All creatures bleed the same blood, be they man or be they beast. Our fates are intermingled.
Wheresoever spills the blood of any of earth’s creatures, there spills the blood of man.
—Private journals, Landerath
In time, Kaeldra’s sickness abated. She had no idea of how long she had lain in a stupor, hardly venturing to lift her head. She remembered little of the preceding hours except for a few blurred images, which she might only have dreamed: Jeorg giving her a drink of water, Jeorg mopping her brow, the draclings nestling beside her.
Now Kaeldra sat up and looked about her. Jeorg lay sleeping on a welter of burlap nearby; the draclings were nowhere in sight. Footsteps and voices sounded above; a rancid, musty odor mingled with the smell of the sea. She stumbled to the water jug and wet her parched mouth, careful not to drink too fast. There was a hunk of banlep bread on the floor. Kaeldra, picking it up, found that she was famished. She broke off a chunk and ate it slowly, letting each bite dissolve in her mouth.
When she called for the draclings, they came bounding toward her through the maze of crates and casks and baskets, through the tines of light that entered the portholes and pierced the dark hold. They greeted her, flicked their tongues, then turned and scampered back the way they had come.
Kaeldra followed, dragging her chain across the open space, then threading over, around, and between piles of cargo until the chain pulled taut near a stack of baled wool.
The draclings were far back in the hold, scratching at a cask. She sensed a gleeful anticipation, a tantalizing hope for something good to eat.
Had they eaten? she wondered. They must have, else they would have awakened her with their complaints before now. But what?
The thought of food brought on a gnawing in her own belly; she clanked back to the open space, tore off another hunk of bread, and stuffed it into her mouth.
Jeorg moaned and turned toward her, still asleep. The gash on his cheek had closed, but a purplish bruise spread beneath his right eye. On his cheeks and chin was a sparse, light brown stubble. A lock of hair curled damply over one eye; his mouth was slightly open.
He looked so vulnerable, like a little boy. It was hard to believe that he was the one Kaeldra had fled and feared for so long.
She crept closer, remembering her dream, if it had been a dream, when he had offered her water. She recalled the tone of his voice when he had spoken her name, and the disturbing jolt she had felt when he looked into her eyes.
Perhaps Granmyr had been wrong about him. He had treated Kaeldra with kindness and, though he had pursued her, had neither harmed her nor betrayed her. Perhaps, she thought, he was not a dragonslayer after all, but a member of Landerath’s secret underground, sworn to the saving of dragons. It was not he who had slain Fiora, but hunters from Elythia. Perhaps he only pretended to be a dragonslayer and in reality was protecting her. But Kaeldra could not think why he would not have told her this. Neither did she understand how he came to be on this ship, nor what sort of trouble he was in.
She reached out, hesitated, then gently brushed the hair from his brow. Jeorg stirred. His eyes opened. In a voice gravelly with sleep, he uttered her name. Kaeldra swallowed, her face suddenly hot. Her hand strayed to her own hair, and she remembered all at once how she must look, shorn and dirty, dressed like a boy.
Crash!
Kaeldra spun round. The draclings milled about a toppled cask, slurping brinefish from the floor. Kaeldra tensed, listening for shouts or a sudden change in the footsteps overhead. But apparently the sailors had not heard the crash or, if they had, thought nothing of it.
“They learned that trick yesterday,” Jeorg said, sitting up. “In a moment, the fat one will likely—ah, there he goes.”
Pyro, gobbling fish, burrowed inside the cask until only his rear legs and tail stuck out the top. He propelled it along the floor, crashing into crates, flopping over and over as the cask rolled with the movement of the ship. At last he emerged, dripping with brine. His swollen belly dragged upon the floor, and the corners of his mouth curved up in a self-satisfied smirk.
The draclings waddled to Kaeldra, thrumming, and they greeted Jeorg as well. Synge clambered into his lap; even Embyr rubbed against him. Their colors, Kaeldra saw, seemed to be changing. They were no longer quite so mottled. Pyro’s coppery hue had deepened to a vibrant crimson; Synge was bluish green. Embyr’s scales had darkened to the deep, rich green of a fir-shadowed lake.
Synge still limped badly—worse than Kaeldra had remembered. Kaeldra lifted her off Jeorg’s lap and examined her wound. The shoulder had knit, but the new scales were soft and gray. They formed a scarred ridge, which seemed to pain her.
