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AuRon found himself staring into the likeness of his Copper brother, multiplied in size many times.
Fluttering red flags showed him his landing spot. He suspected there was ample red and black material for such symbols, left over from the Red Queen’s preferred wardrobe and curtaining. He wondered why he found the colors so unsettling. The Red Queen’s power had long passed from this age, hadn’t it?
As he and Natasatch alighted in a whirlwind of dust from the construction, carrying some of Dairuss’ finest sewn-together sheep’s hides—they made comfortable and long-lasting rugs—trumpets blared a noisy welcome from the battlements designed to look like decor.
Imfamnia and NiVom stepped out into the sun to welcome them. Ghioz soldiers in their red scabbards and loinskirts marched and countermarched, banners were unfurled, and musicians banged and sawed and blew about their instruments as if they were trying to bring the mountainside down with their noise.
Thralls hurried forward to throw flowers on the visitors. The petals caught in Natasatch’s scale but slid off of AuRon, save for one long white bloom that stuck between the growing horns of his crest.
NiVom and AuRon bowed to each other, Imfamnia and Natasatch rubbed their folded griff.
“Welcome, fellow Protector,” NiVom said. AuRon thought him an intelligent dragon, especially in comparison to his garrulous, flashy mate.
“Oh, Natasatch, how lovely you look. I wish I had your digits, they’re so long and graceful. Mine are stunted, awful things, and even if I grow out my claws they still don’t look well.”
Natasatch gave off a brief prrum at the compliment. “Well, I wish my scale shone like yours.”
“Get your thralls to properly polish it. Chalk soda and lemon juice, that’s the thing. And if they put a little oil on it afterward; it keeps the tarnish down, dear.”
Ear to ear in conversation, the dragonelles proceeded underground. AuRon and NiVom trailed behind in companionable silence.
They sat, according to Lavadome decorum, around a tiny feeding pit with Imfamnia across from AuRon and Natasatch facing NiVom.
The food, rather than being brought up from an under-chamber, had to be brought in from another room by a thrall.
AuRon took a quick glance at the Ghioz. He hadn’t seen many up close, at least without the din and confusion all about. They were smaller and darker than the men of the north, but had wiry frames that held a good deal of strength, considering the weight of the platters brought in for the guests. Some of the thralls were bearing entire calves and small pigs, roasted with different kinds of gravies.
He had no complaints about the food. AuRon hadn’t dined so well—ever. He even sampled the wine, but hardly understood half the words NiVom and Imfamnia used in the description of its origin and reputation. It sounded as though they were describing the quality of a warrior:
“This one’s rather new and still a bit stiff; it could have been better treated by the barrel, but you’ll find it has strong legs, with the apple blossom carrying the smokey cheese behind…” and other such rubbish.
“What does wine care how its barrel treats it?” AuRon asked, and NiVom and Imfamnia exchanged looks.
“We’re used to eating rough and drinking glacier runoff,” Natasatch explained.
“Oh, I do love you outdoorsy kinds of dragons,” Imfamnia said, touching Natasatch’s tail with her own. “Such stories! Tell us of the north. You must get a great deal of fresh air and sunshine; I can tell by your eyes and scale that you’ve never had to substitute kern for being above ground.”
“They used to give us different kinds of oils in the cave, with herbs suspended in them…” Natasatch gave a brief version of her captivity on the egg shelf.
“But where did you come from, originally?” Imfamnia asked her. “You look so familiar!”
“I’m not really sure—I was taken captive very young. I think I remember being underground, but it might have been images from my parents’ minds.”
Imfamnia went on describing Natasatch’s perfections of limb and scale “quite youthful-looking; you’d never know you’d mated, let alone sat atop four eggs.”
“It was five, we lost one,” Natasatch said.
“Five! Oh, if good old Tyr FeHazathant could have seen that. He’d have stuffed you and your hatchlings with cattle.”
“We managed,” AuRon said. “There’s good fishing in the north. The waters around my island are thick with cod.”
“Riches indeed,” Imfamnia said.
“I understand RuGaard is keeping up the tradition of giving gifts to those lucky enough to sit atop eggs,” NiVom said.
Imfamnia cocked her head. “Your brother is an odd sort of fellow. He’s no FeHazathant, and not nearly as impressive-looking as SiDrakkon or SiMevolant were as Tyr. He’s so clunky and offbeat, it’s rather disarming. He’s more than he appears.”
“You were the champion in the hatching struggle?”
