“Yes, sleep,” Drexel said. “And I applaud your cunning. Even if I were evil, I could never slit your throat as you slept, for in effect I would be slitting my own.”
Orlan’s eyes closed fully. “That’s my way of thinking.”
“Where did you learn such shrewdness?”
“Watching and listening to the dragons,” Orlan said, his eyes still closed. “They are shrewd negotiators.”
“I understand.” Drexel pulled out his blade a few inches and ran a finger along its shiny surface. No, cutting Orlan’s throat would be a fool’s error. This boy was smart, experienced, and strong. His skills might mean the difference between success and failure.
He looked at the other children, now sleeping. With their little bodies bent into fetal positions, they seemed so innocent, so vulnerable, so trusting. Slitting one of those tender throats would make a lot more sense, less baggage, less whining, less chance of getting caught.
He pushed the sword back. Now that would be an option worth thinking about. Yet, when he marched triumphantly home, having a little girl in his company would help engender sympathy for the slaves and elevate his heroic platform. Cassandra would be a perfect choice to play the role of the pathetic waif, and Orlan could articulate the horrors of slavish strife, while he, Drexel the deliverer, stood in heroic silence, taking in the wordless worship of his wide-eyed admirers.
He settled his head back and closed his eyes. Yes, that day was coming, the day when his years of planning would finally reach fruition. Now to extend those plans. How could he escape to the other mine with just the two he needed in order to seal his place in history, while at the same time disabling the other children from revealing his whereabouts? That would take a dose of cunning a child like Orlan could only dream about.
Adrian and Marcelle marched southward through the woods, careful to raise as little noise as possible. A warm breeze dried their clothes and cast off the chill, while the occasional sound of running water to their right reminded them that the river flowed nearby. Many new aromas drifted in from every direction. A sweet scent emanated from thumb-sized flowers with hairlike petals of purple and gold. They grew on leafy vines clinging to trees bearing broad-leafed fronds that shaded nearly every step of the journey. As their footfalls stirred the long-undisturbed debris underneath, a musty odor blended in, strong at times, but not unpleasant.
While they walked, Cassabrie offered a few bits of information about how the slaves transported rocks on rafts, much like the one Adrian had built, and how the dragons used the stones for building the wall and for decorating their courtyards. This practice started when the pheterone miners began excavating stones with vibrant colors and intricate patterns, perfect for ornamentation around the caves of the more self-important dragons, and once the slaves established the raft-transport system, the dragons decided that larger stones could be quarried from the mountains and shuttled to the wall for construction purposes. Soon, the mining of stones became so important, the gas the laborers were unearthing seemed like a by-product of the operation rather than the other way around.
After several minutes, Cassabrie whispered a long “Shhh.”
Adrian grasped Marcelle’s arm and halted. They peered through the gaps in the trees toward the river. At the bank, a dragon sat on its haunches, a long, thick whip in its clawed hand. At least four teenaged boys hauled hefty stones from a raft to a wooden cart, each boy skinny and bare-chested with sweat trickling down his bronzed skin.
“This is as far north as they allow them to unload,” Cassabrie said. “One of the boys will push the cart to a dragon laborer who takes the stones to the boundary. They don’t want any humans near the wall, supposedly to prevent any possibility of escape.”
Adrian crouched and gestured for Marcelle to join him. As they watched the boys work, a tingle crossed his skin. Here they were, the Lost Ones, under the watchful eye of a dragon taskmaster. After all the years of ridicule from those who scoffed at the “myth,” now that he beheld them with his own eyes, he could hardly believe it himself.
Marcelle withdrew the black sword from her scabbard and gave him a questioning look.
“No,” he whispered. “There might be other dragons around.”
“The cart’s almost full,” Cassabrie said. “One of the boys will come this way with it. See the path?”
Adrian scanned the ground in front of him. A narrow strip of trodden leaves cut through the forest only a few steps away. He lowered his whisper further. “Cassabrie, you saw that without me seeing it?”
“You saw it. It just didn’t register in your mind. I suspect that will happen quite often as I observe things you don’t know about.”
