Piscalo crouched on the ground, head down, knuckles pressed against the cavern floor. A tuft of hair fell over his eye, but he made no effort to push it back, for such fidgeting was forbidden when waiting on his lord’s pleasure. He could feel the giant beast approaching even now, ground trembling as it shifted from one huge limb to the next, the sound of its steps echoing loudly through the wide cave. Closer and closer until suddenly it loomed above him, heat rolling off of its massive form. Piscalo fought not to lick his lips. The summons had come sooner than expected, barely giving him time to gather what was needed.
“Child!” the creature boomed.
Piscalo’s heart skipped a beat, but he kept his gaze lowered, watching as pebbles and stones clattered in response to the beast’s shout.
“My lord?”
The weight of the creature pressed closer. “You were not at last night’s brood call. I will know why.”
“I’m sorry, my lord. I felt unwell and—”
A huff of air from the beast lifted Piscalo from the ground and landed him on his rear a good claw length away. The rocky floor jarred him, but Piscalo knew better than to cry out. Old Gresset despised sharp noises, especially the baying of dasha.
Piscalo did, however, look up.
The dragon was monstrous, its body covered in dark green scales that seemed to ripple and roll as the creature moved. The beast’s head slid closer, and Piscalo froze, the dragon studying him with a single overlarge eye. There was no white in it, just different shades of green and yellow mottled together, and an inky vertical pupil in the center staring down.
“Do not lie,” Gresset rumbled. “You were seen leaving my spire.”
This close to the beast’s maw the temperature was boiling, and Piscalo began to sweat profusely despite his efforts to appear calm. He swallowed hard.
“Syldrae holds my tongue.”
“WHAT?” Gresset bellowed, flattening Piscalo against the ground. “You are from my brood!” the dragon thundered, tail cracking back and forth. “My flesh! My dasha!”
Piscalo didn’t answer. Instead, he gingerly pulled his long right sleeve up to his elbow, exposing his forearm. The revealed skin was slick and bright red with patches of crusty black, like meat that had been held over a burning bulb too long.
Gresset’s head jerked back in surprise. At first, the dragon was silent, but then a slow hiss whispered from between row after row of wicked teeth.
“Betrayer.”
Piscalo quickly covered his arm and prostrated himself. “Please, my lord, I had no choice! I just wanted to join in the gray’s celebration for a bit, but then Mother Mud”— that was one of the names Piscalo and his friends called Syldrae, and Gresset seemed to like it—“arrived and gathered all the unburned of age, and I tried to leave, but they said I had eaten of their meat and so must do the same. They made me!”
Though he could no longer see the mighty green, Piscalo could feel the dragon’s gaze weighing his words and fate. He tried to cross his toes, but the way he was bent over pulled his sandal straps too tight, so he settled on biting his cheek. There was luck in blood, and he hoped the small trickle would help him now.
“I shall speak to Syldrae of this theft,” Gresset eventually said.
Piscalo let out an audible sigh. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Do not thank me yet,” the dragon growled. “Your blame is equal to hers.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where is she now?”
Piscalo shifted. “I heard that she planned to spend the day after the feast bathing in the volcanic spring to the south.”
“Of course,” Gresset said with a snort. “I should have known.”
“I’m sorry that it’s so far away, my lord. You’ll have to wait—”
“Wait?” Gresset snapped. “I will not wait. If she thinks to avoid me by hiding at the springs all day until my anger has cooled, she is mistaken. I am leaving, and you,”—Piscalo felt the creature’s breath stir the air around his head—“are not to move until I return.”
So saying, Gresset stalked away, legs slamming and claws scraping. Piscalo dared a quick peek to the side and saw the dragon’s tail hiss past him. The cave grew suddenly dark as the great wurm blocked the large entrance. Gresset turned, catching Piscalo’s eye, and snorted again, but this time radiant green flame spewing forth, filling the chamber with a flash of light.
“Stay!” the dragon roared.
Piscalo pressed his head to the floor, the heat of the short blast briefly washing over his back. The sensation was followed by the sound of crunching rock, a giant gust of air, and then…nothing.
Piscalo counted to three and then leapt to his feet, running across to the cavern’s gaping mouth. He slowed as he neared the outer lip, careful not to trip over where Gresset’s mighty talons had rent the ground when launching into flight. After finding a safe spot, Piscalo looked down, seeing his brood lord buoyed through the air on massive wings each twice as wide as the creature’s lengthy body. Gresset rarely flew anymore, claiming that his eyes and joints were no longer made for it, and yet the great green cut through the air as deftly as any dragon in their prime, bringing a smile to Piscalo’s lips.
Despite his joy in seeing his brood lord fly, Piscalo’s eyes were drawn to the expansive view of The Crown that lay before him. He stood halfway up one of the six great stone spires, each hundreds of scales high, which formed a near perfect circle around a large, rocky valley, all of which was beautiful to look at from his perch. Torn by competing sites but not wanting to miss anything, Piscalo found Gresset again, watching his brood lord skim over the houses, gardens, and goat pens that spread out from the base of the green dragon’s spire, and then the great wurm angled to the left, heading south, toward the springs and Syldrae.
Piscalo imagined Gresset pumping his enormous wings and shooting further up into the sky like in the stories older dasha told around bulb fire. Their green brood lord didn’t love the hunt like reds or exploring like yellows, but when Gresset was younger he was said to have had a singular passion when it came to chasing the stars. Using his great wings—which even in his youth had been larger than most other dragon’s—he had climbed so far into the sky he was said to have reached the ceiling of the world and so had been called Star Touched.
That had been a long time ago though, well before Piscalo was born, and now Gresset was known more for his and Syldrae’s great love that had nearly united the gray and green spires, and their equally great falling out, as well as his role in fighting off the northern wyvern tribes, and many other things in the multiple centuries the great dragon had lived. But the story about the stars was always Piscalo’s favorite. Partially, because he too loved staring up at the twinkling night sky, but even more because his brood lord had done something that no one else had, before or since. It made Piscalo glad to be green.
