Dawnsinger

She wandered through the tunnels and chambers of the enormous lair, and wondered what her life was for.

She had always wandered. Hatched from a foundling egg, at first her only thought was to find her parents. Stumbling on short hatchling legs, she managed to frighten the kindly dragons of her host clan quite badly with a steady stream of incidents involving falling off of things, tumbling down ramps, and narrowly avoiding being variously burned, boiled, drowned, and stepped on. She was hastily placed into the care of a Skydancer grandmother, who raised her with great patience and affection and also a sixth sense for when her charge was headed into trouble. Perhaps Grandmother understood her very well indeed, for in addition to all of the usual schooling she also taught her the things a dragon needed to know in order to survive on her own. And indeed, once she was grown, her need drove her further and further into the far reaches of the clan’s territory until, one day, she simply kept flying.

After many months spent exploring the Light realm, she realized that her wandering was no longer a search for the parental mirage that her hatchling self had believed must be just around the next boulder or tree or tunnel bend. At some point her heart had finally accepted Grandmother’s gentle words, that foundlings had no parents. Now she traveled because she loved seeing new places, meeting new dragons, observing the animal and plant life, tasting new rivers and streams. For a long time these things satisfied her. But she did notice that she could never bear to stay in one place for very long. She didn’t particularly worry about this lack of attachment, any more than she worried about her lack of a name. A dragon was sufficient unto herself, after all.

Eventually, her wanderings brought her to the Foehnwind Clan, perched on its mountain range. For the first time she felt a sense of satisfaction. Here the complex folded mountains, there a broad stretch of desert, sweet water in streams and lakes, mixed oak and pine forest rich in life. She could explore this place for years and still find new things. And the cave system the clan lived in was enormous, frankly sprawling, which answered her wish for privacy. At the invitation of the clan council, she chose a modest set of quarters and set about making herself at home.

Unlike some clans she had met in her travels, there was no pressure here to do or be any particular thing. What a blessing for a Nocturne, so vulnerable to influence! And yet … as the months passed, a feeling of restlessness began to bother her once more. Not a need to leave, not the old dissatisfaction with her surroundings, but an unease that gnawed at her with little sharp teeth. She began to wander further and further throughout the lair, seeking something she couldn’t name. In the process she met many dragons. Some were welcoming, and invited her into their doings. Others were cool or preoccupied, but none hostile. Well, there was that one Coatl living by himself up a crooked and smelly tunnel, who shouted rudely at her and cast a rune of exclusion over his doorway, but it seemed that he treated everyone that way.

As she plodded home one evening, it came to her that all of these others had a purpose to their days, while she had none. And if she could find her own purpose, she might find her name. That was the cold emptiness within her, this thing that had never bothered her before now. Stepping into her quarters, she sighed gustily and lowered her head in resolve.


Yet having come to that momentous decision, she found herself balked. None of the multitudinous occupations she observed felt right. They were interesting, sometimes even entertaining—the creche mother taking her charges on a walk, the researcher in her lair overrun by unbonded Mire familiars—but none of it felt like something she wanted to do. The feeling of not knowing began to torment her, and her wanderings took on a frantic edge.

One day, she encountered one of the clan’s few Ridgebacks making his way along a tunnel just slightly too small for his comfort. In courtesy, she backtracked to a cross-way and ducked into it. But instead of continuing past, he paused and lowered his great spiked head to her.

“You’ve been quite busy learning about our clan,” he remarked. “Do you like it here?”

All of her frustration burst out at once. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here! I want to belong, but I can’t find my role!”

The Ridgeback blinked, perhaps surprised by the novel experience of a much smaller dragon blowing up in his face. But he smiled then, and said softly, “That would be upsetting. Perhaps you might try meditating on it. You’ve seen and learned so much that it could feel overwhelming. Take some time to let it all settle.”

With that, he moved on, leaving her to scurry back to her den in a cloud of embarrassed confusion. But when her nerves settled, it did seem as if the Ridgeback had been right. So she set a rune of privacy over the entrance to her lair, put her belongings into order, and settled down with a long sigh.


She awoke to the world again with the feeling that someone had called her. But it was an inner urging: Get up! Hurry, it’s late!

Lurching to her feet, she was surprised at how stiff she felt. How long had she lain in her trance? She’d had no idea meditation would take her so deep that her awareness of the world vanished. The Ridgeback might have warned her. But just now she felt driven by an urgency to be outside. The rune of privacy vanished as she stumbled through it, still trying to shake the creakiness from her limbs. Long familiarity with the cave system put her feet unerringly onto the shortest path to outdoors.

She emerged into the crisp air of autumn. It had been spring when she entered her den. She sniffed the air, breath steaming. No one was about. The sky was pale with approaching dawn and the realization pushed her into motion again.

Up!

She didn’t trust her wings yet. Her shoulders and thighs panged as she clawed her way up the hillside, panting in the cool air. She didn’t stop until she was above the tops of the trees. Then the drive to climb ceased, and instead turned her head to the east. She settled her haunches beneath her, puzzled by the compulsion to watch the rapidly brightening horizon. A few breaths later, light stabbed forth as the sun broke free. Its first rays bathed her face and her entire being lurched. This. This was her purpose: to greet the dawn.

The entire rest of the day was spent in a glow of happiness. She ate well at the small kitchen near her lair, taking joy in the flavors and smells. She gave her lair a good cleaning—a surprising amount of dust had accumulated—and visited the common crafting hall, where she felt drawn towards certain materials. These colorful cords, those river-polished stones, a little pyrite mirror … some simple tools she could handle with her two fingers and thumb. A jar of fine polishing grit and some rags. Back in her den she cast a magelight and worked peacefully, her hands moving almost of themselves.

At one point she paused, blinking at the knotted and braided cords. “What am I making?” she murmured to herself, then shrugged. What did it matter? It was pretty, and she was enjoying herself. After a while she set her work down and went outside again, this time to stretch and flap her wings until the stiffness left them. She flew, testing her wings and finding that her long inactivity had left her easily tired. This discovery dampened her mood, but the sunlight pouring over her seemed to whisper to her that such a state was only temporary. That evening she polished one of the stones, an agate banded in red and orange, refining the river’s work until it gleamed.

The following morning she awoke knowing that dawn was near. This time she was able to lift herself to her vantage point properly with her wings. When the sun rose she spread them wide, then flapped them vigorously in greeting. Once more she felt that intense sensation of rightness and joy. That day she threw herself into her craftwork, humming, and by evening her tired fingers held a necklace. The mirror lay lowest, held in a knotted frame of pale blue cords, with a gleaming red agate to either side framed by darker blue strands. She eyed it in wonder. She’d never made anything like this before. A part of her felt a little disappointed by its simplicity, but accepted that it represented the limit of her current skills. Tomorrow she would wear it for the sunrise.

