The Dragon Round (Dragon #1)(41)

After they eat he works on the vertebrae while she spins palm thread, her best spool yet. The bone’s harder than he expected. He tries a variety of hammerstones, none of which works well. Then he snaps off a spike entirely. He flings the vertebrae into the pond, followed by the spike.

As he rears back to throw the hammerstone, the poth takes one of the other vertebrae and lobs it into the pond. He stares at her. She stares at the hammerstone. When he doesn’t drop it, she palms her spool and brings her arm back. He drops the rock and grabs her wrist. She glares at him. He sucks his lips, nods, and releases her. They sit, and he goes back to work on his last vertebrae.

After a while he says, “Can you fish?”

“Ayden’s on a lake,” she said. “I caught sixteen silver carp the first time I touched a pole. I was three.”

“I’ll make us both hooks then,” he says, running his finger along the curve where the spike meets the backbone. “Your thread will make a fine line. I’ve also been thinking about a cabin we can build.” She touches his leg. “And a raft.”

There’s a rustling in the treetops, and something huge drops in front of them, scattering the edge of the fire and sending up a plume of sparks. They fall backward off the log and scramble away on their knees. The attacker doesn’t move. It’s not a blue crab. It’s long, thick, and silver with a band of white. It slowly arches its face and tail, slaps the ground with both and does it again.

The poth says, “It’s a fish! A huge fish!”

“A robalo,” Jeryon says. “Not known for flight.”

There’s more rustling in the canopy. They cover their heads, and the wyrmling dives through the treetops to stand over the fish. She squeals and noses it toward them.

“I guess she’s sick of crab too,” the poth says.





CHAPTER FIVE


The Cabin


1



* * *



Jeryon gets out of bed and a creak works itself from his bed to the cabin’s wall, where his tools sway faintly on their pegs. The poth decorated her room with flowers, ink drawings on bamboo slats, and little bamboo sculptures, many of which also hold plants. Her room smells like their garden; his, like its dirt. She calls his room the storehouse, but he likes being surrounded by useful things, and tools, if they’re properly crafted, are an artwork all their own. He’s proud of his hoe, made from the dragon’s complex shoulder blade and sinew; his axe, made from its other shoulder blade; as well as his razor, made from a flake of the dragon’s tooth so sharp he wouldn’t need soap to shave if she tired of his beard.

He opens his shutters, then uses a dragonbone stylus to mark a skinny bamboo tube hanging beneath the window. It’s the fourteenth tube for their fourteenth month, not counting the shorter tube for the five days of Jubilee at the turn of the year. When he drops it, the tubes rattle like bones.

He puts on his dragonskin trousers and tunic over his uniform. They’re hot, the material doesn’t breathe at all, but the skin is remarkably resilient. It won’t wear or tear easily, even though he didn’t tan it. However crudely made his outfit—all sailors can sew, but few can design—it would be the richest in Hanosh. A mere captain wouldn’t be allowed to wear dragonskin, except by special dispensation from the City Council.

In the common room he loads a woven plate with vegetables and fruit picked yesterday. He’s never felt better. Still, what he wouldn’t give for a yank of bread.

He listens at the poth’s door. She snorts and rolls over. He grabs the bridle from a peg by the front door and leaves to work with Gray. He’s glad she’s comfortable. It was worth it, building the cabin, then building it again.

Everlyn hears him listen at her door. He always does before leaving, as if she might have disappeared in the night. She rolls over to let him know she’s awake. The fresh straw beneath its dragonskin cover crunches as she does, and the skin and bed squeak. She means to yawn, but accidentally snorts. When she hears him close the cabin door, she decides to go back to sleep. She’ll get up when he and Gray take a break, and she’ll make them some tea. What she wouldn’t give for toast with butter and honey.

Outside Gray suns her wings, which are as wide as Jeryon is tall. Like the larger squaluses, the wyrm’s turned a cool blue-gray on top, and will probably get darker, while her underside remains platinum. When she hears him, she furls her wings, rolls on her side, and lifts her leg for a morning scratch. He lays the bridle quietly on the porch where she can’t see it and jumps down. He would use his hand, but her hide’s so tough it’s no longer effective. He pulls a bamboo rake from underneath the porch and goes to work on her belly. She falls asleep. He stops. She heaves as if stabbed. More rake. She falls asleep again.

Jeryon retrieves the bridle and steps behind her head. He rakes her neck, which arches, and she yawns. With a practiced swoop, he slips the dragonbone bit past her teeth, catches the rising neck between his thighs, and sets the dragonskin strap in the bamboo buckle beneath her throat.

He holds her in place, getting her used to being straddled. It makes her skittish. Lots of things do. She’s constantly charging at things that aren’t there or chomping the air. He figures she’s just at an age for dragons. Gray’s four feet long, much of that neck and tail. As broad as her body is, riding her would still be like riding a racing hound or snap dog. They have a long way to go. If you don’t want to ride a horse until it’s at least two, how old would a dragon have to be?