Feril tipped her head back and finished the jug, then noticed Ragh staring at her in disapproval. “In the time you spent mining, Granalal, did you happen to find any dragon scales?” The female dwarf winced and Feril scowled, knowing she’d mispronounced her host’s name.
“You’re good with our hill dwarf words, Dawnsprinter, but your tongue is clumsy with the nuances. Try Needle, that’s my nickname.”
“Needle,” Feril repeated.
“Much better.” The woman shifted against her pack, propping herself up. “Years back,” she continued, “I did find me a dragon scale, a pretty bronze one I had made into a shield for my grandson. Found some teeth, too, and strung them on a gold chain. Though I suppose the teeth might not have come from a dragon. There’re other big beasts in this world.”
“Found me a black scale once,” the young dwarf cut in. This, the youngest of the small party, hadn’t introduced himself, and Feril raised her eyebrows and nodded in his direction.
“Oh, that’s Campfire. Likely you’d have trouble with his real name, too,” Grannaluured said. “Nickname’s Campfire, on account his hair looks like one and he likes to sit real close to the flames. He’s on the cold side.” Then she nodded to the broad-shouldered dwarf. “Over there’s Churt Ironbeard, Feldspar’s uncle once removed.”
Feril thought Campfire reminded her a little of Jasper, or rather what Jasper would have looked like so young. “Even among the longest-lived races, life is too short,” she murmured distractedly in her own tongue.
“Pardon?” Grannaluured said. “I don’t speak Elvish.”
“Sorry, I was thinking of old friends.” She returned her attention to Grannaluured’s tattoos. “You’ve got an interesting scaled claw here, clutching…” Feril turned so she could better see another tattoo, a scepter that wrapped around Grannaluured’s forearm.
“You like my tattoos?”
“I used to have a few of my own.” There was something regretful in her voice, and Grannaluured picked up on her sadness. “I had them removed, Needle,” Feril said with a thin smile, “…on a day I hadn’t had quite enough to drink.”
Grannaluured reached behind her and fumbled in her pack, pulling out a small chest wrapped in black cloth. She faced Feril. “Just means you’re all ready for new ones, like your body’s a blank page. Want one done by a semi-expert?”
Feril looked across the camp to Ragh. The draconian was pretending to study the scenery, though she knew he had been eavesdropping.
“Would it take very long?”
“Depends what you want exactly, Dawnsprinter.”
Feril pulled up the sleeve of her tunic. “How about a dragon’s head? Here.” She pointed to a spot just below her right shoulder.
“Odd tattoo for an elf,” Grannaluured mused, “but then, you’re not in the forest, and you’re keeping company with a sivak…one with no wings. I think it fits the likes of you. I think I’ll just have a few more swigs before I start. Funny, I do my best work when I’m drinking just a bit.”
Feldspar chuckled. “She does her best mining then, too.”
“Loosens up my fingers.”
Feril clamped her teeth together as Grannaluured went to work with her dyes and needles. While the dwarf prepared, the Kagonesti told her about the jay feather and the lightning bolt tattoos she used to have emblazoned on her face.
“What color do you want the dragon to be?”
Feril almost said “black,” but Dhamon wasn’t really a black dragon. “Doesn’t matter, Needle,” she said matter-of-factly. “Whatever color suits your fancy. I’ll trust to the artist.”
Grannaluured smiled, reaching for her vial of red dye. “I like lots of color,” she said. “I’ll put a bit of blue in it, too. I think I’ve just the shade to match your eyes. Perhaps not very realistic, as far as dragons go, but more colorful. Nice to be able to put some of my work on display—on someone else. My friends here don’t care for tattoos, but I figure I’ll wear them down eventually. I’d like to put some flames on Campfire’s arms.”
Feril felt the first sting of pain and let her jaw unclench. “So you haven’t been with them long?”
“Not terribly. Only a few months. I fell in with them by accident. They weren’t keen on sharing their mining camp, but they were hungry for some good food. You think I’m good with tattoos? I’m even better with a skillet. Wait ’til you see what I do with the cured venison in my pack.”
The sun had started to set. Feril had drifted away from the dwarves to the other side of the pool below the hill with the dwarven tunnels. She looked across the water and watched the dwarves talking freely to Ragh, who had moved closer. He was regaling them with some tale of a time when he studied under a Red Robed sorcerer a century ago. They were setting up a campfire and preparing for dinner.
Dhamon’s shadow was attached to the sivak, Feril saw. The Kagonesti guessed Dhamon was curious about the dwarves; being the suspicious sort, he was probably also concerned that the dwarves might prove hostile to Ragh and was, therefore, staying close to the draconian in order to protect him, if need be.
“Obelia, help me find the scale again,” Feril whispered.
None of the dwarves noticed as she released the spirit from the flask and knelt over the pool, watching an image of the mountain come quickly into view, a sky-high view, as if she were a bird circling above. The ability to scry was coming easier to Feril, and she was quick to move the image around, focusing on different areas. She channeled the energy deeper into the pool, as if burrowing through the stone.
“There,” she said, seeing her goal after long minutes of searching. “The scale is there.”
“Buried deep, it is,” Obelia said. “Real deep, because of the quake, and it looks like it might be damaged, cracked maybe. It won’t do you any good if it’s broken. The magic in it won’t be strong enough, but it seems to be nearby, and if it isn’t too much bother, it might be worth some digging to take a look.”
Feril leaned closer, her eyes hopeful. “I don’t see any damage, Obelia. The crevice is so dark, we can’t see clearly enough to tell for sure. We are too close to give up on it. I told Dhamon I won’t give up.” After several more minutes of scrying, Feril was able to better pinpoint the location of the scale.
All of a sudden, realizing that the scale might be closer than she thought, she stood up, her heart beating fast. “Obelia. I might be able to get to the scale from here, coming up under it instead of burrowing down from the mountain top.”
“My elf-fish, I see what you mean. That indeed looks to be a possibility.” The spectral face seemed to share her excitement.
Then the ghost disappeared into the flask as Grannaluured looked in Feril’s direction. The Kagonesti returned the flask to her satchel, strapping the satchel on her back and heading toward the old wall. She glanced up at the slash in the stonework. There were footfalls behind her. Feldspar was approaching.
“I see what you’re thinking, but don’t dare go into our tunnel,” he said. He held up a small lantern and coaxed the flame in it. “It’ll be too dark soon.”
“Don’t fear. I’m not going to steal any of your ore.”
“Ain’t worried about that,” he returned. “Worried about you. Mountains trembled some today. Rocks comin’ down inside. Still ain’t safe, Dawnspringer.”
Feril didn’t correct him on her name. He was likely getting it wrong on purpose as a jab. It was just as Ragh said: some dwarves didn’t get along with elves, and this one seemed to regard her with some suspicion. The Kagonesti continued to gaze up at the tunnel entrance. It would be a steep climb.