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Wistala suddenly lost interest in visiting the Ankelenes. Her time there always passed like dried, splintered bones through her digestive tract, as she could rarely enter without having some expert question her about conditions near the pole or in the great east or other places she’d visited.
“I might follow your example and go into hiding. I thought I’d borrow some books and spend a few days reading,” Wistala said. “I’m tired of duties and ceremonies.”
Ibidio explored her gumline with her tongue. Wistala noticed she was lacking teeth. “You aren’t fond of your brother, are you?”
“Fond? No, not fond.”
Ibidio cocked her head. “Yet you have dropped scale all over the Lavadome acting as his Queen-Consort. Strange.”
“I respect him, I respect what he’s built, and what others before him established. I believe in what he’s trying to do for dragons.”
“Are you aware of the circumstances of my daughter’s death?”
“His first mate? I’ve heard the story. RuGaard said she choked.”
“No one knows the whole story, except perhaps for RuGaard and Nilrasha.” Ibidio sighed. “I’ve devoted myself to the subject. Halaflora wasn’t a favorite of mine at the time, but since Imfamnia revealed her true character, her memory has sweetened. I’ll never forgive her death.”
“You believe she was murdered, then?”
“Would knowing the truth change your opinion of your brother from respect?”
“Of course,” Wistala said. “I have my own grievances and accusations against him.”
“I remember that day in the Audience Chamber. His tyrancy should have ended that day. Would you like further proof of the character of that outcast and Tighlia?”
“I will hear it,” Wistala said.
“Follow me.”
Ibidio led her into Ankelene Hill, and then down to the storage rooms. They passed through a corridor lined with scroll tubes and into a sort of reading room beyond. There were several smaller rooms off of it filled with materials and implements for writing—dragons had learned the practice from dwarfs, some thought—and Tighlia opened the curtain of one.
A giant, bloated bat and a dwarf had just finished a meal inside.
The bat was unremarkable except for its size and its over-large ears. Wistala knew that there were some big bats in the Lavadome; the vermin did well suckling on the blood of cattle and dragons, when they got the chance.
The dragons tolerated them, mostly because they’d been part of the fight against the Dragonblade’s riders. But she still suspected the dragons of squashing them on the sly.
“Let’s hear his story, then,” Wistala said.
“Don’t be afraid,” Ibidio said. “Tell this dragonelle your story.”
“Could I have a sup, first, your lordship?”
“After!” Ibidio insisted. Wistala thought Ibidio looked a little drained. Maybe she’d stayed in seclusion for more than one reason.
“Well, it was like this,” the bat began. “Himself kept a few of us around as messengers.”
“Himself who?” Ibidio prompted.
“Tyr RuGaard. Or Upholder RuGaard, as he was then.
“I’d come back from delivering a message. RuGaard wanted to ask something about the construction of a bridge. I was tired, and went right to the ceiling to find a comfortable spot. This horn-blowing woke me up, and I saw RuGaard’s human girl blowing on the horn, and both the Tyr an’ his Queen standing over the frail dragon, his mate.”
“I don’t suppose we’re going to hear from this girl?” Wistala asked.
“Her name was Rhea. She met with an accident. But this family servant RuGaard gave to Rayg’s family, Fourfang, he heard her at her death, talking about it.”
“Where is he? Another room?” Wistala asked.
