by Resa Nelson
Astrid looked from Vinchi to Margreet and back to Vinchi again. Of course. Why hadn’t she noticed sooner?
“You wish Margreet had met you before she met Gershon.”
Vinchi’s face flushed and he hurried his pace.
“You think you could have wooed her. You think she could be waiting at home for you right now, pacing and wanting you home with her. You think she could have loved you instead of him.”
“At least she’d be safe,” Vinchi muttered.
“Or would she simply be your property instead of his?”
Vinchi stopped suddenly and spun to face her. The look in his eyes flared with rage and he spoke quietly through clenched teeth. “Watch your tongue, woman. We’re in Daneland. In all the world, this is the one kingdom where the law says I can challenge you to combat and you must defend yourself instead of asking a man to do it for you. You may know how to slaughter dragons, but I know for a fact that you have no training in defending yourself against a man.”
Startled, Astrid sensed the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise, and her skin turned to goose flesh. Vinchi spoke the truth, and she saw no evidence that he might bluff. Astrid was determined to use Vinchi’s feelings against him. “So you would be quick to kill me for questioning your feelings but you hesitate to take Margreet to a safe place where she might learn to love you in time?”
Hope flickered faintly across Vinchi’s face like a lit candle in a drafty room. “She wouldn’t…”
“We don’t know that,” Astrid said. “How can we know until we try?”
Vinchi let his gaze wander to Margreet. His voice weakened. “We’d be breaking the law. It’s theft.”
“And which is the worse crime? Committing theft or allowing a woman to be murdered?”
Vinchi shook his head. “She won’t let us. Once she sets her mind to something, she’s too strong willed for anyone to reason with her.”
“There are two of us.”
Tiny hail pounded hard against Vinchi’s face and ran down his skin like icy tears.
“How are you going to feel,” Astrid said, “when it’s too late? What will your life be like when she’s dead?”
Vinchi turned and looked toward his ship.
Astrid followed his gaze. His hired seamen pulled the plank back on board, which meant they were getting ready to sail out of this harbor and on to the next.
“I told them to sail the ship back to my home port,” Vinchi murmured. “I told them I’d meet up with them there after Gershon arrives and we give Margreet back to him.”
Astrid laid a gentle hand on his arm, and Vinchi started at her touch. “Wouldn’t that be the same as letting Margreet commit suicide?” she whispered. “We could sail to your home port now.”
Vinchi shook his head. “Gershon will look there first.”
“But isn’t there a whole wide world between here and your home port? Some other place we could go where Gershon wouldn’t think to look? Can’t we get back on the ship and sail to a place where he can’t find us?”
“We would have to force Margreet on board.”
Astrid withdrew Falling Star from her belt. “We have weapons. Margreet doesn’t.”
Astrid followed Vinchi’s gaze through the crowd to Margreet. “I do know a place,” he said. “And a quick way to get there.”
CHAPTER 32
Norah huddled by the wheel of the cart, scrunching to hide behind it while Wendill searched its contents. They’d found it abandoned in a thicket of trees near the village below. Norah found comfort in hiding. If anyone surprised them, she’d be able to scramble into the forest.
A pile of heavy cloth plummeted to the ground next to her.
“It’s a cloak,” Wendill said, still searching the cart. “And plenty of food, plus a cloth I can use for a sack.”
Norah buried her face in the cloak that landed at her feet, but she withdrew and hissed. “Scalding!”
Wendill jumped from the cart, landing neatly on his feet. He carried another cloak in his arms. Extending them, he said, “What do you make of this? Does it smell like her, too?”
Rising to her feet, Norah leaned forward, careful to keep her distance. A quick sniff told enough. Wrinkling her nose, Norah nodded confirmation. The scent of the Scalding girl lingered on what would be Wendill’s cloak, as well.
“Hmm,” he said, sticking his own nose into the folds of the cloak. “Is that all? Just her? Or is there more?”
