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had taken the teachings to heart. He had never been much interested in
fighting, though he believed passionately in guarding such beauty in the realm
as he could.
"Well, it is awfully quiet here, Windrush. Not that I'm complaining!"
Greystone led the way down into the garden, pointing his head one way and
another, as though to ensure that Windrush would see how well the place was
being preserved.
It was, indeed, a reassuring sight. Windrush stopped to peer at a cluster of
bushes with purplish, upturned cups for leaves. The cups held a clear liquid
which drew floating insects and several small, colorful flyers that hovered,
sip, ping the nectar. The flyers reminded Windrush of Jael's rigger-friend
Ed. He watched them thoughtfully, aching to know what had become of Ed, and
At, and most of all, Jael.
After a moment, he blinked and turned to follow Greystone.
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Passing a swirling pool in a rock basin, and a row of lantern-trees, Greystone
continued downward into the vale. He nudged a shadow-cat out of the way with
a goodnatured swing of his snout and continued down the path toward the
carved-rock grotto at its bottom.
Windrush paused a moment, as the shadow-cat peered out at him from beneath the
low-hanging threads of a curtain-tree. The cat was practically invisible, but
its eyes blinked alternately like stars winking on and off. Windrush returned
the creature's gaze, and for an instant, felt a linkage. The cat, too, felt
the encroachment of darkness over the land, and Windrush sensed a plain and
poignant desire in its simple heart for the dragons to make the darkness go
away. We will try, he answered silently. We will try. The eyes brightened
for an instant, then vanished under the tree.
Greystone swung is great ad around to peer questioningly, and
Windrush strode after him.
The grotto at the bottom of the vale was a graceful series of openings in
water-carved stone. It held within its breadth a cluster of arching, cavelike
spaces. The dracona Treegrower was resting inside the third of those spaces.
Her glassy head was raised, gazing at the two draconi as they approached. "It
seems to me you are always complaining," she said to Greystone in a softly
chiming voice.
"Hah!" rumbled the dragon. "Are you eavesdropping on my conversations
again?"
The dracona's golden eyes turned to Windrush. "Certainly not.
I've no wish to die of boredom." She sighed deeply. "Windrush."
"Treegrower," he answered, bowing his head.
"You never come anymore."
Windrush felt a flash of regret, though he knew her remark was half teasing.
"I'm sorry. I try, but-" "Nonsense. Too busy fighting to worry about
draconae and eggs. Do you come with news?"
Windrush studied the dracona, her eyes luminous gold, but dimmed with age, and
cloudy. A few rays of the afternoon sun penetrated the cave
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to refract through her gem, like scales, but there was a dusty look to her.
She looked older and weaker every time he saw her. If she were not the only
living dracona outside the Dream Mountain, and therefore fiercely determined
to survive, he was sure she would have given up and fled to the Final Dream
Mountain ages ago.
But Treegrower was the caretaker of the last egg, laid not by her, but by the
dying dracona Moonglass, shortly after the disappearance of the Dream
Mountain. Moonglass had not lived, but Treegrower had-and she'd vowed that
this egg would survive, despite the fact that it could only grow and hatch in
the Dream Mountain. Were there other eggs in the Mountain? Perhaps-but no
one outside the Mountain knew for sure.
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