"For insulting the MageLords and the Council, inciting rebellion and spreading lies, performing dangerous magic withough permission -"

"In that order, I suppose?" A clear, arrogant voice rang out clearly thoughout the court, and the Jeruje Makre'telor-an grimaced in frustration. Gods, he didn't want to be here, he didn't want this case.

He shifted his gaze slowly upward - not that there was any doubt about who had spoken. His eyes locked upon the figure of the accused - a young elf with black hair bound back in a cord, and even darker eyes. Feeling Makre'telor's scrutiny, he stared boldly back, and dipped his head in a slight, ironical bow. His sarcasm was not wasted; at this point, Makre'telor was in no way delusioned about this young upstart's opinion of him.

"- You have been sentenced to death," the older elf concluded coldly. "And were I you, I would not wish to increase my punishment."

The younger elf shrugged nonchalantly, apparently undisturbed. "It's not like you can do anything worse than kill me, anyway, and you're already going to do that. What difference does it make?"

"We can make your death very uncomfortable," the jeruje warned - or tried to; a sheet of flame was dropped over his head, smothering his words.

The elf laughed softly. "I didn't think so." He pulled a roll of paper out of the air, and tossed it in the direction of the flaming judge. "Here. You might want to make copies of this. Of course, the MageCity has to be warned about me. I might accidentally speak ill of one of your precious MageLords before you could kill me."

He turned, and left the court.

Attendants, who apparently had been frozen, watching the spectacle, now sprung into action. Someone tossed a bowl of water over Makre'telor, who sputtered in indignation. It was observed by several, though, that while the judge's ornate robes were ruined, and his beard a little singed, he was virtually unhurt.
 

A member of the slowly disapating crowd of spectators noted to his companion, "He could have killed the jeruje. But he didn't."

His friend, a little further up the hierarchy, hushed him, nodding towards the guards who had appeared upon the scene. "They don't want that sort of talk spreading. The serfs would panic."

"The MageLords panic every time someone they don't understand or can't control turns up," the first speaker pointed out, smiling a trifle grimly. But his amusement faded as a heavy hand clamped his shoulder. Slowly, he was turned to face one of the guards: a strong elf, wielding a mage-spelled staff.

The speaker gulped silently; his friend awarded him a weak expression of sympathy and slipped away into the crowd, as the guard muttered: "You are under arrest for expressing support for the traitor to the MageLords."
 

Makre'talor waited, leaning tiredly against his desk, until they had all gone; then, he touched the scroll the traitor had thrown, for the first time. To his relief, nothing happened at his touch, and he almost smiled. Silly to think it had been spelled. Still, with a dangerous maniac like that... One could never be too careful.

He broke the seal, unrolled it a little less cautiously, and found himself staring at a perfect picture of the one who had stood before him accused, less than an hour earlier. 'Vyaru'selcae Mage-ktraelt, traitor to the City,' it read, in bold black letters.

Vyaru walked quickly through the City, wondering that no one had tried to stop him. Perhaps they were simply out of touch with recent events, with the rebellion, with his capture... Or perhaps, they feared... After all, he was the crazed, dangerous traitor, assisted by wild magic, and out to kill all of Kaertel'yn...

He laughed outright at this, drawing glances from passers-by, and, noticing, smiled at them until they looked away. And yet... how wrong they all were. He was... well, perhaps crazy, but certainly in control of his magic. Not nearly as powerful as they assumed, though perhaps he wouldn't remove those particular delusions.

They were frightening themselves into hysteria, he decided. They feared him because he was not one of the mage-trained, had never been so, and yet he wielded magic. Apparently, they feared that all the serfs carried the same ingrained gift, and would rebel against the MageLords, destroying their nice, orderly tyranny...

The truth was, Vyaru had studied long hours for his mage-skills... He remembered, momentarily, his life as a child, a near-slave, like all of those who were not magically gifted. True, if a serf was loyal enough to the Council, they would sometimes elevate him to some small position of power. But he didn't want that, did not want to take orders, to turn traitor to his family, to the non-magic people just to become a little closer to the MageLords.

No. He'd have to learn magic, he had decided, one weary night when sore from a beating - and then they'd treat him as an equal.

