Page 235 of Dragon Avenger (Age of Fire 2)

Wistala felt horribly stiff from the troll fight even as she wondered why DharSii didn’t join his relatives for dinner. Not that she cared to see him, of course, only that his absence struck her as odd.>“I don’t know that script,” Wistala said.

“It’s the old iconography,” DharSii said, rearing up to climb into the tunnel mouth. His tail gave a little twitch; perhaps he was pleased at her ignorance. “It reads ‘Welcome is the dragon who alights in peace.’ ” They passed down a short passage, arched above to match the stone lattice outside, filled in with six-sided colored chips in all the colors of dragonhood, making patterns interlaced and winding above and beneath in such intricacy that Wistala wished she had an afternoon just to let her eyes travel the path.

But DharSii did not stop, but moved on into another cavern.

This one was vast and round, by far the biggest interior Wistala had ever been in. The far walls were so distant their old footfalls bounced back at them from the walls to join the fresh noises they made, waiting to take their turn to visit the other side of the cavern and return.

The convex ceiling curved high enough for Wistala to flap her wings and fly if she wished, and went up like an inverted bowl to a circular gap that admitted the outdoor light and aired the room. It wasn’t big enough to fly out, she’d have to fold her wings to pass through it. A shallow pool of water stood under the skylight, and the floor under the light was much edged with bands of green copper, one of which the edge of splash of dim sunlight rode even now.

Around the walls of the cavern—or chamber, rather, for while there was mountain muscle to be seen there was no rock that was not shaped by artistry—long blocks of basalt stuck out of the wall, narrowing and rising to a softened point like an inverted dragon claw. At the far end, two scaly forms reclined.

Wistala saw more blighters at work beneath the smaller, scrubbing the tiled floor.

DharSii struck off straight across the floor toward the pair and Wistala followed, hearts hammering. The place smelled of dragons, rainwater, and fresh air; she relished every breath, took it in through her nostrils and clamped them so the homey smell might never escape.

There were still dragons in the world, not skulking and hiding but living in grandeur and peace!

At their approach the blighters carried off their implements, flattened and squeezed themselves through a thin gap at the base of the wall like escaping mice before a prowling tom.

They caught her eye only because of the motion. The two dragons on the jutting lofts of rock had her attention.

Both were dragonelles, one rather undersize, her green scales pale and almost translucent, well formed of limb though in a delicate way that suggested little in the way of gorge or exertion.

The other was a white dragonelle, formidably huge and perhaps a bit more massive than DharSii. Wistala had the odd sensation of knowing her without having ever been introduced, probably some vague echo of a mind-picture from Mother. But there was, yes, a half-familiar shape to her short, proudly curved snout, the challenging arc of her eye ridge . . . Her scales had thinned a bit around her jawline and above her eyes, the flesh sagged in a little where her saa met her spine; she was a dragonelle of long years but still formidable.

“I bring a visitor, Damesister.” It took Wistala a moment to work out the relationship; she’d only heard the word once before from her Father in one of his battle-stories . . . a man or a dwarf would have said aunt. “I humbly present Wistala, a dragonelle out of the south, who seeks ha-hem succor and solace.”

I never said that, Wistala thought.

The striped dragon turned to her. “Wistala, this is Scabia, Archelle of the Sadda-Vale, and her daughter Aethleethia, my ha-hem beautiful uzhin.”

Both dragonelles fluttered their griffs at Wistala with that same bird-wing delicacy. Wistala thought she should fit in and tried to imitate it, but her griff rattled off her scale, and the dragonelles glanced at each other.

The white dragon extended her nose just a little and sniffed the air in Wistala’s direction, her pink eyes as cold as the glaciers Wistala had passed over.

“Will you not make her welcome?” DharSii said, and Wistala liked him a little better.

“Who were your sire and dame?” Scabia asked.

“AuRel of the line of AuNor and his mate Irelia.” Wistala decided to make her introduction formal, and spoke as Mother taught: “I was first daughter and fourth out of the five eggs.”

“Ah,” Scabia said. “I thought I recognized your wing-points. I knew your mother somewhat. You are how long out of the egg?”

“These thirteen winters.”

“And already wide-winged! I’m amazed.”

Aethleethia extended her long neck and scratched herself under the chin with the claw tip on her loft, and DharSii turned away to inspect a piece of iconography etched on the floor in a manner similar to that ringing the entrance. He brushed away some dust with his tail so that the black glass might shine.

A shadow darkened the splash of outside light and the golden dragon dropped through with wings folded. He opened them again with dramatic suddenness and alighted. “Ah-ha! A visitor!” he trumpeted, folding his wings.

“Ha-hem,” DharSii said, his eyes and nostrils half-closed. “Wistala, you meet the dragonlord of Vesshall, NaStirath.” A certain airiness highlighted the words, but what he meant to imply, if anything, Wistala couldn’t guess, not knowing him well.

“My daughter’s mate,” Scabia added.

NaStirath loosed a short but loud prrum in the general direction of Aethleethia’s place. The lord of Vesshall was a finely formed fellow, long and well fed, not a scar on him or a scale out of place, and he smelled of steam and hot scale, being fresh out of the lake.

He spoke: “Just like you, DharSii, to guide a female over me without an introduction. Don’t tell me you’re finally courting a mate.”

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