Gresset didn’t flap his wings or fly higher as Piscalo eagerly watched. Instead, the massive dragon let the air currents carry him as he soared effortlessly in-between the green and blue spires, leaving The Crown. The departure of a brood lord, of course, sparked reactions. Even from this distance, Piscalo could hear the shaggy goats below bleating in alarm over the close encounter, for they never grew used to the presence of a greater wurm—especially not the reclusive Gresset. The workers too were probably all wondering what had driven their lord to take flight now of all times.
Piscalo pulled his right sleeve up, using none of the care he had before. The wound beneath brought an even larger smile to his lips, and then he laughed, uncontrollably, deliriously. He gave a final hoot, spinning in a circle and stamping his feet on the ground.
It had worked!
Piscalo glanced again at his arm, ridiculously proud. He and Zalc and Jikkol had slaved on it for hours, carefully searing strips of rabbit before attaching them to his skin with gum root sap. Such an imitation would never hold up against careful inspection, but Old Gresset’s sense of smell was no better than his eyes up close.
And now it was here—all the nights of planning and preparing and it was finally happening! Piscalo let his sleeve drop and dashed back into the cavern. The trip to and from the springs should give him plenty of time, especially if Gresset and Syldrae had a drawn-out fight, which, given their history, they probably would. That didn’t mean he was going to dawdle though. No, he wanted to get started as soon as possible to make sure that everything was perfect for when Gresset returned.
Piscalo sped over to a nearby entry tunnel and started traveling down it. He had brought some sacks with him but had left them tucked in a corner, out of view. The passageways were normally lit by clumps of glowing moss spaced at even intervals, however, Piscalo had picked one of the less used tunnels, which had fewer bits of moss, so he could more easily hide the bags. Old Gresset usually didn’t see anyone except during brood gatherings or special summons like today, but Piscalo didn’t want to risk a random passerby stumbling onto his things.
When he got to the right section, he had to rely on his hands to search because the limited moss light didn’t make it all the way to the ground. Even so, he quickly located the sacks and was about to gather them into his arms when a pair of eyes stopped him. They were big, though nowhere near the size of Gresset’s, and they peered at him from the dark recesses of the tunnel. Piscalo heard a noise and turned, seeing another set of orbs behind him, watching.
“I say we eat him,” the initial pair of eyes said.
“Mmm,” the second set replied, “I could do with a snack.”
Piscalo breathed out, his momentary concern instantly replaced with a frown. “Zalc, Jikkol! Stop playing around. We’ve got a lot to do!”
Two bodies slid out of the darkness. Both were dragons, though minuscule when compared to Gresset—each only twice Piscalo’s height in length—and of a much lighter shade of green. The one in front had a long face and horns just beginning to sprout from the top of his head, while the other had no horns yet and a short, snub-nose.
“Brother,” the horned one, Zalc, said, “do you smell something?”
The snub-nosed one, Jikkol, flicked out his tongue to test the air. “Now that you mention it, yes. What is it?”
Zalc’s head bumped into Piscalo’s chest, and Piscalo couldn’t help but laugh as the budding horns poked him in a ticklish spot.
“I think our hairy friend has soiled himself in fear.”
Jikkol gave a disgusted snort. “I don’t eat wet meat.”
“Must be why they call him Piscalo.”
Jikkol laughed and then clacked his teeth together as if he had just thought of something. “Reminds me of that yellow you scraped against.”
Zalc hissed a warning, but Jikkol ignored it.
“You reeked of her for a week!”
And then the two were rolling across the floor with each other, mock biting and beating the air with their wings.
“Quit that!” Piscalo snapped.
Two heads lifted out of the mass of claws and scales, looking innocent as hatchlings.
Piscalo scowled at them. “We should hurry. Gresset could be back—”
He didn’t even notice the tail coiled around his leg until he was lying on the ground, coughing in surprise.
“Lord Gresset, I’m sure you meant,” Jikkol said, having already untangled from his brother.
“We can forgive many things but not a slight to our clutch father,” finished Zalc.
Piscalo rolled his eyes, thinking of the countless names that the two dragons had come up with over the years for Gresset, like Lord Lump, Moldy Monarch, Father Fern, and Star Slug, the last of which Gresset really hated.
“Fine, fine,” Piscalo said as he stood, “but we ne—”
“And you are right,” Jikkol said. “It is time for you to leave.”
“What?”
Zalc wrapped one wing around Piscalo’s shoulders. “Are you saying you want to be here when Gresset returns?”
“Of course!”
“When he is overcome with rage? When he is melting the very rock with his fury?” Zalc tilted his horned head. “Is that what you want.”
“Well, no, but—”
The youngling dragon gave him a push down the tunnel, away from the main cavern. “Then wait in the lower passageways.” His mouth pulled back into a sharpened smile. “We will finish this and come find you when it’s safe.”
“After everything I’ve done to get ready for this?” Piscalo sputtered, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You expect me to just…go play with the snails?”
“Go to The Commons if you want,” Jikkol said. “You should have enough time.”
“But—”
“Go!” the brothers yelled.
Piscalo threw up his hands and stormed off into the passageway, quickly discovering that it wasn’t one of the well-lit ones. Instead of going back and getting an earful from the brothers though, Piscalo fished a thumb-sized burning bulb from his pocket. It was wrapped in shed hatchling scales so it didn’t light his pants on fire, and he gently peeled one of the soft scales back, bathing the tunnel in a light much brighter than the cave moss produced. Dasha weren’t allowed to have fire—such was the purview of only lesser and greater dragons—so burning bulbs were used instead. If the plant was exposed to dragon flame, it burned hotly for two full days and could be relit multiple times for a month or more after being plucked. Due to their utility, all the broods used them, but it was green that grew and cared for them. Piscalo was thankful for that because he had learned early in his adventures with the dragon brothers that it paid to always have a lit bulb on his person and being a member of green brood meant that he could usually get one.