To the child Vyaru, it had seemed so simple. But when he'd tried to put his decision to action, some years later, he'd learned the difficulties, learned why no one had ever done it before...

True, some elves, favored by the Council, were taken to the Mage-Castle to be trained in magic. But these were the children of the MageLords, those with magic in their blood... and those who the Council considered to loyal to the Mages. Even among those who possessed magic, strict rules on what was allowed existed, and those who were different were hated, sometimes feared, always suppressed or killed outright.

And the magelings were only trained in the use of their powers... He'd had to gain those powers himself, through long hours of study and work. And even now, he was not as powerful as those born with magic, and much more quickly tired. The fire and conjuring of the scroll in the court had nearly drained him of magic, for the time being. Still, he practiced, hoping to gain strength and skill.

Through it all, he had hated the mages.

Recently, talk of a revolution had swept through Kaertel'yn - not in the mage-controlled cities, where all were loyal by choice or force, but in the smaller villages, where the elves without magic dwelt. The word was that elves, some with magic, but all outcasts, like the serfs, had allied with the great dragons to overthrow the MageLords. People whispered of it, children played at being members of the revolution - but Vyaru had seen no proof, and was reluctant to believe the tales. The dragons had not come down from their mountain caverns in centuries, let alone ever helped the elves.

Still, a rumor, while far less substantial that the mythical rebels themselves, could make a difference... Already, the mages had sensed unrest, and had forbade discussion of the 'ridiculous revolution'; those who spoke of it in hearing of a mage were accused of treason.

But the talk lived on; it spread, and rumors grew.

And then Vyaru, serf-born with magic, had appeared, inciting the people... He hadn't been cautious enough, or perhaps he had been betrayed, and the mages had arrested him. Still, he knew that he had planted another seed of fear. Let them believe the elven-serfs were capable of magic and rebellion!

So, they were wrong on that point, too. And even the last was false; he had no wish to destroy Kaertel'yn... only to aid in the downfall of the MageLords. A new era, a new group in power, was long overdue.

His thoughts made him reckless; he changed his path, and headed towards the MageCity.

Vyaru found, to his surprise, that gaining entry to the City was far from difficult. He joined a caravan bringing supplies into the City just outside the gates, and was admitted without question.

He slipped away from the traders before someone questioned his right to be there, and turned towards the main road through the city. Crowds of people, the lesser of the magic-users, lined it, and he spent a moment trying to figure out what was going on.

"The High Mage!" someone hissed, and he pushed closer to the edge of the crowd. Yes... the hooves of galloping horses sounded: the High Mage's escort. He smirked, contemptuous. It was traditional that the Mage ride through his city on the first day of each week; an armed escort was clearly new. So the Council was frightened. Good...

He watched, silent, as the first horses galloped past. An impulse struck him, and he threw himself before the hooves of the High Mage's white steed.

It took only a moment for chaos to break forth.

The white stallion shied away from him, scattering the crowd. People dashed back, away from the terrified animal's flailing hooves. Vyaru caught a glimpse of the Mage's panic-stricken expression as he fought to control his mount, before he was unseated, falling to the ground beneath his beast's hooves.

There was a moment of silence, and the tumult of noise that followed provided a sharp contrast.

Vyaru rose to his feet and ran down the road, and it took only a moment for the crowd to recover and follow.

So, he would die now. They were going to kill him.

He felt curiously detached from what he'd done, from what he knew would be done to him. He was not frightened, but quietly triumphant. He would have died sooner or later in any case... 

But, he realized, he did not want to die at their hands.

He reached a bridge, vaulted the wall, and flung himself at the river, at the rocks below, feeling that he'd finally won. It was a pleasant emotion, success, and he decided it was a good way to die.

Unfortunately, he found it rather difficult to concentrate on making it his last thought ever, when a dragon caught him on its wings, seconds later.

Are you mad? the dragon demanded, as soon as Vyaru caught his breath.

He shrugged, and lay still between jewel-toned wings. "Well, I've always considered that a harsh term. I prefer sanity challenged."

I see. She was silent for a moment, wings beating strongly, carrying them up and away from the City. That was a very stupid thing to do, you know.

