It was so Malta. Hoarded sweetness against an uncertain tomorrow. Reyn tucked the bag into the top of his pouch. “Thank you,” he replied gravely. He pulled a wool veil down over his face and tucked it into the throat of his jacket. It would keep his face warm, but limited his vision.

“That’s wise,” Selden observed encouragingly. “You’ve been changing a lot, you know. When I first saw you, I didn’t think Malta would mind much. But you’re a lot more lumpy now.” The boy lifted an unself-conscious hand to his face, and ran his fingers over his eyebrows. “She’s going to have fits when she sees me,” he predicted merrily.

The dragon reared back onto her hind legs. “Hurry up,” she ordered Reyn tersely. To Selden, she spoke more gently. “Move to the side, small minstrel, and turn your eyes away. I would not blind you with dust blasted by my wings.”

“I thank you, Great One. Though to be blinded might not be so great a loss, if my last sight were of you, gleaming silver and blue as you rose. Such a memory might sustain me to the end of my days.”

“Flatterer!” the dragon dismissed his words, but she did not hide her pleasure. As soon as Selden was clear, she snatched Reyn up from the ground as if he were a toy. She held him around his chest, his legs and feet dangling.

She shook out her wings and crouched on her powerful hind legs. Once, twice, she flapped her wings in a measuring way. He tried to call a farewell, but could not summon enough breath. She sprang upward with a suddenness that snapped his head back. The shouted farewells were lost in the steady thunder of her wings. He closed his eyes against the cold wind. When he forced them open again, he looked down on a glittering carpet of blue and gray, a pattern rippling slowly across it. The sea, he realized, was very, very far below him. Nothing was below him except deep, cold water. He swallowed against a rising fear.

“Well. Where did you want to go?”

“Where do I want to go? To wherever Malta is, of course.”

“I told you before, I can sense she is alive. That doesn’t mean I know where she is.”

Desolation swallowed Reyn. The dragon took sudden pity on him. “See what you can do,” she suggested. Through her, he again shared her awareness of Malta. He closed his eyes and slipped into that sensing that was not hearing nor sight nor scent, but an eerie shadow of all three. He found himself opening his mouth and breathing deep as if he could taste her scent on the cold air. Something of himself, he was sure, flowed out to meet her.

They merged in a warm sleepy lassitude. As they had when they shared the dream-box, he experienced her perceptions of her world. Warm. A slow, rocking motion. He breathed deep with her, and tasted the unmistakable smell of a ship. He loosened his awareness of his own body and reached more boldly for her. He felt warm bedding around her. He caught the deep rhythm of her breathing and then shared it. She slept with her cheek on her hand. He became that hand, cradling the warm softness of her cheek. He caressed it. She smiled in her sleep. “Reyn,” she acknowledged him, without recognizing his true presence.

“Malta, my love,” he returned her gently. “Where are you?”

“In bed,” she sighed. There was warm interest in her voice.

“Where?” he persisted, regretfully ignoring that invitation.

“On a ship. Chalcedean ship.”

“Where are you bound?” he asked her desperately. He could feel his contact with her fading as his irritating questions clashed with her dream. He clung to her, but her mind pulled away from sleep, disturbed by his insistence that she answer. “Where?” he demanded. “WHERE?”

“JAMAILLIA BOUND!” MALTA FOUND HERSELF SITTING BOLT UPRIGHT IN HER bedding. “Jamaillia bound,” she repeated, but could not recall what prompted the words. She had the tantalizing feeling that she had just left a very interesting dream, but now could not remember even a scrap of it. It was almost a relief, really. By day, she could control her thoughts. Nights were when her treacherous mind brought her dreams of Reyn, achingly sweet with loss. Better to awake and remember nothing than to awake with tears on her face. She lifted her hands to her face and touched her cheeks. One tingled strangely. She stretched, then conceded she was irrevocably awake. She threw back the coverlet and stood up, yawning.

She was almost accustomed to the opulence of the chamber now. That had not dulled her pleasure in it. The captain had allotted her two deckhands and permission to search the hold for whatever might make the Satrap more comfortable. She had cast aside all moderation. A thick rug of soft wool on the floor and brightly figured hangings warmed the room. Candelabra had replaced the smoky lantern. Stacked blankets and furs made up her pallet. The Satrap’s bed was lined with thick bearskins and sheepskins. An elaborate hookah squatted next to it, and a damask drapery around it curtained him from drafts.