“No.”
Tyomar glared across the rectangular stone meeting table at his brother Khyros. “It is required. There is no option to refuse.”
Khyros shook his head. “We do not have time to indulge the Mheyu, Tyomar.”
“It is not an indulgence to inform them of the changes to our clan,” Tyomar shot back. “It is our duty. We should have the important elements of our lives documented. It is the way the Goddesses want it.”
“We have other things to worry about, Tyomar,” another brother, Zendyor, interjected.
“I know that,” Tyomar said, shooting him a stiff glance. “I’m just telling you they will request interviews with us all, and we must oblige them.”
Three of his brothers around the table exhaled or grumbled their frustration except, surprisingly, the fourth brother, Nyro, who was historically known for being completely disengaged in their clan meetings. But that had changed recently.
“I would be pleased to tell them about my mate,” he said, his expression smug. “There is much to say.”
If Tyomar hadn’t been so annoyed by Khyros’ response, he would have grinned at his newly mated brother. Nyro took every opportunity to brag about his mate, even when she was sitting right beside him. Unfortunately, today she had not attended the clan meeting. “Can you let I’mya know she will need to attend an interview as well?”
“Of course,” Nyro said. He glanced around the table at the other three. “I don’t see what the problem is. It is important we make it known that we are growing—that we will not become extinct.”
“I see nothing inherently wrong with it,” Sethorn said carefully. Sethorn was the strongest strategist and planner of all the brothers, and he weighed everything they did through that lens. “The Mheyu have always documented us, and they are not part of any conspiracy against us. They are, in fact, devoted to our creators. It’s just, we still don’t know how information about us, and about the existence of females such as I’mya, was discovered by certain individuals. How do we know this information won’t be used against us?”
Tyomar brows deepen into a frown. “You cannot possibly be suggesting that the Mheyu are giving anyone information? I told you, they did not know about I’mya.”
“It doesn’t mean someone else is not accessing their information.”
“They are on my range,” Tyomar said, so offended he was almost bellowing. “Are you saying, Sethorn, I cannot protect my own territory?”
“There are plenty of sanctums across the realm, brother,” Zendyor bit out. “We do not know what issues afflict the Mheyu now.”
“I can tell you now that nothing afflicts them,” Tyomar said sharply. “I looked into my Mheyu’s eyes, and there was no deception there.”
Zendyor’s brow raised. “Your Mheyu?”
“She has been my contact for seven years,” Tyomar said stiffly. “I’ve seen every expression on her face. She has never lied to me.”
“I thought you said you couldn’t see her face when you meet her?” Zendyor asked, frowning. “You complained about it.”
Tyomar scowled. He never should have told them that. “I can see her eyes at every meeting. If she was lying to me, I would know.” He looked around the table at his four brothers. “In any case, are we going to suspect the Mheyu of wrongdoing after centuries of abiding and respecting their methods? Are we going to start refusing them of their right to document what happens with our clan—the last remaining dragorai clan in the Twin Realms?”
There was silence. Tyomar knew his brothers understood the importance of what the Mheyu did; they were resisting because it would take time and effort for them to do what the Mheyu required, which was to sit down and answer questions to the best of their abilities. The dragorai were never good at simply sitting around answering questions. They were hunters, and fighters, and adventurers; they reveled in being able to travel the realm as they saw fit, exploring and taking what was owed to them. Life was different now, but Tyomar wanted his clan’s achievements and successes to be treated the same way they had for past clans.
“They are going to contact us with times to attend the interviews,” Tyomar said, breaking the silence. “I suggest we respond in agreement with whatever they ask.” He looked pointedly at Khyros, who was the eldest brother and head of the clan.
Khyros’ face was like thunder, but he said nothing for a long moment as he glared at Tyomar, who held his gaze, aware that he was being unusually stubborn about this, but he didn’t care. Most of the time, he was the connecting element among the brothers. Sethorn could be cold and dismissive, Zendyor was extremely hot-tempered, Khyros was sometimes withdrawn, and Nyro had an inherent selfishness that could easily aggravate the others. It wasn’t that they all didn’t have the same traits; Tyomar could also be cold and dismissive at times, and a hothead and very selfish too, but their traits were dominant in different ways. Tyomar realized long ago he could connect with each of his brothers and smooth the sharp edges of their personalities so as not to be too destructive to the clan.
