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.”

He exchanged bows with each of the dragons of the Sadda-Vale. With Scabia he was careful to bow lower than her, with his sister they touched noses at the bottom of the bow, with DharSii the pair kept their snouts carefully in alignment, each conceding nothing to the other. NaStirath did an elaborate sweep with his neck and bade the winds and weather to be his servants, and Aethleethia wished him a fair journey and a quick return and didn’t mean a word of it as she nudged her hatchlings forward. They were shaping up as likely young drakes, but apart from endless lessons on how to interact with the blighter servants, they were spoiled rotten. Each could use a few years in the Drakwatch or the Firemaids under stern guidance, the Copper thought.

The blighters swept him with fresh-cut birch branches and leaves as he exited the palatial expanse of Vesshall. With skin tingling and scales clean, he left the Sadda-Vale with no intention of returning.

Chapter 3

AuRon the Gray clung to the shadowed side of Eagle

Nest Mountain, hanging over the dragon-city like a watchful spider.

His skin matched the granite, cold against his belly, to perfection, right down to the white veins crisscrossing through the stone. It wasn’t a trick he willed; his skin just shifted and rearranged its tiny faceted leaves and the play of light did the rest.

AuRon sometimes wished he’d been born a scaled dragon rather than an oddity. His father once told him that fewer than one in a hundred dragons were born this way. Certainly, his color-shifting skin came in handy when he didn’t wish to be noticed; from a distance or in any kind of cover he was the next thing to invisible. It was also quieter, since there was no sound of metallic scales clinking against each other or whatever surfaces he passed around. In the air he wasn’t weighed down with half again his bodyweight of armor, making him faster in the air than the fleetest scaled dragon—though still hardly a match for the great birds, the Rocs and griffaran, he’d at times been forced to fight.

And that was the sore spot. In a fight, without the tough covering, he’d suffered from arrows and blades and lost his tail to enemies. Twice. It had regrown, of course, but you could still see the slight indent where he’d lost it a second time. When breathing heavily, he still felt a twinge where an arrow had pierced his lung when he was a hatchling.

So he’d learned to avoid fighting if at all possible. He waited and listened his way out of trouble. He’d trailed his mate, Natasatch, here without so much as a snap of his jaws.

Once, this had been the capital of the Red Queen’s Empire of the Ghioz, the stonemasons who’d learned their craft—and their proud obstinacy—by copying dwarfs. Before her, he’d been told, it had belonged, alternately and in what order he couldn’t remember, to elves, dwarfs, and blighters. One might say the city was like a fought-over throne, occupied by whichever great power now ruled the lands beyond the mountains east of the Inland Ocean.

In this epoch, the Imperial City was that of the dragons. More specific, the dragons whom his outcast brother once ruled, with some help from Wistala now and then. A score of years ago he’d wandered into their giant, crystalline cavern, the Lavadome, and been reunited with his siblings. Since then, the affairs of his brother’s Dragon Empire with its wars and political plots had stalked him like a hunter.

As for the name of the mountain above the city, he had no idea what the dwarfs or humans or dragons called it. To an accommodatingly garrulous raven, it was the Eagle Nest, thanks to a vast snow-filled hanging valley that reminded condors and other high-flying avians of an eagle’s creche full of fluff. He’d suspected the raven of being a spy, but as it refrained from asking him a single question and instead prattled on about the lateness of the spring—“surely a sign of a hot summer”—and the doings of insects—“the dragon reek has banished the whole sunrise side of the mountain of bluebottles”—AuRon decided he was just an odd bird who enjoyed the glamour of talking to dragons. That or he hoped for exclusive rights to the head of his next bighorn kill.

AuRon didn’t care for the raven’s world and its troubles. He’d learned over the years that there were very few friends one could trust, and those who he could trust either died or drew him into their affairs thanks to bonds of friendship and honor. Every dragon had a weak spot, his father used to say, and AuRon admitted he had several, starting with his skin, but it was this accursed habit of sticking his nose into the affairs of hominids in support of old friends that had brought him within a tail-flick of death more than once.

This time, however, he was snout-deep for purely selfish reasons. He wanted to feel his mate next to him, listen to her breathing, smell her old familiar, welcoming—to a male dragon—scent. While the Sadda-Vale had its points, the conversation had grown stale, and even his sister’s intelligent companionship was no replacement for the dragon who’d curled around their eggs for long winter months.

The shadows rolled across the city of Ghioz as the sun turned the mountains bloodred. AuRon didn’t believe in omens, but he still had to suppress atavistic, fearful thoughts brought up by the dusk-washed granite.