Dragon's Egg

by Sarah L. Thomson

  Mella may have been no more than twelve, and a keeper for barely a year, but she knew better than to let someone bother her dragons. She headed over.

  “Leave them be! You’ll upset them.”

  The boy jumped a little and looked guilty. “I only wanted a look.”

  “Well, don’t.” Mella planted herself firmly in front of the gate, blocking his way. “They don’t like people.”

  Zap reared up so that his head was over the fence and puffed out a cloud of steam from his nostrils. The boy stepped back, a shock of fair hair tumbling over a pleasant, mild face.

  “You see?” Mella turned to push Zap down and scratched behind his ears to soothe him. The boy retreated several steps, and the dragons settled down.

  “You said they don’t like people,” he remarked as Mella checked the latch on the gate. “But they don’t mind you.”

  “Of course not. I have the touch. I’m a keeper.”

  An odd mixture of pride and uneasiness stirred inside Mella as she said it. Well, didn’t she have something to be proud of? Keepers were rare, and it didn’t always run in families. And hadn’t Mama just said that she did well with the dragons?

  But then, Mama wasn’t a keeper herself. Despite all her years at the Inn, she didn’t know much about dragons. It was Gran who had known.

  Mella gave the gate a smack with her hand to be sure the latch would hold and turned to take a closer look at the boy. He was a stranger to her, and it took her a moment to place him. Of course! He must be the knight’s servant boy.

  “Is your master really a dragon-slayer?”

  “Oh, has he done the speech already?” The boy’s face grew mock solemn. “‘There are signs. The signs have led me here.’ He does it at every inn.”

  Mella’s heart sank, heavy as stone. She hardly knew why she felt such dismay. What did it matter if Damien were a charlatan or a cheat? He was hardly the first of those to stay at the Inn.

  “Why does he do it?” she asked. If Damien’s speech were nothing but a conjuror’s trick, what was the secret behind it? What did the man hope to gain?

  “Now he’ll hear all the news, that’s all. Everyone who’s lost a cow or a sheep, or who’s heard something in the underbrush at night, will come and tell him. So if there’s a dragon about, by nightfall he’ll know where to look.”

  “So there might be? A dragon?” It was not as though she wanted a huge, fire-breathing, cow-eating beast in the woods nearby. Still, Mella felt her heart lift.

  “He thinks there might be. But I’ve been his squire two years now, and I’ve not seen so much as a scale.”

  “But he’s truly a knight?”

  “Oh, aye. The Defenders. It’s a very old order. But there are only a few left now.” The boy looked at her curiously, as if wondering why she was so interested. “I suppose, if I’d spent my whole life training to fight dragons, I might see one behind every bush too.”

  “But you don’t think there are any.”

  The boy looked squarely at her with clear gray eyes and shrugged. “I think the hunter at Grimsby saw an owl against the moon, and the farmer at Applegate lost his cows to wolves. Since you ask me. And I’m Roger. Though you didn’t ask me that. And you?”

  Mella turned on her heel and walked out of the yard.

  She was halfway to Cate’s before she started to regret her rudeness. After all, the boy was only answering her questions. But how could he be so sure that Damien was wrong, that dragons no longer existed? He was as bad as her father, thinking there was nothing in the world beyond the Inn and the next harvest.

  Even when Gran, Da’s own mother, would say that the mountains held strange things, old things, he never paid her any mind. “Time goes differently around rock and stone,” Gran would say. “The mountains think their own thoughts, and they don’t pay much heed to such short-lived things as us.” But her son would have none of it.

  And this boy, Roger, he was another of the same kind. Angry all over again, Mella turned aside from the main road and made her way up the narrow track that was a shortcut to Cate’s cottage. Through the gap in the hawthorn hedge; up the bank, thick with wild violets; over the stepping-stones that lay across the shallow stream. Normally it was a walk Mella enjoyed. And that was another thing to put to Roger’s account: making her cross enough to spoil what should have been a pleasant stroll in the woods on a summer’s morning.

  What was that smell?

