But Gran had left her dragons after all. And now Mella had done the same. No. Not the same. She would be back. But how could you tell a dragon that? How could she have let her herd know that she was not abandoning them for good?
But what else could she have done, caught between a promise to her dying grandmother and a promise to a dying dragon?
The Egg!
The thought of it pulled Mella bolt upright. Careless, she reached a bare hand into the ashes of the fire and snatched it back a second later. Sucking her burned finger, she sighed with relief. The Egg had not cooled.
Roger was stirring. Before he could wake entirely, Mella retreated into the woods to take care of her own most pressing need. When she returned she found that Roger had gotten up too. Kneeling by the fire, he had a spruce twig thick with needles in his hand and had brushed away the coals and ashes that Mella had heaped over the Egg. Now it was half exposed to the chilly morning air.
“What are you doing?”
Roger turned to look up at Mella, surprised. “Just…checking on it. It’s all right, it hasn’t cooled, see—”
“It’ll get cold! What are you thinking?”
“It’s still in the fire.”
“It needs to be covered!” Snatching up her gloves, Mella hurriedly packed the Egg away in the metal box, cushioning it with ashes that would hold in its natural heat until she could put it in a fire once more.
“I only wanted—” Roger started to say.
“Well, don’t,” Mella answered tartly as she latched the lid of the box. “I’m the keeper. I’ll look after the Egg. You just—”
Mella didn’t finish the sentence because she couldn’t think, exactly, of what Roger should do. This was her quest. She may have left her dragons behind, and she may have been unable to save Lady, but she would take care of the Egg. The dragon had laid it on her to do so. Roger had just…happened to be there.
He might be useful enough in one way or another. But he shouldn’t meddle with the Egg. That was her concern, not his.
Packing the box away in her sack, Mella refused to feel remorse for her sharp words or for the slump in Roger’s shoulders. They shared the food Mella had brought from the Inn’s kitchen: hard traveler’s bread, some apples, a chunk of cheese. It was a quiet meal.
“We should go,” Roger said after they had finished. He seemed willing to forget that they had more or less quarreled. “If they come searching for us…” He didn’t finish the sentence but tossed the core of his apple away into the woods and rose to saddle the mare.
“I hope Damien’s all right,” he muttered anxiously as he tightened the girth. “I’m supposed to look after him.”
“My parents will take care of him.” Mella tried to make her voice gentle, to show that as long as Roger did not interfere with the Egg she could be as civil as anyone. And then she wished she could stop thinking about her parents, waking to find her gone. At first they would think she was out with the dragons. How long before they realized she was truly missing, and Roger too?
“My father always says once you’ve decided what you must do, nothing else matters.” Roger looked a little doubtful of this wisdom. “And we have to do this. Don’t we?”
Mella felt the weight of the Egg in the sack over her shoulder. She felt the weight of the promise she had made.
Roger’s father was right. They had decided to take the Egg where it belonged. There was no sense in regrets now, and no thought of turning around. The only thing to do was to get the job done as quickly as possible.
They didn’t talk much as they rode and as other travelers began to pass them by—a merchant with a loaded wagon; a farmer’s wife with a cart full of onions to sell; a family on their way for an outing, the children in their cleanest clothes running ahead, the parents calling to them to wait. After a while Roger began to hum. Then to whistle. Then to sing under his breath to the rhythm of the horse’s steady jogging pace.
“Kilian, kalian, damerson, dee,
Who made the dragons and set them free?
Heart of a serpent, voice of a man,
Breath of the fire that none can withstand.”
“That’s not how it goes,” Mella objected, forgetting that she had planned to be polite.
“What?”
“The song. Those aren’t the right words.”
“Of course they are.” Roger twisted to look over his shoulder, a little offended. “I’ve known that song since I was in the nursery. Everybody knows it.”
Of course everybody knew it. Little children played a game with it, holding hands, spinning in a ring, faster and faster, until the end when they let go and everyone fell staggering and giggling to the ground. But Roger had gotten the words wrong. Mella chanted,
“Kilian, kalian, damerson, dee,
Coel made the dragons and set them free.
