Blood of Dragons (Rain Wild Chronicles 4)

‘The Silver!’ she had cried out into the stunned silence that had followed Tintaglia’s fall. ‘Bring me all the Silver we have!’

Leftrin had expected that someone would object, that some other dragon would wish to claim a share. To his surprise, no one had challenged her. All the keepers had seemed to think it an appropriate use. Only one of the dragons had lingered to watch what would happen. Night was chill and dark; dragons preferred the warmth of the baths or the sand wallows for sleeping. They were not humans, to keep a vigil by a dying creature. Only golden Mercor had remained with her. ‘I do not know why Kalo kept her alive, nor why he brought her here to die,’ he had commented. ‘But doubtless, he will return for her memories. When he does, I caution you to be well out of his way.’ When the other dragons had wandered away from the dying creature as if Tintaglia’s fate shamed them, he had remained, standing and watching.

Sylve had run to fetch the flask of Silver and brought it out to the plaza. She carried the flask two-handed, and the Silver inside it whirled and swam as if alive and seeking escape.

‘What do you do with it?’ she asked as Malta gave the child to Reyn and took it from her hands. Such trust there had been in her voice, such belief that the Queen of the Elderlings would know what to do for the fallen dragon.

But Malta shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Do I pour it on her wound? Does she drink it?’ All were silent.

Malta followed Tintaglia’s outstretched neck to her great head. The dragon’s large eyes were closed. ‘Tintaglia! Wake! Wake and drink of the Silver and be healed! Be healed and save my child!’ Malta’s voice quavered on her final plea.

The dragon might have drawn a slightly deeper breath. Other than that, she did not stir. In her opalescent robe that brushed the tops of her feet and clutching the flask of gleaming silver liquid, Malta looked like a figure from a legend, but her voice was entirely human as she begged, ‘Does no one know? What should I do? How do I save her?’

Sylve spoke quietly. ‘Mercor told me the dragons drank it. Should you pour it into her mouth?’

‘Will she choke?’ Harrikin ventured a cautious question.

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‘The Silver!’ she had cried out into the stunned silence that had followed Tintaglia’s fall. ‘Bring me all the Silver we have!’

Leftrin had expected that someone would object, that some other dragon would wish to claim a share. To his surprise, no one had challenged her. All the keepers had seemed to think it an appropriate use. Only one of the dragons had lingered to watch what would happen. Night was chill and dark; dragons preferred the warmth of the baths or the sand wallows for sleeping. They were not humans, to keep a vigil by a dying creature. Only golden Mercor had remained with her. ‘I do not know why Kalo kept her alive, nor why he brought her here to die,’ he had commented. ‘But doubtless, he will return for her memories. When he does, I caution you to be well out of his way.’ When the other dragons had wandered away from the dying creature as if Tintaglia’s fate shamed them, he had remained, standing and watching.

Sylve had run to fetch the flask of Silver and brought it out to the plaza. She carried the flask two-handed, and the Silver inside it whirled and swam as if alive and seeking escape.

‘What do you do with it?’ she asked as Malta gave the child to Reyn and took it from her hands. Such trust there had been in her voice, such belief that the Queen of the Elderlings would know what to do for the fallen dragon.

But Malta shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Do I pour it on her wound? Does she drink it?’ All were silent.

Malta followed Tintaglia’s outstretched neck to her great head. The dragon’s large eyes were closed. ‘Tintaglia! Wake! Wake and drink of the Silver and be healed! Be healed and save my child!’ Malta’s voice quavered on her final plea.

The dragon might have drawn a slightly deeper breath. Other than that, she did not stir. In her opalescent robe that brushed the tops of her feet and clutching the flask of gleaming silver liquid, Malta looked like a figure from a legend, but her voice was entirely human as she begged, ‘Does no one know? What should I do? How do I save her?’

Sylve spoke quietly. ‘Mercor told me the dragons drank it. Should you pour it into her mouth?’

‘Will she choke?’ Harrikin ventured a cautious question.

‘Tintaglia? Tintaglia, please,’ Reyn ventured.

‘Should I pour it in her mouth?’ Malta asked the golden dragon directly.

‘There is not enough there to save her,’ Mercor said. ‘No matter what you do with it.’ Then he turned and walked away from them, up the wide steps and into the baths. Sylve looked shocked.

The words seemed not to register with Malta. ‘I can scarcely feel her,’ she said, and Leftrin knew she did not refer to the hand she laid lightly on the dragon’s face. ‘She has grown so much since I last saw her,’ she added, and for a moment, she sounded almost like a doting parent. She stroked Tintaglia’s face, and then pushed at the dragon’s lip. Leftrin drew closer to watch, as did the gathered Elderlings. The lifted lip bared reciprocating rows of pointed teeth, neatly meshed together.

‘There is room between them, I think, if I pour it slowly,’ Malta said. She spoke very quietly as if she and the dragon were the only creatures in the whole world. She tipped the flask and the Silver spiralled out in a slender, gleaming thread. It did not flow swiftly, as water would have, but cautiously, as if it lowered itself to the dragon’s mouth. It touched her teeth, pooled briefly along her gum and then seemed to find the entry it sought. It vanished between her teeth. No last drop fell from the flask; it had poured like a spooled thread unwinding and so it vanished, too.

The night seemed darker with the Silver gone from sight. The ghost light of the Elderling city gleamed softly all around them. The keepers stood, waiting and listening. After a long, chill time, murmurs began. ‘I expected a miracle.’

‘I think she is too far gone.’

‘She should have poured it on the wound, perhaps.’

‘Mercor warned us there wasn’t enough,’ Sylve said miserably, and hid her face in her hands.

Reyn had been crouching beside Malta, their child in his arms. He stood up slowly and lifted his voice. ‘We would be alone with our dragon and our child, if you do not mind,’ he said. He did not speak loudly, but his words seemed to carry. Finished, he sank back down to the cobblestones beside his wife.

In ones and twos, the keepers drifted away. Sedric tugged gently at Carson’s arm. ‘We should go,’ he said softly.

Leftrin glanced over at them. ‘You should,’ he agreed gently. ‘There’s nothing else any of us can do here. And death is a private thing.’