“What happened to this one?” Jeorg asked, scratching Synge’s eye ridges.
“Her name is Synge. She was bitten by a dog. And this”—Kaeldra fingered the nick on Synge’s back ridge—“is an old wolf bite.”
“Is she all right?”
“I hope so,” Kaeldra said, worried about Synge, and strangely agitated by Jeorg’s gaze. She concentrated hard on Synge’s wound, feeling Jeorg’s eyes upon her, wanting to meet them, yet afraid.
All afternoon, an unfamiliar awkwardness possessed her. She found it impossible to look at Jeorg, and their attempts at conversation were clumsy. Gone were his bluster and braggadocio; now he seemed as shy as she. It wasn’t until evening, when shadows veiled their faces and the draclings curled up beside them, that the awkwardness began to ebb. Jeorg asked how Kaeldra had come aboard, and she found herself telling more than she had intended: about her ride through the sea, and Yanil, and the kestrel.
“And you?” she asked at last.
Jeorg told how the gyrfalcon had led him through the labyrinth. “She could feel the draclings’ thoughts,” he said. “But the draclings could sense my bird seeking them. They masked their thoughts, I think, for soon she lost them.” Jeorg had blundered to the cave mouth at last, had climbed from ledge to ledge across the cliff until he arrived at the harbor. Spying the kestrel atop the mast, he had surmised that Kaeldra was aboard and had booked passage just as the ship was about to depart.
When he found that Kaeldra was imprisoned, Jeorg stole the captain’s keys, thinking to release her. But the captain discovered they were missing. “There was a search,” he said. “I was found out. Like a fool, I fought them all and”—Jeorg’s voice grew soft—“they slew my bird.
“I lost, as you can see.” Ruefully, he fingered his cheek. “You know the rest.”
No, I don’t, Kaeldra thought. I don’t know who you truly are. I don’t know why you have followed me, nor why you sought to release me. But a secret hope stirred inside her. The draclings—even Embyr—had accepted him. They would know, would they not, if he meant them harm? And the way Jeorg looked at her, the way he was looking now . . .
“You have told how you pursued me,” Kaeldra said, and paused. “But not why.”
Jeorg turned away. When he spoke again, his voice was low, and he did not meet her eyes.
“Uh, well. That’s a long story.”
“There is time.”
“Well . . .” He looked at Kaeldra again. “I shouldn’t tell you. You wouldn’t understand.”
“Maybe I will.”
Jeorg sighed. “My father wanted me to be a warrior. Like my elder brothers. Like himself. So he sent me to be trained by a great warrior, as he had done with my brothers. I didn’t do too badly, either, until—” Jeorg broke off, then continued in a rush. “He wanted me to kill a puppy. To strangle it bare-handed, as a test of ruthlessness and loyalty.
“I just—couldn’t. And so,” Jeorg continued, “he returned me home, dishonored.
“My father, not knowing what else to do with me, sent me to the Sentinels. I thought I had found my true calling because dragons . . .” He looked down, away from Kaeldra. “Dragons are evil; I could be ruthless with them, I thought. So when Landerath sent me with a message for your granmyr, and I surmised about the dragons, I determined to slay them myself. They would be my first. They would bring me glory, and overcome my shame. I destroyed his letter to her, and—”
She was moving away from him, back across the open space as far as she could go. It wasn’t right, what he was saying. She had thought, she had wanted him to say something else, something very different.
“Kaeldra—oh, I knew I shouldn’t have told you! Listen, I didn’t know you then; I didn’t know them. These draclings—they are not as I had imagined. Now I don’t know anymore what’s true. They said Landerath is a traitor, and indeed he did say things that seemed strange, seemed—to permit another meaning. He was master of the Sentinels, and yet I cannot remember that he ever taught of slaying. Others did, Modin and Rowac, but not Landerath. He spoke often of the connectedness of things, of a common blood. His words seemed strange to me, but I didn’t ask, didn’t question, didn’t want to hear. . . .
“And now they say that he is dead.”
“Landerath?” Kaeldra said. “Landerath is dead?”
“The captain said so.”
Kaeldra crouched among the bales of wool, her hands clutched into fists. Landerath couldn’t be dead. For then even if she did manage to escape, there was no one in the whole wide world who could help.
“He was good to me, and I betrayed him. Perhaps if I had returned—oh, Kaeldra . . .” Jeorg started forward.
“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t come near me. Stay where you are.”
She did not speak to him again that night.