by E. E. Knight
A single, lonely Firemaid guarded the dragon lair and the entrance to the lower world. Her name was Angalia, and she took Nilrasha to be her own long-awaited replacement. She sniffed Nilrasha’s back every morning for signs of wing growth.
“The air’s too thin up here. I’m not a high-altitude dragon; never was,” Angalia complained whenever the Copper visited. Constantly. “My hearts beat so. I’ll burst my hearts and be dead within a year. Mark my words!”
But Nilrasha had it worse. She had to live at the entrance to the Lower World with Angalia, risking burst ears at the endless complaints.
He had a nice chamber in the Upholder palace temple, filled with square carvings of grimacing faces of the kern kings. The men had built a sort of temple to their dragon gods on a spur of one of the mountains surrounding their plateau, over the mouth of the gate to the Lower World. Like all the other constructs on the mountain-girded land, it was done in what the FeLissaraths styled the “Anaean Royal.” Meaning great, heavy square blocks of limestone, elaborately carved, piled on other great, heavy square blocks. They also liked stone globes, smooth and undecorated as turtle eggs. Sometimes the builders placed them on the great, heavy square blocks. But for some reason, perhaps religious prohibition, they never put great, heavy square blocks atop the globes, unless the globes were holding up a roof. Then it was allowed.
“Hominid frippery,” the Copper said to himself, extracting a crunchy beetle from a crevice with his tongue.
So much for the dwelling place of the Anaean royal families’ god allies. Almost every morning the Copper arose to cool, fresh air and bright yellow light. When there was no water in the raincatchers he had a short walk to a melting glacier and tasted runoff from ice older than any dragon and most legends he knew.
In his opinion, his rooms here were as fine as the Tyr’s in the Lavadome, and a good deal sunnier.
A long, straight flight of many scores of scores of scores of stairs led down the mountainside to the dragon-keepers, special priests of the kern kings who offered up pigs and cattle whenever FeLissarath and his mate didn’t have fresh game—a rarity. It was hard to stand at the top of that stone ramp and not feel part of a higher world. He wondered how FeLissarath and his mate seemed such normal, earthy dragons. It would be easy to get delusions of godhood with such a vista.
The Copper made such improvements as he could to the long road back to the Lavadome. After studying how the kern kings sent messages by relay runners carrying hollow, gold-dipped bones with scrolls carried inside, he copied the practice.
He colonized a few caves with bats, and taught the Drakwatch and Firemaids to use them as messengers in return for either draft-animal blood or a taste of dragon vintage. Some of them found the practice creepy, but others enjoyed the tickle of a bat tongue and the euphoric light-headedness and the strangely pleasant dreams that followed. In any case, they reserved dragonblood for the most intelligent of the messenger bats who could be relied upon to carry either a verbal message or a written one to the right post.
At this remote Uphold, they got their news rarely and in large, sometimes confused batches. SiDrakkon’s thin little mate died of a stomach disorder. The incense trade so vital to peace between male dragons continued to leap in price with barbarian attacks on the trade routes in the east, and Nivom had opened his wings and begun instituting contests between the Drakwatch and the Firemaidens, in which they fought mock battles for hills and caves.
So the years passed and the Copper’s horns came in and the bulges on his back rose. He looked forward to his wings emerging, just because there was so little going on in the plateau, with its unvarying seasonal routines and cool, sunny weather. Nilrasha, perhaps a year behind in her own wing growth, would rub fats into the stretched skin to soothe it. They became translucent, and FeLissarath judged them ready to pop.
“You should return to the Lavadome, Rugaard, so that there can be a proper celebration. You’re in the Imperial line, you know,” FeLissarath said one sunset as the plateau turned to gold and orange.
“Yes, take this winter off and return. Take poor Nilrasha with you,” FeLissarath’s mate added, looking at Nilrasha, who sometimes went stalking on the mountain slopes with the older dragon-dame, and therefore was frequently invited to dinner. “She’s a lively young thing. A great huntress, too. It’s a deprivation to be up here, away from society.”
“I do have friends I’d like to see. But will you be all right on your own?”
