Dragon Outcast

“You may have to do more. Tell them you grew sick to death of the sight of me in Anaea. They’ll believe that.”



“I shall. But I won’t enjoy it.”



He wound his neck around hers, squeezed her, then broke it off and looked across and down the river.



“I did enjoy that, however,” she said. “I’m told the Anklenes have some scrolls about how dragons can mate in a river, and it’s like flying. It seems delightfully perverse.”



“We’ll have to find out.”



They said no more. The Copper told the kern train that he was exhausted and would spend the night on the riverbank, washing and resting and preparing for his return to the Imperial Resort with a bellyful of fish.



And with that he hurried off toward the high rocks of the griffaran.



Yarrick’s perch looked much the same, though the griffaran who flew him up to the high perch grew so exhausted he had to set the Copper down on a ledge and bring the aging grand commander to him.



“You right! Yark! It is that lame copper fellow.”



The bird-reptile cocked its head so Yarrick’s good eye was pointed straight at him. “It good to see you again. We heard about a battle in Bant, let loose victory cries on your behalf.”



The Copper wondered what would happen if Yarrick knew the truth of his “rescue” of the eggs. He felt a twinge as he cleared his throat and spoke the words he’d rehearsed in his mind.



“Long ago, Yarrick, you befriended me and flew me to the Imperial Resort. I ask you to fly again, and beg the Tyr to come to me. All this must be done in secrecy.”



“Too old for courier flying these days. Molting. Fishing is all I do anymore, and even then I need a long rest before returning to the perch. I’ll send a younger set of feathers. The Tyr will come, though he, too, does not care as much for flying as he once did.”



The Copper waited until the shafts of sunlight falling to the river disappeared. Though he sought it, sleep evaded him. He wondered how he looked after a long tunnel journey. Better than he would have without Rhea’s endless cleanings and polishings, he supposed. The girl—no, woman, now—could do wonders with wet ash and a brush.



He saw the Tyr flying, a griffaran to either side, turning slow circles in his climb to the perch on the griffaran’s rocks. He alighted rather heavily, and the griffaran retired.



“It is you, Rugaard. Or, I’m sorry, RuGaard now. Why this strange form of meeting? I know you don’t like court ceremony, but this is a little extreme.”



“I’ve seen NiVom, Tyr.”



The Tyr’s teeth disappeared and his neck straightened. “You have. Come to beg for his pardon, have you?”



“Your honor, it’s all lies. He never attacked your granddaughter.”



The Tyr sighed. “He’s always been a bit of a brawler. You should know. He’s welcome to come back and defend or explain himself anytime; he doesn’t need to send emissaries.”



“NoTannadon and another Skotl were hunting him on the western road. I met them.”



“Hunting him? I said there was to be no pursuit! He’s disgraced, and a coward to run away from a challenge issued and accepted, but no harm’s been done apart from the bites and scratches on Imfamnia. I’d say the only permanent damage to her was to her dignity, but she’s a flit young thing and has little enough to hurt.” The Tyr rested in thought. “NoTannadon and another, you say?”



“I met them myself, Tyr. I doubt they were seeking him to share some meat and a song.”



“He should have stayed and defended himself. The spirits would have seen him safely to his home cave if he’s innocent. These things have a way of working out.”



“Do they? How did they work out for your son, your clutchwinner? And what of this DharSii? I don’t know his story, but NiVom seemed to think he was the victim of treachery. NiVom wouldn’t hurt a female—of your line or any other—unless he had been attacked first. He said he had no idea how the marks got on her.”



“Imfamnia would never make up such a thing. What has she to gain? She was getting a good mate, in all likelihood the future Tyr, there even if his lip was a bit torn up.”



“She would if it meant reigning as queen over the Lavadome.”



“She would have had that anyway. They were to be mated!”



“My guess is she doesn’t want to wait and leave anything to chance. It’s a plot, your honor. It’s a game, with the throne as the stakes. Your life may be in danger.”



