Miranda soaked in the view. The great mountain with its craggy range of smaller needles. Atop it all, the wisp of steam that boded well for no one near, but far enough away she only worried if the smoke grew black and covered the peak’s snow.
The lake, its waters finally clear and swimmable, even for a dragon built for flight. Long grasses grew alongshore, where fish hid among stiff reeds and tall, gaunt birds sought dinner. Splashes came from the middle of the lake, where a bleached and dry tree overhung the water and turtles took turns in line for the high dive.
The scent of jeweled stonefruits; garnet deep and sultry, pale pink with notes of floral innocence, citrus topaz with a hint of tartness, blended with emerald lilies and sapphire sea salt. Underneath it all, the amethyst hint of something Miranda only knew made her think of soap, and the purification of charcoal harmonizing the disparate and competing notes into a fragrant symphony.
And her house, the first home she’d truly ever had, built – or at least repaired – with her hands, and Greystone’s. Stone and wood and an open window that was jarringly shuttered until they returned, but left unlocked in case they didn’t.
“Are you ready, my lady?” His voice was quiet behind her, patient and understanding.
“You haven’t called me that in a long time.” She could hear the reproach in her voice, but couldn’t stop it from escaping with a surge of fury at her father. Soon her days would be filled with politics, bland niceties and diplomacy. Each interaction simultaneously meaningless, fraught with peril, and layered with deniable implications.
“I haven’t needed to.”
At her nod, Greystone shifted into his housecat form, leopard spots shifting into tabby stripes. Long familiarity meant she barely noticed when he climbed up her tail into the harness.
Behind him, the librarian waited, his snout tufted into the air with determination. Twitching wings and pale speckles showed his terror at heading for court.
She took one last look, but the scene blurred behind sudden diamonds.
But she was a daughter of the House of Zaratha, and the Dragon Kings did not cry.
Miranda turned away and launched into the air, wings spread wide, steadfastly refusing to look down.
***
This continues In Defense of Dragons, which is not. the. book. I’m. supposed. to. be. writing! Instead of book two, I found myself writing half-remembered dreams, or a Professor Porter short story. I’m not sure whether to thank the muse or scold her.
But I’m glad to be making progress on IDOD, which was an early idea before I had the skill to tell the tale I wanted. Inspired by Becky Jones’ prompt, “The turtles lined up on the log waiting for their turn at the high dive into the river.”
My prompt went to AC Young this week – go check out his dark justice story in the Odd Prompts comments section!
