“You have no right to demand it,” Arcolin said. “I tell you, I am not the heir, and you and the Council—is there still a Council?” Samdal nodded; Arcolin went on. “You should consult the dragon. Since the direct line has failed, the dragon must approve whomever you choose.”

“How?” Samdal said. “I said a dragon had been seen, not that I have talked to it. Am I to stand on the mountain and call?”

Only if he wanted to be scared out of his wits, Arcolin thought. He wondered then why he himself had not been more frightened—startled, yes, but not terrified.

“No,” he said. “But dragons need not be present to know what you need, I’ve found. They are not like us—well, that is a foolish statement, but … we are used to dealing with beings that look like us, and that we believe think like us in some form. The other Elders—elves, dwarves, gnomes—have each their own laws and customs and languages, but we can understand them, at least mostly. Dragons are so unlike us that—”

“Excuse me, sir.” That was Burek again. Arcolin scowled; it was unlike Burek to interrupt a conference. “I beg your pardon, my lord, but there is another who claims he must visit you, and immediately.”

“A darkish man with yellow eyes?” Arcolin asked, as the hairs stood up on his neck.

“Yes, sir. He would not give a name.”

Of course. His day needed only another encounter with the dragon … and he doubted the dragon had come to bring word of Stammel. Despite the obvious difficulty, a tickle of amusement rose and quirked the corner of his mouth.

“Show him in,” Arcolin said. And to Samdal, “I believe this visitor may have some interest for you.” Samdal stared, brows contracted, as well he might; Arcolin could hear in his own voice a tone of grim amusement that must be puzzling at best.

In the heat of a southern summer, the man who came in still wore what appeared to be dark leather garments more suited to winter in the north. With him came the faint scent of hot iron Arcolin remembered so well. “Count Arcolin,” he said formally, dipping his head, though in a way that conveyed no humility. Arcolin bowed, silently. Samdal’s gaze moved from one to the other; his nostrils flared, and sweat suddenly stood out on his forehead.

“Lord Samdal, Chancellor of Horngard,” Arcolin said, with a wave of his hand. Samdal rose and bowed.

“Ah,” the man said. “Of the House of Dragon, then, I believe?”

Samdal’s eyes widened. He nodded silently.

“And, Count Arcolin, I see you have in your hand a dragon ring. Where, may one ask, did you come by that? You were not wearing it when I met you in the north.”