“Would you like to talk about AuRon? You don’t fear he’s plotting against you, I hope. I know him, he’s an admirable dragon.”

“No. If I fall, it won’t be because he planned it. More likely he’ll knock the arm of the bowman so the arrow misses its intended target and brings me down. He’s lucky. Luck’s always favored him.”

“But he’s no Tyr of Two Worlds,” Wistala said.

“Thank you, Wistala.”

AuRon, still at the feast, listened to the chatter of the females. Most were discussing Imfamnia, either her insulting presence or her elegant appearance.

“Look at her scale tips, they’re almond-shaped. Aren’t they lovely? Simple and classic.”

“I thought scallops were in this year? In honor of the victory in Swayport.”

“Scallops? Too much work and it makes you look chicken-feathered. No, a simple almond shape is the style, in my opinion. It draws the eyes up to the face and wing and tail tip.”

“I’m going to speak to my thralls as soon as I get back to the Lavadome,” the mate of one of the Aerial Host said. “Almond shapes from nose to tail. I don’t care if I have to sit in the hygiene trench for a full light and a dark.”

The last platters of meat were emptied and NiVom brought up his special dessert, brandied brains in a buttery sauce.

“That’s a lot of brains,” Istach said.

“Where did you get all those brains?” AuRon asked. “Cattle?”

Imfamnia tilted her head. “Cattle brains? That’s thrall-feed. Those are hominid brains.”

“Where did you get such a supply?” he asked.

Imfamnia scratched herself behind the ear. “Oh, criminals in Ghioz were some. There weren’t quite enough, though, so some of the border soldiers raided the blighters to the east with NiVom. He terrorized them into surrender and our soldiers had their heads off in no time. What’s the matter, AuRon? You look like you’re going to faint. Blighters have big heads; they’re always valued for their brains.”

Chapter 6

The Copper flew through the still air of the Lavadome, his Griffaran Guard to either side. It felt odd to fly underground without air currents to fight or take advantage of. To think, for generations there were dragons who only flew in this still, uninteresting air.

Once you’re used to the air and space above the ocean or mountains, the whirling patterns of stars and the slow courses and phases of the moon, the Lavadome wasn’t quite as spectacular as it once seemed.

But still colorful. The Copper never tired of the streams of hot liquid Earth running down the unbreakable crystal skin of the Lavadome. Though the crystal mysteriously conducted away most of the heat, enough remained that the heart of his Dragon Empire remained comfortably warm, at least to dragon sensibilities, and ideal for dozing.

It echoed rather more these days. There were fewer dragon roars from hill to hill as neighbors tossed challenges and invitations back and forth.

It wasn’t war, disease, or famine that had emptied the Lavadome, though each had taken their toll during his reign as Tyr. Rather, it was the dragons’ success in the Upper World.

The Grand Alliance meant that almost every dragon of the Lavadome could live and bask in the sun if they wished. There was plenty to do in helping their Hypatian allies manage their affairs. If nothing else, dragons made sending messages back and forth between the provinces much easier. A nation that had been fragmenting was coming back together thanks to the dragons, the way laces and buttons joined the garments humans wore over their weirdly upright frames and kept them from falling off.

But some of the changes were for the better. Imperial Rock, long the towering resort of the ruling family and highly placed dragons, was now ringed by two layers of garden. Where once there had been training fields for the Drakwatch and Fire-maids, now there was a mixture of fungi and low-light ferns that could survive on the ample light, but no direct sun, that came in through the oval top of the Lavadome where crystal met air in the great volcano crater that surrounded their hidden home.

Tended by blighter gardeners and watered by numerous small pools fed by a newly built extension to the watering and sanitary flows, the greens and whites and pinks and ochres of the gardens soothed the eye in contrast to brighter reds and oranges of the lava, or the deep blacks and blues and grays of the rocky topography. Off in the distance, near the wind tunnel that sucked air from the Lavadome, a fleck of white showed another garden, the tiny memorial he’d built to his first mate, the sickly but good-hearted Halaflora. They’d launched their public joke of a mating flight from that spot.

