‘Of course we looked for tunnels,’ G’vard said. ‘We found many fissures in the walls of the chamber, but nothing that resonated deeply when we called. And we have heard no cries from the drake. The roamers have been searching the outer slopes, melting back the snow, looking for openings. They found one unmapped cleft that may have a passage into the mountain – too small for any dragon to crawl through, though a wearling might crawl out. We dare not widen it lest the rocks collapse again.’
‘May I ask a question?’ another voice said.
Prime Galarhade’s gaze swept up the mountainside, where a purple dragon with large yellow eyes sat beside a similar-looking one. ‘De:allus Graymere will speak,’ said Galarhade.
Graymere shuffled forward slightly. ‘This may be of little significance, but it took a few moments for the rocks to fall, and Grystina had time to call out before the tragedy occurred.’
Gallen sighed and flicked out his talons. ‘Get on with it, De:allus. My scales will have dropped by the time you’ve made your point.’ The Veng had little tolerance for dragons that spent most of their time prodding things to see how they worked.
‘My point is,’ Graymere said with a growl. ‘Why would she place only one of her wearlings in her tail for safety?’
That started a rumble, most of it scathing. The weight of many scowls bore down on Graymere, but when Gabrial looked across the lake he saw a thoughtful glint in the Prime dragon’s eyes. Elder Givnay, he noticed, was paying particularly close attention to the words of the De:allus.
G’vard was less impressed. He raked the ground in frustration, making Gabrial jump. ‘What does this matter? The deed is done. There could be any number of reasons Grystina failed to protect the drake.’
‘But when I was a drake, I hardly ever left my mother’s tail,’ said Gabrial.
G’vard curled his claws into the loose grey rocks, almost grinding the smaller stones to dust. ‘That’s probably because you were as pathetic then as you are n—’
‘Enough,’ said Galarhade, ending the argument. He glared at G’vard, who lowered his head. For a moment, the only sound was the honking of birds as they flew across the lake. The wind snapped and changed direction. Snowflakes drummed Grystina’s corpse. Galarhade shifted his position slightly.
‘The words of the De:allus are noted,’ he said, throwing his voice high up into the mountains. ‘We may never know what happened in the cave. Let it simply be recorded that Grystina gave her life saving one of her young, perhaps choosing the wearmyss over the drake to foster the future growth of the Wearle.’ He levelled his gaze at Gabrial again. ‘Now we must examine why this tragedy happened and what is to be done with those involved.’
A stony beat rang out around the mountains as dragons pounded their tails against the rocks.
‘Prime, I’m innocent,’ Gabrial protested, his wing bones rattling in fear. ‘Why would I want to harm Grystina? I fought for the right to protect her young. My i:mage was clear. I pictured embers in my mind, nothing more.’
This was too much for G’vard. With a roar that almost burst Gabrial’s ear pipes, he turned on the blue and wrestled him, neck first, to the ground. He was quickly surrounded by Gallen and the Veng, summoned by Grynt to stop the violence. It took a vicious swipe from Gallen’s left claw to claim the white’s full attention. When G’vard looked up, one of his scales was hanging loose off Gallen’s talons. A cruel jibe, perhaps intended to say, ‘If you’d done this earlier, we’d have had another drake to protect the Wearle.’ The stand-off that followed was brutally loud (though thankfully not physical). It took a huge burst of fire from Galarhade to calm Gallen and the white dragon down. The exertions left the Prime visibly weary. He had to breathe deeply to recover. He flapped Gallen and his Veng away.
G’vard knelt before his Prime and sought his forgiveness. Galarhade granted it without redress. He told Gabrial to stand. The blue staggered to his feet, the mountain tops dancing around his head. It felt as if his spiracles had been plugged with sand. All three of his hearts were beating fast, and at different rates.
Galarhade called per Grogan forward. To the anxious mentor he said, ‘What is your opinion of this?’
