Kings of the North - Elizabeth Moon [223]
Arian did not move.
“And are you truly frightened now, Half-Song? Or have you will to move and wit to speak?”
“Do you blame all for one’s error?” she asked.
The dragon turned its head completely toward her, and both eyes blinked. “I perceive you are not frightened, for that question is indeed one of wit, from a creature of mixed blood. It would indeed be unjust to blame all for one’s error, but these men came from a city burnt to ash by fire they raised—all its life turned to naught. So would you defend them?”
“For their invasion of this land, no. For their destruction of Riverwash and its people, no. For their intent to burn and destroy, no. But only one was discourteous.”
“Ah. And you thought it was that alone to which I responded?” Without waiting for an answer, the dragon went on. “I admit the possibility of confusion, but discourtesy was not all for which they were judged. Would you, then, save your land of forests? And that king I perceive you love?”
“I would,” Arian said.
“At what cost?”
“At any cost,” Arian said. “Life for life, if need be, though—as you dislike stupidity—I would prefer to spend it only to advantage.”
The dragon’s tongue lolled out, steam rising from it. “Come, then,” said the dragon. “I know you to be valiant, Half-Song: touch your tongue to mine.”
“My horse,” Arian said.
“Quiet him with your taig,” the dragon said.
Arian held her horse’s head and murmured the foal chant; the horse relaxed, its head drooping, its lower lip sagging. Arian looked back at the dragon. “Whatever you do to me, do no harm to the horse.”
One eye opened wider. “Valiant, indeed, to give orders to a dragon.”
“The horse did you no harm,” Arian said. “Let it be.”
“Then remove your things from its body,” the dragon said. “Then should … something … happen, it will have no hindrance in its flight.”
Arian wanted to ask if something would happen but instead untacked the borrowed horse and stacked her gear neatly as if she were camping for the night.
The dragon waited, silent and motionless, its light almost withdrawn, only the tongue laid out on the ground glowing dull red, steaming.
The nearer she came, the hotter it felt; the tongue, close up, glowed like red iron. She looked up; the dragon’s eyes stared beside its snout, straight into her face.
Then she bent and forced herself to put out her tongue and touch the dragon’s, against all instinct and reason.
It felt cold and tasted of mint.
Startled, Arian pulled back; the dragon reeled in its tongue and said nothing for a moment. Then it sighed, a warm gusty breath that smelled less of hot metal and somewhat of summer.
“Half-Song, you have surprised me, and I am not often surprised. You have done well and you please me, but there is work to do. Will the horse I promised not to harm live if turned loose here?”
“Maybe,” Arian said. “But it is winter; it needs shelter and feed, and the place I planned to spend the night is no more.”
The dragon sighed again. “I do not break promises; the horse must be taken where it can live. And yet I need you, Half-Song. Can it live here through a day?”
“Yes, but not many days.”
“I do not need many days. Pick up that bow and quiver, and stand on my tongue.”
Arian picked up bow and quiver, and stepped onto the tongue: it felt solid as stone beneath her even as she realized she was being drawn into the dragon’s mouth, past teeth more than half her height.
“Do not be surprised at anything,” the dragon said. She realized it was not speaking with its mouth, but in her mind. “There will be strangeness, for one of your nature.”
Then the dragon gulped, and Arian felt herself sliding, sliding … and landed in something soft and springy. So, she thought, I’ve been swallowed. She felt around—whatever the space, it was warm, dry, and