Frost chuckled, but didn't answer.
They passed through the door into the dark interior. The heat jumped dramatically-it was hotter than the kitchen, a dry, parched blast that sopped up the sweat beading on his skin. The noise of the foundry was as hellish as the swelter, with the constant roar of furnaces stoked by mule-driven bellows, and the banging of countless hammers against anvils.
"Y-you're really going to do it?" Jeremiah asked.
"I'll snap your neck first. I'm not cruel, boy. Only practical."
Jeremiah still felt dizzy, but panic sent a surge of strength through his limbs. He beat Frost's ribs with his fists. The man's broad back sounded like a drum. He kicked furiously, but to no effect. Frost didn't even flinch.
"Open the furnace door!" Frost yelled. "Then, get back! This boy has yellow-mouth!"
Slowly, the noise changed throughout the foundry. Hammers fell silent and men began to shout, "Yellow-mouth!"
"Don't panic, damn it!" Frost shouted. "Fear is more dangerous than the disease. We're taking swift, decisive action to stop the spread. Gather round. Watch me. This boy is the only one we know of who's sick. I want you all to see that we're stronger than any disease!"
There was a horrible groan as an iron door swung open. The roar of flames grew louder, and the back of Jeremiah's legs grew hotter. Red light cast a stark black shadow on the wall behind them.
Jeremiah screamed, "Please don't-" His hands flailed around. His fingers fell onto the scabby strips of flesh that had once been Frost's ear. He gripped these shreds of skin for all he was worth.
Frost screeched, pulled Jeremiah from his shoulder, and threw him to the hot brick floor. Jeremiah rolled onto his back, skittering and kicking to get away. He scooted backward until he was pressed against a low brick wall.
"Until now, I wasn't planning on enjoying this," Frost said, rubbing his ear nub with his good hand. He pulled his fingers away; they were orange with blood and puss. He reached toward Jeremiah's face. "Before I throw you in, I'm going to break every last damn fi-NNNG!"
Frost cried out in pain as an arrow erupted from his good hand. He drew back, staring at the missile that had entered the back of his wrist and passed through to the skin on the other side, pushing it out in a little pointy tent. The arrow was fletched with fresh green leaves that wilted in the sweltering heat of the foundry.
Frost craned his neck. "Who?" he screamed. "Who did this?"
From above, a voice answered. "The boy is mine. You may not touch him."
Frost and Jeremiah both looked into the shadows of the rafters. A human figure could barely be seen, the contours of his body distorted by a cloak. It was apparent, however, that he held a bow before him, with a second arrow aimed at Frost.
"This boy has yellow-mouth!" Frost protested. "He's dying anyway!"
"We're all dying," said the shadowy archer. "Some of us today, perhaps. Step away."
Frost walked backward, clutching his bleeding wrist with the thumb and splinted fingers of his other hand. The arrow swayed when he walked.
The archer dropped a pink rope down from the rafters. He slid down, landing at Jeremiah's feet. Jeremiah recognized the man; he'd traveled with his sister, Zeeky. It was the old man who'd claimed he was Bitterwood. But Bitterwood and Zeeky were dead, killed by the demons in the mines. Did this mean that Zeeky was also alive?
"I'm taking the boy," Bitterwood said. "We're leaving Dragon Forge. He won't spread the disease further."
"You can't leave," Frost said. "There's a blockade of dragons."
"They didn't see me come in," said Bitterwood. "They won't see me go." He looked down at Jeremiah. "Stand up. We're leaving."
Frost snarled. "Who are you to come here and start issuing demands?"
Bitterwood held his hand down to meet Jeremiah's outstretched grasp and help him to his feet.
"My name isn't important," said Bitterwood. "If you're going to order your men to stop me, do so. Their blood will be on your hands."
Frost glared at his assailant, studying his face. Bitterwood met his gaze with an icy stare. At last, Frost looked away.
"Let him go," Frost said to the men who'd gathered between Bitterwood and the door.
Bitterwood tugged at the rope in the rafter. The pink cord snaked down, shrinking as it fell into his gloved hand. He turned, prodding Jeremiah with a nudge between his shoulder blades. Jeremiah scuffled forward. When they reached the street, Bitterwood slung his bow over his shoulder then picked up Jeremiah. Jeremiah draped his arms around the old man's neck and was carried toward the city gates. He rested his head on Bitterwood's shoulder.
"Is Zeeky here?" he whispered.
"She's near," said Bitterwood. "Poocher, too."
"Will she catch yellow-mouth from me?"
"Don't know," answered Bitterwood.
"That man said I was going to die."
Bitterwood continued to walk, without saying another word.
Shay's feet were sore. He'd lost track of how many days they'd been walking underground. He had no idea how many miles they'd covered. Since this morning when he'd confessed his attraction to Jandra, they'd walked without conversation. He followed behind her has she led the way. Lizard scrambled along like a faithful dog at her heels. The little dragon had a strange walk. He was bipedal, but he didn't really stand erect like a human. His torso leaned forward as his tail jutted out beside him. He bounced along in a gait resembling some flightless bird.
From time to time, Lizard would look over his shoulder, glaring at Shay with what seemed to be a newfound hostility. Did Lizard understand the conversation he and Jandra had shared earlier? Was the small beast jealous? Or did his muted hostility somehow reflect Jandra's own reaction? She certainly had been anxious to change the subject. Was she looking for a way to let him down gently? He'd been a fool to say anything. He'd never mention it again.
Or was he being a coward now? When he'd praised Jandra for her bravery, it had been a subtle confession of his own lack of courage. He'd run to escape from Chapelion while his master was away. A braver man might have waited for Chapelion's return and killed him. The biologian certainly wouldn't have anticipated it. No doubt, Shay would have been killed in the aftermath, but as a tactical move, killing the head of the College of Spires would have been a serious blow to the morale of all sky-dragons. But was courage only measured as a willingness to kill or be killed? Wasn't it also a type of courage to steal books and run so that he could teach others to read?
He'd read a thousand books on the subject of courage, and been offered a thousand different answers. The same was true of love. He'd read countless poems and essays on the matter, studied numerous plays, and could recite from memory a hundred lines where a man summed up his feelings and offered them to a woman like some gilded rose. And now that his moment of romantic confession had come and gone, what had he summoned up? Something like hunger? Nothing like hunger? A lifetime of working with words had left him with these inanities. Perhaps, in the end, Bitterwood was right. Books had never done the world any good.
He was pulled from his thoughts as the smell of the mines started to change. The damp, egg-scented air took on a saltier, more marine smell, as if they were nearing the ocean. It was like saltwater at low tide, a sort of soggy, methane-rich rot.
Jandra halted as she studied the tunnel ahead. The passage widened. The mine shaft led to a cliff, and beyond this he couldn't see anything. Jandra reached up and took off her visor. She turned, nodded her head toward the end of the tunnel, and said, "Light."
He removed the visor. He blinked in the darkness that swallowed him. Yet the darkness wasn't complete. The open end of the tunnel had a dull glow, like dawn just over the horizon. Jandra was a dark silhouette against this faint light.