Chapter 13
- Morgan -
"This is surprisingly agreeable,” the dragon finally rumbles, making me shake with the deep bass.
"It’s very nice," I agree, about to fall asleep.
"And unique," Vyrathion says with satisfaction. “Dragon-built. The only shelter in the world.”
There’s so much pride in that statement that I find myself smiling again.
Since meeting him, I've learned that Vyrathion considers nearly every practical task beneath his dignity.
Hunting is acceptable because it involves demonstrating superiority over other creatures.
Fighting is acceptable because it involves demonstrating superiority over other creatures.
Accumulating treasure obviously needs no justification.
Constructing a muddy emergency shelter with woven branches, while clearly beneath his dignity, seems to give him some pleasure that has nothing to do with superiority.
"I think anyone would be proud," I say. "You built a shelter in the middle of a storm, on a collapsing island, after rescuing someone from a flood."
He snorts. "Most people have astonishingly low standards."
"Or realistic ones."
"Don’t misunderstand,” he says. “I’m not proud of this. Only my hoard makes me proud. And my reputation among dragons.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a movement by the hut’s entrance interrupts me. Vyrathion's eyes close briefly, as though fate has decided to test his patience further.
"No," he says toward the entrance. “Stay away.”
A moment later the entrance flap rustles, and Clyde squeezes inside carrying a single green leaf.
The little Plood trots directly toward me and holds the leaf overhead with obvious pride.
Whatever difficulties accompany being stranded on a shrinking island during a catastrophic storm, at least somebody seems happy about the situation.
I accept the gift with appropriate gratitude, and Clyde immediately stands next to me and stares, as if expecting a new order.
Across the shelter, Vyrathion points at him. "You see?"
I look down at Clyde. He looks back up at me with large, innocent eyes. "See what?"
"The spy doing his job."
I look back at the Plood. Clyde is currently trying to fold his leaf in half. "If he’s a spy, I’m not sure he’s doing it right."
"He makes sure to keep an eye on us. Even in our lair."
"Maybe because it's raining."
"He’s monitoring our activities and conversation."
The certainty in Vyrathion's voice suggests he considers both possibilities equally plausible.
I'm not sure whether that's more ridiculous or more impressive.
Somehow he's convinced himself that a creature whose primary hobbies appear to involve collecting leaves and following me around is actually an undercover operative.
But I notice he says ‘us’ and ’our’. So maybe he’s at least given up his idea that I’m a witch. "Clyde likes me. I think that’s why he sticks around."
"You’re easily tricked."
I shrug. "Maybe. Or I just don ‘t see spies everywhere I look."
"You’re not a dragon. Everyone spies on us. Especially other dragons."
Clyde tries to offer me the leaf again. Whatever secret intelligence network he supposedly belongs to, it clearly operates under unusually relaxed standards.
Our strange conversation eventually fades, replaced by the endless sound of rain.
Water hammers the leafy roof hard enough that normal speech would be difficult outside this bonfire of a shelter.
Beyond the entrance, the island has almost disappeared into a gray curtain.
The river remains visible only because its movement is impossible to ignore.
Even from here, I can hear the floodwater roaring around us.
For a while, neither of us speaks. I find myself studying Vyrathion instead. He looks tired.
The realization takes me by surprise. He doesn't look exhausted, exactly, and certainly not weak.
Vyrathion still carries himself with the same confidence he always has.
Yet there's a heaviness in his posture that wasn't there before.
His hair remains damp from the river, and water glimmers along the scales visible near his neck.
I've spent so much time seeing him as an unstoppable force of nature that I've almost forgotten the obvious truth: even dragons have limits.
Maybe that's why I finally ask the question. "Can you tell me about another world?"
He changes his position. "What sort of world?"
"I don't know. The strangest planet you've ever seen."
To my surprise, some of the weariness disappears from his expression. It isn't dramatic, but it's there. For all his complaints about the jungle, Xren, weather, Earth women, primitive tribes, and virtually everything else in existence, Vyrathion clearly has been around.
"There was a planet," he says, settling more comfortably against the wall, "where chlorine fell from the sky as rain."
I blink. "Actual chlorine? As in, bleach?"