“You’ve learned little these four years to ask a question like that. Nothing ever happens in Anaea.”
“All the same, I’d like to stay here. I’m not much of a drake for parties.”
Oddly enough, something did happen in Anaea that very night.
It began with being woken by Nilrasha. “Rugaard, there’s a wounded dragon come up from the Lower Road. He asks to speak to you in private. He’s just ouside.”
Rather than being frightened, the Copper was almost delighted to hear it, after the first startle of being prodded from a deep sleep, of course. “Send him in.”
A silver-white dragon, his sii and saa wrapped in rags to enable him to move more quietly on the stones of the palace, mud smeared all over his wings, and his face wrapped in bloody bandaging, stepped in.
He glared at Nilrasha.
“A moment, please, Ora,” the Copper said. The visitor’s wild eye looked panicked.
NiVom tore off the false bandage covering his torn lip as soon as she left. “The blood is from a donkey,” NiVom said.
“NiVom! What in the two worlds—” The Copper at least had wits to pronounce his adult name correctly.
“I’m a fugitive, Rugaard. Hunted. Branded a coward.”
The Copper would have sputtered questions until the bats returned, but instead he listened.
“It’s all Tighlia’s doing, you know. She’s room for only one dragon in her heart, her brother. She aims to make him Tyr, and she’s destroying any dragon that stands in her way. First AgGriffopse. Then DharSii. Now me.”
“Have some wine. Some food.” The Copper looked in on Rhea, who had a comfortable anteroom. “Rhea, get the leftovers from last night’s dinner. Hurry, but do it quietly.” He worked a small cask and poured some wine into a bowl, and NiVom took a deep draft.
“Spirits, that’s good,” NiVom said. “Oh, Rugaard, I’ve been such a fool. I was set to be mated to Imfamnia, and now I suspect she’s lost to me. I’ve been blinder than any of your bats in the sun. Imfamnia, gone. As though she’d care; she’ll fly with SiDrakkon if its his destiny to be Tyr.”
“How did this come about?”
“Let me see. Five, no, seven days ago—can it be only a week?—seven days ago Imfamnia threw herself down before the Tyr and Tighlia, covered with bites and scratches, claiming I’d done it to her during an argument. She’s never had so much as a cross word from me! I was brought before the Tyr, and I challenged her word, and Tighlia worked herself up into a fury and named SiDrakkon’s son SiBayereth Imfamnia’s champion.”
“I remember SiBayereth. He seemed a decent sort.”
“He’s obsessed with dueling ever since his wings came in. He lives for the pit. He’s my size and half again my weight, and has a very long neck and tail. I’d never live close.”
“So you fled?”
“No, like a fool I took the challenge. My blood was up, you see? The accusations—I couldn’t think. Then Tighlia—”
Rhea arrived bearing a platter of meats and kern. NiVom stuffed food into his mouth like a dragon starved.
“Please say there’s more, Rugaard,” he said.
“Rhea, get Fourfang up and have him help you in the larder. A whole side of beef—raw is fine; it’s hung.” The girl fled.
“Thank you, Rugaard.”
“You were saying something about Tighlia….”
“She accused me of always being a blighted egg. Said I lied about her brother. So…oh, what did I do? I challenged her, and anyone else who said I didn’t giv
e a correct account of matters at the Black River. So she appointed that old duelist ventlick of SiDrakkon’s to defend her word, NoTannadon.
“Oh, I said some very fine words to that. Quite a speech, all about my innocence seeing me to victory. The Spirits themselves would fight on my side—ha!” He spit out a chuck-bone. “But that night all I could think about was my poor, lame father—he had a limp a little like yours; did I ever tell you that?—in the dueling pit. How I jumped down atop his body.”
NiVom looked away. “I was terrified. I flew, flew across the Lavadome like baying dragonhounds were after me. Rugaard, I’m a coward.”
The Copper looked at the blazing, mud-smeared victory insignia painted on his former cavemate’s wing-leather. “You’re nothing of the kind. Nivo—NiVom, I’m honored that you came to me this night.”