Skin of a serpent, mind of a man,
Heart of a fire that none can withstand.”
“That’s not right,” Roger said when she’d finished.
“Of course it’s right. Gran taught it to me.”
“But it’s—Coel didn’t make the dragons. He fought them. Everybody knows that.”
“It’s just a game song,” Mella answered. “It’s not history. Like the nonsense words at the beginning. It’s not supposed to mean anything.” She pointed ahead. “Look, there’s the ford.”
There was no bridge over the river at Dragonsford. The spring floods, when snow melted in the mountains, would sweep any such structure away. Instead, at a shallow place, broad flat stones had been laid in the water so that horses and carts and humans could cross easily, wetting their feet but doing themselves no other harm.
The mare delicately picked her way across the river, and they were in the market town. All the old buildings in Dragonsford were stone built, with slate roofs, close to the river. But a ring of thatched, wooden buildings had sprung up around them.
Mella had known all her life that all the old buildings in the mountains were stone. It hadn’t occurred to her to think why. Now, as the mare stepped onto the cobbled main street, she found herself thinking of the scorched trees and smoldering turf where Damien had fought the dragon.
How long had it been since a dragon had been seen near Dragonsford? Long enough for people to forget how fast a straw roof burned.
Over brown thatch and shingles of dark gray slate she could see the Dragontooth Mountains. Mella found she was holding her breath. The lower slopes were closely covered with dark green spruce, and above were hills of yellow green grass, and then mounds of bare gray rock that rose higher and higher, until her eye reached the peaks splashed white with snow.
Mella had seen those mountains every day of her life. But she hadn’t quite realized until now just what she had promised to do. To carry the Egg into that wilderness?
Roger didn’t seem troubled by the sight of the mountains like jagged teeth gnawing at the sky. “Do you know this town?” he asked her, raising his voice so she could hear him over the noise ahead.
“I’ve been here once,” Mella answered. “For the market. Father always stays at the Red Hart when he comes.” She pointed to the right.
Roger turned the mare off to the left. “Then we should stay elsewhere,” he called. “In case they’re looking for us.”
He had to speak loudly because the main street of Dragonsford, running along the river, was thronged with loaded wagons, horses, oxen, donkeys, and people on foot. A shepherd urged his herd along, whistling at a black-eared dog who nipped flanks and nudged shoulders until the sheep turned the right way. Mella saw a tinker’s caravan, red and green and yellow. A wagon passed by, loaded with dragons in cages; one of them hissed and beat its stubby wings. And over all the bleats and curses and shouts and laughter, the river itself hissed and churned among stones as it rushed down from the steep slopes of the mountains.
The inn they finally chose was far back from the river, a flimsy wooden structure that seemed to sag to one side. To Mella’
s mind, the innkeeper should have been ashamed of his dirty yard, his unpainted doorway, and the rank smell that wafted out from his stables. Her father would never have stood for such slovenliness. But surely no one would think to look for them here.
Beside them in the yard, a merchant had thrown back the cover over his wagon and was checking the goods inside. Mella glimpsed bolts of cloth, small barrels and chests, a case of small, dark bottles, before the man gave her an angry look and moved to block her view.
There was no evidence of other guests. Clearly this was not one of Dragonsford’s more popular inns.
“I brought this,” Mella said, and she pulled a bracelet over her wrist to show Roger. The chain was only brass, but there were three beads of red coral to match the five that hung from her necklace, tucked deep inside her sack for safekeeping. “It will pay for a night’s lodging, don’t you think?”
Roger shook his head.
Dismayed, Mella looked down at her treasured bit of jewelry. Da had taken it in trade from a merchant a year ago and given it, along with the necklace, to her. “But it’s—”
“I meant, no, don’t sell your bracelet. I have a little money. Enough for this.”
