Almost immediately I heard a huge hiss. It was oddly soft for the size of throat it came from, terrifying in that quiet darkness. It was followed by an immense sound just on the edge of hearing, as of air displaced by something very fast and very, very large. There was a single thin, sharp cry, then silence.

I stood trembling in the darkness and knew what had happened as if I had watched it. There was a guard at the Boundary—of course there was—and he had executed the man (the thief, I told myself) without an instant of hesitation.

It was horrible—a life snuffed out in the blink of an eye but it was what they had said they would do.

I was not trembling with fear. I was trembling with the nearness of Dragons.

I walked slowly up to the Boundary.

"Hello?" I said softly to the night air. Silence.

I realised they must think l was with the poor idiot they had just killed. Surely no one had approached them directly for anything but dragon gold, even in the days when these journeys were not so rare. How could I get them to listen to me? Nothing for it, I thought. I’m going to have to call out. I reached for breath, but hesitated—what could I possibly say? What words could make a difference, here at the edge of two worlds?

I stood uncertain in the deep night, knowing my words might bring my heart's desire or the end of all. My mind was whirling with the verses of bards' songs, finding only "Dragon," knowing in my bones it was wrong.

And suddenly I realised how I had thought of them ever since. I heard the Song of the Winged Ones so many years ago, the song in the silence.

I drew in a breath and called softly, "My brother?"

There was a movement in the darkness between the trees.

I began to tremble in earnest now, my voice unsteady and my knees threatening to betray me, but it was too late for fear. "Oh please, my brother, please, come to me. I have waited for you so long—" and my throat closed against the words, as the memory of endless awakenings in my solitary bed at Hadronsstead rose up before me. I shook my head and banished those thoughts. That darkness was over; and the formal greeting I had crafted so carefully all those years before rose to my lips unashamed.

"I call to thee, my brothers of another kind; through the parting of ages I call to thee. I know not why our peoples live apart, but I summon thee through darkness to come to me, that together we may create a new light. I long for thee, through all my life I have sought thee, to learn thy ways and thy hearts, to tell thee of my own people and our dreams. Oh, my brothers of the Dragon kind, I summon thee by all I hold holy; by the Lady of the Moon, by Blessed Shia the mother of us all, I call thee brother and I long for thee."

I was come to the end of my fine words. I knew nothing else to say, and could only add in a desperate whisper, "Oh please, please—come to me."

A shaft of moonlight escaped its cloudy cage and glinted off something very large moving beyond the trees.

"Oh my brother," I breathed softly.

I could resist no longer—or perhaps it is truer to say I did not wish to. I had felt her call, as though she were one of the Kindred, and when that voice in the dark called me brother I knew I must answer.

I left my hiding place, left the broken body of the thief. She was so different from the small-souled dead one, though of the same Kindred. There was so much we did not know of one another, so much to fear—but the faith and the longing in her voice shone like a beacon.

I moved slowly that I might not frighten her. I had long imagined how I would appear to one of them; they are so small and naked, and I with my silver hide was strange even among my own people. I felt my soulgem glow brightly in a shaft of moonlight and heard her gasp, but it was neither fear nor greed. I did not know what she was feeling, not perfectly, but if appeared to be a mixture of ferrinshadik and adoration. I had always been told that we could not feel the Gedri, but I had sensed her even before our meeting.

I found that without thinking I had assumed the Attitude of Protection of a Youngling, and my soul grew in that moment. I discovered it was possible for one of the Greater Kindred to care for one of the Gedrishakrim.

We stared at each other through the darkness, not speaking; but even the dim seeing was enough. I leant down a little to see her better. She did not cry out despite the fear I felt from her, though she did draw back a little.

She was a brave dreamer.

"There is no need to fear, little sister," I said quietly.

Her eyes grew wide with wonder, and her breath came short as if preparing to fly. "I’m not afraid," she said; then, "Well, not very afraid." For a long while we simply stared at each other, as though words would break the fragile spell and we would vanish disastrously from each other's sight.

Then she spoke again, very softly, almost to herself. "You are so different from what I dreamt. The songs don't even...you are terrifying."

She tried to go on but could not. Her mouth moved as if to speak, but awe still held her. She breathed as one tried with great exertion, but she stood in what looked like the Attitudes of Joy and Wonder and her eyes never moved from mine.

"You are the most beautiful creature I have ever seen," she said at last.

I bowed my head in thanks and moved closer still to see her better in the dim light, and to be seen. We were silent again, drinking in each other at close range. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight, and I smelled saltwater.

"Is it the way of your people to drop seawater from their eyes?" I asked, keeping my voice as soft as I could.

She bared her teeth but I sensed neither fear nor threat. "No," she said. "It's—the seawater, it's called tears. We do it when we're very sad, or very happy."

I was fascinated. "So even do we with Fife, the same, expression for great joy or great sorrow. We are not perhaps so different as is thought, little sister."

"We can speak and understand each other. Where is the great difference there?"

I hissed my amusement softly. "Little sister, I have taught myself your speech over many long years. If I spoke in my own tongue, the difference would be clear."

I stopped. She had started and drawn away when I laughed, und stood now uncertainly, ready to flee. "What frightens you?" I asked.

"Why did you do that?" she asked hesitantly.

"What did I do, little one?"

"You—you dropped your jaw and—hissed at me."

I just managed to stop myself from doing so again. "I did not mean it to distress you. It is a sign of friendship or mild pleasure. Did you not just now bare your teeth at me, when I spoke of seawater?"

She thought for a moment, then bared her teeth again, more broadly, and the flesh at the corners of her eyes crinkled. "It's called a smile. Do you mean the same thing when you drop your jaw and hiss?"

"I believe so, though I do not know the words you use." She simply stared up at me, obviously standing in the Gedri way of Joy—she had changed from fear to gladness in the blink of an eye—and it struck me that we had changed the world as we knew it. For the first time in centuries, Kantri and Gedri had taught each other something.

My first reaction was great joy.

My second was the stirring of fear.

This, of course, was the reason why contact between the races was forbidden. The Gedrishakrim are always curious, and the Kantri seek to teach despite themselves. Without thinking we had exchanged knowledge, to our mutual delight; but old habit and long years of mistrust reminded me that, trivial as this exchange was, it was friendship between our peoples that had ultimately doomed the Lesser Kindred to live as beasts. For the first time the ferrinshadik dimmed and I began truly to understand the Great Ban.