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Wistala swallowed the last silver coin she’d pocketed in her gum-line. She’d taken a very modest mouthful from the offered platter and had swallowed each one slowly, to savor the taste. But her mouth was still thick with the slime that always came when one had metals, and her eyes were on the cascade of silver and gold descending from the Tyr’s throne-perch.
“His forces are dead, captive, or scattered,” the Copper Tyr said. “The hunt goes on.”
“I hope so,” a red said. His scales were so dark they verged on the brownish color of dried blood. “Wretched egg-thief.”
“HeBellereth,” Takea said. “He’s the best—”
She didn’t find out what HeBellereth was best at.
“It is not the past or present that I asked you here to discuss, but the future. You all know about the shortages of kern because of the blight.”
That caused them to stir. Wistala liked the sound of the Tyr. He reminded her a little of Father with his deep voice, even if she could only glimpse a little scale here and there between the necks and wings and heads. He was probably broadly built, like Father, from what she could see, though he rested against his throne in such a way as to hide his right, and turned his back to hide his left.
A rather serpentine pose for such a noble dragon. Mother always taught her to face friend or enemy with all claws forward, weight distributed evenly—to better move, forward or back, right or left, as circumstances warranted.
“We have an important visitor from the north,” the Tyr said. “He brings news that concerns us all. Make room at the back, there!”
The dragons parted, and the rather officious silver-and-black dragon—NoSohoth, that was it—who’d been going up and down the center aisle of the throne room with some muscular blighters burning pleasant-smelling chips of what looked like resin of some kind used his neck and tail to help clear a path.
A dragon or two gasped. Wistala felt as though her head detached from the end of her neck and dropped to the floor as though severed.
DharSii of the Sadda-Vale, looking haggard and bright-eyed, fixed his eyes on the throne and walked forward.
“I don’t know who that is,” Takea said.
“DharSii, a renegade,” said an old dragon with thin scales so blue they were almost silver. “He once commanded the Aerial Host, but he tried to overthrow Tyr FeHazathant.”
“That was a lie spread by Tighlia and you know it, cousin,” an aged green said. “He saved the Tyr’s life, is what he did. What did he get as a reward? His good name taken.”
Wistala looked at Takea, but she was craning her young neck to see up the aisle to the throne.
Wistala had eyes only for DharSii.
“Have a mouthful of gold, visitor,” Queen Nilrasha said. A few gasped, and the old silver-blue rattled his griff.
“More oliban, there,” NoSohoth said quietly, but Wistala was near enough to overhear. Hearts pounding, she wished he’d shift his great black bulk so she could see better.
DharSii’s horned head dipped and he pecked at the pile of gold at the base of the throne like a bird taking an insect.
“Thank you, Queen.”
Another big, multi-horned blue dragon, griff down and scales bristling, planted his saa in an effort to still a thrashing tail. “How dare such as you—”
“Quiet,” NoSohoth barked.
“Like that scalepainter ever tasted blood and sand in the dueling pit,” the old blue grumbled.
“Uncle, you’re no duelist yourself,” the one called HeBellereth baited.
Why could these fool dragons not still tongues? She had to listen!
“I ask no hospitality, no justice, and seek no duel and will refuse any challenge,” DharSii said.
“We’ve done away with that brutality,” the Tyr said.
“Have you?” DharSii said, looking at the Tyr. “That’s a jump in the right direction.”
“No, dragons have always—” someone protested, and was lost in a general exchange of opinions. Voices rose to an excited crescendo.
