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A hard world, that was certain. Cast out by his own family. Betrayed by dwarves. Of course, he forgot his own intent to betray in his wretchedness, explaining to himself that the dwarves didn’t know his plan. Any betrayal on their part carried the full weight of its own sin, not tainted by his own intent.
Then he went a little mad.
He may have even frothed at the mouth. He vaguely remembered thirst-thick saliva crusting on his snout when he came out of it, a good deal thinner and with claws worn down to dull nubs.
When he woke as though from a sleep-terror he found himself bleeding from a cracked scale at the base of his crest and between his eyes—he’d been bashing his head against a sharp projection shaped like a dragonhorn.
What had brought him out of it?
A familiar sound, a dragon roar.
“Irelia! Auron! Wistala! Jizara!” Father called. “Spirits, it cannot be! Not all! Curse the Wheel of Fire to flame and ash!”
Why did Father not list him with the others? Was he not part of all?
He tried to answer, but his dry throat was capable of only emitting a small squeak: “Fazer!”
Father didn’t call for him because he had no name. He needed a name if he were to be called for.
He hurried toward the bellows but found himself stumbling on his crippled forelimb. He caught one quick glimpse of bronze tail-scale disappearing through the shaft that led up and out. Only Father’s harsh, angry smell remained.
He found some deer that Father had dropped and nibbled a little, but had no appetite. He should save them for Father when he got back. Father would also need metals; he would return from his great battle with the dwarves needing them. He’d show Father that he hadn’t eaten a single coin of the hoard, and in gratitude Father would share some with him again.
Thinking of the hoard…
He went to the shaft covered by the great rock. It had been moved aside and smelled of dwarf. He shut his nostrils so as not to be overwhelmed by the smell and descended into the cavern….
The cavern lay almost empty. A few pieces of copper had been left, and a bit of silver glinted toward the back where it had rolled under a projection, but all that remained was the lingering smell of dwarf. There wasn’t a full mouthful left for him, never mind Father’s vast jaws.
Father would give him some fine names. Thief.
Traitor.
Outcast.
He flung himself down and keened.
Later, he climbed out of the hoard cave and went to the much-reduced pool. The dwarves had rerouted the water so it emptied into some deeper cavern to facilitate their works and crossing into the cavern. It bubbled and belched up from a whirlpool. As he drank he could feel the current.
He heard a wailing Drakine scream from the direction of the egg shelf.
Did one of his family still live? Perhaps Zara had played dead so the dwarves would leave her alone. The smaller body he’d glimpsed was a cruel trick of the Dragonblade’s. He hobbled as quickly as he could to the egg shelf.
It was Zara, green and alive and rubbing her fringe against a sharp spur of rock next to a great growth of thriving moss at the base of the trickle where the dragon-waste lay. He could just see the fringe on her back and the side of her head, but it was certainly her, gloriously alive and moving….
“Sizter!” he said, happy beyond words. She must need comforting, with Wistala lying dead next to her; the pair had been closer than stalactite and stalagmite run together.
“They killed her, Jiz…” he tried to get out, but the words came only with difficulty.
The green hatchling rounded on him, burning anger in her golden eyes. “I’m Wistala.”
Confusion…certainty. He missed the rest of her words, or perhaps shut his ears to the accusations he knew to be true. It was Wistala; she’d returned, and she knew exactly what had happened and who was responsible.
Auron wasn’t with her. He hadn’t made it. Perhaps the Copper could reason with her, confess and beg for a chance at redemption.
“They lied,” he said. He needed her to know the whys and wherefores. “A bloody cave, no hoard—”
She leaped at him, tripping in her fury. He fell on her, tried to keep her from biting him. If she’d only listen for a moment, he’d make it up to her somehow. “We need to overcome this, put it behind. Unite. The past can’t be changed, but we can make sure—”
