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• I -

Grâvenholm had lost its lord long, long ago. The count who had ruled the village died heirless, and his castle - humble as it was - fell to ruin. But his fief lived on without him, even as no count or duke or prince came to take his place. The communal ovens built by his masons and managed by his men still had to bake the village's bread - and so Linten's great-great-great grandfather built a house around those ovens and became the first of Grâvenholm's bakers.

Linten was a plain man with brown hair and brown eyes, comely but not quite handsome, and with a softness borne of a lifetime near bread. His most notable features were his solid, capable arms built by two decades of kneading dough. He lived alone and rarely left the bakery - instead, there was a constant march of village children bringing their family's share of flour and leaving with their family's share of bread.

On this day, the children brought three eggs.

This was not unusual - sometimes a family wanted a custard tart or a richer loaf as a treat - but these were not ordinary eggs. They were large; each could have held a dozen chicken eggs inside. Two were as red as spilled blood, one was as gold as melted butter; their shells shimmered in the light.

Little Didrika, golden-haired daughter of one of the farming families, told him the story:

Ulwin - son of Markas, the village woodcutter - was as handsome and strong as his father; he was the village's most strapping youth. Yesterday Ulwin had espied a dragon's nest near one of the village fields. It was spring - nesting season for many egg-laying beasts - but for a dragon to dwell so close was a danger to livestock and villagers alike. So, under the dark of the new moon, the brave lad had snuck upon the sleeping mother with a pitchfork and his father's hatchet. The pitchfork broke, the dragon was slain, and Ulwin was the village hero. The village was to reward him with a feast - and a dragon had enough meat to feed each villager and then some.

“My mama said your mama made the finest custard tarts anyone ever tasted." Didrika spoke with the bright, awful innocence of a child. “We even brought extra cream!"

Linten could taste his mother Herta's tarts on his tongue, the rich, smooth sweetness - looking at the dragon eggs, the memory became cloying, sickening. “I'll see what I can do, Didrika," he said, and he shooed the children out of the bakery.

He picked up an egg; it was warm, warmer than it ought to be. and he felt the heat spread into him, reach deep into his bones. A coil inside him gave way, unfurled like a blossom in spring, tender and new. To take the bud and crush it between his fingers - no. The feast was to be in three days; as dragon meat took days to cook. Linten could smell it on the wind - a gamey scent that further unsettled his stomach. This couldn't be right, what they were doing. He'd have no part in it. He would save the eggs.

He had a backpack set in a wooden frame - used when his mother was alive, to carry berries, mushrooms, and other wild foodstuffs from the woods. Linten filled it with a basket of bread, a cooking pot, a sack of grain, and some dried meats and fruits. In another basket went the eggs, wrapped with scraps of cloth to keep them from jostling. He went to the chest at the foot of his bed - his mother's. In it, the heavy, drab robe his father had worn while on pilgrimage, and the scallop pin, wrought from cheap tin, that had marked him as a pilgrim. Linten drew the robe to his face - felt the rough wool bite his skin - and smelled the soft tang of bread, stale and faint, but still there.

He packed swiftly; Linten, as all the bakers in his lineage, had been a man of simple means, content with his oven and bread. But he could not find his family's one indulgence: his mother's brooch, a few cabochons of red amber set in gold, shaped like a bee. He spent until late afternoon searching before he saw the sun dip low in the sky. He had to go.

He put a hand to the arch that formed the mouth of an oven; he could not remember if it had been so bereft of warmth in his life. He wept, said goodbye, then pulled the frame on his back. When he opened the door to the outside, though, there was a person there.

“Anika?"

She was an old woman, and leaned on a stick to walk, but she still held herself with a dignity and strength that belied her age. As the village herb-woman, she had to; the entire community relied on her for health and protection.

“Baker," she said, “you're leaving with the eggs, then?"

“I - I don't -"

“Hush, child. It is a good thing. Killing that dragon was one thing - its dying magics we could have dealt with, but eating it?" She shook her head. “I tried to tell them, but they're all too damned foolish to listen. I was coming here to take the eggs, but I see you have already taken care of that."

“Truly? It seems like a fool's errand - where will I even go?"

“A fool's errand, perhaps, but a kind one. You always took after your parents - good-hearted, and perhaps ill-fated. Go north, child, to the Trachenherre Mountains. There is a dragon there, a king of dragons, and he will find you. Show him the eggs and he should grant you hospitality, but beware of giving him your name. Names are a sort of magic, and dragons are beings made of it - and this one is said to be most powerful. Still, the eggs should earn you his goodwill."

He nodded. “Thank you, herb-woman."

She smiled at him. “All right. Thank you, Linten. This village will miss its baker - but I fear worse things are coming."

He went, and the cold night pierced even the wool of his father's cloak.

* * *

It was to be an arduous journey. That first night, Linten didn't stop walking until he was well into the great forest which sprawled northward from Grâvenholm to the Trachenherres. When he stopped, he found a patch of soft-enough grass to settle on, but sleep was a struggle. Being under the canopy, with the night sky hidden by leaves and his view of the horizon interrupted by the teeming trunks and branches, had revived some primeval, instinctual fear in him. He flinched at every noise, every twitch of foliage, every beat of an insect's wing. He missed his straw-stuffed bed, old and itchy as it was, and his quiet, roofed home. He stared up at the rare stars the canopy allowed him to see, until sleep took him. The next morning, he spent his waking moment in an ignorant bliss, before the weight of his task came again into memory.