"Yes, but riding bareback on an unknown and possibly hostile dragon, almost a hundred feet in the air, is stupider, isn't it?"

She turned her gold-crested head to regard him with one green eye. Showing impertinence to the dragon who rescued you is quite possibly the stupidest thing you'll ever do.

"Well, I didn't ask to be rescued!" he retorted, hotly.

When she spoke again, her voice was calm. No, you did not. But I was asked to rescue you. You should be honored that the Rebellion has taken an interest in you.

That shocked him into silence for a moment, and she took advantage of the fact to add, Syrj'raenen, one of the most important of the rebel leaders, asked to see you.

He ignored her, and mused aloud. "So... the rebellion is real. Obviously, it's also true that the dragons have come down from their strongholds. Are all of your kind allied with the rebels?"

She chuckled softly. It's much more complicated than that, Vyaru'selcae. You'll have a lot to learn before you join us.

They descended near the foot of the western mountain range; Vyaru watched suspiciously for signs of elven inhabitance, but found none. And yet, moments after the jeweltoned dragoness touched ground, a black-haired elf appeared to meet them. He extended a hand to help Vyaru down, but the latter slid down on his own, and watched the newcomer with distrust.

The elf shrugged, but he didn't seem upset. Instead, he nodded to the jeweled dragon, who rose into the air once again. "My thanks, Heila Korista'Jalokivi-lita Eliyankai."

She seemed to smile, dragon-fashion. Your thanks is not needed, Amaeo'Esai. And then, to Vyaru: Were I you, I would show more courtesy to Syrj'raenen. If you will not join us, you will have nowhere else to go. 

And then, with a flick of her wings, she was gone.

Vyaru looked after her. "Who is she?"

"She is Heila Korista'Jalokivi-lita Eliyenkai, of the Warren and of the Rebellion," his companion responded quietly, though his grey eyes sparkled at Vyaru's reaction to the name. "Heila Jalokivi is one of the unbonded dragons, though you might say she is bonded to all of us who fight for Kaertel'yn. She is especially close to Kelqasuth and I."

"And you are Syrj'raenen, the Amaeo'Esai. Why?"

Syrj'raenen smiled at that. "Dawn-Leader is Jaloki's name for me, although I'm afraid it's catching on. I didn't ask for fancy titles, but... Ts'yanos Dragonkin and I were the founders of the Rebellion, though it was first his dream. Kelqasuth and I were drawn into it because... I'm a diplomat, I suppose, and people listen to me. People listen to Ts'yanos, too, but they don't like doing it. And if we are to succeed, we must be united." His gaze was intense. "And Vyaru'selcae, I invite you to join us."

Earlier in life, he would have said yes, without question. But he knew now that so many people used everyone else, and he hated being used. Of course... had he not changed, Syrj'raenen might never have been interested in him, but he didn't want to ponder that. Instead, he shook his head. "Not yet. There's too much you haven't explained."

The older elf nodded; he seemed pleased. "As you wish."

His compliance started Vyaru somewhat. Did they want him so much, then? But he asked, "How do you know my name? How did... Heila Jalokivi?"

"Better use her full title until she gives you permission," Syrj'raenen advised. "Jaloki can be touchy. But, to answer your question..." He pulled a piece of paper from a fold of his garment, and handed it to Vyaru.

Vyaru quickly recognized it; it was a copy of the scroll he'd flung defiantly at the jeruje, and bore his picture and name, with the title 'mage-traitor'. "So they did use it." This amused him a little, and as Syrj'raenen took it back, he seemed to understand.

"Yes, they've used copies of your scroll. Either they didn't understand, or didn't want word spreading that you escaped death - how many times?"

Vyaru wasn't sure. "I didn't mean to," he muttered, softly. "I wanted to die. It would have been the last defiance."

Syrj'raenen did not hear him, or simply did not acknowledge his wish. "Anyway, they haven't let it get out that the original came from you." He gave Vyaru an interested glance. "How did you come by it, anyway."

"I have magic," he replied, tersely.

"I know, but..."