After that, her days fell into a pattern. Each morning she greeted the sun. Later, as payment for using the common-hall supplies, she spent some time working with the rough-crafters who spun, dyed, ground, mixed, polished, tanned, cut, and drilled to supply the common crafting hall. She learned much about the materials, and not a little from the rough-crafters themselves, who enjoyed sharing their knowledge with a willing helper who listened more than she spoke. She exercised, discovering a love of movement that she hadn’t noticed before. And she continued her aimless play with the crafting materials, following whatever whim took her. One day she might feel compelled to polish stones; another she might spend mastering braiding techniques one of the crafters had shown her. She still didn’t understand why she did these things, but the part of her that craved the creation of beauty felt happy and that was reason enough.

And then one morning, just after sunrise, she heard the scrape and screel of great claws on the rock face below her sun-greeting perch. Startled, she peered over the edge. A Guardian was working his way upwards, headed straight for her ledge. With his greater reach he made the climb in far less time than it had taken her that first morning. She scrambled backwards in haste as his big armored head came over the edge. The rest of him followed with a series of muffled grunts and he settled himself, looking down at her.

“There you are,” he muttered. “Been looking.”

Her wings twitched uneasily. “Looking … for me?”

The Guardian grunted affirmatively. After a long breath, he frowned, cheek frills flaring. His colorless eyes searched her face. The frown faded, but not entirely.

His silence confused her. She shifted her weight from side to side, fighting the impulse to mimic his behavior. There had to be a reason this dragon would seek her out … ah.

“Am I your Charge?”

Breath gusted through high-set nostrils. “Yes. No. You are … and you aren’t.”

That made no sense at all. Everyone said that a Guardian on Search always recognized their Charge. She looked at him more carefully, wondering if he might be bespelled, or a little mad. For the first time she realized that his wings were heavily patched with mismatched pieces of fabric. They were in shades of orange and red-orange similar to the rest of him, but no dragon came in such patterns or … she squinted … was that a carp kite, dangling there?

Into the awkward, stretching silence, her stomach spoke. Loudly. She jumped, and grabbed hastily at the first thing that came to mind. “I’m going to breakfast. Are you hungry?”

The Guardian’s pale eyes brightened. “Yes. Meet you.” And with that he spread his patched wings wide and lurched over the end of the ledge. She launched herself in time to see him gliding down towards the slope below the main entrance. He landed heavily, without backwinging, and swung his head to watch her approach.

She wasn’t accustomed to company for her meals, but as the Guardian said almost nothing while they ate, it wasn’t too different from her usual. Afterwards, without being asked, he followed her back to her quarters. She did not invite him inside, but he didn’t seem to notice. She heard him wandering around the passageway outside, sniffing now and then and rapping the stone sharply and generally making enough noise that she was grateful she had chosen a thinly-populated area to den in. Helplessly, she wondered what she was going to do now that this lummox had attached himself to her. Then she snorted. Do? She would go on with her normal affairs, and he could follow her around if he wanted. There were plenty of Guardians in this clan; surely everyone had seen newly-attached Guardian behavior before.

With that firmly in mind, she stepped out into the passage. Immediately the Guardian stuck his head out of the doorway opposite.

“This one empty?”

“Yes,” she sighed. “Does it suit you?”

The Guardian gave one of his agreeable grunts. Then his tail lashed once, thumped against the floor. “Needs furnishings.”

So instead of heading straight for the crafthall she took him in tow and led him to one particular storeroom. Here lay the belongings of another Guardian who had been with the clan for a long time before deciding to go and serve the gods. Kiwao had been an orderly fellow; some dragons simply up and left, but he had taken the time to clear his quarters and store his belongings tidily under preserving spells. Dragons had come and gone since then, taking what they needed, but the larger pieces were still there. Her Guardian seized upon the sleeping couch and two tables, hauling them back to his new quarters without complaint.

“Do you need to fetch things from your old quarters?” she asked while he assembled the frame of the couch.

This time, she got to hear what his negatory grunt sounded like, a falling pitch. “Been asleep,” he explained. “No things.”

Asleep? What kind of answer was that? Unless … her eyes widened. One did lose awareness of surroundings in sleep. Had she been asleep all that time, instead of meditating? Obviously not an ordinary type of sleep, but still … it was rather embarrassing to think that she might have spent an unknown number of seasons hibernating like some mud turtle.

The Guardian shoved the last pieces together. He heaved the pallet into place, then looked expectantly at her.

“Are you hungry?”

Negative grunt.

“Very well. I’m going to the crafthall.”

As she had anticipated, he fell in behind her. Their arrival in the crafthall went unnoticed, but that was typical. A large and bustling place, well-lit by both skylights and magelights, it hummed with activity. She made her way to the workspace of her current assignment, a weaver. Messelia looked up from her inspection of a basket of creamy fluff and flared her crests in greeting.

“Good timing,” she said happily, and held out a handful of fluff. “You’ve come along well with your spinning; think you can manage this?”

The fluff looked and smelled like wool, but the strands held a bit of a sheen. She pulled it through her fingers, twisting a bit of it experimentally. “I think so. What is it?”

“Banesheep,” Messelia said softly, leaning in close. “This is a trial batch. If it yarns up well, I’ll buy more.”

She didn’t know what a banesheep was, but her Guardian whuffled through his nose a bit at the mention. Messelia gave him a long look.

“Crafter’s secrets,” she warned.

The Guardian grunted agreement, then unlocked his jaw briefly. “Won’t tell.”

Messelia’s gaze went back and forth between the two of them. “Is she your Charge?”

For a wonder, the Guardian chose a straight answer this time. “Yes.”

Satisfied, Messelia promptly seized upon him as another set of useful hands and soon had him occupied helping her restring her largest standing loom. She wasn’t sorry to see that laborious task go to someone who at least could reach the top of the loom, but she did feel a little sorry for him. Messelia was very exacting when it came to setting up her looms and working with an inexperienced assistant always brought out the sharper edge of her tongue. Meanwhile her own task was much more soothing: drawing the wool out, keeping the dangling spindle spinning smoothly, twirling it into thread and then pausing to wind it on.

The wool spun well, she was pleased to find. The strand lengths were somewhat uneven, which offered a challenge, and it took her a little time to learn how to draw it evenly. But it was clean and well-carded and pleasant to work with. By the time she was halfway through the basket she had the feel of it and the task no longer required all of her attention. She glanced up to the unlikely sight of her Guardian lying quietly in front of Messelia with a large skein of yarn over his horns, tipping his head from side to side while the Skydancer wound the yarn into bobbins.

