Dark Wyng

by Chris D'Lacey

  Gabrial squinted at the bright blue sky. The sweeping profiles of the scarred gray mountains stretched back in layer upon layer of rock, blurring into the pale horizon. The snow-draped gradients were beautiful to look at, but Elder Givnay hadn’t chosen this place for its view. The cave was part of a vast, impenetrable stronghold. It had to be one of the most secure eyries in the domayne. Who could steal a dragon’s heart from here? “The cave is too high for the Hom to climb,” he said. “And if they were foolish enough to try, we’d see them long before they reached this ridge.”

  Gallen twisted his snout. “We thought the Hom couldn’t take a wearling from under the wings of a queen, but they did. Don’t leave this … relic unattended. That’s an order.”

  “Gallen, wait.”

  The Veng grizzled in annoyance. “What?”

  “I have to—leave it unattended. I have to be at the Naming later today. You too. The whole Wearle has to be there.”

  Gallen shook his head. “I will be in official attendance, but the Veng are exempt from ceremonial tedium if there are possible security risks elsewhere. And we can co-opt others if the need is great enough. A capable roamer has been watching this place ever since it’s been empty. I’ll reassign it to that duty while you’re away making your pretty speech.”

  Oh, yes. Gabrial had forgotten about that. At the Naming, he would be expected to spread his wings and talk of noble deeds and his merit as a parent, a prospect that left him numb with nerves. He turned his thoughts back to the heart. “Can’t we bury it? Here, in the eyrie? I could push it deep into one of the tunnels?”

  “No.”

  “But what if the wearlings knock it off and break it?”

  Gallen growled impatiently. “They could kick it down the mountain and it wouldn’t crack. You know as well as I do that opening a dragon heart is impossible. Didn’t Grogan teach you that? There are five just like it on Ki:mera. Not even that puffed-up De:allus has been able to find his way into one.”

  “So why guard it?”

  “Because it stops the superstitious types panicking.”

  “And if it were to be opened? If Grogan’s auma was freed?”

  Gallen backed up toward the cave mouth. “You think too much. Just guard it.”

  And he flew.

  Barely moments later, Grendel shuffled up to Gabrial’s side. “So this is it,” she said, sniffing at the heart. She ran the tip of her isoscele down it, tracing the path of the largest vein. “I suppose there could be worse vocations. You have to admit, it’s a small price to pay for such a wonderful settle.” She moved to the very lip of the cave, stretching her neck to feel the breeze.

  “Grendel?”

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you believe in the legend of the black dragon?”

  “No,” she said. “Come and stand with me.” She filled her lungs and let the air trickle sweetly through her spiracles. “It’s so fresh up here.”

  “When I was a wearling, my father used to tell me scary stories about how Graven would return one day, looking for a heart just like—”

  “Gabrial.” She cut him dead. “Do I need to remind you why we’re here? These wearlings you’re supposed to be parenting both had traumatic starts to their lives. I don’t want you making things worse by muttering to me about Graven, the Tywyll, a black dragon, the fallen son of Godith, or whatever else you want to call it. Gayl and Gariffred are not to hear talk like that in this eyrie, or ever have cause to believe that a black dragon could exist. Are we clear about that?”

  “But?”

  “Gabrial … ?” A tiny growl left her throat.

  “All right. If you say so.”

  “I do. Now, come and stand with me and look at this amazing sky.”

  Gabrial blew a short puff of smoke. He had often heard it said that brooding females lost any trace of meekness at the first sound of an egg hatching, but he hadn’t quite expected such bossiness from Grendel. She was only fostering these young, after all. All the same, he bowed to her wishes and came to the cave mouth.

  “We’ll need to be careful here.” He looked at the drop to the next level down. In the old cave, the wearlings had been allowed to roam freely onto the hillside. One slip here and they could fall to their deaths. Both were learning the benefit of wings, but a drop of this height could make a young dragon panic and put it into a challenging spin. He looked over his shoulder for the wearlings. “Where are they?”

  “Playing in the tunnels. Don’t worry, I’ve sounded every shaft; they don’t go terribly deep. The worst Gariffred can do is get stuck. These mountains are incredible. We could settle here, Gabrial. Have more wearlings—of our own.”

