More Precious Than Silver or Gold
Balance
A dragon is fire.
Armored from nose to tail in tough scales that can shed molten lava as though it were water, a dragon fears no flame.
Much like a fire, a dragon burns. From the day they are hatched by the flaming breath of their mother blowing over tough and unyielding eggs until the day they die and their fire escapes to destroy everything in their vicinity, their fire is always with them. The eldest of dragons may flicker like a guttering torch nearing the end of its fuel, but endanger even the smallest item in their pile of treasure, and an unfortunate thief will discover just how bright they can still blaze.
But a dragon is not fire.
Dragons are air.
They are everywhere and above all other things, gliding through the sky which they control. Air is their element, turned into fire and far more by their bodies. Dragons own the air, and woe be it to any other creature, great or small, who dares to dispute their domination.
But a dragon is not air.
Some say dragons are earth, due to the way they consume and hoard their bounty of crystals and gold. Let us just say they are wrong also.
A few even say dragons are water. We shall ignore them for the time being.
Dragons are balance.
A dragon in balance is a terrible but wonderful thing. When the desire to reproduce is balanced by the number of dragons around them, the endless hunger for treasure balanced by a properly sized hoard, their desire to wreak carnage and destruction tempered by the restraint of knowledge, there is harmony, of a sort.
But a dragon out of balance is nothing but trouble.
They may fling themselves against every perceived foe until destroyed. They may lock themselves away from the world, to curl around their precious gems and gold until all passes away. But even then, those dragons who succumb to mindless rage or isolation still are dragons in their hearts. Somewhere hidden deep in their scaled breasts is the overwhelming desire to return to their center, to once again just be where and what they need to be. The ancient law of their kind claws for recognition in even the most out of balance minds. Instinct trumps thought, and no matter how powerful, dragons obey their hearts or die.
Piro was not a dragon in balance.
The chill damp of the freezing sea wind beat against her broad wings as she rose on a rare thermal, leaving the grey hammering of the sea behind, although the burning fire of instinct continued to roar through her mind. It drove her like a dark cloud scudding in a wild gale ever northward, past small villages ripe for plunder, over tiny creatures cowering in her wake, and along the wind-scoured coast.
To a dragon, Names were power. Piro was not her Name, of course. That secret lay deep within her scaled breast where none would find it. A dragon who revealed their true Name was weakened by the loss, and Piro was already considerably weak for a dragon, despite her adult size. Her entire hoard could be easily enclosed by two scaled arms while other dragons her age held many, many times that within their grasp. Only her fire was stronger than other dragons her size, but even that was damped by the treasure she carried within, for she was never to return to her former home.
Destiny called to her. Somewhere ahead she would find her balance or die.
Night turned to Day and then turned to Night again, and still she flew. The green grass which covered the ground thinned to patches, and then to dry remnants far beneath her wings. Lesser treasures beckoned her, underground caverns sprinkled with gems, sailing vessels plump with wealth, but she ignored them in her determined flight.
It was close. A treasure far greater than silver or gold. A wealth which would allow her to grow into her legacy, to become powerful and large instead of powerless and small.
She constantly sniffed the air while gliding silently through the night, her senses burning with the nearness of her goal. If another stronger dragon had claimed this treasure, they would have set their flame upon it, and she would be too late to claim her prize. Closer and closer she approached the unseen treasure until her goal was beneath her, and she slowed her rapid pace at an inhospitable place where rocky cliffs met the violent ocean. Unseen in the darkness, she circled the dark town with all of her instincts alert for more of her kind.
There were none. The treasure was unclaimed.
She glided lower like a silent shadow over the coastal town spread out below, with an empty harbor and tidy crofter’s homes spreading up the slopes like weeds around a mountain. It appeared the same as hundreds of little towns scattered up and down the coast wherever ponies could find a place to graze and trees with which to make their homes, except for one detail.
At the top of the rocky slope, a looming fortress of thick stone crouched protectively over the village as a mother drake might guard her fledgelings.
Piro remained wary. The treasure was not as unguarded as she had hoped, and a far worse suspicion began to itch at the edge of her awareness. Even the meanest estate of a lowly pony held at least a whiff of gold or the tantalizing scent of a small gem or two. She made several slow trips across the inky night sky with her senses opened to their fullest, but not even the smallest scent of gold rose up to greet her. The pale fortress was likewise bereft of silver or gold, although her instincts still drove her to circle the structure in silence with only a few small bats still awake at this late hour as her companions.
Finally, she glided closer to the guardian fortress.
