Maturing hatchlings—clutchwinners, for the most part, including AuBalagrave’s own champion—stood between and behind the dragons and men they attended. Hatchlings bore food and carried wash water for the men, fetched boots and flying cloaks when called for. The human boys and girls polished scale, cleaned teeth with bristle brushes, and adjusted saddle pads with their nimble little fingers. The Copper hoped that in time a firmer alliance could be bred.
In time, as he often told Rayg, whenever he presented them with a tender calf, advising that the liver go to the swelling Rhea.
Imfamnia would have thought them poor work and too dreary-toned for words. So would SiMevolant, though he would have been arch about it. SiDrakkon would have approved, for the markings were grim-looking enough.
“Let’s make it loud enough so the Tyr RuGaard hears it this time!” HeBellereth, the aerial host commander, roared.
“This is my rider,” the ranks boomed in unison. “He is unique, an individual, and deserving of my respect.”
The men recited the same speech as the dragons, switching rider for dragon.
“Without my rider, I am nothing. Without me, my rider is nothing. If I fall, he dies. If he falls, I will see to it he rests on the empire’s ground. My blood is his nourishment. His sweat is mine. So be it until death or our Tyr releases us.”
Of course, the men had to change the wording of the last, too.
The Copper passed through the Black Rock, limping past bronzed skulls and captured banners hung from cut dragon reins. Thralls, drakes and drakka, dragons and dragonelles, and even a watchbat here and there bowed—or crossed their wings, in the case of the bats—to him.
There was no more laughter at his awkwardness. A Skotl or two, and the odd Wyrr holdout or Anklene radical, glared at him hotly.
They can hate as hard as they like, as long as they fear.
He looked in on the workshop, and the thrall’s meal room. Rayg and Rhea and their growing brood stood with the rest, though their textiles and footwear were of much higher quality.
He paused, and put his head close to his mate’s.
“There’s so much still to be done. I believe before long we will long for those quiet evenings around the feast floor in Anaea.”
“We’re in charge of the Lavadome now. We can do what we want,” Nilrasha said, smiling. A little piece of him deep inside turned cold. He could still admire her lines, her cool courage, and her tenacity at getting what she wanted. And above all, be grateful for what she had done for him. But she was no Tighlia.
But at that moment, he would rather have had frail little Halaflora. Halaflora understood the burdens of rank and station. When his mood turned dark like this, part of him believed Nilrasha hungered for bows and scrapes as Imfamnia had once wanted expensive baubles.
Then they went back up to the top level, or “their level,” as Nilrasha styled it. She nuzzled her head under his as he stepped out onto the platform overlooking the Gardens. What little was left of the Imperial line looked up at him. Lesser dragons lined the garden walls, drakes and drakka perched atop broken columns and darkvine arches.
A pair of hatchlings batted a dragon-rider’s rotting severed head back and forth with their tails and had sport snapping at the flies seeking the putrescent flesh.
The Drakwatch and Firemaidens looked up.
Time for the words a Tyr had to say now and then, to remind everyone that life was more than banquets and hunts and mating ceremonies and discreet little intimacies.
“Our species is at the beginning of a great awakening. The blighters had their Age of Wheels. Then the other hominids began the Age of Iron with a slaughter of our kind. Never forget the betrayal and fall of Silverhigh, or the fate that we in the Lavadome so narrowly escaped. The malice of hominids knows no charity or reason.
“They must be subdued and tamed. Or they will do the same to us, as the Dragonblade once tried. How many other Dragon-blades are there beyond our borders?
“Join me and look to our future. We need only master ourselves, and we can master the world! Today, here, atop this ancient stone, surrounded by the caves and egg shelves and trophies of our birthright, we dragons have inaugurated a new age. Let our enemies tremble, for now begins the Age of Fire!”