“Don’t let her do that to you.”
Startled, Izzy spun around, her back against the door. “Sorry, I . . .”
“My daughter is only tough on the ones she thinks have some promise.”
Izzy shook her head. “No, I—”
“It’s all right. I won’t tell her I saw a thing. Take a moment, catch your breath.”
The man appeared to be in his sixtieth winter or so, his grey hair cut very short, his arms bulging with muscles. He had a sword in his hand and she realized he was a blacksmith and this was his workshop. She’d managed to step outside again, the house going from out to in and back again like a lovely maze.
Izzy wiped her face with her palms and stepped farther inside. The weapons were beautiful things. Lots of curved swords and gold and steel daggers, many adorned with jewels. Unlike the weapons that were popular in Dark Plains, these appeared ornamental, but Izzy knew weapons and these were as deadly as they were beautiful. They reminded Izzy of the weapons Annwyl wore during family parties and important events, given to her by Fearghus.
“Your work is beautiful,” Izzy said.
“Thank you.”
She pointed at one of the swords. “May I?”
“If you’d like.”
She picked up one of the bigger swords and marveled at the lightness of it. Throwing herself into the safety of what she knew—battle and war and weapons—Izzy walked over to a clear area and lifted the sword. She gave a few practice swings, not sure if she’d like to work with these curved swords. But it was always nice to test out other weapons, to see what different armies used.
When Izzy lowered the sword, the man watched her intently. His pleasant expression replaced by a deep frown.
“I’m sorry.” Izzy quickly replaced the weapon, thinking she must have crossed some kind of cultural divide she hadn’t been aware of.
“You’re not a trainee, are you?” he asked.
“No, sir. Not anymore.”
“You have true skill. And strength.” His eyes narrowed a bit. “Where are you from?”
Izzy sighed. “That’s a bit complicated.”
He put the weapon he’d been sharpening on the floor and stepped away from the table. “Do I know you?” he asked.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Then why do I feel like I do?”
“I have to go.”
“Please don’t.”
Izzy moved toward the door. “I do. Someone is waiting for me. He’ll be worried.” She got to the door, but a large hand pressed against it. She could remove that hand, but she wasn’t sure she could fight anyone at the moment.
“Look at me. Please.”
Izzy slowly turned to face the man. She realized she was crying again when tears fell on her chest.
He lifted her chin and looked into her face.
“By the holy suns,” he whispered, both hands now framing her face. “How did I not see it as soon as you walked in? How did I not know?”
“I have to go,” Izzy begged, the sobs making it hard to get the words out. “I have to.”
Big arms went around her, pulled her in close. “But you’ve come home, my beautiful child. Where are you planning to go when you’ve come home?”
Chapter 34
Éibhear sat in a chair, all the humans staring at him. He hadn’t felt this uncomfortable since he’d been captured by an Ice Land troop and strapped over a pointy stake. His Mì-runach brethren had saved him that day, but he wouldn’t be saved today. Unfortunately.
Finally, one of the inquisitive children said, “Why are you so pale? Are you dying?”
“No.”
An older child then asked, “Did you know your hair was blue?”
“I am aware.”
“Why is your hair blue?”
“Well . . . uh . . .” Gods, where had Izzy gone? How could she just desert him like this? He understood she was overwhelmed, but . . . but he needed her!
One of the women dressed in armor leaned in close. So close he thought she might kiss him. At least she was pretty. “Are you a dragon?”
Éibhear had to work hard not to jump at her question, but he was more than a little surprised.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because we get some here. They pretend to be human.” She leaned in even closer. “Their hair’s different from yours. Colored real bright. But they’re pale like you.”
“Must be the scales.”
“Is Iseabail safe around you?” Zarah asked, one of her grandsons helping her into a chair across from Éibhear.
“Safer than even she realizes.”
That answer seemed to satisfy everyone because they moved back a little, giving him a bit of space, so that he could finally breathe.
“So, dragon,” one of the males asked, “who are your people then? Or do you have people? Do you have lizards?”
“I am not a lizard. Nor can I communicate with them. But I do have people.”
“How can you have people when you’re not human?”
“Having one’s own people is not limited to humans. It’s a common term used not only by dragons but by centaurs and Minotaurs and those jackal-headed men that you Desert Landers have running around. So yes, I’m a dragon and I have people.”
“Then who are they exactly?”
“I’m Éibhear the Contemptible. Youngest born son in the House of Gwalchmai fab Gwyar, fifth in line to the throne of the White Dragon Queen, Scourge of the Northland territories, Most Reviled Enemy Dragon of the Ice Lands, Honored Member of the Mì-runach, and bare-fisted champion of the Mì-runach Yearly Pit Fights three winters in a row.”