Page 54 of A Matter of Dragons

“Coming,” I called.

I ran my fingers through my hair and grabbed my teacup, which was of course empty. Mothers, I'd had so much strong black tea already that my nerves felt jangly. But it had been impossible to sleep last night, and right now I could feel every beat my wings had taken up and down the slopes of the Knife’s Edge Mountains on top of my regular, garden-variety exhaustion. I rounded an intricately carved cherrywood table stacked with leather-bound adventure stories, most of which were highly implausible, and smiled at my visitor.

“Elyon,” I said, holding out my hands in the preferred elven greeting.

“Doshir.” He returned my gesture with a low, solemn nod, the preferred draconic greeting. As one of the elven ambassadors to the Iron Mountains, Elyon knew all the preferred Draconic customs. “May the Mothers smile upon you,” he said, in Draconic. His accent was, of course, flawless

“And may the wind lift your wings,” I replied, also in Draconic. “Now, what can I get you?” I asked, switching to Common. “Tea? Breakfast? If you have the time, I can run to the little bakery down the street. I can promise you’ve never had better lemon cookies.”

“Oh, not this time, I’m afraid.” Elyon winced as though the thought of passing up lemon cookies was physically painful. “I’m meeting a delegation in the Spirit Wood within the hour.”

“Delegation? Oh, damn,” I said.

Elyon raised an eyebrow.

“It’s the Town Council,” I explained. “They’ve got their meeting today, and I promised Dworhick I’d go testify for him.”

“A dwarf?” Elyon asked, his voice betraying only the slightest hint of disapproval.

I nodded. “He owns a pub down by the water. Wants to expand his patio, but some of the neighbors are worried it’s going to create a bit of a, uh, disturbance.”

Elyon pressed his lips together in a way that made me think he was trying not to voice his own thoughts on the subject, which would probably be quite unflattering to both Dworhick and his pub.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” I said, although the rambunctious dancing and lusty, off-key singing at Dworhick’s pub was probably exactly what Elyon was picturing. “Anyway, that neighborhood could use a bit of sprucing up, so I told him I’d go stick up for him.”

At any rate, a lengthy argument with the Town Council about zoning laws would take my mind off of last night’s disaster with Rayne. Or the now-pressing question of what, if anything, I should do about a cursed dragon heading off to Valgros, the most toxic and dangerous kingdom under the Mothers’ blessed sun.

Elyon sniffed. “Well, perhaps these letters will have to wait for another day.”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out two tightly wrapped scrolls, both sealed with wax.

“Oh, thank you, Elyon,” I said. “I truly appreciate the favor, my friend.”

Elves did not act as messengers. The few times Elyon had deigned to bring me letters from the Iron Mountains, he’d wanted nothing more than a polite recognition that his efforts were appreciated. And, of course, he also appreciated the recognition that he was welcome to take anything he wanted from the store, free of charge.

He set the two scrolls down on a table holding a somewhat dusty collection of intricate water clocks and then brushed his hands together as though he’d just finished something. I knew better than to lunge for the letters, much as I wondered why there were two. A response from the Iron Mountains Historian I was expecting, but who in the Mothers’ names would have sent me the second letter? Hadn’t the Council made sure I was as good as dead to most respectable dragons?

“Have you come across any more of those silver daggers?” Elyon asked casually, as though the thought had just occurred to him.

I grinned. “Let me show you what I’ve got,” I said.

Half an hour later, after Elyon had carefully inspected my private collection of dwarven-made daggers and then selected the smallest, most delicate, and most valuable for himself, and after we’d made polite but vague promises to meet again at some point, I was finally able to turn my attention to the letters. Elyon had carefully placed them behind a water clock depicting, in a rather overly dramatized fashion, the sinking of the elven ship The Nightingale in the War of Summer and Fall.

I ran my fingers across the parchment before pulling the letters loose. The roll on top bore the black wax seal of the Historian, an elegant H superimposed over a fang. This would be the information I’d requested about Mad Scarlett. My heart gave a little jump as my fingers brushed the seal.

Hatching records were considered almost sacred in the Iron Mountains. No dragon, no matter how feral or low-caste, was ignored by the Office of the Historian. This scroll would tell me about Mad Scarlett’s daughter: when she was hatched, where she was hatched. The identity of her father. Mothers, this might even hold her hatching prophecy.

Guilt rose uneasily in the back of my throat, carrying the acrid sting of all the tea I’d downed this morning in a desperate attempt to drown my exhaustion. This was Rayne's history, the records of her mother’s life. I should share it with her.

I pulled my hand back and twisted my fingers together over the water clock. Rayne wanted nothing to do with me. She wanted nothing to do with anything draconic, at least not now.

But she wore a curse on her arm, a curse strong enough to trap a dragon within a human form. Curses were powerful magic. Dangerous magic. Rayne might not have suffered any ill effects yet, but how long could she bear that curse before it started to chip away at her spirit? Whether she wanted it or not, she was going to need help.

Although she hadn’t looked like she needed help as she’d stood on top of the mountain, naked and streaked with ash and tears, the corpse of a dragon at her feet. She hadn’t looked particularly vulnerable as she’d told me to get the fuck away from her.

“She needs time,” I whispered.

It was the same refrain I’d told myself over and over as I’d flown down the mountain, as I’d gathered food and clothes and a weapon I hoped she’d like, as I’d left them with the horses I figured she would take. She’d been raised in Valgros, after all. The Mothers only knew what she thought of dragons. She was probably terrified right now, and why in the Mothers’ blessed names would she turn to me? After all, she still thought I was married.