Per Grogan gulped. He was one hundred and seventy-four Ki:meran turns old, looking forward to a future of deep simplicity and even deeper sleep. He glanced at the pitiful body of Grystina, mercifully arranged to hide the injuries to her head. He had known this female since she was a myss. How many more lives did this planet have to claim before the Elders looked to colonise elsewhere? A pricking sensation at the corner of one eye warned him of the danger of shedding his fire tear, that drop of burning water that contained a dragon’s auma, the fire of life granted to them by Godith. ‘Gabrial can be…impulsive,’ he said. ‘A trait inherited from his much-admired father.’
‘This is not about his father,’ Elder Grynt reminded him.
‘I merely wished to point out,’ per Grogan said painfully, ‘that his father’s ability to i:mage was highly developed, if a little…’
‘Wild?’ said Grynt.
Per Grogan stared at him. He had never liked Grynt. He was one of those lightly-coloured purple dragons that boasted dark tints and a streak of armoured silver on his throat and breast. He was young for an Elder
(a title not awarded purely by age) and had been sent on this mission to oversee security. Although Gallen commanded the Veng in the air, operational procedures were decided by Grynt.
‘There is no wickedness in Gabrial,’ Grogan said plainly, making sure his voice carried far. ‘His loyalty to the Wearle is as true as any dragon. It should not be forgotten that he volunteered for this mission when others suggested he was too young to be of use.’
‘And now we see the fruits of it,’ Gallen sneered.
Per Grogan turned on the Veng. ‘I know this blue. I have trained him well. He would not use his powers of i:maging recklessly.’
For the first time, Elder Givnay entered the debate. Givnay was a mute who had lost the ability to speak due to an accident shortly after birth. He had been trodden on at play by an adult dragon and one side of his throat had collapsed. The injury had left him unable to utter anything other than stifled cries. His fire sacs, still in their early stages of development, had withered to nothing and his chances of making fire were ruined. His devastated father had wanted to end the drake’s life, fearing Givnay’s future would be a miserable arc of unrequited desires or envies. But the mother’s better wishes had prevailed, and despite his difficulties Givnay had grown into a handsome adult – a distinctive grey, with gold and purple trappings around his neck, which helped to shadow the injury he’d sustained. Unlike his peers, he had never roamed or sought the attention of females, but had turned himself inward, developing the skills of the dragon mind. He had spent much time in isolation, meditating upon the glory of Godith and perfecting the gift of transference. He could not only speak (and listen) in thoughts, but move his mind into another dragon’s head. It was hardly surprising that most dragons feared him. In a world ruled largely by claws and smoke, silence was a weapon not even the Veng knew how to battle.
He leant towards Galarhade and pressed a thought into his mind, which Galarhade aired. ‘Did you know what the blue was planning to i:mage?’
Per Grogan looked flustered. His eyes lost focus. Momentarily, his balance faltered. ‘I…advised him tactically, of course, but—’
‘Advised?’ Grynt said, picking out the word and holding it up like a piece of skewered prey.
‘Wait,’ said Gabrial, stepping up to Grogan’s shoulder. He could see where this line of questioning was going. ‘It was my idea to draw G’vard across the crater.’
‘You’ve been warned more than once to be silent,’ said Grynt. ‘Do I need to remind you, you stand before your Prime? This impertinence will not serve you well.’
‘I won’t let you hold G
rogan to blame,’ said Gabrial, the words squirming carelessly out of his mouth.
Every watching dragon caught their breath. To disrespect the Elders in this manner was as good as inviting death’s fire to rain down.
‘Still – your – voice,’ Grynt said, barely needing to open his jaws. Black smoke played around his purple face. ‘The per was asked for his opinion and he alone shall give it.’
Grogan cleared his throat. Looking squarely at Galarhade, he said, ‘I have thought on this and I do not believe my charge was capable of causing a physical eruption. A few live sparks, perhaps, but nothing of the magnitude so witnessed. He’s simply not advanced enough.’
