You are silly.
Hush, you. I like when he does this.
I have noticed that he likes it, too.
Really? All the better.
“We do need to hurry, though.” Quillan grabbed a bar of soap and made some lather. “Can Nantli tell how close the eggs are to hatching?” He began spreading the lather over his cheeks, his lips—which were pressed tightly together, and under his chin.
Do you know when the eggs will hatch?
Not the exact time. But it will be soon.
What is soon?
Within the hour.
Chanté gasped. “Within the hour?”
Quillan paused, straight-razor in his left hand, and turned to him. “That soon? Pissing blades!” He resumed shaving, but at a quicker pace.
Chanté frowned. “Be careful! You are right-handed!”
“I will, I will.”
“I can’t stand seeing something that sharp that close to your neck.”
“Mmm.” Quillan slowly, carefully slid the razor along his neck and then shook off some lather. “Just be glad you don’t have to shave quite yet. It’s an annoying task that takes much too much time.”
Chanté ran a hand over his own cheek. There was only the very sparse, very fine hair that Quillan called peach fuzz. Now that he thought about it, he had very little hair anywhere aside from his head.
He frowned. “Is that weird?”
“What?” Quillan glanced over.
“That . . . that I don’t have to shave, yet?” He frowned. “Except for Terry, I’ve seen all the other guys who are bonded in here shaving at one time or another.”
Quillan shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s weird. I don’t really care.” He smiled, smears of lather all over his face. “Because no matter how weird you get, it won’t change how I feel.”
Heat burst in Chanté’s cheeks. “G–Good.”
Strong humor came through the link.
Don’t you say a word!
He could feel her laughter and it made him smile.
When Quillan finished, he rinsed off the remaining lather and used a small towel to dry his face. “There. Let’s hurry.”
As Quillan pulled on an undershirt, Chanté did the same. Are people heading to the clutching room?
Tenoch says that people have been there for two hours or so, waiting.
Quillan was staring at him, at his hair. “Hmm. Actually, come here, a moment.”
“What?” Chanté walked closer.
Quillan opened a drawer in the sink stand and dug around inside. “I want to try something.” After a few moments, he pulled out a small jar. “Here we go.”
Chanté stared at it. “What’s that?”
Quillan opened the jar and smiled. “Pomade.”
“What?”
“It’s for styling hair.” Quillan chuckled. “Come on. If you hate it, you can wash it out. We have a little time.”
Chanté felt highly dubious about this, but Quillan was asking, so . . . “Alright.” He leaned a bit toward him. “Go ahead.”
Quillan let out a happy noise and dug a scoop of pomade from the jar. After a minute or so of rubbing the stuff in and pulling Chanté’s hair around, he leaned back, admiring his work.
Quillan nodded. “Not bad.” Gesturing to the mirror, he said, “What do you think?”
Chanté turned. The hair on top of his head was pulled upwards in places. It wasn’t especially long, but it was long enough to look a little like spikes, or spear heads, perhaps?
He reached up with his free hand and touched the spikes. They were slightly stiff from the pomade. “It’s interesting. I haven’t seen anyone with hair done like this.”
“I like it.” Quillan leaned a bit closer and looked in the mirror. “Hmm. I think the styling cream might have something in it to add a faint sheen. Your hair looks almost metallic with the pomade in it.” His gaze lowered from the hair and settled on Chanté’s eyes. “Kind of like a silver-forked crown, wouldn’t you say?”
Chanté’s eyes went wide. He felt . . . strange, as if he’d been opened up by a sword, leaving his heart exposed. It trembled, beating feebly in his hollow chest.
What is wrong?
“I had a dream that night,” Quillan said, “while I lay in the hospital.”
Chanté?
He forced his mouth open. “A–A dream?”
Quillan nodded. “Mm-hmm. Just before I woke up.”
Chanté! What is happening?
I–I am not certain.
