Dragon Outcast
NoSohoth raised his wings, which had little chimes looped into the trailing edge. He flapped them, and at the ringing the company turned their attention to him. “Our glorious Tyr asks for silence.”
The Copper slunk out of the way so he wouldn’t obstruct anyone’s view.
“Answer my thoughts, for a change!” Tighlia hissed into her mate’s ear. “Let us retire and discuss before you make any announcements.”
The Tyr ignored her. “Free dragons of the Lavadome and hope of our united lines. Twice now this honored drake at my right side, Nivom, has done great service to all of us.
“First, let it be known that I’m adopting him into the Imperial line. As a son, mind you, to replace AgGriffopse in position if not in our hearts.”
That set the banquet to talking. NoSohoth had to sound his wing chimes again to give them time to settle down.
“Second, I’m getting older and don’t have the attention to detail I once possessed. Nivom will take a few of the lesser responsibilities from my wings, that I might be able to pay more attention to the greater.
“Finally and most pleasantly, he’ll soon be sprouting his wings, and it will be time for him to be mated. I offer any of the daughters of AgGriffopse, the champion of my only clutch, to him, so that we might be joined by more than duty and respect. He can look forward to some pleasant years choosing among my beauties, for their wings are just beginning to bulge.”
The assembly at the banquet liked the sound of that and thumped their tails. Thralls danced out of the way to avoid being struck.
The Tyr’s young granddaughters fluttered their eyes and griffs, save for the sickly one, who shrank behind her longer, stronger, better-fleshed sisters.
“I hope he’s not expecting a blushing maiden,” Simevolant said, staring at them.
The Copper glanced back at his own spine. Two ridges ran down it, parallel to his vertebrae. His were some years off too, but it made him feel better to know that horns and wings were growing.
SiDrakkon left the banquet almost immediately. The Copper grabbed a dropped mouthful or two but kept away from the throngs. They dragons either asked idiotic questions about whether arrow wounds stung much or joked about his bats.
“You, there,” a cold voice said. “Rugaard. Come and have a word with me.”
It was Tighlia, and her scales were up and out as though she were expecting battle. She led him to a prominence looking out over the south end of the Lavadome, where fewer orange streams lit the crystalline surface.
“Hurry along now and sit beside me. Yes, close to the edge, so you have a good view. Oh, don’t blanch; I’ve never pushed anyone to his death, and I’m not about to start tonight.
“I like this view. There was never the fighting at the south end of the Lavadome that there was at the north. Just a few thrall hills and livestock pens and mushroom fields. No memories of where friends died.”
“Was this what you wanted to speak to me about?”
“No, outcast. My time is too valuable. I expect my mate will have you in for a little chat shortly. You might want to tell him that this Nivom fellow isn’t all he appears.”
“What makes you think so?”
She scowled. “I know a calculator when I smell one. He weighs everything by his own ambitions. I fear for what will happen if the Tyrancy passes to a Wyrr-Anklene mix. There’s already resentment in many Skotl caves. They will have their turn at the Tyrancy one way or another. Civil war could break out again.”
“Why do you tell me this?”
“Because, oddly enough, I think you’ve got the simpleton’s faith. The same as my mate has. You’re duller—and uglier, certainly—but I believe you think of dragonkind first and yourself second. My mate has that quality too.”
“He has all a dragon’s virtues—”
“Oh, rot all that tripe. Virtues? What’s the first of them?”
The Copper thought for a moment, remembering his lessons. “Destiny. The gifts of the four Spirits in shaping—”
“Mythological balderdash that lets dragons with nothing to offer the world get puffed up about themselves. Next!”
“But everyone knows—”
“No, they don’t. That’s the problem. Let’s have another; your tongue’s slow as your wit.”
The Copper stiffened. “Courage to—”
“Courage? Exhibitions of courage have killed more dragons than spears. Give me a dragon who sneaks in when the warriors are otherwise engaged and visits the cribs of the hominids; they put up as much of a fight as squalling babes. Next.”
The Copper found her aroma warm, comforting, pleasant. Almost motherly. She was obviously enjoying this. “You can’t have anything against fidelity to mate, kith and kin. Every dragon in the Lavadome admires your devotion to our Tyr. You and your brother—”
“You’re not old enough to know better. We’ll talk again when your mating flight was four scale-ages ago, and your precious clutch champion has breathed fire into your face as he drives you away from your hoard. When some bright young thing spreads her wings for you and promises better times, we’ll speak again. Come, come, I’m eager for more.”
“Serenity.”
“Now, there you may have something. It’s the dragon who can control his emotions, wait instead of rage, take an insult or a setback with a song—that’s a dragon to be feared. Never let your thoughts past your tongue; never let a competitor know what you really think of him.”
“Then why do you tell me what you think of me?” the Copper asked.
“Because you’re the sorry, sawed-off tail-tip of the Imperial line, not a competitor. Go on now; you’ve scored a hit. Press home.”
The Copper thought it over. Tighlia was mistress of a thousand details in the Imperial Resort, from arranging matings to seeing after the quality of her mate’s kern. “Diligence. It’s attention to detail in the routines of—”
“Oh, and now you’ve gagged on it. Strained at a bat and swallowed a warthog. I’m devoted to idleness. Adore it. Gives one time to think. You’d be amazed how few dragons sit down and just think these days. Don’t look cross; I’m giving you medicine that tastes bad, but it’ll do you good if you have the sense to repeat the dosage.” She tapped her claws on the shining black stone of the rock. “I’m waiting.”
“I was going to say charity to those in your thrall, but I expect you’d answer that the more you task them, and the greater they fear you, the better the results.”
“Now you’re learning. Maybe you’re not hopeless after all. There’s only one left, so I’ll save you the breath. Strength. Strength I believe in. But I’m not talking about roaring and stomping and being able to knock down trees with your tail. That just brings the foemen. Intellectual strength to form a plan, physical strength to carry it out, and moral strength to see it through—those are virtues indeed. That alone will take you farther than the rest of your Drakwatch ideals put together.”
“Why do you tell me all this, Granddam?”
She winced as though struck. “Tomorrow a messenger will come for you, asking for a private interview with my mate. He’s going to give you a new position as a reward. An important one. I don’t want you buggering it up and making slippery bat droppings out of it. Husband your strength and display serenity, and you’ll do well enough.”
“Thank you, Granddam.”
“That’s not all. My mate may ask you about SiDrakkon and matters in Bant. Praise him and you’ll find me grateful. Those who are good to me make no complaints about my kindnesses in return. But guard your tongue against any slanders, if you know what’s good for you.”
“I have no slanders to offer, Granddam.”
“That’s a clever answer, drake. Be equally clever when you talk to my mate tomorrow.”
He spent a restless night in his cave, listening to the bats go in and out. Two new litters of hungry young bats suckled at a vein on his inner saa, leaving him rather dreamy.
He rose early and had a hearty chicken-and-kern breakfast brought by Fourfang, who burped and vented all while arranging the platters, proof that he had filched a hearty portion for himself.
“Let me smell your fingers, Fourfang.”
The blighter shrank away. The Copper clacked his teeth together. “Your fingers or your head. Which will it be?”
Trembling, the blighter held out his hairy hands. The Copper sniffed them.
“I thought so. Don’t go digging around in my dishes before I’ve eaten, or I’ll bite few fingers off next time. Wait until after I’ve finished, like Rhea. Don’t I always leave generous portions?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“You’re not the cleanest with your hands, Fourfang. Your always either digging in some orifice or scratching scabs. In either case I don’t like the residue in my food. Just the other night I was offered an elf to take your place.” Which wasn’t true, but Fourfang couldn’t know that.