He sidestepped from the Copper. The Copper felt the gaze of two slightly cloudy eyes the color of aging gold coin. He stared back defiantly. If this dragon was going to watch his own kind torn to bits for nest raiding without singeing so much as a feather—
“Really? That’s terrible,” the Tyr said.
Yarrick fluffed his wings. “This drake—still with egg-wet behind the griff, if I’m still fit to judge dragons—almost lost his gizzard to the demen while rescuing our eggs. But there were guts to spare in that one.”
Rescue?
It took the Copper a moment to get over the shock. He felt doubly fortunate that the fight with the demen turned out the way it did, even at the price of a stab in the firebladder. What if the griffaran had found him eating from a broken egg?
“What is he, some young relative of yours eager to prove himself, my Tyr? He shows the old FeHazathant spirit.”
“NoSohoth,” Tyr said, “is this some relative of mine? Why hasn’t he been presented to me? Such old scars on a young drake, too. He’s taken honors from three bitter fights, and I’m just looking at the front end of him.”
The silver dragon with the black griff tips lowered his head and looked at the Copper closely. “He’s no hatchling from the Imperial Resort, Tyr.”
Tyr glowered. “Hmmmm. Yes. Why does that not surprise me?”
“Let us sing of glories proudly won,” a golden drake said from one of the flower beds. The Copper saw a couple of bats flit under an overhanging rock behind him.
“Let’s keep our fool’s mouth shut for a change,” NoSohoth muttered.
“Let the drake sing, old fellow,” Tyr said. “At least he’s got an appreciation for the old virtues and deeds.”
“Sir, I’ve no time for songs,” Yarrick said. “I’m here to see that justice gets done to this brave little fellow. He saved six eggs.”
“Did he? Did I doze off and miss part of the story? Well, if you say so. What’s your name, lad?”
The Copper opened his mouth, but couldn’t find words.
“Perhaps he’s in awe to be in the Imperial presence,” NoSohoth said. “You’ve nothing to fear, drake. Glorious Tyr is grandsire to all of us, a part of our lifesong whatever our parentage. Just answer honestly and no harm will befall you.”
“Nice to see daring young drakes plunging in among enemies instead of crying for help. Not enough about. Not enough,” the Tyr said. He settled down over his sii and saa, perhaps to be less threatening.
“I…I’ve no name, sir. I’m…my sire and dam…dead.”
“What? Who?” Tyr said. “NoSohoth, what’s this? Are you keeping ill news from me again?”
“No, Tyr,” NoSohoth said. He turned to the Copper. “There’ve been no attacks in the Lavadome in two generations. Are you from one of the Upper Provinces?”
“I’m not sure. Perhaps. I came down the river. I’ve been traveling for ages…ages, it seems.” The Copper wished his voice hadn’t sounded so squeaky. He wondered if he could even be heard over the surr-whooosh of the Tyr’s breathing.
“Yarrick, where did you find him?”
The avian straightened up. “The lake circle.”
“The lake circle, Tyr,” NoSohoth corrected.
“Oh, never mind that,” Tyr said. “We’re old friends, and this is a friendly visit.”
“Of course, Tyr,” Yarrick said. “On the far bank, to the north. Downstream from the thrall crossing.”
“Who were your parents?”
The Copper wondered if the truth would be a mistake. Something about the friendly stare of Tyr made him tell the truth. “AuRel and Irelia, sir.”
The dragons looked at each other. “Irelia? That’s no staion-name. AuRel…hmmm, what line?”
“I…I don’t know.”
“I don’t know, Tyr,” NoSohoth corrected again.
“I don’t know, Tyr,” the Copper repeated.
“He’s lying. He’s an outcast; I’ll put my fringe on it,” a hard-edged voice said. A beautiful green dragon joined the others in the garden. She was rather fleshless about the hips, more so than Mother at her hungriest, and had startling violet eyes.
The dragons and avians dipped their heads at her approach, save for the Tyr, who tickled her under the chin with his tail. The golden drake in the garden bowed especially low.
