by E. E. Knight
The space seemed an impossibility, like a sea rolling above clouds rather than below, or a mountain hanging from the sky instead of growing from the earth. It was a separate world deep underground, vast beyond imagining and lit by the earth’s hot blood. At first she thought it an optical illusion, a strange effect like some of the murals she’d seen in the Hypatian libraries, or a garden-pool she’d seen near a seaside palace that visually met the ocean with many dragonlengths of sand and coral between the palace and the Inland Ocean.
Brighter than all the lava, a glowing orb topped the Lavadome, bathing a tall, squared-off rock Ayafeeia identified as the Imperial Rock, the residence of the Tyr and his family.
They ate a meal, food fetched by the youngest of the Firemaidens, immature females who, according to Ayafeeia, sometimes passed into the Firemaids.
Then they walked, walked until the light faded from the top of the dome, and they still hadn’t crossed to the other side of the Lavadome. Ayafeeia brought her to a depression in the ground with several caves in its walls and floor.
“Odd that a sink should be called a ‘hill,’ but this place is called Halfhollow Hill.”
The soil here was looser than elsewhere in the Lavadome. Wistala slid as she descended and had to brace herself with her tail.
“This is sacred ground to the Firemaids, Wistala. Here the First Score set tails-a-ring and promised to act for the defense of others’ hatchlings.”
“Why, could the mothers not defend their own?”
“Oh, it was a terrible time, during the war. Wyrr against Anklene against Skotl. Groups of dragons were seeking out egg-caves and smashing eggs, killing hatchlings, trying to break the will of the opposing clan or swap murder for murder.
“The First Score were all unmated females, from all three clans. The civil war was at its height. They swore to forsake their clans, guard any eggs or hatchlings brought into their protection, to remain neutral in the war.
“Mated pairs of dragons came from all corners of the Lavadome bearing an egg or two in their mouths. Many eggs were abandoned to the egg-smashers. Some were lost on the way.
“When Skotl came looking for Wyrr eggs they fought them as one, together. When Wyrr came looking for Skotl hatchlings they fought them as one, together. Only three of the First Score knew the key to their arrangement, and of them each knew only a part, so that pain could not reveal all.”
In her imagination, Wistala could see the dragons running for the caves with eggs in their mouths. Dragons fighting dragons above—that she hardly needed imagination to picture. Her own memories supplied the details.
“Ever since, the Firemaids have lived to protect eggs not their own. We guard far-off holes and the hills of our siblings. We prowl unlit tunnels and stand guard in the burning sun at the Uphold entrances.”
From her earliest dreams in the egg Wistala had thought herself a protector of her kind. Here stood a sister in spirit if not in body.
“How many dragons are in the Lavadome?” Wistala asked.
“A score of scores counted six, and another score of scores in the Upholds,” Ayafeeia said.
Wistala had never imagined that so many dragons could live in one place. But she’d seen the pens and cattle that supported the dragons, the scruffy hominids toiling in the dark, spreading manure in mushroom fields and then grinding the grown mushrooms into chunks of feed for themselves and the cattle.
“The first great Tyr, FeHazathant,” Ayafeeia continued, “he and his mate established traditions for the Firemaids, and set up the Drakwatch in imitation of the Firemaids. The idea was that Wyrr, Skotl, and Anklene would serve together and never come to blows again. The Firemaids and Drakwatch conduct skirmishes against each other. Many a mating has had its start in a good tussle against the drakes.
“But this space is important in one other respect. Firemaidens take their first oath here. As they pass into adulthood some take the second oath and are trusted to hold a position. Then there are those who take the third oath, to remain unmated, or rather to mate with all dragonkind and defend it as our own.”
Wistala realized that she’d already made the decision when she heard the story of the First Score. Perhaps she’d found the meaning of her first memory, a hatchling dream in egg of flying above others, protecting.
Now she just had to find the courage to give voice to feeling and put it into words.
“May I . . . may I take the first oath? I would very much like to repay the debt I owe to the Lavadome. You did save my life—more than once.”