Quillan tilted his head. “In the dream I was standing in an enormous field at night. A glowfly appeared before me and said she wanted to know how I felt about her son. Ulthis was apparently in love with me, she said, but she would not risk his heart being broken if I did not feel the same. Completely accepting that a glowfly could speak, I apologized to her and told her that the only person I was in love with was Chanté.” Quillan drew his brows together. “It was strange. Somehow, I knew that the glowfly had started smiling. Ulthis is Chanté, she said, and the dream began to fade.”
Unable to move, Chanté could only stare at Quillan in the mirror.
“As darkness took the field and sky, I thought about what your mother said. Ulthis, the god who created the universe, is Chanté. What you’d told me about your father, your family, and why you were here took on a wholly different perspective. I wasn’t sure how I felt about it all. I still hadn’t decided by the time the dream was gone and I awoke to find Elizabeth in the room, and you, at my side, holding my hand.” Quillan’s lips curved into a kind of frown.
Chanté stared at him. On the night of the fires, Alandra told Quillan that I am Ulthis. What if he hates me for not telling him myself?
Shock and surprise came through the link. She told him? But he has not been angry with you. If he hated you, I would have sensed it.
I–I suppose. Aside from his expression right now, Quillan had seemed very happy. Chanté hoped that Nantli was correct.
Quillan reached over, took Chanté’s hand, and clasped it. “It was the warmth of your hand in mine that made me realize something. You’re not cold words in some dusty history book—you’re here, with me, alive.” He looked up at Chanté’s reflection. “You used to be, maybe even still are, a god. Fine. But you’re also the boy I met who was lost in the woods with his dragon. That’s you, too. Like the devices I work on, we’re all made up of parts. Change any piece, change a circuit, and you change the device, maybe even break it. If you weren’t Ulthis, you wouldn’t be the same Chanté. In fact, if you weren’t Ulthis, the person I care about more than just about anything might never have existed at all. And that . . .” He shook his head. “No. Just, no.”
Quillan squeezed his hand briefly. “So even if you can destroy the world with a thought,” he paused and smiled, “even if turns out you never have to shave, I don’t care. Nothing will ever change how I feel about you.”
Chanté opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it and stared at his reflection.
In his dream, that brief moment after he told Alandra how he felt about Quillan, that must have been when she had gone to fly Quillan’s dream. She’d gone back in ti—
A sudden realization interrupted his thoughts. Quillan had known about Ulthis when he confessed his love and when they’d kissed for the first time.
Chanté grunted. It really didn’t bother Quillan. I was wrong to worry about how he feels. He doesn’t care that I am Ulthis, or was Ulthis, or whatever the right word is, and he doesn’t seem to care that I didn’t tell him.
Admonishment and happiness came through the link. I told you he did not hate you!
Smiling, Chanté looked at Quillan’s reflection. “My feelings for you will never change, either.”
“Good.” Quillan nodded. His expression then turned serious, and he leaned in a bit. “Now, for the truly important question.”
Chanté drew his brows together. What could he think was more important than what they’d just discussed?
> Quillan looked up at Chanté’s hair. “Do you like the pomade? If not, you should wash it out quickly. We’re running short on time.”
Chanté burst into laughter. “You ass.” When the laughs subsided, after his heart had slowed, he said, “I think it’s fine for special occasions. I won’t be wearing it like this very often, however.”
He didn’t explain the why, but it was because running fingers through the spikes would be nigh impossible.
Quillan chuckled. “Then let’s go see some dragons hatch.”
A spike of worry came through the link. You must hurry to the saddlery. I will meet you just outside.
Chanté drew his brows together. What? Why?
The saddlery is closer to where you are than our rooms, and the Welcoming has started.
The Welcoming?
We croon to welcome the younglings. They will hatch very soon.
You said we had an hour!
I said less than an hour.
Pissing blades! He turned to Quillan. “The eggs are about to hatch! Follow me!” He grabbed his satchel and ran.
Thankfully, Quillan did the same with no questions.
