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“That’s better. Dragons never realize how much dragonelles—and yes, dragon-dames—love hearing their names said. It’s always ‘dear’ or ‘my love’ or ‘cloud-dream’ or ‘tenderness’ or something they’ve heard their fathers use. Just say her name, RuGaard. You have your faults, but you do speak well. It seems to me when you first came here, you lisped like a hatchling.”
“I remember. I hadn’t been around dragons much.”
“Just bats. Yes. Well, at least you don’t smell like them these days.”
“How can I be of service, Tighlia?”
“Good news. I’ve selected a mate for you.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Don’t act fixated. Whatever else is the matter with you, you can make up your mind and not just stand around gaping. I saw that yesterday.”
“I can’t imagine my mating or not is of consequence to you.”
“I want you a little more firmly in the Imperial line. The griffaran think well of you, and as you’ve no line to call your own, nobody hates you outright, which is more than can be said for most of your relatives.”
“I’m surprised you have time to think of such things with your dead mate still cooling. One might wonder—”
“You know, you almost look like a dragon who is working himself up to asking me if I’ve murdered my mate. And that would lead to a horrible scream from me, and a challenge, and then probably a duel, unless you have brains enough to flee for your scale, like NiVom.”
“Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Tighlia.”
“Everyone has the wrong idea of me. I want peace and quiet and beauty. Nothing more. No screaming dragons, no burning hills, no eggs tailswiped off their shelves to smash against uncaring, unknowing rock. Order, RuGaard. Simple order. You can help preserve that order.”
“I had other plans—”
“Well, forget them. Here’s my dilemma. Halaflora, my beloved mate’s oldest granddaughter through AgGriffopse and Ibidio—you remember her?”
“The sickly one.”
“You’re one to talk, but I like your honesty. Halaflora is from AgGriffopse’s first clutch. SiMevolant was the champion. Those eggs were laid under an evil star; that much is certain. Imfamnia and Ayafeeia came later. None of the males survived the hatching contest. Whatever’s the matter? She’s not that ugly.”
“Nothing. Go on,” the Copper said.
“Of course, Imfamnia—silly’s not the word for that brainless bit of fluff—has been dreaming about being mated with every breath her whole life, and now she’s got her wish. An Imperial mating, no less. It will be the celebration of a tri-score year.”
“What has Halaflora’s mating to do with this?”
“I was getting to that, if you’d tuck in your griff. Ayafeeia is taking formal vows to go into the Firemaids. Sensible girl—if I had to do it over again…Well, it doesn’t matter. But Halaflora. Poor little dear. She’s not as dumb as Imfamnia, but just as dreamy, and not as idealistic as Ayafeeia, but just as devoted. She wants nothing more than a mating flight, and those wings of hers aren’t even strong enough to get her off the ground. Poor dear. I’m not going to draw breath and have a titular granddaughter of mine sobbing her eyes out as her sister is mated. And I want some good news in this family for once! It’s like the last act of some bitter elvish tragedy. And fresh, hungry blood never hurts, if we’re to raise a new generation of dragons and not lounging, scaled felines. You need some new males now and then or you get more glittering piles of dung like SiMevolant. A mating between you and Halaflora is just the thing.”
“I’ve met a dragonelle already. Well, a drakka. She’ll have her wings in a year.”
Tighlia’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
“I’m not sure I want to jeopardize her health by giving you the name.”
“I suspect it’s Nilrasha.”
This time the Copper was dumbstruck.
“Of course, you could do worse,” Tighlia said. “Do you forget that I’ve got the management of the Firemaidens? A word of advice, RuGaard. She’s from a bad family on a worse hill. She’s out for a position in the Imperial line and a lookout from this rock, nothing more.”
“What would an old viper like you—”
“So young. So young.” She pushed open a curtain, and light came into the room through tinted panels of some thin-shaved crystal, or perhaps glass. As the Copper suspected, the colors were bright and cheery. She tore a bit of fabric off a polished piece of brass.
“I’m not as vain as I once was, but I’m vain enough that I can’t stand what I see in this anymore. Look into this, RuGaard. Look into the mirror. A beautiful, vital young dragonelle is going to want that?”
