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The room was vast: beyond cavernous, beyond enormous, beyond gigantic, transcending any size that a normal mind could conceive, it stretched on and on and up and up through the ever-living rock, the curves of its walls flowing out from floor level, passing triforium after triforium on its graceful way up to the vaulted roof high above, hidden in unending shadow. Cathedrals and abbeys and palaces entire could be lost in this space, lost and never found again; time, even, seemed to bow its head in respect and tiptoe past with a show of obeisant humility. It was a room where no sun, nor moon, nor any brightest star, had ever shone, nor rain had ever found, nor wind had ever blown. In this chamber, hidden beneath the spires of the highest mountains of the oldest planet in the universe, eternity had come to dwell.

Illumined by the glow of a million million everfires, the massed assembly in the room waited in silence. Their forms were legion: some were long and lithe, some shorter and more broad; many sat crouched upon their haunches, tails curled around them, while some sat tailless upon chairs; the wings of those who had them were folded close upon their backs; some were habilimented in various fashions while others were mostly bare save for ribands and diadems of office. Yet all of them, every single one, bore testimony to the bourne from which they sprang: from the largest to the smallest, from the most magnificently feral to the most simple biped, all, all, shared the pointedness of face, the keenness of eye and the pride of bearing. All there were dragons, or of dragon-kind sprung, and the air was rich and full of the scents of them.

There was a movement at the upper end of the chamber. In a second the sound of a million bodies rising to their feet in unison rang out, down and along and up to vanish into the darkness and all heads turned to watch the entry of an old, old dragon, his four hindclaws stepping hesitantly over the cold granite slabs of the floor. Old, old was he, gold scales dull and tarnished and his powers visibly ebbing, yet, though his step was slow and feeble and none failed to notice the tacitly-given support of his Chancellor, as he moved he seemed to radiate power nonetheless. Little by little he moved out into the room, towards the large pile of exquisite, priceless furs and richly decorated cushions that lay near the front of the dais.

At last, his breath coming in short, shallow rasps, he achieved his goal, stepping upon the treasures deliberately and slowly, as though even this small step were too much. His four legs visibly shook as he moved to make himself as comfortable as he could and his dragging tail lay sprawled across the stone. Visibly too weak to stand long, he collapsed into a sitting position and, a moment later lay prone, panting, his eyes closed. Lines of pain and weariness were etched across his old face, the muscles tensing and relaxing in turn.

The Chancellor, young at barely a few centuries, stepped up to stand at the older dragon's right side, his vermillion scales glittering in the light of the everfires. He turned to regard his seigneur for a long moment, saw the lines of pain and age and heard the laboured breathing, and moved forward, and took a single step forward and raised his right foreclaw. "In the name of tradition --" he began, but a loud snarl from his left cut him off, echoing down the room's length as distant thunder. The scarlet drake dropped back to all fours immediately, turned and lowered his head to the ground; from the upper part of his vision he saw the old drake's head lifted, eyes burning brightly with anger, the upper lips drawn back to reveal the curved, long fangs, especially those which projected beyond the lips.

"Ferykhor, you overreach yourself." The old dragon paused to breathe several times, each one seeming to come as a gulp. His eyes remained hard, fixed on the submissive red . "It is not your place to speak those words."

"Seigneur, I pray forgiveness." Though his voice was low, his words, too, swept from the dais and down the hall. "My intent was not to supplant, but merely to ease your burden."

Silence resumed for a moment; even the breathing of the million bodies in the room broke it not even a little. "Your words have merit, Ferykhor, as do your actions. And both do you credit." The old dragon's voice had softened, and with it had passed some of the tension in the room. "But this is my_tarkh ulaan_; this is my duty, not yours. Arise, old friend, and help me."

Ferykhor lifted his head a little, saw the softened expression of his seigneur and friend, and with slow deliberation resumed his normal posture. After a nod from the old dragon he stepped over to him and eased a foreleg around his shoulder; slowly, pain obvious on his face, the other lifted himself to a sitting position and then, not caring who saw, leant his weight upon the younger male as he lifted his right foreclaw tremblingly into the air.

