by E. E. Knight
“Too old for courier flying these days. Molting. Fishing is all I do anymore, and even then I need a long rest before returning to the perch. I’ll send a younger set of feathers. The Tyr will come, though he, too, does not care as much for flying as he once did.”
The Copper waited until the shafts of sunlight falling to the river disappeared. Though he sought it, sleep evaded him. He wondered how he looked after a long tunnel journey. Better than he would have without Rhea’s endless cleanings and polishings, he supposed. The girl—no, woman, now—could do wonders with wet ash and a brush.
He saw the Tyr flying, a griffaran to either side, turning slow circles in his climb to the perch on the griffaran’s rocks. He alighted rather heavily, and the griffaran retired.
“It is you, Rugaard. Or, I’m sorry, RuGaard now. Why this strange form of meeting? I know you don’t like court ceremony, but this is a little extreme.”
“I’ve seen NiVom, Tyr.”
The Tyr’s teeth disappeared and his neck straightened. “You have. Come to beg for his pardon, have you?”
“Your honor, it’s all lies. He never attacked your granddaughter.”
The Tyr sighed. “He’s always been a bit of a brawler. You should know. He’s welcome to come back and defend or explain himself anytime; he doesn’t need to send emissaries.”
“NoTannadon and another Skotl were hunting him on the western road. I met them.”
“Hunting him? I said there was to be no pursuit! He’s disgraced, and a coward to run away from a challenge issued and accepted, but no harm’s been done apart from the bites and scratches on Imfamnia. I’d say the only permanent damage to her was to her dignity, but she’s a flit young thing and has little enough to hurt.” The Tyr rested in thought. “NoTannadon and another, you say?”
“I met them myself, Tyr. I doubt they were seeking him to share some meat and a song.”
“He should have stayed and defended himself. The spirits would have seen him safely to his home cave if he’s innocent. These things have a way of working out.”
“Do they? How did they work out for your son, your clutchwinner? And what of this DharSii? I don’t know his story, but NiVom seemed to think he was the victim of treachery. NiVom wouldn’t hurt a female—of your line or any other—unless he had been attacked first. He said he had no idea how the marks got on her.”
“Imfamnia would never make up such a thing. What has she to gain? She was getting a good mate, in all likelihood the future Tyr, there even if his lip was a bit torn up.”
“She would if it meant reigning as queen over the Lavadome.”
“She would have had that anyway. They were to be mated!”
“My guess is she doesn’t want to wait and leave anything to chance. It’s a plot, your honor. It’s a game, with the throne as the stakes. Your life may be in danger.”
“Yes, danger and I are old friends.” The Tyr paused, and his expression went blank. “No! SiDrakkon hardly knows the dragonelle. I’ll swear he’s not spoken to her more than three times, all at banquets.”
“If you become incapacitated, who rules?” the Copper asked, though he knew the answer.
“With NiVom gone, the title of Tyr passes to my mate’s brother, for at the moment I have no heir.”
“Would Tighlia be happy to see her brother in your place?”
“Of course. It’s only natural. I just have never much liked SiDrakkon. He’s too quick to quarrel. You can’t hold dragons together if you’re going to be the first to start a feud. That and his taste for human females. It’s just not done. One can enjoy a discreet sniff now and then, but this habit of his, wallowing in it, it’s revolting. I need a new regent. As it is, if I dismiss SiDrakkon the throne would fall to SiMevolant, now that he’s matured. Physically, at least. He’s still a tailgazer.”
“You must hurry and appoint a new heir, then.”
“Perhaps. No. No! They couldn’t be so deceptive.”
“I think they’ve wronged you worse than you can imagine, Tyr. Certainly one heir can be lost to accident. Twice might be a coincidence. But three times? That’s the work of an enemy.”
“I’ll question Imfamnia again in the presence of her mother. Ibidio thought highly of NiVom, and a mother can sometimes get the truth out of the toughest dragon.”
“Don’t tell your mate or SiDrakkon any of this, Tyr, until you’ve learned the truth.”
“You’re a sly one, RuGaard.”
