“Once the Wearle hears that name,” Gossana said scathingly, opening her throat and treating everyone to the stench of her latest kill, “you might not live long enough to swallow a smoke ring, let alone dishonor anyone.”
“The matrial speaks wisely,” De:allus Garodor said. “To call a young dragon ‘flame of truth’ could incite those who remember the lineage wars. Some are sure to see it as a slight against Godith.”
“The past is the past,” Grendel said bravely. “I have pledged my auma to Godith, and the wearlings will do the same. Should anyone try to speak ill of them, we have Gabrial to protect us.”
“Then they’re doomed,” Gossana said, her cynicism ringing out around the walls.
“May we leave now?” said Gabrial, his manner taut. He had had enough scorn for one day.
“In a moment. I have more to say.” Grynt raised his head. “The Naming will take place at the great ice lake. Shortly, I will call the Wearle to gather at Skytouch to see you formally present these young. Let us pray to Godith they are accepted and welcomed. Now you may leave. Oh, and Gabrial?”
The blue dragon turned.
“Ren will not be with the wearlings; I ordered him taken from them while you were away.”
“What?” Gabrial flashed his tail, destroying a spiderweb strung between a cluster of low-hanging rocks.
“Taken?” said Grendel, rearing in shock. “You brought us here under a deception?”
“I brought you here to tell you what you need to know,” said Grynt, “and to do what had to be done. If I’d dealt with the boy any other way, you would have resisted.”
“And you think we won’t now?” Gabrial spread his wings. “Where is he?”
“Nowhere you would want to look,” snarled Grynt, “unless you want a quick passage back to Ki:mera.”
Gabrial snorted angrily, gouging the cave floor with his claws. He growled and took off in a cloud of smoke.
“Skytouch,” the Prime dragon said to Grendel. “Make sure he’s there. If the wearlings are not Named, they will grow up as savages.”
“This is wrong,” said Grendel, glaring at them all. “It won’t only be Gabrial who opposes this action, it will be Ren, and Gariffred as well—when he grows. I hope none of you lives to regret it.” And she backed out of the cave and took to the sky.
Almost immediately, her place was taken by a bright green dragon with a serpentlike body.
“Trouble?” he said as he landed. “That idiot blue was leaving in a hurry.”
Grynt nodded. “I just told him we’ve taken the boy. Keep an eye on him, Gallen. His second heart is ruling his head at the moment. When he’s calmed down, give him a task to do. Something that will stop him thinking up foolish ideas of rescue. Where have you put the Hom?”
“In a pit on the far side of the mountains. He can’t get out and nothing could scent him. We’ll hold him there until you’re ready.”
“And the other business? Where are you with the search for the Veng that went missing?”
“Still nothing. We’re extending the hunt north, beyond the scorch line.”
“Missing?” De:allus Garodor tilted his head inquisitively.
Grynt looked at the sky. “During the rise of the goyle mutants, one of Gallen’s Veng disappeared. It is still unaccounted for. It’s possible it was brought down by the goyles, but that seems unlikely, given we’ve failed to find its remains.”
“Could the Hom have killed it?”
“Impossible,” snarled Gallen.
Garodor reared back a little. Although he was in no danger, a mere hiss from a Veng was deeply unnerving. “Then there are only two alternatives. I understand it was dragons of the Veng class that were primarily affected by the mutation?”
Gallen flicked out his claws. “Four of my wyng were unchanged; I was one of them.”
Garodor bowed to him slightly. “It was not my intent to disrespect you, Commander.”
“Then get to the point,” Gossana sighed, “before Gallen plucks those yellow eyes out of your head and uses them to light his settle tonight.”
De:allus Garodor took a moment. “Either the missing Veng has mutated and deserted the domayne because the odds are against it, or it is dead and its remains have been consumed—or hidden.”
“Consumed?” said Gossana. “By what?” Her red eye flickered to green for a moment.
“That I do not know,” said Garodor.
“Then the way ahead is plain,” said the Prime. He glared at Gallen, gesturing for calm. “We keep on searching—until we learn the truth. Do you wish to see the boy now, De:allus? There will be time before the Naming.”
