Silence thick as a blanket had fallen over the gathering. Sylve stood, her shoulders lifted and her small fists knotted. All waited to hear what Greft would say. For the first time since Thymara had met him, she saw him hesitant. He surveyed his listeners. It was strange to see his human tongue dart out to lick his narrow scaled lips. What was he looking for? Thymara wondered. Acceptance of his leadership? Willingness to follow him as he made “new rules” for them?
“He’s going to die,” he said quietly. Thymara saw a scream gather on Sylve’s face; she held it in.
“And when he dies, his body shouldn’t go to waste.”
“’Course not,” Rapskal, breaking the silence that the others held by tacit consent. His matter-of-fact boyish voice in contrast to Greft’s controlled and mature speech made him sound foolish as he voiced what everyone else was thinking. “The dragons will eat him to get his memories. And for food. Everyone knows that.” Rapskal looked around at the other keepers, nodding and smiling. Slowly the smile faded from his face; he seemed puzzled at their stillness. Thymara concentrated her attention on Greft again; he had an exasperated look on his face, as if what Rapskal proposed should seem obviously foolish to all of them. But when he spoke, there was a note of caution to his words, as if he hoped someone else would speak for him.
“There may be a better use for his body,” he said, and waited. Thymara held her breath. What was he talking about? He looked around at all of them, daring himself to speak. “There has been talk of offers for—”
“Dragon flesh belongs to dragons.” It was not a human who spoke. Despite his great size, the golden dragon could move quietly. He towered above them, his head lifted high to look down on Greft. The keepers were parting to let him advance as if they were reeds giving way to the river’s flow. Mercor strode majestically past them. He looked, Thymara thought, magnificent. Since their journey had begun, he had put on weight and muscle. He was beginning to look the way a dragon was supposed to look. With the muscling, his legs looked more proportionate. His tail seemed to have grown. Only his broken-kite wings betrayed him. They were still too small and frail-looking to lift even a part of him.
He bent his long neck to sniff at the copper dragon’s body. Then he swiveled his head to stare at Greft. “She’s not dead,” he told him coldly. “It’s a bit early to plan to sell her flesh.”
“She?” Tats asked in consternation.
“Sell her flesh?” Rapskal sounded horrified.
But Mercor didn’t reply to either comment or the murmur of words among the keepers that followed them. He had lowered his head to sniff again at the copper. He nudged her hard. She did not respond. As the dragon slowly swung his head to study all the keepers, his scales flashed in the sun. His eyes, gleaming black, were unreadable to Thymara. “Sylve. Stay beside me. The rest of you, go away. This does not concern you. It does not concern humans at all.”
Thymara could almost see the girl drawn to the dragon. His voice was compelling, deep as darkness and rich as cream. Sylve walked to him and leaned against him as if taking comfort and strength from him. She spoke shyly. “May Tats and Thymara stay? They have helped me care for Copper.”
“And me,” Rapskal announced, reckless as ever. “I should stay, too. I’m their friend.”
“Not now,” the dragon announced with finality. “There is nothing for them to do here. You stay to be with me. I’ll watch over this dragon.”
There was a subtle force to his words; Thymara felt not just dismissed but pushed, as if she were a child being ushered out of a sickroom. Without deciding to do so, she turned and found herself walking away. “I have to check on Skymaw,” she explained to Tats, as if to excuse her departure.
“I felt it, too,” he whispered.
“Sintara.” Behind her, Mercor spoke the name. A shiver ran down Thymara’s spine, a sudden knowing she couldn’t deny. His rich voice vibrated through her. “The dragon you serve is named Sintara. I know her true name, and I know she owes it to you. So have it.”
Thymara had halted in her tracks. Beside her, Tats paused, looking at her with a puzzled face. She felt as if her ears were blocked, her eyes dimmed. A storm raged somewhere, just beyond her senses. Sintara was not pleased with what Mercor had done, and she was letting him know it.
Mercor laughed humorlessly. “You can’t have it both ways, Sintara. The rest of us realized that right away. None of us has held back our names, save those poor souls who cannot remember that they have proper dragon names.”