with them for so
long.
“Myn,” Myranda scolded, “don’t forget your
manners.”
The dragon backed away and sat on her
haunches, eying the attendants, who were reluctant to return to
their tasks. Eventually they got their nerve and saw to the
delegation, helping each down and seeing to the bags of the Tresson
nobles.
“You speak to her as if to a child,” Valaamus
observed, “and yet she obeys.”
“I’ve been with her since she was born,”
Myranda said, walking over to the impatiently waiting dragon and
giving her some long-awaited attention as Deacon unloaded their
things from her back and handed them to the attendants.
Grustim, for the first time since Myranda had
been introduced to him, made a sound that might have been intended
for human ears. It was muttered beneath his breath, a Tresson word
Myranda didn’t recognize.
“Hold your tongue,” hissed Valaamus.
“What did he say?” Myranda asked.
“It is a very old word,” Deacon said. “It
means fertile soil. Or the material used to fertilize it. I
believe, in context, he was suggesting that something you’d said
was untrue.”
“My apologies, Duchess. Grustim is a soldier.
He is not as refined in his interactions as the rest of the
delegation,” Valaamus said.
“I’m not offended, Ambassador. But I am curious. What prompted such a remark?” Myranda asked.
“Answer the duchess,” Valaamus ordered.
The Dragon Rider stepped down from his mount.
“You say your dragon has been with you since her birth,” he said.
He spoke Varden, but with a less practiced diction than the
ambassador. “A female mountain dragon of that size would be at
least ninety years old. She’s nearly as large as Garr, and Garr was
hatched before the war.”
“Garr is your dragon?” Deacon said. “It
thought it was named—”
“The breeders have their name and I have
mine. He is Garr, and he is one hundred and sixty years old.”
“Myn is only about two years old,” Myranda
said.
Grustim barely managed to prevent himself
from repeating his earlier outburst. “She is not two years
old, Madam Duchess. You are mistaken.”
Myn cast a hard glare in his direction. She
clearly did not appreciate what he had to say or the tone with
which he was saying it.
Grustim continued, “I will prove it to you.”
He turned to his mount, uttering a guttural command. The dragon
lowered its head, tipping its horns toward him. “Here, on the
horns. Dragons shed their skin once per growth season. The scales
leave a mark and stain the horn a bit. Come, look. Learn something
about the beast you ride.”
Myranda and Deacon stepped closer, Garr not
even acknowledging them. Grustim pointed to a very faint dip in the
surface of the deep-green horn, and a slight discoloration. It ran
around the circumference, and Myranda never would have spotted it
if not directed, but once she knew what to look for, she found
dozens more along the length of the horn.
“Now go find them on your mount and learn how
old she really is,” Grustim said.
“Come here Myn, let’s see your horns,”
Myranda said.
“Fascinating…” Deacon said, looking over
Garr’s horns. “In all of my dealings with dragons I’ve never
noticed this…”
Grustim issued another order, and the dragon
raised his head again. Myn marched over and tried to lower her head
for inspection without taking her eyes off Grustim or Garr. Myranda
ran her fingers along the length, but she found no hint of the
rings until she reached the very tip, where there was a pair of
them about a finger’s width apart.
“Here, you see?” Myranda said. “There are
two.”
The Dragon Rider stepped doubtfully forward,
but Myn pulled her head back by the same amount. He made a sound of
irritation and stepped forward again, and again she pulled away.
When he stepped forward again, there was a sudden flurry of motion
and an angry rumble from both dragons. The humans turned to find
Myn’s tail trapped under Garr’s forepaw. Based on
long.
“Myn,” Myranda scolded, “don’t forget your
manners.”
The dragon backed away and sat on her
haunches, eying the attendants, who were reluctant to return to
their tasks. Eventually they got their nerve and saw to the
delegation, helping each down and seeing to the bags of the Tresson
nobles.
“You speak to her as if to a child,” Valaamus
observed, “and yet she obeys.”
“I’ve been with her since she was born,”
Myranda said, walking over to the impatiently waiting dragon and
giving her some long-awaited attention as Deacon unloaded their
things from her back and handed them to the attendants.
Grustim, for the first time since Myranda had
been introduced to him, made a sound that might have been intended
for human ears. It was muttered beneath his breath, a Tresson word
Myranda didn’t recognize.
“Hold your tongue,” hissed Valaamus.
“What did he say?” Myranda asked.
“It is a very old word,” Deacon said. “It
means fertile soil. Or the material used to fertilize it. I
believe, in context, he was suggesting that something you’d said
was untrue.”
“My apologies, Duchess. Grustim is a soldier.
He is not as refined in his interactions as the rest of the
delegation,” Valaamus said.
“I’m not offended, Ambassador. But I am curious. What prompted such a remark?” Myranda asked.
“Answer the duchess,” Valaamus ordered.
The Dragon Rider stepped down from his mount.
“You say your dragon has been with you since her birth,” he said.
He spoke Varden, but with a less practiced diction than the
ambassador. “A female mountain dragon of that size would be at
least ninety years old. She’s nearly as large as Garr, and Garr was
hatched before the war.”
“Garr is your dragon?” Deacon said. “It
thought it was named—”
“The breeders have their name and I have
mine. He is Garr, and he is one hundred and sixty years old.”
“Myn is only about two years old,” Myranda
said.
Grustim barely managed to prevent himself
from repeating his earlier outburst. “She is not two years
old, Madam Duchess. You are mistaken.”
Myn cast a hard glare in his direction. She
clearly did not appreciate what he had to say or the tone with
which he was saying it.
Grustim continued, “I will prove it to you.”
He turned to his mount, uttering a guttural command. The dragon
lowered its head, tipping its horns toward him. “Here, on the
horns. Dragons shed their skin once per growth season. The scales
leave a mark and stain the horn a bit. Come, look. Learn something
about the beast you ride.”
Myranda and Deacon stepped closer, Garr not
even acknowledging them. Grustim pointed to a very faint dip in the
surface of the deep-green horn, and a slight discoloration. It ran
around the circumference, and Myranda never would have spotted it
if not directed, but once she knew what to look for, she found
dozens more along the length of the horn.
“Now go find them on your mount and learn how
old she really is,” Grustim said.
“Come here Myn, let’s see your horns,”
Myranda said.
“Fascinating…” Deacon said, looking over
Garr’s horns. “In all of my dealings with dragons I’ve never
noticed this…”
Grustim issued another order, and the dragon
raised his head again. Myn marched over and tried to lower her head
for inspection without taking her eyes off Grustim or Garr. Myranda
ran her fingers along the length, but she found no hint of the
rings until she reached the very tip, where there was a pair of
them about a finger’s width apart.
“Here, you see?” Myranda said. “There are
two.”
The Dragon Rider stepped doubtfully forward,
but Myn pulled her head back by the same amount. He made a sound of
irritation and stepped forward again, and again she pulled away.
When he stepped forward again, there was a sudden flurry of motion
and an angry rumble from both dragons. The humans turned to find
Myn’s tail trapped under Garr’s forepaw. Based on
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