Dragonspell - Donita K. Paul [82]
Out of his mouth came a command flowing like molten steel from the blacksmith’s chalice. “Enough. Be gone.”
Kale heard an echo and immediately knew the words had come through her mind as well as through her ears.
The fire dragons recoiled. Paladin urged his own forward. He rode into the midst of the twelve dragons. They parted. Six turned to the south and circled back to the west. Six turned to the north and circled away.
In the landscape near Risto’s fortress, dark creatures lurked in the shadows of boulder and tree. They slithered and crawled and crept away, melting into the earth and disappearing from the light of day.
A groan erupted from the mountain. A magnified wail of frustration echoed as it hammered the cliffs and rumbled along the valley floor.
Silence followed.
Quiet replaced chaos.
No sound reached Kale’s ears save the whoosh of dragon wings steadily beating the new dawn air. A fresh breeze fluttered the leaves in trees below. The first notes of a morning oriole lifted from the meadow. A horse whinnied in a pasture. More birds broke forth in song to be joined by the plaintive bleats from lambs as they sought breakfast at their mothers’ sides.
Paladin turned his beast toward the forest and gestured for the other riders to join him. Kale heard the hum of kimen song. Praises to Wulder. Thanksgiving for victory. The music flowed through her and brought back memories of dancing in the cygnot forest, celebrating the presence of Wulder. The tunes rose into full voice. She wept.
She sank down on the urohm’s lap and cried. His huge hand covered her, but she did not care if anyone saw her. She had never been so tired before. She didn’t take Gymn into her hand to ease away the weariness. Instead she slipped into slumber, preferring the quiet solitude of dreams to struggling with her confused emotions.
31
THE AFTERMATH
Kale awoke to the pleasant smell of wood smoke and the crackling fire in the hearth. A dim yellow light from a lantern suffused the interior of a pine cabin. A wool blanket cocooned her in warmth. She blinked, for the cabin was like many in the village of River Away. The square, squat furniture was built for the bodies of mariones. The dark colors in the curtains and rug reflected marione tradition.
Had she dreamed? How much had been a dream? Was she still a slave in a tiny village in eastern Amara?
She forced her aching head off the hard pillow and struggled to sit. This was not a home she had been in before. She did not recognize the layout of the room nor any particular piece of furnishing, yet she lay on a slave’s pallet alongside a kitchen wall.
The front door opened, revealing a brief glimpse of a fenced paddock, a barn, trees, stars, and moon. A man came in, but not a marione.
An o’rant!
The dim light in the room did not fall on his face, but allowed her glimpses of his clothing. Dressed in the elegant apparel of the aristocracy, he rustled as he moved. Light from the fire danced on the shiny material of his jacket and glinted on his finely polished boots. He went directly to the hearth, removed the lid from a pot, and stirred the contents.
Kale’s mouth watered as she smelled pnard potatoes laced with savory herbs and butter. The stranger ladled some stew into a bowl, replaced the cover on the pot, and grabbed a spoon. He walked across the room and handed the meal to Kale.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the warm bowl.
“Don’t burn yourself.”
Kale gasped and looked up into Paladin’s kind eyes. A young man in the prime of his life, he smiled and lowered himself to sit cross-legged beside her on the floor. His dark hair flowed around his face in soft waves. Blue eyes crinkled at the corners as if he laughed often. His straight nose pointed over a firm, strong mouth. His jaw and chin looked stubborn, but his high forehead made him appear considerate and wise. Kale thought him very handsome and a bit overwhelming.
“Go ahead, eat,” he urged her. “You’ve slept a