Dragon Spear (4 page)
“This is the big surprise!” Feniul convulsively lashed his tail, picking up his smallest daughter and flinging her high in the air. She did a flip, squealing with glee, and landed on his back.
Sapphire blue, with gleaming silver gray horns, Velika emerged from the jungle at a strangely slow and halting pace. My heart lurched—had she been injured? What had happened?
But her eyes glowed, and so did Shardas’s, as she came to stand beside him. She lowered her long muzzle, and I rested one hand lightly between her eyes.
“Are you? I mean, what’s . . . er . . .” My words stumbled as I caught sight of her bulging belly. Eggs!
Shardas let out a bellow of laughter. “The hatching will not be for some time after, but I think you will be here when our eggs are laid.” The emotion in his voice was pride and joy, and several of the dragons around us let out bellows of their own.
My eyes brimmed with tears again, and I ducked under Velika’s chin to hug her neck. It was a liberty I never would have dared take just last year, but I couldn’t help myself. Hatchlings, after all this time!
Seeing the little stone huts where we were to live and the evening feast on the shore were just a blur after that. It wasn’t until later, sitting on a log by the bonfire with Luka, that I could even string more than two words together.
“This is all so wonderful,” I said, sighing.
“It’s the most amazing thing that’s ever happened to me,” Hagen chimed in. He was holding out a long stick with a piece of yellow fruit on the end. Riss, one of Gala’s daughters, was toasting the fruit for him with a small tendril of blue dragonfire.
Darrym came up, still bobbing his head around awkwardly. But then, I didn’t really know him all that well, and the last time we had spoken had been in the aftermath of a war. “So, you, ah, didn’t know about Velika at all?” he said.
“Not a hint of it,” I told him. “Isn’t it thrilling?”
“Yes,” he said. And now he added running sand compulsively between his foreclaws to his head bobbing. “It’s more than we could have hoped for. First to find the queen alive, and then for her to have children . . .” More bobbing. “Yes, it’s more than we could have hoped!” He went off into the jungle.
“What under the Triunity is he talking about?” I turned to Riss for an explanation but she just shook her head in confusion.
“I don’t remember him being quite so Feniul-like before,” Luka said after the green and brown dragon had disappeared into the trees.
“Isn’t he one of the ones who was collared? In Citatie?” Hagen blew on his roasted fruit before popping it into his mouth. “That would make anyone behave strangely,” he said, talking around a mouthful of hot fruit.
“Very true,” Luka agreed.
“No, he’s just strange.” Riss snickered. “He doesn’t have a hoard.” She said this as though it sealed the matter in stone.
“I didn’t think any of you had hoards, at least not yet,” Luka said.
That reminded me that we had not yet presented Shardas with the black sand, or the other items we had brought as gifts. He had gone to escort Velika to her bed; she tired easily this close to laying her eggs.
“We have
some
things,” Riss said defensively. “But he doesn’t want anything.”
“Perhaps he was born into the collar and doesn’t have the instinct,” I said thoughtfully. “How would he know what he liked? He wouldn’t even have heard of a hoard until just last year.”
Riss shrugged. “Strange.”
Amacarin came then to tell her to go to bed, and Feniul and Niva settled in to hear the news from Feravel, so I pushed any thought of Darrym to the back of my mind.
And tomorrow there would be gifts, and an entire island to explore.
Y
ou’re sure?” Gala stared at the gold gown with awe.
“Yes, please,” I said fervently. “If you don’t take it, I think one of my apprentices might burn it. Both times I’ve worn it something bad has happened, and she told me that she sometimes has trouble sleeping, just knowing that it’s in my wardrobe across the hall.”
Gala shook her head. “A very odd human.” She delicately lifted the stiff overskirt with a claw, studying the blue silk underneath. “So lovely! And how did you know that fancywork was my passion?”
“I asked Velika if there was anything I could bring with me, to help you all get settled,” I told her. “And, because I’m a dressmaker, she knew that I would have something for you.”
“The queen is ever thoughtful,” Gala said. “And this is particularly exquisite.” She closely studied the embroidery of the bodice.
“It is some of my best work,” I said, trying and failing to sound modest. “So I’m glad that it will have someone to admire it.”