“I’d be delighted to exchange the words with you, Wistala,” Ayafeeia said.
“How—” Takea squealed.
“She’s a female dragon,” Ayafeeia said. “That’s enough, that’s always been enough.”
“But how can she ever be trained, if she didn’t pass through the rigors?”
“She looks like she’s seen rigors enough,” Ayafeeia said. “You have no idea, drakka, of the dangers of the Upper World.”
Wistala smiled. The other dragons looked at her as though she’d just vented herself, and she stopped. She’d been too long among hominids. “Oh, the Upper World has its hazards, but there are many fine things to see. It is rich in variety.”
“Rich in everything but dragons,” Ayafeeia said. “Dragons are hunted even into their egg-caves, like one long war.”
Wistala didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t be a lie. It was possible to coexist with the hominids. She’d proved that. She’d even met a dwarf or two she’d liked in the halls of the Wheel of Fire, though they’d have her head if she ever returned.
“Takea, you will prompt her with the words. You’ve won the honor.”
Takea’s griff dropped and rattled. “Maidmother! It’s an honor I’d as soon—”
Ayafeeia raised high her head. “Still that racket. You’ve won more honors than any other drakka present. It’s your place.”
The youngster shrank against the stares of the older dragonelles. “Yes, Maidmother.”
Ayafeeia pointed with her tail-tip to the gritty bottommost part of the hollow. “Wistala, you stand where your mothers and sisters stood before you.”
Wistala took her place and looked up at Ayafeeia and the other Firemaids.
“Wistala, if any part of this oath gives you doubt or pause, you may stop at any time. There is no shame or danger in not speaking the oath, only in not keeping it once spoken. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Takea fell into place next to her.
“How do you come to this place?”
A long pause. Ayafeeia glared at Takea.
“A maiden female, leaving family, clan, and line, of my own free will and with clear mind,” Takea prompted.
Wistala repeated the words.
“Why do you come to this place?” Ayafeeia asked. “Takea!”
“To join with my sisters in protecting our future,” Takea said, tail twitching petulantly.
“To join with my sisters—” Wistala repeated the rest.
“Will you give up duty to family, clan, and cave for the greater duty of protecting all dragonkind?”
“Yes, I will,” Takea said.
Wistala had a moment’s doubt. Should she stop the oath? She was a librarian of Hypatia, after all. But librarians held other posts, some were priestesses, some attended thanes as advisors—the librarians would probably appreciate an account of the Lavadome.
“Yes, I will,” Wistala repeated.
“Will you obey the orders of superior, maidmother, and Tyr?”
“Yes, I will,” Takea whispered.
“Yes, I will.”
“Will you brave want, pain, injury, and death in obedience to those orders and defense of this oath?”
“Same, again,” Takea said.
“Yes, I will,” Wistala said, after a moment’s confusion of almost letting same, again pass her snout.
“Takea, one more trick and I’ll put you on the southernmost rock as a watchkeeper,”
Ayafeeia said.
Takea hung her head, but Wistala heard griff rattle.
“Then come and meet your sisters and call me maidmother.”
“Yes, maidmother,” Takea prompted.
“Yes, maidmother.”
“Welcome back to the Lavadome, our long-lost sister,” Ayafeeia said.
Wistala’s life had seen its share of happy moments, but this felt truer than most. Perhaps she’d been born for this and all her life had been training for this moment. Her hearts pounded with excitement.
“She’s blushing like you’re a dragon who’s sung his song to her,” one of the dragonelles said, twisting her head to and fro in amusement like a dog drying its ears.
The sisters embraced.
“I’m so happy,” Ayafeeia said. “I don’t know why, but I’m truly happy.”
“What are my first orders, maidmother?” Wistala asked.
“We’re going to have a first-oath feast. Your orders are to stuff yourself cross-eyed, Wistala.”
“My family mostly called me Tala.”
“Then Tala you shall be to us,” Ayafeeia said.
Ayafeeia gave orders to some thralls in—almost—spotless white smocks regarding food.
