Blood of Dragons by Hobb Robin

rolling foothills, precursors to the meadows and hills of Kelsingra. That would bear more exploring. Some day.
    â€˜Is she coming? Was it Tintaglia?’
    Reyn looked down and away from the hope in Malta’s blue eyes. He shook his head. ‘She’s not our dragon. I think if she were, we could feel her. No, it’s one of the youngsters, a blue female called Sintara. Leftrin says that even if we could call out to her or signal her, there is nowhere she could land. But we are only a few days from Kelsingra at worst now. We’ll be there soon, dear. And Phron will be fine.’
    â€˜A few days,’ Malta said dejectedly. She looked down on their sleeping child. She did not utter the words they were both thinking. Perhaps their boy did not have a few days.
    In his first few days on board Tarman, he had prospered. He had nursed and slept, wakened to stare at both of them intently with his deep-blue eyes, stretched and wiggled and grown. His legs and arms had fleshed out to plumpness, and his cheeks had become round. A healthy pink had suffused his body, making him appear much less lizard-like, and they had both dared to hope that the danger to the child had passed.
    But after those first few days, his improvement had faded. His sleep had become fitful, interspersed with long wailing fits when nothing could comfort him. His skin became dry, his eyes gummy. Reyn had schooled himself to endurance, though holding the screaming child for hours so that Malta could isolate herself in their cabin and get a bit of sleep had been one of the most maddening experiences of his life. A wide variety of possible solutions had been offered and tried, from wrapping him more securely in his blankets to offering him a few drops of rum to settle his stomach. Phron had been walked, joggled, bathed in warm water, rocked, sung to, left to cry it out and wept over. None of it had affected his thin, incessant wailing. Reyn had felt hopeless and frustrated, and Malta had sunk into a deep sadness. Even when the child slept, someone kept watch over him. All feared the moment when he would exhale a breath and not draw in another.
    â€˜Let him sleep by himself for just a few moments. Come with me. Stand and stretch a bit, and breathe the wind.’
    Malta unfolded herself reluctantly, leaving Phron asleep in his basket. Reyn put his arm around her to guide her out of the canvas shelter and onto the open deck. The wind was chill, laden with the promise of more rain to come, but not even it could put colour into Malta’s cheeks. She was exhausted. Reyn took her hand, feeling the fine bones beneath the thin flesh. Her hair was dry, fraying out of the golden braids pinned to her head; he could not recall the last time he had seen her brush it. ‘You need to eat more,’ he told her gently, and saw her wince as if he criticized her.
    â€˜I have lots of milk for him, and he nurses well. But he does not seem to take any good from it.’
    â€˜That wasn’t what I meant. I meant for your own sake. As well as his, of course.’ Reyn fumbled through his words, and then gave up. He pulled her to him, put his cloak around her to shelter her and looked out over her head. ‘Captain Leftrin told me that the last time they made the upriver journey through this area, the water got so shallow that they wandered for days trying to find a channel to follow. Hard to believe, isn’t it?’
    Malta looked out over the wide stretch of water and nodded. It seemed more lake than river here, reaching out in all directions. This section of the river moved more slowly, supporting more floating plant life. And the plants, at least, seemed to believe that spring was around the corner. New fronds twisted up from the water, waiting for warmer weather to unfurl into pads. Blackened strands of trailing weed showed green buds along their length.
    â€˜Once, Elderlings built grand homes along this waterfront, with special places for