Indomitable rose to his feet, slowly approaching as Sandstorm looked from me, to Herald, back to me, then suddenly seemed to take notice that the shadow Herald cast not only went in the wrong direction, but had entirely the wrong shape, with a long neck and wings.

  She looked between her own shadow, falling toward us, and Herald’s, which fell toward her. “Oh,” she said, but it wasn’t the dismissive oh she so often used. It was a little apprehensive, quite mystified, and above all else, very, very curious. Something that was only reinforced when she, instead of shying away from the shadow that stretched impossibly toward her, leaned her neck sideways with a look of intense concentration so that the shadow cast by her head overlapped with that of Herald’s—or rather, Instinct’s. “Huh,” she said, vaguely disappointed. “Nothing happened.”

  I knew what was coming before Herald gave off a mischievous little snort.

  Sandstorm raised her neck again, back to where it had been. Her shadow didn’t follow; it stayed right where it was. And then it suddenly fell on Herald’s shadow, and the two merged into a confusing heap, impossible to follow as they writhed and pulled apart, never quite separating. Wings flapped, tails whipped, and jaws snapped without ever really making contact.

  I looked at Herald. She was grinning like a fool. Then I looked at Sandstorm, who was watching the strange, two-dimensional scene play out on the side of the rubble heap. She moved her head, flapped her wings, and raised her legs, one by one, and none of it had any effect at all on the two shadows.

  “They are playing,” my cousin said with wonder. “I never had anyone to play with like that since my brother left.”

  Indomitable had placed his forelimbs on the base of the heap by then. Despite his size I was high enough to look down at him from where I stood, but his presence still loomed. Not that there was anything threatening about his posture, but the simple fact that he’d chosen to get up and approach had me a bit nervous.

  He watched in silence for a long while before asking, “Is this your doing, little Draka?”

  “No,” I answered honestly. “That’s… she never had a name. She was too young. I’ve taken to calling her Instinct, and she’s accepted it.”

  “I am Draka no less than she is,” Instinct objected through Herald. “Along with the third. We are one, yet separate.” She fell silent for a moment, then added, “But yes. Instinct will do.”

  “And you are certain that your human… Herald… is quite well? In her mind, that is,” Indomitable asked, adding a completely unnecessary clarification to that rather insulting question. But I could see where he was coming from, and I swallowed the anger that bubbled up at the suggestion that Herald might be anything less than perfect.

  “There is nothing wrong with her mind,” I said, almost entirely without emotion. “I know Instinct’s voice. I lived with that voice in my head ever since I woke until just a few days ago.”

  “And there is the question of your mother, and what she senses,” he murmured, studying Herald intently.

  “And that,” I agreed.

  “And you still have not told us how!” Sandstorm demanded. So I told them. Not the full story, of course; I kept mum about my dreamwalking, for example. I was trusting them as much as I was because I felt compelled to, and there was no way I’d give away all my secrets unnecessarily. But I told them about the trinity of myself, Instinct, and Conscience. I told them about Herald, Mak, and Tam falling unconscious after Mak activated the control panel, and how that was what caused the flare that Indomitable had been able to see from beyond the far shore of Vanar. I told them how Instinct had vanished from my consciousness after touching that same crystal, how Embers had barely been able to sense me after that, and how her sense of me had shifted to Herald shortly before Herald woke. And I told them how we’d confessed everything, and how hurt and angry Embers had been before she left.

  As I spoke, Mak and Maglan joined Herald by my side, and Instinct, Herald, and Mak all added to the story where appropriate. Not Mag, though. He held Herald protectively, but kept silent.

  “She did ask after both her daughter and the humans,” Indomitable said after I’d finished my story. “I wondered about her interest in them. I thought her merely sentimental, but if she believes, as you do, that the soul of her daughter resides in this human—”

  “I’m her daughter, too,” I grumbled.

  Indomitable huffed, and some of the amusement came back to his eyes. “In body, certainly, and partially in spirit, if it is as you say. I find it all difficult to believe… but I do not find it unbelievable. And if I cannot explain what your mother felt in any other way, then I must believe it. This all came about because of what the humans did to you, you say?”

  “How else?” I asked. “They put me—us—there, inside some kind of magical circle. There had to be a reason for that. They couldn’t have just meant to keep us asleep for five hundred years, they must have—”

  My voice failed me as I came suddenly to an inescapable conclusion.

  “They must have wanted to put a human soul inside me,” I breathed. “They just didn’t get a chance to.”

  Beside me, Mak stiffened. I turned to face her, and she looked me in the eyes, deadly serious, and shook her head minutely.

  She knew something. Something she didn’t want to talk about just yet. Fine. I could wait until after we’d spoken with my mother. And then, judging by the look she’d given me, I could fall apart.