Mella thought she should object. “It’s my journey. The dragon laid it on me. I ought—”
“Save it in case we’re in real need later,” Roger said practically. “While I have coins, why not spend them?” He finished tying the mare to a hitching post, gave her a quick pat, and headed for the door of the inn. Mella slipped the chain back over her wrist and followed him.
When the innkeeper asked double what Mella’s father would have charged for a room, she nearly objected. But Roger caught her eye and shook his head, warning her not to call attention to herself. So Mella just snorted in disapproval as Roger handed over five silver coins.
“And we’ll need a fire in the room,” Roger added. The innkeeper, his clothes and hair greasy and his fingernails edged with black, frowned.
“’Tis full spring. We only burn firewood in the winter.”
“My sister’s ill,” Roger improvised. Mella took her cue and coughed, trying to look pale. “She needs the warmth.” The man still looked unwilling, and Roger reached into his purse for another coin.
“Don’t be such a skinflint, Han.” The merchant from the yard stood in the doorway, listening to the conversation. “Can’t you see that these are not the quality of travelers you ordinarily entertain?”
The man’s voice was mocking, but Mella could not tell who he was making fun of, herself or Roger or the innkeeper.
“If you take my advice,” the man continued, eyeing the innkeeper hard, “you’ll treat these two guests well indeed.”
The innkeeper gave the merchant a puzzled, resentful look but muttered, “Well enough, well enough.” Roger drew his hand back out of his purse.
The merchant gave Roger and Mella a friendly smile. He was handsome, with eyes of a keen blue and long fair hair braided smoothly down his back, and prosperous as well. A gold ring shone on his finger; his vest was fine green wool, dark to contrast with the long, narrow red silk scarf around his neck. Still, Mella found herself a little uneasy. She wanted to turn aside from his attention.
But the man had helped them, after all, and she didn’t want to act like a stupid peasant girl, frightened of everything in the city. And what was she afraid of? It was not as if they had anything to steal—the few coins in Roger’s purse, her two bits of jewelry, and a dragon’s egg. Hardly enough to tempt a rogue or a thief. She gave the man a nod of thanks before the innkeeper led them upstairs to their room.
The floor needed scrubbing, and the bedding could have used a good airing, Mella thought fastidiously. But at least the room had a fireplace and a door that shut and latched.
Mella took the metal box out of her sack and opened it to check on the Egg. It was still hot enough to redden the fingers she held nearly an inch above the black surface.
“You stay and wait for the fire,” Roger said. “I’ll go to the marketplace. We’ll need food to travel into the mountains.”
Mella nodded. She was having a hard time taking her eyes off the Egg. It was so dark it almost seemed to glow, she thought dreamily. It was like a hole in the air. She forgot to say farewell to Roger when he left. She forgot to argue that he should not spend his coins on what was, after all, her quest.
After a while she shut the box again, to keep the Egg’s heat contained, and stowed it at the bottom of her sack. Yawning, she moved over to the bed and stretched out on top of the shabby quilt. She’d had less than a night’s sleep, and this seemed like a good time to catch up. Her eyes had just drifted shut when she heard the door swing slowly open on its hinges. It must be the servant come to make up the fire. But she couldn’t be troubled to open her eyes and make sure.
Chapter Eight
Mella had terrible dreams. She seemed to be drowning in black water; it pressed down on her face, keeping air from her lungs. She fought to swim, but her arms and legs wouldn’t obey her. She could only float limply, helplessly, as she was tumbled over rapids and bumped against stones and at last dragged over the edge of a huge waterfall. The pool at the bottom was so deep that she never stopped going down.
It took a while for Mella to understand that she was awake. She was cold, as cold as if she truly were at the bottom of the deep black pool of her dreams, and she was lying on something rough and uncomfortable. What a terrible inn this was. The beds were hard as stone. She tried to reach up and rub her face, but something was wrong with her hands.
“Mella!”
Someone was calling her. It was Lilla’s turn to light the fires. She should hurry. Then it wouldn’t be so cold.
“Wake up. Mella, please. Wake up.”
