Cara sat, trembling, at the edge of the cliff, holding the golden casket against her chest. The Squijum crouched on her shoulder, crooning nonsense into her ear. Lightfoot stood behind her. She wondered what he was thinking.
Ahead of them dawn was creeping over the mountains. Suddenly, Firethroat burst into the light, appearing as if from nowhere. Her claws were empty.
Cara and her friends scrambled back from the cliff edge as the dragon returned to her cave.
“It is done,” she murmured, folding her wings.
“What did you do with him?” asked Cara nervously.
The dragon regarded her with one enormous eye. “I returned him to Earth,” she said at last. “Not an easy thing to do, I assure you. But flying between worlds is another gift that dragons possess.”
“Where?” Cara asked. “Where did you leave him?”
“Someplace empty,” said the dragon with maddening vagueness. “I cannot go where there are people, of course. I left him safe, dry, and alive. What he does next is up to him. I care only that he does not return to Luster.”
“Thank you,” said Cara. “I know it was not easy for you.” Stepping forward, she placed the casket on the cave floor, not far from the dragon. “Here,” she whispered, pushing it forward. “Your heart is your own again.”
She watched a great claw reach forward and draw the golden casket away.
Then the last of her strength left her, and the pain and the loss came flooding in. Turning from the dragon, from her friends, Cara bolted into the darkness at the back of the cave. When she stumbled and fell, she made no move to get up, simply lay on the floor, sobbing her grief and pain, until a welcome darkness blanketed her mind.
* * *
When she woke, it was dark again. The only light came from a sprinkling of stars behind her, and — to her right — a faint glow from the dragon’s fiery nostrils.
Whimpering, she curled into a ball, trying to blot the memory of the previous night from her mind.
After a while she realized that someone was standing over her. Opening her eyes, she saw the glow of Lightfoot’s horn. A look of gentle concern filled his eyes. He knelt beside her and she wound her arms around his neck, burying her face in the clean perfection of his mane.
“Do you hate me?” she thought.
“Why?” he asked, seeming startled by the question.
“Because I am a Hunter.”
“You are Cara,” he replied, “and you are not chained by blood. You are a friend of unicorns.”
Though she tried to hold it in, another sob tore out of her. Clinging to Lightfoot, she wept until her lungs were sore, her face a soggy mess, whispering, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.”
“I have no way to heal a wound such as this,” said Lightfoot sadly, when she was done.
She said nothing, only tightened her grip on him, holding him as if she were tottering on the edge of an abyss far deeper and more terrifying than the one from which Firethroat had saved her.
“Are you all right?” he asked after a while.
She shook her head. “How can I be all right? I missed him so much for so long. And then . . .”
“Family ties are strange,” he replied. “I have thought about them often, but never —”
He was interrupted by the Squijum. The little creature had been sitting in front of them, holding the amulet. Suddenly he darted forward and placed the golden bauble on Cara’s knees. As Lightfoot stepped back, the Squijum chittered something, then scrambled up Cara’s arm to her shoulder and kissed her on the cheek. As if startled by his own boldness, he scampered back down and raced to the mouth of the cave, where he sat on his haunches, chattering incomprehensibly.
“I wish I could understand you,” she said, half-amused, half-irritated.
“An interesting thought, young human,” said Firethroat, interrupting the Squijum’s chatter. “And perhaps the solution to a vexing problem.”
“What problem?” asked Cara.
The dragon sighed, sending a wave of warmth in Cara’s direction. “I owe you a great boon for what you have done.”
“A boon?”
“It is something like a reward,” explained Lightfoot. “Dragons do not like to be in anyone’s debt, and you have done this lady a great service. It would be wise to accept whatever she offers with as much grace as you can manage.”
“But you already saved my father,” whispered Cara.
“It was commanded of me,” said Firethroat. “But my heart was freely returned, and the boon must be freely given.”
Cara paused, feeling the world was moving too fast for her. After a moment she said, “I would be most grateful to accept your boon, Lady Firethroat.”
The dragon made a sound of approval. “Come with me,” she said. “I would prefer to do this in private.”
Cara followed Firethroat deep into the cave, then into a separate chamber. Here the darkness was complete, save for the dim light that came from the dragon’s nostrils. Suddenly, Firethroat opened her mouth and shot forth a brief gout of flame.
Cara gasped in wonder, for at once the chamber came to life with a thousand colors, as piles of gold and jewels reflected back the burst of flame. For a moment Cara thought the purpose of the flame had been to show her what was in the room. She wondered if this was to be Firethroat’s boon, some piece of fabulous treasure.
She was wrong, on both counts. Firethroat had used her flame to light a torch mounted in the wall. Now its low, flickering light danced on the gems, some as big as Cara’s fist, that littered the floor.
The dragon cast her eye over a pile, then reached into it and pulled forth a jeweled chalice. “This should do,” she said, passing it to Cara.
“Thank you.”
The dragon chuckled. “That is not the boon.”
Cara blinked.
“You didn’t want it to be the boon, did you?” asked Firethroat.
She shook her head, hoping she wasn’t getting herself into more trouble.
Firethroat stared at her. “You held my heart in your hands and returned it to me, when you could have made me your slave.”
Cara shivered. The thought had never occurred to her. She found it repulsive.
“I want you to understand the granting of this boon,” said the dragon. “This is only the third time in more thousands of years than I care to remember that I have done this for a human. Come here — step close.”
Hesitant, nervous, Cara did as the dragon asked. As she watched, Firethroat ran the first talon of her right front foot up and down the scales of her neck.
“Here!” she said at last. Grasping one of the scales, she wrenched it from her neck. Blood welled from the wound, steaming hot.
“Catch it!” she ordered.
Cara held the chalice beneath Firethroat’s neck.
Three large drops of blood fell, steaming and smoking, into the chalice.
“Now drink them.”
“What?” cried Cara.
“Drink them. Quickly, while they are still hot and the magic is strong.”
Cara stared into the steaming chalice. Lightfoot’s words about accepting the boon with grace sounded in her head. Closing her eyes, she lifted the chalice to her lips. Then she threw back her head and drank.
Fire scalded her throat, raced along her veins. The chalice fell from her hands. She closed her eyes, stiffened, nearly fell, straightened, stood firm.
“Are you all right?” asked Firethroat, not in Cara’s language, but in the ancient tongue of the dragons, a language of fire that came from deep in the belly.
And Cara understood.
“This is my boon,” said Firethroat, “the best I have to offer. It is the gift of tongues, of knowledge of the languages of all creatures. Now there are none in Luster to whom you cannot speak, none to whom you must be a stranger.”
“It is a great gift, and I am deeply honored,” said Cara.
“Small return for the return of my heart,” said Firethroat.
With a flick of her wing, she extinguished the torch. Then she led the way from the chamber.