Dragon's Heart Read online

  He wondered if he should go back into the bunkhouse and wake her. Or just stay put. He'd never been this indecisive in the wild, on the mountain. Only here at home, where he'd been a boy and a bonder. And now he wondered if that was why—his own history being held against him.

  Time to sleep, he insisted to himself. At the very least it will stop the questions.

  But he wasn't in the least bit sleepy. So, standing, he glanced around the stall, checking everything one last time. Auricle's water tub was half full, her straw bedding clean. There were burnweed and wort in the feed stanchions. He couldn't put off the inevitable any longer. It was past time to go back to the bondhouse. Perhaps there he would go to sleep.

  Walking quickly down the central aisle, Jakkin passed about a dozen empty stalls till he came to the ones where dragonlings lay sleeping by their dozing mothers. He stopped, checked the stalls, saw one dragon awake, and whispered the opening of the lullaby he used to croon to Heart's Blood when she was small.

  Little flame mouths

  Cool your tongues,

  Dreaming starts soon

  Furnace lungs...

  At least none of the babies woke, used as they were to their human caretakers. Only that one hen opened an eye, quickly shuttering it again when he sent her a calming blue pond with hardly a riffle disturbing the surface.

  He was relieved that things had been so easy. In. Out.

  Pushing against the heavy, squalling incubarn door, he stumbled out into the cold. In the morning, he'd get some grease from the kitchen and oil the hinges.

  It was fully Dark-After now and Jakkin could just about feel the icy stream of night spilling down his body. Moving his shoulders a bit to loosen them up, he ran his fingers through his hair.

  He glanced up at the sky. Whatever warnings the twin moons had written earlier had long since been erased by night. The sky was dark, clouds hiding the stars. Behind him, though he didn't see it, something darker than the clouds sailed across the sky. It flew north to south, silently passing a spikka tree well past its blooming, and then the dark flier was gone.

  6

  IN THE DARKENED hallway of the bondhouse, someone grabbed Jakkin by the arm. The grip was tight as a claw. A low voice said in a sharp whisper, "All right, worm brain, explain."

  Jakkin stared into Likkarn's face without blinking. The old man's cheeks were furrowed like plowed fields. He was older, grayer, thinner, angrier. And of course there was the dead eye, a bit like a boiled egg. Once Likkarn had towered over Jakkin. Now they were the same height and Jakkin's shoulders were broader, his reach longer.

  "Explain what?"

  "Explain where you've been so late at night, out in Dark-After." Likkarn glared at him, but there was something more in his good eye than anger, something Jakkin couldn't read.

  Jakkin took a deep breath, spoke slowly, not exactly taunting Likkarn, but close. "I was in the incubarn, tending my dragon and her hatchling." He pulled his arm away. "And it's only just now gotten too cold to be outside. I ran as fast as I could. It's not that far. I've run farther in the mountains in the cold."

  Likkarn laughed, and that's when Jakkin realized what he'd seen in that washed-out eye hadn't been anger at all, but a shared joke. Likkarn knew something, only Jakkin wasn't sure what it was.

  "Just cold enough for you, boy," Likkarn said. "And Akki. And—sometimes—me." Likkarn had closed his eyes and Jakkin suddenly felt a tentative sending, a probing, into his mind. The sending was unfocused, unformed, more like a pulse than a picture. But it was definitely there.

  Jakkin didn't know what to think. He gasped and Likkarn opened his eyes, the good one and the boiled-egg one as well. Drawing back, both in mind and body, Jakkin gave an exaggerated shrug and turned the gasp into a cough. "Cold," he whispered. "Got into my lungs a bit." He coughed again, though even to him it sounded fake.

  "So what do you think?" Likkarn asked.

  "I don't know, what you mean, old man."

  "Oh, you know, all right," Likkarn said. There was a bit of spittle in the left corner of his mouth.

  "You're weed-crazed." Jakkin spoke with more fear than anger. Mostly, he was afraid of giving anything away.

  Likkarn folded his arms as if waiting for Jakkin to acknowledge the tentative sending, then smiled annoyingly. "Weed? Haven't touched the stuff since you and the girl disappeared. The pain of a broken leg and arms shocked me out of it. The arms and leg I broke," he reminded Jakkin, "helping you get away. And this..." He pointed to the bad eye.