She put Takea in charge of correcting Wistala’s behavior, a duty that somewhat mollified Takea’s dislike and cutting remarks. Able to devote herself to criticizing Wistala’s bows, or wording, or tone, or knowledge evidently removed the incentive to treat her as a curse dropped into the Lower World to vex dragonkind, or at least Takea.
“Silly! Keep your eyes open as you bow. What if a blow were to come during an exchange of formalities? Even enemies will bow to each other,” was a sample of the chatter, which tended to bend round back to where it began, like a dragon with a solid bite into her own tail.
The Firemaids and Firemaidens—the taxonomy was a little confusing to Wistala; it seemed that all wingless drakka were Firemaidens while some winged dragonelles who had no intention of taking further oaths were called Firemaidens and others were called Firemaids—she suspected it depended on whether a dragon seemed likely to sing his song in the near future—and all dragonelles who had taken their three oaths were titled Firemaids, with the ones no longer expected to do duty far from the Lavadome given ranks such as “advisor” or “superior” or “of distinguished merit,” depending on overall health and ability.
She met one cave-bound dragonelle “of distinguished merit,” an aged thing with scales gone unhealthy and almost yellow, with a great chunk of her head caved in and scarred over. She babbled about flowers and stars for the few uncomfortable moments Wistala spent in her presence.
“Dwarvish ax,” Takea whispered. “Saka will be your first duty, cleaning her tailvent and reminding her to eat and making sure she raises her head to swallow.”
“A lesson to always smell and listen first before putting your head into a hole,” the Firemaid who attended several of the “distinguished merits” explained.
“Wouldn’t it be kinder to just let her starve, if she won’t eat?” Wistala said.
“Oh, she has a few good days every year. You hear some fine stories. Besides, bones from older dragons are worth more in trade. The alchemists claim they can age a dragon by the color of a cross section.”
“You sell her body after she’s died?”
“Just bits,” Takea said. “It’s an honor. You serve the Empire even after death. Your bones can purchase gold coin or whole herds of veal for hatchlings.”
Takea watched her for a moment. “Don’t be afraid to accept the harsher realities of life. Embrace them. We never die, in a manner. As long as there are new drakka taking the same oaths we did, we’ve helped that part of us live on.”
They feasted, well and long. Wistala had never had such a banquet. Organmeats in rich sauce and quarter-sheep and great flanks of beef and glazed chickens lined up on a skewer ready for swallowing. She’d eaten well before, but it was always hominid food, overloaded with tasteless, juiceless vegetables that bloated one with gas and glazed fruits that made her throat close up and her eyes wince.
They talked of battles against the demen and hunting aboveground, and she heard the story of how the Tyr destroyed a Ghioz fortress by having rocks dropped on it by the Aerial Host. Ayafeeia corrected the stories on only one point, saying that the Tyr, though present, had only inspired the rock-dropping. The actual management of it belonged to an exiled dragon, a white named NiVom.
“He would have been Tyr, I think, but he was driven out,” Ayafeeia said.
The bloodcurdling stories reminded Wistala of Rainfall’s tales of when Hypatia was ruled by “barbarian kings.”
Was this Tyr, whom all seemed to respect and admire, nothing more than a “barbarian king,” climbing to his throne-shelf over bloodied heads of rivals?
“Ha!” Ayafeeia told her, when she asked the question, phrasing it more politely. “Our Tyr is many things, but he’s no duelist, for all that he killed the Dragonblade. No, he was a compromise. As he came from no clan, he had fewer enemies who’d swear to die before they saw him in the throne room.”
“His mate, however,” Takea said.
“Hush. I believe Nilrasha herself comes.”
Wistala was taught not to crane her neck to watch the Queen approach, but to turn into a respectful recline, facing the Queen, ready to do her bidding.
“What do I say to her?” Wistala asked.
“As little as possible,” Takea said. “It’s deeds that count, not words.”
The Queen approached.
From a distance she seemed a fine-looking dragonelle. Wistala was improving in her judgment of the various clans. It seemed she had a bit of Anklene about the eyes—how like Mother!—and strong, thick saa bulging with muscle. Wistala guessed she must be a great leaper. She envied her long, graceful tail and elegantly formed forelimbs. Wistala thought hers oxlike in comparison.