I had brought a collapsible dressmaker’s dummy with me as well, and now the golden gown hung from the wicker frame, the rich fabric glowing softly in the torchlight that lit Gala and Amacarin’s cave. Gala settled down beside the gown, arranging herself over the sandy nest of eggs as though prepared to admire the gown all day while she warmed her babies. I went out into the sunshine with her mate.
“Thank you, Creel,” Amacarin said sincerely. He and I had never exactly been friends, but Gala and her children seemed to have had a softening effect on him. “It will do her good to begin collecting again.”
“And what about you?” I looked up at him, hiding a smile. I had something for Amacarin in the bag slung over my shoulder; I just hadn’t told him yet.
“Oh, I was able to return to my cave in Feravel when the exile began, and retrieve a few things,” he said, but he gazed into the distance as though thinking of all the items he hadn’t retrieved. “I suppose the rest was taken away by humans. I can only hope they know how to care for fine vellum properly.” He made a swiping gesture, as though wiping invisible dust off his own foreleg.
“Luka’s brother, Prince Miles, gathered your books up personally,” I told him, still trying to hide a smile. “He has added them to the royal library, where they will be very well looked after.”
“That’s good, I suppose,” he said, his voice distant.
“Unfortunately, one or two items have gone missing recently,” I said, unable to contain myself any longer. I reached into the bag and pulled out two rare scrolls of lyric poetry from the fifth century. The scrolls had taken up so little room, Luka had had to stop me from stealing more. I handed them to Amacarin, who cradled them in his claws as if they were babies.
“Oh, Creel!” His voice was reverent. “The works of Malester Punin? Thank you!” He lowered his muzzle and inhaled the scent of dust and parchment. “Thank you! I must . . . Gala will . . .”
“Go and show her.” I laughed.
He turned and went back into the cave, calling out to his new mate. “Only see, Gala! See what our lovely human friend brought me!”
Smiling, I walked back down to the beach. Luka and Shardas were waiting for me by a large oven that Shardas had made from sheets of iron. I had seen the clay ovens the dragons used to bake huge slabs of moist, spongy, berry bread, but I had no idea what this big, black oven was for.
“Where’d you get the iron?” Hagen was walking around the contraption, kicking it in that knowledgeable way that boys have.
“I traded for it in Moralien,” Shardas said. Moralien was the one country that hadn’t shut the dragons out entirely. The Moralienin had always been explorers and traders and would trade with a human, dragon, or talking dog if there were rare goods to be had.
“What did you trade?” Hagen looked curiously at Shardas. “I thought you didn’t have any—” He colored. “I mean, I didn’t think dragons . . .”
“Have money? No, we don’t. I captured some exotic birds here on the island, and used them to barter,” Shardas said, chuckling.
I gave him a worried look. “I thought you weren’t going to trade anything too interesting for a while,” I reminded him. “So that people won’t guess that the Far Isles aren’t barren and horrid.”
Shardas looked sheepish. “I said that I had found them flying somewhere off the coast of a country I couldn’t remember,” he said. “I
think
they believed me.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Luka shook his head and indicated the buckets at his feet. “If you are quite finished scolding the king of the dragons, Creel, we do have a gift for him.”
Now my cheeks were red, and Hagen was smirking at me. I hadn’t meant to scold. I hid my embarrassment by going to stand beside Luka as he picked up one of the covered buckets and presented it to Shardas.
“Er, thank you,” Shardas said, taking the bucket with a puzzled look. Then he lifted the lid. “Black sand!”
“Black sand?” Velika had lumbered up in her stately yet cumbersome way. “What is it for?”
“It melts into a fine red glass,” Shardas told her with delight. “I shall make you a scarlet vase.” He looked down at Luka and me. “Thank you so very much!”
“Luka found it on some secluded beach in Moralien,” I said, squeezing my betrothed’s waist. “I wouldn’t have known it was different from any other sand,” I admitted.
“It’s hard to see how something like this could change into red glass,” Shardas agreed, running a claw through the coarse, dark grains. He carefully poured some of the sand into an iron pan and set it in the oven.
“Do you use these to shape the glass?” Hagen picked up a long tube lying by the base of the oven.
“Does everyone in this world know how to make glass except me?” I huffed.
“Barten Foss is a glassmaker,” Hagen said with a shrug.