  Mella wrinkled her nose. Something dry and smoky. Burnt, like charcoal. Had someone been cutting trees and making charcoal up here? It seemed a strange place to choose.

  Off to Mella’s right, the little stream danced clear and cold over rocks as it spilled out of a cave in the hillside. When Mella was younger and Lilla would still play with her, they’d explored that cave, pretending to find treasure, jewels and old coins, a bandit’s stash or a pirate’s hoard.

  A trickle of gray smoke eased out from the cave’s mouth. Was someone there? A traveler? But this place was half an hour’s easy walk from the Inn. Any honest traveler would have hurried on to shelter, even with night falling.

  What about travelers who were less than honest? Smugglers? Outlaws?

  The wise thing to do would be to run straight home and tell Da.

  Mella found she was standing right outside the cave, on the edge of the stream, holding her breath and listening.

  She could not hear a sound. Later, she would think that should have warned her. On a bright summer day, the trees should have been full of birds, twittering and squawking and chirping, and squirrels chattering and rustling in the leaves. But she could hear nothing beyond the breeze and the water splashing over stones at her feet.

  Just one quick look. It might be nothing. She’d feel a fool if she told Da there were bandits in the cave, only to find that some of the village children had kindled a fire and forgotten to stamp it out. And she’d felt like a fool once already this morning, in the common room at breakfast.

  Mella crouched down so she would not be outlined against the light and peeked into the cave.

  There was a fire, a circle of dim, red coals. No bandits, though. Just the rough, muddy floor, the ceiling lost in the gloom, and the little stream, spilling out of a crack in a stone wall to run dark and quick through the cave and out into the sunshine.

  Thank goodness she had not gone running to Da with stories of outlaws. He would have teased her for months. Still, that fire should not be left burning, even on bare rock. Mella went to put it out.

  Why did it smell so strongly of sulfur in here? The rotten-egg reek was worse than the dragon pen when it needed cleaning.

  Mella scuffed the coals aside with her shoe, scattering them. And paused.

  Something that was not a charred piece of wood glowed black in the heart of the fire. Heat rising off it made the air waver. Mella blinked.

  It was round and smooth as an egg. In fact, that’s what it looked like. An egg in a nest of fire.

  A good thing she still had her gloves in her pocket. They were dragonhide, soft and supple but strong enough to protect her hands from any kind of heat. Every keeper had a pair. These had once been Gran’s. Mella slipped them on and reached into the fire to pick the thing up.

  It was black and glossy, large enough that she had to cradle it in two hands, and so hot she could feel it even through the dragonhide. Was it just a rock worn smooth by the water in the stream? It must be. But even so, it was beautiful. Fascinated, Mella watched as colors seemed to shift and swim beneath the dark surface—pine green, molten red, the deep blue of a sky on a clear day when the last light is fading.

  She’d found a treasure in the cave after all.

  Chapter Three

  Mella knew she must keep her discovery safe. Who had put it in the fire? Would they come back for it? At the thought, her fingers tightened around the object she held. Maybe she should have felt guilty for snatching the thing away, for taking it with her. Was it odd that she didn’t? But she couldn’t stop to think
about it, couldn’t wonder now. This…rock, gem, whatever it was—it was hers now. She needed to take care of it.

  Moving quickly now, Mella hurried out of the cave. The cheese, apples, and egg for Cate she wrapped in the linen napkin and tucked safely into a niche between two clean, water-washed rocks. She picked moss, dampened it in the stream, and used it to line the basket. Then she tucked the black stone carefully in. The moss sizzled and sent up tiny clouds of steam.

  Hurry.

  As if the bandits she’d dreamed up earlier were behind her, Mella scrambled along the path and back down the road toward the Inn. She couldn’t run all the way, but she ran when she might, and in between bursts of speed she walked as briskly as she could. Otherwise someone might—

  Might what?

  Take the stone from her? Who would want it? Who would even know that she had it?