Using the small burning bulb to light his way, Piscalo grumbled to himself about the brothers and how they better be following the plan as he headed downward through the spire. It didn’t take long for him to get tired of clomping along alone though, and when he did, he began to idly fiddle with the meat stuck to his arm, though he was careful not to let the bulb get too close to it. Gum root sap solidified when heated, and the last thing Piscalo wanted was to have the rabbit permanently attached.
In a pique of curiosity, he peeled one of the thin strips off and gave it a chew. Gresset’s summons had come during breakfast, after all, so he hadn’t gotten to eat anything yet. Surprisingly, the meat wasn’t half bad, the sap making it almost sweet. He was about to take another bite when a sudden coughing fit got the better of him. Piscalo’s tongue gagged out, scraping against his teeth, and he gave a final hack. He held the meat beside the burning bulb. The light of the plant illuminated the cooked rabbit clearly, showing bits of hair stuck to shining bubbles of sap.
“Eeeeew!”
He let the meat fall to the cavern floor and peeled off another strip. Unlike the first, he noticed very clearly the pinprick pain as each thread of hair was ripped from his arm. Piscalo yanked the third off quickly and gave a startled yelp. Fast was definitely not better! Frustrated, he dropped his hand, letting the remaining strips stay until he figured out a better way to remove them.
Since Gresset’s cave was only partway up the green spire, it only took a few more twists and turns before Piscalo could see the exit to the tunnel he was in. He folded the bent hatchling scale back over the burning bulb, sealing it, and tucked it into his pocket. That done, on a whim, he gave the last rock he encountered on the path a hard kick. It flew straight and true out of the spire, right into a pair of men carrying a huge, curved rib.
“Hey!” the one in front growled, the stone nicking off his shins.
Piscalo gulped, dashing past the men and into the crowds that bustled at the base of the spire. “Sorry!” he said. The last thing he wanted to anger someone on bone detail. They were probably mad enough already at having drawn short lots. The other broods always brought their leftover bones to green spire to be ground up as fertilizer for the many plants that the green dasha cultivated. Rumor was that the gray’s feast had been huge—despite what Piscalo had told Gresset, he had most definitely not attended—and judging from the size of that rib, it was true. They must have had the reds catch them a whole stone whale! Piscalo couldn’t help but lick his lips at the thought. The meat was said to be tender and juicy, with more than enough liver for everyone. Seeing the remains, he almost wished he could have gone!
Sprinting through the throng of people, he noticed half a dozen other pairs of men lugging equally large bones down to the pit. There was even one team of five who were carrying a massive lower jaw section studded with huge, flat teeth. He had always heard that the lumbering whales didn’t eat meat, but he could never quite imagine something so big only chewing on trees. As Piscalo whipped by the group, the largest of the team shot out a hand and caught him.
“Where are you off to in such a rush?” the bearded man asked, the corded muscle of his right arm seeming not to strain as he held aloft with one hand what the other four men were struggling to do with two.
“I don’t have to tell you,” Piscalo said as he tried to jerk away from the big man’s grasp. After a few worthless leaps and twists, he gave up with a huff. “Let me go!”
The bearded man leaned closer. “Going to see Misola?” he asked, and Piscalo made the mistake of hesitating. Trag was one of the gray clutch leaders—his badge of office a large, shed gray scale of Syldrae’s, which he used as a buckle for the gray brood sash he wore around his waist—and few things escaped his notice
“Ah, so you are sweet on her!” Trag said, straightening.
People turned at the clutch leader’s booming voice, and Piscalo tried to shrink away, cheeks red. Relations between dasha of different broods were usually frowned on, especially by the dragons, because it could lead to dasha wishing to leave the service of their current lord or lady to join whomever their partner served instead. Despite this, Trag’s large smile indicated that he found the possibility amusing not worrisome.
“No, NO!” Piscalo said, shaking his head vehemently, “I just have something to tell her, something…” He trailed off, not wanting to say anything more.
Trag’s beard quivered as he laughed while the other men looked miserable about the delay, sweat glistening on their faces. One even moved to set the jaw down, but a growl from another quickly stopped him. If they dropped it now, they probably wouldn’t be able to get it back up again.
“So tell her, lad!” Trag said, letting Piscalo go so abruptly that he would have fallen over if it hadn’t been for the press of people. “You’re only young once!”
The clutch leader started moving again, the other four men stumbling to catch up. Piscalo watched as the crowd folded around them, the white jaw seeming to surf on a sea of bobbing heads. When he was confident that they could no longer see him, he crossed his eyes and blew out his tongue. Trag needed to stop sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. After spraying a few seconds worth of spit at the clutch leader’s back, Piscalo continued on his way.
He took Granite Run through to Flat Lane, passing by a long brick steaming hall, some hanging gardens, and a series of sprawling goat pens. Piscalo saw two boys he knew, Bret and Fliss, both from the same clutch as him in green, shoving the wooly animals out of the way to scoop up their dung—though bone made for decent fertilizer, animal droppings were even better. He gave the boys a hoot and a grin. They grimaced back, crossing their eyes at him. Piscalo just smiled bigger, taking an exaggerated breath of fresh air. That brought their tongues out, which earned both a solid smack on the head from the blue herder who was watching over them.
Piscalo laughed as they turned to make excuses, zipping away. He crossed over Red Row, clay dust puffing with every footfall, and under Drip Stone, dodging between the hanging teeth of rock. He saw another boy his age crouched in one of the many corners of the tunnel. Piscalo didn’t know him, but the red sash the boy wore made it obvious that he was likely searching for scorpions and beetles to be fried for snacks. After all, the red brood was in charge of hunting and not all of them could bring down a stone whale!