Lilla would never say please. Puzzled, Mella opened her eyes. It took her a few moments to realize that she was looking at her own hands, tied together at the wrists with fine, strong cord. Then fear burned away the last of her sleepy daze, and she sat bolt upright with a gasp.
She was sitting on the ground in a small clearing in the woods. It was a dark night, but the flickering, shifting orange light of a small fire let her see what was around her. Roger was not far away. His hands, like Mella’s, had been bound together in front of him. Another rope was around his waist, tethering him to the back wheel of a wagon. Twisting around, Mella discovered that she was tied the same way. The rope was too short to allow her to turn and get at the knots unless she could free her hands.
“Thank goodness,” Roger said, keeping his voice low. “I thought you were never going to wake up. I was getting worried.”
“I’m still worried.” Mella found her voice shaking. She tried to steady it. “What happened? I was in our room at that inn….”
Roger shrugged. He was picking at the cord around his wrists with his teeth. “Someone grabbed me from behind in the marketplace. He put something over my face. It smelled terrible. When I woke up, I was in that wagon. You were there too.”
“But who—”
Roger nodded at something across the clearing. Mella’s question died in her throat.
A man walked out of the darkness between two trees, carrying an armful of firewood. He dropped the sticks to the ground and came over to crouch on his heels near Mella and Roger. With his head tipped a bit to one side, he seemed to be looking them over as if they were dragons he was considering buying for his herd.
The firelight was at his back, casting his face in shadow. Mella could only get a glimpse of fair hair, smooth against his skull, and the glint of gold on one hand. The merchant, she thought. The one from the inn.
Suddenly, without speaking and without warning, the man reached forward and slapped Roger hard across the face. Mella gasped, but Roger didn’t cry out, or even put up his bound hands to wipe away the trickle of blood that came from his nose.
“Leave those knots alone, or I’ll tie your hands behind you,” the man said pleasantly. “And you’ll find that’s a much less comfortable
way to spend the night. Well, my little guests. I’m so pleased to see everyone awake. Did you have nice dreams?”
He chuckled when neither of them answered.
“We must not be strangers to each other. You may call me Alain. It’s as good a name as any. And you need not fear; I am no murderer. Indeed, I’ll take very good care of you. Your father will pay handsomely, I’m sure, to have you back in one piece.”
His eyes on Roger, he hardly seemed to notice that Mella was there. Somehow that made Mella angrier than being kidnapped and drugged and tied up.
Roger sat up very straight. His voice, when he spoke, was sharp. Mella stared at him. He didn’t sound like friendly, inoffensive Roger anymore. He sounded like someone you wouldn’t want to cross.
“And how long do you think you’ll stay in one piece after my father has me back?”
Alain laughed again. “Why, as long as you want your little friend there to stay alive.” He nodded at Mella, who felt her throat go cold and tight. “She’ll make an excellent passport into the next kingdom, or even the next. It was very considerate of you to provide me with a hostage.” He reached out toward Roger’s face again. Mella flinched, but the man only ruffled Roger’s hair.
“Let’s understand each other now. If you do as I say, I’ll treat you well enough. But any trouble you cause me, you’ll quickly regret. Meanwhile, let’s see what gifts you brought me, shall we?” He got to his feet and walked around to the back of the wagon.
“Is your father rich?” Mella hissed at Roger.
“Very,” Roger mumbled. He was chewing on the knots again.
“But how did that man know?”
Roger shrugged. “He must have—” He broke off and quickly lowered his hands as Alain came back around the corner of the wagon, carrying Mella’s sack and the leather pack full of Roger’s belongings.
Mella burned with helpless anger as the merchant emptied her sack, scattering its contents across the grass. “Let’s see what we have here. I’d be a poor host to let my guests get cold, wouldn’t I?” He tossed Mella’s cloak at her. She wrapped it around her shoulders as best she could with her hands tied and watched while Alain picked up her coral necklace, dangled it from his fingers to examine it in the firelight, and flicked it aside into the grass. “Worthless. But what’s this?” He picked up the metal box that held the Egg.
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