Qora’s first experience of dragon architecture had been the Vault of the Twelveworld, a religious retreat with a single inhabited settlement built into a mountain peak. His second had been the Throneworld of the Chatcaavan Empire, where the delicate towers of the palace had been drawn from a seaside cliff. The city alongside had been much lower, but one could see a theme: the winged people liked high places, and the more power they had, the more remote they liked them.
Like the Vault, Stronghold’s major settlement made use of the mountain peaks: all five of them in the range, strung together with artificial walls thrown like bridges of rock and lace from tip to tip. The Liaison and his party had been granted permission to Pad down into a holding area at the end of one of these bridges, and they arrived at dusk. A cold wind flattened Qora’s fur against his body as he stepped onto the world, and he turned slowly in place. The orange lights of the settlements illuminated the receding peaks like the gems in one of the Eldritch’s crowns. They smoldered against the lucid cobalt of a sky that felt wider than the frail platform beneath his feet, as if it should be natural that his vision encompass the full 360 degrees.
How stunning, to be winged. And yet what Qora was most aware of was those torches, bright as the flame-bowls ringing a Dancing circle. What scroll would be performed there?
The air barely nourished, but even dizzied by it, Qora could find peculiar that there was a dragon medic awaiting them among the escort, and that this individual had palliatives for altitude sickness. Though they spoke Chatcaavan, he could read Osgood’s skepticism, and he waited with interest as another Pelted Other was added to their party, the grumpy and reclusive healer. That worthy conferred with his dragon counterpart and nodded approval, and all of them offered their arms for the application. Even Qora when the healer said, “It’ll work on you too.”
They lingered at the bridge’s end until it took effect: not a hardship in such environs. An arch had been built just past the bridge’s end, with a pointed tip and flared voussoirs; the piers had been hollowed out for benches and windows. Qora watched the sky darken and the distant lights burn taller, until they looked like bonfires against a vault as black as space. How these Others could build!
The planetary lord lived in a peak that had been bisected, with a slab removed down its center. A waterfall ran down one of these enormous walls, plunging into a square hole that Qora supposed led to a plumbing system that supplied the inhabitants. He peered upward, seeking the source of the water, but could no longer differentiate between black stone and night sky. What a pity to enter the fortress with this view at his back! But he followed their escort into the wall opposite the waterfall.
Their host was awaiting them… flanked by two female Others, one human, one furred. It was the latter that said, “The Worldlord tells us we have a problem to solve.”
* * *
Truly the ways of the Others were without explanation. Qora sipped politely from a broad-mouthed cup while watching these two groups of aliens stare one another down. He thought them determined not to do violence to one another, but not in the slightest bit comfortable in each others’ presence, either. The new dragon was a handsome bronze in color with a blue sheen along his flanks to match the pellucid eyes, bright as Quafiirla’s noonday sky. The pebbling around his horns and beneath his brow ridges suggested he had left his youth behind, but the wing vanes remained supple and his movements certain and powerful. His human companion, on the other hand, was obviously an elder even to his inexperienced eyes, stooped, wrinkled, and with hair like a wiry puff of white. It was she who’d poured their tisane, humming cheerfully.
The remaining female, the furred one, was Harat-Shar if Qora was not mistaken: one of the least explicable of the Pelted races, with attitudes even other Pelted found discomfiting. This one was white with gray stripes and pale blue eyes, and Qora couldn’t guess her age. Young enough to be spry, old enough for composure.
They had been brought to a circular dining chamber, small in circumference but with enormously high ceilings. A full three-quarters of the wall was glass, allowing a stunning view into a deep, snowy canyon, and the distant peaks burned their golden fire as if to intimately light their meal. It was a chamber for family, or would have been for Faulfenza. Qora wondered what it meant that they’d been escorted here for this discussion.
“I have many questions,” the Liaison said in Universal when the cups had been shared. “But I must begin by saying you go against your Emperor’s decree, keeping and flaunting foreigners as slaves.”
“I would be, yes, if they would go,” the Worldlord answered, and though he had an accent, he spoke without hesitation or labor. “But they will not.”
“And what exactly do I have to toddle home to, these days?” the elderly human said. “I like it here. This is home.”
Osgood pressed a finger against one temple and licked her lips as if to speak, but refrained.
“Don’t look at me,” the furred one said when the Liaison turned his glower on her. “This is my Chatcaavan. I picked him.”
“Then they are free to go and choose not to?” the Liaison pressed. “You have explicitly informed them they need not remain?”
The Worldlord opened his mouth, but the furred one spoke first. “No, he hasn’t. But we heard the news, just like everyone else. We told him we were staying before he could tell us to go. We like him. That’s possible, you know.”
“For people who started out as slaves? To like their masters?” That was Laniis, and her voice betrayed her history with its tension.
“Well, I set out to be captured,” said the furred one, grinning at her dragon before reaching over and setting her hand on the human’s frail wrist. “And Betsy….”
“I was stolen off a passenger liner. I’d booked myself a vacation, thinking I might as well, because I have no family left and no reason to open my eyes in the morning. When this young fellow took me in… well! I expected the worst. But he was very kind, and his household was in need of a guiding hand, and it worked out for me.”
Now Osgood did speak, if only under her breath. “God Almighty.”
The Liaison peered from one of the aliens to the other before frowning. “I see. That leaves the matter of the Faulfenza, however.”
“And I wish I could help you,” the Worldlord said. “But I purchased them before it was not wrong to do so—”
“It was always wrong to do so!” Laniis interrupted.
“Before it was not lawful in the Empire to do so,” the Worldlord amended, ducking his head slightly. “As rewards for the captains of my squadrons for excellent service. I dispatched them nearly a year ago.”
“So they’re in the hands of… how many Chatcaava?”
