“I think, as these blighters seem to hold you in some regard, AuRon, that we should pick as a Protector a dragon related to you. Istach it is.”

“A female Protector?” NiVom asked.

“Why not? Many a widowed dragon-dame has served in her husband’s stead.”

“But this dragonelle is barely fledged. Her mind will be on mating and feasting and society. A collection of mud huts is no place for a dragonelle.”

“I think I should manage,” Istach said, glaring at NiVom. “As you said, my Tyr.”

“Well done, my new Protector,” the Copper said, laying his tail across hers.

“I had my first uphold at a young age, Istach,” the Copper said. “It’s a tremendous experience. Govern an uphold well, and you can be trusted with any responsibility.”

“I wasn’t any older than you when I was leading these blighters,” AuRon said.

“I must have a dragon I can trust. I can trust you.”

“But why did you let us go to the trouble of building a bridge?” NiVom asked.

DharSii smacked his lips. “We thought a celebratory feast was in order. Given that mountain of supplies filling those canoes heading upstream toward your landing and on the other side of the bridge, we thought it would make things easier for all concerned to have a bridge in place to bring them across to our cooking fires.”

“I’ve not dined on Ghioz smoked army pork in years,” AuRon said. “I’m looking forward to sampling your supply.”

The Copper stifled a laugh. It was pleasant to see the Gray Rat bite someone else for a change.

Chapter 10

Wistala was shocked to see DharSii return to the Lava-dome in company with her brother.

She couldn’t help but see it, as they arrived during a hatch-ling viewing in the gardens atop the Imperial Rock.

The proud mother, a Skotl, and her mate, an Ankelene, predicted great things from their hatchlings—a mix of brains and brawn. Some in the Skotl clan had warned the mother against mating outside the Skotl line, but had been encouraged from afar by Nilrasha, who always spoke against division by clan in the Lavadome.

She left the hatchling viewing as soon as she decently could, bestowing a gift of cattle from the Imperial Herd to help the sharp young appetites along, and hurried over to where her brother and DharSii shared a welcoming drink from a flower-ringed fountain (Rayg had some success recently breeding flowers that blossomed in the muted light of the Lavadome—when he wasn’t working on more important matters).

“Wistala! My felicities on your new role in your brother’s tyrancy,” DharSii said.

“It’s only for a time.”

“How much time? I’ve never heard of a dragon regrowing her wings,” he said.

“I… I cannot say,” Wistala said. Her brother’s hunt for a likely candidate to become Tyr was a secret Wistala didn’t even dare think about in the solitude of her room. “I am glad to see you allowed to return. Do you visit for long?”

“Returning wingtip-to-wingtip with Tyr RuGaard helps,” DharSii said. “Though I’ll stay as briefly as possible in some discreet hole near the edge to avoid giving offense to the Imperial Line. The gardens here have changed. They’re much improved from the few ferns and mushrooms and lichen-patterning of my day. Will you show me around? I’m too exhausted to do aught but keep you company for a while.”

“I’ve always wanted to hear the story of why you’re not welcome in the Lavadome.”

“Yes, I’m not quite at the status of exile, but I see my share of quickly turned backs and exposed tailvents on the rare occasion I do visit. I fear it is a long story.”

Wistala wanted it to be a long story. She looked forward to forgetting about plots and assassins while she walked with him. “I’ve no objection to hearing it.”

“I suppose to properly tell the story, I must go back to the dark times after the fall of Silverhigh.

“Dragons scattered. Some, the very young and the very fit, went as far away from their enemies as they could, into the great east or the islands beyond. They made themselves useful to the men there, and when dragon-hunters on swift Rocs came looking for them, they were hidden deep in temples or palace grottos. The grateful dragons did favors in return for this, so legends grew up about how lucky it was to have a dragon in your house. But they hid apart so long they grew estranged, and with no hatchlings they dwindled and died.

“The most indolent and lazy of the dragons sought refuge with a young wizard named Anklemere, who promised them the protection of his magic.

“This is just personal opinion, you must know, but I believe he began to breed dragons. The Wyrr were bred for hardiness and health, meant to travel long distances in carrying messages, and have a mild temperment so that they would not cause trouble. The Ankelenes were selected for their brains. I’m not sure what Anklemere had in mind for them. Of course the Skotl were bred for size and fighting strength.”

