But in his heart, he knew that it was time to go, and with a sweeping turn, he arced toward land. He made a straight line along a deep valley in the foliage-draped massif rising toward the island’s center, bearing toward the well-known gathering place concealed there. Certainly many of the younger silvers would already be present, and no doubt Silvara would have arrived as well. But Lectral was the venerable silver, and his presence was required before the ceremony could begin.
Saytica had died peacefully, as was the natural way of elder dragons. Soon her body would be commended unto the gods from the height of the Silver Stairs, and it was not only Lectral’s wish, but his sacred duty, that he be there.
He continued to climb, following the winding valley of one of the mountainous island’s rapid, plunging creeks. He worked harder now, powerful strokes of his wings carrying him upward, past the steep, verdant walls of the narrow vale. Thankfully, the wind was off the sea, and he was able to ride the current of air inland, focusing his own efforts merely on staying aloft, gaining altitude only as it became necessary.
He saw the snow-capped peaks, where the silver dragon nests, rich with eggs, were securely cached. He remembered the lifelong lesson, passed along by Callak and Daria-guard the eggs! It had been the goal of dragonkind since the days in the grotto, and at least life on the Dragon Isles insured that he and his kin-dragons had been able to accomplish this.
As he flew, Lectral tried once again to remember the passing of the last dozen winters, but he realized that those memories were blurred. It had stopped raining before then, perhaps two or three dozen years ago. Preceding that, storms had wracked the islands for no less than a full century. That had been a dark time, when the world itself had rumbled underfoot, and ash and cloud had darkened the skies in a nearly eternal shroud. It had been an era when Lectral had yearned poignantly for the stability of his beloved Kharolis.
He knew that more recently he had been sleeping for some time, until he had been awakened by the coming of a griffon. The creature had respectfully informed him of the passing of Saytica and presented the announcement that her commending would occur when the sun first reached its zenith following the spring equinox.
Saytica… Unlike Lectral, she had flown to war when the call came, had borne a lancer against the chromatic dragons while mighty Lectral had ignored his nestmates and gone off on his own. His regrets had been strong, at first, but now even those emotions had been dulled by the passage of centuries. Dulled, perhaps, but they were still there.
Trying to focus his hazy memories, Lectral wasn’t even certain upon which of the isles he had most recently been sleeping. One of the smaller islets, certainly. Was it Jaentarth, or perhaps Alarl? No matter, really. With the exception of Cloudhome, the isles were quite similar, almost interchangeable in the ancient silver’s opinion. True, each was for the most part a paradise of plentiful food, balmy weather, and pastoral wilderness. But they were also boring. And after this ceremony, Lectral would eventually find another lair amid the perfect terrain of the Dragon Isles, curling up and going back to sleep. In fact, it would probably be very soon, for there was little to do here except sleep.
With a twinge of sadness, he wondered: was this to be the destiny of all the young silvers as well, the proud and mighty descendants of him and his mighty sire, and their ancestors back through the dawn of time? Would they merely grow large so that they could move from cave to cave, spending increasing periods of their life asleep, too torpid even to note the arrival of a new summer or winter?
In truth, the summers on the Dragon Isles were things Lectral would just as soon spend in the depths of a cool and sunless cave. When he did emerge during the hot season, he invariably sought the glacial heights of the islands’ central massifs, where the altitude was sufficient to hold even the scorching heat at bay. A silver’s temperament was not made for the tropics.
Of course, the gold dragons seemed to be content in exile, since they seemed to find contentment in everything. Led by Regia and Arumnus, they dwelt in great airy palaces and manors in the City of Gold, spending most of their time in the human or elven guises they preferred. The ancient matriarch and her stolid, ever predictable mate presided over arguments in philosophy or created artworks and poems during their periods of activity and awareness. Of course, the younger silvers had told Lectral that lately even the golds were spending increasing amounts of time sleeping in their silk-draped chambers. It was as if a plague of tiredness was besetting dragonkind, sapping their might and their imaginations and, eventually, even their very animation and spirit.
