‘Uh, yes,’ I say quickly.
I exchange a look with Marquis, who is trying desperately not to laugh. We move on to the next cave, which slopes downwards, deep into the earth. The only illumination comesfrom two flaming torches, which give enough light to see the shapes of hundreds of twisted metal hearts stuck in the ground.
‘Bleeding Heart Yard,’ Aodahn says. ‘Where we burn and mourn our dead.’
We pass by another cave but Aodahn doesn’t stop. I glance inside it anyway. The ground is a bed of smouldering feathers, kept alight by several wyverns hovering above and breathing fire. Nestled among the feathers are rows of eggs, and I watch as a wyvern on the ground carefully turns one of them.
‘What’s in here?’ Atlas asks, peering into another cave.
‘Take heed!’ Aodahn cries.
Atlas stops abruptly before he falls off the ledge of the cave entrance. I look in from over his shoulder. It’s a great open space, lit by streams of white light. It must be several miles wide and is so deep that I cannot see the bottom. Ledges jut out from the walls and wyverns perch on them.
‘Wuthering Heights,’ Aodahn says. ‘This is where our wyvernlings partake of flying practice.’
‘Wuthering Heights?’ Serena says. ‘I’ve heard of that book. It’s a novel. The daughter of one of my mother’s friends was reading it.’
‘His English is certainly straight out of a novel,’ Gideon mutters.
The heat becomes stifling as we walk deeper into the tunnel system and when Aodahn brings us to a stop I see why. We are in a huge cavern with a giant bonfire burning in the middle. A hundred or so wyverns are gathered around it, basking in the orange glow created by the reflection of theflames in the huge chunks of amber rock in the ceiling.
‘Welcome to the Amber Court,’ Aodahn says.
Every inch of the walls is covered in tweed tapestries, with white scrolls of paper tucked inside. I peer closer, trying to work out what they could be. As Aodahn leads us inside, wyverns turn to look at us. Abelio and Cindra are closest to the fire, sitting with a group of wyverns whose heads are bent in concentration. When Abelio sees us he stands up and I realise what the wyverns are looking at.
The loquisonus machine.
They’re peering at it in great fascination, examining the dials and the speaker with their snouts and talons. I imagine their great claws scratching at the metal or spinning the dial off its mechanism and resist the urge to shout at them to stop. Clawtail’s journal lies open on the ground. Cindra’s eyes narrow as she sees me watching.
‘Greetings to our human guests,’ Abelio bellows in Cannair.
The cave goes silent as wyverns turn to listen, but Abelio is speaking too fast for me to make sense of what he is saying. I’m reminded of what it was like when I was a small child learning dragon tongues for the first time, and of the frustration I felt when I was able to understand certain words, only to lose track of them once they were strung together in conversation.
Serena prods me in the back. ‘What’s he saying?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘I . . . I think something about learning. And a challenge.’
‘Brilliant,’ she mutters.
Abelio must see the confusion on my face because suddenly his speech slows and becomes easier to understand.
‘Today we have the opportunity to offer shelter to a group of humans,’ he says. ‘Some of you have never heardfasgadhcalled upon before. But there is nothing the Hebridean Wyverns do better than hospitality.’ His eyes land on mine. ‘Our knowledge and tradition lend themselves well to entertaining guests. Indeed, we wyverns are learned creatures, the most erudite and progressive of dragons.’
Aodahn is whispering a translation of Abelio’s speech to the others and Marquis raises his eyebrows.
‘He’s changed his tune.’
Abelio’s manner of speaking is hard to describe, the sound of it jaunty and fluctuating in pitch and tone.
‘Cultivated in the arts, the sciences and the ways of life of our ancestors, we have the ability to shelter these humans from the ills that threaten them. They could walk these tunnels for an eternity without ever wanting for food, water or intellectual stimulation because everything they need is within. We ask only that each human thus protected pays their dues.’
My mind races as I try to keep up and I glance at Atlas. ‘I think he’s about to tell us what he wants in exchange for letting us stay.’
‘Who gave you Patrick Clawtail’s journal?’ Cindra asks.
The question is directed at me.
‘The Academy for Draconic Linguistics,’ I reply in English, before switching back to Cannair. ‘It was founded only –’ I pause, trying to remember any wyvern words for numbers – ‘thirty years ago. No . . . equivalent word –’ I shake my head – ‘in your –’ I point around at them – ‘language. It’san institution dedicated to recording and –’ I ponder the sentence – ‘translating dragon tongues.’
