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until they are old enough to dream their own dreams.
    Lysira had been
enchanted by the images she saw in Draconas’s mind—so different from those of
other dragons. His view of the world was different, for he saw it at ground
level. He saw the world walking. He walked with those strange creatures—humans.
He spoke to them, touched them, had even learned to think like them. The minds
of other dragons were like her own, filled with colors that were lovely,
tranquil, serene. Draconas’s colors—his human colors—were garish, jagged,
jarring, ugly, and beautiful, achingly beautiful.
    She’d had a
glimpse into his mind during the last session of Parliament, and she had been
shocked and disturbed and intrigued, so much so that she conjured up the images
again and again as she lay dreaming in her cave. Lysira was the first dragon to
arrive in the immense cavern in which the Parliament of Dragons was held. Anora
arrived shortly thereafter.
    Embarrassed by her
eagerness and abashed at being alone in the presence of this august and revered
elder, Lysira kept her thoughts carefully neutral in tone. She paid her
respects to the Minister, dipping her head and raising her wings, then wondered
uneasily what she was supposed to do now. Was she expected to make conversation
until the others arrived? Lysira could think of a great many things she wanted
to discuss, but all of them involved Draconas, and she was shy about bringing
him up.
    Lysira made one or
two half-hearted attempts to speak to the elder dragon. Lysira’s colors were
all pastel and muted, however, and Anora, preoccupied by her own raging thoughts,
never noticed the wisps of spring green and rose pink that trailed from Lysira’s
mind.
    Anora settled
herself at the front of the cavern. She glanced only once in the direction of
the young female, and that glance was filled with sorrow, as though she foresaw
some terrible fate about to befall the young dragon. The strange look from
Anora made Lysira even more uncomfortable, and she was thankful when the elder
dragon wrapped her tail around her feet and shut her eyes, a sign that she was
not to be disturbed. Lysira retreated into the darkest part of the cavern and
tried to blend it with the stalagmites.
    Finally the other
dragons began arriving and Lysira was forced to leave her shadows and greet
them. The dragons were ill at ease and nervous, their colors shifting and
blurring. Of late, they had come to dread these meetings of Parliament, for the
news they were given just got progressively worse. All of them looked to Anora
as they spiraled down through the fathomless darkness on barely moving wings. The
sight of her, clenched tightly around herself, did nothing to reassure them.
Alarm flew between the assembled dragons with such rapidity that Lysira swore
she could almost hear the thoughts whir through the darkness like bat wings.
    Lysira dipped her
head and raised her wings to each dragon in turn. She did not join in their
mental conversations, however. Young dragons are, for the most part, to be seen
and not heard, unless specifically invited to share their colors. Lysira might
possibly have received an invitation from some of the young males; she had an
impression of thoughts drifting her direction. She was distracted, however,
listening for the arrival of one dragon; listening for the sound of human
footfalls.
    Once the last
dragon had arrived, Anora came out of her dark musings and called the
Parliament to order, and still Draconas did not come.
    Lysira took her
place among the assembled heads of the houses of Dragonkind and opened her mind
to Anora’s thoughts.
    “I am sorry to
have brought you here on such short notice,” said Anora, her colors vibrant and
trembling, as from some long-suppressed emotion. “But I have urgent news to
impart to you, as well as a warning and ... a confession.”
    “We cannot
proceed. We are missing a member. Where is Draconas?” snapped Malfiesto.
    Malfiesto was old
and crotchety