“I call to order this meeting of the sept of the green dragons on this fourteenth day of August in the year one thousand eight hundred and twenty-two.”

“1822?” I asked, leaning to the right slightly, to where Pal sat next to me.

“The dragon year begins with the formation of the first weyr. Eighteen hundred years ago the black and red dragons formed a weyr.”

I wanted to ask Pal about this mysterious black dragon sept, but Drake began speaking again, so I sat looking attentive, professional, and thoroughly supportive of whatever it was he had to say.

“We will conduct this meeting in English for the convenience of certain people present,” he said, turning to look at me. I smiled a bit hesitantly, not sure whether I was supposed to thank everyone for that courtesy or not. “The first order of business is the formal recognition of the wyvern’s mate, Aisling Grey.”

Drake’s hand clamped down on my shoulder. I rose, smoothing down the pretty green dress, grateful I didn’t have to do this all bloody and torn. “Do I say anything?” I whispered to him.

He shook his head, pulling me so that I stood smashed up against him. My brain went into Drake-deprived overdrive, filling me with all sorts of new pain, longing, and a sad, hopeless feeling that I’d never be able to work things out with him, or entirely let him go.

The dragons rose as one giant group, looked at me for the count of three; then all of them, men, women, and children, knelt down and bowed their heads. It was totally unexpected and, for some reason, touched me greatly. I knew that to many of them, I was an unknown, a stranger to their sept, but that they’d accept me so easily made me feel incredibly warm and fuzzy. I sniffled back a couple of happy tears.

“You know, frequent bouts of crying are another sign of early pregnancy,” Jim’s voice whispered from where it sat on the other side of Pal.

I glared Jim into silence, but judging by the shocked look on Pal’s face, followed by his quick inspection of my midsection, he had heard what the demon had said, dammit.

“Dmitri Askov, you do not recognize my mate?”

Drake’s voice rumbling next to me brought me out of a lovely daydream in which I was sending Jim back to its former demon lord. One man, one lone man, stood in the theater of people all kneeling to honor Drake and, by extension, me. The man had the same ageless quality of all the other dragons, appearing to be in his mid- to late thirties, but was probably several hundred years older than that. I hadn’t yet met a dragon under eighty.

“I do not,” the dragon named Dmitri said in a noticeable English accent. Like Drake, he stood with his arms crossed, his dark hair swept back from his forehead in a similar fashion. He was probably a few inches shorter than Drake but was built a bit heavier. I squinted slightly, noticing a faint resemblance in the man’s jawline. All in all, he was a pretty handsome man but not nearly as drop-dead gorgeous as Drake. Could this be a relative? I was shocked for a moment at that thought. I’d never considered Drake having any relatives, despite the fact that he must have had parents at the very least. What happened to his family? “I do not recognize this human as your mate. You have violated the rules for the last time, Drake Fekete. This time you must pay. As will this human you think to inflict upon us!”

I sucked in my breath at the anger in Dmitri’s voice, peeking at Drake from the corner of my eye. I needn’t have wondered whether he was going to explode. Drake’s anger was always controlled, unlike my lamentably explosive temper. His was slow burning and long to become fully inflamed.

“There are no rules regarding the species of a wyvern’s mate,” Drake answered evenly. “If that is your only objection—”

Dmitri laughed and stalked down the stairs to the stage. “It is but the beginning, cousin.”

Well, that explained a lot. The way he spat out the word explained even more.

“Like the rest of the sept, I grow weary of your mismanagement, your bad decisions, your inability to keep the peace as you swore to do. You are more human than dragon now! Your ineptness, abuses of the sept in general, and clear acts intended to inflame relations between septs exhibit your unsuitability for the position of wyvern. All that we could excuse, but it is your parentage that demands your removal.” Dmitri sauntered onto the stage and stopped in front of Drake, waving a hand at the audience.

Parentage? What was all that about? I kept my mouth shut, knowing that Drake would not welcome my defense of his character and actions, no matter how well meant it was. I had an inkling of what was coming next, though. Drake did, as well, because he didn’t move a muscle as the familiar words were spoken.

“By the laws that govern the sept, I, Dmitri Alexander Mikhail Askov, sergeant in the green dragon militia, do hereby issue a formal challenge of transcendence to Drake Fekete, the one who falsely claims the position as wyvern of the green dragons.”

“Oh, you do not want to be doing that,” I said in a low voice, quiet enough that just the people nearest me could hear it, but not so loud that the microphones picked it up. Dmitri’s head snapped around to look at me, his dark eyes narrowing in scorn as I spoke. “Look, I’ve been in your shoes, and I can tell you from experience that Drake takes challenges very seriously. Obviously you have some issues with him, but take it from someone who knows— you don’t want to do the challenge thing. The payback on that is a real bitch.”

“I do not recognize you as a member of this sept,” Dmitri said, then spat on me. I was so stunned by his action, I just stood there with a glob of spittle splattered on my collarbone.

Drake’s reaction was instantaneous. He was a blur, one moment standing between me and the podium, the next ten feet away, the theater ringing with the sound of the backhanded slap he delivered to Dmitri.

Slowly, Dmitri turned his head to look at Drake, his eyes bright with fire. “So be it,” he snarled, turning on his heel to march off the stage.

“That’s just about at the top of the gross-o-meter, and you know, I’ve seen a lot of gross things in my time,” Jim said, nudging aside a pitcher of ice water and bringing me the folded linen napkin that was underneath it.

I took it, wiping the spit off my chest. For some reason, my hands were shaking, as if I had been the sole focus of Dmitri’s obvious animosity.

Drake returned to the podium, raising an eyebrow at me. I gawked at his control for a moment, then took a cue from his apparently calm demeanor and hurriedly resumed my place on the chair between him and Pal.