by Melanie Rawn
“A very long time ago, before even a single stone was shaped to build the keep here at Skybowl, a dragon lived on the shores of the lake. He fished in the lake or hunted in the hills when he was hungry, and curled up in the warm sand when he was tired, and—”
“What color was he?” Jihan asked.
“That’s what I’m about to tell you, if you’ll hush and listen,” he scolded with a smile, tweaking her toes beneath the coverlet. “He was all one color, just like every other dragon in the world back then. This is the story of how dragons came to be different colors. Have I your leave to continue, my ladies?”
“Yes, please,” Rislyn said. “We’ve never heard this one before.”
This was not surprising, as it had only formed in his mind a little while ago. And, of course, it wasn’t about dragons at all.
“Well, this dragon lived here all by himself. He wasn’t lonely, because dragons back then were very solitary creatures. They had their own caves, or lakes, or mountaintops, or forests, and didn’t much associate with each other unless it was a mating year.
“One day the dragon woke from an afternoon nap to see a flight of birds overhead. He called out, and one was polite enough to slide down the breeze and talk with him.
“‘Where are you going?’ the dragon asked the bird, and the bird replied, ‘To the Court of the Father of Winds, whose children of course we are as creatures of the Air. All things that fly are, you know.’
“Now, the dragon was quite amazed. ‘Why wasn’t I included in this invitation?’ he asked. ‘After all, I can fly. All dragons can.’ The bird fluttered from the dragon’s head to his tail, inspecting him, and said, ‘But you have no feathers. Worse, you have no colors. Look at me!’ And he preened his gorgeous plumage, all red and white and gold.
“The dragon looked, and sure enough, no feathers. Worse, his hide was all one dull shade, neither gray nor black nor white, sort of like ashes, and very boring. He thought about all the birds he’d ever seen—not too many, actually, as few birds like the Desert heat the way dragons do, but he’d seen enough to know that all birds had colored feathers, be it only plain brown. He was terribly humiliated—and I can tell you from my experiences with Azhdeen that humiliation is not something a dragon likes at all.
“‘I can fly,’ he said defiantly, rising up into the air. ‘And I’m going to ask the Storm God why I have no colored feathers like you birds.’”
Pol took another sip of taze.
“Keep on with the story, Papa!” Rislyn pleaded.
“I’m getting there, I’m getting there,” he laughed. “The dragon flew with the birds way up into the Veresch, where the Storm God held a great court every spring for the creatures of the Air. It was called the Convocation of Wings. All the birds and insects would fly around him, and sing and chitter and hum as their voices allowed, and such fluttering and buzzing was never heard in all the world as at this court. Even worse than the Rialla at Dragon’s Rest. They all flew from rock to rock and tree to tree, showing off their flying skills and their beautiful feathers or their thin, iridescent wings. But they all instantly hushed and hovered in one spot when the dragon showed up.
“‘What’s this?’ asked the Storm Father, startled that this lovely—if noisy—dance had been interrupted. The dragon landed before the throne and bowed, and said, ‘If it please your highness, I too am a creature of the Air. I can fly, just like birds and insects. And I’ve come to ask your highness why, of all the winged creatures, only dragons have no color.’
“Well, the Father of Winds stared at him a long moment, stroking his great white beard made of ice, and then said, ‘Come with me, Dragon. It’s a rather private story.’ And they went into an enormous cave. It was very dark and cold and damp inside, for of course the Storm God has no influence over Fire. The dragon shivered a little, and waited for an explanation.
“‘It’s not my fault,’ the Storm God said irritably. ‘While we were making the world, the Goddess and I, and deciding weighty questions like where to put the rivers and mountains, and how many eyes a horse ought to have, I found I couldn’t make things the colors I wanted to. Have you ever tried painting with Water? All you get is blue or green. As for Air—can’t be done. Doesn’t stick, you see, not even to the brush. So I had to concede . . . umm . . . certain things to the Goddess, for it is she who holds Fire in one hand and Earth in the other. If I wanted a certain red, I had to trade for a little rust to mix with Water for the proper color. Don’t even ask about what I had to give up for yellow. I like yellow. When I think of what that piece of Fire cost me—well, never mind. The point is that by the time we got around to dragons, I’d lost all patience. So you don’t have any color to you, and I’m sorry for it, but what could I do?’
