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“I hope not!” DharSii said. “Too wide of wing, and her tail is so much longer than her neck.”
The arrogant, two-colored—
“My dear uzhin always gives an honest opinion,” Aethleethia put in. “It startles those who are not much used to him.”
“Ha-hem. I’ll be about my business,” DharSii said. He fluttered his griff, but when Wistala met his eyes, fire bladder pulsing, he looked away. He turned and made for the entrance.
The tap of his claws played off the walls as he crossed the chamber.
“Two visits to the Vesshall from DharSii in one winter,” NaStirath said. “I feel so honored, I’m having a hard time not yawning.”
“Tell us your troubles, dragonelle of AuNor, so that we may comfort you,” Scabia suggested.
“I’m the last of my family,” Wistala said. Was that quite true? The copper still lives, for all you know. “Dwarves of the Wheel of Fire slaughtered them and took from their bodies as trophies. Elves and men were also involved, but I cannot say which for certain. One called the Dragonblade was almost certainly aiding them in the assassination.”
“We’ve heard this before,” NaStirath said, in a bored tone as if to indicate he was not much troubled at the news.
“We are sorry for your loss,” Scabia said, though she was the only dragon in the room that much looked it, for nothing remained of DharSii unless he lurked still in the shadows of the entrance passage. “You may claim a loft here for as long as you like; there are ample to spare.”
“I heard they got CuSanat and his mate, Virtuthia, in their cave as well,” NaStirath said, stretching. “Such a shame we won’t be seeing them again, even if they weren’t exactly uzhin. The Red Mountains are being quite cleared of dragons. Is it bullock again for dinner, or fish?”
Wistala wasn’t sure she was hearing right. Did these fools not realize—?
“We must take vengeance on these assassins!” Wistala blurted.
“I’ve no dead to avenge,” NaStirath said. He climbed into a loft on the other side of Scabia. Odd that he didn’t sit to the side of his mate—
“Be quiet, NaStirath,” Scabia said, pronouncing his name in a way that labeled him still a wingless juvenile. “And have some feeling for our guest’s sorrow.”
“I shall achieve both through a nap, where I will dream awful, sorrowful dreams,” NaStirath said, closing his eyes. “I rejoice in your survival and arrival, Wistala of the line of AuNor.” He twitched his griff as he turned on his side.
Wistala remembered how Father had once caught Auron sleeping on his side, and though her brother was scaleless, punished him with a series of roars that left the hatchling quivering.
“Rest your wings,” Scabia said. “Pick any loft, and wait for your nostrils to waken you.”
Wistala crossed the room to be away from the others and climbed into one of the giant projections. One could arrange one’s body so the head and tail were at almost any height for comfort. She hated Vesshall a little less, and slept.
Her nostrils did wake her, as the blighters brought out huge platters of pan-fried fish and dumped them before the three dragons, with much falling to the knees and arm-waving with palms held toward the dragons. Only the faintest light came down from the circle in the center of the ceiling.
Wistala felt horribly stiff from the troll fight even as she wondered why DharSii didn’t join his relatives for dinner. Not that she cared to see him, of course, only that his absence struck her as odd.
She crossed over to the others.
More platters of fish arrived and Scabia pointed with her tail toward Wistala, shook it three times, and they made a mountain of cooked, blackened fish before her.
“It’s quite safe,” Scabia said. “The blighters look to us for protection from the trolls, and of course the other races of the world who have superceded them.”
Wistala ate, but the charm of prepared food was nothing like that of Mossbell, with lively conversation and the friendly banter with Widow Lessup about the cooking. She felt like a pig at a trough.
“How many trolls have you killed, lord?” Wistala asked NaStirath.
“Hmmmmm. Killed? I set one aflame once and he made quite a spectacle rolling back to the mountains, but I don’t care to close and kill. Awful, the stench of trolls. I’m not sure that burning improves the odor.”
“I know DharSii has killed several,” Aethleethia said. “Every time he does it, the blighters talk of nothing else for moons.”
“Keen on sports, my good uzhin is,” NaStirath said with a belch. “Shall we have molasses elixir tonight, to celebrate our happy arrival?”
“No,” said Scabia firmly.
