Birthnight by Michelle Sagara Page B

the statue-maker from her gait. Over her, he did not
linger.
    But there also was basilisk, stone-maker, a
wingless serpent less mighty than a dragon, and at his side, never
quite meeting his eyes, were a small ring of the Sylvan folk,
dancing and singing as they walked. They did not fear the
basilisk’s gaze; it was clear from the way they had wreathed his
mighty neck in forest flowers that seemed, to the sharp eyes of the
dragon, to be blooming even as he watched.
    And there were others—many others—each and
every one of them the first born, the endless.
    “Your fires are lazy, brother,” a voice said
from above, and the dragon looked up, almost startled, so intent
had he been upon his inspection. “And I so hate a lazy fire.”
    No other creature would dare so impertinent
an address; the dragon roared his annoyance, but felt no need to
press his point. It had been a long time since he had seen this
fiery creature. “I was present for your last birth,” he said, “and
you were insolent even then—but I was more willing to forgive you;
you were young.”
    “Oh indeed, more insolent,” the phoenix
replied, furling wings of fire and heat and beauty as he dived
beneath the dragon, buoying him up, “and young. My brother, I fear
you speak truer than you know. You attended my last birth—there
will be no others.”
    The dragon gave a lazy, playful breath—one
that would have scorched a small village or blinded a small
army—and the phoenix preened in the flames. But though they played,
as old friends might, there was a worry in the games—a desperation
they could not speak of. For were they not immortal and
endless?
    * * *
    “They do not see me,” the unicorn said
quietly, when at last the dragon had chosen to land. The phoenix
alas, was still playing his loving games—this time with the
harpies, who tended to think rather more ill of it than the dragon
had. They screeched and swore and threatened to tear out the
swan-like fire-bird’s neck; from thousands of feet below, the
dragon could hear the phoenix trumpet.
    “Do not see you? But sister, you hide.”
    “I once did.” She shook her splendid mane,
and turned to face him, her dark eyes wide and round. “But now—I
walk as you fly, and they do not see me. I even touched one old
woman, to heal her of her aches—and she did not feel my presence at
all.”
    Dragons are proud creatures, but for her
sake, he was willing to take the risk of exposing a weakness. “I,
too, am worried. I flew, I cast my shadows wide, I breathed the
fiery death.” He snorted; smoke cindered a tree-branch. Satisfied,
he continued. “But they did not even look up.”
    “And,” one of the Sylvan folk broke in, “my
people cannot call them further to our dance without the greatest
of efforts.”
    The dragon turned his mighty head to regard
the small, slender woman of the fey ones. And what he saw surprised
even he. He lowered his head to the earth in a gesture of respect
for the Queen of all Faerie.
    “Yes,” she said, with a smile that held the
ages and used them wisely, “I too have come out on this road.
Something is in the earth, my friend—and in the air. There is
danger and death for all of us.” She reached out and placed a
perfect hand between his nostrils. He felt a thrill of magic touch
him.
    He snorted again, and the fire passed
harmlessly around her. “I am no foolish mortal.”
    Her smile held all the beauty and danger of
the reaver of mortal men. “Ah? No, I see you are not, mighty
brother.” She turned, swirling in a dress made of water and wood,
fire and wind, and walked away to where her people waited to pay
court.
    “She is not without power,” the unicorn
whispered, long after her presence had faded.
    “No, little sister, she is not. Nor will ever
be, I feel. But she, too, is worried.” He walked slowly and
sinuously by the unicorn’s delicate path until the sun splashed low
upon the horizon; the wound of the sky, and the beginning of