When the basket was empty at last, Messelia got up and came to inspect her work. “Oh, that’s nice,” she said, fingering the shining thread. “I may be able to use this as-is for finework. It’s got potential.” She sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to pay that fellow’s prices for some full fleeces.”

Another snort from her Guardian made them both look up. He ignored them, seeming deeply involved in studying a length of weave dangling carelessly out of a basket. Messelia’s crests took on a challenging slant. “Would you care to share your opinion of that?” she asked sweetly, tailtip swishing in a manner that never meant good.

“The gradation of color in this piece is very pleasing,” the Guardian replied absently. “These transitions from green to blue are almost patterned, but appear to be the result of clever use of variances within the yarn color. Quite nice.”

She nearly fell over in shock. Messelia’s crests shot straight up. “Why, thank you,” she not quite stammered before recovering her poise. “It was an experiment. A batch of yarn didn’t take the dye like I expected it to.”

The Guardian turned his head towards her. “Pretty,” he said in his normal tone.

“Then I would like you to take it,” Messelia decided, and folded the weaving neatly and slid it into a bag. After eyeing the Guardian’s sweeping horns dubiously, she turned. “Perhaps you could carry it for him?”

“Of course.” She settled the bag over her head. “Thank you for having us today.”

“I’d be delighted to see you both again,” Messelia replied, casting the Guardian an odd look. “You were a big help, and perhaps we could discuss color sometime?”

That last was to the Guardian, who merely grunted affirmatively and gave a short nod. Messelia looked faintly disappointed.

As she and her Guardian made their way back towards their quarters, her thoughts churned. Where had that cultured speech come from? For a moment he had sounded educated and … well, pleasant. Perhaps he was shy? She glanced at the hulking orange form stomping along behind her and shook her head. It was hard to imagine that as being shy.


Over the next few days, she tried engaging her Guardian in conversation. To her disappointment, he remained taciturn. Even when she thought she’d found a topic that interested him, his responses never exceeded a few words and if he could make a grunt serve, he’d use that instead. As nearly as she could tell, it wasn’t that he didn’t want to communicate with her: she got more actual words out of him than anyone else did. He just didn’t seem to like talking.

She did manage to learn a little about his background. Like herself, he was from a foundling egg and, having no given name, sought one. From the scowl on his face, he found the search as frustrating as she did. He was rather older than her and had been at it longer, which seemed to confirm her glum opinion that finding one’s name was just another trial set to dragons without parents. He flatly refused to say anything about his wings, with an abruptness that made her wonder if there was some embarrassment involved.

As she got used to the Guardian’s presence, her days—or rather, their days—settled into a pattern again. They always started just before sunrise. The Guardian showed no interest or particular delight in the sun’s arrival; instead, he stationed himself behind her in a protective manner. She found this quite distracting at first, especially the way he kept sniffing at the air and rustling his battered wings. But the sun always came up and filled her with that sense of rightness. Eventually she learned to ignore him and focus on greeting the sun properly.

She wasn’t satisfied any longer with merely saluting the sun with her wings. Even though she wore her best creations for the ceremony (and her crafting skills had improved tremendously, she felt), the moment seemed to ask for something more. One morning she found herself paying attention to the sounds of birdsong in the trees below. From a few chirps and soft twitters in the gray light before, it crescendoed dramatically as the sun came up. It was early spring, and perhaps that had something to do with it; dozens of birds eager to proclaim their territories and impress their mates. Song. Perhaps she could express her feelings through song.

She often hummed when working on one of her crafts, letting the notes follow one another in the same way she let her hands choose what they wanted to do. But it was quite another thing, she discovered, to try to make a song. She quickly gave up on attempting to compose lyrics. Just finding a melody nearly defeated her. Several days passed before she found herself humming a simple refrain while sanding and polishing an intricately bumpy piece of wood. It wasn’t fancy, but it did capture an echo of her feelings regarding the sunrise. Just like her first necklace, it was a good start. She decided to offer it to the sun the next morning.

She tried. But when she put her breath behind the song, her voice wobbled and broke. She couldn’t sustain the notes; the harder she tried, the more the song shattered. Dismayed, she fell silent and bowed her head before the sun.

Talons scraped on stone behind her. “Don’t give up,” her Guardian murmured above her head.

It took a couple of days for her to realize that he was right. She couldn’t give up: the song wanted out. And while crossing one of the large common areas near the crafthall, a rich voice and swirl of blue-green caught her attention. It was the clan historian, Chanter, speaking to a group of dragons. Her tail twitched. Of course! Just as her crafting skills had improved by learning from the crafters, she needed the guidance of a dragon skilled in voice.

Chanter tended to make his rounds through the wing of the lair near the crafthall in the early afternoon. It was not hard for her to finish her tasks in time to slip away and listen. Slip … well. With her Guardian in tow there was nothing subtle about their approach, and no doubt they were easy for Chanter to notice. One day after the announcements were finished he headed straight towards them, waving his tufted tail in slow, graceful sweeps.

“I’m sure you have noticed that I tend to repeat myself from day to day,” he said genially. “At this location, I’m just providing the latest clan news. Yet I’ve been seeing you here often. Did you want to speak with me?”

She gulped hard. “I can’t sing. Can you teach me?”

Chanter’s tail stilled. “Ahh,” he murmured, and sniffed deeply. “You smell of longing and determination. Perhaps—” he glanced about, “—a quieter place for discussion. Is the matter personal?” At her nod, he smiled slightly. “I know a good place for privacy.”

He led them quite some distance, first through the tunnels to the Great Hall, and then up a high-arched way large enough for a Ridgeback, which made her feel the size of a rabbit. Eventually he paused outside a tall doorway swathed in cottony mist. Instantly words rose through the mist to hover at comfortable reading level for each of them. The set floating in front of her Guardian were larger. All bore the same message:

Chanter glanced at the script and chuckled softly. “This is Sostenuto’s domain, a quiet refuge from the cares of the day. While most dragons come here for the sake of solitude, there are some nooks for private conversation. Let’s see what’s available.” With that, he stepped right through both words and mist. The words vanished, but the mist remained, rolling smoothly back along his body and denying any glimpse of the interior. She gulped and stepped forward herself before Chanter’s tail disappeared entirely.

To her tremendous relief, the mist proved no more than a claw’s-width thick. She emerged into a cavern strangely devoid of echoes, its undulating walls holding drifts of cushions and low tables, the air scented with something delicious. As she followed Chanter’s confident strides, more of the place opened up. She spied hollows within the walls furnished with pillows, tables of varying sizes, and sometimes wall hangings. Behind her she heard a dull wooden thump and a mutter from her Guardian; she glanced back to see him drawing his tail into a high curve to avoid hitting anything else.