So it was for a week and a day: he walked, ate, slept, walked again. Blessedly, it was spring, and the woods were abundant with berries and the sweet chorus of birds. Linten supplemented his rations with wild strawberries, bilberries, gooseberries - all while the blackbirds and robins warbled and sang. When was a boy, his mother had brought him into the wood and taught him when which berries were ripe, how to find the choicest of them, and how to avoid the deadly snares of nightshade or privet. As he bit into a strawberry - felt its rough surface give to his teeth, tasted its bright, sweet juiciness - he thought of her. It brought comfort, even as his back ached and his feet stung, even though the monotonous view of dappled trunks gave the illusion of walking in circles.

The atavistic fear faded, until one morning he woke to the sound of a smacking maw. He sprang from his blankets and saw it: a badger had torn into his pack. Its mouth was wet with egg-stuff; a pile of broken red shell lay below. Linten's blood beat in his skull like a drum. He roared and launched towards the beast, ready to rip it apart - it scrambled away with a cry and ran into the wood. A part of Linten wanted to give chase, to find a blade or club and stab and beat and kill . . . but he saw the broken egg, and all his rage contracted to a single point of sorrow. He stumbled to the shattered bits of shell, fell to his knees, and wept.

Having no shovel or spade, he could only burn it - he watched as the pieces of shell blackened and crumbled to ash, as the stuff inside steamed away into nothing. The berries that day, the birdsong, were bitter for their sweetness. Linten collected the other two eggs and carried on - the baskets were, thankfully, not overly damaged by the badger's rummaging. He had wanted to hold them, sit and bask in their warmth - but when he caught sight of the red one's shell, he saw their sibling in the badger's teeth; he put them back in their once safe nest in his pack. That night, he again could not sleep for the noises in the dark and the movements of shadows.

The next day the forest began to thin along his trek, and through the gaps between trees he glimpsed the peaks of the Trachenherres breach the horizon. Some lightness came again into his stride and his heart. He walked for a day under the blue, unhidden sky, made camp, and slept in peace. What he did not know: in the grey morning, a true predator had trained its eye upon him.

The work of its wings woke Linten, each beat like a storm. He scrambled from his blankets like scurrying prey as the dragon - vast and black and terrible - landed. “Trespasser!" its voice boomed, “Interloper!" Linten wanted to run, to grab the eggs and flee, but fear locked his limbs tight. All he could manage was to stare at the dragon which sat imperiously before him, its wings raised in the air like a banner over a battlefield. Its great black-scaled body held strength in coiled muscles - its talons were like daggers in the earth.

“Speak, human. Why do you encroach upon these lands?" Its eyes were golden, slitted; their fire pierced him. Its nostrils flared like an angry bull's - Linten felt a liquid chill in his bowels. “Speak!" it commanded, and he did.

“My - my lord dragon," he said, “I have come bearing eggs of your kind."

It narrowed its eyes to yellow slits. “Truly? Not goose eggs painted red?" it asked. Its voice was masculine and so deep it shook through Linten's bones. “Show them to me."

Somehow, Linten loosened his limbs enough to approach his pack and dig for the egg' basket. He held it out, and the dragon leaned in to inspect the eggs, eyeing them and taking a great sniff that ruffled Linten's hair.

“Hmph. They are real - I expected fakes. How did you acquire them?"

“My village" - Linten gulped - “my village gave them to me. I could not see them harmed - so I left with them."

“Your village acquired dragon eggs? How? And why did they let you leave with them?"

“They didn't - I took them. Stole them. Our herb-woman, Anika, she sent me north to seek a king of dragons. Are you he?"

The dragon snorted. “I am no king, human. You have not answered my question: why did your village have the eggs? Do not lie. I will know if you lie."

Linten shook, inhaled. The dragon was irritated now, but a lie would infuriate it - and the truth would likely do the same. He prayed the angels would take him when was dead. “My village - they killed a dragon. It - she had eggs, and they gave them to me. I'm a baker. They wished me to make them - to make them into -"

“They would eat them?" The air felt thick with rage. “And the dam, did they butcher her for meat as well?" Linten grimaced and nodded. “You mortals, you damned, short-sighted mortals, I -" The dragon snarled, its white teeth glistening, then arched its head back and roared. Vast and sorrowful, the sound was so loud Linten curled into himself, putting the basket down so he could cover his ears.

Then, with a shiver of the air, the dragon shrank - in its place stood a man, panting with rage. He was tall, pale, and of a lean build - though it did not lessen his commanding air. Black hair feathered around his face, and he was dressed in simple black finery, rich not in ornament but in material and craftsmanship. He strode to Linten, graceful as a cat. Gripping Linten's chin in a hand, he tilted his gaze up. Linten saw a fine face - aristocratic, sharp - but his eyes, while no longer slitted, remained gold and inhuman. He was beautiful.

“Speak truth, Baker," he said, his voice smooth and deep, no less imperious and powerful for losing its bestial timbre. “Why bring these eggs to me? Why not do as your village asked?"

“They - they are but children, my lord; they deserve to live, to have a chance."

