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“She’s Rensivar’s daughter,” I say.
Wendolyn’s wings freeze. For a heartbeat, she hangs suspended in front of me, her shimmering eyes wide, her emerald body rigid.
And then she laughs. She twists her head toward the sky and laughs, flames pouring from her snout, her wings beating as she spins crazily. She does a loop, then another, and then shakes her head again, her scales clicking and shimmering, every bit the fierce, radiant dragon I had once trusted. And loved.
“Stars, Doshir,” she says, finally drifting back to where I’ve been beating my wings. “That’s the worst joke you’ve ever told.”
She meets my gaze. Slowly, like ice melting in the sun, her expression shifts. She pulls back, gives a final shake, and then sighs.
“Come with me,” she says, twisting her head toward the grassy meadow that cradles the little glacial pond where the dragons meet to choose their queen. “You’d better explain.”
I try. Slowly, and with a lot of stammering and backtracking, I tell Wendolyn about everything that’s happened to me since a red-haired woman from Valgros knocked on the door of my father’s shop looking for a way to heal the scars on her arm and information about dragons. I try to gloss over the sex and dance around the way I’ve started to feel about Mad Scarlett’s lost hatchling, but Wendolyn probably sees right through me. She always has.
When I’m done, I fall silent. The sun sparkles off the tarn and tiny, fluffy little black and white birds jump from branch to branch in the trees that dot the edge of the cliff. Something bothers me about that little pine grove that I can’t quite put my claw on. The air between the trees shimmers like it’s superheated; I shake my head, trying to ignore what might be a hallucination brought on by stress, or grief, or exhaustion, or any number of other maladies.
Wendolyn groans, bringing my attention back to the dragon in front of me. As I watch, she sinks to the ground and throws her claws over her snout.
“Oh, Doshir,” she says, stretching my name out in a way that reminds me unpleasantly of my mother.
I sigh, then let myself sink down beside her. The grass is cool beneath my scales.
“Well, that’s everything,” I say, just in case she didn’t understand the meaning behind my extended period of silence.
Wendolyn runs her forked tongue across her snout.
“Mothers, Doshir,” she says. “You always were so damned naive.”
I blink. The air between the trees pulses softly, and I turn away, bothered in a way I’d have trouble putting into words.
“I— I’m sorry?” I stammer.
Wendolyn shakes her head, then comes to her feet.
“Mad Scarlett’s lost daughter. Hells, the hatchling of Rensivar the Wicked himself, and she just happens to show up in Cairncliff?” Wendolyn asks.
Her eyes narrow as she turns to me. Something in my gut shifts. I feel like I’m back on the deck of my father’s ship, and it’s moving beneath me.
“Let me guess,” Wendolyn continues. “This woman, this Rayne. She giggled, tossed her human hair, batted her big human eyes, and then asked you to teach her all about being a dragon?”
I swallow. My scales make a sound like dried leaves whispering in the breeze. I want to deny it, but Mothers, isn’t that almost what Rayne had said on the night we met?
But that was before, some part of me screams. Before I pulled her from the Cairncliff Council Meeting, before she saved me from the Valgros Port Guard. Before our healing sessions in the Valorous Arms. Before she dragged me out of the burning wreckage of my life.
Wendolyn huffs. Twin spires of smoke rise from her nostrils.
“Mothers above. She’s from Valgros, Doshir.” Wendolyn’s eyes narrow to slits as she turns to face me.
“Valgros,” she repeats, loading that one word with all the fear and hatred of that dreary nation's miserable history.
“But—” I begin.
“Did it ever occur to you,” Wendolyn snaps, cutting me off, “that the daughter of Rensivar, a woman who was apparently raised by the literal army in Valgros, might have other allegiances?”
Wendolyn sits back on her haunches and blinks her wide eyes. Her tail flicks impatiently between us.
“No,” I reply, the word falling flat on the ground.
Wendolyn makes a clucking sort of noise.
