“I’ll say. They’ve gone from being lumpish creatures who the keepers could barely push along each day to being, most definitely, dragons. That little bastard Spit is a danger to himself and everyone else since he discovered he could spit toxins. His accuracy leaves a lot to be desired, and he doesn’t take kindly to correction from anyone. I preferred him the way he was. I appreciate Carson stepping up to try to manage him; he’s the man for a job like that, if there is one. But even he can’t keep a lid on that steam-pot forever. Sooner or later he’s going to hurt someone.”
A hawk cried in the distance. Several of the dragons turned their heads toward it. He wondered if they envied the bird’s flight and wondered if he turned the barge back, seeking for deeper water, would they follow him? Or would they stalk off into the bog, seeking a way to drier land? He glanced at the sky again and wondered if he should hope for rain. Enough rain would lift the barge so they could push on. It would also raise the water that surrounded the dragons. How long could they last with no dry land to rest on? He pushed away his doubts and fears. “I’ll make a decision tomorrow morning,” he told her.
“Until then?” She looked up into his face, and he saw how he had changed her. It wasn’t the roughened hair that mattered to him, nor how her freckles had spread and darkened. For him, it was all in her eyes. There was a question there, but there was no fear. None at all.
“Until then, my dear, we live.”
THYMARA SAT IN the dimness of Alise’s room. She had asked earlier if she might borrow it for an hour or so, and the Bingtown woman had readily agreed, assuming that Thymara wished to bathe in warm water in privacy. But that was not her mission. Instead she had begged Sylve to come with her.
“I don’t see how I’m going to be a help, Thymara. It’s almost as dark as night in here.”
“We’re out of candles completely. Bellin said that if the hunters bring in any sort of an animal with fat, she’ll make some rushlights. But until then…” Thymara heard her voice, how quickly she spoke and how it was pitched higher than normal. Perhaps Sylve heard the fear, too.
“Let me look at your back, Thymara, and see how bad it is. I know you don’t like people to fuss over you, but if it’s infected, and has been for this long, well, you need to have someone open up the injury and clean it out. You can’t just let it keep festering.”
Sylve kept talking as Thymara pulled off her shirt and then unknotted the strips of rags she’d tied at her chest. Experience had taught her that this part was best done quickly. She took a deep breath and then snatched the rag free, gasping as she did so. The ooze from the injury on her back never seemed to cease and always glued the bandaging to her skin. Sylve made an exclamation of sympathy and then asked pragmatically, “What have you been doing for this?”