Up the long and twisted path of Sharp Rise, Piscalo paused halfway to lean on a large stone. Using the bottom of his shirt, he wiped his brow and then settled back on the cool rock to enjoy the view. He was a fair bit higher than the bowl of stone that served as the common area for the five broods that lived within The Crown, and he could spot members from each milling about, the different colors of their waist sashes easily distinguishing them. His eyes were naturally drawn to those who wore only one long sleeve though, their other removed to show the long burn scar that Piscalo and the dragon brothers had imitated. All were on the right arm, except for yellow of course, who had to be different. Time had faded the color of many, but some had only begun the dyeing process—the esdeth—that would twist through all the dips and valleys of the scar, showing clearly against the burned skin the color of their brood. There were boys annoyingly younger than Piscalo with bare arms and a few had even started to be colored. The dyeing process would take years to finish, but when it was complete it would be a glorious thing, marking the individual as a full son or daughter of their brood.
Piscalo looked down at his own arm, haphazardly covered in rabbit skin and patches of sap. His brood would be calling to him soon. At least he hoped they would. The green ceremony was less than a moon turn away, corresponding to the eve of their lord’s hatching, and he prayed nightly that Old Gresset would finally put forward his nomination. Two years ago he’d been old enough for the burning, but the ancient wurm had kept him from the list. He thought for sure his lord had simply forgotten his age, but the following year had seen him passed over again. Now he was nearing his fifteenth naming day, and his arm was still bare like a child’s. Fifteen and scarless. If he turned sixteen and still wasn’t burned, he likely never would be. Some green dasha he knew didn’t care, but Piscalo most certainly did. He wanted to earn the honorific greenson and be able to call Gresset “father” instead of “my lord” and maybe even become a clutch leader one day.
If he couldn’t do those things, to Piscalo, he might as well be white.
He shuddered at the thought, trying not to look at the handful of white sashed people that trudged through the flow of colorfully belted dasha. Piscalo couldn’t help himself though and saw one get shoved out of the way by a passing group of young reds and another handed basket after basket of wicker until the boy toppled over and was soundly beaten by a blue woman for his clumsiness. They were the broodless. They were the white. They were nothing. A second chill ran through Piscalo, and he closed his eyes. They had no lord or lady dragon to watch over them, no brood brothers to laugh with, no sisters to tease. When they passed, they weren’t eaten by the dragons; they weren’t even allowed the final bliss of nourishing their great lord or lady. Instead, they were buried, buried, trapped under the cold and heavy earth for lesser things like worms and maggots to gnaw on.
His eyes snapped open because being in the dark suddenly made him feel like he had been stuffed into the ground. He stepped away from the rock, straightening tall, letting the wind play with his hair. His heart was skipping fast but it was no longer from running. The sky was a deep blue, sketched with clouds. A mix of younglings tossed and turned in the breeze, most smaller than Jikkol or Zalc. There was even a bit of yellow far in the distance that might have been a lesser, but that was unlikely since yellows were notoriously temperamental about flying when any other brood was aloft.
Piscalo took a deep breath, starting to smile as the air hissed back out through his nose. He would be burned this calling. And in time green ink would complete his scar, showing to all that he was a full son of his brood. After today there could be no doubt. Though his face had been to the floor, he had heard the hitch in Gresset’s voice. The great dragon worried that one of his own had been snatched away—and by Syldrae no less, who Gresset had been feuding with for longer than Piscalo had been alive! The fact that the story was false wouldn’t matter. The ghost of that worry would push Gresset to make sure that such a thing couldn’t happen.
Piscalo grinned even larger. And if there was any doubt in his lord, if somehow the dragon’s anger outweighed his worry, the surprise waiting in his cave when he returned would surely convince him. Piscalo gave a whoop of a laugh—uncaring of the yellow and two green dasha who happened to pass by—because once his plan was fully hatched, Gresset would have no choice but to put his name forward. By clutch, his lord might even burn him today!
Piscalo suddenly grew still, mouth snapping shut as his last thought echoed in his mind. Today. He could be burned today. His eyes dropped to his clothes. Sweat and grime from his face covered the bottom of his shirt, his sleeves were dirty, his sandals frayed, and he was still wearing rabbit. This could be the most important day of his life, and he was dressed like he was on dung duty!
He launched himself forward, rushing up Sharp Rise. He had been planning to brag to Misola because if he held still he’d fret himself to death worrying about whether the dragon brothers were doing everything right, but now he had to see her. His hair should be oiled and combed, and his teeth probably needed picking—they hadn’t been done in weeks, and he wasn’t getting burned with gristle or bug leg in his teeth. Piscalo glanced up as he ran.
“Clutch!”
The sun was just dipping past the abandoned white spire and it hadn’t even been near the tip when Gresset had taken off. Piscalo lifted his hand to tick off the time. His lord would be back in just a few fingers and the inevitable summons would come soon after. Piscalo’s legs became a blur as he pushed himself harder. Most other walkers heard him coming and so stepped out of the way of his mad dash. A few weren’t quite so lucky or as aware of their surroundings and so Piscalo careened off them like a hornet trapped in a jar with varying results: a bent blue got his stepping staff kicked right out from under him, and a rather plump gray woman spilled the water jug she had on her head. Even worse, a white almost toppled over the steeper edge of Sharp Rise but caught himself just in time on a scraggly bush. Not that Piscalo really noticed any of this, for Misola, Misola, Misola was the only thought in his head, over and over as his feet struck the path.
He found her right where he knew he would, at Long Falls. Water from the ice sheets above melted and cascaded down the rocky ledge, churning the earth into a deep and rich mud. One of the duties of gray dasha was to gather the mud that their brood turned into pottery and brick and all manner of other things.
The water was freezing cold, but the female dasha waded through it as if it was a pleasant brook. Not for the first time, Piscalo wondered if women really did have ice in their veins like his own clutch leader Barthol said.
“The green brothers’ errand boy,” a tall woman greeted him. She had long hair the color of honey, bound back and up in a tight braid, synched by a clasp made from another of Syldrae’s gray scales. “Shouldn’t you be doing something?” Other than this, her tone implied.
Piscalo dipped his head, trying not to look at his dark-haired friend who worked nearby, up to her knees in water and her elbows in mud. “Graydaughter Florane. I’m sorry to bother you, but Grayson Trag asked me to bring Misola.”
