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“I make for the dragon tower. DharSii said you’d been there.”
“Briefly, while searching for others of our kind, before I arrived here. It is not a place to inspire much hope for the future of our race. The dragons there are saddle-bred.”
“So DharSii says.”
“I can’t imagine what you intend to accomplish.”
“A change of scenery and some fresh conversation, at the very least. I just hope the dragons there have not joined the Empire. I would hate to break the terms of my exile.”
“You are now of the Sadda-Vale, and therefore my responsibility,” Scabia said. “I shall give you something you may find useful in your journey.”
She extended a wing toward the blighter runs and four came forward, each bearing an ornate silver object about the size of a dragon-egg on a carrying-canvas held between them.
DharSii and the others craned their necks to see what Scabia’s servants had produced. Her daughter let out an appreciative breath. “So lovely!”
The Copper couldn’t make out what it was, other than some kind of decor. He’d been expecting, perhaps, a harness or similar bearing-frame such as the fliers of the Aerial Host put across their backs for carrying dried meats and honeycomb.
Wistala figured out what it was for first. “May I put it on?”
“I did not send for these just so you could admire them,” Scabia said.
She lowered her head and the blighters set it over her eyes.
Ah, a headdress. The Copper wondered if it was some ancient standard of Scabia’s family. He bowed his head in Scabia’s direction as well. The old dragon-dame purred in pleasure. She enjoyed ceremony so, whether it was a call to dinner, a hatchling viewing, or a leave-taking.
“It tingles,” Wistala said.
Indeed it did, when first put upon him. The Copper had the uncomfortable sensation of a static charge passing through his head somewhere behind his eyes.
“These are relics of Silverhigh. There are more—sadly there are more relics of Silverhigh these days than dragons—but do take care of them. I will accept breakage only if they save those thick skulls of yours from a splitting by an axe.”
Scabia spoke of Silverhigh so often that the Copper sometimes wondered if she didn’t live half her existence within the confines of her imagination, longing for that perfect past. He was no philosopher like Wistala, nor a cynic like AuRon, nor even a dragon always hewing close to the possible and practical like DharSii, and, while he enjoyed the stories of the lost glories of Silverhigh, he doubted it had been quite so perfect an age. The contentious nature of dragons—even with peace and plenty—forbade it.
“It’ll take more of a disguise than this,” Wistala mindspoke. Her words and feelings came across so strongly that the Copper jumped as if she’d stuck her snout in his ear. He’d never heard mindspeech of this intensity.
Scabia’s eyelid flicked. “I see they still work. Those are mindspeech amplifiers. The dragons of Silverhigh, provided they were capable of it to each other, could communicate over great distances. I myself have never had such an affinity of mind with another dragon that they worked for me, even with my dear old mate, earth harbor his bones. But I thought you might find them useful in your journeys.”
“Do they work?” DharSii asked, looking at Wistala. “I thought their magic was long dead. I never enjoyed so much as an intuition over one.”
“You are like me, DharSii,” Scabia said. “A dragon of singular mind.” She turned back to the Copper and Wistala. “In any case, if you are going to venture out into the world, Tyr RuGaard, it may be useful to have this connection.”
The Copper had tried to discourage Scabia from using his former title, and succeeded in everyday conversation, but his leave-taking had brought the habit back. He’d been Tyr long enough to know that gifts rarely came without the expectation of something in return.
“Your kindness, in great matters and small, cannot ever be repaid. Perhaps I can return with some trifle unobtainable in the Sadda-Vale, to return this favor?”
“I learned long ago to reconcile my wants with my needs. For myself, nothing. But I won’t live forever. I would like more hatchlings around this place. There may be other dragons who, for honest and admirable reasons, would rather not live in the new world those down south are building. If you find any young and vigorous mated pairs, they are welcome here. Feel free to bring home a mate yourself, Tyr RuGaard.”
“My present mate still lives.”
“Don’t throw your life away trying to get her back. I may not be wearing the work of ancient Silverhigh, but I know what is on your mind. You are lonely, but she is hostage to your exile. Were you, by some miracle, to retrieve her, it would bring war to the Sadda-Vale.”
So that was it. The gift wasn’t so he could communicate with Wistala; it was so she could spy on him in his activities. He wondered how many of his thoughts Wistala could read.
“Why this hostility, RuGaard?” Wistala communicated. “Are you worried I’ll give away your plans?”
Fine. She couldn’t perceive his thoughts, precisely, but she could sense his mind. He sensed some conflict in her as well. Wistala was building toward a decision of some kind.
“As I said, I need change and exercise,” the Copper said. “I will get both without starting a war.”
