The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(28)

“I twisted my ankle badly when I washed up. If I hadn’t found the boneset by the pond where I made camp, you might have found me by my screaming. I couldn’t walk until this morning.”

“That’s when you found the sword?” He feeds the fire, crushes olives into his cooking shell, and sets it to warm.

“Yes.” There’s more to her story, but why should she bother? “On the south side of the island beneath a large patch of yellow asphodel.”

He looks at her blankly.

“King’s spear. Cousin of aloe.”

“Ah.” Jeryon lays crab meat in the oil to sizzle. “What’s that got to do with the sword?”

“It only grows in patches when it’s planted on an Ynessi grave or where one of them died.”

“Right. Yes,” Jeryon says. “That’s piss blossom. They use it like dogs to mark their territory. The streets of Yness are covered with it. So you dug?”

Everlyn waggles her filthy, ragged fingernails. “You said Ynessi pirates might work these waters. Perhaps one had been buried there with something useful.”

“The Ynessi are sentimental that way,” Jeryon says. “Probably shrouded him in sailcloth too.”

“It would’ve been sad if they hadn’t,” she says. “I’m hardly sentimental, but I want my shroud.”

“Waste of cloth. And the time spent digging. If it comes to that, give my body back to the waves.” He flips the meat. “Make the crabs work for their vengeance.”

Everlyn rolls the sheathed sword over her lap. She doesn’t want to think about that. Or what a Hanoshi might do with her body.

“Of course, their waste is our reward,” Jeryon says.

She draws the blade. “It would’ve been a waste had they buried it without its scabbard. The leather rotted away, but the metal sheath has an oiled fur lining that kept the blade sharp.” She holds it so the sun glares on the spider rust. “I think it’s from the far north. It’s bigger than a spatha.”

“I didn’t think pothing required a knowledge of swords.”

“A tool’s a tool. I would’ve preferred a kopis. Or an axe. Beggars and choosers, though.”

Jeryon snorts in agreement and adds just a touch more olive.

“After I found it, I was feeling pretty good—I’ve practically been living on boneset—so I decided to explore the peak. And you know the rest.” She resheaths the sword and rubs her ankle. It’s swelling again. Too much running and walking today. Thinking about trudging to her pond makes it ache more. “I think I should stay here,” she says.

“Your pond would make for a better camp,” Jeryon says, flipping the crab. “Water, probably shade, certainly no crabs. And the ground has to be softer.”

“I meant for tonight,” she says. “So I don’t have to walk back.”

“Yes, of course,” he says. “We should stay close, though. And pool our resources.”

“A Hanoshi sharing? We are in desperate straits.”

“Given the circumstances, it’s rational. Provided we each do our part.”

“I’m sure you’ll keep track.” She looks out to sea. “Someone should be here when a boat comes by.”

Jeryon pours some crab onto a clean shell for her and gives her two freshly cut bamboo shards to eat with. “A smart captain would give this island a wide berth. Too many rocks and sandbars. He’d never get close enough to see us.”

“Then let’s make a sign that could be seen. After all, ships came here once. They could come again.” She eats some crab. It’s tastier than she gave him credit for. She could probably find some herbs and spices to complement it. “This is good,” she says.

“You make do,” he says. He serves himself the rest and sits across the fire from her.

She points at the cross-staff propped against the lean-to. “What’s that?”

“A failed experiment.”

“It’s perfect, though, for a signal,” she says. Her shoulders straighten. She likes a project. “It’s unnatural. The eye would pick it up. Someone would want to investigate. If we put some on the peak, larger ones, they could be seen far out to sea. We could build a fire, too, as a beacon.”

“A beacon could cause a ship to wreck,” he says. “And something like that would be unstable in the wind.”

“Then we can prop up big X-frames.” She puts down her bamboo shards. “Start saying ‘yes.’ ‘No’ just gets you nowhere.”

He stares at her plate. She won’t eat.

“Let’s see what’s up there first,” Jeryon says, “then maybe. If your ankle’s better, we can go tomorrow. In the meantime, we’ll build you a lean-to and dig another fire pit to keep the crabs away.”

That night, after Jeryon falls asleep, Everlyn remembers when she was fourteen and her father sent her around the League with one of his caravans. He described it as a chance to see not just the cities, but also the world in between: the plants and the landscape, the husbandry and agriculture. This was a compelling argument, and she loved him for it even though the real reason for the trip was obvious: She was the caravan’s chief trade good.

For every useless son she met, for every dreary nephew and lonely old man, there was a bloom beside the road she had to investigate. She hated to sit in her red-wheeled box and would have demanded to walk the entire route had her father not predicted this attitude and filled her wagon with books on plants from around the League, boxes and bottles for samples, and blank journals for her notes. Thus she was kept busy, the caravan was kept on schedule, and she understood why her father was respected as a trader.