Neither Fyan nor Brin seem to notice it, or if they do, they think nothing of it.
“Are you all right?” Fyan asks, his bright eyes narrowed with concern.
“No. I mean yes. I’m fine. It’s just …” I trail off, not sure how to explain the enormous feelings that one small bow gave me.
“I’m glad there aren’t any weird roots on your plate today.” Fyan points at my food with his fork. “Now you won’t be threatening me with them.”
“I wasn’t threatening you.” The room seems to lighten, the boyish smile on Fyan’s face genuinely warm. “I was just trying to expand your tastes.”
“Expanding Fyan’s mind is about as likely as slaying the garthook.” Brin cuts up a portion of his meat and presses it into his mouth.
“I could take down the garthook.” Fyan grins. “The last time I flew over her burrow, I could swear one of her eyes was watching me closely. She fancies me, as do all females with good taste.”
“She’d certainly like a taste of you. Legend has it she took down one of the DaySilver Clan during the Third Turning.”
“What’s the DaySilver Clan?” I’m enjoying my breakfast, the food savory while the fruit is sweet. A mortal could get used to these meals if she isn’t careful.
“Pricks,” Fyan answers.
Brin shakes his head, his shaggy brown hair falling around his shoulders. “They’re DragonKin.”
“So there are more of you?” I’m already learning more than I could’ve imagined.
“There were four houses of DragonKin that flew over Oblivion and the Redwater Isles for as long as anyone can remember. Now there are only three.”
“What happened to the fourth?”
Fyan puts his cup down, his eyes downcast. “I can’t do this today, Brin. I’m off to check the wards in the forest.” He stands and, once again, gives me a bow.
I’m still taken aback, but at least this time I manage not to gawk at him. Once he’s gone, Brin says, “There was a rebellion among the DragonKin two centuries ago. The DaySilver Clan convinced the Emerald Clan to fight under their banner and take the DragonLands for themselves. The Golden Horde—he raises his cup to the golden dragon emblem above the dining room hearth—allied with the Black Wings to hold the lands and defeat the intruders. The Golden Horde won, but the Emerald Clan was completely wiped out.”
I look at the golden dragon over the hearth, its eyes watching me in hues of bright green. “So the DragonKin here are all the Golden kind?”
“The Golden Horde. Yes.” He seems to reconsider. “Let me put a finer point on it for clarity’s sake: the bloodlines lost their meanings in ancient times, the DragonKin interbreeding and forming alliances throughout the years. But the DragonKin here are loyal to the Golden Horde, yes.”
“And these are the DragonLands?”
He leans back in his chair, his meal seemingly forgotten. “No. This mountain is Crone’s Crag, and the lands around are in the southeastern part of Oblivion. The DragonLands are farther north.”
I chew the carvelia fruit slowly, digesting everything Brin just told me. “I’m confused. If the Golden Horde beat the other dragons who tried to take over, why aren’t they in the DragonLands? Isn’t that their home?”
“It is. It is actually home to all DragonKin, the font of their power and legacy. This keep is an outpost of sorts, one established by the dragons to keep an eye on the mortal lands.”
I glance around at the stone walls, the fine tapestries, the inlay in the carved dragons at the corners of the room and above the hearth. “This is only an outpost?”
“Yes. The Palace of the Sky is the most wondrous edifice in all of Oblivion. Its halls were—I meanarelegendary.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “The history is probably better told to you by Vander. Sometimes I can run away at the mouth, especially when it involves history.” He pauses. “Or science.” Another pause. “Or literature.” He smiles. “Perhaps I should’ve just left it at ‘I run away at the mouth.’”
I nibble at my bottom lip for a moment, then ask the one question I’m most curious about. “Why don’t Vander and his brothers live in the DragonLands?”
He clears his throat, his eyes looking everywhere but at me. “Well, that’s … That’s another topic. I don’t think I?—”
Lenka bursts in from the kitchen, her eyes rolling. “Because they’re cursed, that’s why. Just tell the girl, Brin. Gods, at the way you avoid the point.” She sits beside me, her flames glowing an iridescent green.
“Cursed?”
“Aye.” She nods. “Cursed for centuries.”
“Why? Or, I mean, how?”