  Gabrial looked out across the peaks, remembering his many flights patrolling the scorch line. “The Hom might have something to say about that. When do you think we should tell Gariffred—about Ren?”

  “Visitor,” Grendel said suddenly, spotting the arc of a gliding dragon.

  Gabrial raised himself to full alertness, but relaxed when he recognized who the caller was.

  “Grymric,” Grendel called out warmly, as the healing dragon of the Wearle set down.

  “Grendel. Gabrial.” He nodded at them both. “Wonderful morning, isn’t it?”

  Grymric’s glowing appreciation of the Erth weather seemed a slight contradiction to Gabrial. An anxious look was always resident in the healing dragon’s eyes, despite the herbs he took to improve his well-being. He folded down a pair of light green wings that were prematurely weathered on their undersides.

  “Yes, very pleasing,” Grendel said. “I’ll call the wearlings. Grymric’s here to check them, Gabrial.”

  “A small tradition, before their proud moment,” said the healer. “Are you looking forward to the Naming?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Gabrial. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Grendel could hear him. “It’s going to be strange, Naming another dragon’s young—especially one as controversial as Gariffred.”

  “You’ve come through worse,” Grymric reassured him. “And whatever you think of Grynt, he supports you. These wearlings are special, Gabrial. The first true Erth dragons. And this is a fine, fine home for them. How do you like it up here?”

  “It would be better without that.” Gabrial nodded at the heart.

  “Ah, yes.” Grymric tightened his jaw. “A sad reminder of a loyal per. You’re tasked with guarding it?”

  “Orders from Gallen, to keep me quiet. I suppose you heard about Ren?”

  Grymric glanced into the cave. “He’s not with you?”

  “No.” Gabrial told him the story.

  The healer huffed and puffed at every line. “It’s hard on you and the boy, but I can understand Grynt’s concerns. No species has ever crossed blood with us before. He had to report it. Any Prime would have done the same. But De:allus Garodor is highly thought of. He’ll treat Ren fairly, I’m sure. How’s Gariffred taking it?”

  “He doesn’t know yet. I’m not sure what to tell him.”

  Grymric hurred in his throat. “Perhaps you could say that Ren needed to go back to the Hom for a while.”

  Gabrial shook his head. “He’ll know it’s a lie. They’re close, Grymric. Ren is developing a strong telepathic bond with the drake.”

  “Here they are,” said Grendel, approaching. She proudly presented the young ones to Grymric.

  “Ah, excellent, excellent,” Grymric said. “Such wonderful colors the Astrian bloodline produces.” Gayl was a deep purple hue throughout, but it was already possible to see some subtle variations of that tone running right back to her emerging isoscele, where, unusually, there was a splash of white. Gariffred was equally striking. He was a typical, rangy drake. Blue was his dominant color, though he showed his sister’s purple in his wings and at the very whip of his tail. Both wearlings did their best to bow politely to the senior dragon among them.

  “Both looking so much happier,” chirruped Grymric. “And that wing is completely healed, by the look of it.”r />
  Gabrial glanced at the place where, seven days ago, an arrow had ripped through Gariffred’s wing, pinning him to a tree. The drake had recovered well from the wound. The wing was fully flexible again and he no longer dragged it when he walked.

  Grymric turned the youngsters into the light. “Jaws wide open, please. Excellent. Excellent. And … roar for me.”

  What came out of the wearlings’ mouths were two of the most incompetent roars Gabrial had ever heard, but he supposed he’d been no better at their age. A moment later, he had cause to demonstrate how a roar ought to sound when a crow settled on a spur of the cave mouth. One growl sent it squawking away.

  “Crows again?” said Grendel.

  “Just a scavenger looking for scraps, I suppose.”

  Grendel twisted her snout, making her golden braids twinkle from her nostrils to her ears. “Surely we’re out of their range? I don’t remember Givnay being troubled by crows?”

  “Givnay would have curdled their brains and sucked the juice out through their nostrils. It’s no surprise they avoided him. I’ll kill the next one that comes and feed it to Gariffred. Which reminds me, I should hunt.”