The onetime future Tyr gulped. “Honored?”
“That you trusted me. And you can trust me. What can I do to assist you?”
“You’ve done enough. Keep quiet; there will be hunters after me, I expect.”
“News of this is bound to reach the ears of the Upholder and his mate. You must leave before they rise.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll put off the pursuit and confuse the word, if I can. You can’t hide in the plateau; the kern kings will wonder at it and report to the Upholder. The condors see much of what happens on the outer slopes. The mountains trail off farther south; you could try there. When Nilrasha gets her wings I’ll send her looking.”
“What about your own—Oh, of course. Well, so be it. Don’t worry, Rugaard; I’ll speak to none but you or Nilrasha.”
“I think the Tyr means for me to take over this Uphold when I mature. When I do, and they’ve left, I’ll have the roof marbled white. Look for it. That means it’s safe to visit.”
“Roof marbled white. Very well.”
“It shouldn’t be long. My wings are almost in. Failing that, visit late at night. The balcony is big enough for you to slip through.”
Rhea and Fourfang arrived with the side of beef, bearing it on a pole between them. NiVom tore great gaps in it, belched, and then crept out onto the balcony and spread his wings. He fell into open air and soared off.
Thanks to the clear moonlight the Copper could watch him for a long time as he flew south. He called Nilrasha to him and told her a somewhat expurgated version of events.
“So what now?” she asked.
He almost swore at her in his frustration and grief at NiVom’s news. “We’re taking that trip back to the Lavadome. I’m going to do what I can to confuse the pursuit. Then I need to see the Tyr.”
“Darling, your wings are weeping. I think they’ll be in any day now. Must be all the excitement.”
He went over to one of the square stone blocks bordering the balcony and tore his back across it. Nilrasha gasped. The pain, and with it hot, sweet-stinking relief, helped his ugly fighting mood. He raised his left wing. Beautiful blue-veined membranes blotted out the moon and the receding dot of NiVom.
He turned. Now for the real test. He opened the right, and pushed out the wing.
He was thankful the pain blotted out some of the disappointment when it wouldn’t extend. The main joint at his forespur kept slipping each time he tried to unfold it.
Nilrasha stifled a sob. “I’m sorry, Ru. But it doesn’t matter. Your wings are uncased.” She began to lick his wounds.
By hooking the wing tip in a crack on the balcony and pulling his bad wing open he was able to let the membrane dry.
“You’re a dragon now, my love,” she said.
“Good. Because I’ve got a dragon’s work to do.”
BOOK THREE
Dragon
“YOUR TRUE STRENGTH IS NOT DISCOVERED EASILY, OR WITHOUT GRIEF. LIKE A DESERT SEED IT LIES DORMANT, WAITING FOR THE HARD RAIN.”
—Lessons of NeStirrath
Chapter 21
The Copper paid his respects to the FeLissaraths at the morning meal the next day, showing his wings.
“I’ve thought about it, and I would like to go back to the Lavadome. Just for a season or so. Nilrasha said she’d welcome the change of scene.”
“You deserve to have a party where your dragon-name is cheered, RuGaard,” FeLissarath said. His mate nodded. “Too bad about the wing. But there’s many a grounded dragon living a long and happy life. That fellow who trains the Drakwatch, for example…er…”
“NeStirrath,” the Copper supplied.
“I had the oddest dream last night,” his mate said. “I could have sworn I smelled a strange dragon in the palace. It was almost alarming.”
“You talk to the condors too much,” her mate said. “They think every far-glimpsed griffaran is a dragon.”
“I hear there was a herd of elk spotted on a frozen lake on the northern slopes,” the Copper said, turning the talk to hunting.
“Yes, we should go,” FeLissarath said. “Shouldn’t we, dear? The larder’s looking rather empty.”
“Fattening up for my trip,” the Copper said.
“You’re a wise young dragon, RuGaard,” FeLissarath said.
Though he was almost dancing with anxiety to leave, the Copper delayed another day or two, for a train of kern was assembling, the last of the fall harvest. It would be irresponsible of a future Upholder not to see it through.