“So they’re different dragons from what we were before Anklemere?” Wistala asked.

“You have a scientific mind. How can you determine speciation? For example, with horses.”

“Mating is the easiest rule of claw. If, for example, a horse and a donkey mate, they produce a sterile mule. Other animals, when mixed, can’t produce offspring at all, for example a dog and a cat.”

“However, if you mate with an Ankelene—”

“I don’t think it’s likely I’ll mate anytime soon.”

“In theory—”

“Our hatchlings would be able to produce more hatchlings, so of course we’re still the same species.”

“Perhaps, if Anklemere had lived long enough, the dragon lines would have become truly estranged.”

“Just as well he didn’t. We have problems enough.”

“Oh, the Wyrr and Skotl and Ankelenes cause enough grief. The slight differences just give them that much more reason for faction and clannishness. Like sea-elves and forest-elves and bog-elves, or all the fall-foliage colors of humankind. I imagine dwarfs fight over something, too.”

“Bearded and unbearded females, I’ve heard.”

The shared a chuckle. “But back to your story.”

“Yes, well, the smallest number of refugees from Silverhigh fled to the old winter palace in the north. It’s a region few hominids dare approach. Volcanic activity keeps the vale itself hospitable enough in the winter, but there are only a few months in summer when men may approach it overland, and even then they have to wade across marshes filled with disease-carrying insects. They say you can find bones of every great hominid empire in those bogs—I’ve seen a jeweled chariot of the blighter kingdom of Old Uldam myself, when off exploring. I was born to that little clan of dragons, where we first met.”

She nudged a wayward paving stone back into place. “Yet you are also known in the Lavadome.”

“The dragons made cautious contact—we’d practically died out at the old Winter Palace in the Sadda-Vale. The trolls are a nuisance and have killed their share of drakes and drakka, or the more adventurous had struck off for better hunting. But through NooMoahk, back in his younger days before he became addled and obsessed with that cursed crystal, we learned of the dragons in the Lavadome.

“It became a tradition for at least one drake or drakka to be exchanged. In the middle of the clan wars between the Wyrr and Skotl—at first it was just the two of them, with the Ankelenes ostensibly neutral, the tradition was stopped. It only restarted again after the wars were over and Tyr FeHazathant and his mate calmed things down.

“I was both the first and the last of that old tradition. Scabia sent me because she thought me obstreperous, and the Lavadome would knock some discipline into me. In exchange we received NaStirath, who I believe you met in the Sadda-Vale when you were seeking allies to avenge your family.”

“Yes, though it was a bloodless hunt. NaStirath was quite possibly the silliest dragon I’ve ever known.”

“Somehow the Lavadome managed to spare him, yes. But he did learn to flatter there. Scabia enjoys hearing him prattle about her greatness.”

“So you weren’t originally from the Lavadome.”

“No, but I grew to love it as if I’d been hatched there. It felt like home, more so than anywhere else I’ve lived. Mystery and history and secrets, there’s more worth finding there than I could discover in a lifetime. But it was only home for a while. I went into the Aerial Host more for mnemonic powers than athletic ability or fighting skill or what have you. If you don’t mind listening to me sing my own praises, Wistala, I’m good at finding my way around, even by dead reckoning. I was usually flying scout—this was in the days when the Lavadome was reestablishing upholds that had been lost in the civil wars—and made excellent maps.

“Well, I found myself giving advice to the commander of the Aerial Host, FeHazathan’s clutchwinner AgGriffopse. I’d lay out enemy positions, or find a new route to an objective, a few times I even scared up allies—AgGriffopse would base his battle plans on what I’d discovered and we’d usually win without too much fighting. There’s a rumor in the Lavadome that AgGriffopse and I were enemies from the very start, but that’s not true. He usually sent me back to report his victories, the tradition then was that report running was a mark of high distinction, given only to dragons of sense and ability, because the Tyr would question them and form judgements and give orders based on the reports. I repaid AgGriffopse with my loyalty, always giving him his proper due.