  “Not now,” she said. “They’re going to be restless after the Naming. They’ll sleep better tonight if we let them feed later. Bring them something tough they need to rake their claws through. Not too much fur.”

  “Yes, that’s very … beguiling.” Grymric’s voice rose softly in the background.

  Grendel turned to see. “Oh, look at that. Grymric’s got them making i:mages.”

  Gabrial tightened his eye ridges a little. “Since when was making i:mages part of a fitness check?”

  “Ask him yourself. All well, Grymric?”

  “Oh, yes,” he replied, coming over. “Good strong jaws. Keen eyes. Primary scales beginning to form. Gayl’s even showing her first fang. Physically, they’re perfect.”

  “But?” said Gabrial, sensing one coming.

  Grymric dipped his head to whisper. “Well, it’s Gariffred.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Grendel, immediately alarmed.

  “Nothing,” Grymric urged her. “Seriously, Grendel, there’s no cause for alarm. He’s just a little … unusual for his age.”

  “Unusual?” Gabrial repeated flatly.

  Grymric nodded. “He’s just made the most extraordinary i:mage. I think it was an attempt at the Erth moon.”

  Grendel glanced back at the drake. Gariffred had tired of making i:mages and had found a small pile of stones to play with. “There’s nothing unusual about that,” she said. “I used to i:mage Ki:meran moons. The Erth moon is dull in comparison, quite easy to produce.”

  “Not at his age,” Gabrial said. “Isn’t that what you’re getting at, Grymric?”

  “Partly, yes. A solid white circle isn’t beyond a gifted young dragon. But this is what Gariffred constructed …”

  In the space between them, Grymric reproduced a floating picture of what looked, roughly, like a quarter moon. The outer edges of the “moon” were very haphazard, almost jagged in places. And in the black cutaway part (that Gabrial assumed to be the night sky), there was a speck of yellow. “I’d say that was quite advanced,” said Grymric. “I wasn’t making shapes like that until I was old enough to hunt for myself.”

  The i:mage popped.

  “I think it’s just a messy blob,” said Grendel, “the product of an untrained mind. Besides, he’s never seen that phase of the moon. So how could he i:mage it?”

  “Yes. Good point,” Grymric said.

  “What was the yellow speck?” asked Gabrial.

  “I don’t know. That puzzled me as well. I asked him to explain it, but he’s still too young to form a comprehensible answer.”

  “What’s he doing now?” Grendel muttered.

  They all looked at Gariffred, who was selecting certain stones from his pile and arranging them in a line on the cave floor.

  “Now, that’s very curious as well,” said Grymric. “I think he’s putting them in order of size.”

  They watched Gariffred pick up a stone and plonk it down in a different position.

  “Strange,” said Grendel. “No wearling I know has ever been taught to do that.” She barked a quick warning at the drake, who had just snapped at his sister for sweeping one of the stones out of line with her tail.

  “Maybe there’s De:allus in his bloodline,” said Grymric.

  “Or it’s something he’s learned from Ren,” said Gabrial.

  “That would be extraordinary,” Grymric agreed. “A wearling adopting the behavioral patterns of another species. The new De:allus will certainly want to monitor that.”

  Or stamp it out completely, Gabrial thought.

  “It’s nearly time,” said Grendel. She called the wearlings to her.

  “I should leave you to prepare,” Grymric said. “Good luck. Enjoy it. I’ll see you all at Skytouch, shortly.”

  He nodded at Gabrial, opened his wings, and flew, almost colliding with the arriving guard that Gallen had remembered to post at the cave.

  “Time for you two to join the Wearle,” said Grendel as the youngsters reared up to touch her snout with theirs. She stroked Gayl gently and picked her up between her teeth.

  “Rrren?” said Gariffred.

  Gabrial looked over him at the guard. He had taken up position close to the heart and didn’t look in any mood to communicate.

  “Ren will be here soon,” Gabrial said quietly. A lie, of course, but he could think of nothing better in the circumstances. And with a last puzzled look at the line of stones, he picked up the drake and flew him out of the eyrie.

