Chapter 5

BY THE TIME Alys woke up, it was dark again. There was still, or again, a fire in the hearth. The dragon—Selendrile—was awake and in human form and crouched beside her, close enough to touch. She flinched, thinking he'd been about to shake her awake and that if she didn't look alert fast enough he might yet. But then she realized he was too still; she hadn't caught him between motions after all. He was simply there watching her, with that appraising expression that made him look as though he'd been either trying to read her mind or speculating how she'd taste.

She scrambled to her feet. He stayed where he was, only tipping his head back slightly to continue watching her. "Don't do that," she demanded, recalling—even as she said it—having heard the younger children at Saint Toby's say much the same thing, in much the same tone. "Stop looking at me."

He looked neither amused nor annoyed. Nor about to comply.

She swept past him so she wouldn't have to admit to either of them that her words had no effect on what he did or did not do. Her stomach felt as though it were twisted in a knot, she was so hungry; and despite the fact that she had searched earlier and found only the three apples, scouring the cottage for food would take her mind off both Selendrile and the thought of how long it had been since her last meal.

She paused in midstride, seeing a large wooden bowl on the table, filled almost to the top with a thick stew. She suddenly realized that the warm smell of it—potatoes and chicken and barley—filled the small cottage, and her stomach clenched even tighter as her mouth began to water. "What's this?" she asked softly.

"It's called stew," the dragon said. "Assorted grains and vegetables and some meat, heated to the point where no one can tell which is which."

Alys turned to see if he was being sarcastic or if he really thought he was telling her something she didn't know. She couldn't be sure. "I meant, where'd it come from?"

Selendrile gave a slight tip to his head. "I got it from a farmhouse on the outskirts of town."

"Got it?" she asked.

"Stole it," he corrected readily enough. "I didn't know how long your human form could go without nourishment. You seemed to be too weak to rouse yourself and I thought you might be dying."

Again the not-so-subtle hint that she could never keep up with him. His speculation on her mortality was spoken in the same tone he'd used to describe the contents of the stew.

"I was just tired," Alys said, annoyed, and somewhat chilled despite the fire. "I hadn't slept at all last night. Don't dragons sleep?" She knew they did; she'd seen him at it. Except that apparently he'd kept at it for a much shorter time than she had. He'd waited for her long enough to consider the possibility that she wouldn't get up, to fetch nourishment, bring it back here, and be crouched for who-knew-how-long staring at her until she'd opened her eyes.

Selendrile didn't answer, as though he couldn't be bothered with affirming something he knew she already knew.

Alys wondered whether—if she had died—he'd have eaten her, and if that was why he'd been waiting so patiently by her side. "Thank you," she said, sitting down at the table. "For the food."

Again he didn't answer.

"Are you going to eat some with me?"

"I've already fed."

And looking down into those cold amethyst eyes she had no idea if he'd eaten some of the stew or the person who'd prepared it. She forced down a mouthful that seemed intent on lodging itself in her throat. He's never going to let you live, a small part of her warned. He'll help you get revenge on Atherton and Gower just for the pure spiteful fun of it. And then he'll rip your throat out, and enjoy it twice as much for having first tricked you into trusting him.

Alys swallowed another lump of stew. No, she told herself, I'll take his help, but if it comes to that, I'll kill him before he kills me. He's just a it's just a dragon. It's not a real person.

She took another swallow. Even if she was in too much turmoil to taste anything, the food would keep her from starving. It would give her the strength she would need later. She said, "Have you considered what we talked about yesterday?"

Selendrile finally shifted position and sat on the floor, but still said nothing.

"About a plan?" she prompted.

"It's your revenge," he pointed out. "Surely you don't expect me to tell you what to do."

That was exactly what she'd expected.

Alys sighed. "Do you have any suggestions?"

She thought she caught a flicker of what may have been disappointment on his face. "You want to do Gower last," he reminded her.

"Yes."

"Then it would seem to make sense to do his family directly before him."

