Human Dragon - III

“Mehrrgh…” Coren awoke moaning. His head was in terrible pain; indeed, his whole body ached and throbbed. Less than twenty-four hours had passed since he had begun changing, his old shell breaking apart to reveal the winged form beneath. Coren, of course, had no way of knowing this, having lost all conscious thought the moment he went into convulsions. He had the faint understanding that he was not home, that he had seen his real parents, but how could he be sure it was not a dream?

“So you are awake?”

Somehow, the unnaturalness of the voice destroyed the hope that it was just a dream. The voice was familiar in the way it pronounced every syllable and the strange deepness of it too. Yet it was oddly different at the same time. Coren felt a large hand on his shoulder shaking him. He was already awake, but the aching prevented his moving. It occurred to Coren that the shaking should hurt too. It soothed the pain instead and began calming it and releasing tension that had been built in his muscles and then blotted it out altogether.

“I’m awake,” Coren groaned. He turned his head to see the voice and then wished he hadn’t. A large, bluish Dragon sat next to him, wearing what might have been called a puzzled expression. At the sight, Coren buried his head in the soft down of his pillow, not even considering why he had dug his way under the headrest.

“Coren,” the Dragon said, still in the odd voice. “Coren, it is me, Ikland.” Coren did not move, but only muttered that it was not true. “It is me and you must get up now. You have nearly completely changed and you must get used to it. And your father wishes to see you.”

“Mm,” Coren groaned. His breathing had become erratic now, realizing now that he could not feel fingers and that his head was heavier. Slowly his head emerged as a wedge-shaped snout topped with a rusty colored mane. He shook himself, feeling his four-legged body ripple throughout its entire length. Two folded wings on his back twitched and shuddered, followed shortly by his thick, blunt tail.

He felt every minute detail of his form, every crook and scale. His heart was beating quicker than it had been and only increased as his eyes repeatedly started focusing on the muzzle in front of them. Coren pawed at violently and then looked helplessly at the larger, bipedal draconic doctor.

The expression put to Ikland was read of the immense fear that was instinctively being hidden from all others. It was real, however. Coren could testify to that. He had always dreamed of this, but when it came down to it, he feared everything about Dragons. He feared himself. Everything was so different that it made him nauseous. It was a nebulous thing, no one detail caused more than a brief pang of surprise.

Ikland had to wonder about Coren. He surmised to think that it may have been a possibility that he would have felt like Coren did if it had been him instead of the boy. The nearest example from life that he could draw was the day he grew his wings. But even that would not compare to moving to an entirely new world. He sensed the torture in every movement that Coren made.

Coren was pacing now, moving against the immobilization by sheer force of will. Whenever he had been afraid, his father (human father) had told him to take a walk or to talk to himself. He was doing both the best he could. By now all the peculiarities in his voice had been noticed as well. Neither of the two was working at the moment. Even as he recited the twenty-third Psalm to himself, he still felt as if he had been trapped in a void. “…I will fear no evil…”

“Calm yourself, Coren. You are a fine looking specimen.” Ikland had thought about adding that he took after his father, but decided against it thinking that it may make the situation even worse. “We took your suitcase,” he said instead. “I shall help you get situated after you eat the evening meal. Then I must get back to my own family.”

“…Deep breaths,” Coren told himself, remembering calming exercises from a yoga class he had taken. “Deep breaths let the feeling pass. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil for God is with me and his rod and staff comfort me.” The famous axiom came more easily now with his breathing regulated.

Ikland continued. “There is no evil to fear here.” Though for you I could be mistaken, he pondered. “Six people are waiting for you, including your biological parents.” Biological… These are not his true parents and this is not yet his home. He will need much more time to adjust. Ikland lifted his eight-foot frame and stepped into Coren’s path. The boy came up to his breast. He certainly is larger than I expected. “You are hungry.”

Still with his deep breaths, he managed a momentary glance at Ikland’s face. He still had the same eyes as Coren remembered, which was comforting and added a level of stability that was desperately needed. “You have family,” he asked.

“Not everyone in a family unit is blood related. But yes, I do have family,” Ikland replied, glad to be able to get Coren speaking to him. This was the first step in making the transition from humanity to the world of Dragons. “There are six here, seven if you include yourself. Your father is the Patriarch.”

