“And that’s everyone,” Ellukka said, settling down beside Ferdie, and hunting through the papers on the desk for the ones that presumably belonged to her. “Except Patrik, he’ll be along at the last minute.”
Rayna thumped down beside Ellukka, and after a moment, Anders and Lisabet took their places opposite the girls, leaving Krissin and Nico to have the whole other table to themselves. Mikkel and Theo located whatever they were working on farther down the table, near Isabina.
The final student of the twelve arrived just as Leif did, a solemn boy with long brown hair, trailing in behind the Drekleid. “Patrik, he studies art,” Rayna supplied in a whisper as the boy sat down near Nico and Krissin. But with their teacher present, everyone was pulling out their projects, and Anders wasn’t sure what to do. Lisabet was riffling through the papers in front of them, oohing and aahing over what she was finding.
“Anders,” said Leif. “Please come join me at my desk, let’s speak about your studies.”
Anders rose from his chair, walking up to the front of the room, where Leif’s desk was piled high with papers, artifacts, and other detritus. The Drekleid moved a pile of coats to the ground, revealing a second chair, and when Anders sat on it, the piles on the desk hid all the other students from view.
“Good morning,” said Leif, running a hand through his red hair, getting himself settled. Though he had been more welcoming than most so far, he still made Anders nervous. Perhaps it was six years of living on the streets of Holbard that had made him automatically wary of authority figures.Or, his mind supplied,perhaps it’s the fact that he’s all that’s standing between you and being thrown out of Drekhelm as well as Ulfar.
“Good morning,” Anders said, trying to sound as studious as possible.
“Have the others explained how the Finskól works?” Leif asked.
“Yes,” said Anders, deciding to plunge in. He needed to suggest his own course of study—an investigation into what he could do—before Leif set him to learning reading and writing, like Rayna. “I want to study—”
“Just a moment,” Leif interrupted him. “There’s no hurry. We’ll begin with the basics, improving your reading and writing. We dragons take our time over important questions. We might be slow, but we reach the right decision.”
Anders’s heart sank. He was remembering what Ellukka had said the night before—that the Dragonmeet had talked all day, yet reached no agreement. Even with the danger of the Snowstone, they couldn’t seem to hurry. The wolves were the opposite, of course—Sigrid made a decision, and then everyone did as they were told. That had its drawbacks too, but he wanted to know more about himself, to figure out more about what he could do, and why.
“I could do reading and writing alongside other studies,” Anders suggested.
“The way of dragons has always served us,” Leif replied.
“But I’m not a dragon, Leif,” Anders said carefully.
“Even so.”
Anders took a slow breath and kept trying, hoping a question might interest the Drekleid. “Leif, do you know what I am? I mean, who I am?”
“I must research the question before I can answer you properly,” Leif replied gravely, and Anders’s heart sank. Theo’s entire specialty at the Finskól was the dragons’ records and research, because even a newcomer like Theo could tell it was impossible to find anything here.
Between the dragons’ tendency to think things over forever and the impossibility of finding information, Anders had a horrible feeling he could wait years for Leif’s conclusions. And all the while, the wolves would be preparing for war, and the dragons would be talking, talking, talking.
“I know you’re impatient on many fronts,” Leif said, reading his expression. “But you must apply yourself to your studies and let the Dragonmeet handle the question of what to do next, Anders.”
Anders wanted badly to argue, but he couldn’t see how. He wanted to rush the dragons, to explain how urgent things were, but when it came down to it, he was the one who’d brought matters to a head.
Professor Ennar would have used the chalice herself if he hadn’t stolen it, so the wolves would still know broadly where the dragons were, but they might have spent months, or at least weeks, scouting the mountains for the exact location of Drekhelm. They certainly wouldn’t have attacked already, and they wouldn’t have stolen the Snowstone. Things would still be locked in the same tense stalemate, and that itself was a kind of peace.
On the other hand, the dragons wouldn’t even know they were in danger without his warning about Fylkir’s chalice, so there was an argument that Anders had done them a favor.
On the third hand—or paw, really, this was why you needed paws—the dragons didn’t really seem to plan on actually doing anything about it, even though theydidknow.
He’d have to find out the answers on his own. But perhaps there was one thing Leif might know something about, or at least be able to include in his promised research into who or what Anders might be.
Anders told Leif what he’d noticed about his new tolerance for heat—that ever since the icefire, it didn’t seem to bother him in the way it used to—the way it always bothered wolves. But the Drekleid only frowned thoughtfully and made a note on one of his dozens of files.
Ten minutes later it was Lisabet’s turn to talk to Leif, and Anders found himself at the back of the classroom, sitting beside the window with a surprisingly patient Ellukka, whom Leif had asked to help him with his reading for the morning. She kept accidentally diverting into telling him stories—he could see why she was specializing in doing exactly that, because she was wonderful at it—and they spent more time quietly talking than looking at the reading primer she’d chosen.
It was a book of old stories, probably for small children, and in the front was a map showing where each of the tales took place. She had him read out each place-name one at a time, and then she’d describe it to him. She’d flown over all of them and knew how to bring them to life for him.
“This one’s two words put together as one,” she said, pointing to a spot in a high mountain range to the northwest of Drekhelm—one that almost formed a line between the dragon stronghold and the Flic Waterfall, where the dragon who’d been a genius with gardens had once kept her workshop.
Anders studied it for a moment, and the words clicked into place in his brain. “Cloudhaven,” he said. “What story happened there?”
“There are lots of different versions,” Ellukka said, looking out the window at the mountains that stretched away into the distance. “You see over there on the horizon, where the mountains lift up so high they disappear into the clouds? Beyond that is Cloudhaven. They say it’s where the very first dragonsmiths discovered how to use their flame to forge artifacts. It’s higher than any of the other mountains, and nobody’s sure what’s really at the top. The clouds never clear. But if the legends are true, then there’s an abandoned workshop there, and who knows what kinds of secrets. It’s forbidden to go there now.”
