If Sintara was aware of any of them, she gave no sign of it. She was hunting, ranging far to either side of the river in slow arcs. Leftrin made a mental note to add that to his growing collection of notes, charts and sketches of the river. If a dragon was hunting here, he suspected that it meant that there was solid ground back there some place. He could not imagine Sintara diving on anything that would require her crashing through layers of trees and ending in a swamp, nor that she would willingly dive on prey in the river. No. Back behind those layers of tall trees, there must be low meadows or perhaps even rolling foothills, precursors to the meadows and hills of Kelsingra. That would bear more exploring. Some day.
‘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.’
‘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.
‘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.
‘I have lots of milk for him, and he nurses well. But he does not seem to take any good from it.’
‘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.
‘Once, Elderlings built grand homes along this waterfront, with special places for dragons to enjoy themselves. Some of the houses were on pilings: this time of year, they would have been little islands. Others were farther back, on the shore. They offered all sorts of comforts to visiting dragons. Stone platforms that became warm at a dragon’s touch. Rooms with walls of glass and exotic plants where a dragon could sleep comfortably on a wild winter night. Or so the captain says the dragons told him.’ He gestured at a distant rise covered with naked birch trees. Pink had begun to suffuse the white trunks, a sure sign of spring. ‘I think we shall build our mansion there,’ he told her grandly. ‘White pillars, don’t you think? And an immense roof garden. Rows and rows of decorative turnips.’ He looked into her face, hoping he’d wakened a smile there.
