It was a bowl-shaped dell. The fledglings crouched, listening to the elder dracona sing of events past, and of events yet to unfold. The fledglings stirred impatiently as the elder's shining eyes turned to a tiny, jeweled glass dracona named Skytouch. "Daughter, speak the Words of the future."
The young female rose, tinkling. Gazing into the sky, she sang in a crystalline voice:
From beyond life
will come one
From beyond hope
will come one
Without friend
will come one
And the realm shall tremble.
Innocent of our ways
will come one
Challenging darkness
will come one
Speaking her name
will come one
And the realm shall tremble.
From that one
comes a beginning
From that one
comes an ending
From that one
all paths diverge
And surely the realm shall tremble.
The vision darkened, Skytouch's strength ebbing.
Highwing rumbled in wonder. He remembered the time. It was his first sight, as a youngling, of Skytouch. There had been more words than that, words of warning, of admonition. Prophecies of demons entering the realm, of innocence challenging darkness. Of deeds that might come to pass. Of the need for wisdom, the need to discern what is or is not garkkondoh. Words of little meaning to him then, or now.
He blinked slowly, so as not to break the weakening bond with his mate. There was little light left in her now. Why had Skytouch wanted him to see that memory? He was no dracona.
She seemed, even in the growing darkness of her thoughts, to be aware of his question. Y-o-u . . .
Skytouch?
. . . m-u-s-t . . . r-e-m-e-m-b-e-r . . .
He breathed smoke. Yes. For you. But why?
Her fires were failing rapidly. But a spark flickered in her eye and one more image appeared in his thoughts. He recognized himself, flying high in a night sky. There was danger in the image: someone there, someone not of the realm. He imagined that he felt the mountains trembling. Speak not of this, but hold it close to your heart, he seemed to hear her say.
What is it? he whispered. But the image was fading. Skytouch? Wait!
Be wise, son of Strongwing. Be wise . . .
He seemed to hear her last words chiming on the air. The connection was cold. Her eyes were dark now, the last spark gone. She had fled to the Final Dream Mountain. The glass shards of the vessel that had held her in life were now empty. Skytouch, he whispered, call to me and I shall hear you wherever I may be, though all of the mountains lie between us.
There was no answer.
He raised his head. Even the iffling was gone.
Highwing tipped back his head and roared into the night sky. He lit the sky with a thundering flame. What had she been trying to convey? What duty? He would not learn it here, not now.
Wings unfurled, he leaped into the air in fury and grief. Her death would be repaid—not now, perhaps, but one day. He would keep her thoughts in his heart, though he didn't understand them. He would ponder them and learn. One day he would understand.
For now, bewildered and alone, he could only beat his way into the cold stinging wind, high into the deepening night sky.