Chanter led them directly to one of the larger floor-level nooks, where an eddy of smaller cushions had collected around a much larger one. Swags of cloth in restful shades of blue lined the walls. Chanter waved her Guardian to the big cushion and selected a fat one for himself. She was just settling herself onto another when a flicker of warm orange overhead drew her attention. A tiny Fae hovered, cradling a tea tray.

“Sostenuto,” Chanter greeted him. “Thank you for having us today. We’re here for a chat.”

The Fae’s frills rippled. “Knowing you, Chanter, I needn’t worry that your guests will mistake this place for a bar,” he droned. “You’ll have been speaking. You must take care of your voice. I’ll bring you a pot of your usual, shall I.” At Chanter’s nod, the large-eyed head flicked to stare at the others and the frills changed position. “Today’s special tea is a lemon verbena blend. I highly recommend it. Or I can bring you a list of other beverages.”

She found it desperately hard to interpret the Fae’s manner. “The lemon verbena, please.”

“Would you care for snacks. I have beetle crisps just out of the oven.”

So that was the enticing aroma! But after that warning at the door, she didn’t want to trouble him. “No, thank you.”

Her Guardian grunted. “Same as her.”

“Excellent. Welcome. Please enjoy your stay.” In a whirl of red-embroidered black coattails, the Fae darted off.

“Now then,” Chanter said in a kindly voice, drawing her attention with a start. “The first thing you should know is that I am not a singer myself. However, just as in my own work, in order to sing one must learn how to produce a steady air column. In addition, I can teach you how to project your voice and refine your control of pitch and volume. With these skills, I expect you will find singing easier.”

It was as much as she had hoped for, and she agreed gladly. The tea appeared mysteriously on the small table while she had her eyes closed, concentrating on Chanter’s directions on breathing. She was a little sorry to have missed seeing how Sostenuto managed to carry a Guardian-sized tray, but she was beginning to realize that she was in for a lot of work. The breathing exercises left her a little dizzy. She was grateful for the tea—which was indeed excellent—and took shelter behind her cup whenever the walls began to spin.

“Well, this has been a good beginning,” Chanter said when the teapots were empty. “I advise you to practice these every day. You’ll find it gets easier with time.” His knowing if sympathetic look made her rustle her wings in embarrassment. “Furthermore,” the Tundra went on, “you are a Nocturne, skilled in observation and mimicry. You will learn well by example, so please feel free to attend more of my performances.” With two fingers he drew a complex rune in the air; the blue-green streamers of light from his rings splintered off multiple filaments that twisted themselves into a scroll, which he handed her. It was slightly warm. “My schedule,” Chanter said a bit dryly.

For the first time her Guardian spoke. “Don’t you care why she wants to sing?”

Chanter cocked his head up at the big armored face. “I care that she wants to sing. ’Why’ isn’t relevant.”

“Huh.” Her Guardian blinked and looked thoughtful.


Over several days, through tactful manipulation of her time with the crafters, she did manage to listen to a variety of what Chanter called his performances. She would sit in the back with her big orange shadow, paying more attention to how Chanter breathed and used his voice than to what he was saying. As he had predicted, watching him helped her understand how to begin putting her breath behind her voice. Her humming grew stronger. She practiced her breathing dutifully every evening, finding that it helped settle her thoughts. A second musical phrase of what she had begun to consider her Dawn Song emerged, and then a third, much to her delight.

She just happened to be in attendance when the news of the Plague Ancient’s discovery washed through the clan like one of the Healer’s herbed vinegar draughts, bright and shocking and with a peculiar aftertaste.

“They call themselves Aberrations,” Chanter announced, his voice warm and calm as always. “They are generally the size of a Nocturne and are very strong. They have two heads and two tails, but—” his voice grew briefly stern, “—they are not Emperors in any way. Plaguebringer’s magic has simply manifested in a unique manner. As has happened already with the Gaolers, the Banescales, and the Veilspun, we may expect to see Aberrations seeking to join our clan in the near future. And as with the other Ancients, the Council has determined that we will welcome all newcomers of a good heart.”

She had no trouble at all concentrating on the words of this momentous announcement. Behind her, her Guardian shifted his weight as if he, too, felt a change in the world.

Hot on the heels of Chanter’s announcement came the chatter. One of her fellow Light dragons accosted her outside her lair that very evening. Well … Slipt didn’t seem to know any other method of social engagement. She had encountered him so often during her treks through the cave complex that she barely twitched when his upside-down face appeared suddenly before her, mane boiling about it like living shadow.

“Plaguebringer didn’t even know that Her Ancient children had survived!” he exclaimed.

Her Guardian gave a disapproving snort. Slipt glanced briefly at him and spread his body wings in mock threat, but his heart wasn’t in it. His pale eyes seemed a little wild.

“There’s a lot of magic in the Wyrmwound.” It felt very strange to be offering reassurance to a dragon who delighted in startling others. “If She didn’t know what to look for, even a god might miss something living there.”

Slipt pulled his wings in and swayed gently, thinking. Overhead she could make out the pale bone markings showing where his hindclaws and tail gripped the irregularities in the unfinished ceiling. “So they may not be specially skilled in stealth?” he said at last.

It was difficult not to laugh at his hopeful tone. “I don’t think anyone could be your match in stealth, Slipt.”

The Spiral’s large eyes narrowed in a satisfied manner. Looping his neck, he climbed up his own body and twined through the rocky protrusions until she could barely see him. After a moment, his voice drifted down again.

“Two heads? What if they argue?”

“Maybe it makes them good negotiators.”

To her surprise, her Guardian entered the conversation. “No eggs.”

Slipt’s head popped out again, this time near the wall. “So that means scrolls. Hmm.” He vanished, although her ears tracked him scuttling away down the corridor. He wasn’t good at ending conversations either, not when much of the time the dragon he’d interacted with was either swearing furiously or running in terror. Next to Slipt, she mused, her Guardian had marvelous social skills.


Discussion of the new Ancient popped up—rather like Slipt—in conversations around her for several days. While some dragons sounded uneasy and some very odd rumors sprang up—Aberrations were so attuned to Plague magic that they fed on decay, some of them had four wings or eight legs, Plaguebringer had intended for them to multiply by splitting in two and the magic had gone wrong—the efforts of Chanter and other voices of reason seemed to be taking effect. Aberrations sounded very strange, the conversations agreed, but they were still dragons. She even began to hear dragons talking about the Aberrations who had appeared in other clans, and an edge of what was almost jealousy: if they were there, why weren’t they coming here? There was nothing wrong with Foehnwind Clan, nothing at all.