“You must know I have no ambitions, Tyr. I speak only on behalf of my friend.”
“If all this comes to pass you’ll move several places up in the line. Perhaps I should be suspicious of you.”
“I’m content to go back to Anaea for the rest of my years, Tyr. Get to the truth of this matter with NiVom. You might ask some questions about the others, as well. I don’t know enough about those dragons.”
“I will ask some questions. Starting with Tighlia.”
“Tyr, no. Avoid her. Don’t let her influence you.”
“You’ve not been mated yet, have you? When you’re older you’ll understand these things. I can handle my own mate, dragon. Don’t worry; your name will not pass my lips or waft across in thought.”
“Go to Ibidio first, Tyr. I beg you.”
“I’m not without resources, RuGaard. Where can I contact you?”
“I’ll let the griffaran know where I am. I won’t be far from these rocks.”
“RuGaard, thank you for coming to me with this. Bravely done, if it’s the truth. If this is all some scheme of your own…well, bravely done for that, too. I’ll forgive you personally. But as Tyr, matters will go hard with you.”
“I ask only that you try to find the truth, your honor.”
The Tyr raised his wings, nodded to the griffaran escort, and dropped off the towering rock. He caught an air current and disappeared into shadow, entering the tunnel through which the Copper had been carried years ago.
Even the fresh fish the griffaran brought him soured in his mouth. He picked at rocks with his claws and wondered about Nilrasha. Finally the Copper could sleep, though it was a fitful one. His mouth had gone dry from the tension.
Yarrick himself woke him the next day with news that the glorious Tyr was dead.
Chapter 22
The Copper stood before the massive Black Rock in the center of the Lavadome; it was dozens of dragonlengths high, heavy and black and forbidding.
He’d always thought it looked everlasting, a guarantee of dragonkind’s survival. Now it seemed a marker in a vast, empty, crystal-topped tomb.
He could return to the Uphold and act as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he’d just been escorting the final bounty of the year’s harvest to the Lavadome, ensuring its prompt arrival intact.
In the end, he decided he had to play his part in the tragedy, for good or ill. He walked up the path leading to the lower caves, the smaller one the Drakwatch used. There were dragons idling about the more elaborate main entrance, waiting for news, and more clustered at the servants’ door, pestering thralls running errands.
The Rock seemed deadly quiet, as though expecting another outburst of battle. The Copper took the most familiar path, to his old residence in the trainee wing, and saw a good deal of water on the floor. They were fixing the water feed on the upper levels again.
The young drakes were sitting around the pooled water, chatting in low voices. “A visitor,” one said.
NeStirrath stuck his aging, tangle-horned head out of his cavern. “That’s no visitor; that’s one of the Drakwatch, but so long away he’s become a stranger. How are you, Rug—RuGaard. Wings up and out at last, I see!”
“Out, anyway. I’ve not managed up yet.”
“You have heard the news, I expect.”
“Yes. The Tyr is dead. What do you know of it?”
“It happened in his mate’s chambers. I had only a quick word with NoSohoth; he could tell me no more. He advised me to get back down here and ready the Drakwatch, sayin
g those were SiDrakkon’s orders. So here I sit, awaiting further orders.”
“I’m going up.”
“Squeeze up the thrall passages, if you can. The great winding one is blocked by those waiting for news and spreading rumor.”
The Copper took his advice and made his way up to the Imperial kitchens, at some cost of scrapes to the poor, thin-skinned humans he had to squeeze by. He fought his way out into the gardens, past dragons, drakes, dragonelles, and drakka thronging the garden.
Some of SiDrakkon’s Skotl clan kept them back from the doors, exchanging rather profane insults with the catcalling Wyrr.
“We want NiVom back; he was an honest Wyrr!”
“Anklene, more like,” a Skotl roared back.
“Make a breach, you; I’m in the Imperial line,” the Copper boomed, a little surprised at how loud his voice sounded. “Let me in to see my family.”
“Air Spirit, even Batty’s turned up,” someone said.
“NoSohoth,” the Copper roared at the Tyr’s door. “I know you’re on the other side of that. Let me in.”