The dragon's eyes bored into him - and then his lips twitched up into a slight grin. “An honorable mortal, then. A rare thing. I assume your village will be unhappy with your stealing of them, yes?" Linten nodded, and the dragon sighed. “Then the eggs and you must come with me to my home. Give me room," he said, and walked several paces away. A burst of air, and he was again a dragon. He laid his tail and rump to the ground. “Fetch your things and then climb on my back, human."

So Linten did, shouldering his load one last time. Up close, the scales of the dragon were not purely black but a sparkling iridescent that carried every color. As he climbed them, they were warm to the touch, pleasantly so. The dragon's neck was too wide to hold on to, so Linten made do gripping one of the spikes that trailed down his spine. With one beat of the dragon's wings, they were aloft, and each stroke pushed them further and further into the sky. The cold bit, and Linten could hear nothing but the wind's roar; he could hardly keep his eyes open to see where they went.

As they rose, the hills shifted into rockier, rougher terrain, and the Trachenherre Mountains crested higher and higher; the air grew thin and cold as they approached the summits. One peak rose higher than the rest, and it was to that one the dragon flew. Upon its snow-draped slope stood two pillars of stone flanking a large cave mouth; with a graceful maneuver the dragon entered it, and - after moments of twisting darkness - they were in the dragon's home.

It was a cavern, larger than Linten's house and lit by a natural skylight that yawned above. Snowmelt dripped from it into a natural pool at the center - an impluvium. Passages opened along the back wall.

Dazed, Linten disembarked, and the dragon shifted into human-shape. “Welcome to the aerie," he said. “Come, I shall show you to your room." He led Linten down the passage furthest to the right - it was smaller than Linten would have expected, too small for the dragon to enter at his natural size. The end of it led into a dark, dusty bedroom. The dragon snorted. “This room has not been used for some time. A moment." He clicked his fingers, and the fireplace in the room lit with a crackle. Flames began to spread from it, to Linten's alarm, but the dragon put a hand in front of him. “It is merely burning away the dust, human." He was right - even as the flame traveled over antique wood and fabric, it left no charring or soot. Windows framed in tall, delicate arches began to glow.

“Windows? In a cave?"

“They are charmed. A sorceress lived here once; she spelled them to capture light from the mountainside and shine it in here. If you were to break one, there would be naught behind it but rock."

Now lit, the room was revealed. At the center of the far wall was placed a huge, handsomely carved bed with four posts that supported a wooden panel. There was an armoire, a bureau, a desk and chair - all richly carved with elegant reliefs. Along the wall there hung tapestries of fantastical animals, and the fireplace was grated with wrought iron filigree.

Linten marveled at it. It was as if he had stepped into the bedroom of a king, here in a mountain. In a way, he had.

“Well, I imagine you wish to rest, then? I shall take the eggs."

“I - yes, my lord." Linten put his pack down and removed the basket that held the eggs. He peered into it, at them, who had been his charges for a fortnight in the wilderness. Some instinct pulled at him to keep them - but a wave of cold shame chilled him. He had let one die. He had no right to them. Still, he was slow to hand them over.

The dragon took them; his face softened minutely. “Don't look so concerned, human. I am of their kind; I know how to take care of them."

“Ah, yes, my lord."

The dragon left without another word. Linten sat down on the bed, which was soft, down-stuffed. He was not aware of lying down, or of exhaustion pulling him into a swiftly coming sleep.

• II -

So it was that Linten lived in the aerie. The dragon brought him food - it had been a clumsy conversation to explain that humans needed more than meat to survive, and in any case that he couldn't consume it raw. Thankfully there was a kitchen attached to the corridor that led to Linten's room: inside was a hearth with a fine cooking pot, a few cabinets, a table and bench - but no oven. The pot was fine at boiling meat and vegetables - Linten didn't know how the dragon acquired vegetables, perhaps from a town? His body and mind yearned for the routine of baking, but he dared not ask for flour - and besides, there was no oven.

But there was plenty of water. The dragon had instructed him to draw water from the impluvium of snowmelt in the atrium. Its water was cool and pure, refreshing in a way no water he had drunk before was. He understood why the dragon ordered him never to dispose or clean anything in it; instead there was a small, dim cave where waste could be put down a chute to gods-knew-where. All Linten's basic needs were met, but, as alone as he was used to living, he found himself missing the village children's chatter. The only words he had spoken in the last few days were “Thank you, my lord" when he received his daily ration. The dragon deigned to nod in reply, but spoke little.

So Linten spent his hours tidying, cleaning, and sometimes exploring what parts of the aerie he dared - though the latter was an empty diversion. There were more passages leading from the atrium, but he didn't presume his allowance into them. Within his corridor: the kitchen held only a few pans and what food the dragon had brought, and though there was plenty of finely-made furniture in his bedroom, it was all empty. Even the windows held little beauty beyond their admittedly elegant form - they cast light but showed no image, just a blank white haze.

The boredom helped to soften the blow that, eventually, the dragon would evict him. Having to find food for two, putting up with Linten's dithering and his human need to eat more than just meat: all were good enough reasons for his leaving, not to mention the dragon's antipathy for his species.

Linten simply hoped the dragon didn't eat him - or if he did, made it quick.

On the ninth day after his arrival, while Linten was sweeping the atrium with a broom he had found in a dusty closet, the dragon deigned to speak to him.

“Human?" He was in man-shape, dressed in a different but still handsome black tunic.