"In the name of tradition, I bid you welcome." His voice was suddenly full, vibrant, ringing into the endless space with the energy of one half his age.

The response came in a roar of voices great and small."Taliik saal amet."

"In the name of wisdom, I bid you listen."

"Taliik saal amar."

"In the name of peace, I bid you consider."

"Taliik saal avvel."

"And in the name of unity, I bid you be brethren."

"Taliik saal avrakar. Taliik saal khakhor."

A groan of relief escaped the old dragon's muzzle as he slipped from Ferykhor's supportive grasp and settled prone upon the cushions once more, and a moment later came the space-filling sound of movement as the massed of dragons beyond resumed their seats. The seigneur took a long, slow breath, lifted his head and turned it towards his servant. "Is there much today?" he asked, his voice a reedy whisper.

"No, Seigneur. Just one audience, from the Caiðrassi Hegemony. They request rights for trans-stellar travel."

The gold's brows drew together. "Just that?"

Ferykhor nodded. "Yes, Seigneur, just that."

A long intake of breath whispered into old lungs, was held and released in a sigh. "Thank the Gods."

In response to a nod from the gold, who turned his head slowly back towards the room at large, Ferykhor stepped forward, lifted his head and spoke. "We invite the strangers to approach."

From one of the several side-corridors which projected out from the body of the chamber like ribs from the sternum of some great creature came a group of figures. Each about two metres tall, the slender grace of their felinoid bodies was emphasised by the robes they wore which fell straight from their shoulders in long folds to trail lightly along the smooth stone floor. Their movement was silent save for the quiet swish of the fabric. As they walked the length of the chamber they drew many glances, some approving, some frowning, some of interest and others of dismissal, but all eyes followed them for the duration of their procession towards the dais. As one the group stopped at the appropriate point before the gold and slowly, almost reticently, crouched down. Their natural pride shone in their eyes, their resentment at being required to humble themselves to any; their whiskers were taut and their tails flicked until the fabric of the puddling robes caught and restrained them.

"Seigneur," spoke the foremost. The scent of it had reached Ferykhor's nostrils and he suppressed a twitch of displeasure at the spiky odour that depicted it as a female. "Seigneur, most puissant, most excellent dragon, we come before you in peace on behalf of the Caiðrassi people to plead petition to the Court of Makhhas tor-Evvarl."

"We shall hear you," replied the gold, his head lifted from the softness.

"O most mighty and noble Lord, our people seek to explore the worlds beyond our star. We have technology which permits us to transcend the bounds of light, and our technicians are skilled in the crafts of building great ships, and weapons with which to protect them from unknown dangers." The herald paused and her lips quirked a little upwards; Ferykhor noticed the sly gleam in the corner of her eyes and knew that the gold would have caught it, too. "We wish to find new worlds, to trade with our brethren in friendship and to explore our corner of the galaxy in peace."

After the Caiðrassen ceased to speak, there was silence for a time. Then, at last, the gold said, "We have received your petition and discussed it before the Court, and we have heard your plea. It is our decision that your request be denied."

The only movement came from the embassy crouching before the dais. The leader lifted her head, shock and anger registering clearly upon her face as she did not even bother to hide it. While her companions remained crouched, she rose to her full height and fixed the Seigneur with an expression of complete, haughty contempt. "You would deny us our right?" Her voice shrilled out, losing itself among the vastness. "We have made all necessary petitions; we came here in peace, to be heard, as is our right --"

"Be silent!" For once the entire space was full of sound. "You have been heard, as is your right; and your petition has been denied: that is mine.

"No, do not speak! You have not the right, Ikh-Ajoor Sinaas Falouuri of the Quornsing Khriig: it is forfeit.