  “That is an interesting idea,” Indomitable said, ignorant or uncaring about my inner turmoil. “Unacceptable, unforgivable, but interesting. I have heard of humans dabbling in magic to strip the soul from one another and the like. To think that they might use it against a dragon, well… I believe we would have to scour their entire nation from the surface of the world if anyone were to even attempt something like that.”

  For a moment he turned, his spines rustling as his whole body craned around to look to the southeast, across the sea. Possibly, I thought, toward Tekeretek. As though he was seriously considering going there to wipe a nation of I-knew-not how many millions from the map. For a moment, as he remained like that, silent and tense and gazing toward the horizon, I started to think that he might actually go.

  Then he relaxed and turned back. “Ah, well,” he said. “It was some five centuries since Sekteretesh put you to sleep, was it not? And only less than a year since you woke. As I have not heard of any plague of curiously human dragons spreading across the world, I must assume that even if he did not fail, he never saw himself succeed, either, and that the knowledge is lost.”

  “So… you’ll not destroy Tekeretek?” I asked. “I’d just like to be totally clear on that.”

  “No, I think not,” Indomitable replied. “What point is there in punishing the humans there today for something none of them would have ever heard of? A lot of effort for no real benefit, which would only rile them up for a century or two. And that is if I could even manage it, or recruit your mother and perhaps that silver male she pretends not to be taken with to aid me. No, I think not.”

  “I see,“ I said, forcing my face and voice to stay carefully neutral. I didn’t trust myself not to sound either elated or disappointed, though I couldn’t have said which emotion would have taken the upper hand; elated, because I was still human enough not to want to be in any way involved with a crime on that scale; and disappointed, because Tekeretek was here, on my shores, waging a war against my city. It would have served them right, whispered the vilest, most bloodstained part of me. They deserved it. And that was all me, my own worst impulses, the same ones that urged me to kill or enslave any human that so much as inconvenienced me. I couldn’t even blame it on Instinct anymore.

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  And despite how carefully I tried to guard against that vicious little part of me, it still managed to make itself known as I asked, “But if they still have that knowledge, what then?”

  “Then? I imagine no one would be able to tolerate such a potential insult to our kind. I would be surprised if what remained of their proud city after we finished was not swallowed by the sea. Ah, but look to the south! Your mother approaches.”

  I had to admit: having him so casually switch topics from the wholesale slaughter of a nation to the arrival of my mother was, in some ways, comforting. It was a reminder of the draconic perspective, so to speak, where human life had absolutely no intrinsic value. So while I sometimes thought and said things that made me horrified and disgusted with myself, at least I had the excuse that it was, at least partially, in my nature.

  I expected Conscience to chime in with something like, Or maybe you’re just awful. She didn’t. But she did pick up on my wondering why she wasn’t commenting, and that got a response out of her.

  I’m not going to make you feel bad about things you feel like you might want to do but would never go through with, she told me. I’m still enormously disappointed in you about the ships, but at least I can agree that they posed a threat to a place that’s important to you and the people you love. But I don’t care how many murderous fantasies you indulge in; you’re never going to just stand by and let a city full of innocent people burn. There may be a lot of Instinct in you, but there’s a damn lot of me, too. And even if I did think you might let it happen, I don’t think that now would be the time to tear into you about it. Not when you’re about to try and reconcile with Embers. It may not always seem like it, but I do want you to be alive and happy. I just really want you to cause a lot less harm.

  I would have loved to have snapped back with something cutting, but I held my metaphorical tongue. And not just because I was pretty sure that she was trying to be nice, even if she was succeeding about as well as I was with the whole doing-less-harm bit. No, the thing that really prevented me from responding was that Embers was no longer approaching. Embers had arrived.

  “Herald, I need you to stay,” I said, not looking away from the gigantic bronze spectre of death above us. “But Mak, Maglan, you should get below ground. Just in case.”

  “Is that an order?” Mak asked. “Or a suggestion?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Maglan said, with a firmness to his voice that I couldn’t remember him ever using with me. “If Herald’s staying, so am I.”

  “Mag—” Herald started, but I cut her off.

  “And what will you do if she turns on us?” I asked him. Not in irritation, or frustration, or anger at being defied. I really couldn’t spare the time or emotional energy to argue with him. I genuinely just wanted an answer.

  “I don’t know,” he said, still with that same firm tone. “Die beside her, I guess.”

  I sighed, and nodded. “Then… Mak, consider it a suggestion.”

  “Then, respectfully, I’ve taken your suggestion into consideration. I think it’s better if I stay,” she replied. As I’d known that she would. Nothing but a firm command could have gotten her back in that cellar, and though I was jittery with fear for the three of them, I also loved them for staying there, with me. Even Maglan.

  My mother took a turn of the ruined palace, and the whole time her eyes were on me. Despite Indomitable’s reassurances, the fact that she didn’t immediately incinerate us did little to settle my nerves, or to thaw the cold dread in my stomach. Sandstorm and Indomitable were right there, after all, and she might just not have wanted to risk inconveniencing them.