“Yes, my lord?" Linten had been careful not to sweep dust into the pool, but perhaps he had -

“That. I wish to speak to you on that." The dragon brought a hand to pinch his nose. “I am not your lord. I am not some noble for you to appease."

“I see. If you would just allow me to pack my things, I will -"

“What? Why would I - you must misunderstand -"

“You are of vast power, compared to me, and of rank," said Linten, his knuckles white as he gripped the broom. “If you wish me not to be your subject, my lord, then you must wish me gone."

“No! I, we are not -" The dragon sighed. “I have truly made a mess of this." He stepped towards Linten, then swept down in a low bow, his body curled in obeisance. Linten nearly dropped the broom. “Human, you rescued two eggs of my own kind and brought them here, at great risk and cost to yourself. Forgive my rotten hospitality; I am unaccustomed to visitors of my own kind, let alone of yours. That I have made you feel unwelcome, or less-than, or like a servant," he said, glancing at the broom, “is a shame upon me. I think of you as a fellow thinking being, an equal in rank and standing." He looked up, and though the drape of his hair framed his sharp features in shadow, they were drawn in true contrition.

Linten's cheeks went hot. “Eh, rise, please, my lo - or . . . What shall I call you, then? Not your true name, obviously."

The dragon rose. “What did your herb-woman call me? She sent you to me; surely she gave you some name?"

“She called you 'a king of dragons.'"

“Ah, no wonder you thought of me as your 'lord.' You humans and your titles. You may call me Könec, then - not as a title, but as a name. And you - you called yourself a baker, when I found you. Would that suit you better than 'human?'"

“It would."

“Good. Then it is my honor to welcome you, Baker, to the aerie, my home. May it be a home to you, as well." Könec smiled warmly, the first Linten had seen him do so.

He smiled back. “It has been hospitable here. I have not lacked for any necessities."

Könec frowned. “But there is more to life than 'necessities,' Baker. I have smelled you cook and seen you clean . . . I truly have treated you as a servant; it is a blot upon my hospitality. Have you visited the library?"

“I haven't gone anywhere but my rooms and the atrium." Linten looked at a particular spot on the floor. “And I'm afraid I cannot read. I'm from a very humble village. Grâvenholm doesn't even have a lord; our count died decades ago, and no one ever took his place."

“Hmm. What did you do all day, then?"

Linten looked at him, head atilt. “I baked?"

A rich flush colored Könec's pale cheeks. “Ah. Well. Baker. Yes." He cleared his throat, reassumed his regal air, though a softer one, one more approachable. “I should be able to arrange something."

* * *

Two days passed, kinder than the last. Könec and Linten exchanged pleasantries when they spoke, and Linten managed to use his name. On the third morning, Linten woke to a commotion coming from the kitchen. When he entered there was, against one wall, a plinth of bricks surrounded by a disarray of more, and a tub of muck-wet clay. Könec stood in the tub - though not as man or dragon, but something between the two. He was broader like this, not hiding his muscles as the entirely human form did; his clothes still fit well, though they were smeared with dust and wet clay. His legs, bent backwards like a beast's, were covered in drying clay that flaked from the black scales

He looked up, then, and in his eyes Linten saw surprise and a slight abashment that sat at odds with his fierce regality. “Baker! I - hmm." He looked down at himself, closed his eyes, and in a breath he was again a man - his clothes shrank to suit him, but remained soiled. “I was, eh, well -"

“Are you trying to build me an oven?"

“I - yes, though as you can see . . . Let us say that my library yielded little on the construction of brick ovens."

“And why would it? I doubt a noble or priest would be interested in the lowly work of a mason or a baker, and the guilds would keep their methods to themselves. Our ovens were left over from when the count ran the bakery, but my father taught me how to repair them, and sometimes we helped others in the village build their own. Would you like me to show you?"

Könec smiled, a small thing that fluttered through Linten's breast. “I'd like that."

For the next few days, they built the oven - rising early to add a layer of clay to the growing dome, building the mouth and chimney. Könec was a fine learner, attentive and focused; to have such an ancient, learned being hang on his words was a stirring thing to Linten. Könec himself expounded on the techniques used - the arch of bricks that shaped the mouth he compared to fantastical architecture from faraway cities built during the reign of long-fallen empires. When the whole structure was formed, Könec fired the clay with flame from his throat - watching him spew fire as a half dragon lit a matching heat in Linten's belly.

Then, the oven was finished; all they needed was the stuff to make the bread. Könec flew off to some market or other, and he returned with a few jars of barm and salt and a small barrel of flour.

“Könec," said Linten, as he looked into the open barrel full of wheat flour white and fine as freshly fallen snow. “Könec, this is lord's flour, how did you -"

“I am very old, Baker, and I have my ways. I didn't amass my hoard without learning to navigate a market. I confess I also have a weakness for human luxuries - the silk merchants of Goltenbërc know I will pay twice markup for their finest. Now then," he said, shedding his silk tunic to bare the linen shirt underneath, “shall you teach me to bake?"

Linten grinned. “Yes. First we must mix everything in its proper ratios."

And so they made and kneaded the dough, then let it rest and rise until kneading it more. Linten shared the wisdom his line of bakers had gathered over the generations, and he tried not to be overcome by the flex of Könec's arms as he kneaded, or the feeling of his warm skin as Linten guided him through the proper motions.