She and her Guardian were in the crafthall one morning when shouting broke out near the entrance.

“There! Cicatrix, I see them! Hurry up, I see them!”

The Guardian inspecting one of Messelia’s woven rugs put her head up and glanced that way. “Windsinger’s swirling mane,” she muttered. “It’s that Jager again.”

“Never mind,” Messelia soothed. “He’s a little excitable, but there’s none better at finding rare materials. He’s probably just making a delivery. Now, if that piece is a little too red, I’d like to show you these.”

While the Guardian made interested noises over the new selection, her own kept his head raised high, looking towards the source of the hubbub. Good; Messelia had been busy with customers all morning and there was nothing for her Guardian to do. Let him be entertained by whatever was going on. She bent her head over the wool she was combing and resumed the tedious process of removing burrs.

Messelia produced mostly ornamental works, wall hangings and rugs, scarves and veils, cloaks and shawls. However, she had a frugal streak. Today’s task was an example: a fat basket of raw wool from sheep that had apparently been living in a pasture of pure blooming-pod. She wished that she hadn’t been quite so eager to demonstrate to Messelia the aptness of strong Nocturne hands for teasing forth plant matter from wool. But at least the spiny pods were easy to see, and their curved-over hooks rarely caught flesh. Fogflower leaves and stems, now, those were a pest.

The work required her eyes and most of her attention. Her ears vaguely registered the sea of normal crafthall sounds, voices of all pitches underlain by scrapes, thumps, sawing, knocking, rattling, hissing, and the occasional bang! of Fleet’s metal-stamping machine. Eventually it dawned on her that two voices were drawing closer.

“… the left now …”

“… stop wobbling around!”

“Hurry! If he puts his head down again, we’ll surely lose him in this crowd!”

“DON’T FLY!”

“Ouch! Mind your claws!”

By now the voices were quite close. Her Guardian rumbled softly beside her, drawing her eyes up from her work just as a large red muscular shape hove into view, gimping along on three limbs with the fourth gripping something in its mane. Above its skull-like head, a Spiral ramped with wings spread wide, clinging to one of his mount’s sweeping horns with one hand while waving the other about.

“I see them both now!” the Spiral exclaimed. “There, Cicatrix, right there!”

“All right, all right, I see them too … now,” the plague goblin grumbled. “By our Lady’s ragged wings, I’ll be glad to be done with this errand.”

Messelia and her customer broke off their discussion of patterns and frankly stared as the unusual pair lurched to a halt just outside her Guardian’s reach. Up close, it was plain that the Spiral was blind. His head wove in small arcs from side to side, ears pricked wide, and the staring eyes beneath the brim of his hat didn’t track. Still, he doffed his hat and bowed towards them with accuracy. Something red flashed briefly on his near wing.

“Greetings,” the Spiral said in a voice suffused with emotion. “Star light, star bright, first dragons to grace my sight …” He blinked rapidly as tendons flexed on the plague goblin’s still-raised arm. “I am Jager,” the Spiral said in a much more normal tone. “Cicatrix and I have brought you a commission.”

Cicatrix lowered his hand to the floor. “It’s more of an opportunity,” he grated, settling his hindquarters and tucking his bony tail around them. The last hand’s-breadth of it remained upright, twitching a little.

“Why us?” Her voice sounded thin and breathy.

Jager replaced his hat on his head and beamed. “Because I see you. Therefore, by our Lady’s orders—” he hitched a large satchel around from under his ragged mantle, “—these … are for you!” He held out two bound scrolls triumphantly, arm wings fully spread in formal display. A few red lights twinkled briefly on the taut vanes.

Her Guardian put out a hand, not to take the proffered scrolls, but to block her from touching them. “What are they?”

Jager frowned indignantly. “First why and now what. Well, two can play at that game. What is it that makes you ask why?”

The plague goblin gave an exasperated huff, tailtip rattling softly. “Jager, will you please stop being all mystical and speak plainly?”

“Speak plainly?” The Spiral sounded aghast. “This is a momentous occasion, a solemn ceremony!”

“Usually all the participants in a ceremony have some idea what’s going on!” the goblin retorted. “I’m warning you, if you won’t tell them in plain language, I will.”

Jager drooped. “Alas, poor moment. I rue it well.” He raised the scrolls a little higher. “It has been decreed that this clan’s Aberration scrolls be first offered to the two of you. Please take them. If you don’t want them—” his voice caught a little, “—then give them to the Clan Eldest, I suppose.”

She had never seen a dragon look so sad. Impulsively, she reared up onto her haunches to clutch at one of the scrolls. Her Guardian’s hand moved with her, still trying to block her, and somehow ended up grasping the second scroll. In that moment, the Spiral’s staring eyes suddenly cleared, focusing on her with a jerk. All over his wings—Light, all of his wings—red slit-pupiled eyes peeled open and swiveled to stare at her too. She squeaked and recoiled against the bulk of her Guardian.

Multitudinous eyes blazing, the Spiral’s jaw dropped into a gape of joy.

“I can see!” he screamed. “Great Lady of the spikes and pustules, hallowed be Thy ooze! I can see!” He catapulted himself into the air in a flurry of wings and eyes.

Cicatrix made a futile grab after the flailing tail and missed, growling through his fangs as he watched Jager fling himself through a hysterical series of loops overhead. “I might have known,” he muttered, turning back to face them urgently. “Listen, go and talk to the Eldest. He can explain.” With that he spun, hurrying after the whirling, yelling shape now oscillating across the room. “Jager! TAKE IT OUTSIDE!”

She gripped the scroll in both hands, still leaning against her Guardian. She felt his weight shift as he sat down with a bump.

“Well, that was quite the performance,” sniffed Messelia’s customer, turning back to the rugs.

“Mm.” Messelia sounded subdued. Dragons nearby were still staring at the two of them and she realized with a jolt that Messelia might not appreciate that sort of attention. When her Guardian prodded her shoulder, she got hastily to her feet.

“I’m sorry, Messelia, but may I come back and finish the combing later?”

“Of course,” Messelia replied immediately, with a relieved tilt to her antennae.

Her Guardian grunted and plucked the scroll from her hands, stowing both in the shoulder bag he had begun carrying. Without a word he strode away. She hurried after, startled by the change: usually she led, and he followed.

Her Guardian drove across the crafthall, sending others leaping out of his way. He plunged through passageways and around corners with the same single-minded intensity, while she cantered to keep up with no breath to spare for questions. Finally he pulled up outside a very large entrance with no curtain. A brass gong hung outside. Her Guardian tapped it lightly with a knuckle, awakening a soft, shimmering boom.

