Sinder had barely begun his story when Kyrie realized he knew it. Or at least a version of the tale. The one he’d learned from Mother was sprinkled with questions along the way, so that the listener could interact with the teller. A kind of catechism intended for young dragons. With every retelling, woven as it was with rote questions and answers, its lessons were reinforced.
A lonesome dragon.
A merciful angel.
A careless wish.
A miraculous outcome.
Kyrie could even guess why Sinder had chosen this particular story for Mikoto, and that made the telling even more interesting. Settling back, Kyrie watched Mikoto face. The story had drawn the headman in. That was only natural. Few could resist the words of a dragon.
“He labored alone, coaxing brilliant crystals from the mountain and gaining wisdom from their songs. Unwilling to waste stone, he fashioned a home for himself—columns and arches and chambers and halls. Over time, he embellished every room, lavishing them with all his attention and affection, for there was no one else with whom he could share them.”
There was a lesson there. Mother always paused upon this point. Beauty upon beauty. Yet the loveliness echoed. A soul longed for more.
Sinder went on. “To fill the halls, Persiflage took to singing. He harmonized with the stones he’d collected, and he sang the ballads of beginnings. When he ran out of old lyrics, he began to compose new ones. Rich in detail. Threaded with longing. Captivating in unforeseen ways, for the very stars bent low to hear him.
“Only Persiflage did not realize it.
“Not until a summer’s eve when a star drew near and spoke. He gave the name Bethiel and asked, ‘Why do you sigh?’”
“Wait a sec,” interrupted Ginkgo. “I thought Bethiel was one of the seven angels. Or was it ten?”
“Who can say how many angels there might be?” Kyrie was quoting his mother, who knew a lot about such things. “But yes, he is commonly numbered among the angels who visited the Amaranthine clans in times past.”
“Like Soriel of the Dawning,” interjected Mikoto. “And Cadmiel of the Echoing Song.”
Timur said, “Bethiel is a frequent figure in the lore of avian clans and dragon clans. Those who fly and those who live in high places.”
“Yes, this is that Bethiel,” acknowledge Sinder. “And if you want tales of Cadmiel or Auriel or Fandriel, we can trade tales on other nights. But Beckonthrall met Bethiel. And that’s when his story gets … interesting.”
“Please, continue,” urged Kyrie. Sinder’s storytelling was even better than Mother’s, for his voice changed with each part, giving personality to the players. Solemn and sonorous for the lonesome dragon. Warm and winsome for his angelic visitor.
Sinder composed himself and took up the narrative.
“‘Why do you sigh?’ asked Bethiel ‘Why are there tears upon your face?’
“‘I am unloved,’ complained Persiflage.
“‘Not so. You are greatly loved.’
“The dragon supposed that Bethiel was referring to the Maker’s unwavering ways. But that was little comfort. He clarified. ‘I am alone.’
“‘Not so,’ repeated the angel. ‘Your companions are as constant as they are inconstant.’
“But Persiflage knew every handsbreadth of his home. He began to suspect that this was no star and no angel, but a trickster come to mock his pain. ‘Am I blind, then?’
“‘Not so,’ Bethiel said yet again. ‘If anything, you are deaf.’
“‘What am I meant to hear?’
“The angel held a finger to his lips, and Persiflage fell silent. For long moments, he listened. But the only sound was the wind sighing through empty halls. Nothing had changed.
“Not wanting to seem ungrateful, Persiflage opened his arms and said, ‘You are here, and for that I am grateful. Come inside and enjoy what hospitality I can offer.’
“‘Answer me this,’ countered Bethiel. ‘Why do you—a dragon—take humanity’s guise?’
“Persiflage thought the question odd, but he craved conversation. ‘I like this form, this size, this voice. Is it not the same for you, starry one?’
“Bethiel asked, ‘Who taught you this form?’
“‘My father.’
“‘And did you wish to learn?’
“‘Very much.’ Persiflage smiled. ‘I wanted to be like him. To become his companion.’
“‘Was it easy?’
“‘Not at first, but his words helped me. He guided me into his arms, which is where I wanted to be.’
“‘Well said, dragon.’ And Bethiel turned to speak to empty air. ‘He can teach you the way.’
“‘Who is there?’ Persiflage asked softly.
“Touching a finger to his lips, the angel urged, ‘Listen.’
“Again, the dragon tried to hear. Again, he shook his head. ‘My voice, your voice, and the whistle of a lonesome wind among the stones.’
“Bethiel said, ‘Your songs are pleasing, and your prayers have been heard. An answer is all around you. Woo the wind to your side.’”
Mikoto blurted, “What?”
Sinder arched his brows. “What?”
The headman’s voice was barely a mumble. “That is what Timur’s sister said, too.”
“Naturally. It’s in all the stories.” Sinder waved his hands. “Beckonthrall’s story is the first and most famous example. He’s become a byword. Along the lines of ‘be careful what you wish for.’ Because in his enthusiasm, he wooed all four winds at once, which resulted in quite the tempest.”
“Four brides,” said Kyrie. “East, west, north, and south.”
Ginkgo whistled softly and eyed Mikoto speculatively.
Sinder shrugged and skipped ahead. “It’s said that the Waning never touched Beckonthrall’s household. His children arrived in every color known to creation. His sons became our fathers, and his daughters the jewels of the harems they graced.”
Mikoto looked lost. “Are you trying to say that I was never in love with Lupe?”
“I’m not sure. I can’t exactly relate.” Sinder frowned. “I’m suggesting that your love—while earnest and true and good—may have been a teensy bit off target.”
“Because I am actually in love with the wind.”
“Not the wind, in the broadest, general sense. A wind. Singular. A south wind, I think.”
Kyrie helpfully added, “She is a summer breeze.”
Mikoto brushed absently at his hair.
“I’d need to chat with Miss Lupe to be certain, but it sounds as if she and that breeze became entangled somewhere along the way.” Sinder fanned his fingers wide. “And by your tale, I’m willing to bet that on the day you nearly drowned, that wind is the one who saved you.”
“Breath is life,” murmured Kyrie. “She cleared your lungs.”
“Leaving a bit of shine behind.” Ginkgo slyly asked, “Does that count as a claim?”
“There’s a word for it in our stories.” Sinder waited until Mikoto met his gaze. “Mikoto, I think you’re wind-kissed.”