Florane blinked at the obvious fib. “What?”
Piscalo took a breath and tried again. “Grayson Trag, I bumped into him on bone detail. He—”
Her hand fluttered, waving him to silence. “Why?”
Piscalo was lost for a moment. “Why was he on bone detail?
Her hands found her hips. “Why did he ask you?” Each word was punctuated by a little ripple in the water around her legs as a submerged foot obviously tapped.
Piscalo simply shrugged. When it came to lying, he had found that the less said, the better.
Florane clucked her tongue, and then she quickly turned to scold some of the younger women who had stopped in their labor to watch the exchange. When that was done, the woman’s gaze swung to Misola.
“Missy!” she called to the girl, motioning for her to stop working and come over. Misola nodded at the summons but continued to carefully place globs of dark mud into a wax-lined basket, which hung from a hook pole sunk deep into the stream. Only when the basket had reached its fullest did Misola wash the mud from her hands and wade forward.
“Yes, clutch leader?” she asked, head down, as if she hadn’t heard a single word that had been spoken not ten scales away.
Florane stabbed a thumb towards Piscalo. “This boy says that Trag has called for you. You are to follow him quickly and carefully and then return here as soon as whatever business is needed is done. Is that clear?”
Misola dipped a slight curtsy, water rising to her thighs, and Florane spun back to her troop, clapping her hands. “We’ve just lost a pair of hands, ladies.”
Some of the women turned to reply, but the more experienced among them just called out as they worked. “Yes, clutch leader!”
“We still have an order for sixty baskets overflowing by moonrise. Will we fill it?”
“Yes, clutch leader!”
During this exchange, Piscalo somehow found himself examining Florane’s hands. She had long fingers and nails painted a deep gray, the same color as the dyed portions of her scar that ran the length of her arm. How long at it been since she had scooped the mud banks he wondered? How long since she had done more than just order people around?
As if she could sense him watching her, Florane glanced over her shoulder.
“Go on,” she said, “before I find some real work for you to do.”
That was enough to get Piscalo’s feet moving. He quickly bobbed his head to Florane and snatched up Misola’s arm. The clutch leader raised an eyebrow at the contact but if she chose to say something it came after they had already sprinted away.
Misola followed him until they were out of sight and then yanked her arm back. He had grabbed her by her left so as not to hurt her healing right, which was still getting tattooed each month. She, of course, had been burned last year.
“Trag?” she said. “The best you could come up with was Trag?”
“It worked,” he said, but Misola rolled her eyes.
“Yeah, it worked, and so would saying her clutch house was on fire or that a hatchling had gotten into the mud huts. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t stupid and won’t get you a solid rump thump.”
Piscalo stuck out his tongue. “Thorry mine’th not thilver like yourth.”
She took a step back to avoid his spittle. “What is that?”
He looked down, discovering that one of the leftover strips of meat attached to his forearm was poking out his right sleeve.
“Rabbit?” he said, lifting his arm to dance the flesh in front of her. “Want some?”
Misola’s nose wrinkled immediately. “No.”
“Why not?” he said, hanging the meat above his open mouth. “It’s good!”
Her foot started tapping in a fair imitation of Florane. “Stop being disgusting and tell me what you want.”
Piscalo took a big breath, covering the rabbit with his sleeve. “I need advice.”
“Advice?” she said, cocking her head. “About what?”
“What I should wear.”
“Where are you going?”
Piscalo rocked from foot to foot. “Can’t say. Don’t want to jinx it.”
Misola sighed. “Piscalo, I’m going back to work.” She turned to walk away, but he grabbed her arm, baring his teeth.
“Are they clean?”
Misola looked at him like he had just grown a third eye. “Are what clean?”
“My teeth.”
She glanced at his mouth and back up. “I guess, why—”
Piscalo dropped his head and shook it. “And my hair?”
Misola shoved him away. “Piscalo, what is going on? I don’t have time for this.”
He squinted his eyes as he looked at the sun. “Why? What time is it?”
“Near half past feeding. What is wrong with you?”
Piscalo leaned in, giving her a quick peck on the cheek. “Thanks. Bye.”
He dashed off, leaving her sputtering and wiping her face. This was terrible. Everything had taken too long and now there was no way that he could go home to change and get back before Gresset did. Dragon’s flame was supposed to be the ultimate purification, so if he was burned today he hoped it would count as cleansing his disheveled appearance.
Piscalo had almost finished running back down Sharp Rise when he noticed that Misola was sprinting along beside him. He cracked a grin.
“Thought you didn’t have time.”
She shot him a withering look. “You must have done something terrible to have you running around like a headless lava lizard.” She looked forward, the edge of her mouth quirking. “I just want to see you get whatever’s coming.”
Piscalo laughed.
They rushed through the streets at a blur, whisking by white workers, regular dasha, and brood sons and daughters. Misola was taller than him so her legs were longer, but Piscalo was used to chasing after two relentless dragon brothers and managed to keep pace. Competing made the trip much faster, and they soon reached the base of the green spire, both slowing to walks.
“Are you going to tell me?” Misola asked. Her face was red and she was holding her side, but she was also finally smiling.
Piscalo let out a long breath before returning the grin. “What, and ruin the surprise?”
Her smile shriveled, and she stepped into one of the entrance tunnels that was lit with glowing moss. They walked for a time in silence and didn’t encounter anybody even though they were in a larger passageway. Piscalo guessed that most green dasha were busy transferring the huge bones from the gray feast to the gardens, which was perfect. Piscalo did want anyone interrupting what was about to happen.
“Be careful not to touch the walls,” he said to her as they got higher up in the spire.
Misola turned to give him a searching look and then smirked, lifting her left hand to the stone. “Why? What’s going to happen?
Piscalo grabbed her arm, jerking it down. “Cuz I said!” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Now be quiet. I don’t want him hearing us if he’s already back.”
