Two more claws widen the crack. A whole foot appears, as white as surf, then a two-clawed hand. A snout pokes out. Its nostrils huff as its horn chips at the crack.
The other egg wobbles and tips over. A white horn bursts through its bottom and thrashes side to side to make a wider hole. The first snout answers by hacking at its own crack faster.
“It’s a race,” the poth says.
“We have to be the first people to see this,” Jeryon says. “No one’s written anything about dragons being born white. It makes sense, with them turning black as they age.”
“Shhh!” she says.
The first snout retreats and a red eye appears to check its progress. Its pupil is shaped like a keyhole and its iris is covered in a lace of black veins. It stares at Jeryon, then Everlyn. They hear tiny jaws snap.
The second snout resolves into the face of a white wyrmling with black eyes shot with gold. One more push and its head is through. It’s the size of a walnut, but its mouth is already full of needle-sharp teeth. Its forked tongue lashes the egg as it beats its shoulders against its shell. It can’t get any leverage, though. The egg rocks futilely.
The red-eyed wyrmling works more deliberately. Another hand appears, and the wyrmling pulls bits of shell inside instead of pushing them out. Its escape route widens considerably while the other wyrm-ling rolls its shell over in its struggles. When red eye can get its shoulders through the hole, it clutches either side and flexes its impossibly skinny arms. The shell snaps in two. The wyrmling tumbles out, tangled in the limp, translucent wings stretching beneath its arms. Fastidiously, it orders itself then plays its tongue over its lips at the sight of its clutchmate.
Black eye’s head rears, its jaw drops, but it only releases a panicked squeal. Red eye crawls toward it. Its pupils tighten.
Jeryon yanks his hand out of the poth’s, which nearly topples them both. She clutches his shirt. He puts his hand like a wall between the two wyrmlings.
“What are you doing?” the poth says.
Red snaps at his hand. He doesn’t move it. It bites his hand. He stifles a yelp, but doesn’t move it. The wyrmling squeals at him. The hand remains undaunted.
The poth says, “I wish we could keep them both. I’ve seen this before with raptors, but you have to let that one—”
“Watch,” Jeryon says.
Red tries to crawl around his hand, then over it; he pushes the wyrmling back. Black, sensing an opportunity, resumes freeing itself, which makes red more frantic. Jeryon still won’t let it at its clutchmate. Finally, the wyrmling sits in frustration. Jeryon doesn’t move his hand. Red looks at him. Now he does.
“Did you just teach it to sit?” the poth says.
“No, I taught it to ask permission,” Jeryon says.
Red leaps onto its clutchmate’s egg. Black snaps at Red’s face and rolls the egg, which knocks Red off, so Red spreads its wings over the egg to keep it in place. Its tongue flicks over Black’s eyes. It nips at Black’s snout. Its head rears, and Black ducks into its shell.
“I don’t know, poth,” Jeryon says, “Black’s either very smart or very dumb.”
Red considers its options: storm the castle or siege it. The wyrmling hisses a challenge. No response. It looks into the hole, and a claw darts out, nearly slicing Red’s eyeball. Red reaches inside, there’s a snap, and Red jerks out its hand and shakes it. A pinprick of blood spatters Jeryon’s shirt.
The egg wobbles again. Then it rocks. It develops a rhythm. Red scurries around the egg, trying to decide what Black is doing. A crack forms on its underside, where the egg beats against a small, sharp stone.
Jeryon says, “It’s trying to break a new way out.”
“No,” says the poth, “it’s trying to rock the egg out of the hole.” One more push and the egg rolls over the chock and toward the hole’s mouth. It gets to the edge and teeters on the lip. Red claws at the egg, trying to keep it in the hole.
The poth lets go of Jeryon’s shirt and cups her hand under the lip to catch Black’s egg. “I thought we weren’t playing favorites,” he says.
“Maybe I was wrong,” she says. “Maybe this is a form of play, not population control.”
“From what I’ve read about dragons, there’s no distinction.”
Red slaps at the egg, which spins a little. The wyrmling squeals in delight, having found a solution. Red stands up and turns the egg around so Black rolls the egg back into the hole. When the egg lodges against the back of the hole, Black realizes how it’s been fooled and lunges out of its egg, teeth snapping, one claw grasping. Red dances backward, squealing in terror, and falls on its back. The wyrmling kicks and flings up its wings to ward off its clutchmate until it realizes that Black has wedged itself in the crack in its egg. Trapped, Black dips its head and mewls.