Unfinished walls of pale pink stone covered in bare scaffolding made wide gaps in the tall ring surrounding the center of the fortress, like the rips and tears an attacking dragon might inflict to reach the heart of their prey. These were not wounds, though. Much like an oyster slowly wrapping a fleck of sand in pearlescent glory, these ponies were expanding the walls of the ancient fortress with deliberate care. Each length of rope wound through carefully oiled pulleys and padded guides, each block of stone wrapped in cloth and braced with caution, giving a sense of peace and quiet to the empty construction site as if they were building with eggshells and candyfloss instead of granite. But the ropes sagged with inattention and tools were scattered on the ground, showing that the workers building the walls had simply dropped them and walked away. There was not even a single watchpony alertly scanning the sky to give warning to her flight when Piro passed over the silent fortress again and again.
The lack of gold or silver on the breeze was a strange thing, but it explained the abandoned construction. Gold in pony hooves made more gold, and even more, until a town became ripe for harvest and a dragon could scoop it up. But not all of it. Leaving a town without enough gold to provide seed meant the next trip through in several decades would find only empty streets and abandoned houses.
But if so, if indeed this place was as poor as she sensed, why would they leave behind the precious treasure still drawing her here? Ponies still lived in the fortress, a scant few, but she could smell their distinct aroma, the soft flavor of burning wax, and the sweet but dry taste of paper on the night breeze. Their presence meant the treasure she sought was guarded, but without gold, the ponies would not be here long. They would flee this safe refuge and take the precious treasure with them to hide away somewhere else.
For this treasure, she would risk anything. The burning nearness of it drew her out of the sky with chains of fire around her heart and the weight of the entire night pressing her down.
More silent than a blowing leaf, Piro landed on top of the southern side of the incomplete fortress wall. She could feel the call of the treasure stronger than ever, but the lack of gold in the air continued to itch at her caution. She hesitated, with every bit of her attention focused on listening for the rustle of concealed attackers or spotting the buried lines of net traps, but the small chapel in the center of the walls was silent in the darkness, alone and unguarded.
One clawed foot at a time, Piro slipped down the fortress wall and into the protected space guarded by its bulk. There was nothing here that spoke of the reverence that ponies had for treasure, no thick iron doors or spike-covered ballistae ready to defend the structure against an attacker. The entirety of the open courtyard was empty save for the winding gravel paths and a few small garden plots, tended with the utmost of care but mostly bare except for a few small green sprouts sticking up from the frosty soil.
Within the center of the incomplete walls and bathed by moonlight, the small chapel nestled like a fragile egg in a protected nest. The building was constructed of the same pink stone which made up the rest of the rugged fortress, only with arches and filigrees so fine they nearly floated in the air and made the whole structure look like it would have been defenseless against even a newborn hatchling.
Broad colorful windows stretched up on all sides of the small building, covered with bits of brilliant glass that would twinkle and glow in the light of the sun and create pictures for whatever reason the ponies had created them. They were beautiful, glittering in the moonlight with faint mixes of blues and pinks, but still opaque enough to prevent Piro from being able to peer through them into the small rooms beyond.
She slipped across the open space, silent and attentive, and drew up next to the tiny building. This close, the colorful pictures made of glass shards and lead frames took on a life of their own, beautiful examples of the care and skill ponies put into their work but far too large and ungainly to be the treasure whose nearness burned within her heart.
Using the greatest of caution, she slid up the chapel wall, looking for an entrance. A ghost would have made more noise, and a shadow would have envied her ability to hide, but the ornate pink walls of the stone building were without flaw. The only entrance she could see was a tiny crack low on the wall nearly hidden by the leafy carvings of plum vines and far too small for even a mouse to enter. Likewise, the windows were without flaw, every fragment of blue or pink glass embedded in its frame with meticulous care and far too obstructed to allow entry to a dragon of her bulk without creating a terrible noise.
Until she reached the roof.
This close to her precious treasure, Piro could feel the sharp twinges and aches of growth, the sensation of neverending dragon greed pouring through her body, expanding her wings, her teeth, and her fire. At this larger size, she had no problem keeping her tail and hindquarters on the ground while running her tongue around one of the metal panels on the roof, tasting the lead solder holding it into place. Just a little tin was blended in with the lead, giving a delicate softness and distinct flavor while mixing to form a perfect joint, created with all the care the rest of the building exhibited.
She breathed with the greatest of restraint, laying a thin flame against the metal and running a single claw behind to lift the metal from the softened solder. It took intense focus, but after a few endless minutes, she placed the freed metal plate to one side and looked down into the small room it revealed. The windows welcomed the moonlit night, turning the silver rays into pastel blotches of light that filled the arched chamber, blotting away any dark shadows that might have lurked in the corners and making the whole room feel warm and loved. It was beautiful in its own right, a breathtaking mix of pink hearts and twining shapes, and even more welcome, showed no lurking guards or traps protecting the treasure that was nearly consuming Piro with its nearness.
