The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(38)

However well they’ve worked together, however curious that has been for him, the lack of novelty has led to her sniping at him and to him returning fire. It’s made the days unpleasant, the nights more so, and the wyrmling sullen.

So they’re looking forward to an adventure with Gray, whose wings have begun turning gray and who increasingly uses them instead of walking. There’s nothing worse than being dive-bombed by a wyrmling who thinks you’ve slept long enough.

The poth emerges from behind the bamboo screen he built between their sleeping areas after too many leaves fell. Her hair is wet and held in a loose bun by two bamboo spikes. Her skin is bright and tight from the lotion she made out of her soap, and she smells minty from the nepeta she put in it. Her smock, faded and worn thin in places, but deftly repaired in others, swishes from a fresh washing. She wears her sword on a shoulder belt made of cloth from the hem of her smock and reinforced with palm thread. She’s even put in some rudimentary embroidery.

Jeryon feels underdressed. There’s dirt between his toes.

She greets him with bright eyes. “Let’s go!” she says. “Where’s Gray?”

He points up. The dragon is sitting on a high branch, her elbows held up to arch her wings, her neck bent low. A black vulture found its way to the island recently. The wyrmling took to imitating its looming posture before they killed and ate it.

Jeryon whistles twice. The mighty vulture raises her snout and considers the call of carrion ripe on the forest floor. It opens its wings to declare to the world, The kill is mine. She steps off her mountain perch. Let the hawk dive. Let the larus plummet. The mighty vulture spirals lazily, the stench of rot and blood making her buoyant. She is surprised, though. The kill still walks and whistles. The mighty vulture flicks its tongue at it and thinks it needs a bath.

Jeryon says, “Put your tongue away.” The wyrmling sits and looks at him. He shakes his head. “I want you hungry.”

The mighty vulture lowers her gaze. She is displeased.

They set off for the dragon hollow. The path is well worn, the leaves and underbrush giving way to packed dirt. They walk side by side, with the dragon flying from tree to tree and sometimes disappearing above the canopy. Everlyn bumps Jeryon with her shoulder, he steps aside to avoid crowding her and she bumps him again. He looks at her, wondering why she can’t keep to her side of the path, and finds her smiling. She moves her head as if looking around, but keeps her eyes on him. He looks around. The sky is bright. The air is light. Yes, he thinks, it is a nice day for a walk.

Of its own volition, his elbow sticks out. She takes it. Jeryon spends the next ten minutes wondering how he can get it back.

They drink from the stream. They stop at the shega meadow to look over the ocean toward home, and the wyrmling lands and nuzzles between them to wonder what is so interesting. Everlyn rubs the wyrmling’s neck.

“Not even big enough for a child to ride yet,” the poth says.

“Perhaps she’ll grow quickly,” he says. “No one sees wyrmlings.”

“It’ll be another year, I think. Maybe two.” She takes her hand off the wyrmling.

The wyrmling wonders what she’s done wrong. She looks at the poth and Jeryon, but they won’t stop staring at the ocean. She drags her head into the brush to look for beetles.

There are no beetles in the brush.

A few moments later Jeryon whistles twice, and they head out again.

They stop at the frog pond, where Jeryon takes another spear from his cache there. The population of black frogs has suffered as much as that of the white crabs. It’s quiet. They see no frogs at all, in fact.

Jeryon repeats their plan: He’ll lead the blue crabs here, yelling when he’s close. When the crabs scatter to chase the frogs, they’ll release Gray to attack one, the smallest if possible. They’ll follow behind in case she gets in trouble. The woods are dense, so her maneuverability will be hampered, which will make for a better test.

The poth draws her sword in agreement. The wyrmling flicks her tongue and flaps her wings. The sword usually means food. Or bamboo. Food often enough.

They toast with sword and spear, and the wyrmling watches Jeryon leave. She follows. The poth whistles her back. The wyrmling turns her head as if to say, Why aren’t you coming? The poth whistles again more insistently. The wyrmling’s neck droops and she crawls to the poth’s side. She puts away her sword.

The mighty vulture is having no fun.

As he walks to the hollow, Jeryon plans the cabin he wants to build: square, three rooms, a common one in front and two bedrooms behind it, big windows to let in air with shutters to keep out bugs, a peaked roof thatched with palm fronds, maybe a porch. For interior doors they could use dragon-skin drapes. He’d like to elevate the cabin on stilts for better circulation and storage below.

When his father couldn’t find fish or he lost his boat or position, he would rent Jeryon to various makers and tradesmen for the coin it could bring in. He most enjoyed building. There was something about transforming lumber into homes and boats that he found fascinating. His only engineering lore, though, came from actually putting things together and asking why they went that way. He sometimes wishes he’d stayed with building.

He’ll put the house on the other side of the path to make sure the pond stays pristine and just in case it floods. They could also use the old camp for planting. The poth has been gathering seeds and experimenting with what she can grow in the wicker pots she’s woven. He’ll have to build a place for those on the porch so she can check on them more easily.