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“I would be grateful.”
The word “grateful” unsettles me, and it seems to disturb her as well. She gets up, muttering a curse under her breath, and stalks back into the depths of my cave.
We don’t speak again. I suppose I should hunt, or visit the clan, but for some reason I cannot make myself leave my lair. The thought of facing the other dragons is unbearable. I’d much rather curl up morosely in my nest and not move, speak, or eat for several days.
But as one of the princes of Ouroskelle, I don’t have the luxury of such doleful peace. Issirian appears in the cave mouth not long after my conversation with my captive. He dips his head to me, but I can tell by the stiff position of his neck ridges that he’s troubled. He eyes the Princess, skulking in the shadows by the nest, and then speaks to me in Dragonish, apparently not wanting her to hear.
“My prisoner keeps demanding a ‘hairbrush.’ She’s very insistent on it. Do you know what she means?”
“Did you ask her?”
“I don’t want her to think me foolish and ill-educated in human lore,” Issirian admits. “I want her to admire me.”
“Very well…” I cast a sidelong glance at my own captive, but I feel a similar reluctance asking her to define the term. “I would guess that a hairbrush is… a brush… for hair.”
“Brush?”
“I saw the Vohrainian soldiers stroking their horses with large wooden paddles covered in bristles. They called those ‘brushes.’”
“A large paddle covered in bristles.” Issirian nods eagerly. “I saw a broken boat paddle on the northwest beach. Must have washed up during a shipwreck. I think I can fashion something out of that. Thank you, my Prince.”
After he leaves, I crawl into the nest, only to climb out again so I can properly greet the next arrival—Rorris, an ivory-colored dragon with scarlet wings.
“My Prince.” He too speaks in Dragonish. “My woman has been crying ever since I took her to my cave. Can humans perish from crying? I don’t know how to make it stop.”
“Perish from crying? No, I don’t believe that’s possible. But since she is losing liquid from her eyes in such quantities, you should make sure she drinks plenty of water.”
“Saltwater?” suggests Rorris. “Tears are salty. Perhaps she needs to drink seawater to replenish her body’s saltwater supply.”
“I think spring water will do the trick. But perhaps you could try saltwater and see how she reacts.”
“I will, thank you.”
After he leaves, I enjoy nearly an hour’s reprieve before Gavenath explodes into my cave, his purple tail lashing anxiously as he exclaims in Dragonish, “My captive is bleeding!”
“Bleeding? Did you injure her? Bite her?”
“No, my Prince.”
“Where is the injury?”
“Between her legs. She does not seem concerned, but I can smell the blood. I believe she has placed bandages inside her clothing to staunch it, but from what I can tell, it continues to flow.”
“Does she seem to be in pain?”
“She seems angry. No matter what I do, she yells and curses me.”
“Make her lie in your nest and rest,” I tell him. “Cover her with extra grass to keep her warm, and bring her plenty of berries for sustenance. If the bleeding continues, tell her you need to inspect the wound to ensure it is not fatal.”
“And if she won’t allow me to inspect it?”
“Then return to me, and I will bring the Princess to your cave. Perhaps your captive will let a fellow human examine her.”
Gavenath thanks me and flies away. I don’t bother settling down in my nest again. I have a feeling it will be a long day.
10
I don’t know why I said “grateful” when the dragon offered to find out the truth of my mother’s fate. I could never be grateful to someone like him, no matter what scraps of news he might deign to bring me. And what was I thinking, letting him nuzzle me and lick my neck? At first I thought he might actually eat me… and then I couldn’t think clearly about anything, because his damp, velvety tongue was stroking my skin, and his deep voice was throbbing in my blood, thrumming and thrilling all the way down to my—