"It was not the best smelling planet. Significantly worse than the sulfuric acid one."
I scratch my nose. "How did anything survive?"
"It didn’t, which was why Sperukiax the Pale had located his hoard there."
“Were you there to steal it?” I ask.
“I killed Sperukiax and took his hoard, yes. For a while I had to keep it separate from my own, because of the smell. But it was a rich hoard.”
For the next hour, the storm fades into the background while Vyrathion describes places I can barely imagine. Crystal deserts that sing in the wind. Floating islands drifting through the upper atmosphere of a gas giant. Cities carved into the bones of creatures larger than mountains.
And him only going to those places to steal gold.
Every story sounds increasingly impossible, yet I have no reason to doubt him. A year ago, I wouldn't have believed any of it. A year ago, I wouldn't have believed I could end up stranded on an alien world beside an arrogant dragon who considers treasure acquisition a legitimate philosophy of life.
The more he talks, the more fascinated I become.
Part of it comes from the places themselves.
Part of it comes from realizing just how much life Vyrathion has lived before he ever met me.
I know he's ancient. Intellectually, I understand that.
Hearing him casually reference civilizations that have risen and fallen before entire nations on Earth exist makes it feel real in a way it never has before.
More surprisingly, I begin noticing how much he enjoys having an audience.
Every story gradually transforms into evidence of his own brilliance. Every disaster highlights his survival. Every dragon eventually recognizes his superiority, at least according to him. Under normal circumstances I probably would've rolled my eyes.
Instead, I find myself smiling. I like that he’s this strong and mighty. It all could be true.
The conversation lasts longer than I expect.
Partly because the storm gives us nothing else to do, and partly because once Vyrathion starts talking about himself, stopping him becomes almost impossible.
Every answer leads naturally into three more stories.
A question about one world becomes a description of another.
A description of another becomes an explanation of how he personally destroys a kingdom, acquires a treasure vault, defeats some monstrous beast guarding treasure, or murders a rival dragon.
I suspect some amount of exaggeration is involved, but I'm becoming less certain about how much.
The longer I spend around Vyrathion, the more I realize that reality often turns out to be the less ridiculous explanation.
"There was a desert made entirely of crystal," he says at one point. "The dunes would sing whenever the wind crossed them."
"That sounds beautiful."
"It was intolerable."
I laugh. "Because of the singing?"
"Because the reflections were everywhere. Every direction contained a stunningly beautiful dragon, as dark and as golden as me!"
For a moment I'm not sure I've heard him correctly. "You hated it because you kept seeing yourself?"
"The images looked like rivals. Very beautiful and powerful and awesome rivals, of course. But I’m not used to seeing myself." The look on his face suggests this genuinely was a hardship.
"Ah. That would be a lot to handle."
“Precisely. After I defeated the first one, I ignored the others.”
I’m confused. “Wait. Were they mirror images, or real dragons?”
He sighs. “Who’s to say what’s real? I saw a magnificent black dragon with remarkable golden accents, a clear mockery of my own.
It made me furious and I attacked him. Perhaps there was some shattering of glass.
Perhaps there were shards of crystal everywhere after that.
Perhaps there were many other dragons who looked the same way after I dealt with the first one.
But I showed them all who is the real Vyrathion! ”
My mouth falls open. “You attacked your own reflection? And you broke the mirror?”
“It was an unusually clear reflection,” Vyrathion mutters. “And it kept staring at me!”
I put my hand to my mouth to stifle my laughter. “That’s… a magnificent victory…”
He nods solemnly. "Yes. Few dragons can say they have defeated themselves. And yet you are to keep quiet about it. I tell you this in confidence and I will rip you limb from limb if you betray my trust."
“I won’t,” I manage. A few minutes go past as I try to collect myself.
I know he wouldn’t appreciate me laughing at him.
And I think this is the closest I will ever get to him admitting some kind of funny mistake.
I can’t imagine he’s ever told this to anyone else.
The trust he shows me is probably huge for a dragon.
“Can I sit like this?” I change my position until my back is against his middle and I’m leaning back on his massive chest, not bothering to wait for permission.
“Oh, very well,” he sighs. “It doesn’t bother me that much.”