Piro’s pounding heart slowed, and thoughts of her first coin filled her mind. The way it glittered in the sunlight. The soft warmth of it against her cheek. The taste when she gave it a first, tentative lick. To her tiny hatchling mind, that coin was the ultimate treasure, and Piro had grown to nearly twice her size that very day.
The treasure hidden in this room would be far larger and more valuable. It would allow her to grow bigger and stronger. She could feel it now, the way she was able to reach down into the dark room further than she would have been able to reach just a few hours ago. With this treasure, she would be a real dragon, able to mate and clutch. Powerful enough to fight instead of running away. Powerful enough to someday become Dragonlord, and rule over all of her kind.
The narrow slot made by the removal of the metal plate was still large enough for Piro to watch while she reached one clawed hand down toward the carved wooden box in the center of the room, cast into relative shadow by several partitions around it as if the ponies did not want the colored light from the windows to touch the treasure concealed within. She licked her dry lips in anticipation with the barest flicker of her tongue before touching the box and the cloth covering it.
The scent here was different. There was the same wafting flavor of pony in the air, but it was spiced with the addition of powder and jasmine, lavender and roses, just the faintest hint of daisies. It itched at the surface of her mind, urging her to haste, to snatch the box and flee into the moonlit night, but she fought back the reckless urge and nudged the cloth covering away from the treasure she had pursued across the world to this remote chapel.
For the longest moment, Piro could not make sense of what she saw. The treasure which had captured her heart and driven her across the world was not gold or gems, but the smallest of pony foals, sleeping in the carved crib with an aura of perfect peace around her infant body.
She should have been disappointed, but instead, Piro was transfixed with wonder at her first sight of the foal. The perfect shade of pink covering her body in fine, downy hairs. The tiny wings, mere stubs adorned in thistledown and dreams. The mane, a beautiful sweep of soft childish hairs in three colors that blended and merged in long tangled whirls with the smallest of horn stubs peeking out, a gently rounded thing which just cried out to be touched to make sure she was real.
An alicorn.
Piro’s mother had said there once had been an alicorn for everything, from the sky and stars down to the least blade of grass, but they were all gone now, except one. They had been consumed in the chaos of battle and conflict over their dominions until only the Sun Queen remained of her race, ensconced in her distant mountain fortress where not even the most daring of dragons would go. Alicorns were mysterious creatures who did not age in the same fashion as mortal ponies. They were more like dragons, maturing as they gained control over the world and their special talent.
A sharp chill swept through Piro’s fiery heart when she thought of the power the sole surviving alicorn ruler controlled, and the certain destruction the powerful Sun Queen would rain down upon any tiny creature who threatened her lair on top of the world.
Likewise, the infant alicorn also shuddered in her sleep, undoubtedly chilled by the cool night air blowing in through the new hole in her chapel roof. If she awoke, that image of perfection and beauty would shatter like glass when the foal caught sight of a dragon lurking above her in the darkness. It was the most terrifying and horrible event Piro could think of, and she moved with exquisite caution, using only the tip of one claw to tuck the warm blanket back around the sleeping foal.
Uttering a faint coo from under her blanket, the infant alicorn stirred quietly while reaching out one perfect hoof and touching the nearby razor-sharp claw. She paused, then moved ever so slowly in her sleep, nuzzling up against the talon which could have gutted an adult pony, brushing that perfect face up against the deadly curve with a growing smile.
Looking down at the smiling foal, Piro could not have moved if the Dragonlord himself had commanded it. She was frozen, but not in fear, because there could be no fear, no terror at all in the face of that perfect smile. Her heart pounded away in Piro’s scaled chest, hammering as if she were flying into a wild storm with lightning and thunder in all directions and the untamed winds trying to rip her to shreds.
The moment hung in eternity with just the two of them, alone in all of the universe, sharing that unequal togetherness. It could have been minutes or even hours later in the still, moonlit darkness of the chapel until the sleeping foal gave her trembling talon one last nuzzle, with a soft touch more gentle than a butterfly’s wing along the sharp edge…
And kissed it.
Piro could barely see through her tears when the foal rolled onto her side, snuggling under the pink blanket and returning to sweet slumber. She could not remember retreating back to the roof after that delicate kiss, but she remained there, trembling in the moonlight while looking at the faint sheen of moisture remaining on her claw from that ever so brief contact with the foal. The cool breeze of night evaporated the physical presence of the kiss in a few minutes, but Piro could still feel the impact much as if she were flying through a lightning storm. With every beat of her heart and every drip of tears running down her chest, another crash of memory would crackle through her mind, holding her motionless in the moonlit night until a voice drifted up from below.
“She will be cold unless the roof is repaired.”