It wasn’t as though he intended to be the clan’s conduit. He simply enjoyed being a dragorai and being among brothers who were like him. He respected them and found admirable traits in all of them, which he hoped were also within himself. Besides that, he was thankful for every day he got to fly across the realm on his dan askha—to hunt, to maintain his own territory, to spend time with others who were like him. It was a blessing from the Goddesses that he had been born a dragorai, and he didn’t want that to end prematurely. If there was a way for their kind to continue, then they should do everything to ensure that. The dragorai simply could not die out from the inability to propagate their lines. In his early years, he had witnessed some incredible feats by dragorais—magnificent, powerful, fearless males and females—and he was honored to be part of that heritage, a heritage the Mheyu were trying to preserve.
“If they must record this, they can come here,” Khyros finally begrudgingly offered. “They can do their interviews before or after one of our clan meetings.”
Tyomar’s frown deepened. “This is the Mheyu,” he replied. He didn’t bother to say any more; it was pretty clear what he meant. There was no point in having the interviews and then making it as difficult as possible for the realm’s most fastidious record-keepers to do what they needed. The clan had to go to the sanctum. Besides, Tyomar wanted another opportunity to see his little cloak.
Not seeing her for nearly a month had been absolutely enraging. It made him irritable that she was so close, on his own range, and yet inaccessible when he wanted to see her.
He chose not to think too deeply about why he wanted to see her, or the stirrings of something wild and potent that appeared when he did.
He hadn’t always been interested in her in that way. When the Mheyu had presented her at the age of thirteen in her little custom cloak, he’d been glad to see that the baby he’d brought to them had been well looked after, but he’d thought it was ridiculous they were expecting a child of that age to liaise with him about important matters regarding his clan. But when he met her again after her training five years later, she had impressed him. Knowledgeable, interesting, and so clearly supportive of the dragorai, she sparked a curiosity in him. It had been seven years since, and he couldn’t deny that his curiosity of her extended to imagining what she looked like. He enjoyed watching her range of expressions through her beautiful, brown eyes, seeing them widen and narrow or blink in surprise. She tried to adhere to the Mheyu way of being respectful and bland, but it was clear his little cloak had a strong personality. Sometimes she surprised him completely, and in those moments he was proud of her.
Lately, the wild stirrings and need to see her had been intensifying. He’d been thinking about her more often than he should, wondering how those pretty eyes would look if he explored under her cloak and sucked on various tender parts of her body. Only two things stopped him. First, he had held her tiny body as a baby when he handed her to the guardians. And she was still young, only in her twenties, while he was centuries old. He knew she didn’t like it when he called her little cloak, but it was more for him than for her. He wanted to remember her at thirteen when she looked so worried and frightened of him, just a little girl hoping not to be eaten by the scary dragorai. In some ways, he felt responsible for her. But the nickname was beginning to mean something much more to him than a reminder of her age and that worried him. The other thing that stopped him was his respect for the Goddesses. He couldn’t dishonor them by indulging himself with someone so clearly meant to be an exceptional Mheyu Guardian. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t see her when he needed to. Right now, the short meeting they had was not enough. Something had been wrong when he saw her—she’d been upset. It didn’t sit well with him. After he left, he realized he should have demanded she tell him. But returning with his brothers for the interviews was the next best thing.
“No disrespect to either of you,” Nyro said, interrupting the silent eye-tussle between Khyros and Tyomar. “But does this have to be a clan-wide decision? Why don’t those of us who wish to speak to the Mheyu take the opportunity to and those of us who don’t, don’t?”
Tyomar glanced at Nyro. “This has been the most important thing to happen to our clan in the last five centuries. I would like to know if Khyros is intending to treat it like it isn’t by refusing the Mheyu the chance to record it properly.” He glanced at Khyros who was tense and still. “It is disrespectful to all of us if we don’t do it as a clan. It is disrespectful to the Mheyu, it is disrespectful to the Goddesses—”
“All right!” Khyros growled, his voice echoing around the Vattoro temple where they held their clan meetings. “We will do these interviews as necessary.”
Tyomar inclined his head and sat back in his chair while Zendyor scowled and Nyro nodded in agreement.
“Everyone is required to work this around whatever they are doing,” Sethorn said tersely. “I suggest we push back our surveillance of the queen until after these interviews are over.”
“So we now have to wait, yet again, before we can move forward on the queen?” Zendyor growled.