“Baker, tell me - you learned this from your father. What was he like?"

“My mother and father. She was Herta, he Ivo. He taught me how to make bread, while she made all the desserts and cakes and pies. Festivals were where she shone; we were the most popular family in Grâvenholm on feast days."

“They . . . were?"

Linten's kneading stuttered for a moment. “Yes. My mother, she started to waste when I was young. She died when I was one-and-twenty, and my father - it was as if he was empty. He went on a pilgrimage, left me alone - I learned to run the bakery, which was just as well. When he returned he was almost peaceful, but . . . I think he knew he would soon be seeing Mother again. He died a few weeks later."

“I'm sorry."

“Don't be. I'm - it's been years. I'm nine-and-twenty now."

They set the dough aside for its final rise and went to the atrium, where Könec spooned cool water into cups for them to drink while they sat on the stone floor. It would have been natural now for Linten to ask after Könec's parents, but he let the quiet drift, until -

“Könec," he said, “you bought that flour from, uh, 'Goltenbërc'? Where is that?"

“It's east of here, near where the River Glitzondwasar flows from its source in the Trachenherres. It was founded on an old gold mine, but it became a center of wealth and trade. It's where I go to purchase your vegetables and fruit, too. The jewelers' guild there is powerful, practically rules the city. I should take you there, one day."

“Tell me about it?"

“Of course."

* * *

Once proofed into lovely loaves, the dough went into the oven made hot and ready with dragonfire. Within an hour they were baked and cooling, filling the aerie with the warm, luscious scent of fresh bread. Linten felt a selfsame warmth spread through him and bring tears to his eyes, that he could still have this labor.

There was an unexpected charm to watching a dragon pout when told he must wait for the bread to cool. “It's the true test of a baker," said Linten, “is whether he can wait to taste his produce when it is ready; cut it before and the crumb will dry too quickly."

A great sigh. “Very well. We must find another topic of discussion, then. I notice you didn't ask after my own family, after discussing yours. A lack of interest, or . . . ?"

“Oh, no, I just didn't want to impose -"

Könec put a hand on Linten's. “You couldn't, baker. You've been a lovely guest, lovelier than I've ever had. Or, well, if I had ever had any. Anyhow, I hatched a little over a century ago."

“A century?"

“Yes. We dragons live for - well, I've not known that we die naturally. Usually we just grow tired of living some eight centuries in and fade, unless we die of sickness or violence first. My dam was also a great big black dragon - named Zaggiggal in our tongue - ruled over the aerie as I did, until she had me. Raised me until I was grown, then left. I'm not sure to where; we dragons are solitary creatures, or at least we are now. Her sire built the aerie with his mate - or his wife, I suppose I should say. She was human, a sorceress."

“The one who you said made the windows?"

“Yes. It was she who carved into the mountain with magic. Your rooms used to be hers."

“She was your grandmother?"

“My granddam, yes. She changed herself into a dragon and laid my dam. I inherited the strength of my magic, my shapeshifting, from her."

“What happened to them?"

“I . . . I don't know. My dam never told me. I think perhaps they lived in an age when dragons and humans were less barbaric towards one another, when magic flowed free. When I asked she just seemed sad, would go on a flight and not come back until the next day."

“I - I'm sorry. I know somewhat what that's like."

Könec smiled at him. “I suppose you do. It's all right. As you said, it's been years. You're here now, with me. And the eggs. The eyrie is full again. Anyhow, I'll go find a history book to read aloud, maybe? I have one on the history of dragons. All nonsense - written by humans long after the fact - but the prose is still quite pretty."

“Of course, Könec."

An hour later - having nearly forgotten the bread in their engrossment in the book - they both took the first bite from a bread sweeter and creamier than any Linten had ever tasted, let alone made.

• III -

“Könec?" It was a morning, and Linten and Könec had broken fast with fresh bread, cheese, and fruit.

“Yes, Baker?"

“Could I ask after the eggs? I just wonder how they're doing. I haven't seen them since I arrived."

“Of course. I've been thoughtless not showing you their nest. I'm sorry. Would you like me to take you to them? I set up the nest in my hoard, where I sleep."

“You'd let me see your hoard?"

“It is a private place for a dragon, true, but I would welcome you there, Baker. After we eat, then?

* * *

Unlike Linten's corridor, the passage to Könec's hoard was not finished in human fashion - it remained craggy and natural, carved large enough to allow Könec through in dragon-shape; walking in as two men, the passage dwarfed them. The human touch, instead, was the hoard itself.

Könec snapped his fingers as they entered, and dozens of candles, braziers, and torches lit, illuminating the cave and reflecting their warm light off of polished silver, gold, brass, and any other metal that might be extracted from the earth. There were goblets, cups, and plates; chains, pendants, loose gems, strings of pearls; gilt leather books and ancient scrolls; and most of all, hundreds and hundreds of bolts of cloth, all stacked neatly by type. Silk and linen, wool and lace, embroidered and plain - it was a mass of wealth held in the produce of diligent human hands. Far away, long ago, a farmer had raised silkworms, boiled their cocoons; a weaver had crossed warp and weft to make a length of silk; a merchant had traveled over land or sea with that silk for it to now rest in a dragon's hoard.

“It's beautiful, Könec."