  The logic of the question didn’t loosen her grip on the basket or slow her steps. When she reached the Inn’s yard, she hesitated. She couldn’t see Mama, thank goodness. Poll, one of the stable boys, looked up.

  “What’s wrong then? Mella?”

  Ignoring him, she hurried past. Da was talking to Atwin, standing with his mule and cart by the stable doors. He didn’t see her. Across the yard, into the kitchen. If only Mama would be out…

  She was. The kitchen was empty. Mella dashed up the stairs, past the second floor with the rooms for travelers, and up to the attic, where she slept with Lilla. Until last winter, Gran had slept there too, her bed on one side of the great stone chimney, the one Mella shared with Lilla on the other side.

  Hardly thinking, Mella snatched a shawl off the end of her bed and wrapped it around the basket. She dropped flat on her stomach and tucked the bundle away beneath her bed, close to the chimney. The stone had been in the fire, after all. It might like the warmth, Mella thought vaguely. At any rate, it should be safe. No one would look for it there.

  No one would take it from her.

  Now to sneak out of the Inn again before Mama saw her and wanted to know why she was back so soon, and without the herbs she had been sent for.

  As she hurried downstairs again, Mella could hear Mama on the second floor, talking to Raya, who came in to clean each day. Lilla was checking on the rising bread in the kitchen, so Mella lurked out of sight until her sister went back to the common room. Dashing out to the porch, she snatched up the egg-gathering basket. Da was still talking to Atwin by the stable, and now the boy Roger was there too, and his master, Damien. Roger held the reins of a fine chestnut gelding. Mella aimed to slip past, keeping the squire and his horse between herself and Da. Then on to the gate and the road, and she’d be safe.

  What was that sound?

  It came out of the forest, something between a roar and a howl, and it rose and fell like the wind on a stormy night. All across the yard heads lifted, and talk ceased. The dragons hissed and chattered wildly, dashing around their pen in a flurry of flapping wings and lashing tails. Automatically Mella turned toward her herd, meaning to calm them. But they quieted themselves a moment later and crowded up against the fence, necks stretched long, eyes wide, listening.

  “A hunting cat,” Da said loudly as Roger petted and soothed the chestnut horse, which fidgeted anxiously and rolled its eyes.

  “Cats hunt at night,” Atwin said uneasily, looking around as if the thing that had howled might pounce on him.

  “An eagle, then,” Da answered him shortly.

  Her father was right, Mella thought, trying to make her heart settle back down where it belonged. There were plenty of creatures in the forest who might make a sound like that. Weren’t there? Echoes did strange things to noises, she told herself firmly, ducking around behind Da to get to the gate. It need not have been anything dire or dreadful.

  She could not stop thinking, however, that something about that cry had been familiar. Loss, that had been it. It was a cry someone who had lost something precious might make.

  And as she shut the Inn’s gate behind her, she caught a glimpse of Damien standing very still, upright, not stirring even as Roger brought his horse, now calm, to his side. The fingers of one hand lightly touched the pendant around his neck. He didn’t look as if he’d lost something. On the contrary, he looked as if he’d found what he’d spent his life searching for.

  Mella was tired by the time she reached the cave. After all, she’d already walked the distance twice that morning and run it once. With a sigh, she sat down by the stream, picked up Cate’s provisions from where she’d left them, and packed them away in the egg-gathering basket.

  Goodness, that cave smelled of sulfur. And smoke as well. Had she left that fire burning when she’d rescued the stone from it?

  And what was that—over there? A flash of wet scarlet caught her eye. Turning her head, Mella found herself looking at the dead body of a deer, huddled against an earthen bank. Its coat was the same soft brown as the dirt, which was why she hadn’t seen it at first, until the blood on its throat had sprung into her sight.

  The blood was still wet. Fresh. Had someone been hunting? But no arrow had made that gaping wound in the deer’s throat.

  And had there always been that boulder near the mouth of the cave? It was huge, towering well over Mella’s head. How had she never noticed it before?

  Something rushed snakelike along the ground at Mella’s feet. With a yelp she jumped up. She hadn’t seen the thing itself, only the movement, and she spun around looking for it.

