Biela

The Matron walked. Though shadows pressed on the sides of her mind, the instinctual parts that said creep, said slink, said watch your corners, she paid them no heed. Instead, the shadows bowed to her, crawling after where her feet set down, tugging gently on strands of her fur. But that wasn’t so different from the Plateau, even if instead the magic there blew her fur up rather than down and whistled merrily in her ears. Here, it tried to be more sly, if no less subtle.

But the Matron paid it no heed. The Matron, she paid it no heed as she walked.

“Biela!”

Few dragons called her that still. The Matron lifted her head, halting her stride, and her surroundings solidified into focus. She was in one of the secondary corridors of the lair that branched off the main. This was the hatchlings’ corridor, she realized, the dens lining the walls belonging to various individuals or groups of individuals the Grove had led to her clan, which made sense, hearing which voice she did.

Biela turned and walked back to the entrance of the den she’d just passed, from where the call had come. She didn’t enter, but peered in, and Aran greeted her from where he lay sprawled on the floor, half a dozen hatchlings climbing all over him.

“Come join the fun!” He grinned, then winced as a hatchling attempting to mount his horns used his eye as a foothold.

“Fun,” Biela repeated mildly. She studied her mate. “You changed your fur again.”

Aran’s smile turned sheepish. “Didn’t mean to,” he confessed, helping a coatl disentangle their claws from a lock of his mane. He shrugged helplessly, the smile persisting even with a gaoler gnawing on his tail. “What can you do? It’ll calm down eventually.”

“Perhaps.” Biela made a note to look into the phenomena later.

The shadows chattered excitedly and she pulled back slightly, listening to the sudden clatter of tree branches shaking in the wind a long distance away. The Grove whispered impatiently at her, the garbled message ending in a vicious hiss that made Biela flinch when Aran’s voice drew her back into the lair.

“Dear? Do you need some water?”

The kindness and care in his tone, which had remained steady all these years no matter the distance or strangeness Biela developed, grounded her back in her body. She shook out her coat in one sudden motion, sending shadows and whispers scuttling away, and addressed her mate. “I am well.” The kids had stilled, staring at her with huge eyes. Delightful. Aran wasn’t much better, waiting for more. She crooked her head in the direction of the forest’s pull. “Pinecone’s opening its scales.”

Understanding dawned in Aran’s eyes. “Hmmph,” he grunted as he heaved himself to his feet, kids screeching with shock and delight as they clung tightly to his fur with sharp little claws. “Better go find out what seed lays inside,” he replied. “Want company?”

Biela eyed his little parasites. One was batting their wing in front of another’s face, with the latter happily trying to catch the membrane in their teeth. “It’ll be faster to investigate alone. But could you see that a nice evening meal is prepared?”

Aran nodded. “Will do. C’mon, little ones, it’s time we visited the baths.” Groans and cries of outrage rocketed from many a tiny maw, and her mate grinned, lifting a stumpy wing in farewell.

Biela withdrew, exiting the corridor before Aran managed to corral his pack of children out of the playden and towards the bathing chambers. Not wishing to meet anyone else, she climbed out a window and dropped lightly to the ground, not bothering to open her wings. The ground greeted her with a gracious absorbance of her fall, and she scratched out an idle thank-you with a claw before carrying on. She did not hurry, did not creep nor slink nor watch her corners, but the Grove was eager, and bent its trees around her, enfolding her within its curtains of pine.

When she stepped back out, needled branches regretfully releasing their grip on her fur, she didn’t see her pinecone for a second, and had to look around. “Where?” she asked.

The wind shifted, making a nearby tree dip a branch low, and revealed a small black-scaled veilspun clinging tightly to the gray bark. They hissed when their gazes met.

“Hello,” the Matron greeted him.

The dragon flicked up his wings—one crooked at an angle incongruent to the rest—and attempted to flee. The Matron observed his unsteady flight pattern, and stepped sideways into the welcoming shadow of a tree. Next she reappeared, she stood directly before the veilspun, a mere breath away.

He snarled and veered sharply to avoid crashing into her face, but the sudden maneuver placed too much strain on the damaged wing and he spiraled out of control, plunging towards a thorny blackberry bramble. The Matron muttered a spell, and magic weaved itself into a net, catching the veilspun and landing him on his feet safely on the ground.

She waited for him to run again, but instead the veilspun stayed crouched, limbs stiff and muscles tense, as if he expected to be whirled off his feet at any moment. The Matron wondered how his travel through the Tangled Woods had been. He was breathing very hard, and looked to be trying not to favor his wing.

“Who,” he said at last, meeting the Matron’s eyes with a fiercely defiant and scared glare, “the hell are you.”

“The clan’s Matron.” She studied him. The Grove had let him within the boundaries?

He scoffed, tossing his head. “No name?”

“Bravado will not serve you here,” she told him bluntly, thinking it best to let him know now. “Better to be honest. It will save time. My name is Biela. And yours?”

He stared at her, bewildered and wary. (Nothing new to her). “What do you want with me?” he asked, voice tight.

Biela still wasn’t convinced. The Grove shook itself crossly. He will be an interesting one. Take the seed!

“You are troubled,” she said, ostensibly to him. “You may bring me more yet.”

The shadows hissed in angry chorus, snarled whispers crashing in waves in her head, Take the seed! Take the seed! Take the seed! Take it!!

But the Grove waited. Biela decided to put it to him, skeptical that he’d accept.

Had the veilspun said anything in response? Didn’t matter. The Matron continued, “But everyone deserves a chance to rest. Stranger, would you be inclined to join my clan for a meal? We can offer a bath, a nest, and time to make use of such accommodations.”

To her surprise, the veilspun didn’t immediately spit and refuse. He hesitated, confusion and distrust and exhaustion battling within him, albeit beneath a blank face. Then his features smoothed and he stood up straight, though caution stained his voice still as he answered, “That is a gracious offer. I . . . I will accept it. Thank you.” He dipped his head.

Hmm. Manners. From a thief? The Matron supposed she ought to be glad she had nothing for him to filch. Though he may still try. An interesting one, the Grove had said.

“This way, then,” she said, turning and walking through the trees. She found a pink mushroom and followed their chain, trusting in her clan’s cultivators to lead her true. She kept an eye on the stranger, but he kept up, flitting from tree branch to branch and leaping without use of his wings when he could.

“How far is it?” he panted, after they had gone a ways.

Biela paused. She didn’t know. She looked up at the sky, but the sun had dipped beneath the treeline already. That was one benefit of the Plateau. (The shadows scoffed.)

“We may arrive later to that meal than I’d initially supposed,” she said slowly, walking forward again. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”

“As long as we get there eventually, I suppose,” the veilspun muttered. “I’ll admit I’m looking forward to the bath more than anything.” He forced a chuckle, and it died awkwardly on the silent pines.

“Indeed.”

They went a little further, then at last he sighed. “Ribacci.”

“Pardon?”

“My name. It’s Ribacci.”

The Matron hummed. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Another sigh, more resigned now. “And you as well.”

Well. Manners weren’t everything. But the Matron held to her words. She would offer Ribacci a chance to rest. What happened then . . . Who knew how a seed would grow, once planted? Time alone would tell.