He points to the silvery blue wyvern standing with Cindra, so old he’s missing half his scales.
‘I’m supposed to be shadowing Dòmhnall,’ he replies. ‘Ahealer is always required during lessons in case of accidents.’
Across the cave, Cindra, Dòmhnall and three wyvernlings perch on the ledge. As they beat out their wings and turn to her for instruction, their white-blue feathers glow in the dark. Cindra throws back her head and I see the authoritative flick of her tail. I know she is talking to the wyvernlings in echolocation and yet I’m surprised. Surely the tricky act of flying requires more detailed instructions, an intimate understanding of each other’s more complex echolocation calls which is only possible through a close bond? As far as I know, none of these wyvernlings are part of Cindra’s family. So how is it that they know when to lift up their left wing, to spread out the tips of their feathers for better balance as I see them do now, when these instructions are all given in silence by a teacher who surely doesn’t share much of a bond with any of them?
‘Do you often have accidents?’ I hear Marquis ask Aodahn as the flying begins.
‘No,’ Aodahn replies. ‘But they have become more frequent as of late. Our wyvernlings don’t have the strength they used to. Abelio believes it is because food is scarcer, with the influx of Bulgarian dragons, but . . .’
He trails off, tapping his talons together nervously.
‘I know a dragon who spent years locked inside a library,’ I say quietly. ‘She didn’t see much sunlight and you could tell from the colour of her scales—’
‘A library?’ Aodahn squeaks. ‘I would very much like—’
He’s interrupted by a loud screech. I see Marquis drop to his knees, leaning over the rim of the ledge to peer downat something. I follow his gaze. One of the wyvernlings is stuck, its wing caught in the gap between two rocks it has attempted to fly through. Cindra soars down to examine it, beating her wings fiercely but unable to hold the hover for long. She circles, then dives again, like a frantic bird trying to reach a fallen chick.
‘We must help them,’ Aodahn says.
He takes to the air, swiftly followed by Dòmhnall. We watch as they join Cindra and the other two wyvernlings land again, black smoke trailing from their jaws.
‘If dragons can heal each other with the Koinamens,’ I say quietly, ‘then what do the wyverns need healers for?’
‘They have a herb for just about everything in the apothecary cave,’ Marquis says. ‘The Koinamens heals wounds, but I don’t think it can do anything for illness.’
I watch as the adult wyverns attempt to dislodge the shrieking wyvernling, and Atlas appears at my side. He’s holding the loquisonus machine.
‘What’s that for?’ I say coldly, still sulking after his behaviour in the Amber Court.
‘I think you should listen to it,’ he says, his eyes pleading. ‘See if you can understand something.’
His suggestion from the other day rings in my ears as I glance nervously at the wyverns.Listen to the wyverns’ Koinamens to know what they say to each other.
‘All right,’ I say quietly. ‘Just to hear what it sounds like.’
I place the loquisonus on the ground, then put the headphones on my ears and turn the dials as Serena and Gideon watch. I find the frequency almost immediately. Thesame melodious notes I heard back when we were searching for the wyvern tunnels fill my ears.
‘It’s like a . . . like whispering,’ I say.
Atlas holds his hand out for the headphones. When he puts them on his eyes grow wide.
‘Like a whispered music,’ he says. ‘Is that normal?’
‘All the dragon echolocation I’ve heard sounds a bit like birdsong, or at least the social calls do. But nothing like this.’
He passes the headphones to Gideon, who listens and then hands them back to me. I stare from Aodahn, Cindra and Dòmhnall to the other two wyvernlings as their ultrasonic communication sounds loudly, reverberating in different rhythms, like several murmured voices, yet all of them playing together like an orchestra.
‘I think they need help,’ Marquis says.
The wyvernling’s squeaking is growing more frantic and at the same time, the echolocation in my ears is more erratic. It dangles by its wing from the rocky crevice and Cindra lets out a frustrated roar as she attempts to pull it free with her mouth.
‘She’ll never manage,’ Marquis says as he peers towards them. ‘The wyvernling is stuck tight.’
I’m about to reply when he shrugs off his jacket.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To teach a dragon to fly.’
