by Doug Niles
And already, too, it seemed that his once vivid memories of the place were beginning to fade.
PART IV
Chapter 36
Silver Ceremony
127 AC
The rains that had shrouded the Dragon Isles for more than a hundred winters had finally broken, swept over the ocean like so much debris pushed by a giant broom. Rays of sun sparkled from the limitless expanse of seawater; a brilliant array of iridescent facets surrounded the verdant islands jutting from that dazzling surface like soft mounds of green. Though each isle was crowned by at least one summit of dark rock and bright, snow-swept glacier, much of the coastal fringe remained thick and green with tropical growth.
Lectral flew without haste, stretching his wings and allowing the warmth of the sun to soak into the ancient, leathery spans. He rode serenely on a coastal updraft, trying to put aside his thoughts, to ignore the purpose that would soon force him to turn and climb toward the uplands of Cloudhome, the Misty Isle—largest and most populous of the metallic dragons’ homelands-in-exile.
Perhaps because of that purpose, he reminisced almost sleepily as he flew through the warm, tropical currents of air. For a moment, he was confused, which was a not uncommon state for him these days. His mind brightened with memories of a young silver female … was it Heart? No, Saytica … She had been a good companion during the long, uneventful centuries on the Dragon Isles. His mind drifted to the image of the lofty High Kharolis, and he sighed heavily at the thought that he would never see those mountains again.
How long had it actually been since the dragons of Paladine had come to these isles, in their exile that had become a way of life? The question troubled him, for it was becoming increasingly difficult—almost impossible, in fact—to remember the time when dragons had dwelt upon Ansalon.
Many hundreds of winters had passed, he knew, though perhaps it was more appropriate to count the summers here in this balmy, tropical clime. And for most of those annums, it had seemed that he and his kin-dragons had lived without meaning or purpose, merely passing the time from one period of wakefulness to the next. They dwelt in peace and harmony, true, but also in boredom and indolence.
Once again he remembered the purpose that had drawn him to the Misty Isle, and his sense of melancholy swelled into a surging wave. Of course, a farewell to a dragon was always sad, and there was a real poignancy when the deceased was a sibling, one who had been born after Lectral in that long-ago era. Yet still he dallied for a while longer over the wave-washed coastline, enjoying the perfect, infinite turquoise of the shallows within the coral reefs along the shoreline below.
But in his heart, he knew that it was time to go, and with a sweeping turn, he arced toward land. He made a straight line along a deep valley in the foliage-draped massif rising toward the island’s center, bearing toward the well-known gathering place concealed there. Certainly many of the younger silvers would already be present, and no doubt Silvara would have arrived as well. But Lectral was the venerable silver, and his presence was required before the ceremony could begin.
Saytica had died peacefully, as was the natural way of elder dragons. Soon her body would be commended unto the gods from the height of the Silver Stairs, and it was not only Lectral’s wish, but his sacred duty, that he be there.
He continued to climb, following the winding valley of one of the mountainous island’s rapid, plunging creeks. He worked harder now, powerful strokes of his wings carrying him upward, past the steep, verdant walls of the narrow vale. Thankfully, the wind was off the sea, and he was able to ride the current of air inland, focusing his own efforts merely on staying aloft, gaining altitude only as it became necessary.
He saw the snow-capped peaks, where the silver dragon nests, rich with eggs, were securely cached. He remembered the lifelong lesson, passed along by Callak and Daria—guard the eggs! It had been the goal of dragonkind since the days in the grotto, and at least life on the Dragon Isles insured that he and his kin-dragons had been able to accomplish this.
As he flew, Lectral tried once again to remember the passing of the last dozen winters, but he realized that those memories were blurred. It had stopped raining before then, perhaps two or three dozen years ago. Preceding that, storms had wracked the islands for no less than a full century. That had been a dark time, when the world itself had rumbled underfoot, and ash and cloud had darkened the skies in a nearly eternal shroud. It had been an era when Lectral had yearned poignantly for the stability of his beloved Kharolis.
