She wiped her cheeks. "I've always… I feel crippled because I didn't have wings, or a tail. I feel ugly when I look in a mirror and see skin instead of scales."
Shay stroked the hair back from her face and said, softly, "You aren't ugly, Jandra. You're the prettiest woman I've ever met."
Jandra rolled her eyes. "Inside, I'm all broken up and scarred. I'm a freak, raised by the wrong species. Now I've had my brain rewired by thousand year old egomaniac. I have to be the most screwed up person who's ever lived."
"Jandra," said Shay, "if you're screwed up, then the world needs more screwed up people. You're incredibly brave. My mind went blank with fear when Vulpine attacked, but you kept your wits. I was on the verge of peeing myself while you calmly reloaded your gun. You're amazing. You bossed around Bitterwood. You took away an earth-dragon's own axe and killed him with it. Could a brain-damaged freak do these things?"
"Why not?" She attempted to grin but couldn't quite manage it. "No wonder I wake up screaming. I'm a brain-damaged freak with a violent streak."
"You've also got a compassionate streak. You put your life in danger to save Lizard. You're kind and caring. Despite all the awful things dragons have done to you, you aren't consumed with bitterness and hatred. More than anyone I've ever met, you're trying to make the world a better place. Lizard's right… you're a good boss."
"Good boss," Lizard cooed. "Good, good boss." He stared up at her as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. The little dragon turned his gaze to her backpack. "We eat?"
Jandra laughed, then hiccupped. "Flatterer," she said. "Yes, we'll eat."
Shay released her hand. "If you want to talk more about this later, I'm ready to listen. You don't need to feel like the weight of the world is on your shoulders alone."
She looked at Shay, his face only inches from hers. Of the three people she'd ridden with from Dragon Forge, he was the last one she would have expected to still be with her when she undertook what was probably the most dangerous mission of her life. This seemed like an insane amount of effort for Shay to go through in order to get his hands on some books. A light clicked on in her head.
He hadn't come all this way for the books.
"By the bones," she whispered. "You like me!"
He grinned. "Of course I like you."
"I mean… you're… interested in me. As a potential, um, mate."
He looked away sheepishly and cleared his throat. "I haven't… I mean… I'm really…," his voice trailed off. He took a deep breath and looked back toward her. "Yes. I find you, as you say, interesting. On many levels. I've never met anyone like you."
"How long…?"
Shay shrugged. "It… it wasn't love at first sight. You are… you're a little intimidating, to tell the truth. But there's… there's something… something about the way you stand. Your shoulders are always pulled back. You hold your chin up. It's so… regal. I understand how a woman raised in a palace might find the interest of a slave… unwelcome."
"No!" said Jandra. "I mean… I didn't know. I hadn't been… I'm just… I've never been taught how to look for the, uh, signals. The only man who ever showed interest was Pet, but I always found his attentions… creepy. I felt like a mouse under the watchful gaze of a hungry cat. He may have given me a false sense of what indicates a man's interest. Since you weren't constantly leering, I just didn't suspect."
"I didn't… I don't know the signals either," said Shay. "Among slaves, we're usually matched with whoever our masters choose. Courtship isn't something I've had any experience with. When I look at you, I do feel… it's something like hunger, but nothing like hunger. It's… It's-"
"Lizard hungry," said the earth-dragon, tugging on Jandra's sleeve.
"We should eat," said Jandra, welcoming the change of subject. This wasn't a conversation she felt ready to have. She turned her back to Shay. She flipped open her back pack and reached in for the hardtack inside. "We have a long way to go."
CHAPTER TWENTY:
SWIFT DECISIVE ACTION
Jeremiah's hands trembled as he cut away the watery black rot from the soft, lumpy potato. He dropped the remaining white chunk in the large iron pot he crouched over. He felt sick to his stomach. No doubt the stench of the mound of partially rotten potatoes he sat next to was the blame. It didn't help that his head was throbbing from his earlier "training," or that his arms and legs were covered with knots and bruises. These same knots and bruises had kept him from sleeping much at all the last few nights despite his exhaustion. His bed was a pile of empty potato sacks, and he was still using the same filthy blanket he'd been wrapped in by Vulpine. He wiped his brow with a burlap rag. He was sweating, despite the chills that shook his hands.
When Jeremiah had arrived at Dragon Forge, he'd been hungry, weary, and freezing. He'd possessed a half-formed dream that he would be welcomed into town by some kindly woman who looked like his mother. She would give him soup, clean clothes, and put him to bed in a big, soft mattress with clean sheets.
Instead of a kindly woman, he'd been met at the gate by a pair of thuggish teenagers who'd taunted his thin limbs and the tear-tracks down his filthy face. He later learned their names were Presser and Burr. They'd finally allowed him in, and brought him before a frightening man named Ragnar, who looked like a wild beast with his mane of hair and leathery skin.
Ragnar had made the rules of Dragon Forge clear: If you wanted to eat, you had to work, and, what's more, you had to fight.
"Can you do that, boy?" Ragnar had demanded.
"Y-yes sir," he'd answered. He'd never fought before, but he had Vulpine's knife still tucked into his belt. He imagined it might be satisfying to bury that knife into some dragon, though the exact details of how that might happen were fuzzy in his mind.
"Find a job for him," Ragnar had told the guards. "He looks too scrawny to be of much use, but get him outfitted with a sword, at least. Can you use a sword, boy?"
"I-I've never tried," said Jeremiah.
Presser chimed in, "There's a sharp end and a dull end. Once you learn which end to grab, it's not so hard."
Jeremiah wasn't sure if he was joking.
Burr added, "We'll get him trained, sir. Make a regular soldier out of him."
Ragnar grunted his approval, then dismissed the boys with a wave.
Presser and Burr had pushed Jeremiah before them out into the street. In the sunlight, the two guards' youthfulness was apparent-though both were taller than Jeremiah by a head, he doubted either was older than fifteen. They swaggered as they walked in their chainmail vests and iron helmets, sky-wall bows slung over their backs.
Once they reached the middle of the street, Burr said, "Presser, give me your sword. Leave it in the sheath."
Presser had complied. It was obvious that Burr was the leader of the pair. Burr gave the sheathed sword to Jeremiah. The weapon was only a short sword, two feet long at most, but it was still heavy. Jeremiah looked up quizzically, not certain what he was supposed to do next.
Burr removed his own sheathed sword from his belt and swung it, slapping Jeremiah hard on the back of his right hand, knocking the sword from his grasp.
"Ow!" said Jeremiah. "What did you do that for?"
"You heard Ragnar. We've got to teach you to fight. The first thing to learn is don't drop your sword. Pick it up."
"You'll hit me again!"
Burr swung his sword, attempting to slam it into Jeremiah's thigh, but Jeremiah jumped out of the path of the blow. He had good reflexes, and eluded Burr's next two swings as well.
Unfortunately, with his attention focused on Burr, he hadn't seen Presser slip behind him. Presser grabbed him, pulling him to his chest in a bear hug.
"Damn, this boy thinks he's a jackrabbit," said Burr. "You can't be a soldier if you're afraid of getting hit, Rabbit."