“He fought with NiVom at the Black River. Let him pass,” someone in the throng shouted.
“He’s a no-line half-wit.”
“Not even hatched in the Lavadome. What business is it of his?”
The portal opened, but the Copper didn’t catch what was said. In any case, the fat Skotl toughs made room for him.
“RuGaard, what a pleasant surprise on this tragic day,” NoSohoth said. Naturally he was the one dragon who pronounced his new appellation effortlessly, as though it had always passed his lips that way. “Follow me.”
Nervous thralls gathered in the shadows. Even the tiniest brazier was aflame, sending out soothing fragrances. At the larger versions blighters worked the fire with bellows.
“Where’s Tighlia? I wish to speak to her,” the Copper said.
“She’s obviously in a delicate condition, shattered by the loss of her mate. It happened in her sleeping chamber, you know. Tyr SiDrakkon is holding court in the Tyr’s chamber.”
“Why don’t you just call him Tyr? Did the Tyr name a new heir?”
“Careful, now. There’s the traditional one-year period of mourning.”
“Of course. I’m no courtier; I apologize.”
The Copper heard SiDrakkon’s voice as he passed through into the Tyr’s audience chamber. It was smaller than he remembered it, perhaps because of the crowd. Griffaran crowded the upper areas, two to a perch, looking agitated.
“We’ll speak with one voice. United. I’m Tyr and that’s all there is to it,” SiDrakkon said. “They’ll have to accept it. The succession is legal and according to tradition. The worst thing we can do is divide and argue like this. Blood could be spilled at any moment.”
Imfamnia lounged at his side, looking as though she were enjoying the view down on the Imperial line.
“I still say NiVom should have a proper trial,” Ibidio said. She stood just below the shelf. “One Anklene, one Skotl, and one Wyrr judging him.”
“Mother, not that again,” Imfamnia said. “He’s violent. War-worn, I expect.”
“He ran from a challenge. He’s not going to appear for a trial,” SiDrakkon said.
“You seem very sure of that,” SiMevolant put in airily. He’d dusted his golden scales with ash for the occasion; otherwise he would have outshone the whole room.
“Are you implying anything?”
“Imply? Me? I come right out and say things. I’ve no ambition to conceal. I was just wondering if you’d had him killed, is all.”
SiDrakkon turned a deeper shade of purple. “Of course not! Shut your snout if you’ve nothing to offer but blather. Talk! Talk! Talk! Talk! That’s all the whole lot of you is good for. We have to act. Let’s go out there and tell them something before flame begins to fly.”
“Yes, I think that would be for the best,” a raspy voice said.
The company hushed, and Tighlia emerged from behind the curtains. Both griff were down, and her wings dragged in mourning. She cleared her throat, but could produce only a rather loud whisper: “I won’t have all that my mate worked for destroyed. If we go out and present a united line, they’ll accept SiDrakkon. Well?”
SiDrakkon glowered down at everyone, and Imfamnia looked warily at her future sister.
“If no one’s dragon enough to venture out first, I shall,” Tighlia said, moving toward the door down one of the silver waterfalls.
“No, Granddam,” the Copper said. “I’ll go out first. No faction can do much worse to me than life’s already done.”
“What a way to begin your reign, Tyr SiDrakkon,” SiMevolant said. “A lame half-wit announcing your ascendance.”
“And a garrulous bit of rabbit fluff bringing up the rear, no doubt,” Tighlia croaked. “Go on, RuGaard; show us what you’re made of.”
“I’ll lead, blast it,” SiDrakkon said. “Are you coming, Imfamnia?”
“You must be joking,” she said, staying on her shelf. “I had dung thrown at me on the way in. They’re like humans.”
They began to file out, and the Copper felt a pressure on his saa. It came from Ibidio, who maneuvered him into an alcove between half-melted war trophies as the others walked past.
“Ummmm, RuGaard, is it now?” She glanced around to make sure none were listening, not even thralls. Outside, the crowed roared as the doors opened.
“Yes,” the Copper said.