“The dragon blinked—still shivering in the damp, dark cave—and said, ‘If I asked her nicely, do you think she might oblige me? I’m not greedy. Just a tint of something here and there. Nothing elaborate.’ The Storm Father shrugged. ‘You can try.’
“The dragon thanked him and flew off to find the Goddess. She was in her summer home in the very middle of the Long Sand. This was country more to the dragon’s liking—nice and hot, with plenty of sunshine. He approached the Goddess, and bowed to her, and told her what the Storm God had told him. Then he said, ‘If it please your highness, may dragons be gifted with colors?’
“The Goddess smiled and replied, ‘And what makes you think you’re not?’ All at once there was Fire all around him, such as he hadn’t seen since his own hatching. And within the Fire were colors. Hundreds of them, thousands, and so beautiful that the dragon positively gasped.
“The Goddess said, ‘What my dear Lord of Wind and Water neglected to mention was that in order to paint the rest of the world with colors I gave him, he bargained away just a little of his mastery of the Air. And because I’d already gifted dragons with Fire—that was another bargain, made much earlier, I won’t bore you with the details of how we fought over it—I claimed the Air beneath the wings of every dragon. So you’re not his, you’re mine. Only you can see such colors as these.’ And the Fire swirled like a million rainbows.
“The dragon watched for a time, enchanted. But then he grew sad. ‘I thank you for the gift, gracious Lady, and I’m glad to be one of your creatures. I didn’t half like being so closely related to every flapping sparrow and whirring beetle. But no one knows it, you see.’
“The Goddess considered. ‘I seem to have committed an oversight. Very well, then—each dragon may choose two colors. Tell all your fellows to come to me here, and with Fire I’ll paint them in colors to mark them as my own. But only two colors each, mind—nothing gaudy or flashy like some of those feathery things. Really, at times my Lord has the most terrible taste.’
“The dragon bowed very low, and when he flew up into the sky again to tell the other dragons of this stupendous gift, he found that he had indeed been painted by the Goddess’ Fire. Instead of dull, boring old ashy-gray, he was a rich shade of russet, with magnificent golden underwings.
“Well, knowing dragons as you do, you can guess what happened next. He had only to fly past the others and they instantly wanted to be just as gorgeous as he was. The Goddess was very busy for quite some time, painting colors onto hundreds and hundreds of dragons.
“And while she was doing it, the dragons realized that they understood the language of color the way no other creature could. For the very first time they could really talk to each other, using this new speech. And now that they could talk to each other in this wonderful manner, they had a lot to say. So no dragon lived completely alone ever again.
“At last all of them gathered above the Long Sand—gold and black and brown and russet and bronze and slate-blue and every other color dragons are, with all the beautiful shadings under the wings—and displayed their beauty in a vast arch like a rainbow of dragons. And not just the colors of their wings but the colors of their thoughts all merged together. The Goddess was very happy that she’d finall
y gifted her dragons with color.”
Pol finished his taze and waited for his daughters’ reactions. As a bedtime story, it was a total failure; both were wide awake. After a moment or two, Jihan stirred and met his gaze.
“I like that one, Papa. I could see all the dragons in the Desert sky, and all the colors.”
“Like Sunrunners,” Rislyn added.
“All together,” continued Jihan. “Like at Stronghold.”
“Just about,” Pol said.
Rislyn was very still. Then: “Papa? Did they all get tangled up? The colors, I mean.”
This was what he’d been waiting for. But he didn’t have to answer. Jihan did it for him.
“If they did, then the Goddess would’ve done just what Granda did and untangled them. Remember?”
“I–I think so. It was all like you said about the dragons, Papa—hundreds of colors. But then—” She trembled slightly. “It hurt before Granda was there with me. Why did it hurt?”
