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She looked uncertain for the first time since he’d come upon her, resting on the wall. “I can guess. She’s a venomer, thanks to that tongue of hers. Go. Mate with that sickly little thing.”
She jumped off the wall and ran, making a retching sound, leaving the Copper feeling as though his body were dissolving, flowing into the rocky soil of the Lavadome.
Nothing to overcome now. The course of his life was set. Perhaps he’d take up hunting.
Their mating was done, and done quickly.
A goodly crowd turned up to watch them leave the Imperial Resort. According to NeStirrath, Halaflora had fond memories attached to her, for she used to ride atop her father as he went from hill to hill. AgGriffopse thought air and travel might improve her weak constitution, and his mate had no interest in leaving the Gardens atop the rock. So she was associated in the dragons’ minds to AgGriffopse more than to Ibidio.
Almost everyone of the Imperial line trooped out behind them, even SiMevolant, who disliked the dirt and rough stones. Thralls walked to either side with pieces of soft cloth at the ends of sticks, wiping dust kicked up by the mating party from his scales.
SiDrakkon led the party, with griff extended and a challenging eye, as though daring any of the spectators to throw dung. Imfamnia skipped next to him. Her wings were bulging against translucent skin and soon it would be her turn.
The party halted twice to let Halaflora catch her breath.
They finally came to the shaft everyone called the Wind Tunnel. Some trick of direction and air density ensured that this short tunnel to the slopes of the plateau always had a howling wind passing through it, equal to an uncomfortable mountain-top in a storm.
It was also called the “death tunnel,” for sometimes escaped thralls tried to climb out of it, or thieves tried to creep in from above. The winds usually snatched them up at some point and hurled them down the shaft. But no one called it the death tunnel today.
The Copper climbed to the top of a wind-cut rock with Halaflora and sang his song, with all around listening as best as they could in the wind. Rethothanna had helped him with the wording. The Copper felt that as long as the mating was to be done, it might as well be done well, so he sang of rivers, egg-snatching demen—who said a lifesong must be all true?—and wall-smashing boulders skipped across battlefields.
And with that, they spread their wings—SiDrakkon reached up and kindly helped him extend his injured left with a discreet pull—and jumped.
His mating flight lasted what a dwarf would call a full ten seconds. They hung in the wind for a moment, the Air Spirit’s untiring voice shrieking in their ears, Halaflora touching his good wing, and slowly glided to earth.
“I think they’re laughing at us, my love,” Halaflora said.
The Copper looked around at the assembly. Only SiMevolant was outright laughing—“That was worth a walk in the dust!” he seemed to be saying, though with the wind carrying his words away it was impossible to be sure—but most were at least fluttering their eyelids in amusement. Even the usually dour SiDrakkon looked to be enjoying himself for a change.
“I care not. This is the happiest day of my life. If I can share out some proportion of my own joy, all the better.”
The expression on his mate’s face washed the sting out of whatever wounds this exhibition cost him, and made the lies, if not pleasant, at least palatable enough so they didn’t stick in his throat.
Chapter 23
So the Copper and his mate returned—by a journey made in very easy stages, out of regard for his mate’s health—to the Uphold in Anaea.
The Copper was relieved to see that Fourfang and Rhea seemed to get along with Halaflora’s thralls. His mate took a special liking to Rhea, and soon she was supervising the other body-servant.
He took pleasure in pointing out the sights of Anaea and introducing her to some of “his” bats. Their lines had so intermingled, it was impossible to remember who was descended from Thernadad, or Enjor, or his oversize trio raised on dragonblood. She petted their strange furry skin and marveled at their ears and delicate wings.
At the western mouth everything was just as he remembered it, unexpectedly so. Nilrasha was back in the cave guarding the tunnel mouth, now with the Firemaid’s red-painted stripe around her neck, though she still had not uncased her wings.
She kept her eyes downcast as she greeted him. “Welcome, future Upholder.”
“We thank you,” the Copper said, his mind whirling like a leaf flung down the Wind Tunnel. What madness was this; did she wish to torture him with her presence? “On behalf of my mate and myself.”
“You’re very lovely,” Halaflora said. “You could be a statue in the Imperial Gardens. I hope we’ll be good friends.”
“Thank you, your honor,” Nilrasha said.
The first few feasts with the rather robust Upholder and his mate were a little on the awkward side. Halaflora had difficulty swallowing unless she ate tiny bites, and the tough-fibered game they brought back to the banquet floor was difficult for her to get down without choking.
But within the limitations of ill health, she was a superb mate. She made and arranged cushions for him on all his favorite lookouts, and she explored Anaea with FeLissarath’s mate and returned with rich, scented oils that she rubbed on the worn spot on his bad sii and the stuck folds of his wings, or fixed lines on his growing horns to make them come in so they matched each other in a slight, attractive curve. She experimented endlessly with their meals, discovering what they both liked—fish, sadly, which was rare save for the small specimens found in some of the mountain lakes—and sang to him at night.
He decided there were many dragons worse mated, and if she didn’t make his hearts hammer and his scale stir the way Nilrasha did when she stretched, there were other compensations.
Then there was his work. He tried to learn more about the ins and outs of the scale trade.
