She chewed her lip and watched the stage.
It had been a day of debates, as Lord Rynald had said, and this—the public lecture and final event—was no exception. Two podiums had been set up. Will, tall and blond, stood at one, beaming and waving at people in the audience; he had a lot of friends (a second mark for the tally, or maybe a third; tall and blond surely counted for something).
At the other podium stood a stocky person with a doughy face, dressed ambiguously in an old-fashioned floor-length robe.
“Scholar Spira, a dragon,” Lord Rynald told Kenneth.
Professor the dragon Ondir raised his hands for silence. The rowdy students roared and stomped, a last hurrah, before settling down. “Today’s final pair, scholar versus scholar, are my two doctoral candidates. The dragon Spira”—a smattering of applause and jeers—“will debate William of Affle”—raucous cheering now—“about megafauna of the mountainous regions, whether to exploit or preserve them, and how this may best be accomplished. Scholars, proceed.”
“Thank you, Professor,” William called after Saar Ondir’s departing form. “Of course, we’re required to omit the largest mountain animals of all—dragons—which is like omitting vultures from a discussion of birds, but I’ll do my best to pretend you don’t exist.”
Scholar Spira, in a voice as flat as vellum, said, “Let me begin by—”
“Did you hear something?” cried William. His human cohort laughed uproariously.
It was a rather stupid joke, but Tess found herself grinning for the first time all day.
“Our dragon professors suggested these debates,” Lord Rynald was telling Kenneth. He had to shout to be heard; Tess leaned across to listen. “They’re meant to sharpen our critical faculties, but a keen wit stabs harder than a finely honed argument. The dragons have been slaughtered today, by human reckoning.”
Scholar Spira began speaking, in a grating, nasal whinge, in favor of conservation—a counterintuitive position for a dragon, Tess felt. Didn’t they like exterminating whole species? Maybe just humankind.
Tess couldn’t recall Spira’s arguments later. The scholar’s voice was like a nail on slate, and William of Affle spent the entire time pulling disrespectful faces.
Rude, Tess thought, which should have been a mark against him, but there was that grin tugging the corners of her mouth again.
“Is anyone still awake?” said William when he finally took the stand. His voice was like a rich ocean breeze after the doldrums of Spira’s monotone.
Tess would have found it utterly charming if he hadn’t been arguing for exploitation. The great animals, per his thesis, were nothing more than a resource, and had been placed here by Heaven for humans to use as they saw fit.
“Of course I exclude dragons,” he said with a saucy wink. “Since I must.”
His friends in the audience laughed, but Tess found his argument unkind and, frankly, disappointing. He’d understood that she loved animals, and this had made her believe, perhaps mistakenly, that he loved them, too.
Lord Rynald was saying, “And there he goes, playing the provocateur. He’s full of beans, and his human audience eats them right up.”
Ah. Maybe that explained it. He was arguing for the win, rather than from conviction.
Tess had to admire his gall, even if it seemed a dangerous way to go.
William placed his hands on the podium as if bracing for the most provocative argument of all. “Let me conclude by suggesting, Spira, that you dragons may have an ulterior motive behind your ethic of ‘conservation.’?” He raised his chin and his voice: “I assert that there are animals—fabulous creatures, like beings straight out of myth—that you saar are actively hiding from us.”
His friends laughed; William looked mildly irritated at this.
“You think I’m kidding,” he said. “But our two races work together at this Collegium, ostensibly to share knowledge and build trust. This requires good faith on both sides. How is humankind ever to catch up if dragonkind won’t tell us the whole truth?”
The word truth reverberated through the silent hall, and then a confused mutter went up. He didn’t mean that, surely?
Spira, caught flat-footed, shuffled notecards on the lectern and said, “Um. What?”
“I refer, of course, to the World Serpents,” said William.
Tess sat up straighter, eyes wide. He’d…he’d taken her seriously.
“I realize none of you know what I’m talking about,” said Will, holding up his hands to still the crescendo of baffled murmuring. “Goreddi scholars have never delved deeply into this, but I’ve had inklings. Last week, an observation by one of our keenest minds confirmed my suspicions and gave me courage to speak.”
He meant Tess. Keenest mind was an exaggeration, ridiculously elevated, but Tess felt it profoundly anyway. She pressed a hand to her heart.
He’d said he hadn’t heard of World Serpents, though he’d known the Pelaguese legend. Maybe she’d misunderstood. Maybe he just hadn’t put it all together.
“It’s unfashionable to look to legends for truth,” he was saying, “but haven’t our own Saints proved literally real? The ancients knew a great deal about the natural world; there may be things to learn when old tales tell the same story.
“Look to this mural.” He gestured broadly at the teeming mural behind him. “St. Fredricka included hints of a creature coiled under the ice, an animal the Pelaguese people once considered a god, who held the gift of prophecy and the key to eternal youth. Well, our pre-Saint pagans told of a similar monster under the earth, whose blood could heal wounds or cure disease. If either of these legends is even partially true, it would be the greatest discovery of our lifetimes. If they’re altogether true, the possibilities are unfathomable.”
William paused dramatically. “Friends, this world may be riddled with great serpents of untold power, and the dragons don’t want us to know about them.”
The hall erupted, and not with approval. The human instructors were shouting angrily, scandalized that Will would accuse their allies of such a thing. Laughter came in two flavors: mocking and highly amused. The saarantrai, as expected, stared in stony silence.
“He can’t be serious.” Kenneth had to shout to be heard. “How could such creatures exist?”
Lord Rynald shook his curly head in bewilderment.
“And isn’t he asking for trouble, accusing the dragons of deceit?”
“If the saar were prone to anger, maybe,” Lord Rynald shouted back. “They won’t even bother to dispute him. Well, no, Spira might write a paper. Spira’s kind of a pedant.”
Tess, irked by their skepticism, cried, “World Serpents are real. He’s telling the truth.”
Lord Rynald blinked his dark, pretty eyes. “If you say so.”
Tess turned away in irritation, folding her hands on the balcony railing. She rather wished William would look up, but four of his friends had rushed the stage, and they were singing a rude song about Spira (complete with choreography) that they must have prepared in advance.
O Spira, come near-a
And lift up your skirt.
Are you male or female
Or fat, shameless flirt?
It’s bad enough, Spira,
Just being a saar;
You mince like a maidy—
Come prove what you are!
Spira, speaking quietly to Professor the dragon Ondir, ignored them. Tess might’ve pitied him (her? It was hard to tell) if mockery could’ve hurt a dragon’s feelings. She ought to have been shocked by such a naughty song, at least, but once again she found herself wrestling a grin.
He was incorrigible. Mischievous and bold and everything she’d been told time and again she shouldn’t be. Everything she’d ever admired about Dozerius.
What would he do if he knew she was trapped in a dark tower? She hardly dared hope.