Nantli was waiting. She turned to them as they raced out the door. Hurry!
Chanté scowled as they ran to her. “We are hurrying! Lower yourself so we can mount easier.”
She dropped to her belly and they climbed up quickly.
Quillan’s arms wrapped around him. “No time for straps!”
Chanté nodded. “Be careful of your arm, but hold on!” He grabbed the handholds and clamped his legs to the saddle. Let’s go!
Nantli leapt into the air, wings beating.
He was fairly certain that he had been there when Anaya hatched. At least in the sense of as much of him as he had ever brought here for important events. There were scraps of memories of her and Aeron meeting and bonding, but with what had been done to him, it was difficult to know whether they were true memories or just fanciful creations of his imagination based on what he’d heard from everyone. It would be good to have complete memories of a hatching.
Nantli plunged toward the ledge, gave a mighty flap of her wings at the last moment, and dropped to all fours. Wings still raised, she began humming.
“Well done, Nantli!” Quillan jumped down. He certainly seemed to be getting much more comfortable flying.
Chanté smiled and hopped to the ground.
As they ran along the passage, Nantli’s hum from behind melded with the croon from all the dragons in the clutching room ahead.
“Chanté! Quillan!” Fillion waved from the bleachers near the doors to the inner Guildhall.
As he and Quillan went to join the dragonlinked, Nantli padded over to the dragons around the sand pit.
Gregor waved them to the empty spot next to him and Fillion. “You guys made it just in time!”
“Thanks to Nantli’s expert flying.” Quillan smiled and stood next to Gregor.
“Nice hair,” Fillion said, brows raised. He looked impressed.
Chanté felt his cheeks warm. “Thanks.” He stood next to Quillan and turned to the three eggs on the sand.
Zyanya hovered near the eggs, wings twitching, the end of her tail swishing sand as it slowly moved from side to side. Her gaze kept darting to all the excited people and back to the dragons around the pit sitting up on their hindquarters and crooning.
The room was enormous, but so many dragons were here that the Welcoming thrummed and reverberated quite loudly. He even felt it vibrating within his body. It was odd, but pleasant.
Was that what had Zyanya on edge? He glanced at her. Worry not, Zyanya. All here care deeply about you and your children. You are safe. They are safe.
The mother dragon’s gaze darted about the place, searching, then found him. I–I know. I merely am not used to having others nearby when my eggs are to hatch.
A group of people Chanté hadn’t noticed before, the candidates in their riding gear, walked slowly from the side of the room and onto the sand. Each bowed to Zyanya as they neared, and they spread out into a semi-circle to face the eggs.
A yell came from behind. “It’s hatching!”
One egg was indeed moving. It twitched mightily and a sharp crack echoed from the walls. The room went silent.
Anaya took a step onto the sand. Come, younglings, meet your candidates and choose.
The struggle of the little ones against their eggs, the cheering and encouragement from everyone, the relief he felt when each one did escape onto the sand, the varied personalities of the young dragons already evident as they studied those standing before them, the joy on a candidate’s face when they were chosen, the bright light of bonding . . . Chanté tried to burn the experience and the emotions into his memory.
“You guys.” Quillan, eyes shining, watched the newly bonded feeding their young dragon partners. “I want to see every hatching from now on.”
Gregor chuckled. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it?”
Chanté couldn’t agree more. There had been much less—drama?—when he and Nantli had bonded.
But no less love.
He glanced at her. I’m not certain I was deserving of love, then.
The potential for the person that you are now becoming was always there.
He was surprised at how happy he was that she felt that way, but— Becoming is the right word, I think. I have a long way to go, yet.
Mayhap. Mayhap not.
“I still remember when Coatl chose me.” Fillion’s unguarded expression was full of fondness.
His gaze went flat a moment and, with a slight frown, he looked at his bond-mate. “Alas, he can be a bit of a mirror hound, but even so, I do love that big leather bag.”
