Young David Catarel had altered in the most spectacular way. Badly scarred mentally as well as physically by that First Fall and Lucy Tubberman’s tragic death, the young man had retreated into a wallow of self-disgust and needless guilt. Not even intensive therapy had broken through the stubborn facade. David fought Thread with a vindictive intensity that was frightening to watch. Only when he had seen how useful dragonets were in ground-crewing had he tolerated their wistful affection.
The renaissance of his personality had begun the moment Polenth nudged his knee. An openly smiling, ecstatic David Catarel had left the hatching sands, solicitously and deftly assisting the staggering little dragon. The changes in the other youths had been felicitous as well, though Catherine Radenlin-Doyle’s tendency to giggle at some unheard comment from her golden mate could be disconcerting. Shih Lao, who had Impressed bronze Firth, also went about with smiles on his once pensive face, Tarrie Chernoff had stopped apologizing for any minor accident or inconsistency, and Otto Hegelman’s stutter had completely disappeared.
“They’re credits to you both,” Caesar Galliani said to Sean and Sorka. “Though Marco’s Duluth, if I say so myself, looks equally as well.”
Sean grinned at the Roma stakeholder. “He does, indeed. As long as they’re eating, sleeping—”
“Being bathed, cosseted, oiled, and scratched, they have nothing to complain of,” Sorka finished, giving Faranth’s nose a final swipe. “There now, love, why don’t you curl up and go to sleep?”
Carenath’s not finished, Faranth complained even as she was moving to the sun-warmed plascrete she preferred as her couch. I like him to lean against. I’m a little hungry.
Sorka put her fingers between her front teeth and gave a piercing whistle. The dragonets instantly disappeared.
All clean, Carenath cried, hopping out of the bath. Warned by Sean, he did not shake himself all over his audience. Carefully he extended his wet glistening wings, holding them aloft in the slight breeze while Sean, with Sorka’s help, mopped his underparts dry.
“D’you need anything, Sean, while we’re here?” Red asked.
“Nope,” Sean grunted as he bent to dry the claw sheaths. The claw design was one of the few physical modifications that Kitti Ping had made from dragonet to dragon. The fingerlike claws would be more useful, she had thought, for grabbing running animals than the dragonets’ pincer-type arrangement. “As soon as they’ve had their snack, we’ll have one, too.”
“Amazing couple,” Phas Radamanth said, smiling up at Red. “Now if that bronze is fertile, and the gold willing, we’ll have our next generation.”
“Let’s not rush too far ahead in our hopes,” Caesar said, looking back over his shoulder at the scene. “Wind Blossom strongly advocates caution about this first batch.”
“Her grandmother bioengineered them.” Phas spoke firmly, stopping in his tracks.
“Well, she also produced imperfect ones that didn’t hatch.”
“Eighteen was a very good result, and we learned a great deal from dissecting the aborts,” Phas said.
They were just turning away when the air filled with dragonets, each carrying a fair-sized packtail in its claws. The dragons lifted their heads, opened their mouths, and took the offering as rightful homage. The men grinned and continued their morning round.
Once Faranth and Carenath had their snack, they were quite willing to curl up together, Carenath with his triangular head neatly placed on his outstretched forelegs. Faranth draped her head and neck over his forequarters, her tail twitching occasionally just in front of his muzzle, her wings sagging slightly from their folded position on her back. Both freshly oiled hides gleamed in the sun.
“I will be glad when they can hunt for themselves,” Sean murmured to Sorka as they wearily settled on the ground in the shade of the east wall of their home.
“Meanwhile,” Sorka said, reaching for a water jar, “we couldn’t manage it without the fair.” She sent strong feelings of gratitude to Duke, Emmett, Blazer, and the others. Their response, muted in deference to the somnolent dragons, was clearly “You’re welcome.”
“The requirements of dragons were never considered by Landing’s architects,” Sean remarked as he took the water jar in turn. Washing dragons was thirsty business. “When they get bigger, something will have to be done. There aren’t enough places to house people in Landing anymore, much less dragons.”
“D’you think they’d be comfortable in some of Catherine’s caves? She mentioned it again yesterday.”
“Yes, so she did. Then she giggled.”
The two Connells exchanged amused and tolerant grins. The human dragonmates had abruptly found themselves a group set apart, by occupation and dedication, as well as by the subtler changes within them. Though they had the unqualified support and help of every member of the medical, veterinary, and biological teams, they found that talking minor problems over among themselves brought better results. One had to be a dragonmate to appreciate the problems—and the joys!
Sorka noted with quiet pride that it was Sean’s opinion that seemed to be sought most frequently by the others. And she agreed. He had always been sensible about animals. But, she realized, she could not really call the dragons “animals.” They were too . . . human. Even their voices: Carenath’s voice sounded just like Sean’s light baritone being spoken through a long tunnel. And Sorka suspected that Faranth’s voice was a version of her own.
From the moment they had brought the two hatchlings to Irish Square, Sorka had realized that she heard both Faranth and Carenath, while Sean heard only Carenath. That Sorka could hear both did not seem to distress either dragon. They were amenable to everything in life as long as they had full bellies and oiled hides. Then, as Sean’s bond with the bronze developed, Sorka heard fewer private exchanges. She, too, had learned, as she suspected each dragonmate had, to communicate telepathically on a private band.
“I’d say they’ll be ready to hunt in another week or two—if we can use a small corral to pen the beasts.” Sean found her hand and squeezed it, then laid his hand over her belly. “All this won’t harm our child, will it?”
Sorka felt guilty. Lately, she had not had time to think about her condition: there was always something to be done for Faranth, or for one of the other young dragons. And she and Sean were still on duty at the dragonet clinic, treating those injured fighting Thread.
“The doctor said I was healthy and could ride . . .” Sorka groaned. “Will we be able to teach them to fly between, Sean?” Her voice was low, and she clutched his hand apprehensively.
“Now, dear heart, we’ll be able for what we have to do.” The unknown clearly did not faze Sean anymore.
“But Sean . . .”
“If we know where we’re going, they will. They’ll see it in our minds. They see everything else. What makes you think directions will be difficult?”
“But we don’t even know how the dragonets do it!”
Sean shrugged, grinning down at her. “No, we don’t. But if the fire-lizards are capable of the teleportation, the dragons will be, too. Kitti Ping did not tamper with that. Let’s not fret ourselves. We won’t fret them.”
She eyed him sourly, then shook her finger at him. “Then you stop worrying about it!”
Laughing, his blue eyes sparkling at her shrewd hit, he took her hand and pulled her into his embrace. She nestled there, taking strength from him and returning it. Although Sorka had never before felt so in charge of herself, so dynamic, there were moments when she was assailed with the fear that she might fail Faranth in some small but essential way. She expressed that to Sean.