Dragons of the Valley - Donita K. Paul [47]
Librettowit harrumphed. “What do singers have to do with Bealomondore and his sword?”
“Oh, they’re jugglers and acrobats and players of scenes of history.” He turned to call to Taeda Bel, who had already descended to the wide bank beside the River Hannit. “Taeda Bel, come show how the Miskeen Minstrels enacted the play Noble Nonsense.”
“You come down,” she answered. “I don’t want another snake sneaking up on us. I don’t think there are any down here.”
“That sounds like a sensible plan to me.” Tipper started down the cliff, using rock ledges and the astain bushes as handholds and footholds.
Librettowit peered over the edge. “You should be wearing your boots.”
“I’m all right.”
She placed her foot at the base of one of the bush stubs and grabbed hold of another. Her hand closed on a broken branch that jabbed into her palm.
“Ouch!”
She let go. In the next moment, she slid down the last eight feet and landed hard on her right foot. She crumpled, and before she could cry out in pain, both kimens and Rayn clustered around her foot, examining the ankle.
“Sprained,” said Maxon.
“My foot’s on fire.” She rocked back and forth with her hands cradling her ankle.
“Better take your shoe off,” said Taeda Bel.
Rayn turned green and sat on her leg, very much in the way as Taeda Bel untied the laces and Maxon eased the soft leather from around her foot. Tipper cringed with every movement.
“Broken,” said Maxon.
Tipper heard the tumanhofers scrambling down the hill, but she’d shut her eyes against the pain. She willed herself not to whine and make a big to-do. Her jaw trembled, and she clenched her teeth.
A hand rested on her shoulder. “We’ll take care of you.”
At least Bealomondore was optimistic.
Librettowit didn’t sound as cheerful. “Where’s a wizard when you need one?”
At least he hadn’t reminded her she had changed out of her sturdy boots.
Rayn slipped closer to the break. His cool body, draped over the bone pressing against her skin, felt wonderful.
“Just take the pain away, Rayn,” said Maxon. “We’ll have to set the bone before you do your healing.”
Tipper let the tears fall. She leaned back and found Bealomondore sitting behind to support her. His arms slipped around her, and he leaned his cheek against her hair.
“There, there, Princess. It’s going to be all right.”
A sobby giggle escaped her lips. “Don’t call me Princess.”
“Whatever you say.” He paused. “Your Highness.”
18
A Song of Peace
Tipper held Bealomondore’s hand as Librettowit and Maxon prepared to set the bone that arched across the top of her foot. Due to Rayn’s ministrations, her foot had lost the agonizing pulse of pain. The dragon, in his role of healer, had numbed the area. Still, the thought of Librettowit and Maxon pulling her foot like the rope in tug of war made Tipper want to escape into oblivion.
Bealomondore didn’t complain even though she knew she squeezed hard enough to break his bones. She heard hers snap into place, and then Rayn sat on the swollen purple hump, pronouncing through mindspeaking that the two ends were where they should be. He cooed and hummed as he nestled down to provide his healing touch.
“I suppose,” said Taeda Bel, “that we should set up camp. Surely our princess shouldn’t walk until tomorrow.”
Tipper cast her a disparaging look. “Walk?” She deepened her scowl. “And you are not to call me princess either.”
Taeda Bel’s face lit up with mischief.
“Don’t,” ordered Tipper.
“Your—,”
“Don’t!”
“You’re”—a big grin stretched across Taeda Bel’s delicate features—“no fun.”
Tipper relaxed against the sturdy tumanhofer. He’d held her ever since she’d fallen, and she’d gotten quite used to his solid chest behind her back.
He removed his hand from her grip and flexed his fingers. “I think I can still hold a paintbrush.”
Librettowit ran his fingers over her arch, top and bottom. Satisfied with their work, he sat back on the ground and crossed his legs. He looked at Bealomondore