Misola didn’t say anything, just stared at him. They were very close now and standing still, the uneven ground making them near the same height. He blushed as she kissed him. He always did. It was so warm. That’s the only way he could think to describe it. And it was always over too soon. She stepped back, giving a little nod and smile before starting up the tunnel again. Piscalo glanced over his shoulder to check if anyone had happened to pass by at that moment, but no one was there.
He moved quickly behind her and touched her on the shoulder when they reached the third fork. She got the hint and took the one on the right, which would lead to a ledge overlooking the inside of Gresset’s cave.
They were nearly out of the tunnel when a thump sounded ahead of them. Misola stopped, and Piscalo slipped around her, listening carefully. Nothing. He strained to catch something, even holding his breath to hear better but still not a sound. He crept forward, motioning for Misola to do the same.
Reaching the exit, he poked his head out, looking side to side. The small ledge held only rock and grit. He inched forward, checking over the rim. The cave was empty. They had made it in time.
He turned back but instead of finding Misola, he came nose to snout with a dragon and almost stumbled over the edge. Luckily, the beast shot a wing out, catching him in its leathery embrace.
“Zalc!” Piscalo whispered at the horned dragon as he regained his balance. “What are you doing? Trying to kill me?”
“What am I doing?” hissed the youngling. “What are you doing back here?”
Misola crept out onto the ledge. “Who are—” She started when she saw Zalc. “Oh,” she said pressing her lips together and giving a little snort. “I should have known.”
Zalc’s scaled brows lowered. “Why is that mud runner here?”
Misola answered before Piscalo had a chance. “Don’t worry, Zalcar. I won’t tell anyone that you’re still sulking in your spire since Tixle left you. Of course,” she said, expression turning thoughtful, “everyone already knows that.”
Piscalo sighed to himself. For whatever reason, Misola and Zalc loved needling each other, and he had learned that once they got started it was faster to just let them finish than to try and stop them.
“She didn’t leave me,” the horned dragon said, tongue darting out in annoyance. “She was called to explore. That’s what yellows do. There’s a difference.”
Misola grinned. “I wonder. Called to explore, or maybe just to escape?”
Zalc clacked his teeth together sharply. “You know nothing about it, gray. So still your chatter.”
“I know that you haven’t let the green dasha clean you for days,” Misola’s smile turned wicked. “Her smell all you had left?”
Zalc clacked his teeth together again but didn’t offer up any more banter. Instead, a set of cloudy lids dropped over his eyes. The move was purely instinctual. The lenses were meant to protect the dragon from the bright and searing heat of their flame. Normally the move was threatening, but Misola just giggled.
“Oh no. Don’t burn me, Zalc.” She set her feet wide and flicked her hair. For some reason, Piscalo found his heart skipping faster as he watched her face off against his friend. “Who do you think you’re fooling, green? You can barely steam. I’ll make sure to let you know when the beetroot is too tough for the hatchlings.” Then she turned, stepping over to the edge. “Now what are we waiting for? And where is Gresset?”
Piscalo was too busy watching said steam shoot out Zalc’s nostrils and billow on the stone floor to answer.
“Um, well…” he said.
Zalc’s mouth opened, revealing countless serrated teeth, and Piscalo moved in front of the dragon. Zalc would never in his right mind dare to hurt another brood’s dasha, but Misola had a way of putting people out of their mind. Luckily, Piscalo was saved from tackling his friend by the sound of clicking and scraping coming toward them, which they all three spun to face.
Out of the darkness popped the snub-nose head of Jikkol, who was crawling on the side of the wall.
“Now we just need to wai—”
Jikkol stumbled—obviously surprised to see them all—and nearly fell. He only dropped a few scales though before digging his talons back into the rock and giving them all an angry hiss.
Everyone started to talk then: pointing, yelling, snapping teeth.
THUMP.
Both dragons, Piscalo, and Misola clamped their jaws shut and turned to face the entrance of the cave. In crashed the mighty green, tail lashing, wings beating, whipping the air even as high up as they crouched. Massive claws ripped the ground as the dragon thundered forward, fire seeming to glow in the depths of his mouth and nostrils. His eyes roamed the rocky floor and finding it empty the dragon let out a mighty bellow.
“PISCALO!”
All four of them dropped belly first onto the ledge and peered over the rim.
“What did you do?” Misola hissed. Piscalo, however, was too busy getting shoved in the side by Jikkol, who had just slithered off the wall, to answer.
“Move over,” the snub-nosed dragon whined.
Gresset’s head snapped around, but instead of turning toward their hiding place, he looked outside his cave.
“The boy is gone,” the massive green snorted.
“Of course he is,” a lighter voice responded, high and sharp. “What did you expect?”
Piscalo leaned forward. Gresset was supposed to be alone. Who was he talking to?
The green brood lord clacked his teeth together and on a dragon that size it was like a thunderclap. “I expect him to obey!”
A smoky gray brushed by Gresset, his equal in length if not in bulk, seemingly unbothered by his outburst. “Do you? Then you must be twice disappointed this day.”
The four of them gasped in unison, and Piscalo’s jaw swung on its hinge. Syldrae? His lies couldn’t possibly have drawn her out? Could they?
The slinky gray was making herself quite at home, prowling around the cavern.
“Still live in filth I see.”
Gresset stayed at the entrance, as if he didn’t wish to share the space with the female dragon. “I feel no need to make my dasha move dust from one pile to another if that is what you mean.”
“A pity. I shall have to make mine clean me then. You are lucky I am in an adventurous mood.”
Gresset’s head tilted, and he flicked his tongue. “You speak in twists.”
Syldrae fluttered her wings and then settled to the floor, tail tucked twice around. “Come, Gress. We both know that there is no boy.” Rows of dagger teeth pulled to form a smile. “Although I did enjoy the show you put on. It made me feel young again.” Her head lowered, nuzzling the rock. “Now come. You have invited, and I have agreed. Let us warm this stone.”
If Piscalo thought his jaw couldn’t get any more open he was wrong. He could have stuffed both his feet and hands in his mouth it was open so big. She thought what?
