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“I’ll challenge him on that.”
NoSohoth placed a sii on his. “Don’t. He’s been unusually wise about things since he rose to the rank of Tyr. Let’s wait and see. Things may work out. I expect he’s going to announce a mating to Imfamnia at this audience.”
“So soon?”
“These last years have been rather a whirlwind, haven’t they? No one’s had a chance to right their wings and glide for a bit.”
“I’m worried about those hag-ridden dragons returning.”
“They’ll be handled. With diplomacy.”
“I had a mouthful of their diplomacy over Anaea. It tastes like death and ash.”
“I’ve no more time. There’re details for a grand banquet to be arranged; the gardens are to be opened up again to the dragons of the Imperial Resort….”
He hurried off down the tunnel, rounding up thralls to do his bidding.
The commanded audience was held just before a scheduled banquet of rumored magnificence, which showed some craftiness on SiMevolant’s part. He’d speak to them in brief, and then dismiss them to go gorge themselves at length. No one could accuse the golden dragon of not knowing the most pleasant way to go about business.
Imfamnia, painted all in black—except for the sparkling jewels embedded into her griff—watched the dragons assemble from her bare widow’s perch.
The Copper noticed that there were no griffaran above, and wondered. Either SiMevolant was extraordinarily brave or exceedingly foolish; both Tyrs he had known had found the implicit threat of a griffaran bodyguard useful.
The wooden arches above seemed cold and empty without their colorful feathers.
The audience chamber didn’t look particularily full; perhaps some in the higher-ranking families feared reprisals. To fill the room NoSohoth began to shove in dragons of lesser lines. When a solid mass of dragonflesh stood before the Tyr’s shelf, Tighlia foremost and eyes locked hatefully on her mate-sister, Imfamnia nodded.
“They’re all assembled now, Tyr SiMevolant,” Imfamnia called toward the curtains.
The curtains parted, drawn by thralls as though through sorcery, and SiMevolant emerged, moving forward on a sort of traveling perch that rolled both smoothly and almost silently, its wheels obscured by heavy fabrics, draped and corded. He had polished his scale to a bright sheen and purpled his eyelids and whited his claws, but other than that he looked like a fine, healthy, gold dragon. The Copper couldn’t say what he was expecting—peacock feathers and snakeskins perhaps—but if anything, this mate-brother looked…kingly.
SiMevolant bowed, let his head rove across the audience, and let out with the loudest prrum the Copper had ever heard.
“I want to begin anew,” SiMevolant said. “I’ve been distressed beyond words these last few years. Skotl set against Wyrr set against Anklene. Everyone may keep their current positions, but in the future I’m going to do my best to fill ranks based on merit, with the assistance of wise counsel.
“And I hate all this dueling. Is that really a way for dragons to settle differences? Can’t we learn a new way that doesn’t involve shedding blood? I don’t have a solution, but I welcome ideas. I beg the assistance of wise counsel.”
“Furthermore, I hate all this skulking around undergound. Dragons are the most glorious of all the Spirits’ creations. It’s time we started acting it instead of taking such pains to hide our existence.”
“Bloody fool!” Ibidio hissed. The Copper hardly noticed that she’d slipped up next to him, shoving her way through a deputy of Firemaids.
“Also, I’ve thought it best to dismiss the griffaran guard, as you can see.”
“Dismissed the griffaran?” NeStirrath asked, his tangled horns rising from the crowd. “Our stoutest allies?”
“And biggest appetites,” SiMevolant said. “I’ve spoken to wise counsel, and, measure for measure, they consume twice what a dragon does. It’s never been the greatest of friendships; there’s almost no social interaction. We guard their nests and they guard our skies. The whole thing’s based on some mossy old hatchling story of a griffaran egg and a dragon egg washed away in a storm, saved and hatched together by a wise old eagle. We’re paying for it all these years later, in less for all of us to eat.”
A few dragons raised their heads as though to object, but SiMevolant stared them down, his eyes full of power and certitude. The last time the Copper had seen eyes like that, they were attached to King Gan. It was as though SiMevolant could slay a dragon by thought alone.
“Let’s hear how SiDrakkon died,” the Copper said, not sure where the voice was coming from.
“Be silent,” Ibidio whispered. “This isn’t the time.”
The surrounding dragons shrank away from the Copper as though he carried a new kind of parasite.
“I don’t mind the question,” SiMevolant said. “Not one little bit. He had some sort of seizure in his bath. His mate found him first; I arrived soon after. No one could say what caused it, or how long it took, but he did have a ghastly expression on his face. Accidents do happen, RuGaard. By the way, how is my dear sister? But back to our late, beloved Tyr. Perhaps it was an assassination; he had enemies enough, and there were no witnesses. Which reminds me—you’ll enjoy the plumpest, most succulent, tastiest manflesh you’ve had in years at tonight’s banquet.”
“Look at you all! Lions led by a frothing hyena!” Tighlia said, stepping forward and rounding on the audience.
