Thousand-Mile Forest, squeezed between the endless flat grey clouds above and the rolling green ones below. In the hills and plains to the faraway east, Zafir's eyries were almost empty, her dragons dispatched to the palace. Once, in the far distance, back towards the mountains they'd abandoned, they saw four other dragons flying north, high in the sky and deep among the peaks. Other than that, they saw no one. As the light failed they stopped again in the empty depths of the forest, at the ancient abandoned Moonlight Garden, looking out over the wild Yamuna River and at the Aardish caves where Vishmir the Great and, some said, the Silver King himself were laid to rest, Jaslyn stood there amid the blood-red marble stones veined with yellow and watched the moon rise. In a place like this, in this wilderness of lonely emptiness and the stone relics of a people who had died and gone long ago, she felt strangely at home. Outwatch was like this. Surrounded by desolation, old beyond measure, crafted by hands long dead with skills long forgotten. Enduring. Everlasting.
Unlike everything else.
She sighed and tried to sleep under the cool open skies of the south. The dreams that came to her were strange, always were in this place. Of men with white hair and silver skin and wide blood-red eyes. Of the Silver Kings.
They flew away again with the dawn, saddlesore and weary although the dragons who did all the work seemed untroubled by their long flight. South-east now, down the Yamuna River and out across the rolling deep green canopy of the Raksheh. As they took off it started to rain, low grey clouds rolling in off the Sea of Storms far away to the south. Rain. It was delicious. A novelty for those born to the desert realm of Sand and Stone.
They crossed the edge of the Raksheh, the dark sprawl of trees breaking up into a patchwork of fields and copses laced with a dark spider-web of muddy roads and spattered with hamlets and farmhouses. As they did, Jaslyn saw a single dragon far in the distance. She urged on Morning Sun until he was alongside B'thannan and signalled to Hyrkallan, but by then the other dragon had seen them and sped away. They flew on a little further, closing in on the grand eyrie of Clifftop. Jaslyn looked for a open space and brought Morning Sun as gently as she could to the ground, thundering into the side of a hill, slipping and stumbling, tearing gouges as deep as a man out of the thick damp earth. A flock of sheep scattered in panic in front of them. Jaslyn felt a sharp stab of desire from her dragon. Hunger. He hadn't eaten since Evenspire. When she told him no, he snorted and tossed his head, blew a column of flame a hundred feet up into the air, the rain around his face sizzling into steam.
Jaslyn sat, slowly getting wet. The air smelled of dragon and the rich dark soil. Without the wind in her ears, the world fell silent apart from the steady hiss of the rain. She sat and she waited, alone in the emptiness while Hyrkallan and his two outriders circled above to mark where she was. That was how it was done, when a stranger on a dragon entered a foreign realm. Like an animal rolling on its back, exposing its belly to show it meant no harm.
Eventually the dragon from Clifftop came back with others. One rider landed nearby, his dragon shaking and tearing the earth once again. The rest stayed in the air, circling. Jaslyn told him who she was and why she'd come. She had no idea who he was. She wasn't at all sure that he believed her either, but then maybe he did. Or maybe he'd seen her at Lystra's wedding. Maybe he'd been one of the dozen and more southern riders who'd gallantly asked for her hand at a dance only to be brushed away without even a smile. Climbing to the top of the hill and then hurling themselves down the side, the dragons raced and flapped their wings and ripped the earth with their claws once again until they launched themselves into the air, one after the other. She followed him towards Clifftop, trying not to think of what would be waiting when they got there. Ceremonies and greetings and all manner of tedious rituals to go through. All a waste of time. From Clifftop to the palace of Furymouth was most of a day on the back of a horse, longer in a carriage. She didn't have much time before she'd have to fly back, and every hour she spent at the eyrie was an hour away from Lystra.
Except it wasn't. At Clifftop Jaslyn let Morning Sun dive and then spread his wings and almost stop in the air before smashing into the ground, the way all dragons like to land. She threw off her harness and slid from the dragon's back and there was Lystra, little sister Lystra, right in front of her only a few dozen yards away. In the rain, Jaslyn had to blink a couple of times to be sure. Then she had to blink again. Tears this time. Protocols and rituals could go hang. She raced across the ground and grabbed her sister, almost lifting her off the ground. She remembered the smell of the air here. The smell of the sea, the distant sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs below.
