“If anyone comes to Quarryness, it will be to buy mustard,” DharSii said. “It’s delicious on poached sailfish. It appears you have three days left to enjoy one, should you care to spend your time in the north more profitably.”

“Three days, DharSii. Tell him if he values his mate’s health and the dragon tower’s continued existence, he should appear.”

At this, the striped dragon looked angry. He let his gaze travel up and down CuSarrath’s fighting line, as if wondering how many he could cripple before being brought down. Varatheela tried to look resolute, but she couldn’t help liking this fellow.

Perhaps fearing a verbal riposte, CuSarrath executed a beautiful flip and reversed direction with two hard flaps. The other six Lights fell in behind him, all trained to turn in the same direction to avoid collision. Varatheela flapped hard and regained her position as second-rearmost by seniority.

They landed in wild country, exhausted. CuSarrath took pity on his fliers and volunteered for the first watch. No telling what might be roaming the woods—Varatheela knew in a vague sort of way that her aunt Wistala had killed a troll somewhere hereabouts.

When CuSarrath’s watch was over and the other dragons felt somewhat revived, there was some grousing about their empty bellies.

“Another cold, comfortless camp,” the oldest of them, AuHazathant, said. He was a leathery old red with thick scales growing in patches.

“Wish we’d just gutted it out and made it back to Quarry-ness.”

The dragon next to him groaned: “Tell that to my wings.”

“Who was that DharSii fellow? I believe I’ve heard of him,” Varatheela said. “He looked like a cross between a Skotl and a Wyrr. How often does that happen?”

“He goes back to Tyr Fehazathant’s days,” AuHazathant said. “I don’t know his clan background. He once commanded the Aerial Host. I was told he murdered the Tyr’s heir. He fled, but I don’t think he was ever formally convicted of the crime. If he did do it, he’s triply clever.”

Varatheela decided to probe. “I was told Queen Tighlia poisoned him.”

“I’d heard SiMevolant did him in.”

Varatheela yawned. “I’m too tired for gossipy history. Shall we be quiet now?”

“I wouldn’t mind a nice piece of sailfin this night,” AuHazathant said. “Any of you had it, mates? It’s so red you’d mistake it for beef. Mouthwatering.”

Varatheela felt her mouth go wet at the thought.

“So, we’re bringing in RuGaard. That’s the urgency,” she said.

The youngest, a silver named AgLaberarn said, “Wouldn’t you know. Politics. Politics always is triply urgent to those who give the orders. Not like a little raid by pirates or anything. No, that’s hardly worth the flight.”

“I don’t recall anyone getting bled by demen when he was Tyr. Except in fighting them,” AuHazathant said.

“That’s enough of that, AuHazathant, or you’ll be in my report to NiVom,” CuSarrath said without opening his eyes, though his nostrils had flared in irritation. That shocked them back into silence.

Varatheela tried to ignore her empty belly and go to sleep. But it occurred to her that the Isle of Ice and the cave she’d been born in was but a long, fast flight west into the Inland Ocean. She knew every hole, the coves with the biggest crabs, and where sheep retreated in a snowstorm. It wouldn’t be difficult for her to disappear, if she were determined to leave. One dragonelle more or less wouldn’t make a difference to the Lights, not with so many frightened Firemaids trying to find a posting now that their leader was dead.

Chapter 13

A sunless dawn slowly revealed the landscape draped by clouds. To AuRon, the air smelled like thunder. Not surprising at this time of year—the Inland Ocean saw long, slow storms in the fall and fast-moving thunderheads in the spring.

Still, thunder made him anxious. He would rather have been underground sleeping.

Instead, he was sheltering in the lee of the dragon tower and the rocky ridge of the peninsula it sat upon, listening to the report of a scouting run, and wondering if Shadowcatch remembered him for well or ill.

The scout had made a dangerous flight. She’d flown between piney tree trunks, below the tops of the tallest green spires, to approach the dragon camp at Quarryness—a trick few dragons could manage—and returned in a single night after an Aerial Host scout had been spotted following the Old North Road and the seashore.

