“You were a long time coming,” it said. “But you’re thrice welcome nevertheless.”
Segnbora leaned against the wall of the cave, bewildered. Her eyes were getting used to the darkness, and in the faint starlight from the doorway she could make out a great lumpy mass lying on the floor of the cave before her. The hot stone smell she had noticed before was coming from it, though there was little actual warmth in the place. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What are you?”
“ Lhhw’ae,” the voice said, a rumbling growl and a sigh.
Segnbora gripped Charriselm even tighter, for that single word of the strange language, the species’s own name for itself, she did recognize. A Dragon—
The voice began to speak again, and was suddenly choked off. Rocks cracked and rattled about in the cave, rolling, shattering. The Dragon had abruptly begun to thrash around. Segnbora leaped for the cave entry, as afraid of being attacked as of a cave-in, but after a few moments the uncontrolled motion subsided and the immense half-seen bulk of the Dragon lay quiet again. She stared at it fearfully.
“ I am about to lose this body,” the Dragon said, an anguished-sounding melody winding about the words. “The seizures are a symptom....”
“ You’re dying?” Segnbora said, and then had to grab for balance once more as another convulsion threw rocks in all directions. When the Dragon had settled again, she saw that it was looking at her from great round eyes, each of which was at least four feet across, globed and pupilless. Segnbora shuddered as she realized how big the rest of the beast must be, and was glad she couldn’t see it.
“ Going rdahaih.” The Dragon whispered the word, but even its whisper sounded like a thunderstorm. “My time is upon me.”
The pain in its voice confused Segnbora. No one but Marchwarders, the humans who lived with Dragons in their high places, knew much about Dragons; but the one thing everybody said about them was that they never died. Even more confusing was the undercurrent of joy that ran under the Dragon’s pain, growing stronger by the moment.
“ No matter,” it said. “You are here. At last, what will have been, is—”
The ominous tone made her consider leaving right then. Yet she’d been curious about Dragons ever since the first and only time she had seen one, at the age of seven, soaring over the blue Darthene Gulf, and that old curiosity was raging again. Slowly Segnbora sheathed Charriselm, then began picking her way toward the Dragon’s head among the fallen stones, watching carefully in case it should start having another seizure. Lying flat on the rubble, the head from lower jaw to upper faceplate was twice her height. Above it, the spine in which the shielding faceplate terminated speared up into the gloom for another ten or fifteen feet. Segnbora reached out gingerly and touched the edge of the plate between nose and eyes. It was hard and rough as stone, and warm. The eye on that side regarded her steadily, but she couldn’t read its expression. It looked dimmer than it had—
“ Are you sure you’re not just ill?” Segnbora said.
“ I know my time,” said the Dragon. “I welcome it. I always have.”
She shook her head, perplexed. With her hands on the Dragon, she could feel its weary sorrow as if it were her own—but also that peculiar joy, both frightened and expectant at once. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Segnbora said.
The Dragon’s eyes flared brighter, and a tremor ran up and down its body. “Arhe-sta rdaheh q’ae hfyn’tsa!” the Dragon whispered in a great rush of fulfillment, as if its last fear had been lifted from it. “If you truly ask,” it said in Darthene, “don’t let me—die—uncompanioned.”
Segnbora shivered, having misgivings. The urge to get out of there was strong, but she rejected it. “I’ll stay with you.”
“ Yes,” the Dragon said. The light of its eye ebbed again. “You always
Segnbora leaned against the wall of the cave, bewildered. Her eyes were getting used to the darkness, and in the faint starlight from the doorway she could make out a great lumpy mass lying on the floor of the cave before her. The hot stone smell she had noticed before was coming from it, though there was little actual warmth in the place. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What are you?”
“ Lhhw’ae,” the voice said, a rumbling growl and a sigh.
Segnbora gripped Charriselm even tighter, for that single word of the strange language, the species’s own name for itself, she did recognize. A Dragon—
The voice began to speak again, and was suddenly choked off. Rocks cracked and rattled about in the cave, rolling, shattering. The Dragon had abruptly begun to thrash around. Segnbora leaped for the cave entry, as afraid of being attacked as of a cave-in, but after a few moments the uncontrolled motion subsided and the immense half-seen bulk of the Dragon lay quiet again. She stared at it fearfully.
“ I am about to lose this body,” the Dragon said, an anguished-sounding melody winding about the words. “The seizures are a symptom....”
“ You’re dying?” Segnbora said, and then had to grab for balance once more as another convulsion threw rocks in all directions. When the Dragon had settled again, she saw that it was looking at her from great round eyes, each of which was at least four feet across, globed and pupilless. Segnbora shuddered as she realized how big the rest of the beast must be, and was glad she couldn’t see it.
“ Going rdahaih.” The Dragon whispered the word, but even its whisper sounded like a thunderstorm. “My time is upon me.”
The pain in its voice confused Segnbora. No one but Marchwarders, the humans who lived with Dragons in their high places, knew much about Dragons; but the one thing everybody said about them was that they never died. Even more confusing was the undercurrent of joy that ran under the Dragon’s pain, growing stronger by the moment.
“ No matter,” it said. “You are here. At last, what will have been, is—”
The ominous tone made her consider leaving right then. Yet she’d been curious about Dragons ever since the first and only time she had seen one, at the age of seven, soaring over the blue Darthene Gulf, and that old curiosity was raging again. Slowly Segnbora sheathed Charriselm, then began picking her way toward the Dragon’s head among the fallen stones, watching carefully in case it should start having another seizure. Lying flat on the rubble, the head from lower jaw to upper faceplate was twice her height. Above it, the spine in which the shielding faceplate terminated speared up into the gloom for another ten or fifteen feet. Segnbora reached out gingerly and touched the edge of the plate between nose and eyes. It was hard and rough as stone, and warm. The eye on that side regarded her steadily, but she couldn’t read its expression. It looked dimmer than it had—
“ Are you sure you’re not just ill?” Segnbora said.
“ I know my time,” said the Dragon. “I welcome it. I always have.”
She shook her head, perplexed. With her hands on the Dragon, she could feel its weary sorrow as if it were her own—but also that peculiar joy, both frightened and expectant at once. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Segnbora said.
The Dragon’s eyes flared brighter, and a tremor ran up and down its body. “Arhe-sta rdaheh q’ae hfyn’tsa!” the Dragon whispered in a great rush of fulfillment, as if its last fear had been lifted from it. “If you truly ask,” it said in Darthene, “don’t let me—die—uncompanioned.”
Segnbora shivered, having misgivings. The urge to get out of there was strong, but she rejected it. “I’ll stay with you.”
“ Yes,” the Dragon said. The light of its eye ebbed again. “You always
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