He turned his face again, allowing the firelight to land on the scarred flesh there, and Isobelle lifted her own hand, touching the smooth skin of her cheek.
“But the dragon was already dying as he poured the last of his foul flame upon me. My Elgrin dragged me to the river and submerged my wounds, and it was three days before I could raise my face from the cool water without screaming in pain. When I couldfinally move again, we dragged Gregor back on a stretcher. The only three to return at all.
“No dragon has been seen in these parts between that day and this. Perhaps the one we slew was the last. But I cannot say for sure what might still be hiding in the forests or mountains or caves, waiting for the day it will attack once more.”
The silence stretched after his words ended, broken only by the crackling of the bonfire before him. And then the old man straightened up with a clap of his hands.
Released from the spell, the crowd broke into murmurs and shifted where they sat, and Gwen used her hold on Isobelle’s hand to pull her to her feet. “Come on,” she said. “He doesn’t mind questions, as long as he’s not thirsty.”
Isobelle followed, still dizzy with the spell of the story as Gwen hurried over to the barrel and tap, filled a mug of ale, and pressed it into Isobelle’s hands. She let Gwen spin her around and point her at Bertin.
“Ah, Gwen, my thanks, girl. I see you’ve found a friend.” The man’s eyes were kind, moving between Gwen’s face and Isobelle’s, and Isobelle found her cheeks warming in response.
“This is Izzie,” Gwen said, nudging her to hand over the mug. “She’s a maid up at the castle. Izzie, this is Bertin, our expert on all things dragon.”
Isobelle bobbed a curtsy automatically, which Bertin accepted with a quirk of his mouth, and offered him the ale. “They don’t have stories like yours up at the castle,” she ventured.
“I should say not, young lady. There haven’t been any dragons attacking castles for a hundred years or more. Safe you are, in a castle.”
“But we don’t even hear of them,” she replied. “Surely the knightswould be pleased to have even a small one to hunt down.”
If they were real. Which of course they’re not, not anymore.
Except that woman up at the castle bonfire, tonight...Isobelle could still hear the ragged edge to her voice as she shouted the words, like a witch spitting a curse,Remember us when they come for you...
Bertin took a long swallow of ale before he replied. “Knights? Yes, well. Knights indeed. They came into existence to protect people, that’s for sure. But then dragonslaying became less about fighting a single glorious battle on a field outside a castle, and more about weeks of slogging through marsh and wood and cold and wet, for creatures with the upper hand in their own element.”
“So they left you to it,” Isobelle concluded, wishing the explanation didn’t make quite so much sense. “And wished you best of luck with the small ones, who probably didn’t need a knight to kill them anyway.”
“Well, I couldn’t say,” he replied. “But I do know that a whole race of creatures doesn’t die out because you kill the ones making a ruckus. It just means only the clever ones persist.”
Beside her, Gwen spoke gravely. “Some women came to the castle bonfire tonight to petition Lord Whimsitt for aid, claiming a dragon attacked their village. Nobody believed them.”
Bertin’s brows went up, but he looked far more thoughtful than disbelieving.
“I’m forced to admit that I didn’t believe them either,” Isobelle murmured.
“I’m used to people not believing,” Bertin replied. “All I can do is tell what I know. I have my axe, half melted from dragonsfire, but a skeptic could tell me I inherited it from my grandsire who livedwhen dragons were everywhere. I have my burned face, but perhaps that was a forest fire, or a mishap over the stove.”
Or perhaps, a small voice was saying more and more insistently in Isobelle’s head,it happened exactly the way you say it did.
“My father’s father made weapons for dragonslayers,” Gwen said quietly. “You’d have to go generations back at the castle to find someone who could say the same.”
“You think they really could have been out there all this time?” Isobelle heard herself ask. “And we just never knew? Nobody ever saw one?”
Gwen shrugged. “If I watched all my friends attacking castles and getting killed by guys in metal clothes, I’d find somewhere else to be.”
“The question,” said Bertin, “is where.”
Others moved in to talk to the old man, and Gwen stayed close as the two of them stepped back. Isobelle had never needed somewhere quiet to sit down with a strong cup of tea quite so badly in her life.
Between the spell the old man’s tales had cast, the hedge witch’s knowing gaze—which raised questions that she mentally consigned to her pile of problems for another day—and her startling realizations about Gwen, she was dangerously close to reaching capacity. Not to mention the fate of the women who’d been arrested up at the castle.
Gently, Gwen’s hand closed around hers once more, and Isobelle let the other girl lead her away. A soft squeeze told her Gwen understood and was taking her somewhere quiet. Of course Gwen understood. She always did.
Chapter Twenty-Six
A wild horse of feeling and emotion