The dragons of the brown metals had grown wild and disparate during the millennium of exile. For the most part, they chose solitary lairs on the outer islands, or in the deepest wilderness of Misty Isle. Brass, bronze, and copper invariably regarded each other with jealous distrust, and all had become suspicious and hostile toward the brighter wyrms. The silvers and golds, for their part, tended to leave their lesser cousins alone.
On his current flight, Lectral glided across a deep valley that he recognized. Numerous hot springs spouted from the marshy floor, and he knew the bronze dragons nested and laired here. Strangely, he saw no activity in the great lake centering the swampy lowland, and he wondered if the bronzes, like all the rest, had become listless and torpid.
True, some dragons remained restless. Silvara, for example, much as her elder sister had done a thousand years ago, spent long periods of time traveling unknown reaches. Though no one accused her to her face, it was widely rumored that she was violating the stricture against travels on Ansalon. But certainly she, too, would be present for the ceremony of her elder sister’s commending.
Shaking his head, Lectral realized that he had arrived, his flight at last crossing the ridge bordering the bronzes’ swamp. Now he glided toward the small, circular vale at the foot of the Silver Summit.
True to Lectral’s guess, the valley below was flocked with silver shapes, all of them supple and wiry… and young. These were not wyrmlings by any means. Dargentan and Darlant, who cleared a path for their venerable sire, were mighty serpents in their own right. Each was already larger than Lectral had been at the time of Huma’s war, though the ancient one was now half again as huge as either of his proud scions.
The sire came to a rest in the middle of the silver throng, and with measured dignity, he dipped his chin in acknowledgment of the honoring bows, heads dropping all the way to the ground, of the younger wyrms of argent. Folding his wings with precise care, Lectral turned his attention to the nearby mountain and its glimmering path of ascent.
The steep slope leading to the Silver Summit climbed in metallic perfection from the base of the valley to the top of a small, pyramidal mountain. Saytica’s body lay atop the flat peak, which was a space just large enough to contain the massive silver corpse. Solemnly the gathered dragons raised their heads, all eyes focused on the edge of the mountaintop.
His height allowed Lectral to see that several gold dragons were present as well, standing to the side of the gathered silvers in a little knot of human and elven bodies. The ancient silver knew the golds would claim this was because space in the small valley was limited, but he believed that his golden kin-dragons actually preferred to spend their lives in their tiny two-legged bodies.
“Greetings, Elder Brother,” came a familiar voice, and Lectral’s heart soared with an emotion he hadn’t felt in too many winters.
“Silvara! It’s a joy to see you, Little Sister, even in the sadness of our gathering.”
“It is a mixed sadness,” declared the graceful silver female, advancing to Lectral’s side. Dargent and Darlant bristled, holding the rest of the wyrms back from the pair. “I do not mean to be cold, but Saytica had not been truly living for more than a thousand winters.”
“No,” agreed Lectral. “Not in the way we once lived upon Ansalon…”
“I must confess,” Silvara said softly, “I would have stayed away from here if I could.”
Lectral thought of Heart, and suddenly he felt very old and very sad.
“Did you love her? Saytica?” asked the silver female softly.
Lectral shook his head. “She was special to me, a treasure. But I have learned that love is not-or at least, shouldn’t be-a concern of dragons. Let the lesser creatures suffer from that whim.”
“It is to be wished,” Silvara said, but there was a strange sadness in her eyes that didn’t quite match her words. Lectral remembered again the rumors, whispered by young wyrmling and wandering griffon, that she had visited the continent in violation of the exile. He wished that he could warn her of the danger-certainly Regia or Arumnus would have been able to-but his heart broke at the thought of forcing her to an unwilling confinement.
A whisper of attention hissed through the crowd, and all the gathered dragons turned their eyes toward the top of the gleaming slope.