Also present were old Hermethea of the dragon tower, who came along because a few females could sometimes prevent quarrels from rising to violence, DharSii, and his siblings. Shadowcatch had begged to be given a one-day head start, saying he would swim all the way to Quarryness, but the Copper refused.

“I’ll find you, one way or another, my Tyr, even if I have to wade across a lake of dwarfs,” Shadowcatch said.

The fast-flying dragon, who suffered to bear a rider on her back to watch her tail and act as a second pair of eyes, double-checking her observations, returned and reported to the Copper.

“They rested at Roadsend. At dawn they flew back to Quarryness,” the scout said.

“Where they’ll wait. The question is, what they’ll do when they’re through with waiting,” the Copper said. “Will they come north or return south?”

“Numbers?” DharSii asked. “Have other members of the Host joined them?”

“Twenty-two. Riderless dragons,” the human said, consulting a bit of slate with some chalk marks on it. “One gray. Rest various.”

“Red in charge, I think, many, many laudi,” the dragonelle added. Laudi, or wing-legends, were given to Empire dragons who’d triumphed in battle to distinguish them. The dyes ranged from colorful to muted, depending on the dragon’s taste, but whatever the color the decorations were a sign of a battle-tested dragon.

“The gray will be a messenger,” DharSii said. “They’re no good in battle—excuse me, AuRon—they’re thought to be no good in battle, but their speed is unmatched.”

“I wonder who this red is,” the Copper said. “If it’s Cu-Vallahall, he was a young dragon from my day who never liked having a rider, but he’s levelheaded. One Skotl, one Wyrr parent.”

“What’s Roadsend?” AuRon asked. He didn’t know much about the Hypatian northlands, not having roamed them since he traveled with Blackhard’s pack as an unwinged drake. “The end of the Old North Road?”

“No, it goes well beyond that; it’s just not kept in any real repair,” Wistala said. “Roadsend is the last Imperial Post in the old system. To the south, the road is reasonably safe. It’s barbarian country beyond.”

“What are they doing?” the Copper asked the scout and her rider.

“Usual doings,” the human said in decent Drakine. “Eat much. Drink much. Bellow much, for more eat and drink.”

“I wonder if this is just a rest?” Wistala asked. “Might they go looking for AuRon at the Isle of Ice, or me at the Sadda-Vale?”

“They came to get me,” the Copper said. “It’s up to me to talk to them.”

“If their orders are just to kill you, they’ll do it,” DharSii said. “They won’t let you get five words out.”

“They might listen to me,” the Copper said. “I’ll come along. If they’ve been given orders to assassinate a dragon trying to parley, well—they can do it and try to live with themselves. It’ll mean the Empire I grew up in truly is dead.”

Wistala brought her head close to DharSii and stared levelly into his eyes. AuRon wondered what mindspeech was passing between them.

“Where my brothers go, I’ll be by their side,” Wistala said to the rest.

“What are your intentions?” DharSii asked.

“To join my mate,” the Copper said. “That’s all. This isn’t politics.”

“Everything is politics in the Empire,” Wistala said.

“I hope they’ll be satisfied with taking us back to the Tyr,” AuRon said. “What would they do? Would there be a trial of some sort?”

“Countless potential rebellions have been ended with a quick set of hangings at some crossroad,” DharSii said. “Let’s send a rider south with a message asking for a one-to-one meeting.”

“No,” the Copper said. “I think we should make a show of force. NiVom needs to know if he wants to fight for control of the dragon tower, it’ll cost him a hefty piece of his Aerial Host.”

They took turns leading the way south, flying in a line formation. The wind was blowing strong from that direction, bringing the storm, and while the fierceness of the air made it easy to stay aloft, covering horizons in a southward lap proved exhausting in the moist, windy air.

They worked out a system, suggested by the Copper, where the front flier simply concentrated on beating the air to death. The next in the slanted line enjoyed the slipstream and made sure of navigation, and the last watched for opposing fliers, from above, below, behind—the Aerial Host trained in coming out of the sun, or using cloud banks for a stealthy approach, or “grounding” briefly to let opponents fly past before rising to the attack.