‘I think you were right, earlier,’ Atlas says. ‘Your willingness to translate Cannair is what will get Cindra to fight with us. And perhaps when the wyverns see the Bulgarian dragons in action, they’ll use whatever secret weapon they have. We’ve just got to get them above ground.’
I smile. Despite the distance that has been building between us, despite the fact that he is keeping some sort of secret mission from me, I still feel drawn to him like a moth to light. Atlas saw the good in me when I hated myself. He listened as I confessed my darkest secret, and didn’t let it change a thing. In doing so, he became the light at the end of every dark tunnel in my mind. The desire to kiss him again, to continue the conversation about language that brought him back to me, is relentless. Maybe he hasn’t told me about the mission because he can’t. Atlas is the best rebel I know. He’d die for the cause. No wonder he’s distracted, if he’s been tasked with something the rest of us can’t help him with.
‘Translating Cannair was the thing that got us into theseskugvels,’ I say quietly. ‘So perhaps it’s the thing that will get us out.’
THE EGG-CHOOSING CEREMONY TAKES PLACE IN the Amber Court, when the night’s first moonlight shines through the gemstones in the ceiling. The usual orange hue surrounds the wyverns as they gather around the great central fire and amid the flickering flames I catch a glimpse of the white, oval eggs.
‘Why have they been moved here, do you think?’ I whisper to Atlas.
‘And why are theyinthe fire?’ he mutters back.
‘Shhh!’ Marquis hisses.
He’s sitting cross-legged behind us, with Cindra at his side, the picture of reverence and respect. Serena, Gideon and Aodahn join us and I stare at the eggs, their shells maintaining their bluish sheen despite the direct contact with the flames. Wings shiver in anticipation as Abelio approaches the fire and begins to speak. So many of the words of his introductory speech are new to me, but I recognise some from Cindra’swritten descriptions of the wyvern hatching process.
‘For the last phase of incubation, the eggs must be kept as hot as possible, so that the wyvernlings inside can develop their flame,’ Aodahn whispers to us.
‘How does each wyvern know which egg is her own?’ I whisper back.
At the same time, several wyverns creep silently towards the fire. These must be the mothers. I watch as they tread carefully, without any sense of urgency or excitement. A male wyvern joins one of the females and they approach the fire together, the air around them still and silent except for the crackle of flames. I count the eggs. There are ten of them, more than the number of wyverns approaching to collect one. So where are the other parents? I feel a crackle of electricity in the air, and I can tell by the others’ faces that they feel it too. Aodahn is deep in concentration, a far-off look in his eyes. The wyverns observe the clutch of eggs, their huge eyes fixed on them as if they’re saying a silent prayer or incantation. Every so often, the eggs tremble. Abelio breathes more fire on to the bed of feathers and wool beneath them, then resumes his position patiently. The pair of wyverns press their snouts to a flaming egg. They pause as if to consider, then look at each other. The female – I think her name is Aberdine – takes the egg in her mouth.
But how can you be sure it’s yours?I want to call to her.
Is the wyvernling inside the egg communicating with its parents through echolocation? Does the egg release a pheromone that attracts its biological mother? Surely Aberdine cannot differentiate this egg from its identical nest-mates by its appearance alone? I lean forward in fascination as she and her partner leave the fireside and sense someone move beside me.
‘Aodahn?’ Atlas whispers.
I stare in surprise as Aodahn circles the central fire. He moves slowly from egg to egg, reaching down to press his face to one before continuing to walk. The others watch, unperturbed.
‘But he lives alone, doesn’t he?’ I say to Atlas. ‘He doesn’t have a partner?’
Aodahn opens his jaws and carefully takes an egg in his mouth. He walks proudly back towards us and sets it down in front of me and Atlas. Smoke rises from its base and beneath its thin shell I see the shadow of a movement. Aodahn told us that the wyverns share everything, including their eggs. But I didn’t realise he meant this, a communal nest from which to take an egg they didn’t even lay. No other dragons dothis.
I see my awe reflected in Atlas’s eyes as the orange light bounces off the eggshell. Aodahn and the other wyverns around us cast loving looks towards it. This is more than just a ceremony. There is something almost religious about what we are witnessing, a spirituality I will never be able to put into words. At least not any words I know. The wyverns are communicating telepathically, experiencing the ceremony on a level we humans will never understand, on a plane our minds will never reach.
‘Aodahn,’ Atlas says quietly. ‘What made you choose this egg?’
‘How do you know it’s the right one?’ I add.
‘I do not know,’ Aodahn says. ‘I simply chose.’
I frown.
‘But we saw you deliberating,’ Atlas says. ‘You took your time, stopped by each egg.’
Aodahn’s eyes grow wide like moons. ‘I made a choice that had to be made. It is the choice, the choice of wyvernling, the choice to commit to it for the rest of my life, that makes itthe right one.’ He pulls the egg towards him with his curved talon and shelters it beneath the feathers of his wing. ‘Thatis what makes it mine.’
I find the response profound, but Atlas gets to his feet.
‘Where are you going?’ I ask him.
It’s like he hasn’t heard me and he leaves the Amber Court without a word. As the ceremony comes to an end, I linger with the others. The wyverns gather in small groups around various eggs, sipping honeyed wine as they watch the movement of the wyvernlings inside the eggs and glance at each other with knowing looks. When they talk in hushed voices I listen, trying to hang on to the threads of the different conversations, and when they talk silently in their heads I sit back and watch how their body language tells the story of what they’re saying instead. I get the sense that I have seen something that I will never again witness, and the thought makes me feel like I could fly. Beside me, Aodahn gazes at his own egg.
‘When will it hatch?’ Marquis asks him.
He and Gideon are passing a cigarette between them, the last of Marquis’s stash. Serena dozes, stretched out between them, her third glass of wine still full.
‘Within the next week, I hope,’ Aodahn says, blowing another burst of flame on to the egg.