"Yet -- You speak of rights. Where are the Felmaaori, who share your world? What of the Ghuerii-Khayar? the Caramarain? the Straeebeshar? What of the Dhengori, from the other habitable planet in your system? What of them? Why do they not stand with you in this petition, as is_their_right? Why? Because they _may_not, by your enslavement of them, or they _can_not, by your genocidal repression of their kind!

"We do not believe your words, Sinaas Falouuri; we do not trust your motives. By your own history you stand condemned. Our judgement stands, and shall remain until this Court be convinced otherwise." The Seigneur was gasping for breath, now; in response to a trickle of fluid from the corner of his mouth he licked at it in irritation, distractedly, and tasted copper.Thank the Gods.

By now the entire Caiðrassi party was on its feet, huddled together against the barrage of the dragon's rumbling voice: only the Ikh-Ajoor stood fully erect, her tail quivering in expression of the raw fury that fairly burned in the depths of her amber eyes. Yet there was nothing to say, nothing that could be done to reverse the decision of the Court, and she knew it, and the set of her jaw locked tightly closed spoke all.

The gold drake was opening his mouth to speak again when a dull, chiming boom echoed up into the cavern, resonating upwards from some distant place far, far below lost in the depths of the world. It seemed to come from all places at once. The atmosphere in the room changed instantly: dragonkind looked from one to another in question, the cadet races and younger members of the Court glancing around in nervous curiosity while those who knew the significance of that sound whispered softly to their neighbour, beginning a slow susurrus which moved steadily down the length of the room. Eyes turned towards the large gold dragon who was beginning to slump upon the pile of furs that was his throne; even the Caiðrassi, their expressions changed from outrage to curiosity, reacted to the import of that sound.

Ferykhor glanced at the old dragon to his left.It is time,_he thought, and now when he stepped forward it was without hesitation. "All strangers shall withdraw or be removed." His voice, now, was as resonant as that of the Seigneur as he spake earlier. The red's eyes fixed firmly upon the felinoids in front of him who had not turned away to depart, and nodded to them. "Go in peace,_now, or be removed."

Falouuri looked as though she was about to speak, then decided better of it and turned away from the dais in a dismissive swirl of fabric. Her attendants mimicked the gesture and began to follow her down the hall.

Another chime sounded, similar to the first. Ferykhor glanced down at the gold again, shocked to see him lying fully prone now, his head on its side upon the cold stone. A look down the chamber told him that the embassy would not leave nearly in time. Ferykhor made a gesture to a group of attendants standing to one side of the dais before turning his attention back to the Seigneur: he did not need to watch to know that the retreating party had been teleported from the room in a vortex of confabulating light; instead, he gave all his attention to the ancient gold who lay upon his throne like a broken puppet whose strings had been cut. His breathing was almost nothing, and when Ferykhol lifted his head to place one of the cushions beneath it he was shocked at how frail it suddenly seemed.

"Fery... Ferykhol..." There was almost no voice at all.

"I'm here, Seigneur." Gently, with the tenderness of a parent comforting a child, he caressed the dying male's muzzle with one foreclaw and tried to ignore the thin line of blood which trickled from between parted lips.

"Is it... is it time?... is it well?..."

"Yes, Seigneur. All is well."

Out in the vasty expanse of the court chamber there was silence. All eyes were fixed upon the tableau of the two dragons upon the dais, the younger vermillion Chancellor crouched at the side of the Seigneur. Their speaking was barely above a whisper and so it did not carry down the length of the hall, but all who watched knew what was happening, even if they could not all understand. All the myriad representatives of the myriad species of dragon, from the greatest to the smallest, from the oldest of the races to the most young and callow, those who crouched now on haunches, who rested in sinuous curls of long and serpentine bodies and those who remained folded into seats -- the totality of their gaze was fixed upon the gold and the red dragons, the one upon the throne and the other at the side of it.

Breathing, for so long laboured, paradoxically came more easily now. "My children... tell them -- tell them ----"

"They shall know, Seigneur."

