to see them eat the blue.
“If we can’t feed them, I suppose that the weak ones will starve. After a time, there will be few enough dragons that we can feed them.” She tried to speak calmly and maturely, voicing the fatality that underpinned the philosophy of most Rain Wild Traders.
“Do you think so?” her father asked. His voice was cool. Did he rebuke her? “Or do you think they might find other meat?”
BLOOD, SO COPPERY and warm. That was what she wanted. She snaked out her long tongue and licked her own face, not just to clean it, but to gather in any smear of food that might be left there. The deer had been excellent, unstiffened and warm. The entrails had steamed their delightful aroma when her jaws closed on the deer’s belly. Delicious, delicate . . . but there had been so little of it. Or so her stomach told her. She had eaten almost a quarter of a deer. And all of the cocoon that she had not absorbed during her hatch, she had devoured. She should feel, if not satiated, at least comfortable. She knew that was so, just as she knew so much else about being a dragon. After all, she had generation after generation of memories at her beck and call. She had only to cast her mind back to know the ways of her kind.
And to take a name, she suddenly remembered. A name. Something fitting, something appropriate to one of the Lords of the Three Realms. She pushed her hunger from her mind for the moment. First a name, and then a good grooming. And then, after preening her wings, to hunt. To a hunt and a kill that she would share with no one! The thought of that flushed through her. She lifted her folded wings from her back and gently waved them. The action would pump her blood more swiftly through the tough membranes. The wind they generated nearly pushed her off her feet. She gave a challenging caw, just to let anyone who might think of mocking her know that she had intended that sudden sideways step. She’d caught her balance now. What color was she, in this life? She limbered her neck and then turned to inspect herself. Blue. Blue? The most common color for a dragon? She knew a moment’s disappointment but then pushed it aside. Blue. Blue as the sky, all the better to conceal herself during flight. Blue as Tintaglia. Blue was nothing to be modest about. Blue . . . was . . . Blue was . . . No. Blue is . “Sintara!” She hissed her name, trying it on the air. Sintara. Sintara of the clear blue morning skies of summer. She lifted her head, drew in a breath, and then threw her head back. “Sintara!” she trumpeted, proud to be the first of this summer’s hatch to name herself.
It did not come out well. She had not taken a deep enough breath, perhaps. She threw her head back again, drew the wind into her lungs. “Sintara!” she trumpeted again, and as she did, she reared onto her hind legs and then sprang upward, stretching her wings.
A dragon carries within her the memories of all her dragon lineage. They are not always in the forefront of her mind, but they are there to draw on, sometimes deliberately when seeking information, sometimes welling up unobtrusively in times of need. Perhaps that was why what happened next was so terrible. She lifted unevenly from the ground; one of her hind legs was stronger than the other. That was bad enough. But when she tried to correct it with her wings, only one opened. The other clung to itself, tangled and feeble, and unable to catch herself, she crashed to the muddy riverbank and lay there, bewildered, on her side. The physical impact was debilitating, but she was just as stunned by the certainty that, for as far back as her memories could reach, nothing like this had ever happened to any dragon in her lineage. She could not assimilate the experience at first; she had no guide to tell her what to expect next. She pushed with her stronger wing, but only succeeded in rolling onto her back, a most uncomfortable position for a dragon. Within moments, she felt the
“If we can’t feed them, I suppose that the weak ones will starve. After a time, there will be few enough dragons that we can feed them.” She tried to speak calmly and maturely, voicing the fatality that underpinned the philosophy of most Rain Wild Traders.
“Do you think so?” her father asked. His voice was cool. Did he rebuke her? “Or do you think they might find other meat?”
BLOOD, SO COPPERY and warm. That was what she wanted. She snaked out her long tongue and licked her own face, not just to clean it, but to gather in any smear of food that might be left there. The deer had been excellent, unstiffened and warm. The entrails had steamed their delightful aroma when her jaws closed on the deer’s belly. Delicious, delicate . . . but there had been so little of it. Or so her stomach told her. She had eaten almost a quarter of a deer. And all of the cocoon that she had not absorbed during her hatch, she had devoured. She should feel, if not satiated, at least comfortable. She knew that was so, just as she knew so much else about being a dragon. After all, she had generation after generation of memories at her beck and call. She had only to cast her mind back to know the ways of her kind.
And to take a name, she suddenly remembered. A name. Something fitting, something appropriate to one of the Lords of the Three Realms. She pushed her hunger from her mind for the moment. First a name, and then a good grooming. And then, after preening her wings, to hunt. To a hunt and a kill that she would share with no one! The thought of that flushed through her. She lifted her folded wings from her back and gently waved them. The action would pump her blood more swiftly through the tough membranes. The wind they generated nearly pushed her off her feet. She gave a challenging caw, just to let anyone who might think of mocking her know that she had intended that sudden sideways step. She’d caught her balance now. What color was she, in this life? She limbered her neck and then turned to inspect herself. Blue. Blue? The most common color for a dragon? She knew a moment’s disappointment but then pushed it aside. Blue. Blue as the sky, all the better to conceal herself during flight. Blue as Tintaglia. Blue was nothing to be modest about. Blue . . . was . . . Blue was . . . No. Blue is . “Sintara!” She hissed her name, trying it on the air. Sintara. Sintara of the clear blue morning skies of summer. She lifted her head, drew in a breath, and then threw her head back. “Sintara!” she trumpeted, proud to be the first of this summer’s hatch to name herself.
It did not come out well. She had not taken a deep enough breath, perhaps. She threw her head back again, drew the wind into her lungs. “Sintara!” she trumpeted again, and as she did, she reared onto her hind legs and then sprang upward, stretching her wings.
A dragon carries within her the memories of all her dragon lineage. They are not always in the forefront of her mind, but they are there to draw on, sometimes deliberately when seeking information, sometimes welling up unobtrusively in times of need. Perhaps that was why what happened next was so terrible. She lifted unevenly from the ground; one of her hind legs was stronger than the other. That was bad enough. But when she tried to correct it with her wings, only one opened. The other clung to itself, tangled and feeble, and unable to catch herself, she crashed to the muddy riverbank and lay there, bewildered, on her side. The physical impact was debilitating, but she was just as stunned by the certainty that, for as far back as her memories could reach, nothing like this had ever happened to any dragon in her lineage. She could not assimilate the experience at first; she had no guide to tell her what to expect next. She pushed with her stronger wing, but only succeeded in rolling onto her back, a most uncomfortable position for a dragon. Within moments, she felt the
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