"I never lie! It flew straight up, then dropped the apple right onto my head. The crowd loved it. Every time I tried to juggle those apples, the damn bird stole them, flew up, and dropped them onto me again. It got ugly once I started juggling torches."

She laughed softly. "You're such a liar."

"Wait until I tell you the story about my dancing routine and the enraged pig. Every time I did a jig, the damn hog would slam right into me, knocking me off the stage."

She closed her eyes, and he kept talking, telling her old tall tales—of fish that tugged him into the river, fairies who taught him to sing, and other stories of sunlight and warmth and better days. He kept talking until she slept against him. He kissed her forehead, and she mumbled but would not wake. Finally he slept too, a fitful sleep, a brittle and fearful sleep, but whenever nightmares woke him she was in his arms, and he held her closer, and they warmed each other until the dawn.

LAIRA

 
LAIRA

She flew upon Neiva, her dear roc, leading the Goldtusk clan across the sky.

For seventeen years, Laira had lived as the lowliest member of this tribe—beaten, starved, worth less than the dogs. Now she was Chieftain of Goldtusk, Daughter of Ka'altei, leader of a great flock. She no longer wore her old, tattered garment of rat furs, the one Zerra had pissed on and left to stink. Today she wore a resplendent tiger pelt and a golden headdress. Her jaw was still crooked, her body still small, but her hair was growing longer, her limbs stronger, and her spirit soared like the rocs she led. Seventy of the oily vultures flew around her, yellow eyes gleaming, their feathers dank and dripping. The tribe elders, women, and children had always walked upon the earth, too lowly to ride upon the hunters' rocs, but now they rode too, five or six souls upon each bird. Three of the rocs held their totem pole, flying together, and upon the pillar's crest gleamed the gilded ivory tusk the tribe worshiped.

Looking upon her tribe, Laira heaved a deep sigh.

I suffered, bled, and killed for Goldtusk. And now I must give this tribe away. She tightened her lips. For Requiem.

She looked to her left. Not a mark away flew the dragons of Requiem, twenty in all. Maev, Dorvin, and Alina had flown west to seek others. Tanin and Issari flew south across the sea. Here was all that remained, barely a tribe, barely a clan, a humble twenty dragons who would forge a nation.