He landed hard, righted himself, and searched the sky.

Long necks projected from the Imperial Rock.

The griffaran dove, claws out, like hawks after a running rabbit. But this prey didn’t run.

“Death to the Tyr, killer of hatchlings!” he shouted.

Then he turned his snout to his shoulder and bit himself just under the sii.

The griffaran struck but he made no effort to resist; he didn’t even cry out as their talons tore flesh from neck and spine.

The Copper drifted over the body. Two more griffaran, attracted by the war-screams of his escort, swooped down from atop Imperial Rock.

The body arched away from the ground, the tail and one saa stuck in the air. He’d seen stiff dead dragons before—too many—but never a dragon who’d just died like this. The dragon was very young; his skin was striped with clear extrude where his wings had emerged. Not more than a few months since he’d begun flying.

And he’d expended his life in trying to kill the Tyr.

The Copper was so shocked he could hardly stay aloft. It was one thing to have a defeated deman charge you, quite another to have a young member of your own society, without apparent quarrel, try to kill you. He found that his sii and his tail were shaking.

“Return to your nest, sir,” Aiy-Yip, the chief of his personal guard, called. “You two, keep close! Yes! Close! No tailfeather-slacking!”

Some young drakes, probably on a Drakwatch hike, were already trotting toward the scene. He was Tyr—he shouldn’t just scuttle off to his hole.

“There’s been an attempt on my life,” he said, passing over the drakes. “The griffaran guard killed the dragon responsible. I don’t know who he is, but two of you watch the body and two more send for help to the neighboring hills.”

Later he learned that the dragon’s name was RuPaleth. He made a brief appearance to concerned members of the Imperial Line out in the gardens—yes, he was fine, just shocked, no, nothing was known of the motive or grievance of the villain.

NoSohoth told him what he’d learned under the eyes of six griffaran in the throne room.

“NoSohoth, what was all that killer of hatchlings insult the fool shouted?”

His chief counselor shifted his stance and looked around, as he always did when choosing words. “Why should my Tyr pay attention to the ravings of a mad dragon?”

“What hatchlings have I ever killed?”

“None, my Tyr,” NoSohoth said. “Forget his words.”

But the Copper couldn’t forget them. He had a double helping of Tighlia’s brand of wine to calm the distress. Nilrasha returned, exhausted, clearly having had a dash of a flight.

“An assassination attempt. My love! My love! Oh, what wickedness,” she said, wide-eyed. She ran her head this way and that, neck against his, as though checking for a hidden, festering bite.

“Never mind. It’s over.”

She sniffed his breath. “Who was it?”

“A young drake from milkdrinker’s hill. RuPaleth.”

“RuPaleth! I knew him almost out of the egg. He was half strangled in his fight for the eggs, but he was bit and the venom took hold. Grew up stupid because of it. That old tradition of squashing venomers was a good one, I think. They should never have abandoned it.”

“So he wouldn’t have thought of this himself?” the Copper asked.

“As I told you, my Tyr, his brain’s deformed. Don’t credit his words. Shall I have the thralls bring more wine? It may help you sleep.”

“Did he rave?” the Copper asked, waving away the thralls.

“He’d never raved, or his parents would have squashed him for sure,” Nilrasha said.

“I ask because he said ‘Death to the Tyr, killer of hatchlings,’ ” the Copper said.

“Idiots,” Nilrasha said. “Those Anklenes—their brains are too big. All they can do is dream up trouble.”

“What’s that?”

“Well, Essea told me she’d been to Anklene Hill to see about a sculpture and she overheard a couple of young Anklenes gossiping, or maybe theorizing is the word. They were going on about how you probably poisoned the grain yourself to get the dragons stirred up and start another war now that the one with the demen is finished.”

The Copper could only blink for a moment.

“Sometimes, my love, I wish I’d never been named Tyr.”

