The body arched away from the ground, the tail and one saa stuck in the air. He’d seen stiff dead dragons before—too many—but never a dragon who’d just died like this. The dragon was very young; his skin was striped with clear extrude where his wings had emerged. Not more than a few months since he’d begun flying.
And he’d expended his life in trying to kill the Tyr.
The Copper was so shocked he could hardly stay aloft. It was one thing to have a defeated deman charge you, quite another to have a young member of your own society, without apparent quarrel, try to kill you. He found that his sii and his tail were shaking.
“Return to your nest, sir,” Aiy-Yip, the chief of his personal guard, called. “You two, keep close! Yes! Close! No tailfeather-slacking!”
Some young drakes, probably on a Drakwatch hike, were already trotting toward the scene. He was Tyr—he shouldn’t just scuttle off to his hole.
“There’s been an attempt on my life,” he said, passing over the drakes. “The griffaran guard killed the dragon responsible. I don’t know who he is, but two of you watch the body and two more send for help to the neighboring hills.”
Later he learned that the dragon’s name was RuPaleth. He made a brief appearance to concerned members of the Imperial Line out in the gardens—yes, he was fine, just shocked, no, nothing was known of the motive or grievance of the villain.
NoSohoth told him what he’d learned under the eyes of six griffaran in the throne room.
“NoSohoth, what was all that killer of hatchlings insult the fool shouted?”
His chief counselor shifted his stance and looked around, as he always did when choosing words. “Why should my Tyr pay attention to the ravings of a mad dragon?”
“What hatchlings have I ever killed?”
“None, my Tyr,” NoSohoth said. “Forget his words.”
But the Copper couldn’t forget them. He had a double helping of Tighlia’s brand of wine to calm the distress. Nilrasha returned, exhausted, clearly having had a dash of a flight.
“An assassination attempt. My love! My love! Oh, what wickedness,” she said, wide-eyed. She ran her head this way and that, neck against his, as though checking for a hidden, festering bite.
“Never mind. It’s over.”
She sniffed his breath. “Who was it?”
“A young drake from milkdrinker’s hill. RuPaleth.”
“RuPaleth! I knew him almost out of the egg. He was half strangled in his fight for the eggs, but he was bit and the venom took hold. Grew up stupid because of it. That old tradition of squashing venomers was a good one, I think. They should never have abandoned it.”
“So he wouldn’t have thought of this himself?” the Copper asked.
“As I told you, my Tyr, his brain’s deformed. Don’t credit his words. Shall I have the thralls bring more wine? It may help you sleep.”
“Did he rave?” the Copper asked, waving away the thralls.
“He’d never raved, or his parents would have squashed him for sure,” Nilrasha said.
“I ask because he said ‘Death to the Tyr, killer of hatchlings,’ ” the Copper said.
“Idiots,” Nilrasha said. “Those Anklenes—their brains are too big. All they can do is dream up trouble.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, Essea told me she’d been to Anklene Hill to see about a sculpture and she overheard a couple of young Anklenes gossiping, or maybe theorizing is the word. They were going on about how you probably poisoned the grain yourself to get the dragons stirred up and start another war now that the one with the demen is finished.”
The Copper could only blink for a moment.
“Sometimes, my love, I wish I’d never been named Tyr.”
“Oh, don’t say that, my love. Just today I was with the Firemaids and they all—all—praised you to me. Since the victory in the Star Tunnel there’s been only one attack by the demen, and that was a rout. I had it direct from a messenger who was there. Ayafeeia rescued a dragonelle captive with some sad loss, but apart from that it’s been two full seasons now without so much as a drakka taken in the Lower World.”
“I hope my mate-sister is well?”