More? Hadn’t she already tortured herself by inhaling a scent she wished she’d never known? Norah squinted, pursed her lips, and looked angrily at Wendill. When caged on Tower Island by the evil Scaldings and any of them dared to venture close to the bars, this very look sent them screaming away in terror every time: Norah’s Death Look.
Wendill didn’t seem to notice. Instead of waiting for Norah to lean forward, he stuck the cloak right under her nose.
Screeching in surprise, Norah hurried to escape, only to back into the cart, wincing when she struck an elbow against the wood.
“Well?” Wendill said.
Norah considered turning her back to him and slithering to hide under the cart, but then she realized he was right. The cloak held more scent than she’d first noticed. “Man,” she said in surprise.
“The scent of a man in addition to the Scalding girl’s scent?”
Norah took a tentative step forward to catch another whiff. She detected a male odor underlying the familiar one. Looking up at Wendill, she nodded.
“Which one is stronger?”
Norah answered with hesitation. “Scalding.”
“Did they both wear this cloak?”
“Not Scalding.”
Wendill picked up the other cloak from the ground. “And this one?”
A gentle breeze brought its scent to Norah. “Same.”
“It has the scent of the Scalding girl and of the man?”
Norah nodded. “Different man.”
Wendill took a good sniff of each cloak. “I see what you mean. A different man wore each cloak, but each has her scent on it, too.”
A stronger breeze carried information that startled Norah. Wide-eyed, she took a step back, pointing at the cloaks. “Lizard!”
Quietly and with purposeful calm, Wendill said, “Could this be something the monster wore? The footstep we found? The creature that is not a man but not a dragon?”
Norah considered the question, thinking back to what she’d gleaned from smelling the footstep. She’d detected the sour sweat of a man along with the distinctive briny smell of lizard. They’d been intermingled and entwined with each other like a fish ensnared in seaweed, unable to escape.
The smell of each cloak differed greatly. The scent of man was faint and stale with age, as if months had passed since men wore these cloaks. The scent of lizard came across as strong and fresh as that of the Scalding girl. In fact, the scent of lizard smelled far stronger.
How puzzling. Why would a lizard wear a cloak?
Answering Wendill’s question, Norah shook her head. “Not monster.”
Wendill smiled and relaxed. “Curious. But I imagine these are safe to wear. Even though we’re bound south, the weather will turn colder with every day. Use this to stay warm.” He shook out one cloak and draped it around Norah’s shoulders, fastening the simple clasp. He then donned the other cloak and scanned the landscape surrounding them.
The wind reversed direction, and a strong gust blew in from the sea.
Norah cried out, sinking to huddle and hide by the wheel of the cart again.
Kneeling, Wendill gazed at her in concern. “What’s wrong?”
Norah pointed toward the village. The sea wind carried dozens of scents including many from the town below, but one smell stood out from the rest. Tears welled in Norah’s eyes as she whispered, “Monster!”
CHAPTER 33
“Can you detect the Scalding girl?” Wendill’s brow creased with concern.
Norah closed her eyes, focusing her full atten
tion on the scents carried by the shifting wind. Blowing from the direction of the forest, the wind carried the dankness of mud from a creek going dry, the paleness of fallen pine needles, and the musky fur of animals settling into their dens to sleep through the winter. The wind kicked up from the ocean, rich with the tang of seaweed, the taste of salt, and the distinctive briny odors of the creatures that lived in its waters.
But the breeze coming from the direction of the village made Norah shudder in fear. The scents were too varied and confusing. Smelling so many different people made her feel like she was back in her cage on Tower Island. They smelled of their own bodies mixed with the dead animal skin and the tortured flax they wore. Then there were the smells of roasting meat and baking bread, filling her with unwanted desire to eat things that had once been alive.
Then she ferreted out the other scents: the monster and the Scalding.
Norah choked back tears when she opened her eyes. “Village.”
“The Scalding girl is in the village? Along with the monster?”