Vyaru brushed away the objection. "There are limits on how much I can use, but few on what I can do, assuming I have enough magic to do it. I created that."

"Gods." Syrj'raenen seemed impressed. "Not even the mages... not those born with magic... except Ts'yanos..." His eyes grew distant for a moment, then turned back to Vyaru. "I imagine you'll want to know just why I, why the Rebellion needs you. You've just given me another reason." He ticked off points on long fingers. "You're common-born, but you have magic. More than that, you taught yourself - so others can too, if they wish to. And you have fewer limits on what you can do than the MageLords. I'll ignore the fact that it takes time for you to regain enough energy to perform large magics, for it's more than I can do." He smiled rather wrily. "If you didn't know, I was born with magic, but never trained. That makes another reason - perhaps, you can teach me, if you will do so."

"I see." The thought of teaching - teaching! - the one who had brought the Rebellion together was staggering, but... it also instilled in Vyaru a feeling of power that was pleasurable.

"And lastly... You're an icon of freedom to the commoners, as much as the Rebellion, I'd dare to say. Certainly since your dramatic escape dragonback, or so Kelqasuth tells me."

"You've convinced me. One more thing. Who is the Kelqasuth you speak of?"

"Oh..." and Syrj'raenen smiled, though his warmth was for someone else, "Kelqasuth... is my dragon."

And as he spoke, a silver dragon, hide fading from true silver to pale snow-gleaming, stepped into view behind his rider.

And Syrj'raenen went to stand by Kelqasuth's side, looking so proud and loving that, for a moment, Vyaru wondered just what bond connected them...

My greetings, Vyaru'selcae. I am Twilight silver Kelqasuth, of Ryslen, Abri, and Kaertel'yn. Welcome to the Rebellion.

The silver spoke into his mind as the jeweled-flame dragoness had; his voice was low, silvery even in tone, and deep enough to befit a creature of his size. Seeing dragon and rider together, Vyaru realized how big Kelqasuth really was - far larger than Heila Jalokivi, why, he had to be at least forty feet long...

"Are all the rebels dragonriders?" he asked.

"No, but Ts'yanos, Ttrae'an, and myself - the leaders of the Rebellion - and Daekoran, are riders. Those who the dragons favor are very useful to us; the dragons can use telepathy with almost anyone, and can teleport. And battle, in the case of Va'ara and Athlukeith, though that has rarely been necessary."

Vyaru regarded them tensely, wondering whether this was a promise or a threat... and then wingbeats sounded, and Kelqasuth trumpeted a welcome...

Heila Jalokivi had returned.

Are you done with him? she asked of Syrj'raenen. And then, with some urgency: Is he with us?

"I am, Heila Korista'Jalokivi-lita Eliyenkai. What do you wish of me?" Vyaru spoke quickly, before Syrj'raenen could respond.

She looked from the silver and his rider back to Vyaru, but she seemed a trifle friendlier towards him. I think you will serve the Rebellion well. Perhaps Syrj was right, after all...

"Thank you, milady," Syrj'raenen answered, solemnly, but he caught Vyaru's eye, imparting that praise from Jaloki was a rare thing.

She ignored him, and continued, Then I ask you to come with me, for your first mission in the name of the Rebellion.

"What will I be doing?" The habit of suspicion was a hard one to break.

The dragons exchanged glances over his head. That depends greatly on Giliath, Jaloki answered, finally...

"So this is another world." Vyaru leaned over Jaloki's side, fearless, and curious about their new surroundings...

Eien, she agreed, pointing her tailtip toward shadowy buildings below. And the Vale.

He nodded, and lay closer to her back as she descended sharply. He slipped down just as she landed, falling with knees bent, and came to stand before her. "Who is Giliath?"

She stared down for him, eyes clouded beneath her golden head-plate, and when she answered, her voice was sad. Do you understand the bond between Syrj and Kelqasuth? They're lifemates, partners. But sometimes... it is possible to break that tie of love. And in those few cases when dragons are abandoned... sometimes they suicide. Other times they remain, seeking one who will not leave them. A second bond is not as close as Impression, but more trust is needed.

"And Giliath is one of the abandoned."

Yes.

"And you want me to... reImpress an abandoned dragon," he hazarded.