Gresset seemed just as shocked, moving not a muscle in response.
Syldrae gave a small titter at the stiff-backed green. “Has it truly been so long? It seems your romp with Ursha the Red has been much exaggerated.” Foggy lids slid over her massive eyes. “Don’t worry, dear. I shall rid you of your filth.”
Piscalo had seen the remains of a cavern once after a bout of lovemaking between dragons just after their third molting, both only twice the size of Zalc. The rock had been covered in soot, all life burned away. The stones had not just been warmed in the act but boiled until they were red hot, and it was in that fiery inferno that the dragons coupled. He couldn’t even imagine the blaze a dragon the size of Syldrae would create.
Piscalo jumped up, mouth open to scream, but he was quickly yanked down by both dragons and Misola.
“Shhhhhh!” they said.
His eyes darted between his friends. “We have to stop her,” he whispered desperately. “We can’t let her breath on them!”
Misola’s face loomed closer. “On what?”
Zalc shoved her aside. “Why not? The plan was that Gresset would when he came back mad, and he hasn’t yet.”
“But Syldrae wasn’t supposed to be here!” Piscalo cried, louder than he probably should have. “I don’t want to risk—”
FWOOOSH!
Heat seared Piscalo, and he stumbled back from the ledge with a cry. He tripped, his head hitting the stone floor, making his ears ring. His vision was filled with lights, and he blinked his eyes, but they didn’t go away. It was then that Piscalo recognized what he was seeing: a multitude of lit burning bulbs attached to the ceiling and sides of the cave, some even spreading like fingers into the tunnels. He eased himself into a sitting position, his pain forgotten as he looked up at the fruits of his plan. Zalc and Jikkol had done it. They had used all the bulbs Piscalo had brought in the sacks and stuck them to the rock with gum root sap. Now heated, those lights wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.
The sensation of success was short-lived though, for Gresset’s giant head lifted over him, blocking the view.
“PISCALO!” trumpeted the mighty green and not even the ringing in Piscalo’s ears could hold back the sound.
He crumpled forward. “My lord,” he said, barely able to hear his own words. Eyes to the ground, Piscalo felt more than saw the second head rise.
“What is this?” Syldrae hissed, like she had just found mice in her pen.
“This”—was that a hint of joy in the green?—“is the boy.”
“You,” spat the gray and her voice was no longer high but deep and deadly. “You did this?”
Piscalo’s mouth was opening and closing as he tried desperately to think of a way to explain himself so that he wouldn’t be turned to ash by one of these enormous dragons. While he floundered, something else caught Syldrae’s attention.
“Misola, my child! What are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, my lady,” Misola said, her voice not far from where Piscalo crouched. “But I could not miss the chance to see such a gift.”
Piscalo froze. Gift? What was she talking about? Don’t get caught up in my mess, Missy, he thought.
“Gift?” Gresset thundered, but Syldrae merely drew closer to her black-haired dasha.
“Go on,” the gray said.
“You had spoken so often of how marvelous the gift would be that you were presenting to Lord Gresset near his naming day that I had to see it myself. And truly it is a wonder to behold.”
The great green shifted. “Syldrae, what is—”
Piscalo jumped in before the gray had a chance to respond. He quickly scraped sideways, changing the focus of his obeisance to Syldrae. “I hope you are pleased, my lady. Two hundred and ninety-two burning bulbs, just as were discussed.”
Syldrae’s head snapped over him and slowly lowered, obviously weighing her options. She could easily expose both his and Misola’s lies, but to do so would mean that she had practically thrown herself at Gresset, and she would never live that down. Piscalo dared to look up, seeing one inky black eye sparkle over him. She held everything in her claws. The moment stretched so long Piscalo wanted to scream.
“Oh, I am very pleased, my little dasha.” Her eye twinkled. “I might just burn you again I am so happy!”
Piscalo fought not to sigh as Gresset’s face pulled back, confusion written across his maw.
“What is this?” He looked up at the many lights, to the sprawling forms of Piscalo and Misola, and finally back to Syldrae. “What is all of this?”
“Oh, my poor Gresset,” cooed the gray. “Do you not see? I have felt bad all these years about how we parted before and decided that it was time to make amends.”
Smoke poured from the green’s nostril. “Amends? By stealing one of my own?”
She moved closer, almost rubbing him scale to scale. “It was necessary, love. Only one of your own could have driven you out in such a fury and only one of your own could have done all this.” A wing moved to encompass the cave.
Gresset arched a ridged brow. “He climbed on the ceiling did he?”
Syldrae laughed sweetly. “Of course not, dear. I sent helpers, who departed before we arrived.”
It was good Piscalo was mostly facing the floor because one look at him would have given the game away. If Misola’s tongue was silver, Syldrae’s was gold. She wove lies like the blue wove wool!
“I remember well how drafty this cave can be,” she continued, but Gresset turned away.
“That was a long time ago.”
“So it was, but if I cannot be here to warm you, I thought that my fire trapped in these bulbs could.”
Piscalo dared to speak. “You also thought that they would remind him of the stars that he used to love to chase.”
Syldrae eyed him, whether for talking out of turn or because she was surprised that he knew something from so long before his time he wasn’t sure. “Well remembered, little dasha,” she said. “I did say that.”
Gresset took a slow look around. “They are most impressive,” he finally conceded.
She seemed to purr at the compliment. “Indeed they are. I plan to have the boy fill my own cave as well, but I wanted you to have them first.”
Her comment made Piscalo gulp. It had taken him near a year and constant trading of every scrap he had to get this many bulbs. To do the same for Syldrae would take forever, seeing as she had three caves, and if what Misola said was true, all were larger that Gresset’s modest abode.
“That was most kind of you,” the green brood lord said.
Again she purred. “Indeed it was, so I’m sure you will forgive my teasing before. I wanted your mind on other things, so it would truly be a surprise.”