“Yes, danger and I are old friends.” The Tyr paused, and his expression went blank. “No! SiDrakkon hardly knows the dragonelle. I’ll swear he’s not spoken to her more than three times, all at banquets.”



“If you become incapacitated, who rules?” the Copper asked, though he knew the answer.



“With NiVom gone, the title of Tyr passes to my mate’s brother, for at the moment I have no heir.”



“Would Tighlia be happy to see her brother in your place?”



“Of course. It’s only natural. I just have never much liked SiDrakkon. He’s too quick to quarrel. You can’t hold dragons together if you’re going to be the first to start a feud. That and his taste for human females. It’s just not done. One can enjoy a discreet sniff now and then, but this habit of his, wallowing in it, it’s revolting. I need a new regent. As it is, if I dismiss SiDrakkon the throne would fall to SiMevolant, now that he’s matured. Physically, at least. He’s still a tailgazer.”



“You must hurry and appoint a new heir, then.”



“Perhaps. No. No! They couldn’t be so deceptive.”



“I think they’ve wronged you worse than you can imagine, Tyr. Certainly one heir can be lost to accident. Twice might be a coincidence. But three times? That’s the work of an enemy.”



“I’ll question Imfamnia again in the presence of her mother. Ibidio thought highly of NiVom, and a mother can sometimes get the truth out of the toughest dragon.”



“Don’t tell your mate or SiDrakkon any of this, Tyr, until you’ve learned the truth.”



“You’re a sly one, RuGaard.”



“You must know I have no ambitions, Tyr. I speak only on behalf of my friend.”



“If all this comes to pass you’ll move several places up in the line. Perhaps I should be suspicious of you.”



“I’m content to go back to Anaea for the rest of my years, Tyr. Get to the truth of this matter with NiVom. You might ask some questions about the others, as well. I don’t know enough about those dragons.”



“I will ask some questions. Starting with Tighlia.”



“Tyr, no. Avoid her. Don’t let her influence you.”



“You’ve not been mated yet, have you? When you’re older you’ll understand these things. I can handle my own mate, dragon. Don’t worry; your name will not pass my lips or waft across in thought.”



“Go to Ibidio first, Tyr. I beg you.”



“I’m not without resources, RuGaard. Where can I contact you?”



“I’ll let the griffaran know where I am. I won’t be far from these rocks.”



“RuGaard, thank you for coming to me with this. Bravely done, if it’s the truth. If this is all some scheme of your own…well, bravely done for that, too. I’ll forgive you personally. But as Tyr, matters will go hard with you.”



“I ask only that you try to find the truth, your honor.”



The Tyr raised his wings, nodded to the griffaran escort, and dropped off the towering rock. He caught an air current and disappeared into shadow, entering the tunnel through which the Copper had been carried years ago.



Even the fresh fish the griffaran brought him soured in his mouth. He picked at rocks with his claws and wondered about Nilrasha. Finally the Copper could sleep, though it was a fitful one. His mouth had gone dry from the tension.



Yarrick himself woke him the next day with news that the glorious Tyr was dead.



Chapter 22



The Copper stood before the massive Black Rock in the center of the Lavadome; it was dozens of dragonlengths high, heavy and black and forbidding.



He’d always thought it looked everlasting, a guarantee of dragonkind’s survival. Now it seemed a marker in a vast, empty, crystal-topped tomb.



He could return to the Uphold and act as though nothing had happened. Perhaps he’d just been escorting the final bounty of the year’s harvest to the Lavadome, ensuring its prompt arrival intact.



In the end, he decided he had to play his part in the tragedy, for good or ill. He walked up the path leading to the lower caves, the smaller one the Drakwatch used. There were dragons idling about the more elaborate main entrance, waiting for news, and more clustered at the servants’ door, pestering thralls running errands.



The Rock seemed deadly quiet, as though expecting another outburst of battle. The Copper took the most familiar path, to his old residence in the trainee wing, and saw a good deal of water on the floor. They were fixing the water feed on the upper levels again.



The young drakes were sitting around the pooled water, chatting in low voices. “A visitor,” one said.