Garodor shook his head. “No, I have a more pressing matter. I believe there is a mapper called Garret in the Wearle. I’d like him to accompany me on a short mission. I understand from your report that the goyle mutations were caused by the ingestion of a reddish-pink ore you named fhosforent. I’d like to see the area where the fhosforent was mined.”
“Entry to the mines is forbidden,” said Gallen.
A wisp of gray smoke issued from the corner of Garodor’s mouth. “I was sent to this planet by the will of the Higher. Nothing is forbidden to me, Commander.”
“The ore was discovered by the Wearle that came before us,” Grynt interjected. “After the battles, all caches were destroyed.”
“But there is ore in the ground? The seams are still visible?”
“Only a fool would mine it,” said Gossana.
“I’ll need a scratch, no more, for analysis,” said Garodor. “In all the history of dragonkind there has never been a story of transmutation quite like the one seen here, on Erth. If I’m to make sense of these goyles, I need to know everything about that process. I’m sure the spirits of Gallen’s dead Veng would agree.”
Gallen’s eye ridges twitched. For once, he looked slightly uncomfortable.
“The mapper?” said Garodor, floating the question before them all.
Grynt nodded his assent. “Summon him,” he said to Gallen. “Now.”
The removal of Ren was a clever, two-stage operation.
The cave in which the wearlings nested (and where Ren slept most nights) lay in a ripple of green and rocky hills not far from the mountain in which they’d been born. Every day, Ren played with the youngsters. He even shared their food as long as Gabrial flamed the rawness off it first. In truth, there was little else for Ren to do. Although he was allowed outside the cave, he had been ordered, by Grynt, not to roam far. A not entirely comfortable situation, but one that Ren was happy to exploit. Every day he spent with the dragons, his knowledge of them grew. And there was still much joy to be had in the strengthening bond between himself and Gariffred.
All that was to change on the day of the Naming.
Halfway through their game of seek, a young dragon called Goodle approached the cave. He was a handsome blue, like Gabrial, but with no aggressive instincts or inclination toward fighting. He arrived soon after Gabrial and Grendel had departed for Prime Grynt’s eyrie. Strictly speaking, only Elders, healers, or Veng-class dragons were allowed to approach another’s territory uninvited, though in a colony this small, most dragons came and went at will. Goodle landed on a smooth bald rock well back from the cave entrance. He was preparing to announce himself when he caught sight of Ren stuck at a peculiar angle among the branches of a nearby shrub.
That was something you didn’t see every day.
Ren immediately worked himself free. Despite their overwhelming difference in size and power, he stood up and boldly challenged the blue.
“Who are you? Why are you here?”
Goodle tilted his head. It was still a wonder to most of the dragons that this pale Hom boy with even paler hair could speak their tongue. He glanced at the arm that was said to grow a layer of scales sometimes. There was nothing but Hom flesh there at the moment, but on Ren’s hand was the star-shaped scar where Gariffred, the drake, had bitten him—allegedly the source of the boy’s dragon powers. Goodle swapped his ga
ze to Ren’s face. “I was ordered to attend you while the wearling guardians are with Prime Grynt. My name is Goodle. If it’s not too impertinent a question, why were you in the shrub?”
Graaarrk! went a young dragon voice.
Gariffred had just toddled to the front of the cave. He barked excitedly and pointed the end of his tail at Ren. A purple isoscele was developing there, not yet fully scaled.
“We’re playing seek,” said Ren. “At least, we were until you interrupted us.” He climbed over a small spill of rocks and came to stand by Gariffred. He ran his thumb along the drake’s neck, making the emerging scales rise. “We don’t need a dragon to attend us, thanks.”
Goodle twizzled a stig, unsure of what to do. “But those were my orders. They came directly from Veng Commander Gallen. I can’t disobey him. Isn’t this cave too small for seek? Surely there aren’t enough hiding places?”
Ren wriggled his nose. “There are if I phase before I’m spotted.”
“Phase?” Goodle folded his ear stigs back. “But that’s cheating. You’re not allowed to phase during seek.”