I have to get used to this, Coren thought reluctantly. Then he thought of his human parents, alone now. He missed them already. I’ll do it for them. Dad would be disappointed in me right now. But how to be bold in the face of such an enemy as this? Coren supposed that he could brave this new and strange world. It was the fact that he was one of them that bothered him. He still could not get his eyes to focus on anything but his nose, too. He would be sitting cross-eyed down there, looking quite odd he knew. But there was no choice in the matter. Coren swallowed hard and nodded his consent.

Ikland smiled with his flat muzzle, showing fangs that Coren had never seen before. “Come along then. I am sure they are as hungry as I am.” Ikland led him out of a large, swinging door (voice locked, by the way) and into an upstairs hall that stretched ten feet to the bottom of the next floor. The building, from what Coren could see was partitioned into several smaller rooms, but the main living space was open to the top with banisters along the halls to create balconies.

Coren peered over one of these banisters down to the floor below. A table had been set up and six Dragons were seated around it, with two open spaces for himself and Ikland. All of them were red, two of them with wings, three of them with four legs, and at the head was Trak, who Coren recognized only as his biological father with no name. His mother was at the opposite end; claws clasped tightly in prayer fashion.

Trak saw him from his seat and stood on his hind legs, forepaws resting on the table’s surface. At that, the rest of the small congregation stood as well, but did not take their eyes off of a candle placed in the center of the table. As if to speak, Trak opened his mouth, but closed it again thinking better of it. There was no use in drawing more attention to his son. He must already be nervous. This first meal was only a trial run to see how Coren would adjust to his new life. If it did not work out now, Trak would have him take meals in his room until he was ready.

Now it was time to draw the attention to Coren. The boy had passed down the stairs, looking like a frightened animal in many respects. He was quiet, both in his movements and in his mannerisms. Trak gestured for the family unit to take their seats and then for Ikland and Coren to do the same. Ikland copied the motions of the other Dragons and Coren, taking the hint, thought to do so as well as best he could.

“Coren,” he said as softly as a Dragon could. “My son. My firstborn and future Patriarch. You are home.” A general air of excitement vibrated throughout the table. Yes, Trak thought, he is taking this as well as I expected. But he is quiet. Trak caught a gaze from Silv and read it well. She wanted to hear his voice as well. “Coren.”

The boy looked up from his claws, tightly gripped and resting on the table. His seat was more a basket piled high with cushions and blankets. He still did not speak, afraid of what might come out. How he wished he could be back alone, or with his parents on Earth.

“Coren,” Trak repeated. “It is much to ask of you, having just returned, but perchance would you give the blessing?” Again a murmur of dazed wonderment went through passed about. None of it was in English and Coren only caught that what was asked of him was somehow a great honor. Of course he prayed over food at home all the time, but here the custom might be different.

But must he? The expression on Trak’s face was almost pleading with him to say yes. But what would he say? Did they follow the same God as him? What if what he said was wrong? And besides that, there was only one thing running through Coren’s mind right now anyway. An air of waiting had descended upon the table, as if the universe was standing still, listening for his reply. Coren, even more afraid now, nodded and wondered why he had just accepted.

“Then I pass the rite on to you, son.” The Dragon bowed his head and resumed his basket seat, waiting.

Coren cleared his throat and swallowed again, dryly. What to say? So many things were passing through his mind at that moment, among them thoughts of why he had said yes. He knew what was going to come out, even if it wasn’t what was intended. What was expected of him? A prayer? The Psalm had been in his mind since he found he had to leave his home. Coren sighed and begun:

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters. He restores my soul; he leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy will follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Amen.”

The room remained silent, there was no chorus of “amens” and there was no clanking of silverware. Ikland sensed a vague feeling of discord at the words of the Psalm. The boy was scared, and what he said was of great import to him. The words of humans could sometimes be poetic and beautiful. Coren seemed to be reciting it again in his mind, terrified that he had said something wrong.

The oddities of his new voice had combined with the words to bring on a new effect. The depth of the Psalm and the acoustics of the room provided a strange, closed echo that reverberated back into Coren’s mind. “I shall not fear,” he whispered to himself. “You make me to lie in green pastures. You lead me beside—”

“Bless my son,” Trak interrupted the new Dragon’s thoughts. A short growl escaped his mouth, and the other six dragons unclasped their claws or hands or paws and unbowed their heads. They began eating and talking to one another, including Ikland who had taken the seat that sandwiched Coren between him and his father. No one spoke to Coren, but he was content with that and decided to listen to the conversation going on around him and about him.

“No,” Ikland was saying, “he did not mean anything by it. It comes from his holy book, Trak. Ancient scripture, poems and songs designed as worship of the Architect.” Coren guessed they were talking about “a table in the presence of enemies” and he was not wrong. “It was the only thing that he knew to say. It calms him, I think.”

