Again, the wind screams past the mountains and through the trees, crying its desolate wail. I shiver, both from the frigid air and from fear. With the absence of sustenance, the iktar could well be hunting us.
“We’ll make camp just over this ridge,” Penrith calls back.
The sun has set by the time Penrith finally arrives at his destination. The colors are leaching out of the already dull landscape, and it will be impossible to make camp if we don’t do it soon. The spot Penrith has chosen is protected under a lip in the cliff face. The only snow is that which the wind has blown in. A ring of blackened rocks sits in the middle of our soon-to-be camp, and there are ashes asleep in the center. We’re not the first to use the sheltered nook.
A sharp cry fills the air, and Penrith’s head snaps up as he surveys the land around us. It’s Pika, and she’s hunting. Galinor and I share a glance.
Has she found our quarry?
Penrith doesn’t mention the cry, probably hoping we didn’t catch it, but he looks unsettled. He and Galinor set to work starting a fire, and then they construct a tent. The stained ivory canvas looks nothing like an opulent caravan tent, but it should keep out the wind and snow.
As night falls around us, we sit by the fire and eat a meager meal of dried meat and hard biscuits, sharing a single skin of mead between us. I notice Galinor doesn’t drink much, having had the bad experience with mead in Lauramore. I don’t like the drink either, and only gulp down enough to wet my throat.
I take another bite of stringy meat and then pausemid-chew. There is a strange cackling noise coming from somewhere on the cliff above us. The men speak low, and neither seems to hear it over their conversation. I strain to pick it up again, but the mountain is silent except for the wind.
I take another bite but set the rest aside. Having been spooked, my appetite is gone.
Wait.
There it is again.
It’s not a mammal of fur and bone; it’s something else. The faint noise grows louder. It’s almost as if it’s speaking to itself. Whatever it is, it’s a wholly inhuman sound. Its voice is raspy and high pitched, like a bird or a—
I scream when the dark shape dives from the cliff above us and stretches out its large, leathery wings to break its fall. It lands, shaking the ground.
I grasp hold of Galinor. His hand finds his sword, but he doesn’t dare unsheathe it.
The creature moves closer.
Penrith looks up from his meal, undaunted. “Away with you, beast. Our business isn’t with you.”
“You are on my mountain,” the dragon says, tilting her green head. “That makes it my business.” She turns her reptilian eyes on me. “Why are you trembling, human girl? You have nothing to fear from me.”
The memory of Marigold’s villa thick with flames bursts unbidden to my memory, but I nod anyway.
The dragon turns back to Penrith. “Nothing to fear unless you have come to my mountain to hunt me or my young—then you will have much to fear.” A wisp of smoke curls from her nostril.
She turns toward Galinor, whose downcast eyes are focused on the fire. “Why do you not look at me, young slayer?”
“He has taken an oath to one of your own,” I answer for him, my voice quivering. “To never again speak to your kind.”
The dragon breathes a soft flame on the waning fire. “And you still respect that, even after the treaty?”
Galinor nods, his teeth clenched.
“Consider yourself free of it,” the dragon says, stretching her scaled shoulders in an almost human shrug. “No dragon will break the treaty. We are honorable creatures—unlike humans.” She settles down as if she’s going to stay awhile. “What is your name?”
Galinor looks up, meeting her eyes for the first time. “Galinor of Glendon, second born of King Howell and his queen, Penelope.”
Penrith’s eyes go wide.
The dragon is silent, thinking. Finally, she says, “I know of you and your oath. Old Murgstead died years ago. You are free.”
“Thank you.” Galinor’s shoulders sag with relief. “Truly.”
The dragon stretches and shakes the falling snow off her wings. “I like you, Galinor of Glendon.” She turns to Penrith. “I don’t like you, Errintonian. See to your business, and get off my mountain.”
Penrith gives the dragon a mock half bow.