  “It’ll be fine,” Mak said. “Tell her how you feel. Be honest. She may be a dragon, and she may be feeling hurt, betrayed, maybe even angry, but she’s still your mother.”

  “Know a lot about dragon motherhood, do you?” I asked in a sad attempt at humor.

  “No,” she replied evenly. “But I know that she put herself through all kinds of inconvenience for you, and that she made friends with Herald simply because our sister is important to you. I’ve seen how she is with you when she’s not angry. She loves you, or at least, she treasures you. As long as you remind her of that and don’t upset her too much, I’m sure that everything will be fine.”

  “And if it’s not?”

  “Then I imagine it will very suddenly not be our problem anymore,” she quipped before becoming serious again. “Though I’d really prefer if everything worked out. I worry how Tam and Val would take it if we never returned.”

  About then Embers began her descent. Indomitable called out something in Draconic, and Embers answered in the same. Then as Embers landed Sandstorm hissed, “Speak Human!” and Indomitable looked first at her, then at me, eyes narrowed in amusement.

  “Ah, yes,” he said. “Of course. I was merely asking my niece if there is anything new about that ruby fool. She has once again fled, it seems.”

  “And I told you that I wish to speak with her… them, alone,” Embers growled. Her eyes still had not left me the whole time she was landing.

  “So you did, and so you shall,” Indomitable agreed. “Little Draka, it was good to find you alive. We shall speak again soon.” Then he turned to Sandstorm, saying, “Come, granddaughter. Let us go find a Rift, and perhaps some meat. Your cousins have things to discuss.”

  Sandstorm, who had looked disappointed and about to argue, perked up immediately at the mention of meat. She followed her grandfather eagerly, leaving us with only a quick, “Goodbye, cousin! When we meet again, I wish to hear more stories about the humans!” Then she leaped into the air, following Indomitable, and I and the three humans were left alone with a none-too-happy Sower of Embers, Reaper of Flames.

  She sat there, at the base of the pile of rubble on which I was perched, looking at me in silence. Every so often her eyes would snap to one of the humans, only to return to me. I couldn’t say if it was conscious or not, but after a few seconds of that every one of them drifted closer to me; nor could I say if they were offering their support or seeking my protection, for all the good it would do them.

  I wanted to say something to break the silence, but I didn’t know what to say. If I asked where she’d gone, would she consider it presumptuous of me? If I said that it was good to see her again, would she consider it an accusation? If I apologized for keeping so much from her, would it blow new life into a flame that had almost burned out? I didn’t know. I couldn’t even make my mind up how to address her: By her full name, by “Embers,” or simply by “Mother?” I could see any and all of those choices ending poorly, depending on where her mind was. And so I waited, silently, for her to make the first move.

  “Daughter,” she finally said, her voice low and rolling. My heart rose at that single word. But only for a moment, because she then fixed her eyes on Herald and said, “Or should I be addressing you, little human? Little Herald. You carry my daughter’s soul within you, do you not?”

  “Y-yes, Great Lady,” Herald stammered out, withering under the weight of that gaze. “Sh-she… that is—”

  Then her voice changed, and Instinct spoke instead, meek, almost pleading. “I am here, Mother,” she said. “There is no need to terrify the poor human. She did not imprison me. She saved me.”

  It was always strange to hear Instinct be anything except imperious and confident to the point of arrogance. But this was Embers she was speaking to, and Instinct absolutely adored our mother. Not so much that she’d shied away from deceiving her, true, but that had been to prevent exactly what was happening now. She hadn’t wanted to upset Embers, but in the end it hadn’t done us any good. Like so often, our deception had only delayed things and made it worse.

  After another long, withering silence, Embers finally said, “You take after your father in more ways than you have any right to, considering the age at which he was taken from you.” And when she said that I actually dared to hope, though that hope was terribly fragile. Because she wasn’t just looking at Herald and Instinct; she was looking at both of us. “Night would make any excuse for that human male who was always with him. I can only assume that it is in your blood, somehow. Or spirit, I suppose.”

  Then from one moment to the next she looked nothing but tired, and she laid down as though the anger draining from her pulled her down with it. “Draka,” she said, “Your granduncle said that vile, rusty lizard hurt you. Come here. Let me see.”

  Two things occurred to me. The first was that I’d been standing with my injured right side turned away from her—a natural response of any creature to hide their weakness from a predator. The other was that she referred to Indomitable as my granduncle.

  She may not have called me daughter, but to me, it sounded like acceptance.

  Once I’d descended the rubble and she’d had a good look at me, she curled around me, nuzzling me and chirping sadly. She didn’t object when the humans timidly approached, first Herald, then Mak, and finally Maglan, all squeezing in and pressing close to me.

  “Oh, little ones,” she said. “I never should have left.” And while it wasn’t worded as an apology, the regret pouring off her made it feel like one.

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