“Mm? Enter,” called a deep voice. It sounded vaguely familiar.

With a brief backward glance—the first he had made; she wondered irritably if he was only now remembering to look for her—her Guardian lurched forward. She hastened to move up alongside of him, determined not to be seen trailing along behind him like a duckling. Which only made her feel more awkward when she stumbled, recognizing the inhabitant of this lair.

The Ridgeback she had once met in the tunnel, the same one who had suggested meditation, blinked benignly down at them. A little sizzle of blue energy ran over the brassy spikes at his wing-wrists. “Well, now,” he said warmly, smiling at her. He gave a courteous nod to her Guardian. At the movement a small flock of budgerigars fluttered up from his neck spikes, circled his head a few times, and came to roost on his nasal horn. She thought she heard him sigh quietly before asking, “How may I be of assistance?”

She stood tongue-tied, still addressing the discovery that this was Ghost, the Eldest. Her Guardian, however, grunted and dug out the scrolls, holding them up with a scowl. The Ridgeback squinted slightly. “Ah,” he said in a softer voice. “I see Jager has made his delivery. Did he—by any chance—” humor twinkled beneath gold-lined brow ridges, “—provide an explanation?”

“Not much of one,” her Guardian growled.

Exasperated at his tone, she stepped forward. “He said something about a decree. And that they were offered us, but we didn’t have to use them. Then he started screaming about being able to see and took off.”

The Ridgeback gave a startled cough, dislodging a budgerigar from his horn. It cheeped aggrievedly and resettled, scolding. For his part, the Ridgeback closed his eyes briefly. She thought he might be making a heroic effort not to laugh.

“Yes, that sounds like Jager,” he managed at last. “Thank Windsinger they came to me first. Let me explain matters more fully.” Careful not to disturb the budgerigars, he gestured towards a grouping of large cushions. “Please make yourselves comfortable. Would you care for tea?”

Her Guardian would not. She, however, had learned the advantage of tea in uncomfortable situations, and accepted. The Ridgeback busied himself at a softly puffing metal contraption at the side of the room, drawing a mug for her and a much larger one for himself. There was quite the assortment of mismatched mugs on a shelf. Apparently the Eldest offered his visitors tea often.

“Where to begin,” Ghost said on a long sigh when they had had their first sips. “Jager, as you may know, doesn’t spend a lot of time here. His talent, or hobby, or livelihood—” a small gesture of his free hand suggested these were all one and the same, “—lies in finding things within the Plague domain. Apparently during one of his forays, which took him far closer to the Wyrmwound than usual, he experienced a vision.”

He paused for a sip of tea. She copied him, feeling uneasy.

“Jager wouldn’t tell me the details of his vision … apparently, he wouldn’t even tell his familiar.” A soft chuckle ruffled the steam over the Ridgeback’s cauldronlike mug. “Cicatrix hasn’t quite forgiven him for that, or for what happened next. Jager immediately flew straight towards the Wyrmwound, leaving Cicatrix little choice but to abandon their camp and chase after him. At the very edge of the Wyrmwound an upwelling of vapor caught Jager, knocking him unconscious. He fell, of course, and Cicatrix discovered him among the remains of a blister on the very edge of the pool, wrapped around those scrolls. Cicatrix carried him—and the scrolls—back to safety. But when Jager recovered consciousness, he was blind.”

She shuddered. There were so many terrifying stories about the Wyrmwound, and Plaguebringer Herself. She didn’t tolerate weakness, and she set Her children horrific trials. Blindness seemed especially cruel. A blind dragon couldn’t fly.

The Eldest sipped his tea again. “Jager insisted that it was Plaguebringer’s will that he carry the scrolls back to his home clan, and give them to the first dragons he saw. I suppose that was a clue that his blindness would be temporary, even though Cicatrix suspected him of hallucinating that part. I’m glad to see he was mistaken.”

Her Guardian tilted his chin upward and away and issued a whistling snort. She winced, but the Eldest merely tilted his head inquiringly (the budgerigars scrambling to remain upright).

“It was a little more than just getting his sight back,” she said, since there was no point expecting her Guardian to clarify. “He—he’s got a lot more eyes now than usual.”

“Really! How remarkable.” Ghost righted his head, to the further annoyance of the budgerigars. “He did come very close to falling into the Wyrmwound; perhaps it touched him after all. Unless this is some mark of Plaguebringer’s favor. Well, no matter.” He clicked his claws against his mug meditatively. “The important thing now is for the two of you to decide whether to use these scrolls, or not.”

“Aberration scrolls.” For the first time she thought about what all this meant. Not many dragons in the clan were known to have used a breed change scroll. The subject didn’t come up in casual conversation, and she’d wondered if it were some form of taboo. That aside, there was also the very peculiar circumstance of having been chosen to receive the scrolls. Icewarden and Shadowbinder hadn’t chosen anyone. Flamecaller had avoided the matter entirely by causing Banescale eggs to manifest within each clan. It seemed very strange that Plaguebringer, of all the gods, would trouble Herself in such a manner. And whyever would She choose two dragons not of Plague?

She had to admit that it was an honor, if a strange one. She wasn’t sure she wanted to accept it. Or decline it. She glanced sidelong at her Guardian, who had nothing to say and was if anything more stonefaced than usual.

When the silence had stretched too long, Ghost clacked a claw against his mug again.

“You may be interested to know,” he said diffidently, staring into the rippling depths of his tea, “that I myself used a breed change scroll once.”

She stared at him, and out of the tail of her eye, saw the telltale twitch of her Guardian’s chin. Questions thronged her mind, the most burning of all the one she least dared ask: Why?

The Eldest glanced up, catching her gaze. As if he could read her mind, he smiled slightly. “My reasons wouldn’t apply to your situation. I simply wanted you to know that I faced a similar decision myself … although without the involvement of a deity,” he finished dryly, green eyes twinkling.

“I’m not dissatisfied with my shape,” she said, not really protesting, more thinking aloud. And then blinked in confusion, suddenly remembering Messelia’s graceful hands working at her loom. It’s only one finger more, she thought, lifting one of her own hands and staring at it. What’s so special about that?

“It isn’t always about not liking one’s current shape,” Ghost murmured. “Sometimes the answer lies in how things feel.”

“How are we supposed to know how to feel?” she said more sharply than she had intended. “I’ve never seen an Aberration. No one here has! How can I feel anything but scared at the thought of changing my body into an unknown?”

