The hunter was dead. He and the dragon had killed Jess. If they hadn’t, Jess would certainly have done his best to kill both of them. Yet it all seemed so monstrous, so hugely outside his experience that he could scarcely grasp it. He’d never expected to kill a man; he’d never expected even to fight or hurt another man. Why would he? If he had remained in his correct place, in Bingtown, working as Hest’s assistant, nothing like this would have ever befallen him.
If he’d remained with Hest, nothing like this would have ever happened to him.
Suddenly that had been a thought that could cut both ways.
The dragon had surfaced noisily. Better, she’d told him. Not so hungry.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words had been an empty courtesy, but in return she’d given him a flood of warmth. The surge of affection he felt from her had temporarily pushed all pain from his body. She’d followed it with a request. Need help. To get on the wood again.
“I’m coming.” And he’d actually managed to help her to a safer perch, one where she could rest.
Sometime before nightfall, he’d recovered enough that he’d eaten the fruit that Jess had harvested. His lips were broken and his face hurt where Jess had struck him, but he ignored the pain to eat. The fruit was both food and drink for him, and he was shocked at how much better he felt for it. That done, he’d inventoried the supplies in the boat. The best discovery had been a wool blanket, even if it was wet and smelly. He’d spread it out to let it dry as much as it would before dark.
He’d forced himself to proceed logically, even to gathering up the piece of line and the fishing spear that Jess had dropped when he’d decided that killing Sedric was more important than killing the dragon. Relpda had watched him from her precarious perch on the logs. When he’d picked up the spear, she’d shuddered and he’d felt her dislike for the weapon.
“I might be able to get food for us with this,” he suggested doubtfully.
Yes. Maybe. But hurt. See?
And so he’d had to examine her injury. It was still leaking blood, but her dip beneath the water seemed to have partially cauterized it. “You need to keep that as dry as you can,” he’d counseled her. “No more diving.”
Sedric angry?
Her query had actually sounded anxious. Her tone made him stop to consider her question. “No,” he answered honestly. “Not angry. We do what we have to do. We had to kill him or he would have killed us. You ate him because, well, it’s what dragons do. You were hungry. I’m not angry.”
Sedric kill. Sedric protect. Sedric feed Relpda.
“I suppose I did,” he said after a time of horrified reflection. “I suppose I did.”
Sedric my keeper. You will change.
“I’m changing already,” he admitted.
Yes. Change.
He wasn’t sure he enjoyed contemplating that.
That night the damp blanket had provided him with some shelter from the incessantly humming insects, but it could not keep at bay his stinging thoughts. What was he going to do? He had a boat that he didn’t know how to manage, a slightly injured dragon, and a small array of tools that he didn’t know how to use. He didn’t know if any of the others had survived, nor if he should look for them upriver or downriver. No matter which direction he went in, he was fairly certain the dragon would follow him.
Follow, she’d assured him. Follow Sedric. Relpda and Sedric together.
Just as he’d accepted that thought, she’d rattled him in a new direction. Easier to think, easier to talk with you here. And in case he hadn’t taken her meaning, she’d sent him a flush of warmth through the connection they shared.
It had been a long time before he’d been able to sleep, and now that he was awake again, none of his problems seemed simpler. The dragon obviously expected him to feed her. He rubbed his swollen eyes cautiously and tossed his smelly blanket aside. Slowly he sat up and then clambered awkwardly out of the boat. He was too stiff to move comfortably, and he was quite literally sick of every object moving in reaction to every move he made. He was hungry and thirsty, the whole side of his face was swollen, his clothes stuck to his itching, stinging skin, his hair was plastered to his scalp. Abruptly, he stopped enumerating his misery to himself. No point to that except to make himself more miserable.
Fix.
Again that warm flush suffused him. This time, as it faded, everything hurt less.
“Are you healing me?” he asked in wonder.
No. Making you not think about pain so much.
Like a drug, he thought. Not as reassuring as thinking he was healing, but less pain was good, too. So what should he do?