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I am weary of fortune-telling. My heart was never really in it; I dispensed more advice such as I saw things rather than prophesy. Sometimes my heart would be so grieved by the stories I heard, I gave away my own small store of coin, but that led to every beggar in Hypatia showing up outside the tent, or so it seemed to the circus. Odd that I should be talented in guessing other races’ minds, but there you have it. One improvises to survive. How else could a dragon see the cities of Hypat in such celebration and safety? For this I thank your foresight, in knowing that eventually I’d want mental diversions and new experiences. I love every road, river, and shore of Hypat, but I fear I must leave it within a year or two.
There are tiny bulges running my back now, elf-father, and they will swell and I shall have my wings and the ability to go wherever there is wind. I have promises to keep and I will go when they come despite the mawkish lamentations of Ragwrist, who, having heard my dictation, has just popped his head in and offered his regards. But don’t worry, I shall still fly back to Mossbell every three or four years at least and prove that I am alive. I hope to sell the place back to dear Rayg (is he still raiding Jessup’s honeycombs?) one day if his wit continues to so impress you.
We are readying to go back on the Old North Road again, so you should expect us in springtime.
Traveling in hope,
Tala
The Old Guard assembled again in that easy spring, and for the last time, as they had other years under similarly disposed stars.
The party dined in the receiving hall that Wistala might fit, and the youngest Lessup girl who once so feared Wistala darted back and forth with trays beneath her neck with giggles to her sister. Rainfall, who scooted about the house on a wheeled chair made by a journey-man dwarvish artisan, worked the big back wheels with his arms as he circled the table, pouring wine for all despite the gentle imprecations of Yeo Forstrel, who was trying to out-Rainfall Rainfall in courtesy and decorum.
The party adjourned for the Green Dragon Inn, now at one end of a semicircle of a full dozen homes and establishments, from whose narrow windows song carried up and down the road. The post had expanded into a full news-case, with glass, and a special window had been added to the front of the inn to handle letters for Mossbell’s tenants, artisans, and a handful of professionals owning houses along the road who liked Rainfall’s manners and easy terms.
Wistala, as was the custom, called out the inn’s evening company and then stood under the sign and raised herself up a little so that she could touch nose to the weathered board, and all put lips to glass after a glad cry.
Jessup kept his son at the tap and his daughters with the mugs. He now wore a coat with gold buttons, thanks to the sales of his brewery-mead to taverns in Quarryness and Sack Harbor and beyond.
The next day the circus moved on to the common at Quarryness. Wistala promised to return to the quiet of Mossbell in the evening across the twin hills, home to Dsossa’s two herds of horses, though as the day progressed, she wondered if the throngs who’d descended on the town to see the show would keep all performing late. After her customary appearance to old Sobyor, who’d grown fatter than she knew humans could achieve, she spent the day letting her apprentice “interpret” the dragon’s impressions of the seekers.
Many of the seekers asked their questions in Parl with a barbarous northern accent.
But eventually the crowds trickled off.
As she passed up the road on the way to Mossbell, sniffing the early-summer countryside on a fitful wind, she noticed a blue firework burning atop the eastern of the twin hills. Did Mossbell’s shepherds and horseherds signal to each other in some manner? Fireworks, as she knew well from Ragwrist’s moanings, even blue signal flares, cost a good deal of money, for only specialists, usually dwarves, could accurately mix the ingredients—
Signal flares?
Hearts hammering, she left the road and cut cross-country to more quickly reach the house, troubled by the strange lights against the night sky. When she finally broke through the last line of the back woods and looked out over the garden—full of beanpoles and tomato vines and fragrant with basil and peppermint—and saw the house at peace, she ceased her headlong, bush-tearing charge.
Worried for nothing. Were you expecting flames from the library skylight?
She still slipped cautiously around to the front, smelling and listening, and pulled on the bell.
Dsossa herself, with Forstrel behind, answered the door. She wore an ordinary housecoat; he still had on a button shirt and polished shoes even at the late hour.
“Our fortunate dragon! We’d given you up.”
“It was a rare day at the circus,” Wistala said. “Is all well here?”
“I’m sorry, but we’ve dined already. We did save scraps, and Rainfall is still up. We’re having a digestive gruel and infusions—would you join us in that?”
“You mistake my meaning. There aren’t strangers or barbarians or anyone dining tonight?” Wistala asked.
Dsossa and Forstrel exchanged glances and shrugs. “What are you fearful of? Don’t tell me you’ve had a premonition.”
“The only auspices I read glowed upon the twin hills. Someone burns fireworks on your property.”
Dsossa came out from the door and walked around the side of the house. “I see nothing now. Why would shepherds do something like that?”
Forstrel disappeared into the house with a quick step, and the wind died down. There was a vague murmur to the east.
“Hoofbeats?” Wistala asked.
“I hear nothing,” Dsossa said.
“You should return to the house,” Wistala said.