  Jakkin nodded. Likkarn had fought with the wardens who were trying to capture them. It was the one good thing the old man had ever done for him.

  "Go into my mind, boy. See if you find any weed there. If you dare." All this was said in whispers. Likkarn suddenly looked feral, haunted.

  Jakkin shook his head. He, too, whispered. The last thing he needed was to wake the sleepers in the bondhouse.

  "I don't understand you." But he did, because he suddenly remembered something Golden had said in the copter, about Likkarn living in the mountains with dragons long ago. So Jakkin couldn't help darting into the old man's mind and out again. Then, of course, he had to keep his face from showing his surprise. Likkarn was telling the truth. The absolute truth this time. There was no sign of weed. Not a bit.

  "See?" Likkarn was grinning now. "So now you know. And I know you know."

  Jakkin was suddenly tired of the whole whispered conversation. "Know all you like, old man," he said sharply, because whatever else was going on, the secret had to be kept. He suspected that if he gave Likkarn any room at all, he would move right in. "Or guess whatever you want. But I'm cold, exhausted, and going off to bed."

  "Right. Best not speak of it out loud," Likkarn whispered, putting a finger to the side of his nose. "We'll keep it our little secret."

  Not your secret, and not so little, either. Turning away, Jakkin started down the long hall toward the bunkroom and never looked back. But in his head he could hear the old man's whisper: "Our little secret ... secret ... secret."

  He had to tell Akki as soon as possible. But how could he sneak down to the women's wing of the bondhouse and have them all guessing wrongly why he was there. They'd giggle about it. He couldn't stand that.

  But Akki had to be told.

  ***

  AKKI HAD awakened three times already, each time from another bad dream. She'd had to pee each time, as well, though after the first—when she banged her head on the top bunk—she'd moved carefully until out in the hall.

  This fourth time, she sat up carefully, slipped out of the bed, and bumped into Jakkin in the hall.

  "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

  He put a silencing finger to his mouth and sent her a danger sign, a blood-red picture of an old man.

  "Likkarn?" she mouthed.

  He nodded, holding out his hand.

  Soon they sat crouched together near a window in the dining hall.

  "What about Likkarn?" she asked in a whisper.

  "He can send ... sort of."

  She seized his left hand and squeezed it hard. "What do you mean?" Not being able to read his face in the dark, she ducked into his mind. It was in turmoil. She sent a cooling shower. "What do you mean?"

  "Some trainers—not many," he sent, "have a bit of a mind connection with their dragons. Like I did with Heart's Blood. And the trogs do, of course. And some of the stewmen link a bit with the dragons they kill in the stews." He pictured each in turn—trainers, dragons, trogs, and the stews.

  Akki shivered.

  "But only you and I—and the trogs—really communicate."

  "And Likkarn?"

  "More than most." He sent her the conversation he and Likkarn had just had.

  "That's it then," Akki told him. "We don't dare send to one another here in the bondhouse or outside when Likkarn is anywhere around. Because if he can read us—"

  "Agreed."

  "Jakkin..."

  "Akki..."

  "I have
to go to The Rokk soon. I have to get started on the lab work. I'm not..." She was going to tell him how little she knew. How long it would take to learn enough to do any good.

  He pulled away. "What's that?"

  She listened hard, heard footsteps in the hall. Making a quick decision, she threw herself into Jakkin's arms, put her hands on either side of his face, and kissed him hard.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Just enjoy it."

  "I am enjoying it," he began, before surrendering to the kiss. The lights suddenly went on in the dining hall and Likkarn's laughter spilled out.

  Akki drew away from Jakkin, turned, and stared at Likkarn as if surprised to see him. "Well," she said, "enjoying the sight?" Then without waiting for an answer and pretending fury, she stood and marched off through the door.

  Jakkin hurried after her, saying aloud, "Akki, Akki, don't go." But he was acting as much as she was.

  "I'll see you tomorrow, Jakkin Stewart," she whispered. "And no more sendings."

