Light Dragons 02 - The Unbearable Lightness of Dragons

such pigheaded men?” Aisling asked, her hands on her hips. “Ouch. That’s got to sting. Oh, now there’s blood on Drake’s pretty shirt. Our housekeeper will have my head for that.”
    “You have to admit, there’s something—oh, good one, Baltic!—strangely attractive about men fighting each other in this manner. Hey! I said no ganging up on Baltic! I see that, Drake and Kostya! If you boys can’t fight fairly, you can just sit in the hallway!”
    Aisling giggled. “You’re probably the only person in the world who can get away with saying that, Ysolde. Well, ladies, it looks like the menfolk are busy with their show of masculinity. Shall we move to an atmosphere that’s a little less testosterone filled?”
    I cast an assessing glance at the battle. Baltic’s left eye was swelling shut, and blood dripped out of his nose, but he looked in fine fettle nonetheless. The other three wyverns all seemed to fare similarly, and to my surprise, they all seemed to realize that there were limits to their fighting, and no one attempted to use weapons, makeshift or otherwise, but confined themselves to their fists.
    “I don’t see why not. I suppose when they get tired of beating each other up, they’ll come to find us and have their injuries tended. Let us go to the solar.”
    I led the way up the stairs to a room that sat above the library, designed so that it, too, caught the afternoon sunlight. It was furnished now in an atrocious manner, but I did my best to ignore the hideous bloated tea roses that adorned all the furniture, imagining how beautiful the room could be given the chance.
    We chatted for a few minutes about commonplace things, May explaining to Aisling what had happened to her twin.
    “Oh, man. Cyrene’s given him the brush-off?” Aisling shook her head. “He’s going to be hell to live with.”
    “I’d like to say that it’s just a phase, but . . . well, you know Cy. She’s always been fickle when it comes to matters of the heart,” May answered.
    “The question is . . .” Aisling paused in thought. “What impact is that going to have on the weyr?”
    “What do you mean? Why would there be an impact?” I asked.
    “This was before you were awake, Ysolde—or rather, before you went into your fugue—but Kostya named Cyrene as his mate in front of the weyr.”
    “That’s what he said. I don’t see what the problem is. Can’t he just un name her?”
    “I don’t think so, no. Dragons mate for life, you see. All but reeve dragons, but those are few and far between.” She must have seen my look of confusion because she continued. “Reeves are special dragons. They have an unusually pure bloodline, and they are the only ones who can mate more than once. That is, if they have a mate and she or he dies, the dragon continues to live and can take another mate. Drake’s grandmother was a reeve. She had two mates, one a black dragon and one a green dragon. That’s why Drake is a green dragon, and Kostya is black. But we were talking about Cyrene.”
    “There must be some sort of policy for the unnaming of a mate,” May said.
    “I don’t think so. Drake has never mentioned anything of the sort, and I think he would have when Kostya named Cyrene as one.” She sat in a horribly overstuffed chair while May and I took an adjacent love seat. “I don’t think the situation has ever come up before, which means there may be some trouble at the weyr when all the mates are present.”
    “Why would that be? Mates don’t do much, do they?” I asked, thinking back to the sárkány I’d witnessed a few months before. “Aren’t you just there as support?”
    “Yes, but it’s vital support. Mates are excused from weyr functions for only very limited reasons—childbirth being one of them, and illness or physical inability to attend another. Mates can also attend a sárkány in place of the wyvern.”
    May’s eyes widened.
    “Exactly,” Aisling said, nodding. “Can you imagine what would happen if something kept Kostya away from a sárkány , and Cyrene had the right to take his place?”
    “ Agathos daimon ,” May muttered, running a hand over her eyes. “I don’t even want to—”
    She was cut off as the door was flung open. Baltic stood in the doorway, blood dripping from his nose and eyebrow.
    “Mate! You left me!”
    “Of course we left,” I said calmly, quickly eyeing him for signs of injuries. He seemed to be favoring his left side, in addition to his other