“Seven,” said the Worldlord. “Some were given more than one.”
Qora’s companions were visibly angered by this, though they remained seated and did not speak. That they could be more moved by the plight of the Faulfenza than Qora was… strange. Qora had long since accepted that the galaxy was a fallen place, populated by Others who were either ineffective, naïve, or evil. That Faulfenza should die or be imprisoned in such circumstances was to be expected. It was why he'd agreed to join the mission headed by Paudii, after all.
The Liaison set his cup down. “You will summon your captains and arrange the return of the aliens.”
“I cannot guarantee those aliens have not been…” Here their host paused. “Damaged. Or sold. They may even have perished.”
The Liaison replied, “When the aliens have been remanded to my companions we will discuss what you and your captains may do to make amends in the event of those misfortunes.”
The Worldlord winced. “It was not my intent to create this situation.”
“I’m sure it’s very uncomfortable for you,” Laniis said. “But you did create this situation, and the Emperor has made his feelings clear. That would seem to make your path clear as well.”
“Yes.” Their host rose. “It will take time for my captains to respond to my summons. Until they do, I will lodge you as befits your errand as emissaries of the Emperor.”
“Thank you,” said the Liaison. “I accept your hospitality. My companions may wish to return to their vessel?” He glanced at Osgood.
“We’d prefer it,” she said. “Though we wouldn’t mind stretching our legs now and then if shore leave is allowed. Qora?”
Would the damnable sense of rightness evaporate if he returned to the Silhouette? Qora guessed that it would, so he replied: “I shall stay with the Liaison.” He grinned. “I can practice my Chatcaavan.”
“Then I’ll stay too,” Laniis said. “If that’s all right, captain.”
“That’s fine. Worldlord?”
“As you will,” he said. “I will make habitation available for three, and you and your crew are welcome to take liberty anywhere on the planet, so long as you inform us of your whereabouts.” He met Osgood’s gaze directly. “This is for your safety, so that my people do not misinterpret your visits.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
“And I hope for your sake those Faulfenza come back, every one of them, in one piece,” Laniis said.
“Don’t worry,” said the furred Other beside her chosen master. “We hope that, too.”
* * *
Did all dragons think in terms of enormous aeries when building their chambers or was it a peculiarity specific to the rich and powerful ones? Qora wandered the suite, once again designed at the top of a tower with a circular floor plan. He liked the emphasis on circles, since the curves reminded him of Faulfenzair architecture. But this love of high spaces was alien, and breathtaking. He paused alongside one of the few slender pillars that interrupted the view. So many stars, and so brilliant. If he held up his hand he could cover hundreds with his palm alone.
“Well, at least they’re giving us the royal treatment.” That was Laniis, ghosting out of the dim warm shadows. She dropped a bag onto one of the divans and pivoted in place. “It looks a lot like the penthouses in the Throneworld palace… are there other rooms off this one?”
“It should be an entire ring of rooms.” That was the Liaison, joining her. “This style is common for the masters of large territories. The entire top floor should be a single exterior room, with entrances into a handful of interior rooms closer to the central staircase.”
“Used, I guess, by servants,” Laniis sat and started peeling off one of her boots.
“Used by servants,” the dragon agreed. “And the flightless, now.”
Qora knocked his knuckles against the window. “In your Throneworld’s palace, these would be open.”
“The weather is not agreeable,” the Liaison replied, padding up alongside Qora to look at the sweep of the vista. “There should be doors if a male wants to leave from this height, but it’s too cold to leave open. The architectural mode used on the Throneworld is an evolution of this design, intended for more temperate climates.”
“Ah… from fortress to palace?” Laniis nodded. “That makes sense.”
“So we need fear no visitors,” Qora said. “That is good. I think I’d like to try sleeping next to one of these windows. It is glorious.”
“It is!” the Liaison said. And hesitated. “Alet….”
“You are about to apologize for something,” Qora said, casting his eyes skyward. “Let me see. Is it for the treatment of my people? The fact that they are distant and it may be weeks before we see them again? That they are probably not being treated like pampered pets, like the Others being kept by this worldlord of yours?”
“Speaker-Singer,” Laniis muttered. “Willing slaves.”
“He does not appear to treat them poorly?” the Liaison offered, but his shoulders were slumped inward.
“And how would we know?”
“We’ll find out if we live here for long enough,” Qora said. “Then you can rescue them as well if your heart desires.”
Laniis glanced at him. “I… can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“Neither can I,” Qora said cheerfully, because to make a jest of it was the only way he could bear the situation. Eleven missing Faulfenza, gone for a year. He could dare to hope—but even if he didn’t, what had they lived through in that time?
“I hope there’s something to keep us occupied for several weeks,” Laniis said finally. “It looks like fine flying out there for you, huntbrother, but Qora and I are stuck.”
“You could return to the ship?”
“No,” she said firmly. “You’re here. I need to be here. And Qora deserves support.”
“That does bring us to the question,” the Liaison said, turning to Qora. “Of why you chose to stay when you could have spent your time waiting on the Silhouette.”
“As I said, I wish to work on my Chatcaavan!”
The Liaison squinted at him, then complained to Laniis, “I also cannot tell if he is serious!”
Laniis laughed. “I haven’t known him long, arii, and even I know we’re not supposed to be able to tell.” She wiggled her brows at Qora. “However, if that was a joke… you’re going to have to eat it. Because I’m going to be bored, and teaching a Faulfenzair to speak Chatcaavan sounds like a great way to pass the time.”
“I look forward to it,” Qora said, and did, if only because it would keep him from dwelling on each hour as it dragged past. What was going on in the galaxy at large while he was trapped here? Where, apparently, Faulza wanted him to be? Why here! If only he could believe…
“Yes,” he said. “Why not start now?”