  He nodded, and she went quickly back to her room.

  This time she slept without dreams.

  ***

  JAKKIN FOUND his way through the dark to his own bunkroom and didn't even bother getting out of his clothes, though he did kick off the sandals.

  Around him in their own beds, the three other boys snorted, snored, blew out small bubbling sighs. They dreamed the comforting dreams of the innocent, without secrets to trouble them. But Jakkin fell onto the bottom bunk and into a deep sleep, his fear of exposure, fear of damaging the dragons, keeping him from dreaming anything.

  In the morning Jakkin barely saw Akki, for she was off, first, in the kitchen helping Kkarina, then away in the truck with Jo-Janekk to pick up supplies at a farmers' market an hour up the road.

  In fact, for the rest of the day—and for four days after that—she seemed too busy to talk to him, and since they both kept to their promise of not sending to one another, he hardly spoke to her at all.

  7

  MORNING LIGHT slanted in through the window, falling heavily across the foot of Jakkin's blanket. He woke and kicked the blanket off, then lay still for a moment, trying to enjoy the feel of mattress and pillow. A year is a long time to go without mattress or pillow. They had done what they could in the wild to stay alive, to make themselves comfortable. And comfort aside, it had been wonderful.

  What am I thinking? There'd been the loss of his beloved dragon, real fear, scrabbling from meal to meal, the need to always keep out of sight. In the mountains, all he'd cared about was staying alive—and getting home—yet not quite a week home in the nursery and here he was suddenly wishing he could go back. Now that time shone in some sort of golden light, like a miracle. And miracles, by their very nature, only happen once—and are gone.

  "Wake up, lazy legs." It was Akki, her sending snaking into his head. "I'm already up and eating breakfast." The sending bubbled with the dark, popping red of a cup of takk, though neither of them drank the dragon-blood-based drink anymore.

  "Akki!" His sending was nearly a shout. It had been too many days without her constantly in his head. That was what he missed more than anything, what had made the year in the mountains wonderful. But still he had to ask. "Why are we sending?"

  "Likkarn's already safely away in the barn. Kkarina says he's been there all night. Must be a hatching. He won't be able to hear us. And no one else can."

  "I'm there," he said, getting out of the bed.

  "What?" Errikkin sat straight up in the top bunk next to Jakkin's.

  "Breakfast," Jakkin said, a finger to the side of his nose. "Smell it? I'm there. You coming?"

  Errikkin shook his head, then turned over, showing only his rounded back.

  Jakkin shrugged. Five days of Errikkin's back was enough. If Errikkin wanted no part of him, then he'd let the friendship go, though he did wonder what had happened in the year he'd been away to change the always pleasant boy he'd known into this sullen, angry stranger. It can't just be the bond thing—can it?

  Putting on his sandals, Jakkin stood. He had enough problems without making Errikkin another one.

  Arakk was already up and pulling on his shorts. "I'm with you."

  Jakkin grinned at him. At least Arakk had a sunny disposition, unlike sullen Slakk and my-back-to-you Errikkin.

  "Breakfast. That's the answer. It's always the answer!" Jakkin said.

  "To what question?" Arakk asked.

  Jakkin laughed. "To every one of them." At the same time, he unleashed a sending toward the common room, where Akki was waiting. "Get some lizard eggs ready for me!" He sent a bright red bubbling landscape to her. He wanted to say more, but he'd leave that for later.

  A rushing, gushing river of color came back from her, burbling away. Why is she so happy ?

  Arakk laughed. For a moment Jakkin was confused, having forgotten he'd been speaking aloud to the moonfaced boy. Then he slapped Arakk on the back. "Any more questions?"

  "Breakfast to every one of them," Arakk said. It had hardly been funny the first time, but the two boys laughed all the way to the breakfast room, leaving their sullen, snoring bunkmates behind.

  As far as Jakkin could tell, everyone but Errikkin and Slakk—and Likkarn, still out in the barn—was already in the dining room when the clanging breakfast bell rang out. It didn't interrupt the noisy commentaries at the twelve tables. Breakfast was hardly a quiet affair, and Jakkin was only just getting used to it again.