Chanté drew his brows together. “Mirror hound?”
“A bit too impressed with himself,” Fillion explained. “Like someone who constantly looks at their reflection in a mirror.”
“Ah,” Chanté said. “I see.”
“Can we go over and watch from closer?” Quillan still eyed the little dragons.
Gregor chuckled. “Sure.”
They made their way over, though they kept some small distance between, not wanting to crowd the former candidates, their families, and their new bond-mates.
Renny, however, didn’t seem to have that concern. With Hunter at his side, he walked right over to one of the newly bonded and handed something to him.
“What’s this?” The boy stared at the item he held.
“A picture frame.” Renny, hands on his hips, smiled proudly at the boy.
“Renny made it himself,” Hunter said.
The boy grunted. “What’s it for?”
Renny pointed to the boy’s bond-mate. “It’s to hold the photograph of you two together that they’ll take tomorrow after the hatch record photograph.”
“Why would I need a photograph of us? I’ll see her every day.”
“Trust me,” Aeron said as he and Willem walked closer, “you’ll be glad of the photograph later on.”
The boy drew his brows together. “Why?”
Aeron, eyes on the boy’s young bond-mate, said, “They don’t stay this little for long. Soon enough, she’ll get very big and you’ll be glad of a photograph of her when she was still able to nearly fit in your lap.”
The boy—he looked dubious—glanced back at the picture frame. “If you say so.”
Willem chuckled. “Trust us, you’ll be happy you have one.”
“And another thing.” Gregor looked around at the three former candidates and raised his voice. “All of you newly bonded. Wrap your arms around your bond-mates in hugs as much as you can. Let them fall asleep in your lap as often as you can.”
“Roll around on the floor,” Fillion added, “playing with them as much as you can.”
“Because soon enough,” Aeron said, pointing to Anaya, “your little bundle of adorable will be way too big to roll around on the floor with you, much less fit in your lap. And the only hugs you’ll
be able to give them are partly around their legs or neck.”
“They’re right, son.” The man who must be the boy’s father, smiled. “Those you love grow faster than you can imagine.”
“Is that so.” Another of the newly bonded, the other boy, promptly wrapped his arms around his little partner.
The young dragon let out a quiet bark that sounded confused and annoyed. He seemed more interested in finishing his meat scraps.
Aeron, smiling, turned to Renny. “Could you make one for me? I don’t have a photograph of her when she was a babe, but I do have one of us from recently. I’d love to have it displayed in a frame instead of just lying on my desk.”
With a grin, Renny opened the satchel that had been by his feet. “One like this?” He removed another frame and held it out.
“Really?” Eyes wide, Aeron took the frame. “Thank you!”
Renny laughed. “I made a few to hand out. I’ll be happy to make more for anyone else who wants one.”
“C–Can I have one?” The boy whose dragon was now happily finishing the scraps looked longingly at Renny’s satchel.
“Absolutely,” Renny said. “In addition to the others I made, there is one for each of you three.” He handed out two more.
Chanté stared at the attractive wooden frames they held. He’d initially wondered at the purpose of the photographs they’d taken of him and Nantli shortly after their acceptance into the guild. What Aeron and the others just said made it clear that it could be for a more important use than just a record to be filed away. A photograph could also be thought of as a memory made physical—a memory that couldn’t be walled away from you and wouldn’t lose detail with the passing of time.
He glanced at Quillan and then over at Nantli. Yes. He wanted a photograph of the three of them, and then he’d ask Renny for a frame to put it in.
His thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the Guildmaster’s voice.
“The newly bonded and their families can remain with their dragons, but could I ask everyone else to please return to their seats? And would all remaining candidates please return to the waiting area?”
Renny took a noisy deep breath and let it out. He glanced at Hunter. “Here we go.” He grabbed her hand and they hurried off to join the other candidates.
Of Gods, Trees, and a Sapling: Dragonlinked Chronicles Volume 4 Page 109