Fourfang groaned about having to take care of mules, and Rhea looked glum. She liked the sun and air of FeLissarath’s palace, though she still never said a word about any matter, great or small; she just nodded and followed orders and sometimes cried in her sleep.
Putting up a second set of bed curtains cut down on the noise.
On their first day into the cave they came across the pursuit, the noisome NoTannadon and another Skotl dragon searching westward, sniffing at every strange tunnel. Their reek set the mules to bawling, and the blighter mule tenders cursed and shoved them aside, clearing a way in the tunnel.
And the Copper moved up to block it.
“Cry meetings,” NoTannadon said.
“Cry meetings, NoTannadon. Haven’t seen you since the Black River fight.”
“You’re…you’re RuGaard, now, as it looks,” NoTannadon said. “Have you seen anything of NiVom? He’s visiting the western Upholds and the Tyr has need of him.”
“I’d be glad of the visit. But no dragons have passed through the cave mouth, have they, Nilrasha?”
“A dragon? No. We’d have welcomed a new face. Ha! No dragons, I’m afraid.”
“I told you the trail went cold at the Tooth Cavern,” the other Skotl dragon said. “He flew out there. We should turn around, catch up with the others.”
“This drake—er, dragon…” NoTannadon said, then fell silent.
“Yes. Both my ears work, duelist. What were you going to say?”
“…Is in the Imperial line. I expect he’d notice if a dragon emerged in the middle of his palace. We should turn around.”
“I’ll send word back that the Upholder should tell him the Tyr needs him, should he show up for a surprise visit, shall I?” the Copper asked.
“Yes. Yes. That’s a fair wind of an idea,” NoTannadon said.
The dragons turned around in the rather cramped tunnel and hurried in the other direction.
Their arrival at the Lavadome merited no special reception, as it was simply another load of kern coming in. The trading house saw to its distribution to various wareholes and livestock corrals.
“Where will you go?” the Copper asked Nilrasha.
“Wherever you like, my lord.”
“We’re not mated yet, dear. Things may go ill for me on the Rock. Perhaps you should go to the Firemaiden quarters on your home hill. Your association with me could be hazardous.”
“It’s my blood. It flows for you. If you die, it might as well be spilled too.”
“Where can I find you?”
“I grew up on Dufu hill. Yes, the milkdrinker’s hill, among the thralls. Not much of a home, but
the tunnels are clean enough. At least there’s little chance of society from the Black Rock visiting.”
“I’ll come to you in a day or two. Take care of my thralls until then. If anything happens, treat them well; they’ve earned it. And as for you—if they come for you, just do what they say and feign ignorance.”
“The way you feign your lack of ambition. Certainly.”
“You may have to do more. Tell them you grew sick to death of the sight of me in Anaea. They’ll believe that.”
“I shall. But I won’t enjoy it.”
He wound his neck around hers, squeezed her, then broke it off and looked across and down the river.
“I did enjoy that, however,” she said. “I’m told the Anklenes have some scrolls about how dragons can mate in a river, and it’s like flying. It seems delightfully perverse.”
“We’ll have to find out.”
They said no more. The Copper told the kern train that he was exhausted and would spend the night on the riverbank, washing and resting and preparing for his return to the Imperial Resort with a bellyful of fish.
And with that he hurried off toward the high rocks of the griffaran.
Yarrick’s perch looked much the same, though the griffaran who flew him up to the high perch grew so exhausted he had to set the Copper down on a ledge and bring the aging grand commander to him.
“You right! Yark! It is that lame copper fellow.”
The bird-reptile cocked its head so Yarrick’s good eye was pointed straight at him. “It good to see you again. We heard about a battle in Bant, let loose victory cries on your behalf.”
The Copper wondered what would happen if Yarrick knew the truth of his “rescue” of the eggs. He felt a twinge as he cleared his throat and spoke the words he’d rehearsed in his mind.
“Long ago, Yarrick, you befriended me and flew me to the Imperial Resort. I ask you to fly again, and beg the Tyr to come to me. All this must be done in secrecy.”
