Did he not know about dragons at all?
“No, they’re mine. I . . . I collect them.” I didn’t want to use the word “hoard,” since the last humans I’d met had thought it a derogatory term to be used against dragons. Collections were good; they were a choice someone made. Hoards were bad. A compulsion. A weakness.
I supposed it was both of those things, but if the choice came to my life or my hoard, I would choose my life. It wasn’t even in question. I’d left them behind when we’d fled after Eilonwy’s murder and only gone back later, under cover of darkness. Perhaps it was foolish that I’d gone back at all, but it hadn’t been ill-thought-out or reckless.
We’d gone back for everyone’s things—hoards, beds, even the table—because entirely starting over had been ridiculous when we had the option of bringing some of our things along.
“What kind of stone is that? And why is it in the fire?” Blake’s words drew me back to the present moment.
He was staring at the egg.
Without thought, I rushed over to him, grabbing him by the shoulders and pulling him away from the fire, stepping between him and the tiny, innocent creature that was all I had left of my sister. “That is not for you,” I growled.
I couldn’t . . . couldn’t put my sister’s entire legacy in danger by having a loose human around an innocent child. Humans had a history with dragon eggs, and it wasn’t a good one.
Maybe Blake wasn’t the monster his brother was, but it didn’t mean he could be trusted.
Bring back the head of a dragon, his brother had told him. Who was to say it couldn’t be the head of an unborn baby dragon? If anything, perhaps that would be even better, stealing my people’s only chance at a future. The others and I could only survive so long, after all, without children.
Humanity would love to see the end of dragonkind all too well.
I glanced around the cave, and it only took a moment for my eyes to fall on the answer to my problem. A crate I’d used to transport my rocks, thick rope tied around it for me to hold onto in flight.
I took Blake by the hand and dragged him over to the crate.
“I’m sorry,” he was assuring me. “I didn’t mean to offend. I just didn’t know why that rock is in the fire. I’m not going to steal it or anything. Even if I could escape, I couldn’t possibly carry stones with me, let alone ones that hot. I promise, I?—”
I yanked the rope from beneath the crate, spun Blake around, and tied his hands behind his back. “No, you will not steal mysister’s egg. Nor will you convince me you believe it to be a stone.”
He breathed out in what seemed astonishment. “An egg. I’m so sorry. I . . . your sister?—”
“Killed by your people, as you know.”
At that, he went silent, so I shoved him over toward the bed. Maybe I didn’t want the little human in my bed.
Maybe . . . fine, maybe I did want him in my bed, at the same time as I was repelled by the very idea of a human, let alone one related to the cursed line of Athelstan.
But this wasn’t about that.
This was about keeping him in my sight until I could figure out what we were going to do with him.
Just what I needed to spend my time doing. It wasn’t as though I was already worried about how we were going to survive our first winter in this place when we’d been forced out of our old home. Sure, we could hunt in the water, but what about fuel? We usually had tons of wood saved for winter fires. It hadn’t been reasonable to carry all of that from our previous home; it would have taken dozens and dozens of trips. More and more chances for the humans to discover and attack us.
And what about food other than meat? We only needed meat, but it was boring. And now, I was sure the human couldn’t survive on meat alone, so we needed to find something else for him.
He didn’t complain about being tied up, and that was . . . that was odd, wasn’t it?
I thought I’d have complained.
In fact, I was certain I would have.
But Blake just settled onto my soft, wool-stuffed mattresses, letting out a surprisingly satisfied sigh as he did so. There was a smile on his face.
What the hell was wrong with him, that he was not only accepting, but apparently pleased with this kind of treatment?
He should have been screaming at the top of his lungs that he was a prince and he’d not be treated this way. Instead, he acted as though a soft bed was the most luxury he could imagine, and smiled.
I had to choke down my urge to tell him he was being ridiculous, and he needed to be angry. It was justified, yes, but I also . . . didn’t especially want his anger. I liked that he was satisfied.
