Blood of Dragons

He nodded and turned to look at the gloved hand that gripped his shoulder. He scowled. ‘What is that made from?’ he demanded.

Thymara didn’t look at him or it as she put the second gauntlet on. Heeby lay as much on her belly as a dragon could, her head down the well, struggling to reach the stuff. She watched her own dragon gulping down the Silver as if her life depended on it. It did. She understood a little of what Sintara had told her about hating dependence of any kind. Dependence forced one to make compromises, ones they would rather not recall. She looked at the glove on her hand, heavy leather with the scale beds still visible.

‘Dragon-hide,’ she said. ‘The only thing impervious to Silver.’ She felt a shadow wash over her and looked up. Dragons were circling and a moment later, their wild trumpeting filled the air. ‘We’d better get those buckets filled now if we’re going to get any,’ she told him, and he nodded.

The baby was squalling, a lusty angry cry. Malta was laughing and crying as she fumbled at the front of her tunic. When she freed her breast, Ephron seized it indignantly; his cries stopped so suddenly that Reyn laughed aloud. Their son was thin, his eyes sunken and his little hand a claw on her breast, but he was alive and fighting to remain so. He suckled so hard that Malta winced, and then laughed again.

‘She heard me,’ she told Reyn. ‘At the last, she heard us. She Changed him.’ Tears ran down her face and followed the curves of her smile. She leaned forward to touch her dragon. The breath from her nostrils barely stirred the fine hair on Ephron’s head. ‘He’s going to live, Tintaglia. He’s going to live, and I will see he remembers all I know about you.’

In another part of the city, a wild trumpeting of dragons suddenly arose. Malta turned to Reyn. ‘I think they know. And soon Kalo will be here to take what is left of her.’

Reyn asked the dreadful question they had both wondered. ‘Will that make him of her lineage, if he takes her memories? Will he know how to help Ephron again if he needs it? Or if we have other children?’

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. Other children. A foolish dream, perhaps. They had one, one to cherish, one whose eyes were closed now, his little round belly tight and full. Had they a right to hope for anything more than that?

‘That’s Kalo coming. He’s flying fast. My dear, we have to leave her now. Come. Up and out of the way.’ Reyn stood stiffly and bent to help Malta stand.

Kalo was coming in fast and he pushed them with a wild command. Out of the way!

Malta shot to her feet and scrambled back, clutching the baby that now wailed at being awakened. There were other dragons coming in behind him, gold Mercor and nasty little Veras. ‘I don’t want to watch it,’ Malta wailed, turning her face into Reyn. ‘She’s not even dead yet! How can they?’

‘It’s their way, my dear. It’s their way.’ His arms closed around her and the child. Despite the horror she felt, she turned back to watch the dragons land around the fallen queen.

Kalo flung back his head and then snapped it forward. He darted his head in, jaws wide, and despite herself, Malta screamed.

A thick silvery mist emerged from his mouth. He leaned closer to Tintaglia, breathing it out on her. Then he whipped his head again and once more spewed a fog of Silver onto her. Mercor landed beside him. Kalo trumpeted territorially, but the smaller male ignored him. He copied him, misting Tintaglia with drifting Silver as Veras waited her turn. It settled on the supine dragon, coating her in Silver.

The slight morning breeze was carrying the stuff. ‘Get back!’ Reyn shouted as sleepy keepers began to emerge from the bath hall. They stumbled back, but the mist was heavy. Malta flung her cloak over her baby. They turned and ran, fleeing up the steps of a nearby building. The Silver made a sizzling sound as it settled on the paving stones. Malta looked back. For an instant, tiny silver balls seemed to rattle and dance on the pavement before they darted into the cracks and vanished.

‘Look at her!’ Reyn gasped and Malta turned her eyes back to her dragon.

Tintaglia was shrouded with moving Silver. It slid over her skin as if caressing her. She saw it boiling in the dragon’s wounds and cried out in low horror at the sound and the smell it made. It sank into the dragon where it coated her, vanishing like ink absorbed into a cloth. Like ink, the colour remained on her, a silver haze over her blue scales, like fog on a window. Malta held her breath.

She stared at a slash on Tintaglia’s shoulder. It bubbled at the edges. Slime and bits of dead flesh rose and dribbled down the dragon’s skin. In their wake the gash was closing, filling in with sound flesh and a coating of paler, smaller scales.