her.
“Poor Halaflora,” the Copper finally said. “Well, my Queen-Consort, if you must chase the ghosts of the past, I give you leave. I hope DharSii finds what he’s looking for.”
Chapter 14
Wistala had forgotten how close the cave of their birth was to the gap in the Red Mountains that admitted the Falngese River. No wonder Father had had trouble with men and dwarfs. While the mountains themselves weren’t settled, trade routes at both the north-south and east-west routes passed nearby.
DharSii had heard the story of the attack on the egg cave and the murder of her parents with cool distaste. He’d undoubtedly heard other such stories about dragons hunted right to the egg shelf, but she’d hoped for a stronger reaction. Of course, he’d been withdrawn since the suggestion of mating in the twinkling depths of the Lavadome.
The cave smelled as though some bears had taken up residence in the upper chamber, but at this time of year they were out getting fat on berries, honeycombs, and fish. Which was just as well; she didn’t care to fight bears, as they contented themselves with their own needs and left even the smallest hatchlings alone. Only bats bothered to venture deeper. The smell of their excretions felt like a welcome.
The cave moss still glowed green, and the bats were, if anything, more numerous. She’d forgotten how small natural bats were. The oversized dragon-blood-sucking monstrosities of the Lavadome needed a different name.
Luckily, scavengers—both hominid and on four legs—had long since cleared away the last scrap of bone and scale.
“What are we looking for?” Wistala asked.
“I’m not sure, exactly. A piece of the puzzle. I know it’s small enough for a hominid to carry easily. Aklemere called it his ‘perspicacitor.’ ”
“I’ve never heard that word before. Is it a name?”
“You might interpret it as device that extends sight or brings understanding. It worked with the larger piece, the sunshard, as the blighters called it.”
Wistala rememberd the cave being so much larger. Why, the egg shelf wasn’t even a tail-length off the floor, yet she remembered it as a clifflike precipice.
“It would help more to know what it looks like than what it’s called.”
“Round or oval, and clear as glass when not in use. It may have been hollow, I don’t know—he wrote of images forming within. If it were hollow, it could be much larger.”
“With facets, you mean?”
“I believe so, since he states it was of the same material as the sun-shard. The only reference I’ve read describes it as round or oval and clear.”
Wistala couldn’t remember anything like that in the egg cave. Father had given her and Jizara very small gemstones to play with.
“I only had a quick glimpse of Father’s hoard. I’m sure whatever was in here, the dwarfs took.”
“Show me, please”
She pointed out the once-secret shaft. The boulder concealing it had been long since removed. He searched the little cave off it, then dropped a torf of flame to see how far down the shaft went.
“It’s not too deep. I’ll check it out.”
Wistala waited, her memories keeping her company, while DharSii plunged and sputtered and made noises that sounded as though he were rolling in mud. He came back up covered in black goo and stinking, glowing faintly from patches of cave moss. . . .
“That was unpleasant. Nothing at the bottom but some bits of what I think was a saddle and some bones, well covered in muck and cave moss.”
“DharSii, if you do find what you believe to be the final piece in your puzzle, what do you intend to do with it?”
“It depends on what the secret turns out to be. Perhaps it’s a weapon of some kind, but I doubt it. Anklemere wrote that, having tamed the dragons, there were no more enemies to fear. He often wrote that he had all this power, but was trapped in a cage no mind, no matter how acute, could open. The sun-shard and the Lavadome and his perspicacitor were his ‘key to the cage.’ I’m learning to despise metaphor.”
Wistala had a hard lump in her gut telling her she’d forgotten something important. She called up every memory of her time as a hatchling in the cave, even mind pictures passed down from her parents. Nothing.
“Were there any other secret spots, perhaps something very inaccessible?”
“The pool? That’s where RuGaard used to come in and out. No! The tunnel, I remember the tunnel where Mother had us escape.”
She felt her throat close up as she remembered Mother’s last, desperate call—Climb, hatchlings, climb!
Wistala climbed onto the egg shelf and sure enough, the recess that hid the tunnel was still there, marked only by some water flow. Father would never have been able to get his horned head inside, but he might have been able to feel his way around with snout and tongue. She could use her eyes.
She searched the little chimney.
“Here is a sign, on this loose rock. I think if I put a little light in here you may just be able to make it out.” She spat a torf of fire on the opposite wall, where it burned, throwing an orange light on the scrapings.
DharSii maneuvered his head as she pointed with her tail. “Yes! The Star of Silverhigh.”
It was a simple design, a little unevenly done. Five sii marks, evenly spaced out, coming together at the center. It reminded Wistala of the Wrimere’s old “Circle of Man” emblem, save that it wasn’t enclosed in a
circle, and there was just the slightest curve to the claw slashes, a little like the Wheel of Fire’s standard. Perhaps both the Wheel of Fire emblem and Wrimere’s had been modeled on the Silverhigh Star.
“Well done, Wistala,” DharSii said. “That’s about the right size.”
A piece of her thrilled at the compliment. Another part wondered that he only truly became animated when something of interest to him could be found. Whenever DharSii looked at her he just stared at her as though she were an unusual boulder formation.
She nosed around. “Yes, this stone moves. I’ll pull it out, I think I can get my tongue awoun’ yeeth . . .”
The stone moved. She spat it out.
“Yes! Got it.”
“Is there anything in there?” DharSii asked.
“No,” Wistala said, her wings and tail sagging. “It’s empty. Wait, there’s a little bit of—I don’t know, moss like dried seaweed in the bottom.”
She removed her head from the hole, with something like a brown string clamped in her nostril, and spat out the stone and the remainder out on the egg-shelf.
“That might be—”
“Elf hair,” Wistala said. Though the leaves were long-shriveled, there was no mistaking elf hair. “I don’t remember elves attacking. There were some outside the cave.”
AuRon had been caught by elves soon after they saw Father return. He’d said—
“Wait! Hazeleye!” Wistala said. “She was an expert on dragons, spent many years in NooMoahk’s cave. I met her. She was very old and frail. I expect she’s dead now. Perhaps it’s her hair. I always wondered why someone who apparently loved dragons would go along with murder and enslavement.”
DharSii drooped. “Another wasted trip,” he muttered. “How many just this year?”
“The question is, was the hair an accident, or a token that she’d searched here?” Wistala continued. “Elves often leave a strand of hair as a signal to others. Rainfall used to mark his honeycombs he’d checked, or garden beds he’d planted, or the oldest sack of horse grain with his hair once it began to come back.”