Adrian touched Marcelle’s shoulder and drew her close as he whispered, “Cassabrie says one of the boys will come this way.”
She nodded her understanding and slid the sword back to its scabbard. Soon, the smallest of the boys drew closer, shoving the loaded four-wheeled cart with all his might. His wiry arms strained at the cart’s rear handles, and sweat poured. He looked no more than twelve years old. Yet, he pushed a load that most sixteen-year-olds in Mesolantrum couldn’t budge.
Adrian stepped out of the underbrush and onto the path a few paces in front of the boy. “Excuse me, young man. May I speak to you for a moment?”
He dropped the handles and backed away, his eyes wide. “Who … who are you?”
Adrian touched himself on the chest. “I am a friend. My name is Adrian. Don’t be frightened.”
The boy squinted. “You’re dressed strangely, and your skin is so pale.”
“That’s true, but it would take too long to explain right now.”
“Tell him you need to speak to the closest patriarch,” Cassabrie said. “He will know what you mean.”
“I need to speak to a patriarch. Will you tell me where to find the closest one?”
“No.” The boy set his hands on the cart handles again and pushed. “If I’m late, they’ll beat me.”
After he passed, Adrian looked at his back. Reddish brown stripes crisscrossed his skin diagonally from shoulders to hips. They didn’t appear to be fresh, but at one time the lashes must have been pure torture.
“Follow him,” Cassabrie said. “You and Marcelle both. Just stay in the forest when he goes into the clearing.”
Adrian waved for Marcelle to join him. They followed several steps behind the boy, keeping their heads low and their footfalls quiet. Soon, the boy passed into a clear grassy area, and Adrian signaled for a halt. Crouching behind a leafy shrub, he and Marcelle watched.
The boy stopped the cart on top of a dark circle that looked like a blanket or a tarp. He lifted a corner and drew it over the cart, then repeated the process for the other three corners and attached them to a metal hook.
As he held the hook above his head, he stared at the sky. After nearly a minute, a dark shadow swept overhead. A dragon swooped down, grabbed the hook with his rear claws, and hoisted the cart into the air. His powerful wings beat the air savagely. He struggled against the weight, but he soon lifted the cart over the treetops and flew away to the north.
The boy brushed his hands together and hustled back to the path. As he tried to hurry past, Adrian caught his arm. Marcelle caught the other. “Now can you tell me where to find a patriarch?” Adrian asked.
The boy glanced at the scabbard on Adrian’s hip then at Marcelle before shaking his head. “If you don’t know where a patriarch is, maybe I shouldn’t tell you.”
He tried to run, but they held him in place. Adrian whispered a stretched-out call, “Cassabrie?”
“He is being rather discourteous,” she said, her voice carrying an annoyed tone. “Tell him that you’ve been relocated, and you beg for the grace due a stranger.”
Adrian lowered himself to one knee, keeping his gaze fixed on the boy. “Young man, I know you see us as strangers. It’s true, for we have been relocated. Is it not your custom to show grace to such strangers?”
The boy bent his brow low
. “It is our custom to watch out for deceivers, especially those who falsely appeal to our kindness.”
Adrian drew his head back. How interesting! Boys this age rarely spoke with such eloquence back home. “Why are you so suspicious of us?”
“You’re too strong to be an inside worker, unless you’re a miner, but you’re too clean for that, and you’re too pale to be an outside worker.” He nodded at Adrian’s scabbard. “No human is allowed such weapons, and”—he then pointed at Marcelle—”ever since Zena betrayed us, no one dresses all in black. Your wife reminds me of Zena, except shorter.”
Cassabrie laughed but quickly stifled it. “Remind me to tell you about Zena later, but since this boy knows the legends, tell him that you have come from the Northlands to avenge Cassabrie. If he knows the Starlighter’s final prophecy, he will understand.”
Adrian pondered the word. Cassabrie had said she was a Starlighter and demonstrated her powers with supernatural storytelling, but the full meaning still seemed elusive.
“So,” the boy continued, “are you going to let me go or shall I shout for the dragon?”