Prime Galarhade tilted his head. ‘Then what are you saying?’
‘That it was a natural event – or that some other force took advantage of the moment.’
Now there were cries of ‘Shame!’ from the mountainside.
Elder Grynt leant forward, making his pillar creak beneath his weight. ‘Are you accusing a dragon more accomplished of callously causing the death of a queen?’ ‘Murder’ was an ugly word among dragons. Even the Veng did not kill for pleasure or reward.
‘Of course not,’ Grogan snapped. Raising his voice above the clamour, he roared, ‘We were sent to this planet to find the first Wearle! How can we be sure that whatever force has conspired to hide them from us did not bring about the death of Grystina?’
A good argument, but not strong enough to stay the tide of insults.
Only the De:allus dragon, Graymere, was truly taking note of Grogan’s words.
In spite of the hysteria, the Elders consulted. The Prime exchanged brief words with Grynt, but spent longer in silent communion with Givnay. In tragic situations such as this, it was Givnay the Wearle would turn to for solace. His long contemplations on the wonders of Godith marked him as a source of spiritual comfort. If any dragon would show mercy, it would be the mute.
Calm fell as Galarhade raised his head. He said, ‘We find the blue guilty of causing the rock fall which killed Grystina and her myss. We accept there was no malice intended, and for this reason he is spared the worst of punishments. We also find that the dangers of the i:mage should have been recognised by the per. We therefore hold both to account. Before I pass sentence, would anyone speak in favour of these dragons?’
‘I would,’ said a voice. To Gabrial’s surprise, per Gorst came forward. He was a cousin of Grogan and shared similar gradations in the grey-green blushes that dignified his sides. ‘Per Grogan is older than most of my teeth—’
‘And nearly as useless,’ a Veng voice muttered.
‘—but his loyalty to the Wearle is without question. I ask that his sentence be light. As for the blue…yes, he has caused a great misfortune. But let us not forget that he fought to be this queen’s companion – and bravely so.’
This was met by another hail of roars.
Per Gorst lengthened his neck and shouted, ‘When other, more legitimate candidates, closed their wings and would not even court her!’
Hrrrrrr. The storm of criticism blew itself out.
Per Gorst looked at the dismayed figure of G’vard. ‘My charge is wounded, his challenge unfulfilled. But he will recover to fight for another queen. This is a terrible day, I agree. But the Wearle needs young dragons. Fearless dragons. Dragons prepared to face difficult and possibly dangerous encounters. Despite our mapping and our searches we are still no nearer to knowing what happened to the first Wearle. I am therefore in some agreement with Grogan.’
‘Your point?’ said Grynt.
‘I ask that the blue be kept on Erth to continue his work, not exiled back to Ki:mera in shame.’
‘I agree,’ said Galarhade, before Grynt could interrupt. ‘They will both stay – but they must always be reminded of what they have done.’ He ordered both dragons to look at him.
Gabrial sat up proudly.
‘From this day,’ said the Prime, ‘until or unless you prove your worth again, you are no longer recognised in the glory of Godith.’
‘What does that mean?’ said Gabrial.
‘It means your name is now Abrial,’ said Grynt. He nodded at Grogan. ‘And his is Rogan.’
‘No,’ per Grogan said. His old legs gave way and he collapsed to the stones. This time, not even per Gorst came to help him. ‘I am of the old ways. The shame… Please. Anything but this.’
Gabrial glanced at per Gorst. G’vard’s second was deeply troubled by the sentence. And very few dragons were making any noise. ‘Abrial?’ the blue repeated. And then the rumble did begin. One of those peculiar waves of sound that dragons could produce, but rarely did.
The sharp and raucous wind of derision.
4
His judgments delivered, Galarhade gave the order that all activities would be postponed until sunrise the next day. During this time the Wearle would pay homage to the memory of Grystina. All of them, Veng included, would return to their settles when the meeting was done to contemplate her life and that of her drake. Elder Givnay would prepare a song of comfort, which he would share with the Wearle through the gift of transference. No dragon would forget this tragic day.