It was halfway amusing to listen to the conversation, knowing that they knew he was between them and not caring a wink about it. They spoke above him or through him as if he was not even there. But with food before him and no one paying any attention, he was not as uncomfortable, and had even decided to nibble at the strange items before him as he continued to listen.

“It provides insight into his mind,” his father told Ikland. The perfectly enunciated English coming from the Dragon unnerved Coren. Now that he had come to think of it, the language was very difficult to speak with a snout. His tongue had to make strange and unfamiliar patterns in his mouth and his voice inhibited him to the degree that he thought others might not understand his speech. This passed in a moment, however, as the conversation continued above him.

“Trak, you must consider that he has been displaced by trillions of miles.” Ikland had the habit of advocating for him. At least there was some measure of security in this new world. “This is not his home, and will not be for some time. You must give him time to adjust, but you must not leave him alone for very long either. He must get to know this world of ours.”

A profound comprehension overwhelmed Coren at that moment as he finally grasped the meaning and purpose of their discourse. Ikland had been speaking English for the sole end that Coren would understand. He was meant to hear every word. The doctor was preparing him for what was to come. After Ikland left in the late evening, he would not see him for a while and that would mean that Coren would be on his own to deal with the changes. Not alone, he chided himself. Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

He gulped down the bolus in his mouth and again pawed at his nose, causing his wings to twitch again. The body had a very interesting nerve system, he thought. For a microsecond, he had been prepared to speak and try to explain himself. That changed when Trak peered down at him and asked him why he had been listening. After that, Coren had a difficult time getting that next bite of food down his throat. When he did not answer, Trak assumed that he was afraid.

Why does he fear me? And why is it that he thinks of us as enemies? The old Dragon sought answers from his wife and found none (by looks alone) and then found Ikland shrugging, forcing him to weed out the problem on his own. Curses on me! And that damnable doctor! Why did I have to delay his birth! Trak did not bother to hide his frustration.

“Do you consider us to be enemies?” he asked, regaining a semblance of composure. Trak felt awkward at the moment, talking to his only child. Every instant he was becoming more disillusioned with how this was turning out. Coren was supposed to want to be here and want to know his parents, not think of them as kidnappers!

“No, sir.”

The expression on his son’s face was unreadable. But even that betrayed the nervousness; the inward trembling that came from such unfamiliarity. Silv was now watching them, her violet eyes glinting from moonbeams pouring in from a skylight in the vaulted ceiling. Why did she not speak? Coren may have been more open-minded toward his mother.

“I just feel overwhelmed is all.” He had to think how to form the words in his mouth.

“I apologize for that,” Trak told him. Why was he being so formal to his own son? Could he not talk candidly with him? Perchance he was afraid of what Coren might think? It was entirely possible for that to be truth. Silv was better with meeting new people than he was. “Tomorrow we will spend the day together, getting to know one another,” he decreed.

“Is it possible that maybe you should let him get to know the family unit first?” Silv asked her mate. She did not think taking him out so soon would be good for his mind. And she wanted to see more of him. If he were out, she could not see him or talk to him. “Let him explore the house for a while. No doubt that this is quite large in comparison to human dwellings.” She looked at him quizzically, a motherly aura emanating from her.

Coren honestly liked the idea of staying indoors for a few days. The blue sun that he remembered from the previous evening was one of the reasons. The light gave him the feeling that he was being watched from an invisible source that never gave him any privacy. But he did not wish to see anything of the other Dragons in the household. He wanted at that very moment to just be alone in his old room on Earth. He said as much, hoping he was not violating some law of respect.

Silv stood from her cushions and traded places with Ikland. She then put a soft-scaled claw on Coren’s mane and stroked it gently. “You must hate us,” she said sadly. “But we have loved you from your birth. You never knew us and it was not your fault. We had to send you away.” She regretted every moment of her life the moment she last held her child. And then she regretted the tone in which she had said; “We had to send you away.”

“You make it sound as if humans are evil,” Coren said angrily. If there were two worlds, there were thousands. The Dragons could have chosen any number of other worlds to send him to, but they chose Earth and humanity along with it. “Remember that they raised me and they are my parents, not you. I would have rather been the subject of experimentation than have come here.” He would gladly have stormed off at that point, but where would he have gone? Instead, he waited for a response.

