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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.
“Why is dragonscale so valuable to humans?” he asked FeLissarath.
“Jewelry, I’ve heard. Tips of sword scabbards, or holding wooden shields together. In some principality or other on the banks of the Inland Ocean, they use it as currency because it’s impossible to forge, and dangerous to get hold of. Very wealthy hominids will lay it on their roofs to keep off fire. Some of the larger hominid cities suffer terribly from fires, nothing to do with dragons.”
“It might behoove us to have a shortage of it now and then, especially when there’s a particularly large crop of kern. I think we could get more bags in trade for scale.”
“We have good relations with the kern kings, and the values were set long ago.”
“To their advantage. I’ve heard one of the kings now has a stairway decorated with golden dragonscale.”
“He’ll slip and break his neck when it rains.” FeLissarath laughed. “Ah, the follies of humans. They don’t live long enough to really learn what’s important in life. Did I tell you about the bear I got yesterday? Yes, you heard me right, a bear….”
The Copper spent a good deal of time on the western road. Thanks to a bridge collapse at the Tooth Cavern, almost an entire pack-train of kern was lost when inattentive handlers allowed the mules to bunch up on one of the more rickety spans.
They were already making repairs when he arrived to survey the damage—thanks to the bats, he heard about it the same day it happened and left immediately—and a Firemaid was flying back and forth carrying thralls—mostly men, who, if their workmanship wasn’t quite as skilled as that of dwarves, at least labored more willingly—and tools from one end of the break to the other.
“Oh, your honor,” she said. “There’s a thrall been asking every day to speak to the dragon in charge. That would be you.”
“A human?”