The quiet voice was coming from the small gravel walkway where Piro’s hindquarters were resting, a distinctly pony voice speaking in the Pegasopolian dialect of the ponies, but not with the malice or anger of a soldier. Instead, it was an old voice, fairly dusty with disuse and quiet, much as if the speaker could not raise her voice much beyond a whisper.
Rather than turn to deal with the pony, Piro reached out with trembling limbs to pick up the thin plate of metal she had ever so carefully removed from the roof what seemed like hours or even years ago. It took several tries to get it back in place, and the clumsy job she did with her flame in melting the solder joint to fuse it with the metal frame would have most certainly been rejected by the original builders. Once she was done, Piro quietly slipped back down the wall to hunch awkwardly on the gravel and await her fate.
Despite keeping her eyes downcast on the small pebbles of the walkway that wound around behind the chapel, Piro could still smell the odd scent of the pony a few claw-lengths away. Peppery menthols and greasy ointments nearly obscured the smell of ordinary pony sweat and oils, but there was no sharp bite of steel nor twang of a bowstring that Piro expected to follow. Instead, the faint whisper of the voice from before spoke in the rolling cadences of Old Pegasopolian yet again.
“Good evening, Sister.”
The unexpectedness of it made Piro look up from her awkward sprawl across the pebbled walkway, only to see an old pony, with no signs of the stalwart guards or fierce pegasus warriors she expected to be guarding a treasure this valuable. The mare wore clothes, which was odd, and adding to the peculiarity, the clothes were of a type Piro had never seen before. Some type of white cloth was tightly wrapped around her throat and forehead, but covered by a sweeping black wool kerchief of sorts which covered the top of her head all the way down the back of her mane.
The elderly pony simply remained sitting, colored in shades of white, grey, and silver under the moonlight. She did not speak any more, nor did she scream in terror or huff up with false bravado to strike. She just sat, with labored breathing that Piro should have been able to hear when she approached, but had not. Eventually, after determining that the pony was not going to make the next move, Piro quietly cleared her throat and responded in the same Pegasopolian dialect that she had learned from her own mother.
“Good evening, Elder One.”
That earned Piro a slow nod of the head, but little more. It did encourage Piro to ask the question which had begun to burn bright in her draconic heart. “Why do you not fear me?”
“Because I knew you were coming, and that you will not harm me,” responded the old pony almost before Piro had finished whispering. “I have Seen it,” she continued, with the invisible capitalization falling into place in a way Piro had not expected. “Now you will ask how it is I know these things.”
“How do—” Piro stopped, with a faint chill traveling down her back spines that had nothing to do with the weather. After taking a breath, she tried again. “How do you know these things?”
Not getting an immediate reply as before, Piro leaned closer and caught sight of the pony’s milky white eyes. “You’re blind!”
The sound of her voice echoed around the inside walls of the incomplete fortress like thunder, making Piro listen anxiously for the sound of crying from inside the nearby chapel. It took a long moment while she trembled in fear at having disturbed the tiny foal’s slumber, but once she was certain the treasure was still sleeping, Piro returned to her hunched posture to await the words of the elderly pony.
“I do not need eyes to see that you have been touched by our Princess-Goddess. All within these walls were drawn here by her love, and serve her will until our last breath.” The elderly pony stifled a cough against her shoulder before continuing. “I am the Mother Superior of the Blessed Abbey of Song. You may call me Mother. Many do. The name I had before I came to serve the Princess-Goddess is unimportant.”
The words leaked out into the night, leaving only the sucking silence behind until Piro could not stand it any more. She lowered her head, placing her nose nearly against the forehooves of Mother and speaking in a rough whisper.
“Please. I must serve her too.”
Mother nodded once, a slow and deliberate motion that bespoke much practice. “The Sisterhood has accepted many. Young and old, rich and poor, we are drawn to her service. I need not ask you why you seek to join our ranks. The answer is always the same.”
“She needs me,” whispered Piro, as if the words were being forced out of her throat under immense pressure.
Mother blinked her sightless eyes, and although she could not see Piro, it still felt as if the old mare was watching every breath and feeling every hammering heartbeat in the dragon’s scaled breast.
“More than simple need must be considered before you can become a Sister, or we would fill this fortress with our numbers. As it is now, our order is destitute, without a single copper bit, our sisterhood old and feeble, and the village beyond our gates savaged by sea raiders who have taken everything that could be carried away. If things continue as they are, within a few months this place will be abandoned, and the Princess-Goddess will be forced out into the cruel world that we have dedicated our lives to protect her from.”
A wave of crushing dejection swept over Piro at the thought, allowing her barely enough breath to say, “I understand.”
“Do you really?” Mother bent her neck to one side and a small smile emerged out of the wrinkles of her face. “You have seen the Blessed Infant, there is no denying it. How old do you think she is?”
“Not more than a month.” Piro thought of the strangeness of ponies and added, “Perhaps two.”
