Collins glanced through the trees, uncertain where to veer from the well-worn path. He wondered if the king’s guards followed them stealthily through the underbrush and whether the renegades would notice and prepare for an ambush. He had escaped the only way he could conceive of and had not fully considered the danger he might inflict upon others. “It’s not my right to give away anything. It’s up to . . . it . . . to decide when and where to reveal . . . itself.”
Quinton punched Collins in the shoulder with her free hand. Though clearly intended to seem playful, the gesture felt forced. “You’re phenomenally weird, Ben Collins.”
Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, Collins thought, but said only, “Thanks.”
A sudden squawk shattered Collins’ hearing and sent him skittering for cover, dragging Quinton with him. Collins aimed the mag light toward the source of the sound. A blue and gold macaw that clambered beak over claw from a nearby trunk, dropped cautiously to the ground, then trotted toward them with a rolling gait.
Collins watched, trying not to laugh. “Aisa?”
“Who else?” the parrot said. She glided to his shoulder, a thousand times more graceful in the air than on the ground. “Where ya goin’?”
“I’m not sure,” Collins admitted, swiveling his neck to look at her and finding one steel-blue eye boring into his. “I need to take Carrie to . . . the . . . elder.”
Aisa squawked again, the sound ringing through Collins’ ear long after it finished. He imagined owning such a bird as a pet might guarantee eventual deafness. “Who?” She fluffed up her feathers, tossing out a spray of dandrufflike dust.
“The elder,” Collins repeated, using the term Vernon and Zylas had chosen when they had conversed about Prinivere for the first time in front of him, before he knew the details and they felt they could trust him.
Aisa scratched her head with one claw, loosing more parrot dust. “Who?” she repeated.
“Who? Who?” Quinton emitted a tight laugh, and Collins hoped that meant she was beginning to trust him. “Is that a parrot or an owl?”
Aisa made an affronted squeak. “I’m a blue and gold macaw.”
“Yes,” Collins said soothingly, “You’re a blue and gold macaw, Aisa. A parrot. But I need to find . . .” Though he hated to give away anything, it seemed preferable to standing here trying to explain things to a bird with only partial overlap. “. . . the lady.”
Quinton smiled with wicked triumph. “Ah, so we’re a couple of X chromosomes closer to the truth.”
Aisa cocked her head toward Quinton, fixing an eye on the woman.
Collins ran a gentle finger along Aisa’s head, and her attention rotated back to him. Quinton carried a magical stone the renegades had given her on her arrival in Barakhai, when they had expected her to remain on their side. It translated for her, the way Prinivere’s spell did for Collins; but he doubted the genetics concept came through clearly.
“Scratch backward. Feels best. Gets the itchy stuff off the new feathers.”
Collins obeyed, carefully watching for the bird’s reactions. He did not want to take a chance on losing a finger to a hard, black beak built for cracking nuts. He explored the hard, plastic-like prickles of new feather sheaths against his fingertips, and the bird lowered her head, twisting sideways, to enjoy the full effects of his grooming.
“Can you lead us to the lady?” Collins asked as he stroked.
“Oh, yes.” The bird slurred, though whether in response to his ministrations or his inquiry, he did not know. Her head flicked toward Quinton in a not-so-subtle gesture, though she did not seem to have the words to ask the obvious question.
Collins doubted the bird could understand the subtleties of the situation in her current form. “She’ll have to go with us.”
Aisa flapped and screeched, clambering up and down Collins’ arm twice before shooting between the trees.
Quinton watched her disappear among the branches, targeting the parrot’s path with the mag light. “Walk this way?” she guessed.
Collins perverted the old Groucho Marx joke. “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need a helicopter.” He headed in the direction the macaw had taken, following the glimpses he got of the brilliant sapphire and amber feathers amidst the duller browns and greens of the forest.
Quinton laughed out some of the horrible tension that had existed between them since their reuniting. She took Collins’ arm in both her hands as they walked. “I like a man with a sense of humor, even if he is wearing a dress and tights.”
