Their names had kept him company in the dark.
Chezzik, Mraithen, Ailthling, Sartusan, Balinor, Farid, Aenera . . .
He listed them all, those dragon in skin and those dragon in heart.
It was not proper to say the vengeance chant in a place of enemies, so he kept his peace and held it in his thoughts.
Drasir, Maerah, Thirrin, Zarik, Berinah . . .
He had not, admittedly, actually liked Chezzik. He had threatened to step on the hatchling more than once, although admittedly he hadn't meant it. Maerah had laughed at him for it, a deep, rumbling laugh he hadn't heard in far too long.
Chezzik had been so hasty. Impossible to teach, and he had already been getting old.
But Chezzik had been so young. Balinor had been the one to call him forth. He could have learned. He would have learned. Kilgharrah would have seen to that.
(When he breaks free, his first gust of fire is for Chezzik.)
Mraithen was the color of the sky. He did not dwell on what he cannot have, but he allowed himself to think of the sky.
She had been old enough to be on her own. He hadn't worried for her. Maerah hadn't either. Mraithen was a good hunter, and who could catch the sky?
(Kilgharrah sees men with nets. He snatches them up and drops them for Mraithen.)
Aithling'd had a nest to watch over. There had been three dragonlords to help her guard them. Maerah had said she was getting positively paranoid and had only sniffed when reminded of her own protectiveness of her eggs in the past.
(The market burns like the nest did. The pots shattered in the stampede out look like broken eggs.)
Sartusan saw the strands of destiny better than his weak eyes saw prey. His clanmates brought him what he needed, and he spoke of what he saw. Maerah had told him tartly not to forget what was right in front of him and left deer for him while he slept.
(His fire is blinding in the night, he knows. It also cooks the little knights in their armor.)
He told Balinor to run. The stubborn man wouldn't have done it, but he had revealed the necessity. He saw destiny well enough to convince his dragonlord of that.
(He felt his heartbrother die. The courtyard they had been betrayed in was raked with his claws.)
Farid had disliked the name chosen for him. He had chosen his own out of a book and started his own clan at a younger age than was strictly appropriate.
"How very . . . radical," Maerah said.
Kilgharrah snapped his teeth and curled up in the sun. Maerah poked him reproachfully with her tail.
(Farid's voice could have set fire to water. Kilgharrah's roar could wake stone.)
Dragons didn't have hoards, but Aenara did. She liked pretty things, she defended herself.
Maerah reluctantly let it go.
Kilgharrah rolled her the diamond when Maerah wasn't looking.
(A noblewoman was wearing diamonds. Kilgharrah tossed her into the air.)
Drasir, Thirrin, and the others - every last one of the others -
He had lived so long. He had lost so many dragonbrothers. There had been so many hatchlings. So many sons and daughters let loose on the world.
Maerah had been so proud of them all.
She had been gold. Bright gold.
(He destroyed every cloak with the dragon emblem he could. How dare they pin her to it? How dare they claim her color?)
She had loved their little games. Riddles within riddles, and it was a battle to see who was stumped first. It was how he had won her attention.
(He thought he had forgotten any other way to speak.)
