won’t have told them anything, Grandion. He’s very courageous.
He’s a dragonet.
Lia stroked his neck tenderly. He’s the bravest creature I’ve ever known.
Flicker suppressed a laugh at Grandion’s visceral reaction to her accolade. Pure, potent jealousy!
Who destroyed three Red Dragons this morning? The Dragon’s tone was neither friendly nor particularly endearing. Rending them limb from limb with my talons, I hurled those three weak-fires to their deaths in the Cloudlands!
Unexpectedly raising her voice in the fifteenth stanza of the vocal saga called Saggaz Thunderdoom, Lia responded:
Bestriding the sky as a tempest raises its battlements,
Saggaz Thunderdoom did smite his foes,
With claw and wing and breath of ice–
A low throb of laughter coursed through the Dragon’s body. “Point taken, Lia. I did wonder when you’d break into song. Well chosen, too, for that storm will strike us before the hour is ripe. Shall I rise above it?”
At the top of her lungs, she carolled:
Canst thou, canst thou?
My wingéd love, canst thou?
“Your what and how much?” spluttered Grandion.
“Unfortunate reference.” Lia fanned her heated face vigorously. “Uh–Grandion, can you do ice attacks? I saw a few tremendous lightning bolts back there.”
“You should see my shell-father …” He floundered to a halt. So, his father was a Blue Dragon? Flicker filed away that titbit of information. “Not yet, Lia. Age augments a Dragon’s powers, and I haven’t yet developed the power to generate ice. I can cool water for you, though–if you don’t mind that it comes from my water stomach.”
“Water you’ve spat up? I’ll take a rain check on that.”
“Ice idea,” agreed the Dragon, spotting the pun immediately.
“Oh, stop splashing words about!”
“Fine, Hail-iama, no need to storm at me.”
That was not even worth a groan. Grinning toothily over his shoulder at Lia and Flicker, the Tourmaline Dragon’s sweeping wingbeat quickened in tempo. He soared skyward, seeking to overfly the oncoming storm.
“Ra’aba and his allies grow in power,” Grandion noted. “They dare a daylight attack on the Isle of Gi’ishior itself? This bodes ill, my fair Rider. What say you?”
Flicker decided he had heard quite enough from the Tourmaline Dragon, especially his disgusting insinuations of affection for Hualiama. Besides, neither of them were paying him the slightest attention.
“Ooh,” he groaned pitifully.
Much better. Now her green eyes did their crinkling at the corners that unfailingly turned his insides to goo. Questions followed. Flicker tried not to lap up Lia’s fussing too blatantly as he modestly recounted the inspirational saga of his journey from Ha’athior Island to Gi’ishior, where he had conducted an audience with none other than Sapphurion himself, convincing the Dragon Elder to fly to the monastery to investigate. But upon leaving the Halls of the Dragons he had been ambushed by Razzior, the Orange Dragon, who had stolen from him the final scroll meant for a monastery hidden on tiny Giaza Island, just offshore of Gi’ishior. Flicker had been tortured for any further information he might have.
“I told them nothing!” Flicker said, proudly.
Hualiama bent her head to kiss his muzzle, which made him purr with pleasure and Grandion’s eyes bulge fit to pop out of their sockets. “You are truly spec-uh, spec-ta … spectabulous,” she said, appearing to grow confused.
“What is this tinge of blue on your soft skin, Lia?” asked the dragonet. He laid his paw on her arm. “And these funny bumps?”
“Cold,” she said, rubbing her arms. “This air’s so thin, it bites.”
“Take your tunic,” Flicker offered, hoping that she would refuse. On cue, straw-head shook that mane of hers. “Please,” he said. “I’m fine.”
“You’ve a broken leg. And your wings, your beautiful wings make me think of butterflies swirling about my face.” Hualiama made a shooing gesture. “Pretty butterflies just like a pretty dragonet, are you singing to me? I like singing butterflies.”
The dragonet squeaked at Grandion, What’s the matter with straw-head? Do something, you lumbering numbskull!
Chapter 21: Rolodia
A WARM FIRE glowing between three tremendous boulders that comprised the entire crown of a tiny Islet a hundred leagues north of Gi’ishior, a portion of lightly grilled bat and the kindness of two friends, were all Hualiama needed to recover. Flicker treated them to a comical rendition of her altitude sickness, making up all sorts of nonsense Lia was convinced she could never have said, not if all the Islands of the world turned into mountains of purple jelly inhabited by singing draconic eels.
Resting against Grandion’s flank, with the warmth of a Dragon at her back and a fire dying to embers before her, Lia brushed out her long, wavy tresses, which unbound