Sweet, gentle Halaflora. He liked to think she’d approve of the changes he’d made to the Lavadome. She loved growing things. He often wondered about the eggs she claimed to be growing inside her when she died.

He’d never mate again, even if the more vigorous Nilrasha died. The mate of a Tyr was half a widow in any case, for there was little chance of seeing her husband.

The Copper encouraged the remaining dragons of the Lavadome to bring their hatchlings into the garden. Rats and bats lived among the fungi, and the hatchlings had good fun exercising their senses, bodies, and wits hunting them.

Hatchlings were the key.

When the Copper had come to the Lavadome, the “dismals” (as he liked to style them) among the Ankelenes were supposing that dragons were finished in the world. They’d linger on, ever fewer and fewer, scrawny, darksick dragons fighting over scarcer and scarcer resources in the Lavadome. Tyr FeHazathant had begun to turn matters around, selectively supporting certain Upholds, sometimes in secret, sometimes openly.

The grand old Tyr had doted on hatchlings, bringing them to the gardens at the top of the Imperial Rock for viewing. He’d spent a good deal of his precious time as Tyr looking in on the hatchlings of the Drakwatch, and demanding reports from his mate Tighlia about the progression of the newest Firemaids.

Having lived more in the world above ground, the Copper now understood his interest.

It was a numbers game, like the one he’d played as a wingless drake, with the piles of smooth, marked river stones the Drakwatch used to have to discover, steal, battle over, and carry back to their “home cave.” Each hatchling represented a hope for the future of dragonkind. They could never match the breeding power of the hominids, but dragons had their size and wings and wit and fire, that, judiciously used, could win friends and strike terror into the hearts of their enemies.

Dragons were also long-lived, and the wise among them could take advantage of their experience. Hominids, especially humans and blighters, tended to make the same mistakes, and be subject to the same weaknesses, generation after generation after generation.

The Copper swooped low over the gardens atop the Imperial Rock. They’d grown in magnificence, thanks to Rayg’s new formula of fertilizer and some choice statues courtesy of grateful Hypatia.

Grateful Hypatia knew when it was in their best interest to give up a piece of art.

He alighted, executing a better-than-usual landing thanks to the improved artificial wing joint that had long since calloused properly, to the usual rush of thralls bringing the landing trough and a platter of delectable organ meats. The Copper had developed a bit of a sweet tooth as he aged, and found honey-mead most invigorating after a long flight.

He reminded himself to give Rayg the scrolls and tomes his valuable friend had requested and the Hypatian librarians had been convinced to provide. Strictly of a temporary basis of a few decades, of course.

“Welcome back, my Tyr,” old NoSohoth said, executing one of his grave, slow bows. A cross between a major domo of the Imperial Line and a chief-of-staff to the Tyr, NoSohoth was as much a fixture of the Imperial Rock as the gravity-fed watering system—and equally smooth and malleable. He survived by bending to the prevailing winds, helping whoever sat in the Tyr’s chair to the best of his ability.

NoSohoth was old, but his scale was in impressive condition for an ancient dragon. He’d heard once that NoSohoth had been a mature dragon when Tyr FeHazathant breathed his first fire. Even now it was difficult to distinguish him from a dragon in his prime. Bright silver scale with black at the tips, here and there turned to a sort of bluish white, gave him an appearance unlike any the Copper had ever seen; indeed, he was hard to classify as belonging to Skotl, Wyrr, or Ankelene—which is probably how he managed to survive the civil wars of his youth. Of course, his diet probably included gold coin thrice daily with a few gems for added minerals. Only slightly clouded eyes gave him away, his vision was going and he sometimes squinted to see objects at a distance. Also, he moved evenly and carefully, perhaps to hide stiffness in his joints.

“News?” the Copper asked.

“Pillithea’s eggs have hatched, over in Wyrr hill,” NoSohoth said, knowing his Tyr’s interest in the next generation. “She was old-fashioned about it and the males fought, but I managed to save the loser. He’s in the Drakwatch caves with Mulnessa, widow to CuSupfer.”

CuSupfer was a member of the Aerial Host killed in the fight with the Rocs over Ghioz.

“Good. She should name him after CuSupfer. I won’t have any losers in hatching fights not given a proper, honorable name.”