“I thank you, Baker. I know you perhaps expected piles of coins, but I have always had a taste for luxury wrought by an artisan's hands, rather than bits of stamped metal." He looked warmly at Linten. “Perhaps that is why I like you so much, who make wonders from wheat like a weaver from flax or silk cocoon."

Warmth rose in Linten's cheeks. “Thank you, Könec. And - and it is an honor to be held in such esteem by a being who has seen and collected so much."

Könec nodded, but Linten saw some hint of color come to his cheeks. “And thank you, Baker, for saying so. Shall we see the eggs, then?"

He led him to a deeper part of the hoard, an open space where rugs had been scattered on the floor - where Könec slept, then. Nearby, arranged neatly into the shape of a cup, there was a nest of various textiles - mostly wool, which held heat better, but lined with silk and soft linen. Inside were the two eggs. They looked the same - something inside Linten had expected them to have gotten bigger, or perhaps his memory exaggerated them. Had they always been so small? He tip-toed forward, as if he might wake them.

Könec strode past him. “Come, I will show you how to care for them. Their nest needs refreshing, anyhow." So Linten learned how to take out the old, inner wool and replace it with new, wrapped snugly around each egg but leaving their crowns exposed to the air, “So they can breathe," as Könec said. As they did, Könec spoke to them, as if they could hear.

“This is the baker who saved you two, little ones. He came all the way here from a village in the south so I could take care of you." He smiled with his teeth when he looked at Linten. “What a journey it must have been."

A cold flood rushed down Linten's spine. It had been. He had lost one through his own carelessness, had seen it cracked open and destroyed by a beast. He had no right to be here, no right to be smiled at by Könec, no right to ask after the eggs.

“Baker?"

“I - yes, Könec?"

“Are you all right?"

Linten shook his head minutely, to clear it. “I - I'm sorry. It - it was indeed a journey to get here."

“Ah. And I imagine you did not know to speak to the eggs while you traveled, then? An old dam's tale has always said they can hear you through their shells."

“I - no, I didn't."

“Well. Introduce yourself, then?"

Linten looked at the eggs. If they could hear, had they heard their sibling die? “Hello," he said. “My name is - well, I'm a baker, so that's what Könec calls me. I brought you here. You were in my pack. I'm . . . happy that I did it. Könec has been kind to me; I know he'll be kind to you." He swallowed. “I'd like to meet you."

“And they will, Baker."

Linten smiled, and nodded, and failed to ignore the tight, sick feeling that gripped his throat.

* * *

One morning Linten woke to find a string of pearls on his bureau. He approached them, baffled. They were cool to the touch, but quickly warmed in his hands - their pale luster suggested the colors of sunrise on snow. He was holding them when Könec knocked and was let in. He looked at the pearls, and there was a flicker of a smile on his face before he asked, “Do you like them?"

Linten, still in the stupor of morning, replied “They're for me?" eliciting an amused snort.

“Of course, Baker. I didn't sneak in and leave them on your bureau so I could take them back. Do you like them?"

“I - they're very beautiful, Könec. Thank you." He put them back on the bureau.

So it was that Könec gave Linten fine, lordly gifts that he had no idea what to do with: A sapphire ring was lost in a pat of kneaded dough. His linen sheets - finer than any he had slept on before - were exchanged with oversoft, richly dyed silk that he feared to touch lest he sully them. And, from the far east, what Könec called “oranges," worth a third their weight in gold, and so bitter they had to be candied to eat - though Linten had to admit they were luscious baked into a tart.

Far more welcome were the flights. Linten was flustered when Könec gave him a gorgeous long fur coat, soft and silvery, with a pair of fine leather boots - but they quickly found a practical use. When Könec coaxed him into a ride on his back, Linten was - snuggly wrapped - unbothered by the cold wind. Instead, that joy hidden from men and their land-bound cousins: flight. The rush of a dive, the mind-bending pull of a flip in the air.

And the view, the unrolled tapestry of the landscape - the rich greens of the forest and grass, the vivid white of the snowcapped mountains rendered in charming miniature as if by the hands of a weaver.

It was the most beauty Linten had seen, and when he told Könec a blush came to the dragon's fine cheeks, and the next day he soared even higher in the air, and included at least three more aerial tricks.

• IV -

On those days when Könec wished to go on a morning flight, Linten - leaving the kitchen after breakfast - would find him in dragon form in the atrium, ready for a ride. Linten had taken to keeping his heavy coat and boots there, rather than his room - Könec's eagerness to take them both to air was not unlike that of a puppy's.

This particular day, though, Könec was reserved, his gaze askance and his usual buzzy impatience muted. Still, when he saw Linten he smiled in his many-toothed way. “My baker," he said in the deep, rumbling dragon's voice that shook through Linten's breast, “I have a place I'd like to show you."

The first gust of cold mountain air was as effective a wake-up call as Grâvenholm's roosters. Linten did not think the wonder of flight would ever become ordinary to a wingless human like him. Könec was slower that day - not sluggish but not engaging in the aerial acrobatics that so thrilled them. They ventured westward over the mountains, coming to a tall peak that, while not as high as the one that hosted the aerie, still towered a breadth above its siblings. When Linten's boots touched the virgin snow, he was near struck down by the view that greeted him.