“You are in my game,” said Ren. Phasing was the term for the dragons’ ability to move, in an instant, through a small space of time, effectively allowing them to leap from one location to another.
Goodle made a humphing sound, as if he’d suddenly worked out why he’d never won a game of seek in his life. “You can do it, then, phasing?”
Ren shrugged. “Still practicing.” Things hadn’t gone quite to plan with the shrub. He spat a rogue leaf from the side of his mouth.
All these expressive movements, thought Goodle. The Hom are so interesting to watch. So … supple. “Well, if it won’t disturb your game too much, I could just sit out here and wait for Gabrial to return? Or I could drive those crows away?” He nodded at a cluster that was pecking at the remains of a kill. A small bony carcass had slipped down the hillside, discarded by Gabrial after the wearlings had finished picking at it.
“Ca-rows?” said Ren. To the Hom, the black creatures were known as caarkers, because of the angry noises they made.
“Crows,” Goodle repeated carefully. “They’re rather interesting, and surprisingly bold. Most birds stay away from us, fearing we’ll eat them, but—”
“Burrds?”
Goodle flapped the tips of his wings to demonstrate. The stalks of the yellow flowers that grew on the hill bent back under the pressure of air. “A word we use to describe the different varieties of small flying creatures.”
Ren nodded, beginning to understand. The dragons had many more words than the Hom, though not all dragons used them as well as this one did. Goodle reminded Ren of the healing dragon, Grymric, who had tended Ren’s wounds after the battle with the goyles. Grymric also liked to talk about the world around him, especially the widespread plant life and its seemingly endless “varieties.”
“Shall I chase them off for you?” Goodle asked. He snorted at the birds, making them hop. They returned a few squawking complaints, but descended as a flock on the carcass again. All except one, Ren noticed. It was sitting on a jut of bare rock, a little way separate from the others. It was huddled up and staring at the cave as though it wished it could be out of the damp gray air.
“Leave the caar—crows where they are,” said Ren. “He likes to chase them if they come too close.” He closed a hand around a stig on Gariffred’s head and waggled it. “Gabrial says it’s good training for him, for when he’ll need to hunt for himself. You can come out of the rain, if you like.”
And so Goodle entered the cave and for a while all was well. Gayl, the female wearling, soon joined them. Goodle relaxed onto his haunches and made i:mages of twinkling stars for the wearlings, encouraging Ren’s attempts to do the same.
Then a second visitor arrived.
This was a tall and gangly green roamer, probably some ten years older than Goodle. He announced himself as Gannet. He came with what he said was an urgent message: Ren was needed at the Prime dragon’s eyrie. When Ren asked why, Gannet said he didn’t know, except he was to pass on the message that Gabrial had requested Ren’s presence.
Ren looked across the hills. Somewhere beyond them were his mother and the rest of the Kaal tribe, broken by grief and war and bitterness. Twice Ren had asked to be allowed to leave the mountains, even once suggesting that Gabrial fly him back to the settlement to demonstrate the trust between the two species. Both times Prime Grynt had refused. Perhaps, at last, the moment had come: the chance to go home and heal so many scars.
“You should go—quickly,” Goodle advised him. “Prime Grynt is not the most patient of dragons. I will amuse the wearlings until you return.”
Gannet knelt and spread a wing low to the ground. Ren was immediately persuaded. A flight on a dragon’s back was exhilarating. He hugged both wearlings and told them he would not be away for long. To Goodle, he said, “Guard them with your life.” He glanced at Gariffred one last time, then climbed onto Gannet and was lifted away.
They had barely crested the hills when Ren knew it was a trap.
Two Veng closed in, one on either side of the startled roamer.
“Set the boy down,” one ordered.
Gannet bravely flew on. “My orders were to deliver the boy to Prime Grynt’s eyrie.”
“Your orders have changed,” said the Veng.
“Gannet, take me back to the cave!” Ren screamed.
But the words had barely left his mouth when he felt himself snatched off Gannet’s back.
The Veng banked swiftly to the right and was gone.