She’s flirting with me. Collins could scarcely believe it, and that raised suspicion. Is she playing me? Or just crazy. He ran with the change, reinforcing it with more humor. He pretended to ash a cigar, still imitating Groucho, “And I like a woman who feeds me straight lines, especially if she’s wearing a tight dress.” He appreciated her softening attitude toward him but worried that it might abruptly degenerate into the same expectation of a lifetime relationship as it had before. Not that I could wholly blame her. I started it this time with desperate talk of love and marriage.
They found Aisa a short distance ahead, perched on a low branch. “Hello,” she said in her gravely bird voice, flapped once, then took off again into the forest.
And so it went, the bird leading Collins and Quinton between the trees, the woman seeming to lose more of her inhibitions as anticipation overcame mistrust and anger, and Collins exhausting his repertoire of one-liners. Occasionally, they lost Aisa, but she always returned to lead them deeper between the packed trunks, intertwining bushes, and scraggly overgrowth.
Collins tried to avoid the plants he recognized as skin irritants, but those became too numerous to do much more than work to keep bare skin away from them. He hoped they would find a lake or clear stream near Prinivere’s current cave so he could wash the oils from his face, hands, and hair; and that she would have brought his backpack so he could change his clothes. Despite his flippancy, he felt distinctly uncomfortable in woman’s face and garb, especially speckled with bruises and smeared with poison ivy. He worried about Quinton’s instability and changing moods; she seemed capable of flipping from love to hate, from kindness to cruelty in an instant. At least, he counted on Aisa’s meandering route to confuse Quinton and any pursuers as much as it did him. He could not have found his way back should his life depend on it, which, he realized suddenly, it very well might.
At length, they came to a rocky cliff amidst all the plants. Aisa alighted on a shelf, flapped, and screeched out, “Wait here.”
Collins found a large stone and sat. Something sharp poked his behind, and he leaped back to his feet almost immediately. He looked down, only to find his leggings and the lower half of his shift covered with burrs.
“What’s wrong?” Quinton followed Collins’ gaze. “Ouch.”
Collins looked at her linen boots and dress, similarly decorated. “I guess we have something to do while we wait.”
Quinton looked at her own clothes and groaned. “Why don’t we start with the ones stabbing me in the butt?”
Walking behind his companion, Collins began prying out the pointy seeds with his thumb and first finger. He found long ones with a single barb in the tip and round ones, like puffer fish, with points in every direction. The former slid out easily with a single sharp tug. The latter tended to cling and to jab painfully into his fingertips with even a light pull.
When one of those became wedged under his nail, Collins jerked back with a curse. “Ouch, damn it!”
Quinton twisted her head around toward him but did not inquire about his welfare.
Collins cautiously closed his teeth around the burr clinging to his finger, ripping it free but leaving the barbs deeply embedded. “I don’t mind the little spears. But the caltrops really hurt.”
“Spears? Caltrops?” Quinton shook her head with a sigh. “Leave it to a guy to weaponize even the most banal and benign.”
“Benign, hell.” Collins sucked on his sore finger. “Real c
altrops may hurt more, but at least they don’t leave shrapnel.”
Quinton worked on the front of her clothing. “I think of them more as sewing needles and porcupines.”
Collins nodded. The description seemed at least as apt. “You’ve got to admire their survival skills. I bet we spread their seeds over a mile.”
“Just what we need. More spears and caltrops.”
Collins looked at the ground, where trampled leaves and brush hid the burrs they had managed to dislodge. “You gather them up and throw them away. I’m not touching those things any more than I have to.”
“Me, either.” Quinton walked around Collins. “I guess it’s only fair I get your back, too.”
“Thanks.” Collins hauled out as many burrs as he could from the front while Quinton attended his back. Believing he finally had her trust, he tried, “So, where are those little dragons anyway?”
Quinton jabbed him with a burr before removing it.
“Ow!”
“You know the deal. Healing first.”
Collins could understand her reticence. “Yes, but—”
“And they may be young, but they’re hardly ‘little.”’
