And in turn, the woman seemed completely infatuated with the dragon. From the first moment they had seen each other, Thymara had almost felt the mutual draw between them. It irritated her.

No. It was more than irritation. It made her seethe with jealousy, she admitted, because it excluded her. She was supposed to be Skymaw’s keeper, not this ridiculous city woman. This Alise would not be able to feed the dragon or tend her. Would this woman with her soft body and pale skin walk beside the dragon as they wended their way upriver through the shallows and the encroaching forest? Would she kill to feed the dragon and perform the tedious grooming that Skymaw so obviously needed? She thought not! Thymara had spent most of the day scrubbing at Skymaw’s hide until every scale gleamed. She’d dug caked mud out of her claws and claw sheaths, picked a legion of nasty little bloodsucking beetles from the edges of the dragon’s eyes and nostrils, and even cleared an area of reeking fresh dragon dung so that Skymaw could stretch out for her grooming without becoming soiled again.

But the moment this Bingtown woman threw her a compliment or two, the dragon focused entirely on her as if Thymara had never existed. Would the woman have thought her so “gleamingly beautiful” if she’d seen the dragon five hours ago? Not likely. The dragon was using all Thymara’s hard work to attract a better keeper for herself. She’d soon find she’d made a poor choice.

Just like Tats.

The thought ambushed her, and she felt the sudden sting of tears behind her eyes. She pushed all thoughts of Tats and Jerd aside. That night when Tats had left the fireside and Jerd had followed, she’d thought nothing of it. Tats, she thought, had needed time to be alone. But then, when they came back to the fire together, it was obvious to Thymara that he had been anything but alone. He seemed completely recovered from his exchange of comments with Greft. Jerd had been laughing at something he said. At the fire’s edge, they’d sat down side by side. She’d overheard Jerd quizzing him about his life, asking the sort of personal questions that Thymara had always avoided for fear of Tats thinking she was too nosy. Jerd had asked them, smiling and tipping her head to look up into his face, and Tats had replied in his deep soft voice. Thymara had sat by the fire and Rapskal supplied an unwelcome distraction as he pelted her with his speculations about the journey and what they would have for breakfast tomorrow and if it was possible to kill a gallator with a sling. Greft had glared at her, Tats, and Rapskal and then had gone stalking off into the forest on his own. Nortel and Boxter had both seemed out of sorts as well, exchanging small barbed comments. Harrikin had suddenly seemed sullen and sulky. None of it made sense to her; she only knew that her earlier sensation of goodwill and friendliness had been more fleeting than the smoke from their campfire.

And that night, Tats had spread out his bedding and gone to sleep near Jerd without even speaking to Thymara to say good night. She’d thought they were friends, good friends. She’d even been stupid enough to think that he’d only signed up as a dragon keeper because he knew that she’d be going, too. Worse, Rapskal had tossed his blankets right down beside hers after she had made her bed for the evening. She couldn’t very well get up and move away from him, much as she wished to. He’d slept next to her every night since they left Trehaug. He talked and laughed even in his sleep, and her dreams, when she did find them that night, were uneasy ones of her father looking for her in a mist.

In vain, she tried to recall her mind to the present and focus on the conversation next to her. The Bingtown woman was speaking to Skymaw. “Do you recall, lovely one, your immediate ancestor’s experience, your glorious mother’s life? Do you know what happened to the world to cause dragons to become nearly extinct and leave humans to mourn in loneliness for so long?” She stood awaiting an answer, her pen poised over her paper. It was sickening.

Worse, Skymaw was wallowing in the praise and answering the woman in dragon riddles while telling her nothing at all. “My ‘mother’? Were she here, you would not insult her so lightly! A dragon is never a mother as you know it, little milk-making creature. We never fuss about squealing babies or waste our days in tending to the wants of helpless young. We are never as helpless and stupid as humans are when they are first born, knowing nothing of what or who they are. It is irony, is it not, that you live so short a time, and waste so much of it being stupid? While we live for dozens of your lives, aware every instant of what we are and who our ancestors were. You can see that it is hopeless for a human to try to understand dragonkind at all.”

Thymara turned away abruptly from the dragon and the Bingtown woman. “I’d best go see if I can kill some food for you,” she announced, not caring that she broke into the midst of their conversation. It was disgusting anyway. The woman kept asking Skymaw stupid questions, phrased in groveling, honeyed compliments. And the dragon kept evading the questions, refusing her any real answers. Was that just what any dragon would do? Or was Skymaw trying to conceal her own ignorance?