He knew that more recently he had been sleeping for some time, until he had been awakened by the coming of a griffon. The creature had respectfully informed him of the passing of Saytica and presented the announcement that her commending would occur when the sun first reached its zenith following the spring equinox.
Saytica … Unlike Lectral, she had flown to war when the call came, had borne a lancer against the chromatic dragons while mighty Lectral had ignored his nestmates and gone off on his own. His regrets had been strong, at first, but now even those emotions had been dulled by the passage of centuries. Dulled, perhaps, but they were still there.
Trying to focus his hazy memories, Lectral wasn’t even certain upon which of the isles he had most recently been sleeping. One of the smaller islets, certainly. Was it Jaentarth, or perhaps Alarl? No matter, really. With the exception of Cloudhome, the isles were quite similar, almost interchangeable in the ancient silver’s opinion. True, each was for the most part a paradise of plentiful food, balmy weather, and pastoral wilderness. But they were also boring. And after this ceremony, Lectral would eventually find another lair amid the perfect terrain of the Dragon Isles, curling up and going back to sleep. In fact, it would probably be very soon, for there was little to do here except sleep.
With a twinge of sadness, he wondered: was this to be the destiny of all the young silvers as well, the proud and mighty descendants of him and his mighty sire, and their ancestors back through the dawn of time? Would they merely grow large so that they could move from cave to cave, spending increasing periods of their life asleep, too torpid even to note the arrival of a new summer or winter?
In truth, the summers on the Dragon Isles were things Lectral would just as soon spend in the depths of a cool and sunless cave. When he did emerge during the hot season, he invariably sought the glacial heights of the islands’ central massifs, where the altitude was sufficient to hold even the scorching heat at bay. A silver’s temperament was not made for the tropics.
Of course, the gold dragons seemed to be content in exile, since they seemed to find contentment in everything. Led by Regia and Arumnus, they dwelt in great airy palaces and manors in the City of Gold, spending most of their time in the human or elven guises they preferred. The ancient matriarch and her stolid, ever predictable mate presided over arguments in philosophy or created artworks and poems during their periods of activity and awareness. Of course, the younger silvers had told Lectral that lately even the golds were spending increasing amounts of time sleeping in their silk-draped chambers. It was as if a plague of tiredness was besetting dragonkind, sapping their might and their imaginations and, eventually, even their very animation and spirit.
The dragons of the brown metals had grown wild and disparate during the millennium of exile. For the most part, they chose solitary lairs on the outer islands, or in the deepest wilderness of Misty Isle. Brass, bronze, and copper invariably regarded each other with jealous distrust, and all had become suspicious and hostile toward the brighter wyrms. The silvers and golds, for their part, tended to leave their lesser cousins alone.
On his current flight, Lectral glided across a deep valley that he recognized. Numerous hot springs spouted from the marshy floor, and he knew the bronze dragons nested and laired here. Strangely, he saw no activity in the great lake centering the swampy lowland, and he wondered if the bronzes, like all the rest, had become listless and torpid.
True, some dragons remained restless. Silvara, for example, mu
ch as her elder sister had done a thousand years ago, spent long periods of time traveling unknown reaches. Though no one accused her to her face, it was widely rumored that she was violating the stricture against travels on Ansalon. But certainly she, too, would be present for the ceremony of her elder sister’s commending.
Shaking his head, Lectral realized that he had arrived, his flight at last crossing the ridge bordering the bronzes’ swamp. Now he glided toward the small, circular vale at the foot of the Silver Summit.
True to Lectral’s guess, the valley below was flocked with silver shapes, all of them supple and wiry … and young. These were not wyrmlings by any means. Dargentan and Darlant, who cleared a path for their venerable sire, were mighty serpents in their own right. Each was already larger than Lectral had been at the time of Huma’s war, though the ancient one was now half again as huge as either of his proud scions.
