Lynn Flewelling - The Oracle's Queen

Tamír held up a finger. The dragon crouched lower on the priest’s finger for a moment, baring tiny fangs and drawing its snaky neck back as if to strike. Its eyes were tiny golden beads, and spiky whiskers bristled out from its muzzle and head, fine as jeweler’s work. She noted every detail, already thinking how she could re-create it with wax and silver.

She’d worked with hawks enough to know that she must make no sudden moves and show no fear. Instead, she slowly brought her finger against the priest’s. The dragon flicked its wings nervously, then slowly climbed across to perch there, wrapping its tail around her fingertip. Its claws were sharp as thistle spikes. She’d expected its body to be smooth and cold, like a lizard’s, but instead felt an astonishing heat where its belly rested against her skin.

She slowly moved her hand so that Wythnir could get a better look. She’d never seen him look so happy.

“Can it breathe fire?” he asked.

“No, not until it’s much larger, assuming it survives. Most of the little ones don’t, even in Aurënen,” said Solun.

“These little fingerlings are hardly more than lizards,” Corruth added. “They change as they grow, and get quite dangerous in the process. One of our cousins was killed by an efir last year.”

“What’s an effer?” asked Ki, equally entranced by the little creature.

“A young dragon about the size of a pony. Their minds are still unformed, but they’re very fierce.”

“This one doesn’t look all that dangerous,” Ki chuckled, leaning in for a closer look. Perhaps he moved too quickly, for the fingerling suddenly lashed out and nipped him on the cheek just under his left eye.

Ki jerked back with a yelp, clapping a hand to his cheek. “Damnation, that stings like snakebite!”

Tamír sat very still but the dragon tensed, bit her, too, and fluttered away into the shadows where it had come from. “Ow!” she cried, shaking her finger. “You’re right, it does hurt.”

“Hold still, both of you,” laughed Corruth. The young Bôkthersan took a clay vial from his purse and quickly dabbed a bit of dark liquid on both bites.

The pain lessened at once, but when he wiped away the excess, Tamír saw that it had stained the tiny imprints left by the teeth. She had four dark blue spots on the side of her finger, just below the first knuckle. Ki had a matching mark on his cheek, and it was swelling.

“We match,” she noted wryly.

Arengil chided Corruth in their language and the other boy blushed. “Forgive me, I didn’t think,” he said, abashed. “It’s what we always do.”

“Corruth meant well, but I’m afraid the marks are permanent now,” Solun explained. “Lissik is meant to stain the bites and make them permanent.” He showed her a much larger mark between his thumb and forefinger. “They’re considered very lucky, signs of the Lightbearer’s favor. But perhaps you’d rather not have had them?”

“No, I don’t mind,” Tamír assured him.

“That’s quite the beauty mark for you, Ki.” Nikides laughed.

Ki polished the blade of his knife on his leg and held it up as a mirror to see the mark. “It’s not so bad. Makes for a good story if anyone asks about it.”

“Dragons are rare here, and so are the bites,” said Ralinus, inspecting the mark on Ki’s cheek more closely. “Would you teach me the recipe for that unguent, Solun í Meringil?”

“The plants we use don’t grow here, but perhaps I could send you some of our mixtures.”

Khair took Tamír’s hand gently between his own and looked closely at the mark. “It is the belief of our people that after it is grown to the size of intelligence, a dragon remembers the names of anyone it bites and has a bond with them.”

“How long does that take?” asked Ki.

“Several centuries.”

“Doesn’t do us much good, then.”

“Perhaps not, but you both will have a place in the dragon’s legends.”

“Should you ever come to Aurënen, a mark like that will gain you respect. There aren’t many Tírfaie who have them,” offered Corruth, still regretting his hasty act.

“Then it’s worth the bite. Your medicine’s already taken the worst of the sting out of it. Thanks.” Ki grinned and shook hands with him. “So the little ones can’t talk, either?”

“No, that comes only with great age.”

“Only the Aurënfaie have dragons that large living in their land,” said the priest. “No one knows why. They were in Skala long ago.”

“Perhaps because we are the most faithful,” Khair replied, reverting to his earlier bluntness. “You worship the Four, while we acknowledge only Aura, whom you call Illior.”

Ralinus said nothing, but Tamír caught a flash of dislike in his eyes.

“That’s an old argument, and one better left for another time,” Iya interjected quickly. “But surely even the Khatme cannot question the Lightbearer’s love for Skala now, as evidenced by Tamír herself.”

“She’s already been granted a true vision, a warning before the second Plenimaran assault,” Saruel told him. “With respect, Khair í Malin, you’ve not lived among the Tír as I have. They are devout and Aura has blessed them.”

“Forgive me, Tamír ä Ariani,” Khair said. “Once again I gave offense without meaning to.”

“I grew up among soldiers. They’re a plainspoken lot, too. I’d much rather you speak your mind openly to me than worry about etiquette and court manners. And you can expect the same from me.”

Solun chuckled—a warm, friendly sound—and Tamír found herself blushing again for no good reason.

Solun exchanged an amused look with his Gedre companions, then took a heavy golden bracelet set with a polished red stone from his wrist and rose to present it to her. “Bôkthersa would be the friend of Skala, Tamír ä Ariani.”

Tamír accepted the bracelet, and saw from the corner of her eye that Iya was motioning for her to put it on. She slipped it on her left wrist, trying to recall all his different names and failing. The gold was warm from his skin, a fact that did not help her composure. Still she managed not to stammer as she thanked him. “I am honored to accept, and hope you will always consider me to be your good friend.”

Sylmai presented her with a golden neck chain of tiny leaves set with some sparkling white stone. “May the ships of Gedre and Skala share ports once again.”

The Khatme was the last to come forward and his offering was different. He gave her a small leather pouch, and inside she found a pendant made of some dark, waxy green stone and set in a frame of plain silver. The stone was covered with tiny symbols or letters, surrounding the cloud eye of Illior.

“A talisman of Sarikali stone,” he explained. “That is our most sacred place, and these talismans bring true dreams and visions to those who honor Aura. May it serve you well, Tamír ä Ariani.”

Tamír guessed from the surprised expressions among the others that this was an uncommon gift for an outsider. “Thank you, Khair í Marnil. I will treasure it and the memory of your honesty. May all my allies be so forthright.”

“A noble hope, if a slim one,” he said with a smile. With that he rose and bade her good night. The others lingered behind.

Solun took her hand in his and examined the blue dragon bite mark again. His touch sent a pleasant tingle up her arm. “By this mark we will know you from now on, Aura’s Chosen One. I believe my father will be well disposed to your support. Send word to us if you are in need.”

“Gedre, as well,” said Sylmai. “We’ve missed trading with your land.” She turned to Iya and Arkoniel, who’d stayed close by, and spoke quietly with them.