  The voice that spoke behind her was deep, and it echoed as though it came from the bottom of a well. It sounded old, as old as stone. A wild thought sparked in Mella’s mind. It sounded as though the mountain itself were speaking.

  And what it spoke was a single word.

  “Thief!”

  Something long and smooth whipped around Mella’s waist, and her feet were lifted off the ground, so quickly that she had no time even to scream. Not that screaming would have done her much good, Mella thought, as she was turned around in midair. Not when she was looking into a long, narrow face covered in fine scales. A wash of color spread over the scales, changing them from the dull gray of weather-beaten stone to the pale green of lichen. Wisps of steam curled from flaring nostrils.

  The boy, Roger, had been wrong. Mella’s father had been wrong. There were dragons.

  It was a pity she would not live long enough to tell them so.

  The dragon, holding Mella in midair, stepped away from the tumbled slope of rocks near the mouth of the cave. Now that it was no longer trying to hide, the natural color of its scales swept across the body and down the long neck crowned with the large, bristling crest that told Mella this dragon was a male, and a very angry one. Ignoring the dead deer at his feet, he kept dark brown eyes, flecked with gold, fixed on Mella. Perhaps he didn’t like venison, Mella thought, dizzy with terror. Perhaps he only ate deer when he couldn’t get human.

  More steam escaped as the dragon opened his mouth to speak. A little whimpering sound crawled out of Mella’s throat at the sight of the long white fangs.

  “Where is it?” the dragon demanded. “I smell it on you. Where have you taken it? Speak!”

  But Mella could not. Fear trapped her tongue, made her heart pound in her chest like the blacksmith’s hammer on the anvil. And the tail around her waist was cruelly tight, cutting off her breath.

  “Speak!” the dragon repeated, drawing out the S in a long hiss.

  “I don’t know,” Mella gasped, shutting her eyes. It was easier to get words out if she couldn’t see that face, those eyes, those teeth. “I don’t know what—what you mean—I—”

  “Do not lie!” the dragon thundered. “You have stolen the Egg. I can smell it!”

  The black stone. Like an egg in a nest of fire.

  “Oh,” she whispered politely, feebly. “Was that…yours? I didn’t know—”

  “Thief! Where have you taken it?”

  “I’m not a thief!” This time Mella didn’t gasp. She yelled. And she opened
her eyes.

  Dragons can smell fear, Gran had always said. A keeper lets them know who’s in charge.

  This…this thing that towered as tall as the highest oak and talked like the mountain speaking—this thing was a dragon. And Mella was a keeper.

  She would not let him call her a thief.

  The tail around her middle loosened just a little. It was hard to read much expression on a face covered with scales. But she thought the dragon looked…surprised.

  “A black egg?” she asked. “As heavy as stone?”

  The long, narrow nostrils quivered with rage or impatience or anxiety. The huge head nodded.

  “I found it,” Mella said, glaring. “I didn’t steal it. And I’ll tell you where it is. If you put—me—down.”

  Nothing happened for a long moment.

  Then, very slowly, the dragon lowered Mella to the ground and unwrapped its tail from her waist.

  Mella’s knees were as wobbly as water. Luckily there was a fair-size boulder behind her. When she sat down on that, it was not as obvious as if she’d collapsed on the ground.

  “Where?” the dragon growled, low but fierce. His tail twitched where it lay along the ground, close enough to snatch Mella up again in an instant.

  “It’s at the Inn,” Mella said as steadily as she could. “I’ll fetch it for you. But you have to leave. At once.”

  The dragon laughed. The sound made Mella’s skin crawl as if it wanted to go somewhere and hide. She had to clench her hands into fists to keep from clapping them over her ears.

  Wings unfolded from the dragon’s back, batlike wings with pale gray green skin stretched between long ribs. One of those wings had a tear in the fragile skin, the edges of it rough with dark, dried blood. Had the injury been made by the arrow of a hunter from Grimsby? Was that what had brought the dragon to hide in this cave so near humans?