The late dawn sun hung gold-pink in the sky, a beacon that set the mountains below sparkling like a hoard of jewels. As it rose in the east behind the aerie's seat, it set the mountain in regal shadow, casting it as a natural throne sat in dark majesty over its fief of lesser peaks.

“By God, Könec. It's magnificent." Linten turned to him, but the gratitude on his lips was stilled by the look in Könec's eyes. Golden bright to compete with the dawn, they bored into him, quickening his blood even as the wind chilled it. “Könec, are you all right?"

“I" - the great dragon sighed, a heaving breath that blew like fog into the air - “I must profess a thing, Baker." He fluttered his wings. “I've told you we dragons are a lonely race, and perhaps now, as rare as we are, that is true - but once . . . I have wondered whether, when we were many, when we lived in peace with humanity, were we so lonely then? Surely we didn't stay in our aeries only to leave for food or to add to our hoards, feeling dead on the wing even in flight? I was so lonely, Baker, I was -" His face closed into a snarled grimace, and Linten felt it as if was him, alone in the forest with naught but eggs and the cold.

Linten didn't speak, but stepped forward and pressed his face to Könec's snout, cradling it in his hands, as if he could bolster an elder dragon. Könec's breath hitched. “And then you were here. My baker, my dear baker, you were here and" - a flutter as the scales in his hands slipped away, and Linten was held in the strong arms of Könec, whose arms gripped him tight - “I'm not alone. With you and the eggs, I am complete." Curling into Linten's neck, he laid a tender kiss there.

Linten gripped him back, a wild fluttering in his breast. “Take me to bed," he said, an unthinking command. They pulled apart; their eyes met, and in the dawn even Linten's took on a golden glow. “Take me to bed, Könec."

Könec nodded, turned, and shifted back into a dragon. As they flew back to the aerie, Linten burrowed closer into the heat that radiated from Könec's black scales, like a fire that burnt but didn't hurt.

They landed without Könec's usual grace, and Linten scrambled off him with even less. They turned, and - again a man - Könec looked at him with those eyes, intent and afire, and then his hands were on Linten's cheeks, and their mouths met in a hungry, nourishing press. Linten walked backwards, then felt a moment of terror when he stepped into nothing - Könec caught him before he fell in the impluvium. “Come now, Baker," he said, and they laughed, and Könec reached under his legs and lifted him up, then carried him down to Linten's bedroom, kissing him all the while.

Könec dropped Linten onto the bed, then scrambled out of his tunic and undershirt Linten went open-mouthed at the sight of his chest, a broad, smooth expanse of pale skin over lean muscle. A thatch of dark hair trailed down his flat stomach. “My baker," he said, and came to Linten, reaching for the ties at his throat. Könec pulled the shirt off him and looked at him with hungry eyes. “Look at you, Baker - and all for me." His smile was toothy. Linten was not as lean as him - he had a soft belly, and brown hair trailed from it up to his chest, but his arms were thick from his life of working them. Könec gripped one of them. “When you taught me to knead dough, fuck" - and he leaned in and nipped at the muscle - “I'd wanted to do that, then."

Light-headed with want, Linten kissed him again. Könec growled, and his teeth seemed sharper - were sharper. Peeking out from the kiss, Linten saw ripples of black scales emerge and disappear on Könec's skin. They pulled apart.

“I'm - I'm sorry, I'm" - Könec held a breath and the scales vanished, but when he loosed it they reappeared. “Fuck, I just - I want so much -"

“It's all right, Könec. You're beautiful." Linten kissed him, opened his mouth to it, wet and hot and lush. “Just" - a kiss - “your braies" - another kiss - “get them off, Könec."

Dragging himself away, Könec shed his braies - and there, nestled in a thicket of black curls, was his half-erect cock, straining upwards against its own weight.

“Fuck," said Linten, and then Könec was on him, pushing him flat onto the bed, kissing him. Both moaned; Könec worked his mouth down Linten's jaw, his neck, his chest - sucking one nipple, then another, then licking a line down his abdomen while Linten squirmed and whimpered under the attention.

Pulling back, Könec looked at Linten with lidded eyes, fogged with arousal. “You're beautiful, Baker." He untied the cord at Linten's waist. “I'm going to eat you up." Then he pulled Linten's braies off him, casting them behind him onto the pile of discarded clothes. Linten was bare to the world.

He was smaller than Könec. Still, Könec licked his lips as if he had been presented with an array of kingly delicacies. Keeping his eyes met with Linten's, he leaned down and took Linten's cock in his mouth. Linten's senses contracted to Könec's gold eyes and the pink circle of his lips, the feel of a soft and enveloping heat, the wet slurps of Könec's mouth as he began to work. Before the curl of pleasure in Linten's stomach could tighten into a peak, Könec pulled his mouth off him with a gratifyingly wet pop; his lips were red, his face was slick and shiny.

“Könec, what -"

“I don't want you to spend too early, darling." Könec stepped off the bed and walked to the pile of clothes, out of which he pulled a small vial - oil.

Linten swallowed. “I don't - I didn't prepare myself for anything."

“Ah, but I did." Könec's grin was shy as he walked back to the bed. “I may have . . . presumed."

Linten's dick twitched, wetly slapping his stomach. “Fuck, you didn't. Come here." He did, and Linten pulled him into an open-mouthed kiss, moaning as a slick hand wrapped around his cock.

