Page 56 of A Matter of Destiny

The scrape of tumbling rocks echoes above us as Wendolyn slithers back down the ridge to join us. Her eyes gleam in the starlight, and I have to remind myself once again that I am also a dragon. I am not dragon food.

“Well, that was easy,” Wendolyn purrs as she pulls up alongside Doshir and then raises her elegant emerald wings above the curve of her back.

“Was that Greimbyss?” Doshir asks.

Wendolyn growls, a rattling sound like armor being thrown off a cliff.

“Greimbyss,” she replies, making the name sound like a description of rotten fruit. “Not in his wildest nightmares. That self-serving son of a slug would never deign to accept guard duty.”

Doshir’s eyes widen, and I suddenly remember where I’ve heard the name Greimbyss. He might be living with Wendolyn, Doshir had said. Wendolyn’s tail snaps through the air behind her, and she turns to Doshir with a snarl.

“Why do you ask?” she growls.

Doshir shrugs, and his wings flutter as the motion rolls across his back.

“We saw him leaving the Iron Mountains earlier tonight,” Doshir replies.

Wendolyn shakes her head, then stretches her wings. They make a sound like the canvas of a sail flapping in the wind.

“I take it that things didn’t end well with the two of you?” Doshir asks, in a tone that’s just a little too friendly to be convincing.

Wendolyn’s lips curl back, and she snarls low and deep in her chest.

“Things didn’t begin well between us,” she mutters. “Now, come on. Are we going to inspect the Tarn of the Maiden or are you going to keep prying into my personal business all night?”

“I apologize,” Doshir says, bending his head toward his front claws.

Wendolyn ignores him, beats her wings against the night sky, and slowly lifts off the ridge. I follow, my muscles twinging in protest as they lift this new body into the air. I rise slowly, my wings flailing, not nearly as graceful and elegant as Wendolyn. As I crest the ridge, I see the form of the dragon Wendolyn spoke to. He’s stretched out across the stones, his pale silver body almost hidden in the shadows. Lying in wait. A shiver pulls my muscles tight and makes my scales whisper.

Wendolyn climbs higher, circling the flank of the mountain. A row of jagged peaks loom above her like the jaw of some massive dragon. She moves closer to the mountainside, her snout pointed toward what looks like a little shelf tucked beneath a formidable ridge of rough boulders. I follow, and—

Smoke. My snout wrinkles, and I twist my neck. There’s smoke in the air, thick woodsmoke and something else. The tang of roasting meat, and under that, the scent of unwashed bodies. Human bodies.

I’m still craning my neck from side to side, searching for the source of the smoke, when Wendolyn pulls her wings in and glides gently toward the little shelf tucked beneath the scree field. I follow her, trying to emulate her graceful descent.

And instead, I fall like a rock. The ground rushes up far too quickly, rocks and the bristling tips of pine trees rearing out of the darkness like a bad dream. I bank to the left to avoid a tree, catch a dizzying glimpse of a meadow of velvet grass and the sparkle of starlight on water, and then the rock field rises up to meet me.

My claws hit stone, scraping and sparking. Rocks rattle in my wake as I drag my feet across the ground, my wings flapping wildly to slow myself. My right foot catches on a boulder, and I fall to my chest, scales grinding against granite. Pain flares through my body, bright and hot as a spark.

I suck in a breath. The Tarn of the Maiden is absolutely silent. I turn slowly, almost afraid of what I’ll find. Wendolyn is sitting neatly at the foot of the scree field, her tail tucked around her claws and an expression on her face that suggests she's not entirely certain what she just saw.

I pull myself out of the rock pile and try not to wince as Doshir circles above me, then lands on the stones beside me as delicately as an aspen leaf alighting on a pool of spring water.

“You okay?” he whispers.

I twist my neck away from him as my cheeks burn beneath my scales.

“Fine,” I growl.

Wendolyn makes a discrete coughing noise as I climb down the rocks and join her on the thick alpine grass. The sky behind her is a deep indigo, heralding the coming of the dawn. And the last day before all of the dragons of the Iron Mountains gather here to choose their new queen.

“Well,” Wendolyn says. “Here we are.”

I twist my neck, shaking my head as if I could shed the embarrassment of that horrible landing, and then dig my claws into the ground and examine the Tarn of the Maiden.

It’s a lovely little place, this alpine meadow. It’s almost an amphitheater with the rocky ridge stretching above the meadow like a loving embrace. A dozen scraggly pine trees stand guard at the far end of the meadow, where the mountain drops off in a series of steep cliffs. And in the center of the meadow is the tarn, a little pool of brilliantly clear water, shining with the reflected light of the fading evening stars. And there, on the far side of the gleaming little pond, lies something black and massive. I stare at it for a moment, trying to make sense of the twisted angles and strange, sharp points.

Oh. My muscles pull tight, and my scales make a clipped sort of rattle. For a moment, I feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut.

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