Kered
patted her shoulder and rose, bellowing across the field to Windsong. “Come
back, you cowardly knave!”
A warmth flooded Maggie’s insides. Her gun might not have
worked, but the satisfaction of having assisted the warrior was enough.
Gingerly, Maggie tried to comfort the child, whose chest heaved in silent sobs.
She crooned to him as she did to her brother Jason’s youngest child when
teething kept him awake. “Hush, hush, the bad dragon is dead.”
Something in her voice got through and the shuddering sobs
eased to sniffles. When Kered and Windsong trotted up to their side, she handed
up the child and then, with great difficulty and less than ladylike dignity,
she scrambled up in front of Kered. “We have to wash off this goop. This kid
needs a bath,” she said.
“Over yonder ridge is The Sacred Pool. We can bathe there.
‘Tis a he, I said, not a goat.” Kered kicked Windsong’s flanks, and they flew
across the ground.
Maggie swatted at some little bugs that hovered about the
child’s head and stifled an impulse to cringe when yellow, grime-rimmed nails
dug into her forearm. She breathed through her mouth and tried to decide
whether to explain a “kid” to Kered or just let him think she couldn’t tell the
difference between a goat and a child. Her skin began to itch in a maddening
manner, but she couldn’t scratch. The child squirmed and wriggled. His slimy
garments made holding him a two-handed job.
“You know, Ker, I thought you were teasing me about the
dragons,” she said, rubbing her itchy chin against her shoulder.
“Common as dust. I told you.”
“Still, I thought you were teasing me.”
Maggie wondered if there were any animals on Tolemac she
would recognize. “What’s your cloak made of?”
“Wool. From a sheep. ‘Tis a docile animal, soft. But ‘tis
also a dirty beast, stinking in fact.”
“I’m familiar with sheep. And your shirt?” Maggie could not
prevent her hand from touching the fine cloth on his encircling arms. It had an
unusual luster despite its wrinkled condition.
His body rippled through a shrug. “‘Tis some plant. A woman
would know.”
“Of course,” she muttered, renewing her grip on the child.
“My britches?” he asked softly against her ear.
“Your britches?” Maggie felt her cheeks heat.
“Have you no interest in my britches?” he asked, then roared
with laughter.
Maggie did not deign to reply. The terrain changed abruptly.
Over one low hill the red rock changed to verdant fields dotted with small
groves of trees. Here and there the red rock still showed through the long
grasses. Pink clouds marched overhead, painting splotches of gray across the
hills. A glimmer caught her eye. The Sacred Pool lay like a silver skin between
two folds in the hills. Kered drew Windsong to a halt and slid off the back of
the saddle. He reached up and took the child, marching to the edge of the pool
and dunking him like an old dust mop.
A frantic wail rose anew from the bundle of rags, and Maggie
grinned as Kered swished the child back and forth. Scratching her forearms and
neck, she walked into the shallows to stand at Kered’s side. “Why don’t I do
that? You might drown the poor little guy.”
“Boy. A him.”
“A guy is a him—in my place.”
“In this place, he is a little beggar who is certainly far
from his tribe.” Kered laughed, relinquishing his hold. The child fell back
with a splash and came up screaming.
“Beggar? Tribe?” Maggie stepped back as the child shook
himself like a dog after a bath.
“Aye. ‘Tis unusual to find a little beggar separated from
his elders. They are most watchful of their young.” He straightened and looked
over Maggie’s shoulder.
She turned and followed the direction of his gaze. A cluster
of black dots swarmed down a distant hill like ants escaping an ant farm. The
little boy shrieked with joy and took off in their direction.
“Are they dangerous?” she asked, mentally estimating the
group
patted her shoulder and rose, bellowing across the field to Windsong. “Come
back, you cowardly knave!”
A warmth flooded Maggie’s insides. Her gun might not have
worked, but the satisfaction of having assisted the warrior was enough.
Gingerly, Maggie tried to comfort the child, whose chest heaved in silent sobs.
She crooned to him as she did to her brother Jason’s youngest child when
teething kept him awake. “Hush, hush, the bad dragon is dead.”
Something in her voice got through and the shuddering sobs
eased to sniffles. When Kered and Windsong trotted up to their side, she handed
up the child and then, with great difficulty and less than ladylike dignity,
she scrambled up in front of Kered. “We have to wash off this goop. This kid
needs a bath,” she said.
“Over yonder ridge is The Sacred Pool. We can bathe there.
‘Tis a he, I said, not a goat.” Kered kicked Windsong’s flanks, and they flew
across the ground.
Maggie swatted at some little bugs that hovered about the
child’s head and stifled an impulse to cringe when yellow, grime-rimmed nails
dug into her forearm. She breathed through her mouth and tried to decide
whether to explain a “kid” to Kered or just let him think she couldn’t tell the
difference between a goat and a child. Her skin began to itch in a maddening
manner, but she couldn’t scratch. The child squirmed and wriggled. His slimy
garments made holding him a two-handed job.
“You know, Ker, I thought you were teasing me about the
dragons,” she said, rubbing her itchy chin against her shoulder.
“Common as dust. I told you.”
“Still, I thought you were teasing me.”
Maggie wondered if there were any animals on Tolemac she
would recognize. “What’s your cloak made of?”
“Wool. From a sheep. ‘Tis a docile animal, soft. But ‘tis
also a dirty beast, stinking in fact.”
“I’m familiar with sheep. And your shirt?” Maggie could not
prevent her hand from touching the fine cloth on his encircling arms. It had an
unusual luster despite its wrinkled condition.
His body rippled through a shrug. “‘Tis some plant. A woman
would know.”
“Of course,” she muttered, renewing her grip on the child.
“My britches?” he asked softly against her ear.
“Your britches?” Maggie felt her cheeks heat.
“Have you no interest in my britches?” he asked, then roared
with laughter.
Maggie did not deign to reply. The terrain changed abruptly.
Over one low hill the red rock changed to verdant fields dotted with small
groves of trees. Here and there the red rock still showed through the long
grasses. Pink clouds marched overhead, painting splotches of gray across the
hills. A glimmer caught her eye. The Sacred Pool lay like a silver skin between
two folds in the hills. Kered drew Windsong to a halt and slid off the back of
the saddle. He reached up and took the child, marching to the edge of the pool
and dunking him like an old dust mop.
A frantic wail rose anew from the bundle of rags, and Maggie
grinned as Kered swished the child back and forth. Scratching her forearms and
neck, she walked into the shallows to stand at Kered’s side. “Why don’t I do
that? You might drown the poor little guy.”
“Boy. A him.”
“A guy is a him—in my place.”
“In this place, he is a little beggar who is certainly far
from his tribe.” Kered laughed, relinquishing his hold. The child fell back
with a splash and came up screaming.
“Beggar? Tribe?” Maggie stepped back as the child shook
himself like a dog after a bath.
“Aye. ‘Tis unusual to find a little beggar separated from
his elders. They are most watchful of their young.” He straightened and looked
over Maggie’s shoulder.
She turned and followed the direction of his gaze. A cluster
of black dots swarmed down a distant hill like ants escaping an ant farm. The
little boy shrieked with joy and took off in their direction.
“Are they dangerous?” she asked, mentally estimating the
group
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