  Not since the death of Grystina and the inquest that followed had Gabrial seen so many of the Wearle together at once. The dragons were assembled like colored stars on the slopes that fed into the great ice lake, perched wherever they could find a hold. On the three stone pillars that rose like straight fangs out of the lake sat Gossana, Prime Grynt, and De:allus Garodor. Gallen was also in attendance, a bright glint of green off to Gabrial’s right, the only member of the Veng present. In a strange imitation of the last time he’d been there, falsely accused then of treason, Gabrial stood on the pebbled shore opposite the pillars, this time with Grendel proudly by his side and the two restless wearlings in front of them.

  As the sun shined down on Skytouch, Grynt bellowed, “Dragons, you are gathered here in the eyes of Godith to see two wearlings Named today. You all know of the tragic incidents that brought Gabrial and Grendel together. But let us not dwell on the events of the past. We are here to celebrate new life, new dragons, the growth of the Wearle!”

  Hrrr!

  A roar of approval boomed through the air, almost bringing down a drop of rain. Gayl shied away from the blare and pawed at Grendel to hide her. Grendel soothed her with gentle whispers and nudged her around to face the Elders again. Gossana looked on disapprovingly at what she clearly saw as a show of weakness.

  Gabrial, despite his various concerns, could not help but feel proud of this moment. He remembered the confusion he’d felt at his own Naming and how his father had extended a wing to him. He did the same now to Gariffred. The drake hurred in appreciation. Unlike Gayl, he seemed excited by the noise rather than overwhelmed by the occasion.

  “In accordance with our traditions,” Grynt cried, “I have instructed the mother of the young, in this case the fostering mother, Grendel, to share her names for the young with me. I now submit these names for the Wearle’s approval. The wearmyss, a purple born of the Astrian line, shall be called GAYL. If any dragon has reason to contest this name, let them speak now.”

  A firm silence settled over the lake. Grynt let it hold for three heartbeats, then cried, “Accepted!”

  Another huge roar tumbled down the slopes.

  “And now we present the drake.”

  Gabrial felt his claws sinking into the pebbles. This was the crucial moment. There were dragons here whose ancestors had fought in lineage wars a
gainst Gariffred the Elder. Anyone deeply connected to their history might not be willing to forgive the deaths of so many dueling dragons back then.

  Grynt’s voice boomed across the lake. “He, the drake, is also descended from the Astrian line. He shall be called GARIFFRED. If any dragon has reason to contest this name, let them speak now.”

  An uneasy silence settled. The wind jostled for position, tugging at Gabrial’s bristling ear nodes. He had his aural sensors fully stretched and thought he could hear fire burning in the throats of some dragons. It would need only one to voice its disapproval, and others might follow. He noticed Gallen peering around, waiting to act on any possible trouble. The big yellow eyes of De:allus Garodor were also panning the slopes.

  One beat slid past. Two. Three.

  Nothing. Gabrial sighed with relief.

  Grynt opened his jaws to make the announcement.

  But no word came out. The whole ritual was suddenly interrupted by a piercing cry from a dragon in the air. A single Veng was approaching, shrieking an alarm that could not keep pace with the speed of its descent.

  “What’s happening?” said Grendel, as voices began to respond to the alarm. She gathered Gayl beneath her, all the while looking around for the Veng. “Is it attacking us? Gabrial?”

  Gabrial was moving fast toward Gariffred. In the confusion, the drake had broken away from his parents and was flapping around a little farther down the shoreline, echoing the alarm call, as young dragons were inclined to do.

  “Quiet that thing!” Gossana rapped.

  A somewhat pointless demand; the whole Wearle was rumbling now.

  The Veng made an untidy landing and began to give a hurried report to Gallen.

  “Accept him,” said Gabrial, trying to catch Grynt’s gaze, but all the while twisting to watch the Veng. “Prime, accept Gariffred into the Wearle.”

  But Grynt’s attention was all on Gallen. The Veng commander swooped toward the pillars, landing on a patch of ice that cracked beneath his weight. “Enemy,” he growled. “Beyond the scorch line.”

  “What is it?” asked Grynt, rising up. The armored scales on his breast clattered into their battle positions.