“Because some of those colors were yours,” Pol explained gently. “Do you remember the big weaving of light?”
She nodded. “It was beautiful.”
“Part of it was you. I was there, and Meath, and Hollis, and Granda Sioned, and everyone who loves you. But the Vellant’im tried to use iron against us. I know it hurt, sweeting. That’s what iron does to a Sunrunner. But your Granda is very clever, and very powerful, and she—”
“Oh, she is, isn’t she, Papa?” Jihan exclaimed. “I felt that more than I felt any hurt. It was wonderful—all her colors, and so strong and bright—”
“Your grandmother is a very skilled faradhi,” Pol agreed.
“More than Lord Andry?” Jihan answered her own question. “Well, she’d have to be—she’s older, and learned from Lady Andrade, and everybody knows she took lessons from the Goddess herself. Uncle Chay said so. I heard him.”
Pol bit back a smile, imagining the tone of voice Chay had used to make that pronouncement. “That’s the rumor. But the point is that you mustn’t be afraid of your colors, or anyone else’s. They’re the Goddess’ gift to Sunrunners, just like they were to the dragons.”
Jihan gave him a tolerant look. “You didn’t have to tell that big long story to make us understand that, Papa.”
Pol silently beseeched that selfsame Goddess for the gift of whatever combination of patience, wisdom, and sheer long-suffering endurance would allow him to survive this child. “But it was a good story just the same,” he told her, and she nodded. “All right, time for bed. Your mother will have my hide if she comes in and we’re still chattering like birds at the Storm God’s Spring Court.” He tucked in the coverlet and bent to kiss them—startled and worried when Rislyn flung her arms around his neck. “It’s all right, my hatchling,” he murmured, hugging her tightly. “Everything’s all right.”
“Papa—”
“Yes, love?”
“I’m not afraid of the colors,” she whispered against his cheek, still clinging to him. “But—but sometimes I don’t like the sunlight anymore.”
“Oh, Rislyn. . . .” He rocked her in his embrace, stricken, crooning to her. “You’re safe, little one. I promise. Papa’s here, and Mama, and Granda Sioned. The sunlight is just the sunlight, warm and soft. It can’t hurt you. I promise that the colors and the sunlight will never hurt you.”
She nodded, trusting him utterly. Easing her back onto the pillows beside her sister, he waited until both were asleep. Only then did he allow himself to begin counting how many Vellant’im he was going to kill for causing his little girl, his faradhi child, to fear the sunlight.
• • •
Jayachin stretched languidly and smiled. “Well, my Lord,” she murmured, “that was the second time I’ve . . . entertained . . . a highborn.”
“Indeed?” Andry toyed with a handful of her long, lustrous blue-black hair. Who she spread her thighs for was of absolutely no interest to him, but her claim of another noble lover was mildly amusing. He decided to play along. “If I am only the second, then either all the others you’ve met were blind, or the first was less than impressive.”
She sat up in bed, tossing her hair over one shoulder. “My Lord flatters me. Or insults me, I can’t decide which. Do you believe I would lie with any man who asked?”
“Of course not.”
“Just with any man powerful enough to advance my interests.”
“Your words, my dear, not mine.”
But she was smiling down at him as she traced the muscles of his chest. “Still, you were thinking it. And think no less of me for it. We understand each other, my Lord.”
“I believe we do.” Chuckling, he closed his eyes and concentrated on her caresses. “So it is I who must be flattered, you see. To be only the second.”
For him, she was a first—of a sort. Jayachin was the first woman he had touched since Brenlis had left him. How long ago? Years, considering the response of his flesh to the woman in his bed now. Moments, if he judged by his intense memories of gold-lit brown hair, shadowy blue eyes, and a sweet indefinable fragrance.
“Don’t you want to know who the first one was?”
He roused himself from imagining that it was Brenlis’ delicate hand that stroked his belly. “I never inquire into a lady’s past.”
“But you’ll see him soon, you know.”
“Will I?” She so obviously wanted him to know. Abruptly weary of the game, wishing to enhance his image of Brenlis by making love again, Andry caught her hand and brought it to his lips.