The sire came to a rest in the middle of the silver throng, and with measured dignity, he dipped his chin in acknowledgment of the honoring bows, heads dropping all the way to the ground, of the younger wyrms of argent. Folding his wings with precise care, Lectral turned his attention to the nearby mountain and its glimmering path of ascent.
The steep slope leading to the Silver Summit climbed in metallic perfection from the base of the valley to the top of a small, pyramidal mountain. Saytica’s body lay atop the flat peak, which was a space just large enough to contain the massive silver corpse. Solemnly the gathered dragons raised their heads, all eyes focused on the edge of the mountaintop.
His height allowed Lectral to see that several gold dragons were present as well, standing to the side of the gathered silvers in a little knot of human and elven bodies. The ancient silver knew the golds would claim this was because space in the small valley was limited, but he believed that his golden kin-dragons actually preferred to spend their lives in their tiny two-legged bodies.
“Greetings, Elder Brother,” came a familiar voice, and Lectral’s heart soared with an emotion he hadn’t felt in too many winters.
“Silvara! It’s a joy to see you, Little Sister, even in the sadness of our gathering.”
“It is a mixed sadness,” declared the graceful silver female, advancing to Lectral’s side. Dargent and Darlant bristled, holding the rest of the wyrms back from the pair. “I do not mean to be cold, but Saytica had not been truly living for more than a thousand winters.”
“No,” agreed Lectral. “Not in the way we once lived upon Ansalon.…”
“I must confess,” Silvara said softly, “I would have stayed away from here if I could.”
Lectral thought of Heart, and suddenly he felt very old and very sad.
“Did you love her? Saytica?” asked the silver female softly.
Lectral shook his head. “She was special to me, a treasure. But I have learned that love is not—or at least, shouldn’t be—a concern of dragons. Let the lesser creatures suffer from that whim.”
“It is to be wished,” Silvara said, but there was a strange sadness in her eyes that didn’t quite match her words. Lectral remembered again the rumors, whispered by young wyrmling and wandering griffon, that she had visited the continent in violation of the exile. He wished that he could warn her of the danger—certainly Regia or Arumnus would have been able to—but his heart broke at the thought of forcing her to an unwilling confinement.
A whisper of attention hissed through the crowd, and all the gathered dragons turned their eyes toward the top of the gleaming slope.
Magic shimmered, and a small figure who had been looking down at the throng of dragons suddenly grew, golden scales and wings coming into view, reflecting the bright rays of the noontime sun as Regia loomed above her kin-dragons. The golden female, wise and patient as ever, looked at Lectral with such disturbing clarity that he shifted awkwardly and cleared his throat with an impatient harrumph.
“She was great and wise and mighty … and so terribly unhappy,” Regia said in dignified farewell. “It is without gladness, but also without grief, that we witness her ascent to the heavens.”
“Farewell, Saytica of the Silver Wing,” came the deep chant from the gathered dragons.
“I commend thee to the vault of the skies,” Regia declared, her tone sonorous and deep as it echoed throughout the small valley. “And may all the blessings of Paladine rise with you.”
At that, Regia dipped her head, allowing her snout to touch Saytica’s motionless nostrils. She murmured a long incantation, the words to the spell inaudible to the wyrms gathered below, and then flames appeared, surrounding the silver shape with a sparkling aura.
Finally the ancient gold spread her wings and took flight, gliding from the mountaintop to settle beside Lectral and Silvara.
The gathered dragons held their attention on the summit and its massive, motionless burden. Saytica’s scales gleamed more brightly than ever, reflecting the rays of the sun with an intensity that seemed to actually increase the brilliance of the glow. Shimmering like a surface of vibrating liquid, the scales seemed to flow like quicksilver, but the great body remained whole and dignified in its final repose.