“I did not mean it that way,” his mother corrected. But she had said it that way. Maybe she did feel that the humans had corrupted her son. Maybe she wanted to hang on to him and not let him go again. Who could tell if he would try to go back to Earth? “They raised you well and still love you with their all in all. For us and for them, you are a blessing from the Architect.”

“I know you miss them,” Trak interjected. He knew. When he thought of his own parents, he missed them. The old couple had been long dead for centuries. But it could never compare to what Coren felt. “They are your real parents.” He had to admit that. The way his son was raised was entirely up to them. Whether or not he was brought up in the righteousness of the Architect was at the discretion of others besides him. In good conscience he could admit no less.

The admission had startled Coren so much that his front paws had slipped from the table and he now lay sprawled out on the floor. He slowly picked himself up and returned to the bumbling position that allowed him to eat. Again, his Dragon mother started stroking his mane. What could he say to such a thing? Both of them had said as much that they did not expect him to treat them as his parents, but as strangers. Yet he found he could not think of them that way, no matter how much he may have longed to do so.

“If father were here,” Coren replied, “he would want me to show you the same respect that he demanded.” It was a matter of honor, Coren supposed. Honoring his mother and father, obeying their wishes. He had to love these two Dragons. It was hard; however, to imagine him ever calling them mother and father. The closest he could see himself getting was sir and ma’am. “May I be excused?” he asked.

Trak sighed, defeated. “You may. I will be up in half an hour to go over tomorrow’s events with you.” He turned to Ikland, who nodded that he would accompany Coren and help him situate himself. “Son,” Trak said just before Coren left, “I will keep you in my prayers.”

* * *

Coren was now standing at a large window in his room after being dismissed from his dinner. His back was to Ikland, who was wondering what was going on in Coren’s human-trained mind. Coren sighed heavily. That dinner had frayed his nerves a bit. The conversation with his two Dragon elders went better than he expected, but a since of dread was now invading his thoughts concerning the next day.

“Which star is mine?” he asked, resting his head on the windowsill. There were so many stars here, and the constellations were vastly different, though he thought he could pick out a few that were seen from Earth. “Are we even in the same plane of existence?” The gate from the prior evening had thrown off his since of reality, begging the question of whether this was the same dimension or not.

Ikland placed his body next to Coren for a view of the night sky. He studied them for a moment. Astronomy had never been a strong point, though he knew enough to navigate while flying. “Humans call their star Sol, do they not?” Coren nodded, following Ikland’s gaze to the left-hand side of the panorama. “That faint yellow one,” he pointed. “The one in that cluster of five, in the center is yours.”

“It seems so small from here,” the boy commented. Only a pinprick of light remained of his world, aside from the pictures yet to be unpacked. Night after night, Coren thought, he would look across the void and find his parents looking back at him. He wondered what they were doing now.

* * *

The last day had passed slowly for the Jacksons. Robert had been working on cleaning out the garage to keep him busy and Silv concerned herself with cleaning the remnants of Coren’s old bedroom. Few of the books remained on the shelves there, and none of the pictures were there. That had made her somewhat happy. But still she wished that he had not gone. At present, both were sitting on the wooden swing on the porch area looking up at the night. Even through the haze and dust of Earth’s atmosphere they could see the stars and the new moon made it even better a night for viewing the heavenly pallet.

“Do you think they’ll take care of him?” Rosette asked, breaking a prevailing silence. She knew they would, but found it necessary to ask for confirmation constantly. She had the distinct feeling that her son was not happy, even angry or depressed. “Do you think they made sure that he knows we love him?”

Robert slipped an arm around her shoulder and she reclined her head on it. “I’m sure the Dragons made sure of it,” he told her. “I trust them. And remember that Ikland is there to watch him too.” But he too wanted to know for sure. A shooting star arrested his attention and he pointed it out. “We should make a wish,” he said. Or praying would work. God had blessed them before; He would do it again if they asked.

“I wish we could see him again.” Rosette looked again at the stars. There to the east she focused on a sharply defined blue pinpoint. There was doubt that Coren would come home eventually. The days would pass sluggishly until then. This was only speculation; no one ever said he would return. She thought of it as a snippet of prophetic vision in her mind. “I’d like to see Ikland again too.”

“Why is that?”

“So he could tell us how Coren is doing.”

“He’s fine, and looking at us at this moment,” Robert notified her with firm resolution in his pitch. Billions of miles into the sky… he whistled to himself at the thought of those distances. He shifted his arm to a lower position down Rosette’s back and told her that she had not to worry about her son. “I’m sure. Maybe he’ll even find a nice girl Dragon,” he said whimsically.

