intricate carvings in the passages.
“You just don’t see workmanship like this except in Imperial Rock in the Lavadome,” Yefkoa said. “Who made it? Dwarfs?”
“There are some dwarfish makers’-marks, but also blighter and human,” Scabia said, dropping out of her usual formal speech in an unusual condescension. “You can tell the difference in the details. The dwarfs will make a support look like rope, or piping, whereas the blighters will be more organic and men imitate leaves and vines of nature, as most of their artisans were probably trained by elves in the days of Silverhigh.”
Most strange of all was Yefkoa’s praise of the Copper. Wistala had forgotten over the years in exile how her brother had been loved by some of those he used to rule. Yefkoa spoke of him in tones of gratitude and awe, and was deeply disappointed that he was away. Wistala knew in a vague sort of way that he’d done some favor or other for her in her youth—had he given her a place in the Firemaids despite her slight frame and thin scale? Well, in any case, here was another dragon who loved her brother deeply. Wistala, when she looked at him, saw only a collection of injuries and an expression that verged on half-witted thanks to the eye injury she’d given him after their parents were murdered. She’d ceased to hate him long ago, but still wondered at the respect such a limping, undersized wretch seemed to inspire in others.
The bat Larb outdid Yefkoa in his praise of Scabia. He declared he’d never imagined such a Queen of snows—she was simply the most breathtaking female dragon in the world. He waxed on about the vastness of the Vesshall, his echolocation quite inadequate. This went on for a full shift of moonlight. Scabia reacted to the bat’s obsequious patter in a way Wistala had never imagined. She let loose with a prrum and invited the bat to eat his fill, complimenting him on his Drakine.
After dinner, when Scabia was amusing herself by telling stories to the youths, Wistala and Yefkoa looked over an old map of the Red Mountains.
“Where shall we reenter the Empire?” Wistala asked.
“East of the mountains would be best,” Yefkoa opined. “The climate is harsher and fewer dragons choose to settle there. Wallander is a possibility. It is on the Falnges.”
“Just above the old works of the dwarfs,” Wistala said. “I know it.”
“The Chartered Company, yes. It used to belong to them. Now it’s just another poor province. An entry there would attract little notice; there may not even be a dragon there to supervise. Probably some Hypatian hireling. It makes Dairuss seem like the Lavadome—a little riverbank squat with a few docks doing some trade with the Ironriders.”
They said their farewells and thanks to Scabia the next day. Larb the bat had been invited to stay as Scabia’s messenger, in the hope that Tyr RuGaard would return and he could go back into “the family service,” as he styled it.
Wistala said she would accompany Yefkoa to the borders of the Empire. Which was perfectly true. She would also accompany Yefkoa all the way to the Lavadome, if need be. She owed her life to Ayafeeia.
She added that she was grateful for the old dragonhelms of Silverhigh. She’d check on RuGaard on the way back.
With a wish of fair spring weather from Scabia, they departed together.
Two more contrasting females in flight could scarcely be imagined. Wistala, heavy and muscular, with an enormous wingspan, set off in a steady series of lifting beats and glides. Yefkoa, slight and narrower of wing, flapped as steadily as a duck migrating.
The frosted plains of the north, visited only by migratory herds and the men and beasts that hunted them, gave way to the low, rolling hills of the Ironrider lands.
Spring had advanced so many horizons to the south and the Ironrider lands were at their most beautiful. Sunflowers were opening and the fields were filled with wildflowers. The ground-birds were already out
“You just don’t see workmanship like this except in Imperial Rock in the Lavadome,” Yefkoa said. “Who made it? Dwarfs?”
“There are some dwarfish makers’-marks, but also blighter and human,” Scabia said, dropping out of her usual formal speech in an unusual condescension. “You can tell the difference in the details. The dwarfs will make a support look like rope, or piping, whereas the blighters will be more organic and men imitate leaves and vines of nature, as most of their artisans were probably trained by elves in the days of Silverhigh.”
Most strange of all was Yefkoa’s praise of the Copper. Wistala had forgotten over the years in exile how her brother had been loved by some of those he used to rule. Yefkoa spoke of him in tones of gratitude and awe, and was deeply disappointed that he was away. Wistala knew in a vague sort of way that he’d done some favor or other for her in her youth—had he given her a place in the Firemaids despite her slight frame and thin scale? Well, in any case, here was another dragon who loved her brother deeply. Wistala, when she looked at him, saw only a collection of injuries and an expression that verged on half-witted thanks to the eye injury she’d given him after their parents were murdered. She’d ceased to hate him long ago, but still wondered at the respect such a limping, undersized wretch seemed to inspire in others.
The bat Larb outdid Yefkoa in his praise of Scabia. He declared he’d never imagined such a Queen of snows—she was simply the most breathtaking female dragon in the world. He waxed on about the vastness of the Vesshall, his echolocation quite inadequate. This went on for a full shift of moonlight. Scabia reacted to the bat’s obsequious patter in a way Wistala had never imagined. She let loose with a prrum and invited the bat to eat his fill, complimenting him on his Drakine.
After dinner, when Scabia was amusing herself by telling stories to the youths, Wistala and Yefkoa looked over an old map of the Red Mountains.
“Where shall we reenter the Empire?” Wistala asked.
“East of the mountains would be best,” Yefkoa opined. “The climate is harsher and fewer dragons choose to settle there. Wallander is a possibility. It is on the Falnges.”
“Just above the old works of the dwarfs,” Wistala said. “I know it.”
“The Chartered Company, yes. It used to belong to them. Now it’s just another poor province. An entry there would attract little notice; there may not even be a dragon there to supervise. Probably some Hypatian hireling. It makes Dairuss seem like the Lavadome—a little riverbank squat with a few docks doing some trade with the Ironriders.”
They said their farewells and thanks to Scabia the next day. Larb the bat had been invited to stay as Scabia’s messenger, in the hope that Tyr RuGaard would return and he could go back into “the family service,” as he styled it.
Wistala said she would accompany Yefkoa to the borders of the Empire. Which was perfectly true. She would also accompany Yefkoa all the way to the Lavadome, if need be. She owed her life to Ayafeeia.
She added that she was grateful for the old dragonhelms of Silverhigh. She’d check on RuGaard on the way back.
With a wish of fair spring weather from Scabia, they departed together.
Two more contrasting females in flight could scarcely be imagined. Wistala, heavy and muscular, with an enormous wingspan, set off in a steady series of lifting beats and glides. Yefkoa, slight and narrower of wing, flapped as steadily as a duck migrating.
The frosted plains of the north, visited only by migratory herds and the men and beasts that hunted them, gave way to the low, rolling hills of the Ironrider lands.
Spring had advanced so many horizons to the south and the Ironrider lands were at their most beautiful. Sunflowers were opening and the fields were filled with wildflowers. The ground-birds were already out
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