Könec sat back. “Hold it steady," he said, and Linten did. Könec sat slowly down on him, taking him inside until Linten was buried in the core of him, encircled in luxurious heat. Könec knelt panting over him, his trim belly flexing and twitching, his eyes dull with lust. His cock - its glans exposed and purple - bobbed below to the beat of his heart, the beat that Linten could feel around his own length.

“Könec?" he gasped. Something flickered in Könec's eyes, an atavistic flash, and he lifted himself before dropping down, the first stroke of many. Both gasped. Könec did it again and again, faster and faster to a quick tempo beat out by slaps of skin on skin. Könec's eyes were closed as he chased his peak, and Linten's senses were fragmented by lust and the orgasmic twist tightening at the base of his cock. He saw the pale flat plane of Könec's stomach tense with pleasure and effort, the sweat that beaded on his skin, the jerks of his balls and cock - up and down, up and down.

His toes curled as he felt the taut pleasure in his groin began to crest, a glimmering wave that flowed in and out from his limbs to his core coming to break. So he sat up and took Könec into a kiss. Both moaned, and Könec whined and whimpered and twitched, and Linten held him by the neck, fingers slipping through his silky hair. In his other hand he held Könec's waist, slender and strong, bucking under him. A shared cry. Linten came, his spend spilling inside Könec, his ragged moan muffled by the kiss; his grip tightened. Könec's rhythm faltered. As his peak faded, Linten broke from the kiss and pressed his face into Könec's neck, keening as his spent cock ached from the overwork. Some instinct in him seized his mind, a way to channel the pain-pleasure of overstimulation, and he bit into the flesh of Könec's neck

Könec wailed. His body tightened and Linten felt real claws dig into his back. Come hit his chest, leaving warm, wet trails as Könec rode out his orgasm, his cry quieting to a high reedy whine. Soon enough they were panting into each other's necks, Könec's spend pooling and drying sticky on Linten's belly.

Shakily, Könec lifted himself from the soft cock that slipped out of him, along with a spurt of spend, and they both fell into a tired embrace. As Könec rested a head on his breast, Linten felt the rabbit-fast beats of their hearts slow. “Should we clean up?" he asked around a yawn.

Könec mumbled a “Later" back, and it was the last thing said before they fell into a nap.

* * *

Linten woke content in Könec's arms. It had been years since he had been held - to think he was now in the arms of a dragon! All because he brought three eggs -

A cold frisson seized his flesh. Two eggs; only two. He shuffled out of Könec's hold and sat on the bed, shivering. What to do? He must tell him. He must. To sleep with Könec and to not tell him? To love him and keep this from him? It -

“Darling?" Könec's voice, raspy with sleep, stirred Linten from his musing. He cast a guilty glance behind before turning away. Könec rose. “Darling?" he asked again, and that glance of Linten's face must have been truly awful to put that sour note of concern in his voice. Könec scooted to sit next to him, then put a hand on his cheek and drew their faces to meet. Könec's was soft and fond, so unlike the icy stone it had been when he found Linten in the wilderness - though it was starting to draw in concern. “Baker? Are you all right?"

Linten reached for the hand at his cheek, drew it down into his lap. He gazed at the long fingers - overwarm to the touch, enmeshed with his own - trying to put the feeling to memory. “I must tell you something, Könec. It's - it is a grave sin I confess, but I must. I can't hide it anymore. You'll despise me, I think"

“What? I could never - Baker? What must you tell me?" Könec looked into him, golden eyes sweet as warm butter, as a flower in summer. Linten would miss them.

“There were three eggs."

“I - what? Baker, I don't -"

“There were three. On my journey here, I had - you saw, I kept them in my pack, but a badger - it tore into it, and I -"

“You lost one." Könec's voice was low and solemn.

Sorrow bit behind Linten's eyes. “Yes. I - I'm sorry. If you wish, you can leave me in Goltenbërc, or -"

“What? Baker?" Könec took Linten's face in both his hands. “Why would I want you to leave?"

“I - one of the eggs is dead!" He took a shaky, fragile breath. “And it's because of me, my negligence. Why would" - his voice cracked into a whine - “Why would you want me here, I - I failed, I -"

“No, no no, come here, darling, my baker," Könec murmured as he curled around Linten, who slumped into him. “Tell me, why would I throw you out for an accident?"

Linten pulled away, blazing with rage. “I let a child die, and you call it an accident? It wasn't some - some sickness or act of providence; if I had packed more securely, or hidden my camp better or -"

“Or nothing, Baker." Könec pulled him in, caged him with his long limbs; in them, Linten shook. “Eggs are not like your mammal children. You live-bearing mortals, for you, young are part and parcel of their dams until birth, and then they're separate, new living beings. But to a dragon, eggs are not wholly 'living,' not like a hatchling. They're like seeds. We care for them, keep them warm, but it is - they are separate from us, at a distance. Some eggs are always lost - to mold, to accidents, to hungry beasts, some to nothing that can be explained.

“That one egg was broken is a loss, but it does not make you a murderer." Linten felt Könec lift a hand to the back of his head and press. “I'm sorry that you couldn't - that you felt afraid to feel that grief. You can now. You're here, and you're mine; I'm keeping you. You can now."

And in the dim comfort of his room, on ruined silken sheets, lit only by the magic windows and the gold of his dragon's eyes, Linten wept.

---

The second part of this story can be found here.