“Did I say anything?”
“For a change, no, but you were definitely thinking it.”
“Are you telling me to stop thinking?”
Conversational porcupine! Gnashing his fangs, he gazed into the distance.
The three younger women worked at weapons training together and shooting arrows at targets until the early afternoon, when they set out for another stint in the air.
Their chosen flight path curved over the south-eastern foothills of the Tamarine Range, a dry but wooded range of hills that smelled strongly of pine scents and bitter herbs. They kept to the vegetation belt without intruding on the Blood Desert itself; in the early evening, Dragon spied a smaller Bloodworm through his spectacles.
What did monstrous worms do for fun? Burrow beneath kingdoms?
Turning north with the vaulting ranges of snow-capped peaks to their left paw, he searched for a campsite while Yardi and her grandmother engaged in a heated discussion about how much travel seniors could handle, even if they were having the best time of their life.
“There, beside that hot spring,” Azania suggested. “Is that a small buck?”
“Aye. Shall we sneak in?”
“He sneaks?” Yarimda inquired in surprise.
“You’ve no idea how quiet and sneaky a beast of Dragon’s size can be,” Azania said truthfully. “Show her, Dragon.”
Drawing his magic about him, he silenced the wuthering wind, his breathing, even the thudding of his hearts which Azania told him she could hear during flight.
“Awesome,” Inzashu chirped.
“Shh!” said everyone else.
Silent as a drifting snowflake, they ghosted down toward the multihued springs, set in a shallow green valley, which possibly arose from mountain meltwater, Dragon surmised. Out there in the rust-red desert wasteland, there seemed to be no moisture at all. Would the suspected trade route follow the coastline, or would the flying route parallel the mountains here, as they were doing?
As he came down into Azania’s range and the Princess landed a perfect shot to the heart, he found an answer of sorts. He spied paw prints in the crusty white salts beside the steaming spring, the most easterly of a set of at least five.
Why else would Dragons be out here?
After setting down and unloading, he took a long, long soak in the hottest spring. Glorious. The heat unknotted his weary muscles. Every ten minutes or so, he could enjoy a hot shower from a regular geyser. This was a balm to his unbearably itchy hide. Maybe he would just sleep right here. The crusty salts looked and smelled tempting, despite being every colour of the rainbow. The girls set up camp, did their laundry – he lazily pictured hanging up Dragon scales to dry – and Inzashu changed her sister’s crusty bandages. The double wound had puckered up and was oozing a few nasty yellow spots Dragon could have done without seeing.
Human bodies – blergh!
“A hot salt water soak would be best,” the younger Princess announced. “Clothes off, sister, and find a pool you can tolerate.”
Hand to bosom, pretending – he was not quite sure what this was, but it might be related to the literary idea of maidenly palpitations, which he was convinced Azania had never experienced in her life – the older sister declaimed, “Oh, not near yon fearsome beast!”
“Sister, that snaggletoothed monster, that fiendish four-pawed –”
“Snaggletoothed?”
Fire dribbled from his mouth, contributing to the general heat of his pool. Once, he had been a beast of enormous draculinity. Now look at him!
“Fie, hearken how he awakens in fearful, panting majesty, sister!” Azania cried.
“Ah, I tremble that he did not even let me finish my one and only polished sentence, and now I am laughing too hard to think of any more creative insults –”
“I can always come up with a few extra.”
Rising from his pool, Dragon stalked over toward them. “I think I’ll practise my Princess-throwing skills now. Which pool did you want to try?”
“The one not overrun by a formidable monster,” she crooned.
To his annoyance, his new fire stomach promptly began to rumble as if he had swallowed a small but decidedly angry Dragon. Even though the girls’ laughter irked him, he decided to play with the sensation, experimenting, perhaps learning an element of control.
No chance. Once it was present, the fire had to be expelled. Was that to do with the electrolysis process, whereby his lightning magic worked upon highly flammable gases? He let the flame play from his lips, governing the flow with his throat and tongue. The sensation was marvellous, like playing with silken cloth that slowly, endlessly whispered up out of his body – but soon, the familiar tingling spread all over, and with it came the excruciating itching.
Scratch, scratch, SCRATCH!! GNARR!
Tell me about these fires, Dragon, Yarimda invited. I understand that you’ve found the song of your ocean. Now, if you had never breathed fire in twenty years, we must expect things to change. You are fire. Fire is the Dragon – but moreover, your fire is unique amongst Dragons of the air, as I understand it. That will mean changes to your physiology, some of which are clearly uncomfortable.
By my wings, that’s an understatement! he growled, watching his talons curling helplessly at the jangling sensations playing up and down his nerves. I thought – wrongly, it seems – that after I found my fires, everything would be easy.
Serenely, she said, But it is. Your fire arises at a thought.
He scratched his rump glumly.
Come on. Tell an old lady all about it – and this time, I promise not to fall asleep, alright?
Fire! He gulped twice, threw back his head, and lost it.
Yarimda cocked her head and watched his flame gush and gush and gush. Eventually, she said, Now that’s a breath weapon worthy of the name, Dragon! Come on, let’s get to work on you.
An evening’s pleasant conversation, theorising, testing and experimentation came