Then, as the magic took hold, Saytica’s silver shape glowed so brightly that the dragons were forced to watch through the protective screens of their inner eyelids. Yet none turned away from the blinding illumination. The surrounding peaks stood out in brilliant detail, scorched by a flare like burning magnesium, a fire burning so brightly that even the sun seemed to pale in comparison.
Lectral dared not take a breath, so rapt was he at the sight upon the mountaintop. The brightness rose to a truly blinding level, until his only awareness was that spot of light.
Yet the blazing glow was curiously heatless, radiating no increase in warmth. Instead, it consumed the dragon who lay inert at the core of the brightness. When the fire slowly faded into nothing, there was no sign of Saytica.
With a collective sigh, the watching dragons settled, necks relaxing, wings stretching and ruffling in the still air. Many of the youngsters took off in a series of steep, upward pounces that Lectral could only envy.
“It is good,” Silvara said, and for the first time Lectral realized that she had remained at his side. “Regia was right; this is not a time for grieving.”
“You’re right, it’s not,” Lectral agreed, already feeling a familiar, numbing fatigue. “But is it a time for anything at all?”
Chapter 37
The Price of an Oath
296 AC
It was young Dargentan who awakened first, at least among the silver dragons. The young male rose to his feet with a barely contained sense of energy, a feeling of profound unease. Sniffing the air, he crossed with a clattering of claws to the pool of water at the back of his cave. When he found it frozen, he emerged from his lair to blink into the pearly rose light of dawn.
He saw that the surface of Misty Isle’s highland was buried under a blanket of snow, a layer of white that glistened in pristine perfection across the pastoral valleys and rolling summits of the highlands. Graceful cornices curled from lofty ridges, and the wind had marked long drifts, scoring sharp lines from numerous trees, rocks, and other irregularities.
All but the highest pines were fully buried, and Dargentan’s breath frosted visibly as he snorted from his great nostrils. It was a startling thought, but true, to realize that just a few miles away the island’s coastal lowlands were already balmy with the coming of spring.
But when his eyes rose toward the glacier wall, his unease clattered into full alarm. He saw that something had disturbed the snowfields up near the ice-draped nests of silver. Great furrows of dark ground were visible among the snowfields, where the snow had been churned and clawed away.
With a pounce, he took to the air, driving for altitude, fear choking upward into his throat. He flew closer, blood pulsing as he acknowledged a terrifying truth:
The nests had been raided!
He soared above the ridge where the ice-shrouded bowls of silver rested,
and one look at the empty mangers confirmed his worst fears: The metallic eggs had been stolen.
Braying in alarm, Dargentan flew among the mountain summits. He knew that he had to find Lectral.
* * * * *
“You say that the eggs—all the eggs—are gone? Stolen from the nests?” demanded the ancient silver, a fundamental sense of urgency driving away the vestiges of his lingering fatigue. He rose and shook himself, twisting and stretching his stiff body, sloughing off old scales in a glittering silver shower. “When did this happen?”
“While I was sleeping—while we all were sleeping,” Dargentan explained breathlessly. “I found them all dug up, and I came to tell you right away.”
“That was wise,” Lectral agreed, though his guts were churned into an icy ball by Dargentan’s news. He stalked, stiff-legged, to the mouth of his cave and looked into the snow-swept valley beyond. From the position of the sun, near the northern horizon of jagged mountains, he knew that the isles had moved only slightly into spring. “Fly with me to the nests. We will see for ourselves.”
Together the two silver dragons took wing, stroking toward the valley of the high glacier. By the time they arrived, they found more of their argent clan gathering.
The nests were high on a cliff, cloaked by ice and shadow year round. Here Lectral and Dargentan landed, finding Darlant probing through an empty icebound nest of silver wire.
“Look!” exclaimed Darl as the pair of big males joined him. He pointed to claw marks along the ledge, where mighty talons had scraped the ice. “These were dragons.”
“And here!” Dargent pointed to a flake that at first appeared to be a large plate of ice. It lay on the edge of the narrow shelf, near where the protective layer of frost had been torn away from the nest.
