The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(29)
She filled every journal and bought more on the way. She had to find room in another wagon for her samples. And she wrote her father scores of letters describing what she’d found, seeing as none of her suitors cared half a whit.
But one night on this island had been worth the hundred on the trip. The fragrance of so many strange flowers was intoxicating. For every plant she knew, there were ten she didn’t. She could spend endless days learning about the flora, just as she had with her herb master in the forests around Ayden, not to mention naming the birds and bugs she’d never seen. Everlyn should have been indescribably happy, but lying there in her lean-to she couldn’t help thinking, What’s the point of learning something if you can’t teach it to someone else? Knowledge must propagate, her herb master would say. It dies in isolation. And so might she. Everlyn knew she could survive on the island. She didn’t think she could survive being alone.
She’d bet the captain could. On the Comber he’d rarely spoken except to give commands. He’d kept to his cabin when he had no duty, even in Chorem with all its wonders, and when he ate he ate alone. His only pleasure seemed to be in routine. That afternoon, after they’d attended to all their tasks, he’d retreated to his lean-to without a word to her. He’d barely spoken during dinner. Everlyn can’t imagine what that must be like. Dreary. Lonely.
How her father would laugh. At the end of her tour, he lauded her research and bound three copies of her notes and letters: one for her, one for her herb master, and one for his library. He was less congratulatory about her suitoring. He said if she didn’t find a partner soon, she’d likely be left with the last man in the League.
And there he is, Everlyn thinks. “At least he’s not useless,” she whispers.
That night, after the poth falls asleep, Jeryon wonders if he should have told her that his calculations had been wrong. There was no hope of rescue. What purpose would that have served, though? He might as well humor her. A hopeful crew’s a happy crew, even when trapped in a maelstrom.
He hears the poth whisper something in her sleep, and Jeryon realizes he can’t have his scream, not with her five feet away. He also realizes he doesn’t need it. Getting comfortable with her around: that’s not a productive attitude, he tells himself.
5
* * *
Everlyn is woken up by Jeryon scraping the cliff face with a sharp stone.
“What are you doing?” she says.
“Day seven,” he says. He touches up the first two of the slashes he’s made.
“I’ve been keeping track too,” she says. She picks up a spear and digs a long furrow in the sand. “One,” she says, then rubs it out with her foot. “Now what’s for breakfast?”
Her ankle feels stronger, so Jeryon shows her how to clean a crab with her sword instead of hacking it to pieces: flip it over, cleave it halfway through, lop off its limbs, and pry free its carapace. His father gave him the same lecture. Jeryon points out one for her to practice on while he gathers firewood and fills cups at the stream. When he returns the job is done “mostly competently,” and she says she’ll do the cooking today. She crushes some of his store of wild olives into a paste, but before she adds the crab to the cooking shell she puts in some herbs she gathered before he returned. A wonderful smell rises over the beach. The olives’ bitterness lingers, though.
After he tidies his camp and she changes his dressings, they set out for the island’s peak. He has a spear in each hand and his knife in his pocket, and she has her sword, but they take a long detour south around the blue crabs. They can clear them out later.
The slope surrounding the column of gray rock is gentler to the south, which makes hiking easier, but they aren’t making good time. The fifth time the poth stops to examine some plant, Jeryon snaps, “Can we eat that? Can it cure us? Will it kill a blue crab?”
“Not that I know of,” she says.
“Then let’s go.”
“Maybe it could.”
“Look,” he says, “when you see something interesting, I’ll add a mark to the next blaze so you can find it later.”
“Are we late?” she says. “Is there something up there waiting for us?”
He looks toward the dragon hollow. “I hope not.”
“No reason to hurry then. Besides,” she says, “my ankle is acting up again.”
“I’m sure it is,” he says. He slows to her excruciating pace, though, and gives her a spear to use as a walking stick.
At the tree line around the column, they spot no trails or ledges they can use to climb it. They circle to the east and observe that half of the island. Disappointingly, it is much the same as the rest. There don’t appear to be any other beaches. They see more streams, several ponds, and meadows. Nothing breaks the horizon.
“No dragons, at least,” she says.
When they find a water vine, they take a break to drink and eat. The poth sits on a slab of fallen rock. There isn’t a place for Jeryon to sit except the ground, and he’s wearied of that. Another slab has fallen behind and above her seat. There’s a third higher up the column. Jeryon slides into the tree line, looking up.
“What is it?” the poth asks.
He says, “You’re sitting on a step.”
She looks up too and sees the shelves of rock climbing around the peak. The stairway is cleverly made, blending into the stone and sturdy despite ages of weathering.