“No.” Mother’s voice was calm and measured, much like Piro’s own mother when she was being patient with the ball of claws and temper that a young dragon tended toward. “You know the answer in your own heart, better than any pony who has sought to take vows. Think, young one.”
Piro looked around, at the chapel, the construction on the surrounding fortress, and the feel of the place. Ponies were industrious creatures, but to have built all of this in a single month, or even several years was far beyond them. The care and quality put into every stone, the intricate stained glass windows that she could now see held motifs of the sleeping foal, the filigree work in every niche or corner, bespoke of a lifetime of creation for the short-lived ponies. Piro ran her claws delicately across a nearby cluster of carved plum leaves, so carefully done that she expected to feel them move under her touch, then moved closer. She licked them once and considered the sharp flavor of the oxidation layer and the delicate hint of sea salt left by the oceanside storms, matched against the words of her own mother many years ago.
“An alicorn matures as they gain domination over the world and their special talent,” Piro murmured. “You’ve concealed her in this building for a century, perhaps a few decades more, and she is still an innocent foal. How much longer can you protect her from the world, Mother?”
“Until the sun rises. Then it shall be the turn of another, and after her, another will walk my path. We are not important in the larger scheme of things. Only the Princess-Goddess is. Should she pass beyond these walls, she would age as mortal ponies do. A few heretics in our order think that is her fate, that she must be given the freedom to live her life and bring her love to the world, and that to trap her in these walls for century after century is a selfish act.”
“Like a dragon and their hoard,” said Piro, lost in thought about the coins and gems and little bits of treasure she had collected over her short span of years. Although she was a young dragon, Piro had not yet reached the century mark that the sleeping foal had passed some time ago. And yet, the Princess-Goddess still possessed something that Piro had lost almost the moment she had fought her way free of her egg.
The innocence of youth for dragons was shattered very early in their lives, but the foal still had a treasure that Piro could never add to her hoard. She was loved and cared for, protected and cherished. The infant had never been exposed to the vicious fighting Piro had done for every speck of gold in her hoard, the blood she had shed for some of the more precious bits and baubles. They were her treasure, meant to be kept safe and secure… like a defenseless foal with the walls of a fortress around her. If Piro were to take her, to steal the innocent Princess-Goddess from this sacred place, the precious treasure she was would change, she would become both less and more as the years went on. She would age, her innocence would be lost, and the thought of causing such perfection to be altered made Piro’s blood run cold.
“I will give anything to serve the Princess-Goddess,” whispered Piro. “Say the word, Mother. Let me have this one service. For her.”
“Anything?” The blind pony cocked an eyebrow and looked in Piro’s general direction. “Present your gifts, dragon, but before you do, be aware that I have Seen the answers to each of your pleas. What I See is only glimpses — flickers of motion in the night, the brief sight of stars through gaps in the cloud cover — but the answers you will be given tonight are as firm as if they were chiseled into stone. You will be refused with every question you ask, but will rejoice in the end.”
Piro shifted positions uncomfortably on the gravel of the fortress courtyard. The first faint hints of the upcoming sunrise were beginning to make themselves known due to the feathery glow in the distance that only sharp dragon eyes could see. Soon, the other ponies she could hear stirring in their cloister would emerge. Tiny things, frightened of her, they would scream and panic in the same way all lesser beings quailed in terror at her sight.
She breathed in.
Holding her breath deep inside, Piro willed her body to do that which it was unwilling to do. She was not with eggs, ready to clutch, but the tiny pink creature in the fortress chapel was more vulnerable than any number of baby dragons. She held that egg-like feeling inside her, making the instinctual changes to her magic that were written into her very being, and Piro breathed out in one long, slow motion until her special fire was expended. All around her in every crack and stone of the fortress, she could feel the sensation of dragon magic soaking in, changing, warning with the threat that only the clutching females of her kind could manage.
“My first gift I give to Her, Mother.” Piro lowered her head and rested it on the rough pebbles in front of the elderly pony. “Dragons will not venture near another’s nest for fear of a mother’s wrath, so I have placed my hatchmark upon your fortress. It shall be safe from my kind as long as I live.”
“A worthy gift indeed,” rasped the Mother Superior. “Still, it is not your kind which has ravaged our island, taken our wealth, and left us unable to serve the Princess-Goddess. I accept your gift, but you can not become one of our order. Your presence here will bring attention to the Hidden, and destruction to Her.”
Somewhere in that collection of wrinkles, Piro could see a smile begin to form on the elderly pony. “Over the years, many Sisters will wonder why our fortress remains immune to the plundering raids of dragons. It is a shame that they shall never know why. Proceed.”