The old gold dragon's eyes blinked up at the red and then seemed to look at a point far past him. A smile lifted the corners of the lips, just for a moment, and then it faded away. And with it, all the tension left the dragon's body, muscles relaxing and the huge form seeming to settle in upon itself with a deep sigh of peace, and the light which had burned brightly and fiercely in his eyes for uncounted ages grew swiftly dim and vanished in the space of two heartbeats.

Slowly, Ferykhol lowered his head. Tears burned in his eyes and sobs scalded his throat, yet he yielded to them not. A single tear which he could not restrain edged past his rigid control and slid bittersweet down the length of his muzzle. From the body of the hall there was the sound of bodies rising, first those nearest to the dais, and who had seen most clearly what had happened, and then, wave-like, a long ripple of noise as all the rest of the room came to feet and claws and bowed their head in silence. It took all of the red's strength to open his eyes:_Perhaps, when I open then, he will be alive?..._But when he found the courage, where he did not know, and looked, the Seigneur was yet still, unmoving, unbreathing, the mere bodily remnant of what had been majesty made flesh.

Softly, as though to the body alone and yet knowing he would be heard throughout the entire chamber, Ferykhol whispered the ancient Final Words, given long ago and spoken on the passing of each Seigneur since time immemorial, words that only Dragonkind may hear, words for no outsider, no visitor, no stranger: words of comfort and of thanks, of gratitude for a life of service and solitude, in recognition of its joys and sorrows, its triumphs and its despairs, and its unbounded years of quotidian drudge. "Seigneur of the Court of Makhhas tor-Evvarl, Keeper of the Ways of Kentar, most puissant of all Dragonkind, your work is done and your duty is ended. Go swiftly, O most noble and belovèd Lord, go swiftly and in peace, with our gratitude for all you have accomplished."

Stiffly, joints numbed by the cold from the stone, Ferykhol rose to all fours once more and turned to the room at large. He dropped his head low, then raised it again high, his neck arched. "The Seigneur is dead," he said: the words filled the space, echoing out into the endless vastness of the chamber.

And, from the darkness, came the response, a million voices speaking in unison."Taal maahhr vekhi alikhor. Hhekhh vaaorrh riish' li ghekhhtor. Khhwen vaaorrh khhwen khai vhesharrl. Khwi vesshmaaorh --"

The chant was broken abruptly by the sounding of the gong for the third time. Silence flooded the room, electric and expectant, stretching on and on as the eternity that had come to fill the space with itself. And then, clear and crisp and yet from so far away, came an unmistakable sound, the screech of an eggling struggling from its shell and taking its first full breath of the living air. And then again another, and another, lusty cries of life resonating up from the royal nesting-chamber deep below the court.

Ferykhor raised a foreclaw for attention, to silence the joyous outpouring of conversation between neighbours. Distantly, the cries continued, first one, then two, then several voices all vying with each other for attention, echoing up the long, curved tunnels from far below. When all were silent, the only sound the screeching of the young, the young drake raised his head in pride once more and said, "The Seigneur is dead.

"Long live the Seigneur."

And the million throats took up the chant and cried it back to him, cried it in joy and in sadness, in grief and in hope, from tradition and in exaltation: "Long live the Seigneur!" The sound grew until it felt as though the room was filled with sound, as though the words were becoming visible, coruscating light that made the everfires seem dim by comparison; it grew and grew until the entire under-mountain was alive with the million voices in this chamber and the million voices outside it, echoing back and forth, back and forth, through and along and abaft and about in call and call and call again. And at the middle of it all stood Ferykhor, tears flowing unashamedly down his muzzle now, falling from his snout to drip to the cold stone floor by the body of the male to whom he had given his life and his love. His neck still arched high, his wings flared and his tail swayed in abandon to the moment as the shout went on, drowning out the ululation from far away which had prompted it. And still the voices cried out, still in unison came again and again the exultant acclamation, the full-throated chant in recognition that the mantle of rule may yet slip, but never shall it fall.

"Long live the Seigneur!

"Long live the Seigneur!

"Long live the Seigneur!"