  Each table was ruled by a large ceramic takk pot in which the rich red drink brewed. The older men tended to sit together. That left the younger nursery workers at their own tables. One table had been set aside for the solitaires, who preferred not speaking at breakfast. There were three of them and they ate as far from one another as possible. Jakkin had considered it on his first morning back, but Akki had convinced him it would raise more questions than they wanted to answer, as he had not been a solitaire before.

  Jakkin sat down next to Akki, who passed him a plate of eggs without a word or a sending. But she smiled, flicking her long dark braid over her right shoulder as a kind of welcome. She was wearing a gold band around the bottom of the braid, and a matching gold band on her wrist. It had been a year since she'd had such things to wear, except for twists of wildflowers. Jakkin remembered the wildflowers with a sudden sweet longing. Ruefully, he smiled back at her, saying nothing.

  Akki sent a tickling, colorful sequence of rainbows into his mind.

  "I thought we said..." he whispered, and when she glared at him, he looked down at his plate.

  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she whispered back, though she hardly seemed sorry. The exchange was so quick and so hushed, no one else noticed.

  Jakkin took some eggs, a slice of mello, and a cup of minty tea. When Trikko passed the platter of meats along, Jakkin shook his head, almost shuddering. "Not that hungry," he said.

  "You used to be hungry all the time," Trikko said. "It must be loooooove." He drew the word out, to the delight of the rest of the table.

  But it had nothing to do with love—or hunger. Of course, Jakkin couldn't tell them the real reason. He just couldn't eat lizard meat anymore. Lizards might not send with the power of their larger brothers, the dragons, but their minds were full of whispery, shadowy, pale sendings that flitted in and out of Jakkin's mind whenever he passed one by. Eating lizard meat would be like eating a relative. A silly, slightly addled relative. Though Jakkin was fine with the unfertilized eggs. Or with kkrystals, the translucent insects, dipped in egg and batter. He wondered if he could teach Kkarina that one.

  After his first sip of tea, Jakkin looked up and forced a smile. "Sleep well?" He said it to the entire table, but he meant it for Akki.

  She sent him a rude bit of color, full of snags and sparkles. Like a mind belch.

  The sending made him laugh, and that was so inappropriate, he immediately covered it up with a cough, as if he were choking on the eggs.

  Looking down at the table demurely, Akki said
loudly, "I don't know about anyone else, but I slept like a baby. Easier on a mattress and bed than the stone floor of a cave. And you?"

  He sent a mind belch back at her, and steadfastly refused to apologize.

  At that point, Slakk came into the dining hall and joined them, sitting at the far end of the table, which was then awash in complaints about snoring roommates, pillows that needed new feathers, slats missing in beds—the usual.

  "And you," Slakk said suggestively, pointing at Jakkin. "You came to bed awfully late last night."

  "Ooooooo!" The comment ran around the table, and suddenly everyone stared and grinned at Akki. Reddening, she set her lips together so tightly, they looked like a thin scar. Her actual embarrassment served as great camouflage.

  Jakkin swallowed quickly. He'd been out late again in the incubarn and run back to the bondhouse just before Dark-After. He hadn't seen Likkarn that time, but if Akki was right, the old man must have been couched down with an about-to-lay hen. He reminded himself to be more careful.

  Still, he had to deal with Slakk's accusation. "Stomach problems," Jakkin said, making a sour face and pointing to his belly. "Not used to all this rich food." He rubbed his palm over the offending stomach, but no one seemed convinced. And really, how bad could it be if they think Akki and I are together at night. It would give us more chance to move about.

  Just then Kkarina came out of the kitchen and overheard him. She stood in the doorway, hands on her hips, glaring, though her face gave her away as she tried to hide a smile. Jakkin saw her and gulped.

  "Rich, good food," Jakkin amended loudly.

  She came over and clouted him on the head with her open hand.

  "Nice save." Akki sent, with a picture of a drowning man being lifted from a river by a very large red dragon. It set the man down on a beach, then clouted him gently with a paw.

  He grinned at her. "Nothing," he sent to her, "is as important as breakfast." His sending was bright and full of oval balloons, like giant eggs.