Page 54 of Dragon Rule (Age of Fire 5)

Great Neck also had the advantage of being easily spotted from the air; it was a distinctively shaped loop of the Falngese river, reminiscent of a swan’s curving neck. It was close to Ghioz and had a good landing, and the ridge of the neck gave a commanding view. For ages there’d been sentries posted there to watch the river and lands eastward. It was also the old tribute dock for southern Dairuss when it was part of the Ghioz Empire, so there was ample riverfront for NiVom and Imfamnia’s barges of fattened cattle. There’d always been enough commerce and activity, never mind travelers hiking up the ridge for the view that a small town offered to plenty of workers who could be hired to assist with the feast.

Better yet, the locals looked like much of Dairuss: poor, simple country folk in patched-together clothing that looked not all that different from the local sheep. Dragons who otherwise wouldn’t listen when AuRon described Naf’s kingdom as rustic hill country would accept the evidence laid before their eyes and noses.

He’d overlooked how dragons expect to dine formally—circled around a low feeding area like all the animals of the savannah drinking from the sole remaining waterhole. Servants would rotate with platters, always beginning with the most favored guest—who would naturally be the Tyr—and moving down the social scale. Wistala told him that once upon a time a duel could be fought over being seated last, so a good host usually placed his mate and himself at the final two positions.

They ended up laying down felled trees for the dragons to rest upon, so they wouldn’t end up squatting in the mud and flying away with caked scales. Naf’s lumbermen worked hard, chaining horses to the big boles and dragging the trunks into line.

Imfamnia and NiVom were kind enough to arrive early, with a few dozen thrall cooks used to prepare dragon cuisine. AuRon thought NiVom looked haggard; perhaps he had been sick of late, though he flew well enough. A big meal would do him some good.

At last the big evening arrived.

His brother did not arrive with as many dragons as AuRon had feared. Wistala arrived with the Copper, a more mismatched pair would be hard to imagine, with Wistala big and broad-winged and her brother thin and limping without scale clean and sparingly polished and hardly a laudi on his wings. There were only a few representatives of his court and their mates, some curious Ankelenes exhausted from flying, and a smattering of the Aerial Host, including their commander HeBellereth.

Istach helped him with the introductions. She had a remarkable memory for names and kept close to prompt him as he greeted and announced his guests.

When Imfamnia and NiVom made their appearance, coming up from their barges on the riverbank, arriving late, once the feast had been well joined, all the assembled dragons hushed.

“What is she doing here,” the Copper said.

“Perhaps some oliban,” Wistala suggested.

“What is oliban?” Natasatch asked.

A few of the assembly tittered.

“It’s a sort of sap from rare trees in the south,” an Ankelene named NoFarouk said. “When burned, it is most soothing.”

AuRon heard whispers. “No welcoming coin… no oliban…”

“Our new Protector isn’t very courtly,” HeBellereth said.

“If being courtly is what’s required of a Protector, perhaps you should get a new one,” AuRon said. “NiVom and Imfamnia are my guests. Dairuss isn’t the Lavadome, and whatever she did in the past she’s been a good friend to myself and my mate now.”

The Copper’s one good eye looked AuRon’s way. “This is my brother’s Protectorate. He sets his own social conventions. He may invite who he will. I think, however, it would be best if I depart. Please, good dragons, do not consider this an insult to our host or our new allies. But I must choose my society.”

The Tyr moved off to contemplate the river.

Just like my brother. Skulking off, AuRon thought to Natasatch.

We mustn’t make an enemy of the Tyr, she thought back. Then aloud: “I’ll see to it that some food is brought to him.” Natasatch quit the feeding pit and did her best to order some servants to follow with platters.

With that, HeBellereth rose, and the members of the Aerial Host followed his example.

Wistala came to her feet, said, “I shall return,” and trotted off after him.

The feast had turned into a disaster.

“I’m sorry we caused such a rift in your celebratory feast,” NiVom said.

Imfamnia laughed. “Well, I never. What, he thought I might attack him? Our Tyr, who has smashed our enemies aboveground and below, retreats at the sight of one ragged exile? And a female at that?”

Ragged? Natasatch thought to AuRon. She’s dye-washed her scales to add contrast. Her servants have labored many hours with brushes to get that pattern.

The rest of the dragons shifted about nervously.

“Protector AuRon,” NiVom announced. “I’ve brought a specialty of my kitchens. In these waxed baskets—a dessert fit for the Tyr, even if he’ll have none. Brains in sweet brandy!”

She extended her wings and rotated them down, a sort of a bow crossed with a flourish, to AuRon’s mind, beautifully executed.

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