“Possibly.” She had not even considered the possibility of her son finding a girl. He was never a people-person and stayed by himself everywhere but with the Church family. But then again, that had been around humans and now he was around his own kind. “I hope so. It would make it so much easier on him to have someone there.”

She mused about what she might look like if that possibility did pan out. Something graceful, of course, not like the old female she had seen next to Trak. That was definitely the form of a mother, powerful but not attractive to anyone but her mate. No, Coren would choose someone graceful and beautiful. Someone like that Casey girl from his school. She wondered what Dragon females looked like before childbirth. Always, in every species there was some sort of drastic change, she mused amusedly.

Now she was traversing the world of fantasy. He’ll never find a woman. He’s the sort to stay single for a lifetime. But how long did Dragons live? In all the stories she had ever heard dragons had lived to be thousands of years old. She knew an age like that was purely fictional, but still had the notion that real Dragons might live for a few centuries. That gives him plenty of time to change his mind.

Naturally, this problem concerned her more than it did Robert. For it had merely been a passing commentary. He faced several diverse thoughts at the moment and among them was the question of what they were going to do with their son’s old room? He prided himself on keeping a practical mind in the face of unpractical situations and could be counted on to find a solution no matter what. His wife was much the same way, unless it came to something as difficult and unique as this. She unquestionably had other ideas and would veto the prospect of altering anything in that area. “What are we going to do with Coren’s room, hon?”

“Leave it until he comes home,” she said matter-of-factly. “And before you say he won’t come, he will and I know it.” There was no use arguing about it now. Many years of being married had succeeded in pounding into Robert’s brain that one did not disagree with one’s wife. It would be better for him to concede and never broach the topic again.

“Yes, dear. He’ll come home.”

* * *

Pictures. They surrounded him uncomfortably. Photos of humans and of Earth and shelves full of titles and volumes that meant nothing to him. He remembered the two clearly as so sad that Coren was leaving them. Maybe the boy did consider him an enemy? Surprise did not come with that revelation, nor did it show itself with the fact that Trak knew his son disliked him. Trak was not bothered any more than the usual.

This is what he’s been doing for the past half-hour? But he said: “You have been busy.” Coren lay in his basket/bed, flipping through pages in a book that Trak did not recognize. Trak stooped to try and catch the title, but the words were unfamiliar. He had to wonder why the universe did not just speak one language. He tried small talk again, asking about the book.

“Don Quixote,” Coren replied mechanically and continued reading undeterred by the prying Dragon standing above him. Trak sat, he perceived out of the corner of his eye. He was persistent.

“Is it well?” Trak queried, stubbornly resisting the urge to leave the awkwardness behind. Coren was strictly cordial with him in his reply. Trak growled, then snapped the book shut with a swift motion of his left forepaw. At last Coren looked up at him, eyes like bloody daggers. With his son’s attention, Trak tried again to induce conversation. “There is no use in holding grudges, son.”

“I was reading—”

“I was speaking to you. You never treated the humans that way, did you?”

“No,” Coren said defensively and spitefully. “I never treated my parents like that. But why should I not hold a grudge?” Coren retrieved the book but did not reopen it. He saw Trak wince and then regretted his words. That was not how he should be reacting. Trak was merely trying to be there in a time of turmoil. Coren treated him as if he were a criminal.

Trak shook his head, short mane shuddering with the rapid upheaval. He was having trouble now remembering what it was he was here for. I’m growing too old for this, he thought. The aggression on both sides only amplified that notion. I need to be more firm. I can see he regrets what he said. His part had instigated the hostility, however, and he too was at fault.

“I apologize,” Coren blurted, feeling shameful for his rudeness. Trak’s eyes had been staring at nothing while he thought, Coren noticed. They returned to their natural state of awareness as soon as the younger had spoken, though. “I was being an ass,” he said. “You are just doing what you think is right.”

“Son… There is much for us to learn and we must both adjust.” He would not admit wrongdoing, a flaw. He was a prideful Dragon from a small family unit in a small suburb of the Great River Am. Right now he needed that pride to keep his temper level. Dignity prevented him from loosing it and as far as pertained to Trak, dignity was a subsection of pride. “We are going out tomorrow, you and I.”

“If it pleases you, I would like to remain here,” Coren asked, hoping for the best. The universe now consisted of him and the immediate area, and anyone who happened to venture in and find him. Coren needed nothing more than his books and his photos with their various frames to be contented.