Adrian pulled the boy closer and whispered, “Listen carefully. I have come from the Northlands to avenge the Starlighter’s death. If you know her prophecy, then your skepticism, though proper in its place, should be put to rest.”
The boy’s muscles relaxed. “But … but the raven. There is no raven.”
“I will explain,” Cassabrie said. “Repeat the prophecy as I say it, so he will realize that I am with you.”
She continued in a singsong cadence, and Adrian echoed each line.
Although I burn and light is spurned,
I shall return with freedom yearned;
Within another vessel strong,
I live again to sing my song.
A raven perched upon my wing
Will help us fly, will help us bring
My freedom’s call to slaves in cords
And break their bonds with sharpened swords.
When Adrian finished, the boy looked at Marcelle and whispered reverently, “Is she the raven?”
“She is,” Cassabrie said, “though I just realized it myself when the boy mentioned her garb.”
Adrian nodded. “And the Starlighter is within me, like a spirit. She even recited the prophecy as I spoke it.”
The boy let out a low whistle.
“Now that you understand our weapons and her manner of dress,” Adrian continued, “will you lead me to a patriarch?”
The boy began heaving shallow breaths as he hurried his words. “I am Scott. I will take you to a patriarch, but I don’t know how to get you into the dragon village. You will look like a purple vog.”
“Vogs are purple?” Adrian asked.
Scott gave him a curious stare. “Of course not, and strong slaves are tanned and dirty. Most of us work without a shirt on.”
“I see your point.” Adrian looked down at his tunic. The top two buttons had been torn away, leaving much of his upper chest exposed, including the edge of the glowing patch. “If I take off my shirt,” he said, shifting the material to hide the glow, “my pale skin will be even more obvious.”
“Gwillen root,” Scott said. “Go ahead and remove your shirt. I’ll be right back. This is worth taking a beating for.” He ran toward the river and disappeared in the brush.
As Adrian untied the cloak at his waist, still damp from the river plunge, he looked at Marcelle. “Gwillen root?”
Marcelle shrugged. “A skin dye?”
“Yes,” Cassabrie said. “We used it for tanning leather. If it spilled on our skin, it would leave a brown mark that would take a season to wear off. The boys probably use it to seal gaps in the rafts that the heavy loads create.”
Adrian nodded. “Cassabrie says it’s a dye.”
An irritated glare flashed across Marcelle’s face, but it quickly vanished.
“Well, that gets you in,” she said, “but what about me?” She crossed her arms loosely in front. “If they don’t wear black clothing, then what do I do? Even the shirt I have on underneath is black.”
“We’ll have to ask Scott for an alternative.” As Adrian unbuttoned, he turned to the side, hoping to hide the skin patch for as long as possible. When he slid the tunic off, he glanced at Marcelle. Her arms still crossed, she had turned, apparently keeping an eye on the path leading to the river. Her profile displayed a scrunched brow and tight lips. Something was bothering her.
With Marcelle staring off into the woods, obviously not wanting to converse, the wait seemed interminable. How long might it take for Scott to find this gwillen root and prepare it as a dye? And the thought of dragons patrolling the skies or the forest paths increased the tension in the air.
Adrian looked up through the canopy. No sign of dragons. Of course, he could talk to Cassabrie while they waited, but that would likely drive a thicker wedge between him and Marcelle. Every word he spoke to Cassabrie seemed to infuriate Marcelle, as if she viewed Cassabrie as a wicked fairy or a seductive nymph who might carry him to destruction. Of course, nothing could be further from the truth, but how could he convince Marcelle? How could he communicate a feeling? She would just have to learn by experience. When Cassabrie’s guidance proved trustworthy, then Marcelle would know.
Finally, Scott scampered toward them, swinging a wooden bucket at the end of a tightly flexed arm. Brown water sloshed out as he hurried. When he stopped, he dipped a brush into the slurry and rubbed it across Adrian’s arm. He pushed hard, making the bristles sting.
“Your skin will absorb it better,” he explained, “if I rough it up a bit. With your muscles, we’ll have to say you’ve been hauling boulders. Even with your shirt on, the dragons will notice. And I have to make sure you’re the same all over. An obvious change in color might give you away.”