“Now, Tighlia, how could you know that?” the Tyr said. “Do you know his parentage?”“No. If I had, I’d order them to have such a cripple drowned.”
“Then do be quiet. I let you have your way with the drakka, don’t I? Let me see to this drake.”
He looked back at the Copper. “You found your way here through the Lower World? Down a river thick with dwarf trunks and demen boats?”
“Yes, Tyr.”
“You’re a drake of singular purpose,” Tyr said. “What did you expect to find here? Safety?”
The Copper wanted to tell the Tyr all about his dreams of protecting his kind from lying, torturing assassins, but when surrounded by all these great dragons, it seemed a silly hatchling fantasy.
“Have you had anything to eat this morning, my love?” Tighlia asked.
“Hot watered fat and a fresh sow’s head.”
“And your kern?”
“Haruuummm…”
Her claws rattled the river-smoothed rocks in the walkway between the door and a garden pool. “I’ll roast your cook. What you need is an elf, not that blighter.”
“But he can braise an ox so that it melts—”
“You’d sleep better if you’d just listen. And there’d be less groaning at your eliminations.”
“Tyr, I must get back to my command,” Yarrick said. “I won’t rest until I see the drake here settled here in the Imperial Resort.”
“What? A half-starved, bedraggled stray here?” Tighlia said. “The bones of my grandsire will crumble.”
The Copper wondered at her hostility. Did she know more of his deeds than she would admit? Why would she not tell the truth, if she knew it, as she was so clearly against him?
“Why, I think that’s a fine idea. We could use some new blood on the Rock.”
“Quite right, Grandsire,” the golden drake said. He crinkled up the corners of his mouth at the Copper, who started, fearing a bite.
“Perhaps we could discuss it later, at feast,” NoSohoth said.
“Delay, delay. You always counsel delay,” the Tyr said. “No, I like the idea. I’ll have him.”
“CuRassathath over by Wind Tunnel and his mate are barren,” Tighlia said. “He could go and live with them. They’ve a lovely hole.”
“There was a time when brave deeds merited a place in the Imperial Resort,” the Tyr said. “I’d like to restore the tradition.”
“You’re always cross and impulsive when you haven’t eaten properly,” Tighlia said.
“I’ve not been cross in years. Cry settled, for I’ve made a decision. NoSohoth, get it inscribed at once. This lad…Oh, dear, what was that name…?”
“I’ve no name, Tyr.” His wound throbbed, but he did his best to stand straight, neck up and head alert.
“I told you. An outcast,” Tighlia said. “And you wanted to settle him in the Black Rock.”
“Now, lad, take heart. You’re not as forlorn as you’d think; it’s happened several times in my lifetime. Why, I could tell you stories—outcasts tend to be lucky, for a start, and I’ll take a lucky dragon over the quickest tongue or the stoutest scale. You rate a name for your deeds this day, and a good one.” He looked around. “What shall we call him?”
“Cripple,” Tighlia said. “Half-wit. Both highly appropriate names. Look at that eye and tell me he wasn’t cursed in the egg.”
“How about MiKalmedes,” the golden drake said. “He was a copper, wasn’t he?”
“Insolence!” Tighlia spit. “You flakescale. My own grandsire and one of the founding—”
The golden drake scratched himself behind his griff. Loose skin and bits of scale-edge wafted toward Tighlia.
“Stop quarreling,” the Tyr said, and the others fell silent in an instant. “He’ll be Rugaard.”
“Tyr, your own grandsire by the female?” NoSohoth objected.
“He was wounded at hatching, and he turned out all right. His jaw never grew quite right, of course. Not much in the way of wits, but a fierce fighter, and he gave the demen what-for. I think it suits him. How do you like that name, hatch—er, drake?”
The Copper’s hearts swelled. Not just a name, but a name from an illustrious line! “Thank you, Tyr.” He wanted nothing more that instant than to devote himself to this great dragon’s will and prove himself worthy of the compliment.
“Grandsire, lad. Grandsire from now on. You’re the Tyr’s ward now. Be worthy of your new heritage.”