Norah inhaled and reconsidered the information of scent. What she learned calmed her. “Not now.”
“But they were there recently.” Wendill took a deep breath, clearly relieved. “Were they in the village at the same time?”
Norah shrugged.
“Can you still follow her scent? Can she lead us to the Dragon’s Well?”
Testing Wendill’s question, Norah sniffed the air, inhaled deeply, and nodded.
He gazed toward the village. “Most likely we’ll be fine. But if there’s any sign of trouble, we’ll head for the ocean and dive in. Once we go under water, we can change shape. That makes it easier for us to blend in with the sea and for anyone else to lose sight of us. Understand?”
Norah nodded again. At first, the thought of infiltrating the village had terrified her because she wanted to stay among her own kind.
But knowing Wendill would stay close by her side gave Norah a growing confidence.
Within a short time they entered the village. People crowded its wooden walkway so tightly that no one seemed to notice their presence. Norah sighed with relief until a new scent in the air startled her.
She tugged on Wendill’s cloak. He turned with eyebrows raised in surprise. His gaze drifted to Norah’s hand, still clutching the edge of his cloak.
Norah jerked her hand back, grimacing with self-disgust. Because she’d spent her life locked inside a cage, she wasn’t used to being touched or touching others. The act of touch felt like an invasion. A threat. She hated herself for taking the lowly action of touching Wendill’s cloak, but she’d seen no other way to get his attention.
Shockingly, Wendill touched her arm, and concern laced his voice. “What’s wrong?”
Norah automatically jerked away from him and cradled her arm where he’d made contact, as if he’d injured her. Feeling safe again, she raised her nose slightly and took a delicate whiff. “Scalding.”
“I thought you said she left the village.”
Norah nodded, rocking one arm inside the other like an infant. She breathed deeply, inhaling an interesting mix of smells, something she’d never quite encountered before. It spawned an irresistible urge inside her. Norah followed the scent, winding her way through the crowd to keep it close to her before the wind carried it away.
She stopped abruptly at the moment the breeze shifted toward the ocean.
Norah cried out as someone bumped into her back.
“Watch yourself!” a tall wiry woman said. Even though she’d tied her hair in a bun, fine strands had fuzzed up, making it look like a baby bird covered with fluffy down. She knelt by a basket and picked up a few raw potatoes that had spilled out of it. “If you must stand in the middle of the market, you could at least give some warning.” The woman clucked as she righted herself and brushed imaginary dirt from her dress. “Too many foreigners coming in these days,” she muttered. “But what can you do about it?”
“Norah.” Wendill caught up with her as the potato woman hurried away. He reached out but then drew his hand back, thinking better of it.
Ignoring him, Norah followed her nose to a simple wooden house at the end of the market street.
“I don’t understand,” Wendill said. He sniffed mightily. “I don’t smell anything special.”
Norah pointed at the house. “Scalding.”
“I thought you said she’s already left the village.” Wendill pushed ahead, striding up to the house just as its door opened.
A man with the large, sad eyes of a hunting dog stepped over the threshold and looked up in surprise at Wendill and Norah. Sighing, he said, “I never knew a man to have so many friends. If you’ve come to visit, be forewarned that no one’s been able to wake him up. On the other hand, if you’re here because you think you can collect his goods, think again—he ain’t dead yet.”
Ah, Norah thought. The scent is so obvious now. And tells such a strange story!
The man standing in the doorway to the house braced his arms against the frame, but Norah easily dashed under his arms and into the house.
Sighing, the man gave up on blocking the doorway, lowering his arms and gesturing for Wendill to come in.
Norah immediately noticed the hearth in the center of the room, where a woman tended the fire and a cooking pot hung over it. Next to the hearth, a large sleeping man stretched out on blankets. His head was shiny and bare, but yellow hair grew over most of his face and hung down to his chest. His hands were enormous and thick.