The Mother was right. Even if Piro were to stay here and protect the alicorn hatchling, her presence would bring the curious, the malicious, and the greedy. Dragons would be able to sense her magic and avoid this sanctified place, but there were always others.
She breathed in for the second gift.
The fire of her kind simmered deep in her chest, but there was a portion she had always held back. Without it, she was not a dragon. With it, she could not be worthy of the tiny little alicorn hatchling. Behind the coins and golden trinkets, deep behind her heart, burned the greed of all dragons, the core of dragonkind, and the reason for their existence.
Piro lowered her head and breathed out gently across the scrubby grass and loose gravel, keeping her eyes closed while the magic flames flickered away in front of her nose until not a single ember or spark remained. When she opened her eyes again, the glittering pile of coins and treasures appeared to be so small, barely large enough to cover a pony’s shoulders if they stood in it. The eldest and most powerful of dragons could hold an entire cave full of treasure secure in their magic while still retaining the fire to defend it during the migration to a new cavern or mountain peak, while hatchlings could only hold a few coins.
The fire in her belly should have burned with new vigor while she looked down on the gold. It was treasure, the sole meaning and core of a dragon’s greedy heart. Always before, the instinct of her kind had been to grasp it, to breathe her fire across it and bring it into her second belly where it would be safe. Where it would be hers again.
Now, there was nothing but a growing warmth in her heart where the unquenchable fire once blazed.
“I give Her my hoard,” whispered Piro. “Every gem, every coin, and every treasure I’ve collected. Everything of value I own. Allow me to surrender them so that I might serve Her.”
“Not everything,” said the Mother Superior. “Your size shows that. You have been touched by the Princess-Goddess, and her love will be with you forever. Feel your new treasure in your heart, your head and your breath. That love cannot be given away or kept hidden in some dark cave, only shared with others. In return, you have given a gift to the Princess-Goddess which will be used to protect, guard, and sustain her through many, many years until she has grown into her inevitable destiny and returned to the lands from which she came.”
There was faint creaking of aged tendons when the elderly blind pony reached out with one hoof and touched the golden form of a small pony crown on the top of the pile of gold and gems. It was too small for a dragon and far too large for the tiny little alicorn hatchling, but Piro could see it someday gracing the head of an alicorn grown into her wings and with hatchlings of her own.
“This is a good gift, a needed gift for the Princess-Goddess and our order, but it is not sufficient for you to become one of the Sisters of Song and serve Her.”
Piro sat on the gravel of the fortress courtyard with her neck bent and and the words of rejection echoing in her head. Once again, the Mother was right. There was only one other gift she could possibly give, and she moved her large head close to the blind pony’s ear to whisper.
“All things that I have and all that I own I have given to Her, but one. A dragon is bound by their Name in duty and service, tied by their soul to the Dragonlord of our kind, who we cannot help but obey. I give you this now, my Name, so that I may serve Her.”
Piro moved her mouth closer to the elderly pony’s ear and whispered that which only the Dragonlord knew. When she was done, she returned to her place with bent neck and contrite heart, both dreading and anticipating the Mother’s response.
She did not expect the laughter which followed, a quiet chuckle lasting a considerable time.
“If I had not Seen this, I would not believe it,” said the elderly pony. “And yet now that I have, you shall know the truth. Your gift is the greatest any dragon can give, yet it means nothing to the Princess-Goddess, and so I must refuse one last time your request to become a Sister and serve Her. But know that your Name is safe in my heart, for I will not live to see the sun rise on this morning. What is more, you shall depart from here also before the first rays of the Dawn for a destination far beyond my sight. You shall find a mate with the wealth of your hoard, clutch, and bear many strong dragons, all who will bear the touch of the Princess-Goddess in their hearts as well. The race of dragonkind will prosper with Her touch upon your children and your children’s children, but none of your brood will ever ascend to become Dragonlord, save the last.”
At that, the elderly pony fell silent. Piro looked up at the sky where the faintest pinks had begun to paint the highest clouds, giving notice that the Dawn approached. It was time for her to leave, as the Mother had Seen, for the sounds of the awakening ponies in the fortress were growing louder. But the chest of the pony still rose and fell, so there was still time to ask one final question.
“What of my child who will become Dragonlord? What did you see?”
Taking one trembling breath, the Mother spoke. “He shall be the least and the last of your broods, from an egg which you cannot hatch. You will give him to the Dawn, and he will be raised as one of us, more pony than dragon. Small of size and weak, he will possess the greatest of hearts. Born to a life of servitude, he shall provide a light to guide the weak and the timid into her destiny of leadership.”
A proud smile spread across the Mother Superior’s face, and she looked up at Piro with those milky white eyes gleaming with joy. “When all is lost and the Princess-Goddess faces destruction from the same evil which drove her to our sanctuary, he shall be the one brave enough to return her heart and save her entire empire from destruction again.”
