“You’re quick,” AuRon said. “Happily, your wits match your reflexes.”
She ignored the compliment. “Ask the dwarf for the story, AuRon son of AuRel.”
AuRon made an effort to look unaffected. “I’d like to hear about this Oracle dragon. I haven’t heard a story of a dragon from anywhere but here in years.”
The elf laughed. “Oh, that’s an easy one. It’s to do with the humbling of the Wheel of Fire dwarves and the barbarian wars. I heard bits of it myself at the Green Dragon Inn at Rainfall’s bridge from the innkeeper himself. He knew Wistala, still does.”
After hearing the tale, bits and bobs that made so little sense that AuRon wondered if the humans had invented a tale to suit themselves, he was so excited that he bade the party a farewell forgotten as soon as the words were voiced and almost walked into the javelin-trap on his way out.
Wistala. His sister.
Alive after all these years. At least he hoped. She’d made powerful enemies, it seemed.
The Isle of Ice could support another dragon. As long as she liked fish and shellflesh. How had she survived so long out among men and dwarves? To hear the tale, she’d humbled both the Wheel of Fire dwarves and the Dragonblade.
Which reminded him. He took up the trap to play with and secured the metal chimes for Natasatch and the hatchlings. They would make a fine treat for dessert after celebrating his daughters’ first hunt.
It would be hard to leave them, even for a little while. He’d have to ask Ouistrela to keep an eye on the cave.
He conditioned himself for another distance flight with a short trip north to Grass Point. He didn’t find a moose for the wolves, but he did manage to snatch up an elk floundering in a spring mire.
Natasatch accepted his decision to leave the island in search of his sister. The first time she’d heard his voice as a full-grown dragon, he’d been calling Wistala’s name in that horrible chicken coop of a prison she’d been chained in.
“A dragonsire always feels the urge to roam far as his hatchlings come aboveground,” she said. “Even if I find your devotion to a memory strange.”
“Perhaps it is because we were separated so young. Had we both matured properly, I may have gone off and left her to her home hunting range. But if she still lives, I must tell her that there is a place where dragons live in safety.”
“And beastly weather,” Natasatch said. “I will welcome her to this little cave, my love. I’m sure she has much she could teach our hatchlings, if she’s survived in the Upper World all these years.”
“Thank you, my love.”
“Since you are wingbent on a-dragoning, may I make one request of you?”
“Of course.”
“Some gold. Our hatchlings need it for their scales to grow properly. These ores we’re clawing up out of the mountain seams, all they do is stave off desire for metals without supplying much scale-weight. Aumoahk’s are coming in crooked about the nose—that’s a bad sign. I could break one of Varatheela’s scales with my claw. There must be places where you could find coin.”
“I would hate to fight or rob for it. Perhaps I can earn some as I did with the dwarves.”
“I hope you will consider your hatchlings as you consult your conscience.”
“Let us not argue on our parting. I promise, I’ll return with gold whether or not I find Wistala.”
“Some of the dragonelles will be glad to hear you have gone. More sheep for them.”
Chapter 2
Cold trail, Wistala thought. Pogt.
Auron—or rather AuRon, for he was a fledged dragon now—kept vanishing like a desert mirage just when she approached.
Despite the blighter guide’s assurance, it didn’t look like the sort of chamber a living legend would inhabit. Her tread’s echoes chased each other in and out of corners—nothing but empty dark.
At first check, she thought the cavern had a rather cramped ceiling for a dragon, especially one as old and great as NooMoahk. AuRon had always been a bit on the smallish side, so maybe he found it comfortable.
The empty, old air made her hearts hurt. For so many weary journeys to end in the same way . . .
Was this the end of the long hunt?