He had become apprehensive regarding his theories on the outside world. Variables of unknown proportions swarmed on the other side of his window, the only safe vantagepoint. The fears were irrational, he knew. This world was civilized and would take him openly and with understanding. Before, he had been watching the streets of the suburb. They were peaceful, but still showed signs of activity from Dragons whom Coren could only guess were from the Black Wing. Those same avenues would not change except for the colors of the Dragons commuting.

“No. We are going to Am River tomorrow and you will learn to fly.” To teach his son to fly had been a dream worth waiting for. It presented him with the opportunity to bond with Coren and also get him to see his new home. And the Gold Sun would be up tomorrow, a very good omen. “It is always best to learn under the Gold Sun.”

So that was what he was planning. Where was Am River though? Probably a city or that monstrous body of water on the horizon, he guessed. “What is the Gold Sun?” Coren asked, curious.

“For the past month, the Blue Sun has risen. Our other star,” Trak informed, “is called the Gold Sun. It will be up for a month as well.” Gradually, information about Earth was filtering into Trak’s mind. They had one star, one moon, no magic, primitive technology, and a very limited knowledge of the Architect. Coren had come from a world so strange that Trak shivered as he said Earth. “The Gold Sun is good and provides true color to the world. It is a good sign of things to come.”

Coren snorted. Astrology never interested him and he found it ludicrous to think it may have anything to do with the future now. Then again, this was the world of magic. God had gifted Dragons strangely and it might be possible that the Gold Sun was a true token of love, like the rainbow on Earth. Coren put his paws under one of the cushions and spread his back legs as best he could, making himself comfortable. He closed his eyes momentarily and Trak’s oversized paw on his back, heard him chanting in growls. A prayer no doubt, or a blessing.

“Night closes in,” the Patriarch said, lifting his claw and then his frame. A puff of gray smoke issued from his nostrils and he smiled down on Coren. “I love you son,” he told him. “Do not forget that.” Coren had fallen asleep from the magic put on him. He snored softly and Trak lifted a blanket over his body to keep in the heat. It reminded him of when he first held him, the bundle squirming in a blue blanket. He left before he grew to nostalgic and went to his own room.

Silv lay waiting for him, awake and humming a lullaby from when she was just a hatchling Dragon in her mother’s arms two hundred years prior. “Is he asleep,” she asked as the door slid shut behind him. He nodded. She spoke in their language more confidently than in English. “He’s afraid of us, isn’t he?”

“Only a little. I think he’s going to come around soon.” He crawled up to her and turned on his back. “It reminds me of when we first held him,” he said. Coren had been a beautiful child then, and had grown to be strong in his teenaged years. He would grow stronger still, as he matured into his adulthood. “Beautiful,” Trak murmured, nestling into the crook in his wife’s arms.

She wanted to hold her son at that moment, the urge almost overpowering her. Remembering that blanket of pink flesh made her wish he were young and in her arms. The warmth of her husband kept her still though. “Will he go with you tomorrow?”

“I’m teaching him to fly.”

Flying was good. Flying often opened doors that could otherwise not be opened. “Will he be strong enough to support himself?” She asked out of worry. She thought the muscles that controlled Coren’s wings might not be strong enough yet to allow flight. He would hurt himself if she were correct.

“He’ll be fine, love.” She had no need to worry. If anything happened, Trak would be there to prevent any damage. And his wings were strong and firm. Evidence to support it had come from Ikland’s reports that his wings kept shaking and trying to unfold in the boy’s sleep. “I’m sure they’re strong enough. You needn’t worry about him.”

“When he learns to fly,” she mused, “I’ll teach him our language and then take him to the Market for a trial run. I’ll show him the University and the cathedrals…” She continued to talk and Trak listened contently, wondering if she would ever simmer down and realize that that would not happen in just one day, week, month, or possibly even years. “…Coren to see the Imperial Gardens too.”

“When he learns,” Trak reminded. “He is young now and has more to learn than you suspect. I think he’s a fast learner, though.” And as an afterthought, he added, “And pray that he doesn’t run when he gets his chance.”

“Don’t give him a chance.”

“I can’t prevent the inevitable,” he said. “Just pray that he doesn’t run. He could find himself in a lot of trouble if he goes to the wrong place.” Specifically the Yellow Wing or the White Wing territories were the worst. Them and the Red Wing had been feuding for centuries and even millennia. He asked a quick blessing from the Architect and ordered the lights off.

“Good night, love,” he told Silv, who had folded her arms around the quadruped. He tucked his legs in and settled for sleep as well.

“Good night,” she replied.