“Oh, don’t say that, my love. Just today I was with the Firemaids and they all—all—praised you to me. Since the victory in the Star Tunnel there’s been only one attack by the demen, and that was a rout. I had it direct from a messenger who was there. Ayafeeia rescued a dragonelle captive with some sad loss, but apart from that it’s been two full seasons now without so much as a drakka taken in the Lower World.”

“I hope my mate-sister is well?”

The Copper knew he was setting saa upon drift-ice in mentioning his former mate, a delicate dragonelle who had choked to death despite Nilrasha’s attempts to save her.

At least that was the story he chose to believe.

“She sent her respects.”

“Wait—you said the demen had one of our Firemaids held captive? I don’t remember being told about that.”

“That’s because she wasn’t a Firemaid. She’s some dragon out of the wild. She’d been injured in a fall and the demen took her captive.”

“A strange dragon? The Anklenes will probably want to talk to her. They always ask questions of anyone who travels in the Upper World. I’ll send them a message.”

“What shall we do with her?”

“Do with her?” the Copper asked. “Is she some criminal or exile?”

“No, or you would have heard of it from someone other than your mate chatting about her business.”

“Offer her hospitality and show her the best exit to return to her mate or wherever.”

“Unmated. She has friends in Hypatia, it seems. Ayafeeia has some idea of convincing her to become a Firemaid.”

The Copper forgot the unfortunate business of the attack. This dragon had friends in Hypatia?

His adoptive grandfather had always said that he’d been born lucky.

“Hypatia?” the Copper asked.

“Yes, you know, the old—”

“I know where Hypatia is. Strange, we were just speaking of it this morning. My love, I’ve changed my mind. Please ask Ayafeeia to do whatever she can to get this stranger to take up residence here, even if she might not become a Firemaid.”

“She may just wish to return to her home.”

“Maybe we can mate her off to one of the dragons here,” the Copper said. “In any case, visit her when she arrives. If she seems a dragonelle of wit and initiative, and her knowledge of the Upper World profound, hint that the Lavadome may have a high position for her.”

“Certainly, my love.”

“I may just adopt her into the Imperial Line, since we’ve had no luck with hatchlings.”

Nilrasha dipped her nose.

The Copper shifted and put his tail around hers. “One disappointment just makes the rest of my fortune all the sweeter. No life is perfect.”

“Can we trust a stranger, my Tyr?” NoSohoth asked. “If you’re thinking that she might serve as an advisor on the surface, I would like to know her better before coming to trust her.”

“I hope she proves trustworthy. She may lead us back to the surface.”

Chapter 13

AuRon cursed the map he’d been given. The farther he traveled from Ghioz the worse it became. It was clearly the work of a cartographer with poor sense of direction and worse sense of scale. He found landmarks that were supposed to be on the east side of a mountain on the west side, rivers flowing the wrong way, and meadows flourishing where snowcaps were supposed to reside.

He would have blamed it on a careless hominid with a taste for wine with his work, save that some of the landmarks made sense only when viewed from the air, like a lake shaped like a dragon’s sii or a mountain crevice with stunted brush growing in the sheltered crack. Had a dragon advised them, or some roc-rider with altitude-frost fogging his brain?

The map had a mark in the corner, a little design that resembled a cloverleaf with some scrawls within. AuRon decided that when he claimed his reward, he would ask which titleor was responsible for her surveys and pay him a visit. The dwarves of the Chartered Company would never have allowed such sloppy mapwork.

On one of his backtracks over the mountain forests to the south—rugged, tree-filled canyons pierced by needles of stone—a waterfall in three steps was simply not to be found. While searching for it he marked a line of those roc-riders, flying in a V-formation like migrating geese. AuRon counted nine.

Perhaps the fliers knew where the waterfall could be found.

He turned and flew hard to catch up to them. Low clouds dotted the sky and the riders wove in and out of them.

AuRon flew closer and saw that the birds held bodies in their claws—they looked like cow carcasses, but something was wrong with the shapes, both stunted and bloated.