Rohan had given them: on a red field bound in blue, a sword was stitched in silver thread, signifying the role of Radzyn’s lord in defending the Desert. On Chay’s pennant and battle standard the whole was bordered in white, and looked magnificent. Maarken dreamed a little of the time when he would give Hollis a cloak carrying that symbol. . . .
His mother looked around at him then, and Maarken tensed slightly as if suspecting she had read his thought. But she only smiled and rolled her eyes expressively, and he grinned back. She had the least patience for sitting still of anyone he had ever known. She hated lack of physical activity, and even when discussing a problem she tended to pace, drum her fingers, tap her feet, shift position constantly. Her activist approach to everything was occasionally her husband’s despair; she believed that there was nothing in her world that could not be helped, solved, or conquered if only one got up and did something about it. Rohan was her opposite in that way, as in most others; he believed in allowing things to develop, in not forcing events. In the very personal matter of Hollis, Maarken knew he could count on his uncle’s quiet support, and that was a help. But if Tobin decided she approved of Hollis, she would do everything in her considerable powers to facilitate the match. Maarken did not like to think what she was capable of if she did not approve of his Choice.
It amused him that his quiet, serene Hollis was so different from his mother. She would never fly into a tearing rage, give imperious commands, or escalate a difference of opinion into a shouting match. Tobin did all these things with as much relish as she lived the rest of her life. Maarken adored his mother—but he did not want to marry a copy of her.
Without warning a dragonsire trumpeted a challenge across the dunes. Maarken nearly jumped out of his skin. The deep, hoarse cry echoed all the way out to the Long Sand. Feylin stirred from her perch on the highest dune and slid down to where Sioned and Rohan sat. Maarken strained to hear their whispers, and saw his uncle and aunt straighten expectantly. A ripple of alertness went through the she-dragons as a shadow appeared across the sand, then another, then another. The sires were ready at last.
The females shifted, moved from the low hills that bordered the plain and grouped together in bunches of five to ten. Feylin moved over to Pol and began a low-voiced explanation of the hierarchy.
“The youngest are to either side of the senior females. You can’t really tell them apart except for their wings. See the scars on the older ones? Mating gets pretty rough. But there’s another way to tell the younger from the elder. The ones who’ve been through this before are pretending to be bored.” She chuckled softly as Pol blinked at her. “The sires will have to impress them. The youngsters will be the first to choose their mates, but the others will wait a while. They’ve seen it all before, and, like most ladies, they want to be wooed.”
Maarken whispered playfully, “Bear that in mind, Pol.”
“I’ll be marrying a girl someday, not a dragon,” he scoffed.
“My husband says there’s no discernible difference!” Feylin laughed softly. “Watch the sires now. They’re just about ready.”
The three dragons made a delicate landing in the sand and were joined by a fourth and a fifth. Two were golden with black underwings. The third was russet-colored, the other two black and brown. Maarken had seen their dances before, but never so many dragons at once. He glanced up and saw the remaining eight sires hovering watchfully on thermals high above, waiting for the first dragons to exhaust themselves; when one tired, a fresher male circling overhead would land and take his place.
The five took up position before their audience, rearing back as one with wings spread wide and heads thrown up to the sky as they howled their opening music. The chord slid up and down the scale, wailing like five separate wind-storms. Maarken fought the urge to put his hands over his ears and knew the others were just as disturbed by the wild music. Feylin huddled in her cloak. Pol froze in place, eyes huge as he listened to the terrible dragonsong. But the females reacted with the dragon equivalent of shrugged shoulders, and the older