"The dragons!" Embrez cried, delighted. "Everyone out! To the terrace!"
They flooded out into the cold, laughing and jostling, children shrieking, and Alaric drew Salviana up the terrace steps and held her against his chest as the sky above Wyfkeep caught fire.
First came the gold. A river of sparks poured up from the gardens and unfurled into a long, sinuous body, scales shimmering, wings spreading until they eclipsed the moon. It was only paper and powder, a marvel of the Wyfhaven illusionists, but it wheeled once overhead and blew a plume of cinnamon-colored flame, and the crowd roared. Then a second rose, silver and sleek, and then a third, smaller, crimson as a ruby, which immediately tried to sing.
It was dreadful. It was tuneless and wavering and clearly delighted with itself.
"Embrez," Alaric said, in the voice of a man being tested by the heavens, "why is it singing?"
"I told you!" Embrez called back. "He has ambitions!"