“And for that, he becomes Dragonlord?” Piro’s mind whirled with the image of her son, the brave and powerful dragon ruling over all dragonkind.
The old pony chuckled, a dry and distant sound despite her nearness. “What would dragons care about one of their kind who gives away the greatest treasure of the Hidden Empire? No, dragonkind will not know or care about his deeds on that fateful day. But there will come a time when he will give them a gift far more precious than our Princess-Goddess has given to you. He will accept the title of Dragonlord only to give it away.” The old pony chuckled, a dry and wispy sound from where she had settled down on the loose gravel, her voice barely audible even to Piro’s sharp ears. “The love you give him will guide his heart, and from him, to all dragonkind in time. He will be a very giving dragon. Very giving indeed.”
“Giving.” Piro’s breath caught in her chest as realization flooded through her body. “I have given the Princess-Goddess my hoard,” she whispered. “Without it, I shall not attract a mate. I shall not clutch, and my line will end with me. What shall I do?”
“The answer you seek can not come from me,” rasped Mother from where she was resting. “Auric, it is your turn now.”
And once the elderly pony had reached the end of her words, she did not breathe in again.
“Mother?”
Piro reached out to nudge the old pony, hoping she had fallen asleep, but there was no response. Questions swirled around her head in an endless tornado, and she had never felt so helpless in her life. Even the glint of her treasure a few claws away did not bring the burning fire of draconic greed to her heart anymore. She had crossed the world, searching for answers to her questions, but now…
“Another one falls.”
The hoarse, guttural tones of Griffoni contrasted with the quiet words, spoken much nearer than Piro expected. She started, turning to face the speaker but without baring claw or fang as she would have at any other time. All of the aggression, all of the anger in her heart had been washed away, leaving her less able to defend herself than a newborn hatchling.
Worse, once she had turned to look at the owner of that rough voice, he turned out to be a griffon. A huge cockerel, all fluffed in grey feathers and looking intensely angry at having to lurk in the darkness. For a moment, she cursed her inattention at allowing an elderly pony and a sizable predator to slip this close, even with being distracted by the tiny alicorn hatchling.
Thankfully, the fierce griffon was not attacking, but was instead just looking at the still form of the elderly pony while paying no attention at all to the far larger dragon. As strange as the griffon’s presence was, the way he simply sat unmoving, still mostly concealed in the far too small shadow, made Piro feel strangely at ease.
There was a patience to his stance far different than any other griffon she had seen before, the poise of an experienced elder contained in the body of a young male. He mourned in silence for a long time on the moonlit gravel pathway before looking up at Piro with an odd, evaluating expression as if he was trying to imagine the dragon in the same strange headcloth as Mother was wearing. Then the strange moment passed, and he shook his head slowly while returning his attention to the dead.
“I will miss her. She was unique among the Sisterhood. None before was her equal, and none could ever replace her. And yet, when the sun rises, another will take her title while she is placed into the ground.” The griffon fairly spat the last word in his guttural language as if it were a particular insult to his kind, a waste of perfectly good flesh cast away to rot and decay.
After waiting a time for any recognition of her presence, Piro put forth a tentative, “Auric?”
“Yes, dragon.” The griffon raised his mournful yellow eyes to look straight at Piro in a way that felt as if he were somehow looking through her and seeing something he was quite familiar with. “Or are you still a dragon, now that you have been touched by Her?”
The silence filling the cool night air of the empty fortress offered scant comfort, because it meant no more unwelcome visitors would disturb their conversation. Far more importantly, the silence was unwelcome because of the way the absence of words pried at Piro’s heart and made her want to say something, anything rather than suffer that terrible void.
Before Piro could do more than take a hesitant breath, Auric added, “Did you know her mother called her L'mi'amore distrugge tutto?” The Pegasopolian words were strangely poetic coming from the griffon’s beak, spoken in a casual fashion but holding a subtext with more pain than any mortal heart could bear just below the surface.
“My love destroys all,” whispered Piro.
“Ah, you can speak more than one word.” The griffon clicked his beak, looking slightly less irritated than before. “Good. Answer my question. Are you still a dragon? Or has she destroyed you too?”
“I… do not know.” It was the truth, painful and jagged. Piro had never felt less… herself.
A true dragon would have not remained this large after giving up her treasure of coins and gems, and yet she towered over the griffon. Still awkward and large, the weight of the world pressed down upon her leaden wings, and the fire of greed that had burned in her chest since her first thought was simply not. Its absence should have left Piro with an ash-choked void where her heart belonged, but as the pony said, something else lived inside her now. Something soft and gentle instead of fierce and destructive, an alien presence to her draconic soul but somehow just as powerful. Or perhaps more.
