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“Hey, you, small human!” she snapped at the boy. “Get down!”
Frightened, the boy ducked into shelter behind Firedrake’s spines.
“Leave him alone, Sorrel,” said Ben soothingly. “You can see Firedrake doesn’t mind, can’t you?”
Sorrel just growled, clutching her backpack tight.
But the boy wasn’t interested in the backpack. He was staring at the furry brownie girl, asking a question in a soft voice. Two more children appeared behind him.
“What’s he after?” growled Sorrel. “I don’t understand much of this human language of theirs.”
“He wants to know,” interpreted Twigleg, who was sitting between Ben’s legs, “if you’re a small demon.”
“A what?”
Ben grinned. “A kind of evil spirit.”
“Oh, thanks a lot.” Sorrel made a ferocious face at the children. “No, I’m not! I’m a brownie. A forest brownie.”
“Dubidai?” asked a girl, pointing at Sorrel’s furry coat.
“Now what are they talking about?” asked the brownie girl, wrinkling her nose.
“It seems to be the word for brownie or woodland spirit in these parts,” said Twigleg. “But they wonder why you’ve only got two arms.”
“Only two?” Sorrel shook her head. “So people around here have more than two, do they?”
One brave little boy reached out his hand, hesitated for a moment, and then patted Sorrel’s paw. She flinched at first but decided to put up with it. The boy said something quietly.
“Hmm,” said Sorrel. “I understood that bit! The little human with skin like a bay boletus mushroom says I look like a cat goddess. How about that, then?” Feeling flattered, she preened and stroked her spotted coat.
“Come on, Sorrel,” said Ben. “Let’s give them a bit more space up here. We can sit on Firedrake’s back anytime, but it’s a new experience for these children.”
Sorrel shook her head vigorously.
“What, get down there? No way!” She clung tightly to Firedrake’s spines. “No, I’m staying up here. You get down and let your own kind trample you underfoot.”
“Oh, very well, stay put then, you furry grumbleguts.” Ben put Twigleg in his backpack and clambered past the children to climb down from Firedrake’s back.
A little girl had hung a garland of flowers over the dragon’s horns, and he was licking the tip of her nose. More and more children climbed up on Firedrake’s back, clutched his spines, tugged at the dragon riders’ leather straps, and stroked the dragon’s warm silver scales. Sorrel sat in the middle of this throng with her arms folded, keeping a tight grip on her backpack.
“Sorrel’s in a mood,” Ben whispered in the dragon’s ear.
Firedrake glanced over his shoulder and nodded in amusement.
The grown-ups were crowding around the dragon, too, touching him and trying to catch his eye. Firedrake turned to Zubeida, who was watching the children on his back and smiling.
“Tell me,” he said, “how can I fly at the dark time of the moon?”
“We need a quieter place to discuss that,” replied the dracologist. “Let me show you where I found the answer to the secret.”
She raised her hands, bangles jingling, the rings on her fingers flashing in the sunlight. Immediately all was still. The excited voices died away. The children slid off Firedrake’s back, and there was no sound to be heard but the roaring of the sea. Zubeida addressed the villagers.
“I am taking the dragon to the tomb of the dragon rider now,” Twigleg translated. “I have important matters to discuss with him, matters that must not come to the wrong ears.”
The people of the village looked up at the sky. Zubeida had told them about the ravens, but apart from a flock of white seabirds making for the river the sky was empty. An old man stepped forward and said something.
“They’re going to prepare the feast now,” Twigleg translated. “A feast to celebrate the return of the dragons and the dragon rider.”
