That stops the room.
Rosalind’s brows draw together. “No?”
“I believe there may be growth,” Kavor says. “Reachable is a different question.”
“At least you still understand caution,” Syin says, the words low in his throat.
Kavor looks at him, though not sharply. Worse, he keeps that same implacable calm.
“Caution is not refusal.”
“And death is not courage,” Syin says, his wings flexing and tail scraping over the floor.
“No,” Kavor says. “Death is often poor listening.”
Something in my stomach turns over. It’s not exactly fear. More a strange, unwilling spark of recognition. That sounds like something the City could have taught him, if the City knew how to speak with fewer stones in its teeth.
“Explain the risk,” Virn says, stepping closer to the table.
Kavor’s claws shift once against the floor. The small scrape travels up my spine.
“Zemlja trails change quickly,” he says. “Too new, and the worm may still be near. Too old, and heat, collapse, or rot may have destroyed the growth. Or the cavern could be a nest for guster, sismis, or both. The sign beyond the eastern sinkline sits between those dangers.”
“Convenient,” Marut mutters.
Kavor turns his head toward him. Marut goes silent. Smart man.
“There is no convenient path through a zemlja tunnel,” Kavor says. “There is only the path that kills fewer fools.”
My mouth almost betrays me. It’s not a smile, but something smaller and more treacherous. I press my lips together until the impulse dies. Rosalind catches it. Of course she does. I look away before she can turn that, too, into evidence.
“If this is possible at all, we need a team,” Adran says, leaning onto the table.
“No,” Kavor says.
The word carries more weight from him than it did from me. Maybe because no one expects obedience from a Cavern Zmaj. Or maybe because everyone in the chamber can feel that he isn’t refusing from fear. He’s refusing from knowledge.
“A team creates too much vibration,” he says. “Too many footfalls. Too much breath. Too many heartbeats. Too much panic when the ground shifts.”
“People can be trained,” Adran says.
“Not quickly enough.”
“We have disciplined hunters.”
“You have hungry hunters.”
The room stills. Kavor doesn’t soften the words. I should dislike that. I do dislike it. I also trust it more than false comfort.
“Hungry bodies misstep,” he says. “Weak legs drag. Fear makes rhythm sloppy. Sloppy rhythm draws attention.”
My attention snags on the word rhythm. He talks about walking the way I talk about rationing. As if survival is math the body does whether pride approves or not.
“One Zmaj, then,” Virn says, dropping his gaze to the slate.
“One Zmaj who knows zemlja sign,” Kavor says.
“You mean yourself,” Syin says, eyes narrowing.