“You may never know. It has been over a century since I looked into that perfect face, and I have never been the same since.” Auric looked up at the brightening sky and the first dim stars, just beginning to vanish one at a time. “Still, you must be leaving before the Dawn Chorus sings, or there will be such a disturbance. Pity. I’ve grown accustomed to their song, and think you would enjoy it too.”
He clicked his beak again and let out a quiet, gravelly chuckle deep down in his syrinx. “As every pony has a part to play in their chorus, so do you have a part to play. To play that part, you need…” He took a few steps forward and waved a wing over the glistening pile of treasure to the side of the unmoving Mother.
“I cannot,” whispered Piro, turning her head away from what had once been the most important thing in her life. “It is Hers.”
Auric struck a lecturing tone and looked to the south, away from the pile of gold and gems. “Several days ago, three ships full of ‘merchants’ made landfall here. Had I fought them, many ponies would have died. Blood would have stained these shores, and She might have been discovered. Or injured.”
Piro shuddered, but Auric continued without a pause. “They raided many, many towns before this one, leaving a trail of dead and dying all along this rocky shore. Only this small town was spared their greed when Mother ordered every scrap of valuables, every single silver and gold bauble to be turned over to them the moment they set hoof on shore. It was a pitiful collection, far smaller than your modest hoard, but it satiated their desire for treasure, and they left the town unpillaged.”
The griffon turned from his introspection of the southern fortress wall to look directly at Piro. “They have gone away to the south, their ships filled with the gold and silver of a dozen or more towns, but they will remember. When they reach their homes and have spent every last coin, they will once again look with longing upon the wealth of the ponies in this land. And they will return.”
Piro shuddered again, but not in fear. A blazing fire ignited in her heart, spreading through her body and burning nearly as hot as her greed from before, filling her breast with strange warmth instead of consuming desire. “No,” she whispered from between clenched jaws filled with sharp teeth. “No, they shall not.”
Auric nodded, while the ghost of a smile appeared around the corners of his beak. “Ahhh. You are still a dragon.”
Piro turned to look at the griffon, who appeared smaller now, and not nearly as threatening. She smiled at him, the baring of many teeth that was more of a dragon warning than pleasure. “I do this for Her. Not you.”
“As you should.” The griffon’s fierce yellow eyes bored holes in Piro. “Mother was a kindly sort. I am not. Leave survivors. Let them flee in terror from your claws and teeth. Allow them to drag their battered bodies to shore without a single scrap of gold and with only tales of their destruction and dreams of fire. There in the broken bellies of their ships you will find the treasure which will make you great among dragons. And there will you serve L'mi'amore, as Mother foresaw.”
Piro could see it all unfold in her mind, down to the three ships sailing south a short distance away as the dragon flies. She turned to the motionless body of the Mother Superior of the Blessed Abbey of Song, resting peacefully by the pile of gold and silver. A dragon would have seized the unprotected treasure, eaten the pony, and laid waste to the fortress. All Piro could do was carefully arrange the pony into a more natural position and brush back a corner of the grey mane which had emerged out from under her odd hat.
“Rest well, Mother,” she whispered. “It shall be as you have Seen. She will be protected.”
Then Piro turned and gave the griffon a grim, draconic scowl. “Guard Her well,” growled Piro.
The griffon bowed back with a quick bob of the head and snap of his sharp beak. “Always. And you, in your way.”
With slow, silent sweeps of her broad wings, Piro rose into the dark sky and turned to the south. On her flight here, she had seen the three ships sailing close together, with nets across the rigging and spear throwers pointing up to stop any threat. It might have been sufficient to ward against any flying beast or griffon who would threaten the fragile wooden vessels from above, but there was something the thieves had not considered.
Some dragons are water.
* * ✹ * *
The pastel shades of dawn spread over the coastal town with the rising of the Dawn Chorus and the stirrings of the Abbey of Song. Robed and veiled acolytes moved silently within the walled compound, tending to their responsibilities in the way generations of their kind had done before, with one minor difference.
Without the voice of the Mother Superior to guide them, the few remaining Sisters were disorganized. They scurried about and tried their best to keep their voices low, but their concern showed in missed notes and furtive glances. It was only later in the morning, when the tending to the Blessed Infant was over and she had been settled in for her nap-nap, that they began to search the empty walls of the Abbey of Song and the fortress surrounding it.
The eldest of their number discovered the Mother Superior first, but did not call out to the others when she stopped to marvel. Then a second Sister joined her, and another, until all of the Sisterhood stood in on the graveled walkway with the morning sun reflecting off the nearby stained glass window.
Alongside a large pile of coins and gems glistening in the morning sunlight, the Mother Superior’s still form was kneeling, unable to raise her own voice to the heavens in praise of the golden blessing which had been bestowed upon the abbey and their precious charge.