The Eldest gave a “hm!” and tapped his claws rapidly against his mug. “You raise an excellent point. I at least knew some Ridgebacks before I made my decision.” Armored lids hooded his eyes. “I could make a properly Elder-ish reply and suggest that you trust in the gods.” He broke off at the explosive snort from her Guardian, and smiled. “But since that is exactly how I would have received such advice myself at the time, I will instead be impious and point out that I know the location of breed change scrolls for both Nocturne and Guardian. If you find the change unsatisfactory, you can always change back.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again, and then ventured, “Surely that would offend Plaguebringer.”

Ghost hm’ed again, more quietly. “Plaguebringer favors strong dragons above all else. I would think that declining Her scrolls, either before or after their use, shows considerable strength of spirit. And from a practical standpoint, I think it unlikely that She would break the Compact of the Eleven.”

For the first time in rather too long, her Guardian spoke, but it was directly to her. “Don’t assume She chose us.”

It startled her, but the Eldest made an interested noise. “That’s a very good point. Perhaps Plaguebringer merely lent Jager a version of a goblin’s godsight, to home in on dragons of suitable nature to receive Her gift.”

She thought she could see what Ghost was getting at. “She had a type in mind, not individual dragons?” she asked hopefully. It was so much better than thinking they’d drawn the attention of a deity.

“It’s more in keeping with what we know of the gods.” Ghost sipped at his tea. The budgerigar closest to the tip of his nasal horn and riding it like the bowsprit of a ship in a gale, squawked and fluttered and finally took to the air. It circled his head, scolding until the others took wing, and the entire group resettled on the Eldest’s horns and neck spikes.

They were silly birds, but she was grateful for their antics. She looked up at her Guardian’s face. He was scowling, unsurprisingly. But there was a hint of uncertainty in the set of his cheek frills and, seeing it, she decided to press him.

“What do you think?”

He took a long time answering. Finally he shrugged, rustling his patched wings. “If it doesn’t have to be permanent, then there’s no risk in trying.”

A straight answer, and a more complete one than usual. She smiled weakly. “I think … I’d like to try it. I’m not sure why, but it feels like the thing to do.”

Ghost’s smile peeped through the steam above his tea. “Very well.”


But first things came first. Ghost, when pressed, admitted that one’s priorities might change when the scrolls were used. “You’ll still be yourselves,” he assured them. “But you may not feel the same about some things.” Which meant, in her mind, going back to the crafthall and tucking herself into a corner of Messelia’s work area to finish picking burrs out of the wool. Maybe it was just the influence of Messelia’s own staunch work ethic; maybe once she was no longer a Nocturne, she wouldn’t care. But for now, she had a task she had promised to finish.

When her work was done, she shyly explained to Messelia about the scrolls.

“Really? Congratulations, then!” Messelia exclaimed. “And thank you for telling me. Two of my older siblings used scrolls, and it was so embarrassing not to recognize them.” She tipped her head to one side. “I’m glad Aberrations aren’t gigantic. You’ll always be welcome here, you know.”

The weaver’s kind words struck deep. She stumbled through her thanks, and set off around the crafthall to visit the other crafters who had taught her things, offered friendship, and helped her find her way in the world again since waking. To each of them she shared her decision and thanked them for their kindness.

While surprise was universal, so were good wishes. A few even made teasingly hopeful remarks about dragons with two heads being able to work and keep an eye on things at the same time. It touched her profoundly to realize that she was wanted here. With it came a quiver of worry: would she still care, after the change?

Chanter was the last dragon she told. He surveyed her gravely.

“I can smell the ambivalence in you, but to be frank that only makes me respect your decision more. Anyone can make an easy decision.”

“I may not keep the change,” she confessed, a little surprised at herself for admitting it. She hadn’t said that to anyone else.

“That doesn’t make the decision any less momentous,” Chanter huffed, then smiled at her. “Change is disturbing to everyone. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t be nearly so busy.”

She blinked, surprised and seeing his work in an entirely new light. Dragons wanted—needed—to know what was going on and how it might affect them. Chanter dispensed news, but for the first time she recognized how carefully he maintained an attitude of calm, fostering thoughtfulness in his audience rather than alarm.

Chanter’s smile widened slightly and he made a shooing motion with one hand. “If you’ll take my advice, get some sleep and embark on this tomorrow.”

Ghost had said much the same, but … “I can’t. I have to do this before sunrise.”

Chanter huffled through his nose softly. “Perhaps you could get up early?”

It was a reasonable suggestion. She wondered a bit at the part of her that stubbornly wanted to protest the delay, and pushed it down, and nodded.

“Good idea,” her Guardian rumbled behind her, making her jump.


It was reasonable to get some sleep before a major venture. Even her Guardian had agreed, strongly enough to break one of his lengthy silences. Sensible dragons rested, cleared their minds of cares for a time, and rose refreshed and ready to take on new challenges.

She felt the muscles in her neck bunching up yet again. Stifling a groan, she rolled her head slowly from side to side, stretching and feeling the pull reach down between her wings. A soft chorus of pops and grinding announced the loosening of what had had no business tightening up in the first place. Her eyes slitted open and fell upon the Aberration scroll resting on her work table. She laid her head down again and sighed.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the scroll. Every time her breathing and thoughts slowed, it danced mockingly through her head. It offered an adventure that exceeded her wildest dreams. It threatened the life she had built since her awakening. She didn’t trust it. She couldn’t bear to let it go untried. While Ghost had reassured her that he held the means to go back, part of her was firmly convinced that there’d be no return. And she couldn’t even decide how she felt about that. Her indecision vexed her, like a persistent thorn digging into tender skin.

A heavy footfall outside, claws scraping loudly against stone. She raised her head again, craning her neck to see past the wall of the nook that held her bed. There came a very familiar grunt, followed by a wordless questioning noise.

“Come in,” she called, sitting up.

Her Guardian stuck his head through the door. “Can’t sleep?”

She forbore to comment that she’d have to have been deeply asleep indeed to sleep through all that. “No,” she replied instead.

“Me either.” Her Guardian’s tone was glum. Somewhat to her surprise, he entered the room and almost immediately curled himself up as small as he could get, chin tucked along his side and facing her. “Can’t stop thinking,” he grumbled.

It startled a laugh from her, brief though it was. “Me either,” she said, and saw a flicker of a smile.

“Why are we doing this?” she ventured, wondering if he would have an answer. Her thoughts had run in so many circles by now that she didn’t know any more.

Patched wings shifted; a deep sigh gusted across the room, fluttering the ribbons of her latest project on the table. “Growth is change,” he said at last. “Is change growth, then?”

She thought about it for a while. “I think it is.”

“Been stuck a long time.” He rustled his wings again. “I think … I need to grow.”