Norah leaned closer and sniffed the man’s gigantic hands. They smelled of the pelts of wolves and bears, foxes and badgers, rabbits and shore cats.
She also detected the acrid odor of fear—not his, but the fear of others. The scent of the Scalding intertwined with the aromas of other people, illuminating a difference about the Scalding scent that Norah couldn’t pinpoint.
“What is it?” Wendill stood by her side now and spoke quietly so the others wouldn’t hear. “Who is he?”
Instead of answering, Norah placed her nose so close to his skin that she almost touched him, shivering at the thought. But there, information embedded itself in the man’s skin. Tantalizing information.
Norah considered the situation. The man with the hands of a giant slept. Judging from his own gamy odor, he had been sleeping for a few days. The man with the sad eyes said no one expected him to wake up. Pausing, she breathed deeply, sensing no danger in this house. Curiosity gnawed at her. The more she tried to inhale the mystery of the information withheld by this man’s skin, the more she was tempted.
She’d learned long ago that the sense of smell tied strongly to the sense of taste. Whenever she had trouble understanding odors, she could take one step to gain a deeper understanding.
Just this once, Norah told herself. Just once and never again.
Steeling herself for the most unpleasant thing she’d ever chosen to do, Norah touched the tip of her tongue to the sleeping man’s temple for a brief moment.
She found it, clear and crisp and interesting.
Ah, Norah thought as she pulled away from the sleeping man. I am surprised and not surprised.
“Norah?” Wendill said, shocked by her action. “Are you all right?”
The sleeping man’s eyelids fluttered like moths trapped in honey. Finally, his eyes opened and he gazed groggily at Norah.
“Scalding,” Norah said to him, “fears nothing.”
As the man who used to sleep stared in wide-eyed wonder at Norah, she smiled. Despite the disgust of touching and tasting his skin, doing so had been worth it. Norah delighted at the new knowledge dancing across her tongue.
For the first time, she felt glad she’d ventured outside the dragons’ cave where she had been safe and protected.
CHAPTER 34
At first the voices sounded faint and distant, and the darkness enveloping him convinced Gershon that he’d somehow lost his way on a moonless, cloudy night outside the port village. But then he realized h
is feet weren’t moving.
In fact, no part of his body moved at all.
“If you’ve come to visit, be forewarned that no one’s been able to wake him up.” The voice sounded familiar to Gershon, but he couldn’t identify it. “On the other hand, if you’re here because you think you can collect his goods, think again—he ain’t dead yet.”
Dead?
A stark and sudden chill passed through Gershon’s body, but he couldn’t shiver it off. How could he be dead?
No, wait—the familiar voice said Gershon hadn’t died. Not yet. It also said no one could wake him up. Might he be sleeping?
The chill ran through his body again, colder and darker this time. Why did he sleep and why couldn’t anyone wake him up?
“What is it?” an unfamiliar male voice whispered. “Who is he?”
Who are you? Gershon tried to say, but his voice didn’t work. He tried to open his eyes to no avail. Gershon panicked.
What is it? Why can’t I move? Am I paralyzed?
A new realization occurred to him.
The dragon. This is the fault of the very small dragon that came out of the boy’s chest and spit on me!
Of course. How obvious. Everyone knew that dragons killed by biting their prey. Soon after, the victim would be so stunned by the bite that he often froze in place, where the dragon would make a meal of him. Gershon once heard of a man bitten by a dragon that attacked his village. That village’s dragonslayer arrived in time to slay the dragon and prevent it from killing anyone, but the man already bitten died a few days later.
It was surefire proof that a dragon’s bite is poisonous.
I’m dying. How can this be happening to me? I’m strong and well and mighty of sword. I capture wild animals and skin them. I should have died on the battlefield defending my territory or my trade or my possessions. Not like this.
Still enveloped in darkness, Gershon’s foggy head cleared just enough for him to realize his eyes were shut. He tried to open his eyes, but nothing happened.