A man appeared. Thin, draped in an overlarge tunic and hose, with brown hair and a dark mustache, he wordlessly ushered the pair inside.
As Collins shut off the mag light, Quinton reached out and took it back from him.
It occurred to Collins suddenly that, if Aisa had held parrot form for at least the last hour, and that they had needed to use the mag light for even longer than that it had to be later than 10:00 P.M. Less than two hours to rescue Zylas. A wave of panic flashed through him, and all of the humor of the last few minutes seemed wasted.
A voice entered Collins’ mind. *What’s happening? Why did you bring her here?*
Collins stiffened in surprise, then realized Prinivere hid not far from where he stood. He stifled the urge to look around for her. His searching might attract Quinton’s attention, and he would not reveal the old dragon without permission. He concentrated on his thoughts, trying to give Prinivere a quick and dirty image of all that had transpired. If you fix her face, she’ll release Zylas and tell us where to find the dragons. He recalled that Prinivere had once healed him after the king’s guards had injured him and he had fallen down the stone stairs. She had managed it before she even had the enhancing crystal, stating that healing spells took less energy than most.
*Fix her face?* Prinivere seemed stunned by the revelation. *Ben, I can’t do that.*
I ruined it. It seems only fair—
Prinivere broke in before he could finish the focused thought. *I don’t mean I won’t. I mean I can’t. I’m not capable of doing such a thing.*
Shocked, Collins did not consider his words carefully. Are you kidding me? Of course you are! You made me look like this. He caught himself reaching toward his face and stopped his hands in mid-movement.
Apparently finished glancing around the craggy, empty room, Quinton jostled Collins’ arm. “Why are we just standing here? What happens next?”
Startled from his mental conversation, it took Collins a moment to find his tongue. “We . . . we . . .” He licked his lips, summoning saliva in a mouth gone uncomfortably dry. “We—”
Prinivere continued the previous conversation, *Yours is illusion, not healing. It’s temporary.*
“We,” Quinton prompted, seizing Collins’ forearm. “We what?”
*If I could heal old wounds, Ben, don’t you think I’d start with my own?*
Collins remembered the ugly lines and puckers that marred the dragon’s murky green scales, the ragged tail tip. The wounds she had healed for him had been fresh bruises, abrasions, and cuts.
Quinton’s grip tightened, painful in its persistence. Caught in the middle, Collins froze, mind dangerously blank.
At that moment, a dog raced from the dark depths of the cave, barking a welcome that rang through the confined space. Collins recognized the voice, then the gangly form, an instant before it struck him full in the chest. Bowled over, he toppled, dragging Quinton down with him, Korfius lapping at his face.
Collins shoved the dog aside, thrusting a protective arm in front of his face. “Stop it! Down, Korfius.” He used the opening to clamber to his feet, then offered Quinton a hand as the hound capered and pranced around him.
Quinton accepted Collins’ hand but sprang to her feet without allowing him to carry more than a modicum of her weight. She struggled to readjust the veil.
“Korfius, no!” Collins put his most demanding tone into his voice. “Korfi—” Only then, his mistake struck him, and he looked at a brow-furrowed Quinton.
She voiced his worst fear. “So that’s not Korfius in the dungeon.”
Collins tried not to sound defensive. “I never said it was.”
“You implied it.” A dangerous edge entered Quinton’s tone.
“No.” Collins would not allow himself to be bullied. He had made too many errors. “You assumed it.”
“So, who is your partner in crime?”
Collins knew his answer, no matter how evasive or vague, would still give Quinton a clue. The more defensive he seemed, the more important the identity would grow until it became obvious. He shrugged, then smiled, trying to appear nonchalant and hoping Quinton would see it all as part of the continuing game. “You know the deal. Healing first.” He squeezed Quinton’s hand, still caught in his.
“That wasn’t even part of the deal,” she reminded.
“Exactly.” Collins saw that as making his point.
“I thought you loved me.”