If a dragon could blush, Gresset was as close as any Piscalo had seen. He waved the comment away with a wing. “Of course, of course. Thank you for your gift.” His massive head swung to regard Piscalo. “Your sons will be sad to see him go.”
Syldrae’s tongue whispered in and out. “They are partial to this dasha?”
“Partial?” Gresset said with a laugh. “They take him everywhere, like he is a true brother. I assume you’ve seen him tagging along when they come to visit you.”
“I have not…” Syldrae said, and the way she looked at Piscalo and Misola discernibly changed, causing them both to redden under the dragon’s weighty gaze.
“I thought, perhaps, that is why you took him,” Gresset continued, voice lowering. “To lure them away from me.”
Syldrae was silent for a time and when she spoke her words had none of their usual gilding. “You truly think I am so evil?”
Gresset huffed loudly. “I am an old fool,” he said. “And you are the better of us, offering me an apology when I have done nothing to deserve it.” He looked straight at her. “I am sorry, Syldrae. For everything.”
Piscalo watched the gray dragon’s eyes widen, but then, just as quickly, she regained control of herself. “Yes, well, I’m glad you like the gift. I’ll leave you to enjoy it.” Her long neck came to rest against the lip of the ledge. “Children.”
Her message was clear, but Piscalo balked. Getting on her back meant leaving everything he knew: Zalc, Jikkol, his green brothers and sisters. As a gray, his bonds with them would melt. And Gresset. Gresset would no longer be his clutch father. Everything would change.
Misola moved close to him—not touching, but close enough for him to notice. She smiled. No, he thought, not everything. He smiled back, and together they made their way down the huge neck, using the large spine spikes to keep their balance. Syldrae waited until they were both between her shoulder blades before she moved to the cavern entrance where Gresset waited.
The green’s mouth opened slowly. “For the bulbs you put in your cave…”
Syldrae paused. “Yes?”
“I would be honored to use my fire to light them.”
Piscalo felt Syldrae’s body warm underneath him, but to Gresset she simply arched her neck. “What an…unexpected offer. It shall be some time before the preparations are completed to my liking.”
“Then I shall wait,” Gresset said, his eyes lingering on her a moment and then shifting to Piscalo. “Goodbye, boy.”
Piscalo knew that he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t stop himself from blurting, “Were you going to burn me this year, my lord?”
The ridges of Gresset’s brows creased together. “No,” he said, and Piscalo’s shoulders slumped. “I was going to let either Zalc or Jikkol when they were old enough. You would have made a good clutch leader to either. I hope you will remain a friend to both since they are sons of gray.”
Piscalo’s feelings of rejection vanished like smoke. He beamed at the praise and a request he was more than happy to fulfill. “I will, my lord!” he said.
“I am pleased to hear it,” Gresset said, his teeth showing in a small smile.
Piscalo’s surroundings suddenly lurched as Syldrae leapt off of the ledge, forcing him to cling tightly to the spine spike that he and Misola had their arms and legs wrapped around. Piscalo had never ridden a dragon before, and if Syldrae’s body and wings hadn’t been so big, preventing him from seeing the ground below, he was sure he would have been scared or even sick. As it was, it felt similar to when he had looked out at The Crown from the height of the green spire, except now his view to the sides and up was much less restricted and the air blew into him much more fiercely.
They hadn’t been aloft long when Misola elbowed him in the side. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were scheming to get them back together!” she said, her words nearly ripped away by the wind. “How long have you been planning it?”
With everything that had just happened, Piscalo didn’t have the energy to try and feign any credit. “I only wanted to get burned,” he said.
Her eyes bugged. “You just put an end to one of the greatest dragon feuds in history accidentally?”
Piscalo shrugged.
She laughed. “You are such an idiot.”
“It worked didn’t it?” he said defensively.
She laughed again. “It did. Just like you planned, I’m sure.”
“Not quite…” he admitted, dropping his eyes to the gray scales beneath him. If I had just waited, he thought to himself.
“What about Zalc and Jikkol?” Misola asked.
He didn’t bother looking up. “What about them?”
“They were obviously hiding nearby. Do you think they’ll tell anyone the truth?”
“Maybe,” Piscalo said as he thought about it, “but not Gresset. Then they’d have to explain that they were there while he was getting fooled and could have stopped it. He’d be furious. No, they’ll whisper it around, but no one will believe.” Piscalo sighed, shaking his head. “Clutch, I don’t believe it.”
“Why are you so glum all of the sudden?” Misola said. “You were grinning ear to ear just a moment ago.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he said, glancing up at her.
“You wanted to get burned, didn’t you?”
Piscalo gave her a look. “Obviously.”
“Now you will. You heard her.”
“She wasn’t serious.”
“Of course she was. Besides she needs to now, to make the story real.”
“But I said I was burned at the ceremony. Gresset could ask anyone—”
“But he won’t. He has no reason to.”
Piscalo hesitated. “But gray?”
She elbowed him a second time. “A scar is a scar. You are what fills it.”
He was silent for another moment. “But gray?”
“Quiet back there!” Syldrae roared. “Or I’ll drop you here instead of cooking you in my cave!”
Piscalo’s jaw snapped shut, but Misola only giggled. “Don’t worry. She’s just thinking of everything she needs to do to get ready for Gresset to visit.”
“You think she’ll really invite him?” Piscalo said with a frown, keeping his voice low despite Misola’s apparent lack of concern.
She matched his frown and then some. “Definitely. You think he won’t accept?”
Piscalo had never known Gresset to say a kind thing about Syldrae before today, but he had also never known his brood lord to lie. “Their feud might be over,” he said, the full realization hitting him.
She laughed. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
“Do you think this means that the greens and grays will actually unite?”
“Whether the whole broods do or not, some of them certainly should.” She looked at him as she said it, her gaze unblinking.
This time, he kissed her, the wind making her hair whip against his face, but Piscalo didn’t mind. In fact, he liked feeling the soft tickling against the blush in his cheeks.
The kiss was warm like always, and for once, it wasn’t over too quickly.
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