Before that, there was yet more misery for Abrial and Rogan. Looking at the older dragon first, Galarhade decreed that Rogan be removed from his duties as a mapper – one engaged in memorising the layout of the land around the dragons’ domayne – and that he be sent instead to the far side of the mountains to mine the seams of fhosforent there. Fhosforent was a pink, crystalline substance found in Erth’s volcanic rock. Its discovery had been reported by the first Wearle, who had also determined its principal benefit. Ingesting even minute quantities of the crystals appeared to improve the strength and duration of a dragon’s flame. Over the centuries, dragons had tested many naturally-occurring minerals in this manner, but none had produced such rapid or promising effects as fhosforent. Rogan knew the work would be hard, but he was not overly dismayed by his punishment. Confinement in a mine would keep him out of the main body of the Wearle, where there would be fewer taunts about his name. And there was always the chance he might find a rich seam, which would instantly grant him favour with the Elders. In these respects, he counted himself lucky.
Abrial was less enchanted with his new role.
‘A sweeper?’ he said, when Galarhade passed sentence. Until the morning of the tragedy the young blue had been part of a five-dragon wyng, learning to improve his flying skills. This included lessons in aerial combat from none other than per Gorst. Abrial was easily the best of the wyng and had just advanced to the most exciting part of his training: learning the art of phasing – the ability to move through time during flight. Now, it seemed, his progress was about to be abruptly halted.
‘Are you questioning the decision of your Elders?’ said Grynt, his breast scales glinting weakly in the sunlight.
‘But I was—?’
‘It doesn’t matter what you were. Your duty now is to fly the edges of the domayne, keeping watch for incursions, especially from the Hom. You will rest no more than once on each circuit, and at dawn each day you will report to Veng commander Gallen. Don’t disappoint him, blue. The Veng do not respond well to laziness.’
Abrial puffed a heavy wisp of smoke. Talk of the Hom had made his scales lift. He had never seen one of the two-legged creatures that could allegedly stand like bears and make fire outside their bodies. (Hrrr?) According to per Gorst, who spoke of them occasionally between teaching sessions, their auma levels were superior to any other creature that inhabited Erth (except dragons, of course). The Hom were clever and inventive, he said, but usually fled when challenged. There had only ever been one serious confrontation. Recently, a large Hom male had foolishly hurled a rock at Gallen. The Veng commander had responded with limited force and charred the arm raised against him. But even the Veng adhered to the Elders’ law of no k
illing, except in self-defence or for food. (No dragon had thought to taste the Hom yet, preferring instead to graze on the lush forest greenery or the juicier animal forms that covered the domayne.)
Due to their aggression and relative intelligence, the Hom were chiefly suspected of being involved in the disappearance of the first Wearle, yet nothing could connect them to it. Prime Greffan, in his earliest reports, had identified the Hom as a potential threat. This had first become apparent when he’d ordered his dragons to lay claim to the mountain range. He told how the Hom had resisted being driven out of their caves and how some had fought back with sharpened sticks. No dragons had been injured in the skirmishes and no Hom killed, though several had suffered serious burns when sparks had fallen on their fragile skin or warning flames had blown too close. For a while after the conflict had ended, small parties of Hom had tried to reinvade the domayne. In exasperation, Greffan had ordered his roamers to sear a line in the ground, all the way from the borders of Vargos to the shores of the unmapped sea, a line that the Hom were forbidden to cross. This had led to further clashes, until the Hom had finally withdrawn to resettle in the flat lands beyond the domayne. And there they remained, always a source of simmering tension, without ever posing a serious threat. Barring the incident with Gallen, not a single dragon had since been targeted. The Veng had come to Erth prepared for a fight, but so far their formidable claws had generally been employed picking food off their teeth.