“You do,” Matt confirmed.
Stegoman was silent a little longer, then said, “Our lives are very long.”
“Very,” Matt agreed.
“A drake would be a fool to spend the rest of his days bound to a sharp-tongued female who insults and criticizes him.”
“Even if she is beautiful,” Matt mused, “and sensuous. Even voluptuous, maybe. In dragon terms.”
“In dragon terms,” Stegoman repeated, and flew on in silence a little longer. Then he said, “Perhaps I have been living among humans for too long, but I find I want a mate who is capable of gentleness, even sweetness, as human mates often are to one another.”
The words evoked a vision of Alisande at her sweetest and most alluring, so powerful that it made Matt shiver. He forced himself to replace it with a picture of her at her most angry. It made him shiver again—unfortunately, he found his mate beautiful no matter what mood she was in—but gave him the impetus to remind Stegoman, “We can be pretty angry sometimes, too.”
“I can bear the storms,” Stegoman said thoughtfully, “as long as there is sunlight to follow, and far more fair weather than foul.”
“Could be Dimetrolas has a gentler side to her nature,” Matt suggested.
“Anything is possible,” Stegoman huffed, “but I have not seen it in her.”
“It's a little early in your acquaintance for her to let it show,” Matt said, “at least, if I understand dragon culture at all.”
“You understand the meaning of a dragon without a clan,” Stegoman snapped.
That gave Matt pause. He had to think it over for a minute. “I see…I'd thought she was the lookout for a clan back there in the mountains.”
“If she had been, why did they not come at her call?”
“Maybe because she didn't call?” Matt guessed. “Figured she could handle you herself?”
“No sentry would do such,” Stegoman assured him. “At sight of a stranger, she would have called for a squadron.”
“Since she didn't…”
“That means she had none to call,” Stegoman said grimly, “and no clan to protect.”
Matt was silent, absorbing the idea of Dimetrolas as an outcast.
“You know what it means for a dragon to fly alone,” Stegoman challenged.
“Since I met you while you were in exile yourself,” Matt said, “I can guess.”
“Would her clan have banished her if she were truly gentle and sweet, with her brash abrasiveness but a facade?”
Matt tried for the delicate touch. “There could be reasons for exile other than a disagreeable personality.”
“Such as drunken flying, for one who becomes intoxicated from the fumes of his own fire,” Stegoman said with a sardonic tone.
“Or being half dragon and half griffon,” Matt reminded.
“Like our friend Narlh? True.” But Stegoman's tone was thunderous, and the unspoken statement was there: any dragon who had committed a crime great enough for banishment was a dragon to be avoided—the kind who would make your life miserable, or even very short.
Matt might have pointed out that Dimetrolas didn't have the look of a murderer or traitor about her, but he had sense enough to realize that conversation had awakened Stegoman's memory of his own tatter-winged banishment, and that returning sober and self-possessed, and being hailed as a hero among his own kind, had not completely erased the pain of that early trauma—indeed, that nothing ever could. Matt was shocked to realize that even now, ten years after his triumphant return to his clan, the humiliation of Stegoman's own exile made him doubt his worth as a dragon, as an individual, and most especially as a mate.
It was time to shut up and let the obvious conclusion work itself out inside the dragon's mind.
Balkis and Anthony were still feeling hung over as they waved good-bye to the Piconyans and set out again on their northward journey. They were rather quiet—it had been an excellent party, and each was somewhat dazed by the realization that neither had made a fool of himself or herself. Indeed, in spite of the amount of wine they consumed, they had each kept their heads and asked many more questions than they answered, and listened far more than they talked.
The Piconyans, it turned out, were an outgoing and garrulous people, and had been all too glad to talk about themselves. In the process, Balkis and Anthony had learned a great deal about Piconyan ways and history—and imbibed a great deal of wine. Each had only sipped now and then, but the wine was served in bowls instead of cups, and the party lasted into the wee hours. The Piconyans, after all, had a great deal to celebrate, as they pointed out to Balkis and Anthony with lurid accounts of the carnage they would have discovered had they come near the end of the day instead of at its beginning.
Thinking of that now, Balkis shuddered. “It is only our good fortune that we did not come when the mass of the birds would have distracted us so with their pecking and clawing that we would have been unable to think of a spell.”
“Very true,” Anthony agreed, blinking.
“We need a guide,” Balkis said with the labored speech of one who had to work hard to drag a coherent thought from the wine-soaked wreckage of her brain. “We need to travel with someone who can warn us of such dangers before we come to them.”
“Dangers such as this war with the birds?”
“No, dangers such as Piconyan banquets! Let us ask at the next village we find.”
Anthony held up a small wineskin. “The king gave me this and told me to drink a mouthful if my head pounded too heavily. Will you drink?”
Balkis gave the skin a jaundiced eye. “What does it hold?”
“Wine that the Piconyans have boiled until it is three times as strong as that which we drank. That is why a mouthful will suffice, the hetman said. He also said to put a thimbleful in any cup of water that we think may be bad.”
Balkis shuddered. “If that is so much stronger than the wine that made my head ache as it does, put it away, good Anthony ! It may do to purify water, but not my blood!”
The land became dryer and less fertile as they walked; forest and field gave way to open meadow, a grassland that stretched as far ahead as they could see. Groups of dots moved against that green background, dots that grew, as they came closer, into antelope and wild oxen.
“Where there are grass-eaters, the flesh-eaters follow,” Anthony said, becoming tense, “and they may not care whose flesh they eat.”
“I shall keep a spell ready to seal their jaws,” Balkis promised, and began to work one out.
Before she needed it, though, the savannah narrowed to a river gorge, a valley filled with trees and bushes and the clustered cottages of human villages. With relief, Anthony and Balkis sought out a footpath and followed it down.
As they came out onto the valley floor, Anthony looked about him with a frown. “We have seen at least half this valley from above, but I have seen no fields, neither crops nor meadows for grazing.”
“Perhaps they are in the half of the valley that we have not seen,” Balkis suggested. “After all, we did see villages, and the people who live there must have some form of sustenance.”
“Let us hope they look kindly upon travelers,” Anthony said nervously.
The road led them through a grove, and Balkis stopped to inhale the scent. “How lovely! I never knew apples could smell so sweet!”
“Perhaps you have never been in an orchard.” Anthony looked about him. “I have, though these trees are far larger than those that grow in my mountains.” He frowned. “How poorly they are tended, though! I do not see a single tree but needs pruning, and the apples are so small! It is clear the farmer has not thinned his crop to let the fruits grow larger!”
“How strange to see one tree blooding while another bears ripe fruit,” Balkis said, looking about her, “and another has tiny green apples, while a fourth's fruit is half grown.”