The servants at the place of the elders had tidied the garden for spring planting, though it was still winter-barren. I tipped my head back, turning my face to the sun—a gesture natural to me, but also one with significance to the Draconeans, having the effect of a silent prayer. Then, drawing in a deep breath, I began.
“My people,” I said, “must become accustomed to the notion of your people as real creatures—before they see one in the living flesh. It is likely that this has already begun: unless my companions all perished in the avalanche, they will by now have spread the word of our discovery in the mountains. If you permit me to return to the outside world, I can fan the flames of enthusiasm for all things Draconean, which have been burning since we discovered the lost hatching ground.” I had told them of this—not omitting the fact that I wept to see the tracks of those ancient Draconean hatchlings, who perished waiting for caretakers who would never come. The memory shook me even more now than it had then, when I thought the creatures only dumb beasts, but I went on.
“I can declare my intent to find a living population. Both my fame and my connections in the scholarly community will draw support to my cause; I can begin a movement for the preservation of the Sanctuary even before it is ‘found.’ When your existence is revealed to the world, there will be humans standing ready to support you, and together they will act as a defense for your well-being.”
The elders did not like this plan, and I cannot blame them one bit. It would be a gamble on a scale so large, no word in any of our languages could encompass it—though they certainly made a thorough hunt for one, ranging through vocabulary far beyond my ken. Sejeat was on my side, and Tarshi seemed willing to consider it, but the remainder …
“Only a few should know of us,” Kuvrey said. She was the eldest of the lot, and tended to assert her seniority. “If you carry a message from the council to some human government—”
“Then that government will take the situation out of both my hands and your own,” I said, before this suggestion could garner much support. “They can slaughter you all in secret, and the general human public will never know the truth. I could tell them—but that would do you little good once you are dead. Or perhaps they will simply come in here and—” I did not know the Draconean word for “subjugate,” having foolishly not thought to obtain it for this conversation. I made a gesture with my hand instead, clenching my fist tight. “They will keep you in pens, as you keep yaks. And it does not matter which government I tell; the risk will be the same.” As much as I liked Queen Miriam and generally thought well of her, there was the Synedrion to consider. And my influence would be less than nothing at the court of the Vidwathi or Tser-zhag kings—much less that of the Yelangese emperor.
These hazards did not vanish under my plan, of course. But popular sentiment at least stood a chance of acting as a check on such actions—a better chance than any other possibility I saw.
“What if we sent our own representative out?” Sejeat asked. “Someone you can take in secret to negotiate.”
“Where would I take that person?” It came out more curtly than I would have liked, but my body was stiff with tension. “I could not even get them to Thokha before someone saw us, much less to my own homeland. And they would be in even more danger than I am here, with less protection. Your—” I paused, looking at Ruzt, who supplied the word that had already slipped through the gaps in my increasingly leaky mind. “Your representative would be killed. I wish it were not so, but it would happen.” I did not know the Draconean word for “suicide,” and could not muster the will to ask for it, but I believe my meaning came through.
When all was said and done, only one thing carried us through that morass of difficulty: the fact that contact with the outside world was a matter that had troubled the council of elders for a generation or more. That it was inevitable and necessary, they agreed, but no further had they gotten; they had, in the manner of councils everywhere, dithered without reaching any conclusion. But much of their dithering had hinged on the lack of information to guide their actions, and now that lack was resolved. Furthermore, my presence forced their hands. As Tarshi said bluntly, “We cannot simply disregard the problem. We have three choices: keep her here, send her out again, or kill her.”
It took all my will not to flinch when she said that last. By then I was fairly certain Tarshi was on my side; she only mentioned that possibility out of scrupulous fairness. Other elements on the council, however, were not nearly so sympathetic, Urrte chief among them. And every day messengers came from various parts of the Sanctuary—Draconean messengers; this was far too important for mews—urging them to that final course. Fortunately for me, the remainder knew that such action would solve nothing, and only squander an opportunity that might not come again. (How often does a dragon-friendly wanderer fall into one’s lap, under conditions that dispose her to be grateful to one’s people?)
Indeed, the hostility served my purpose in a peculiar fashion, for it also weighted the scale against keeping me in the Sanctuary. While in theory my continued presence would give the Draconeans a chance to acclimate themselves to humanity, in practice we all knew it would only inflame sentiment still further. My murder, I told Sejeat quite bluntly, would bring all the ills of my execution and more, as it would only deepen the rift between the progressive, outward-looking faction and the reactionaries who wished to remain isolated. Furthermore, if it were ever to be discovered by humans, it would poison public opinion against the residents of the Sanctuary.
Even when there is no good choice, a choice must be made: lacking anything better, we chose what appeared to be the least of the available evils. By a narrow margin, and by means of a great deal of acrimonious wrangling, we finally arrived at a decision.
Kuvrey spoke for the council, in the sunlight, where decisions are made. “You will leave the Sanctuary,” she said. “Go forth to your people, and tell them of us; then come find us again when they are ready.”
I did not say to her, they will never be ready. I had not been ready to meet the elders, but had gone ahead regardless, for there was no other choice. We had already fallen from the cliff face: we must find a way to fly before we reached the ground.
SEVENTEEN
To the col once more—A sharp boundary—Miracles—Too many conversations at once—Silence for a query—A new plan—Above the col