If she accepts you. If the bond is right.

"I see, Heila Korista -"

Jaloki, she corrected, and bent her head to touch him, once. I'll explain to Copper, the Lady of the Vale. Good luck, Vyaru. You'll do well.

"That's quite a responsibility you've laid on me, Jaloki," he murmured, seriously, after she had gone.

He wasn't sure where to begin, and so he wove a locating spell in the air, pulling the shimmer into his hands once it was complete. A tug on one edge, and a thread of magic snaked out, searching. If magic worked here, it should split each time it touched sentience.

The next part was harder; he concentrated on identifying the source of each ripple of intelligence through the thread of magic. One seemed most similar to the sensation he'd sensed from Jaloki and Kelqasuth, and he followed this path, gathering up the magic along the way, tugging the other threads back into himself.

It led him to a cavern that seemed somehow far too large; it managed to be uncomfortable through use of echoes in the silence. It was not dark, but light filtered through chinks in stone, casting dim spotlights on the floor.

And then a mental voice touched him, softly. Creeoilid?

He hurried now - he was so close that he no longer needed the guide-thread. Rounding a corner, he paused - at the feet of a great silver dragoness.

No, you are not... She bent, to regard him with amber eyes.

"I apologize, milady..." But despite his words, he sounded arrogant, even to himself, and wondered if she'd take offence.

She didn't seem too; and, though the initial hope in her voice had faded, it had been replaced with mile interest. not depression. Don't. I didn't expect her, really. And you... I do not get many male visitors.

"I came to see Giliath..." but then he realized... "But you are she."

I am. Do I disappoint you?

He grinned at that. "No, Giliath. Why would you?"

I can't answer that, myself. But I must have disappointed Creeoilid.

"You miss her," he stated, softly.

She was my bond. I'd hoped... that she would listen to me, but perhaps not. So yes... I miss her. She didn't understand that I was not merely another victory, though. I will forgive her that, if she returns, but I hope that when she does, she'll have chosen between men, and me. I don't want to have to compete with humans.

"I don't understand how she'd have a problem with that. It seems an easy choice."

But you've never connected with people. She was silent for a moment, reaching into his mind. Finally: You've tried to die, several times, while you worked against the elven mages. Would you choose a lifebond over death to defeat them?

He answered quickly, startling even himself. "Of course, Giliath. Why die - even for the rebellion - if I could live with my bond, a dragon, and fight together?"

You didn't always think thusly, she pointed out.

"No. I didn't have a reason to live. And I would have died... I would rather take my own life for something I believed in, than give them the victory of killing me."

And if you had a reason?

He stared at her for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice shook slightly. "Are you offering me a reason, Giliath?"

Are you accepting?

He could only nod.

Her eyes were bright as she lifted him gently to her shoulders. Then yes, Vyaru, I am.

He grinned and lay against her warm neck for a moment, finally understanding the bond that Syrj'raenen and Kelqasuth shared. It's a wonderful reason, Giliath.

I thought so, too, she agreed, and her mental smile was warm. And I think that Jaloki will agree...

Vyaru nodded, not asking how she knew about Jaloki, about him. It was... right.

She exited the cave slowly, blinking in surprise as they returned to the light. I haven't been outside that cave for so long... I'd almost forgotten what the Vale was like.

How long? True, Giliath was full grown, but...

Creeoilid left just after my hatching, she told him, softly.

I'm sorry. Again, he was conscious that he'd erred.

She shrugged lightly. It doesn't matter. She didn't care enough - and you do. And then they both spotted Jaloki at the same time, and Giliath bounded forward with youth-like excitement. She paused just before the much-smaller jewel-toned dragoness, and approached at a more sedate rate.

Jaloki seemed both amused and proud. You have the blessing of the Lady of the Vale - and my congratulations, she told them.

Vyaru slipped lightly down, with the intent of going to her, but Giliath  had had the same thought. She knelt to meet Jaloki's eyes, and, voice quiet, murmured: Thank you, Heila Korista'Jalokivi-lita Eliyenkai. For both of us.

And Vyaru wrapped an arm around his silver dragoness, his words taken.