Elsbeth inhaled, belted the pack more tightly around her waist and swallowed to fight down the butterflies fluttering madly in her belly. “Never let it be said I’m acoward.”
Again that reverberating huff of laughter. The wyvern lowered its head and stretched out its neck in invitation for her to mount. “I think only a fool would say such a thing about you, ElsbethWeaver.”
She had never been so deliciously frightenedin her life. The wyvern was true to its word, flying slow, if not low, over the fields ringing Maldoza. Elsbeth sat in front of the wyvern’s wings and clutched the softer down scales for purchase. Wind whistled past her ears, lifting her braid so that it whipped behind her. The tip snapped against one of the great wings that beat the air in powerfulrhythm.
The wyvern’s neck flexed beneath her legs as they banked away from the cliffs, soaring higher into the sky. Below them, Byder county, mundane, bound by the seasons of planting and harvest, took on a magical appearance. Fields and pastureland spread out in a patchwork quilt of color. Small herds of cattle and sheep grazed peacefully, undisturbed by the great predator flying far above them in the summerhaze.
They finally landed on a plateau crowning one of the escarpments jutting from the cliffs. Elsbeth slid off the wyvern’s neck to stand on shaking legs. She grinned when it swiveled its enormous head and regarded her with an unblinkingstare.
“That was the most frightening and wonderful thing I’ve ever done,” she said, andlaughed.
“Is it?” The wyvern folded its wings. “I’d think walking the paths of Maldoza at night to confront me would be your most frighteningmoment.”
“My second most frightening experience then, and one I’m glad I had.” Elsbeth smiled at the wyvern. “Thankyou…”
What was its name? During their negotiations, she’d never thought to ask its name. She didn’t even know if it was male or female. Elsbeth blushed, feeling unaccountably rude. The wyvern might be helping itself to valuable livestock and angering towns and villages for miles, but it had been courteous to her in everyway.
She raised her palms in a supplicant gesture. “Forgive me, I don’t knowyour…”
A certain tension rose between them. Elsbeth held her breath, waiting for something she couldn’t capture but knew would once again alter her perception of this fascinatingcreature.
“Names,” it said in a gruff voice, “have great power. They pin a spirit to earth, give it form and weight. Make it beloved or hated, remembered or reviled.” The silver eyes shone bright in the sun. “My given name means ‘kingly’ and is too difficult for the human tongue to pronounce. You may call meAlaric.”
Elsbeth’s heartbeat stuttered in its beating, and she gasped. The memory of storm-cloud eyes soft with laughter filled her mind. Her Alaric had been neither dragon-kind nor king, but a human bard, yet there had always been something noble in his bearing, something powerful in the way he moved and how he measured a person with a penetrating gaze. She smiled, despite the ache in her chest, a longing never lessened over the years. It was fitting somehow that he and this extraordinary creature bore the samename.
The wyvern watched her in silence for a moment. Thin streamers of smoke drifted from its nose. “A name not unknown to you, I see.” The crimson scales along his back rose in a spiky ridge, much like a cat bristling its fur in warning. “Beloved orreviled?”
His reaction puzzled her. Elsbeth knew nothing of wyvern behavior save what she’d learned in the few hours spent in this one’s company, but her instincts warned her answer to his question was crucial, even pivotal to how they might deal with each other over the next three weeks. The stiff scales rose higher at her hesitation, spreading to the ones behind his ears until they created a flaredmane.
Alaric repeated the question, his words making the ground tremble beneath her. “Beloved orreviled?”
“Beloved,” she said, “and never forgotten.” She offered a weak smile. “I sometimes play for him, though he does nothear.”
Alaric’s raised scales smoothed down, and his eyes glowed a softer pewter. “Are you sure? Mayhap he hears your music indreams.”
Elsbeth shrugged. “Mayhap, if he’s still alive.” This strange conversation made her uncomfortable, though she couldn’t explain why. She changed the subject. “Is this where we’ll stay?” She waved an arm over the plateau and the patchwork fields belowthem.
“No. Only dragons are vain enough to make themselves open targets by basking on an upland perch. Not a few have found themselves made into suits of armor because of it.” The bony ridge above one of Alaric’s eyes rose, and Elsbeth blushed. “I’ve a lair deep in the cliffs. Difficult to find if you don’t know the way, but you’ll find every comfort there for your stay withme.”
Elsbeth had her doubts. She’d explored a few caves in her lifetime. Some were dry; most were damp and covered in fungus. All were dark and usually decorated in bat guano. She prayed Alaric’s idea of comfort matched her own, and she didn’t have to spend three weeks in some dank, foul-smellingpit.
The hiss of scales rubbing together whispered in her ears as Alaric coiled his long tail around her. It slid against her calf, almost a caress in its slowglide.
“Trust me, fiddler. You’ll be pleasantlysurprised.”
If anyone asked her why, she couldn’t have given them a satisfactory answer, but Elsbeth did trust the wyvern. Alaric was a menacing combination of belching fire, monstrous black claws and teeth like sword blades. Until her meeting with him, he’d terrorized Byderside and Durnsdale, stealing cattle, killing knights and burning down barns. Still, she no longer found it difficult to reconcile the image with that of the courteous, often humorous creature before her. Maybe he was right. Names had power. His had certainly affected her view of him. Alaric the wyvern, reminded her of Alaric the man and long-lost lover. And with that comparison came a measure ofreassurance.
She laid a tentative hand against the wyvern’s glossy neck, fascinated by the heated smoothness beneath her palm and the contrast of her skin against the crimson scales. A great shiver rippled from Alaric’s neck to his tail. “I trust you, though you’ll have to watch that I don’t wander off and lose myway.”
“Don’t worry, Elsbeth. I’ll not lose you.” Alaric’s silver eyes went black. “Neveragain.”
His answer confused her, made herwonder.
Elsbeth satcross-legged in front of the wyvern with her fiddle resting on her lap. The glow of light from an unseen source surrounded them in the large cave where her host made his home. Magic most likely, she thought. The type all dragon-kind seemed topossess.
“Tell me more of these beasts you hunt in your homeland, the ones who wander in herds and have noses that swing and curl and can pick up tree trunks.” She tuned the strings on her fret board and gave Alaric a doubtful look. “Though I think you tease me with such tales, MasterAlaric.”
Alaric lay on his belly, tail wrapped tightly around him so that his head rested on the coils. A treasure hoard, beyond Elsbeth’s most avaricious imaginings, surrounded them. Gold coins shimmered in heaping mounds and spilled across the cave floor in glittering streams. Rubies, sapphires, and emeralds—jewels of every type—reflected colored fire that danced across the walls. Wyverns weren’t dragons, he’d told her, but they shared an obsession for treasure and keeping itclose.