She’d heard a story that the blighters called her “Ora”—her entire band of Firemaidens had died in an attack on a Ghioz city. She was the only survivor, the Ora—the one spared from slaughter at a great feast, by blighter custom.
Closer, her looks were marred somewhat by scars.
“She’s seen her share of battles,” Wistala observed.
“The Tyr has a scarred face as well,” Takea whispered. “The scars look less strange when you see them together.”
Nilrasha accepted her bows and crossed necks with Ayafeeia. Nilrasha asked a few polite niceties about the quality of the pig, sheep, and cow from the Imperial Herd that she’d sent to the banquet and received thanks and compliments in return.
“Maidmother, I understand you have news for me,” Nilrasha said.
“I have an account of the completion of the war against the demen in the area of the Star Tunnel,” Ayafeeia said, her voice flat, as though she were suddenly a stranger to Drakine. “Further, we have one new recruit, a stranger to the Lavadome named Wistala.”
“Which is she, the one next to, errr—Takea?”
“Yes, my Queen.” Ayafeeia touched Wistala with an extended wingtip. Wistala thought it a protective, motherly gesture and warmed.
Nilrasha’s eyes widened for a moment and she swiveled her head on her neck to view Wistala from different angles.
“The shape of her snout. Good teeth and healthy gums, no mash of kern and onions for her. I would almost think—I see she has an injured wing.”
“It is healing and will be sound again, I expect. We almost lost her a second time during Paskinix’s escape. Young Takea here had captured Paskinix as he was about to kill Wistala, but he slipped away during our concern for Wistala as we climbed into the Star Tunnel.”
“Bad luck, Takea,” Nilrasha said. “The Tyr would have liked to see that egg-stealer brought to him in chains. But all know how slippery the old deman is. I shall be sure to mention it to my mate.”
“Thank you, my Queen,” Takea said, bowing—though she kept her eyes open.
Nilrasha stiffened a
little. Wistala decided some slight had been offered.
Ayafeeia intervened, bowing with eyes closed. “My Queen, Wistala has just taken her first oath, so we all meet at feast. Will you join us?”
“Thank you for your kindness, sister, but a hard-flying courier bat has just come in.” She pointed to a nick of blood at her shoulder. “He tells me there is an emissary on the way and we are to gather to hear what he has to say. Such talk! It has been years since the Imperial Rock has seen such a rustling. And the visitor! The arrogance, the presumption . . .”
Wistala thought the Queen was struggling with her firebladder. “But social gossip doesn’t concern our brave Firemaids. I came to deliver my mate’s word. Consider it a summoning. The Tyr would like to see this new Firemaiden and hear her account of matters in the Upper World.”
Wistala felt the tingle of the gazes upon her such that it made her scales ripple. “I—I thank you for the opportunity to obey, my Queen,” Wistala said.
“Don’t let me stop you from enjoying your feast. You look as though you could use it. Ayafeeia, see that a body-thrall with sharp snippers and fresh file attends to her. Her scales are running quite wild.”
“Yes, my Queen.”
The Queen drew Ayafeeia away and said a few more words, quietly. They crossed necks again.
“Such an insult,” an old Firemaid said, interrupting Wistala’s concentration. “Send a renegade with a demand. We’ll give her war, if she wants it.”
“I expect she does want it,” Ayafeeia said, leaving Nilrasha.
Behind her, the Queen touched nose-tip with a very young drakka standing sore-footed at the end of the line as she departed. A dragonelle at the opposite end said something quiet about on the climb since she lost her hatchling teeth in milkdrinker’s hill.
Eyes narrowed in thought, Ayafeeia watched the Queen take off. “The losses from the dragon-riders are still within this generation. We’ve just completed a hard war with the demen. She knows we are weak.”
Wistala had heard much talk of battles with the Ghioz. “How does she know? Spies?”
“Quite possibly,” Ayafeeia said. “There are dragons who weigh gold above blood.”
