them into lava flows or hurled them into the Cloudlands.
Nobody crossed a Dragon.
And whoever had dreamed up the misnomer ‘Lesser Dragon’ to describe an awesome reptilian predator which grew up to a hundred and twenty feet in wingspan, and could devour a three-thousand pound ralti sheep in a sitting, had to have a flock of chattering lovebirds for brains. Dragons were the mightiest creatures of the Island-World, bar none.
That did not stop some people dreaming about them.
Craning her neck gingerly, Hualiama worked out that she lay on a leafy, spreading branch a mile above an open magma pit. She was further down the cliffs than she had ever been, probably being poisoned by the Cloudlands’ toxic gases. Her right arm was heavily bruised, almost definitely broken. Between her shoulder blades, her back ached as though Ra’aba had cut her open a second time. And her stomach–great Islands! Someone had cleaned the wound and stuffed it full of green pulp. She saw very little bleeding on the outside, but she did not want to think about the mess inside.
This must be the dragonet’s work–just look at the neat piles of herbs stacked on broad leaves near her left hand, and the sticky green mess still visible on the animal’s paws.
Impossible. Dragonets were beautiful, amazing, and as thoughtless as the average clump of rocks. What they could do was sing. Often, when taking vocal training as was required of all Fra’aniorian royals–proper or adopted–Hualiama would hear the trilling descant of dragonets accompanying her vibrant soprano. They seemed to prefer her voice even over her youngest brother, Ari, whose developing tenor was widely regarded as the finest voice of his generation. Big Ari. His speech was a muddle, but when he sang, the very Islands sat up, wide-eyed and agog.
Would she ever see her family again?
She was alive. Quiet, hopeless tears slid down Lia’s cheeks. If they were fortunate, her family would be marooned on an unmarked boulder somewhere in the trackless reaches of the Cloudlands.
When a volley of sobs shook her body, the dragonet stirred.
* * * *
Flicker awoke from a dream of being a hatchling again, sleeping alongside his egg-mother, safely cocooned in the warm heart of a dragonet warren.
Unfortunately, his waking was not quite so peaceful, as he found himself cuddled up to his patient. A squeak of dismay escaped his muzzle as Flicker instinctively tried to flap away. Agony! He tumbled muzzle over paws, but something jerked his wing.
The creature had grabbed him! He bit her paw.
“Ouch, you little rajal!” she cried.
Don’t you touch me, you freak!
“Islands’ sakes, little one, I didn’t … I only wanted to save you a fall.”
Flicker hissed, flaring his wings and mock-charging the two-leg. Ooh. He grimaced. Whatever damage he had done, he could not escape … don’t touch me. Grr! By the First Egg, the wretched little windroc had dared to grab his wing! Dragonets were extremely fussy about their wings and tails.
She withdrew her left hand. “Down, girl. Take it easy,” she said. “Here, I won’t hurt you. Did you make these herbs? And treat me? I feel surprisingly good, thank you.”
Meaningless monkey-chatter issued from her flat muzzle, but when she indicated the herbs, he realised that the creature must have some sort of tiny brain after all. Well, didn’t he know that? They used tools and built their communal warrens–so why couldn’t they talk like normal creatures?
Now, her strange face became animated. He began to say, You’re the ugliest … Flicker pulled up with a gurgle of surprise. He was quite certain she was baring her fangs at him, but as he gazed into her smoky green eyes, exactly the same colour as his scales, an inexplicable power seemed to seize his body. His hearts expanded in his chest. A singing began in his ears; not Dragonsong, but a deeper, more spine-tingling melody, a type of magic he had never experienced before.
All Flicker knew was that he neither wanted to move, nor could he.
Her lips parted even further, exposing her pathetic incisors; those gimlet eyes crinkled at the corners. With more of her soothing noises, the creature reached out to touch his neck with her worm-like digits. The dragonet trembled.
“You’re a beautiful, perfect little Dragon,” she said. “Are you hurt? Did you hurt yourself, saving me?”
Don’t, that’s … very nice. Flicker’s scales prickled as she stroked his neck, growing bolder. A low vibration of satisfaction emerged from his chest. Listen here, flat-face, you’re taking liberties … I can’t believe it. I’m