“We weren’t exactly planning a significant strike,” Tyomar pointed out.
Zendyor grumbled and growled unintelligibly, clearly agitated, but Tyomar ignored him.
At the end of the meeting, it surprised him when Zendyor beckoned him over as the others were leaving. “I’m surprised at you,” he said gruffly.
Tyomar frowned. “For what?”
“Pushing Khyros so hard,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. “You know why he is not fond of the Mheyu?”
Tyomar said nothing for a moment as they strolled out to the entrance of the temple which was on the side of one of the mountains on Khyros’ range. He knew that Khyros was not fond of the Mheyu guardians, since they had attempted to question him about his missing dragon. A couple of centuries ago, when a Mheyu sanctum was destroyed in the North and the guardians were looking to relocate, it should have been Khyros’ mountain range they settled on. And as the head of the clan, it should be Khyros whom the Mheyu were in contact with regularly, but Khyros couldn’t tolerate the Mheyu and their dogged curiosity. Khyros’ dragon had been missing for a long time now, and naturally, the Mheyu wanted the details of the facts surrounding his disappearance. But it was a painful subject for Khyros—as it would be for any of them.
“This isn’t about Khyros, Zen,” Tyomar said finally. “It’s about the clan. He is the kind of leader who recognizes that, otherwise he wouldn’t have agreed.”
“It’s the way you did it,” Zendyor said. “You didn’t pull him aside and speak to him privately, you didn’t ask or suggest. You confronted him with it.” He peered at him as they came to a stop at the entrance. “It wasn’t like you.”
Tyomar looked out over the vast mountain before them. Maybe he had been unnecessarily forceful, but he couldn’t risk or abide Khyros saying no. “Maybe not,” he murmured. “But he is always dismissive of the Mheyu and the benefits they might provide. I took the burden of having them on my range. He should listen to me.”
“You think it’s a burden?” Zendyor asked.
“No,” Tyomar said immediately, turning to him. “That’s not what I mean. It’s just a responsibility I bear that none of you do.” He gave Zendyor a pointed look. “You should all listen.”
Zendyor exhaled harshly. “You are good at talking with them, Ty. Most of us wouldn’t be.” He bellowed out an incantation into the air, calling on his dan askha, before turning back to him. “But you seem different today. Just wanted to check you’re all right.”
Tyomar snorted. “Of course, I am. I’m the one who should be worrying about you.”
Zendyor shot him a look. “Why?”
“You’ve hardly left your lair lately,” Tyomar said, watching him closely. “Me and Ryndross haven’t seen you on our hunts.”
Zendyor tensed, but surprisingly said nothing, and the whipping of his dragon’s beating wings filled the air. “Until next time, brother,” he said, before casting an incantation and launching into the air.
Tyomar grinned at his obvious avoidance, shaking his head as he watched him. Zendyor enjoyed flying and hunting just as much as the rest of them, so for him to be spending so much time at his lair meant something had captured his attention. No doubt he would share with Tyomar when he was ready. He always did.
Calling out an incantation, Tyomar called upon his dan askha, Ryndross, who he felt nearby. They were well connected enough that Ryndross instinctively knew when Tyomar needed him, but during clan meetings he tended to get distracted rough-playing with his brothers. It did not escape Tyomar’s notice that Ryndross played a similar role among his dragon brothers as Tyomar did among his alpha brothers. In general, he was somewhat mild-mannered for a dragon, though he certainly had his moments. His mood was lighter when he was among his brothers, and he enjoyed chasing them, hunting with them, and being among them. His brothers seemed calmer in his company as well. It wasn’t a particularly unusual phenomenon. In the past, a person’s dan askha was a representation and a reflection of themselves, not to mention they could feel each other’s emotions.
As his dragon approached, Tyomar muttered an incantation and magic swept around him, lifting him off the mountain edge and taking him through the air to land on Ryndross’ back. As they headed back to their lair, Ryndross took the lead and flew over the Mheyu sanctum. He seemed to enjoy frequenting that part of the range, and Tyomar certainly did not mind. Over the years, it pleased him to know his little cloak was safely tucked away in the sanctum and that he would see her again soon.
Now that the interviews would happen, and she would not refuse to see him, he would demand more from her. If she was to be his liaison, he would require she satisfy his curiosity about her. And he would make sure she didn’t refuse.