Tintaglia still spoke hopefully of more serpents returning. Althea suspected this was the true motive behind her coastal vigilance. She had even hinted that perhaps she would send liveships far south to seek for lost survivors. Althea considered that a measure of her anguish at their losses. From Selden, Althea had learned that not all the cocoons would hatch. There was always some mortality at this stage of a dragon’s development, but these weakened creatures were dying at far higher rates than normal. Selden seemed to mourn them as much as Tintaglia, though he could not completely explain to Althea how he knew which ones had perished unhatched.

She had never known her nephew well. In the weeks she had spent in Trehaug and at the site of Cassarick, she had seen him grow stranger. It was not just the physical changes that she marked. At times, he did not seem to be a little boy anymore. The cadence of his voice and his choice of words when he spoke to the dragon seemed to come from an older and foreign person.

The only time when he seemed like the Selden she recalled was when he had returned dirty and weary from a day spent exploring with Bendir. They had festooned the swampy jungle behind the cocoon beach with bright strips of fabric tied to stakes or tree limbs. The colors were a code of sorts, incomprehensible to Althea, intended to guide future excavation. Over meals, Selden and Bendir discussed them earnestly and made summer plans for serious digging. She no longer knew her nephew, she reflected, but she was sure of one thing. Selden Vestrit was fired with enthusiasm for this new life he had found. In that, she rejoiced. It surprised her that Keffria had let him go. Perhaps her older sister was finally realizing that life was to be lived, rather than hoarded against an unseen tomorrow. Althea drew a deep breath of the spring air, savoring both it and her freedom. “Where’s Brashen?” Amber asked. Althea groaned. “Torturing Clef.”

Amber smiled. “Someday Clef will thank Brashen for insisting that he learn his letters.”

“Perhaps, but this morning it does not seem likely. I had to leave them before I lost my temper with both of them. Clef spends more time arguing about why he cannot learn them than he does trying to learn them. Brashen gives him no ground. The boy is quick-witted on his seamanship. He should be able to learn his letters.”

“He will learn his letters,” Brashen asserted as he joined them. He pushed his hair back from his face with an ink-stained hand. He looked more like a frustrated tutor than a sea captain. “I set him three pages to copy and left him. I warned him that good work would free him faster than messy.”

“There!” Paragon’s voice boomed. His sudden shout flung a small flock of bright birds skyward from the looming forest. He lifted a big hand aloft, to point up and back into the trees. “There. That is it.” He leaned, swaying the entire ship slightly. “Semoy! Hard starboard!”

“You’ll run aground!” Brashen cried in dismay. Semoy had not questioned the order. The ship swung in suddenly toward the looming trees.

“It’s a mud bottom,” Paragon replied calmly. “You’ll get me off easily enough when you need to.”

Althea seized the railing, but instead of running aground, Paragon had found a deep if narrow channel of near-still water. Perhaps in the rainy season it was one of the many watercourses that fed the Rain Wild River. Now it was reduced to a finger of calm water winding back beneath the trees. They left the main channel of the Rain Wild River behind them. They did not get far, however, before Paragon’s rigging began to tangle in the overreaching branches. “You’re fouling your rigging,” Brashen warned him, but the ship deliberately moved deeper into the entangling mess. Althea exchanged an anxious grimace with him. He shook his head at her, and kept silent. Paragon was an independent soul. He had the right to command where his body would go. The new challenge to running this liveship was respecting his will for himself and crediting him with judgment. Even if it meant letting him run himself aground in a jungle lagoon.

There were questioning yells from several deckhands, but Semoy was steady on the wheel. Leaves and twiggy branches rained down on them. Startled birds gave cry and fled. The ship slowed and then stopped.

“We’re here,” Paragon announced excitedly.

“We certainly are,” Brashen agreed sourly, staring up at the tangled mess.

“Igrot’s hoard,” Amber breathed.

They both turned to look at her. Her gaze was following Paragon’s pointing finger. Althea saw nothing save a dark mass high overhead in some ancient trees. The figurehead turned to regard them with a triumphant grin. “She guessed first, and she guessed right,” he announced as if they had been playing a game.