When Scott moved to brush his back, Adrian looked at Marcelle again. She kept her focus on the path, the same aspect casting her in a dark mood.
Adrian turned his attention to Scott. “One piece of information will help me greatly. I am searching for a man named Frederick. He might have been carrying a weapon similar to mine and possibly wearing a tricornered hat with a purple feather in it. Have you seen him?”
“Frederick,” Scott repeated slowly. “I don’t remember anyone with that name. Some of the women wear hats during the hot seasons, and a few of the older men, but I have not heard of one with three corners or a feather.”
“Well, then maybe the patriarch will know.”
When Scott shifted to the front, his eyes shot open as he pointed at the glowing skin patch. “What’s that?”
Marcelle turned. Her eyes also grew wide. “Adrian, that looks awful! It pulses!”
Adrian touched the patch. “It’s a sign that Cassabrie is inside me. The pulse is like her heartbeat.”
“It’s the Starlighter,” Scott said as he moved the brush to Adrian’s lower torso and continued working.
Marcelle stepped slowly closer, as if hypnotized, her stare fixed on Adrian’s patch. Leaning over Scott, she touched it with her fingertips. “Does it hurt?”
He nodded. “Sometimes quite a bit, depending on Cassabrie’s passion.”
Marcelle’s eyebrows lifted. “Her passion?”
“Excuse me.” Scott pushed the brush higher. “Maybe this will cover it up. If the dragons see it, they’ll send you to the Separators. That would be the worst thing that could happen.”
Adrian repeated the word in his mind. Separators. It sounded ominous, wicked. Should he ask what it meant? Maybe Scott thought he was already supposed to know.
Scott let the brush drip over the palm-sized patch. The sepia drops drizzled across the glow and sloughed off into the skin underneath. “It’s not absorbing,” he said.
“I have an idea.” Marcelle picked up Adrian’s cloak and, using her sword, cut out a long strip. “I don’t think you’ll need your cloak in this weather.”
After a few more slices, she fashioned a ban
dage and wrapped it around Adrian’s chest, covering the glow with a thick patch of material. “I’m sure the slaves here get injured from time to time.”
“One of the river rats bit you!” Scott said with a grin. “Your skin looks perfect now, but I could add some red for blood.”
Adrian laughed. “I hope it won’t be necessary. I’m planning to wear my shirt, but it’ll be good to have the bandage. My top two buttons are missing.”
“I agree.” Marcelle laid her palm over the bandage and pressed down lightly. “Keep it where it belongs.”
As her hand lingered, he looked into her eyes—still concerned, still anxious. Her warning meant so much more than the simple words implied.
He laid his hand over hers. “I’ll be careful.”
She pulled her hand away, her expression unchanged. “What’s our next step?”
“Wait for evening,” Scott said. “When the other men quit for the day, Adrian and I can enter the village with them, and I’ll take him to Lattimer. He’s the closest patriarch.”
“What about Marcelle?” Adrian asked. “She can’t go into the village dressed in black, can she?”
“She will have to wait here until I can come back with some normal clothes. There is another slave in Lattimer’s home who is about her size.”
Marcelle winced. “I assume I’ll have to wear a dress.”
“Well,” Scott said, stretching out the word, “that is our way. Is something wrong with wearing a dress?”
“I haven’t worn one since I was nine. Dresses are unsuitable for battle.”
“They’re really skirts that wrap around,” Scott explained, demonstrating with his hands at his waist. “Most girls take them off while working outside, and they wear short trousers underneath.”
Marcelle sighed. “I can live with that.”
“So should we hide here in the woods while you finish your labors for the day?” Adrian asked.
Scott pointed at his foot. “I gashed it on a stone, so I’m done.” Blood oozed from a cut between his two biggest toes, and the slice extended along the side of his foot and up to his ankle. “I had to make it big enough to be excused, and I faked a limp and cried a lot. The dragon wasn’t very sympathetic, but at least I didn’t get a beating.”