“Barten Foss? That horrible, gangly boy who used to call me ‘Spotty’?” I wrinkled my nose.
“I wouldn’t call him horrible or gangly around our cousin Leesel,” Hagen said. “They’re courting.” Then it was his turn to look embarrassed suddenly. “Although, Aunt Reena told her not to get too attached. She’s planning on arranging marriages for Leesel and Pella to any nobles caught unawares in the palace.”
Luka laughed until his eyes watered. “I almost wish we were back at the palace to witness that,” he said when he could speak.
I hid my mortification by trying to peer into the oven. “So the sand will melt?”
“Yes,” Shardas said, taking pity on me and tapping the pan with a claw. I had to shield my eyes as the fire crackled and the heat made sweat break out across my forehead and down my neck. “When it becomes the consistency of soft toffee, it is ready to be shaped.”
“Have you had much success so far?” I had to step away from the oven, and Velika obligingly coiled her tail so that I could sit on it. The heat had quite taken my breath away.
At least Luka had the sense to stay well clear of the fire. Hagen, though, was still caught up in studying the metal tubes and the exterior of the oven.
“Well,” Shardas said slowly, “the glass is certainly clear.” He ducked his head and scuffed at the sand around our feet.
“I’m sure that with practice your creations will be more regular in shape,” Velika said reassuringly.
“More regular in shape?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Less lopsided,” Shardas admitted. “And less lumpy.”
I laughed, but not to be rude. “You should have seen my first embroidery samplers. Awful!”
“You see, my dear,” Velika said, “if you want to do anything well, you must practice.”
Tapping the pan again, Shardas gave a sulfurous sigh. “I know. But I shall make you a vase from this sand, Velika, and it will not be lopsided.”
“I’d still like to see what you’ve done so far,” I said. “I haven’t seen your cave yet.” But then the oven made a hissing sound and my attention was drawn back to our current experiment.
“Almost ready,” Shardas said. He blew a single thin tendril of blue flame into the oven, and the hissing turned to a bubbling. “Stand back.”
Luka and Hagen lined up beside Velika and me, away from the oven and the long pipes. Hagen’s face was wistful, and I knew that he longed to stand right beside Shardas, maybe even hold one of the pipes. I sympathized, but at the same time, I did not want to see my little brother get burned. I took his hand and he gave me a brief smile before both of us turned back to Shardas.
Having selected one of the pipes—a gleaming shaft about double my height but not quite big enough around for me to put my arm into—Shardas gently set the end of it in the pan of melted sand and rolled it. We watched as a glob of a glowing red, taffy-like substance stuck to the end. When it was big enough to suit him, Shardas pulled it out of the oven. He continued to roll the pipe as he gently blew into one end.
The candylike red blob on the other end of the pipe began to swell. It grew larger and rounder, more transparent, like a soap bubble that was about to burst. I found that I was holding my breath, willing it not to pop, as the red liquid glass grew to the size of my head, then of a large melon.
Shardas twirled the pipe as he blew, a few times slowly, then fast. There was a large block of polished marble beside the oven and he gently rested part of the blob on it, still twirling. The glass connected to the pipe contracted, and the shape of a vase clearly emerged. Shardas lifted the pipe to give it one more twirl, still blowing through the end, and one of the sides of the vase began to bulge out.
“Uh- oh,” Hagen whispered.
Not to be daunted by the now decidedly lopsided shape of his project, Shardas reached out with one foreclaw and cut the glass loose from the pipe, setting it gently on the block. Working quickly, he scratched and pulled and prodded at the glass with his claws fully extended, while we all leaned in a little bit to see what he was doing. He was panting now, from both the heat and the urgency of his movements, as it was plain that the glass was cooling rapidly.
Shardas pulled the lip of the vase wide, but it was sitting atop too thin a neck, and I gripped Hagen’s hand even more tightly as the top of the vase slowly collapsed. We all groaned as one, and Shardas slumped over his creation as it cooled and hardened. Gleaming, finely etched by his diamond-hard claws, but flawed and lopsided and . . .
“Perfect,” Velika said softly.
Her mate raised his head.
“Only see how the shape reminds one of a tightly closed trumpet flower,” she went on. “And the color, magnificent! The light sparks off it, and the etching draws the eye around the asymmetrical base perfectly.”
