Seventy-Seven: The Meeting
Lilith took a warm towel from the young Sister, soft as morning fog, and wiped the cookie crumbs scattered across the Little White Dragon’s head like confetti on fresh snow.
The Little White Dragon rubbed and rubbed, shaking the sweet “snowfall” from her pure white hair, then checked the mirror—still water in a silver frame—before handing the towel back.
She thanked the Sister; the nun bowed like a reed in a river breeze and slipped from the council chamber, her steps fading like drizzle.
Lilith watched her go, then turned to the roomful of bishops. To outsiders they were old pines heavy with honor, yet they sat now like scolded children, backs straight in a wide block, encircling the Little White Dragon like an idol at a shrine. The Archbishop sat at the front of the ring, head lowered, not meeting Lilith’s eyes.
Finally still, Lilith had time to look around the chamber. Last time, in her memory, it had been a terraced lecture hall—a high podium up front, seats stacked like rice fields.
But a few weeks away, and now it was a small room warmed by a roaring fireplace. The bishops had shed their stiffness; they were dressed like Santa Claus, hands cradling ginger cookies and hot milk, sitting in clusters of three and five. Their chatter swelled like a market at dusk, and now and then someone playfully lobbed a crisp baked cookie at another’s face like a toasted coin.
When the Little White Dragon walked in, the Archbishop seemed mid-spat with another bishop. Age had blunted her tongue against his, so she chose to persuade by physics instead.
Her opponent moved lightly; he dodged the cookie as if it were a lazy comet. The missile found the bewildered Little White Dragon instead, crowning her with sweet debris.
As Lilith brushed the crumbs from her hair, the bishops babbled over one another, a brook splashing stones, eager to explain. This rowdy, easy banter—talking and tussling—was the Majestic Court’s true daily language.
That prim scene Lilith had witnessed before was just the once-a-week formal meeting; she had walked in on the one sober mask. The illusion cracked like thin ice; the truth shone through with warm laughter.
“So lively,” Lilith said, dry but sincere. She hadn’t imagined these venerable elders, lofty as distant peaks, would be this cheerful in private. The contrast was oddly adorable.
“Elven optimism is carved into our souls,” the Archbishop answered with a smile like a crescent moon. “We old folks won’t lose to the youth at the mountain’s foot. Ginger cookies and hot milk are Gaul’s last delicious treasure left to this land; we won’t drop such good tradition.”
“Mm-hmm.” Lilith sat beside the Archbishop and picked up a ginger-colored cookie by the elf’s elbow—shaped into a little figure, a big-headed elven doll, cute as a charm. She lifted it to her lips and took a small bite.
“Mmm—so good.” Her sapphire eyes brightened like lanterns on ice. The White Dragon loved food that sang. The Majestic Court’s baking was high art; one nibble and she was captured. Away from her hair, the cookie turned wondrous, and Lilith’s eyes sparkled as she crunched, crunch-crunch, through several more.
“Easy there.” The Archbishop patted the Little White Dragon’s back, a gentle leaf against bark, guarding her from choking. No one mentioned why Lilith had come. They watched her instead with the warmth of grandparents—content as sunrise—seeing a child their grandchildren’s age munch happily in their circle. The small dragon girl held her prize in both hands, nibbling in neat little bites, like a squirrel with a pinecone.
The crumbs gathered in her cheeks; the Little White Dragon’s face puffed into two dumpling buns—ridiculously cute.
“Mmph.” Lilith tipped her chin, bit down, and her throat bobbed like a sparrow, swallowing the crushed cookie into her belly. She took the hot milk the Archbishop offered and drank with a glug-glug, downing half a cup.
“Haa—” She let out a long breath, set the cup down—warm as a hearth—and settled beside the Archbishop.
The Little White Dragon’s tail swayed behind her like a white silk ribbon, flick-flick in the air, tempting hands to reach. The bishops resisted; courtesy held them like a bridle.
Partly it was manners; partly it was the way Lilith cleared her throat once she sat. Her face tightened; a cloud crossed the sun. She looked ready to announce something heavy.
The bishops’ attention snapped to her. The chamber quieted until a falling pin would ring like a bell. Necks craned like cranes, bodies leaned toward Lilith, hungry for the Little White Dragon’s words.
“I met the God of Mountains,” she said. “They told me many things—everything but Their true name.”
Her first line struck like thunder; whispers leaped like sparks. Lilith ignored the rising noise and spoke on. “The true name of the God of Mountains has been washed from this land by the river of history. They told me Their choice. They said…”
“Quiet,” the Archbishop cut in, a single word cool as shadow, and the room stilled at once.
“They chose to depart. They will place Lamter in your hands.” Lilith hesitated, then let the truth fall like a stone into a deep well. “Their funeral will proceed as planned. That day will be Lamter’s grandest.”