“I do.” Even though he had not spoken the actual words this time, Collins’ response still stuck in his mouth, a chore to verbalize. “But my coconspirator might not.” He took her into his arms, surprised to find himself aroused by her again despite his discomfort and dislike. She was still a beautifully contoured woman, soft and delicate against him. He hoped Prinivere saw through the necessary deceit, then realized she would also read his lust. Cheeks warming, he forced his thoughts away from his penis. “If I betrayed the trust of a friend, even to you, could you ever trust me again?” Now, Collins realized, he had placed Quinton in a vulnerable position. If she pressed much further, she compromised the integrity of both of them.
Quinton pursed her lips. “I trusted the social workers who told me my mother could stop drugging and drinking and get her act together.”
“You were four,” Collins reminded. “And you didn’t. After a year or so, you stopped believing them. Because they had violated your trust.” He whispered directly into her ear. “I’m not going to do that.” He meant that he would not reveal his jailed companion’s identity; but, even as the words left his mouth, he realized she would take them a different way. She would see it as a promise never to betray her, a vow he had no intention of keeping. Eventually, she would learn that he did not love her, that he never had. What have I done? He refused to surrender to guilty contemplation. Zylas’ safety had to take priority over Carrie Quinton’s feelings, no matter how hard her past life or how deeply her hatreds festered.
Korfius’ nails gouged Collins’ leg.
“Ow!” Collins ripped from Quinton’s embrace to turn his wrath on the dog. “Stop that! Bad dog.”
Korfius lowered his head, ears flipped backward, and whined softly.
Thoughts of betrayal gave Collins an idea. Lady, can you hear me?
*Certainly,* Prinivere returned. *I just didn’t want to interrupt.* She added soothingly, *You’re handling a tricky situation as well as an honest man can.*
Though clearly meant as a compliment, the words fueled Collins’ shame. If you can still call me an honest man, you must have no idea what I’m thinking right now.
*You want me to illusion her face to look as if I’ve healed it.* As eerily as always, Prinivere had again accurately read his mind. *But I can’t do that.*
Frustration flooded Collins, along with a hint of relief. He had no other ide
as, but he did not want to toy with Quinton any more than he already had. Why not?
*Because I never saw her before the accident. I’d need to have studied her face to get it right, and . . .* Prinivere’s worried tirade ground to a halt as another idea formed in Collins’ head. *But you have a solution to that, don’t you?*
Collins felt Quinton’s warm presence beside him, simultaneously desirable and revolting. Korfius lay obediently at his heels, and he remembered the man who had led them into the cave who stood silently by the entrance. Aisa flew inside the cave behind them and settled on a rocky prominence. It’s called a photograph, he explained. An image of a person recorded at a certain point in time. Like a portrait, only instantaneously and exactly detailed. The first time they met, Quinton had shown him the contents of her wallet to prove her identity, including her driver’s license and student photo ID. She had no need to continue to carry it in Barakhai, but she might do it from habit or for a sense of security, the same way Collins had instinctively fastened his keys to his belt loop before heading to the portal.
Prinivere asked no further questions. Either she trusted Collins or gleaned enough from his thoughts to fully understand the concept. *If both of you concentrate on what she looked like, I should be able to put together a reasonably accurate likeness. But that photograph-thing would be better.*
Collins addressed Quinton. “Would you happen to still have your wallet on you? The lady needs a picture.”
Quinton glanced around the cave, surely seeking “the lady”; but, without some clue from Collins, she did not know where to look. He trusted the renegades to have hidden Prinivere reasonably well. The woman patted her left hip. “Strangely enough, I do have my wallet. I almost always do.” Her lips framed a crooked smile of embarrassment. “I arrived here unexpectedly. And—”
Prinivere filled in a detail Collins had never considered. *She stopped herself from saying that she entered a third “world” as accidentally as this one.*
Collins’ eyes widened. Catching himself reacting to a nonverbal communication, he covered by rubbing his eyes. Once Quinton realized he had brought her into the presence of a mind reader without warning, all cooperation would end. *A third world? Where?*
The Lost Dragons of Barakhai Page 13