“Oh, yes. A Desert lord, as you used to be.”
He opened his eyes. “As I still am.”
“And always will be,” Jayachin said hastily.
Pulling her down again, he rolled atop her and buried his fingers in her hair, holding her head immobile. “His name?” he asked, for he was about to take what he wanted and it was only fair to give her the satisfaction of boasting.
“Riyan of Skybowl and Feruche.”
Andry’s grip on her head tightened. “Skybowl I’ll grant. But not Feruche. That castle was built by my brother Sorin and will always be his. Always.”
She was no fool; having realized her mistake, she instantly searched for a way to turn his reaction to her advantage. He watched her do it, thinking that he did understand her very well. Her comprehension of him left something to be desired—but that was just as he wanted it.
“Of course that’s true, my Lord. But I’ve wondered—if it was your brother’s work and your brother’s holding, why is it not now yours?”
Shocked, all he could think was that it was a good thing he would soon be gone from here. She was smart enough to learn more about him than was healthy.
“What prevents the Lord of Goddess Keep from owning a castle in the land where he was born? Freely, not as a vassal to any prince. There is precedent of a sort, and within your own family. Lord Aneld of Catha Freehold, father of Lady Andrade and your grandmother Princess Milar, died without a male heir. The Prince of Syr paid its worth so he could take it himself.”
Still reeling from the extent of her ambition, it took him a moment to realize that what he had thought was a mistake earlier on had been no mistake at all. She had deliberately used the word “Feruche,” knowing how he would react to it.
Jayachin twined her arms around his neck. “Prince Zehava needed Syr’s good will more than the trouble of administering the property, and Lady Andrade’s share greatly enriched the coffers of Goddess Keep. It has been on my mind.”
“And you say what’s on your mind, don’t you, Jayachin—when you perceive a profit to be had out of it.” He disentangled himself and turned onto his back. “I have never met a woman quite like you.”
“Thank you, my Lord.”
“It was not a compliment. What you think is that Lord Riyan can be induced to give up Feruche—and that the High Prince will countenance it?”
She had flushed scarlet at his rebuke, but pressed on with her argument. “Why should Riyan have the
benefit of what was your brother’s? Feruche should remain in your family. Besides the right of it, you have sons to provide for. And—”
“And?”
She hesitated, visibly searching for a diplomatic way of phrasing it. “Your presence in the Desert, my Lord, can only bring victory.”
“And I should be paid for it?” All at once he laughed. “I understand perfectly. You see yourself as my athri at Feruche, don’t you? Taking excellent care of what you might have had as Riyan’s wife—what you think you should have had! My dear merchant-who-would-be-a-princess, you chose as your second highborn lover the wrong powerful man.”
Jayachin snatched the sheet around her breasts and sat up. “It pleases you to insult me, my Lord. And I’ve only said what you enjoyed hearing! I do understand you, never think that I don’t. I know how much you hate Pol, and how you detest Riyan’s father for taking Princess Alasen away from you—”
Andry grabbed her wrist. She wrenched away and got out of bed, arranging the sheet around her as if it were a lace-trimmed gown.
“You didn’t ask when I knew Riyan. It was at Waes, of course, during the Rialla of 719, when the talk of the Fair was the High Princess’ beautiful cousin and the High Prince’s Sunrunner nephew! You highborns are all alike. None of you believes anyone under the rank of athri sees or hears, or could make any sense of it if they did!” With the sheet secure around her, she went to the windowside table and poured a cup of wine. “It’s just us here, Andry. You can admit how it hurts to think of Riyan at your brother’s castle. You’d like owning it. Forcing Pol to give it to you would be even sweeter—visible reminder that he needed you, that he’s not as powerful as you. I know the way your mind works—and Feruche is as much a symbol for you as Castle Crag is said to be for Princess Chiana.”
Livid with fury, still he was compelled to admire her. She was so utterly certain of her words—and her safety. She was necessary to him, never more than now, when he was about to leave Goddess Keep. He could take no action against her for this, and she knew it.