“You had the Uphold at the end of the western road. Did NiVom come your way?”
“If he had, I certainly wouldn’t give him away. He was a good friend.”
“I believe he’s being hunted.”
The Copper heard SiDrakkon roaring out a few emphatic words. A good deal of noise came back from the crowd.
“The Tyr came to me last night. He said he’d selected a new heir. He told me if anything happened to him, to ask you.”
“Ask me what?”
“Did you see him or didn’t you?”
“I did. I told him NiVom was innocent, and to ask you for the truth about your daughter. And your mate, and DharSii, whoever that was.”
“He was our best air commander. Once.”
“Dead?”
“No one knows. It’s not important; we have only a moment here. Who is the heir the Tyr mentioned?”
“NiVom, I expect.”
“What happened to the Tyr?”
“I was one of the first at my mate-father’s side,” Ibidio said. “We heard a roar from Tighlia’s chamber. I tore down the curtains and rushed in. The Tyr was flat on his side, and there was a terrible smell in there. It made my head swim and brought my meal up. I found Tighlia on the balcony.”
“What could have happened?”
The crowd outside was quieting.
“I don’t know. She’s half deman, that one. But I’ll tell you this: Look behind her griff. There are claw marks. Deep ones. Someone tried to tear her head off.”
“I have to go.”
He hurried toward the door, but SiDrakkon was already storming back in, his face spattered. “They’ll just have to get used to the idea,” he said. “I’ll be spending the rest of the day at the bath.”
“In all fairness,” SiMevolant said, “I don’t believe they were throwing their own dung at you. It was some animal’s. I think that makes a difference.”
SiDrakkon ignored him. “The rest of you, go through the Resort, and then to all the hills. Talk to your friends and let them know I’ll be Tyr, and there’s to be no fighting, no changes in control of the hills. No decisions of the Tyr will be voided, no policies changed, and all are welcome to petition me after a six-day mourning period.”
The line dispersed, with SiMevolant sighing. “I was hoping for a banquet….”
Save for Tighlia. She walked, a little stiffly, up to the Copper.
“I see your wings have come in,” she rasped. “What’s wrong with the odd one?”
“An old injury, Granddam,” he repl
ied.
“You call me that just to annoy me, I expect. Well, I’m sorry for you. Come to my outer chambers tomorrow. I have an interesting piece of news for you. Oh, come now. I don’t bite, and after all these years I’m not about to start with you.”
The Copper spent the night in anxiety in the strangely empty Imperial Gardens, trying to make out figures on the milkdrinker’s hill. He wanted to go to Nilrasha, but she couldn’t be linked to him so publicly until he learned what Tighlia had in mind.
His imagination offered plenty of possibilities, none of them less than terrifying. She was the most dangerous dragon he’d ever met, and she never even so much as extended her claws. He suspected she intended to entrap him with some giveaway.
He slept but little.
Bone-weary from his journey and the upsets of the previous day, he splashed cool water on himself and ordered a thrall to bring him some toasted meat and a little wine. Fortified, he made his way to her caverns adjoining the Tyr’s. Or, now, Tyr SiDrakkon’s.
He scraped outside the curtains.
“Come,” she rasped.
It was gloomy in her reception chamber. On a happier day there would be light bouncing off the glasswork mosaics worked into her walls and floors. He was rather surprised at how cheery the room could be, if it were better lit.
“RuGaard. I’m glad you made it early.” Her voice sounded a little stronger today. “I hate it when I invite someone over and they either don’t show up at all or spend the whole day getting ready for the visit. Wastes my time.”
“How are you feeling, Tighlia?”
“That’s better. Dragons never realize how much dragonelles—and yes, dragon-dames—love hearing their names said. It’s always ‘dear’ or ‘my love’ or ‘cloud-dream’ or ‘tenderness’ or something they’ve heard their fathers use. Just say her name, RuGaard. You have your faults, but you do speak well. It seems to me when you first came here, you lisped like a hatchling.”
“I remember. I hadn’t been around dragons much.”
“Just bats. Yes. Well, at least you don’t smell like them these days.”