'Lystra!' She still had to keep blinking.
'Jaslyn!' Lystra seemed reserved, returning her embrace with only a measure of joy. Jaslyn took a second to realise why.
'Ancestors! You're so big! When will it be? It can't be long! Look at you!' She put a hand on her sister's big round belly and smiled. The first smile since… she couldn't remember. Since Lystra's wedding perhaps.
Lystra smiled too, the shy proud smile that Jaslyn remembered. The smile that made her heart melt, and perhaps Jehal's too. 'Another two months, they tell me.'
'So long? You look ready now!' The thought of Lystra as a mother had a bitterness to it. Almiri had already given Valgar three heirs. She was the last one. Lystra was all grown up, not little any more. But that sort of thinking wasn't helpful, wasn't why she'd come. 'Why are you here at Clifftop? You should be at the palace with everyone to look after you!' She stepped back. For the first time she realised that Lystra was clothed from head to foot in grey. 'You're in mourning! What's happened?' Someone was dead. Jehal? Her heart jumped with hope. Could it somehow be Jehal? Is he dead after all?
Lystra looked confused. 'You mean you don't know? How can you not know. Mother…'
Oh. Yes. That. Jaslyn looked down at herself. Not a trace of grey. She'd almost… No. Not almost. She'd actually forgotten. For a few days she'd forgotten that her own mother had been executed. She'd tried to forget that horror along with everything else, and for once she'd actually managed it. Now she felt ashamed.
There were several men and women standing either side of Lystra. Jaslyn had ignored them totally until one of them coughed and smiled and stepped forward.
'Meteroa, Your Holiness.' The man bowed. Holiness. She still couldn't get used to people calling her that. 'I am King Jehal's eyrie-master and I am at your service. I do my best to advise Queen Lystra while he is away. Currently I have advised her to move away from the palace. The air here is cleaner. So is the water. And indeed the food, I have discovered.' He raised an eyebrow as if he meant to convey some complex meaning. Jaslyn had no idea what he was talking about. She should have worn grey. She should have worn grey if only for Lystra. I never liked our mother but I know you did. I always thought you were her favourite because you were the pretty one, but maybe it wasn't that. Maybe she liked you the best because you were the only one of us who liked her back. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
'Can you…' She was still looking at Lystra. Could she what? Forgive her? For forgetting that their mother and their queen was dead? For being as coldly indifferent as the speaker?
'I'm sure Queen Lystra understands.' Meteroa smiled. 'You are almost at war with Speaker Zafir. There is little time for mourning. It is a luxury, I know. I assume that's why you're here.'
'I…' Is that why I'm here? 'I wanted to see my sister again. In case it was the last time.' She cocked her head at Meteroa, desperate to talk about something else. I want to be alone with my sister. ALONE! 'Since you are here, Eyrie-Master, I have a question for you. Do you have dragons who refuse their food? Hatchlings who sicken and starve and die?'
Meteroa chuckled. 'All eyries have them, Your Holiness. Tarrangan's Curse, we call it here. Three dragons live, one dragon dies. So it's always been.'
'Do you have any of them here right now?'
'Hissing and snarling at the end of their chains in some deep cavern beneath our feet? You ask strange questions, Your Holiness.' Meteroa looked baffled. 'I have no idea why you ask me this, but no, at present we do not. Why? Why do you wish to know? If I have your permission to ask, Your Holiness?'
'No.' Jaslyn shook her head, all interest suddenly gone. 'No, you don't.' She shivered. 'May we go?'
Meteroa bowed. 'Of course, Your Holiness.' He led them towards the cliff-top towers and in among the sprawling walls. 'The King of the Crags is returning to his mountains, I hear. It is curious, Your Holiness. Why would he emerge from the Worldspine for this when he doesn't even come for the crowning of a new speaker? I cannot help but wonder about that. Valmeyan has more dragons than any two kings or queens put together. It is something of a quandary. Can you enlighten me, Your Holiness?'
Jaslyn thought she sensed the faintest hint of mockery in Meteroa's voice. She bristled. 'No. I'm sure Prince Jehal will know the answer.'