“It sounds like your thinking has been more useful than mine,” she murmured, surprised by his talkativeness, but even more so by the sudden leap of agreement within her. Being stuck … and needing to grow and change to escape being stuck. Put that way, she began to see the shape behind her own inner turmoil.

“Change is scary,” she ventured.

Her Guardian snorted, sounding more like himself. “You scared?” he challenged her.

“Yes,” she shot back. “How about you?”

The end of his tail writhed, stilled. “Yes,” he muttered very quietly.

“But being stuck is worse.” And it was worse, she decided. She’d been trying to find her way for such a long time, overcoming obstacles that once would have stopped her. She was proud of that, of having come so far on her own resources. But she’d gotten stuck. It was easy to lose the path when you didn’t know where you were going, and she realized that for a while now she’d been retracing her last few steps in the blind hope that she might suddenly see her way again. Now it was her turn to lash her tail in agitation. “I just wish I knew why these scrolls seem like the solution!”

Her Guardian tilted his head, then gave a small grin. “Trust in the gods?”

“Lightweaver’s whiskers! She’s not even our god!” Her tail smacked the surface of her cushion loudly. “But I don’t think She’d mean us harm. So … maybe … trust just a little.”


Her Guardian fell silent after that. Eventually she dozed off listening to the slow whoosh of his breathing. When she awoke again, his low voice sounded from near the doorway.

“How long until dawn?”

Somehow she always knew. “Half a candlemark.” She stretched her legs, two at a time, taking a moment to notice her hands and feet. She didn’t know what kind of hands and feet Aberrations had, but she wanted to remember hers as they were now. If her hands were clumsy after the change, that would be another reason to change back.

Her Guardian yawned widely, uncurling and stretching himself. For the first time she realized he was wearing his carrier bag. He reached up and patted it as if checking its contents, then looked at her. “Go up?”

She weighed their options. They could use the scrolls here, in the privacy of her lair. But crossing the common areas they might meet other dragons, fellow early risers or nocturnal types, who would be abuzz with questions at the sight of Aberrations. She didn’t like that thought to begin with, but even worse, it might cause them to miss the dawn. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Yes, let’s go up.” She’d prepared a little bag of her own yesterday evening to hold her scroll, among other things. She hung the strap over her neck and drew a deep breath.

After all that worry, they met no one as they made their way through the corridors and caverns. The broad landing area in front of the entrance was also empty. She didn’t know whether to laugh or be irritated.

They climbed to her usual vantage point. She’d gotten into the habit of climbing, since her Guardian had to. At the top she moved aside to give her Guardian room and looked out over the forest. The air, cool with just a bit of a breeze, sighed between her horns. She shrugged off her bag and drew out the scroll, heard the rustling as her Guardian did the same. Her fingers tightened on the scroll, unrolled it.

Breed change magic, Ghost had told them, took place very quickly; an important safety feature as a dragon undergoing such a drastic event was vulnerable for those few moments. This magic felt almost impatient, whirling up the moment her eyes fell upon the scroll. She had a brief glimpse of intricate symbols that wove about each other and herself, blotting out everything around her. Dizziness suffused her; she might have dropped the scroll, if only she could feel her fingers. There was a single brilliant stab that knifed painlessly through her, and then ….

“Oh, thank Lightweaver!” a sweet voice exclaimed in her ear.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She stared at her hands clutching the scroll. Big, sturdy, four-fingered hands. She could do so much with these hands.

“Huh,” came a familiar grunt from nearby.

“Certainly. But worth it, don’t you think?” said another.

It dawned on her that there were rather more voices on the ledge than before. She looked to her right, to discover a horned, golden-eyed face at close range.

“Well hello,” the face said. “Here I am at last.”

“I know you,” she replied, stunned.

“Of course you do, dear. Oh, I’m so glad to have a voice!”

“So am I.” An orange head crowned in brilliantly-colored horns moved into view beyond her wing—their wing? A second head with downcurved horns followed. “I had the hardest time saying anything with this fellow in charge.”

The second head shot the first an indignant glare, but now she recognized that voice too. “You spoke to Messelia about the green-and-blue weaving.”

“Indeed I did.” The first head bowed. “Our name is Sunguard.”

“We’re Dawnsinger,” her companion answered. And it was their name. Dumbstruck, she watched their hands pick up the bag she’d brought. Out came the braided cords hung with polished stones and tassels; their hands wound one around her neck, and the other about her companion’s. The horn loops with their swaying pendants were shared out equally. The hands drew out the final piece, one of Messelia’s shawls to which she’d added a long clicking fringe of beads.

“I always thought this one of your finest creations,” her companion confided, “but however do we wear it?”

Dawnsinger laughed. “Like this, silly.” She took their hands and draped the shawl over their shoulders, letting the beads trail between their wings. The ends hung down along their sides, the weight of the beads keeping them in place. When she looked up, Sunguard’s left-hand head was peering at her intently.

“We may not be a Guardian any longer,” he said diffidently, “but you were my Charge. She’s his.” A burnt-orange hand cocked a vivid green thumb-claw at his other head, which seemed embarrassed.

“My dear,” her companion interrupted, “we had better pay attention. It’s nearly sunrise.”

“Of course!” She let go of their body, smiling at Sunguard while her companion positioned them properly on the ledge. Then she turned her eyes toward the horizon. Her companion began drawing deep breaths, settling their shoulders and relaxing their wings.

“Thanks to your hard work, I believe I can sing now,” she said with a happy little bounce of her head. “Oh, look, it’s beginning!”

Dawnsinger sat transfixed, staring at the horizon where the fringe of the sun had just emerged and listening to her companion’s voice rise in the song she’d worked so long on. This was how she’d envisioned it sounding. For just a moment she felt a flicker of jealousy, and then the ridiculousness of it nearly made her laugh. How could she be jealous of herself? Firmly she returned her attention to the sunrise. There was a certain point in the song when their wings should be spread; she’d attend to that while the rest of her sang.

As the echoes of the last note shivered away into silence, Dawnsinger leaned over and nuzzled her other head.

“That was wonderful. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Her companion smiled. “So we won’t be using the Nocturne scroll?”

“Lightweaver, no!” She turned to Sunguard. “What about you?”

The head on the right gave a negatory grunt. “Needed to grow.”

The head on the left burst out laughing. “Well, we certainly have sprouted!”

Dawnsinger looked at herself and broke into simultaneous giggles. Sunguard-right snorted and spread their wings, looking pointedly towards the rim of the ledge.

They flew down together, Sunguard backwinging rather more forcefully than necessary and landing with an enormous grin on his right head. His left peered attentively towards the furred shape moving towards them from the entrance.

Chanter smiled. “Welcome, all of you, to Foehnwind Clan.”