As the ground sped by beneath them, Ren could do nothing but tend his anger. But as the Veng pitched sideways again, Ren felt an awareness in his mind that pressed him to look down and not be afraid. Watch. Remember, a voice seemed to say. Her voice. The mother of the wearlings. Grystina. She was often in his mind at moments of danger, trying to encourage him to use his gifts and think like a dragon. He felt the aching strain behind his eyes as they tried to move like her eyes would, to flick back and forth, push and retract, to focus on the detail flashing by: the position of the trees, their size, their number; any glints of water, no matter how small; unusual deflections in the mountainsides or significant shading changes in the rock; where the snow lay, where it didn’t. All of this she encouraged him to store. Especially so when the Veng changed course and started its swift descent to the ground. They came down over what looked like a quarry, a place dug and burned and scraped and worked, where stones as big as Ren’s head and bigger had been tossed aside in giant heaps. A dark spot loomed up. A hole among the rocks with no visible floor. Into this pit the Veng dropped Ren.
He landed with a crunching thud. A trickle of wetness spread across his face and he feared, wrongly, that his head had split open. With a sigh of pain, he rolled onto his back and looked at the portal of light above. The Veng poked its slender nose in, a snarling silhouette against a grim backdrop of overcast sky. There must have been half a spiker’s height between them. Though it pained him to the edge of screaming, Ren raised an arm and pointed a finger. “You’re dead,” he said dizzily, careful to speak in Hom, not dragontongue.
The Veng snorted and pulled its head back.
The hole that defined the prison walls blurred. The sky thickened to a darkening ball. “Dead,” Ren muttered again.
And passed out.
Gabrial flew home at full battle speed. Normally, he approached his cave directly, calling across the deep green valley so the wearlings might see him from some distance away. Sometimes he performed a roll to excite the youngsters and show them what they would be capable of one day. On this occasion, there was no such exhibition. He swept in over the ridge of the hills, keeping tight to the sharp, precipitous slopes as he arrowed his wings and thundered down. He closed in on the cave at considerable velocity, planning to surprise any guards that Gallen might have posted. Sure enough, the heat of an adult dragon was spilling out over the patchy grass as Gabrial approached with his the
rmal sensors engaged. He raised his stigs and checked his fire sacs. Full. Ready for battle. Then he swooped. He let out a warning cry and created a rolling canopy of fire over the topmost edge of the cave. The burst would alarm the wearlings, but it would also disturb the adult dragon and make it take to the sky—which it did (along with a group of startled crows). Much to Gabrial’s surprise, however, the color of the dragon that flapped into the daylight was not bright green but his own color: blue. His roar of anger was immediately commuted to a muddled hurr as he realized the dragon he’d disturbed was Goodle.
Goodle paddled the air, landing awkwardly on a jag of stone a few wingbeats away. In the cave, both wearlings were squealing in terror. Gayl was turning frightened circles with her wings outstretched, clouting her brother on every circuit. Gariffred was hissing at the sudden intrusion and had not yet recognized the aggressor as his father. A quick hrrr! from Gabrial settled both youngsters, though Gayl continued to mew quietly.
“Gabrial? What are you doing?” said Goodle, scrabbling for a foothold and a wisp of understanding. They knew each other reasonably well. There had never been a cross word between them before.
“I could ask the same of you,” Gabrial hissed, emptying the last of the air in his throat. The resulting snort sent a ball of fire flying Goodle’s way. He ducked to avoid it, tenting his wings to maintain balance.
“I’m following orders,” Goodle said, his ear stigs bristling. “I was sent here by Gallen and told to sit with the wearlings until you or Grendel returned. I was making i:mages for them. Why are you flaming me? What have I done?”
“Where’s Ren?”
Goodle’s foot slipped again on the rock, which fractured as he tried to adjust his position. He sighed and jumped off it, landing with a splat on the rain-sodden hillside. From a combat point of view, a terrible maneuver. But combat was never in Goodle’s mind. At least down here he could fold his wings and get a better purchase. “With you, I thought. Not long after I arrived, one of the roamers came and said the boy was needed at Prime Grynt’s settle. Ren climbed onto his back and they left. That’s all I know.”