"So Atherton first, since he's in Griswold?"

The dragon-youth inclined his head.

"What exactly are we going to do to him?"

Selendrile only continued to watch her.

Alys shook her head. It was one thing to know she wanted Atherton to pay for what he'd done to her and her father; it was quite another to come up with a plan. "Maybe I shouldn't rush into this. We can go to Griswold, see what the town is like, decide on what to do there."

Selendrile asked, "Where do humans live when they're in a town they don't know, while they're trying to decide what to do?"

"An inn, I guess," Alys said. "If they have gold or silver to pay."

Selendrile smiled, faint and chilly, and Alys shivered.

His amusement shifted to something darker, a mood for which she had no name. "I think," he told her, "you'll have to go as a boy."

"What?" she squeaked. "I'd never pa—"

"For your own protection," he interrupted. "The other choice is to go as a married couple, though that has the disadvantage of Atherton recognizing you as soon as he sees you."

Alys found it hard to catch a breath despite the knowledge that he was watching her and was aware of her every movement. A married couple?

He took her silence as agreement. "We'll go as brothers. Pick a name."

Alys clenched her teeth, knowing that he was right, that a woman couldn't take a room by herself at a respectable inn, that he didn't need to bring her all the way to Griswold if he intended her harm. Still—soft-spoken and almost tame as he seemed at the moment—she could never be sure what he was thinking, could never trust him completely. She could never allow herself to forget that one of them would most probably end up killing the other. "Jocko," she said, picking the name out of the air.

Selendrile turned his back to her and, sitting cross-legged, gathered up his long fair hair at the nape of his neck. "If you can braid this or tie it up somehow to look more in the fashion of your countrymen, we'll attract less attention."

There was no chance Selendrile would ever not attract attention. Or was this another twist in the game, offering up trust—or the semblance of it—by turning his back to her while she sat in a kitchen full of knives?

Alys picked up the piece of twine that had tied the apple sack, and then, to shake him, to reveal as a lie his pose of complacent indifference, she reached for one of the knives. But he didn't scramble to his feet, or tense up, or give any indication that he was even aware that she held a weapon. The knife was badly made, wobbling in its wooden handle, but she managed to saw the twine into manageable lengths, watching him all the while. Not foolhardy, after all, but only unobservant. Still holding the knife, she approached his unprotected back, knowing this was stupid, that he could whirl around at the last moment with that deadly speed of his and turn the blade on her, and she would never have the chance to protest it had only been a test.

Alys knelt behind him. And only then made the decision that it was a test. She'd do his hair, and then afterward show him the knife she'd silently laid on the floor, show him the danger he'd never known he was in.

Alys ran her fingers through his hair to separate it into strands for braiding. When she was finished, she pulled the braids back and fastened them behind. "There," she said.

Selendrile turned before she had a chance to pick up the knife, but his purple eyes locked onto hers, never glancing to either side or down to the floor. "Turn around," he told her.

"Why?"

"So I can cut off your hair." With his eyes never flickering away from hers, he picked up the knife she had finally convinced herself he couldn't have seen.

She stiffened. "Why can't we just braid it like yours?"

"Because there can't be a hint of a question in anybody's mind. The moment someone suspects you're a girl, the clothes won't work. You don't want Atherton to recognize you right away. You want him to feel there's something familiar about you so that he thinks about you after you're gone, after you've destroyed him. You want him to realize who you are only when you're not there anymore."

"That's what I want, is it?" she asked, unable to look away from the blade in his hand.

He used the knife to indicate she put her back to him, to take her turn in this game of trust and nerve.

She sat down, and he swept her hair back over her shoulders. His fingers were light and gentle as they brushed against her cheek, her neck. But the knife tugged mercilessly as he hacked away long strands of hair.

It'll grow back, she thought as big chunks of it dropped all around her. And even if it didn't, this would still be worth it, to get revenge on Atherton. And then Una and Etta, Gower's family. And then Gower himself.

Anything would be worth that.