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Nilrasha clacked her teeth to cut her off. “Fifth, you analyze rather than emote. Half the dragons I know would be cursing the dwarfs and barbarians and already have a war going. You talk like an Ankelene sage but display like a Skotl and persevere like a Wyrr. I hope you’ll take no insult at the comparisons.”
“I’m flattered you think so much of me.”
“When you held the Red Mountain pass against Ironriders and Roc-riders alike I knew you were a dragon who could set her backbone and stick.”
Blood in the snow. Wistala didn’t care for those memories. Battles terrified her beyond words and she still dreamt of young Takea, dying in that dreadful pass.
“What about my duties as a Protector?” Wistala asked. Mossbell was in good hands, but who knows what kind of greedy fool might replace her.
“I’ll find a substitute. Or I’ll take it on myself, and just send and receive a few messages a year so your more ambitious fellow protectors don’t get ideas. Now let’s not look so disheartened; it won’t be forever. Besides, I have another need.” She lowered her voice, but Wistala couldn’t imagine who might overhear, save blighter servants she presumably trusted. “What I’m about to tell you is a great secret. By your oath as a Firemaid, do you promise to keep it?”
“I shall.”
“Your brother will not be Tyr much longer. Once RuGaard has a successor in place, he’d like to lay down his duties. I know the Ankelenes call him power-mad and other worse names, but nothing is farther from the truth. He’s carrying out the honors and duties given him, honors and duties he didn’t seek, whatever the whisperers might say.”
She looked at her battle trophies. “Too many Tyrs have died atop the Imperial Rock. Right now the one thing we don’t have a tradition for is the peaceful transfer of power and responsibility. Can you believe, these Hypatians are more organized about such things than dragons! Short-lived, scatterbrained little mammals arranging their affairs better than, well, their betters. He’d like to learn that one practice from the humans and change that tradition to a happier one—a solemn ceremony where he turns over the responsibilities of rank to another with sense and energy.”
Nilrasha shifted her weight with a lunge and Wistala heard the snap-crack of her tail strike the floor.
“I told you not to listen,” she roared at her hindquarters, where a blighter hopped on one foot and long arm, cradling the other foot in her hand. Wistala smelled blood. “Oh, I am sorry, Obday, I didn’t mean to strike you, just startle. Go get it braced and bandaged and have some soup.”
The servant hobbled off toward a curtained partition and disappeared.
“I still don’t understand why you’re afraid,” Wistala asked.
“There’s a plot against my mate’s life. I feel it in my bones.”
“A plot? As in… as in murder?”
If the suggestion bothered Nilrasha, she showed no sign of it. “Come, let us watch the sunset.”
Wistala followed her out to the entrance. The sun blazed orange red as it sank, making Wistala think of DharSii, the odd tiger-striped dragon she’d met thrice, each time under unfortunate circumstances.
“I’m not one of these brilliant dragons, Wistala,” Nilrasha said. “Everyone is always a move ahead of me in their little games. I’m not that great a fighter, either—if I were, I’d still have wings rather than stumps.”
She waggled them again, then continued. “What I do have, though, is luck. Luck and an instinct for when to move. I’ve lived quietly here for years, doing the best I can to be an absent Queen through messengers and the good offices of court dragons like NoSohoth and HeBellereth. Word has come to me through a variety of sources that something is reaching sii and saa for my mate’s throat. For all that he’s suspicious of hominids, he’s entirely too trusting of dragons, especially those close to him.
“I’m going to tell you something, Wistala, about one time when I had the instinct to be in the right place at the right time and I didn’t act.”
Nilrasha watched the sun turn red. “Your brother had a mate before me, a very frail dragonelle, one of FeHazathant’s line, daughter of Ibidio and AgGriffopse, one of the best dragons who ever flew in the Lavadome. My mate was an upholder at the time, in an important but remote province called Anaea. I was on hand the night she ate an enormous meal and choked on a bone.
“Some people say I choked her. Well, I might as well have. I don’t know if you’ve had this lesson in the Firemaids, Wistala, but in my day we learned how to help a choking dragon. You pierce the weak spot in the windpipe just above the breastbone with a reed, a pair of arrows, anything you can find. It opens the lungs to the air and you can still breathe, after a fashion.
“I had the presence of mind to grab a horn off the wall, the brass tubing would have served admirably to feed her air once I punched it through her throat, but then I froze, unable to act. I think part of me, the part that wanted to be mated to your courageous brother, wished she would die. I stood there, watching her choke, seeing the pleading fear in her eyes, and I knew what I had to do. But I stood there, rooted. Then she collapsed and quit breathing, and too late I tried to intervene. I dropped the horn and went to her side. I thrust my sii down her throat and tried to take out the bone in a panic, and your brother finally appeared in answer to a human thrall’s signal.
“I’ve always regretted those moments when I stood there, doing nothing. As usual, I was lucky enough to be at the right place and the right time, and as usual, the world came down on top of me, just like in that attack in Bant.”
Wistala respected Nilrasha, but had never felt warm toward her. For the first time, she found herself in sympathy with her queen.
“I tried to save my wounded father,” Wistala said. “He had—terrible injuries. From war machines, weighted dragon harpoons. I brought him water and food. Later I looked for coin and metals to help his scales heal. I found some in an old ruin, but I ate most of them on the way home. I couldn’t help myself. Even worse, men followed my trail, and the hunters found him. I led them right to his refuge.”
Nilrasha rubbed griff with her. “Thank you for that confession. But at least you tried from the first to save your father’s life. Poor little Halaflora, who’d never said a cross word to even a waste-barrow thrall, died while I stood there like a rooted elf.”
“Even when you do try, sometimes fate is too much for you,” Wistala said.
The sun was half-gone now, and mostly obscured by horizon-hugging clouds. The sky above it had turned purple. Queen Nilrasha emptied her lungs. “So, what is your answer.”
Could there be a plot against her brother? Would it be worse if it failed, or if it succeeded? In the Firemaids she’d heard terrible stories about the dragon civil wars, where the clans even made unhatched eggs the target of their vengeance. “I can try. But in trying, I may bring disaster.”
