He stepped into an open space suddenly, surprised to find paving stones beneath his feet. The glowing air revealed silhouettes of crumbled wall and toppled pillars surrounding a small courtyard. It might have been a fortress, or a temple, with a commanding view of the valley on a clear day. The sun brightened, acquiring a hard edge, though he could still look directly at it. For the first time that morning, he became aware of smells—crisp pine, wet earth, and damp stone. It seemed as if this place defied the gloom, a small island of light and life. A brief gust of air caused an old leaf to chitter across the stones, then the mist swirled, parted.
A statue appeared out of the fog. At first its subject eluded him—he saw only a tangle of roping sinew and claws and wings, pitted and worn beneath a cloak of moss. But as he studied it, two dragons emerged in realistic detail, a white one above and a black one below, locked in battle. The closer he looked, the more masterful the artifice became. They seemed almost alive.
But their forms were exaggerated, not like the dragons men rode into war. Certainly they must be depictions of High Dragons. He hurriedly fished his record book out of his tunic. He should sketch a picture of this. His eyes were drawn morbidly to the black beast below. The Dahak was said to be a High Dragon, like this one…but the white one? In all of Cinvat’s stories was there—
“Hello.”
Daen jumped, barely keeping hold of his book, and spun to see a young girl stepping cautiously out of the forest and onto the courtyard, staring. She might have been six, possibly seven. Dark eyes and hair, simple homespun attire, carrying a small basket. She paused and cocked her head with a beguiling half-smile on her face, as if waiting for him to answer before she came any closer.
“H-Hello…”
“Who are you?” she asked, approaching again, tentatively.
He looked around himself—for what he didn’t know—feeling awkward at having been surprised, pleasantries the furthest thing from his mind. Mer often scolded him for being tongue-tied, or for saying the exact wrong thing at the exact wrong time. He tucked his book away and straightened his tunic self-consciously. Only when she stopped again, a few feet away, did he find his wits to reply. “I…my name is Daen. And you…you’re…er…your name—?”
“I’m Maia.” She smiled. “What are you doing here?” Her accent was odd, clipped, unlike any he knew.
“I…well, I was admiring this sculpture here. Can you tell me anything about it?”
She scrutinized the statue behind him, her head tilted and her mouth twisted sideways. “Well…it’s very old. It shows two High Dragons fighting, one is black and the other is white. The white one wins. Mother likes to come here on Menog’s Day to lay dried flowers under it. But I don’t remember why…that’s really all I know.”
High Dragons! She said it so casually. Daen squatted down to bring his eyes to her level. She backed up a step, so he shrugged the basket off of his back and sat on it. “I’m surprised to see it, that’s all. I’ve never heard of this place, though it’s so close to my city. It’s a very elegant statue, isn’t it?”
She cocked her head at him, brows pinched. “You talk funny.”
He smiled. “No, you talk funny!”
She grinned back at him. “Where is your house?”
“I’m from Cinvat…that way.” He gestured vaguely in the direction that he thought might be west.
“I’ve heard of that, but I don’t know where it is. Is it a big village?”
“I should hope you’ve heard of it. It’s a city—the biggest in these parts, until you get to the coast. Trenna is on the coast and it’s the biggest city I know of.”
“Tren-na…” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know that name. It must be very far away.”
“Not so terribly far, really. Have you ever seen a big city?”
“No. Just my village, Riat.”
“And where is that?”
She pointed back and to her right, more or less southeast. “That way, on the cliff. My father is the broodmaster there.”
Broodmaster. An unfamiliar term. “Are you here alone?”
“No. I’m here with my mother and Grus.”
“Grus…is that your sister?”
She laughed briefly, a melodious sparkle of sound. “No! Grus is Mother’s dragon!”
“Her dragon! You have a dragon?”
Maia studied him through squinted eyes. “Of course we do. We have six dragons—three breeding pairs. I told you: my father is the broodmaster.”
Dragon breeders? So close by and he had never heard of them before? Surely the Council knew every breeder for leagues around. Perhaps he had wandered farther off his course than he realized, or Maia and her mother traveled a long way on their dragon to be here. Six dragons would scarcely compare to the hundreds bred in the aeries of Cinvat, but in such times as these, every dragon qit mattered. He fished his record book out of his tunic, fumbled his pen and a bottle of ink out of his basket.
Maia’s eyes grew round. “What is that?”
“This is my record book. I write everything important in here.”
“Are you going to write me in there?”
“I most certainly am. You and your mother and…Grus, did you say her name was?”