such a money-hungry man.
“Here, take a candle,” offered Kyra. “You can light
one of our torches outside and use it to find your way along
the path.”
Seron led the grumbling Cheb to the door. “If you
hurry,” he said, “you’ll still find a bed at the Sea Master
Inn. Tell the owner that I sent you. He knows me.”
Cheb was already out the door, lighting his torch,
when he realized he’d left his satchel in the hut. He rushed
back in with the torch aflame and reached for the bag on
the floor by the chair.
At the same time, Kyra said, “Here, let me help you.”
They accidentally collided while both reached for the
satchel, and Cheb lost his balance. Falling over backward,
the torch went flying out of his grasp.
The burning torch landed in the comer of the hut,
right in the middle of Seron’s paints. They exploded in a
ball of bright orange flame!
Cheb quickly scrambled to his feet. “Run for your
lives!” he cried. He snatched up his satchel and ran out
the door without ever looking back.
“Get out! Save yourself!” Seron shouted to his wife,
who was trying to drag the heavy wooden crate out from
beneath the bed.
“I’m not leaving without your painting,” she cried. The
fire quickly spread far beyond the comer of the hut. Soon,
the bed and all the rest of their furniture were burning.
Two of the walls were aflame, as was part of the roof; a
heavy, deadly smoke filled their one-room home.
Seron grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled
her to her feet. Both of them were coughing, their eyes
were tearing, and their skin was beginning to blister. The
fire snapped at the edges of their clothing as he carried his
wife to the door of the hut and threw her onto the soft grass
outside the door.
But he didn’t follow her out into the safety of the night.
Instead, he rushed back into the burning hut, diving to the
floor next to the bed. The wooden crate was beginning to
char, but he knew there was still time; the painting inside
had not yet been damaged. He hauled the crate out from
beneath the bed and lifted it. The door was just a few yards
away. . . .
Though the doorway was open, the smoke and flames
were too thick for Kyra to see inside the hut. “Forget the
painting!” she screamed. “Seron! Get out of there! Hurry!”
she begged.
The roof caved in. The hut collapsed. Seron was buried in
an avalanche of fire, and Kyra gave out an anguished cry of
pain that stretched on for minutes. When there was nothing
left inside her, she crumpled to the dew-wet grass.
Kyra didn’t move. There was no reason. Much later, in
the darkest hour of the night, a voice whispered in her ear. .
. .
“Am I late?”
At first, Kyra was startled. She lifted her head and saw
Tosch. The familiar sight of the brass dragon set Kyra
crying all over again. He did his best to comfort her,
nestling her frail, shivering frame between his right wing
and his body. But he couldn’t see what was so upsetting.
As best she could, she told Tosch what had happened.
Then she wept throughout the rest of the night. Finally, just
before dawn, Kyra fell into an exhausted sleep. The dragon
sighed. The sun would be coming up soon – and he
supposed he had better take her with him. There was
nothing for Kyra here. He lifted her onto his back and then
gently took wing.
Tosch watched a female brass dragon sailing in small,
lazy circles overhead. Without thinking, he turned his good
profile in her direction.
“I don’t think I ever told you, but I do like Palanthas,”
Kyra announced from her seat on a nearby tree stump.
Tosch nodded absently, glancing down at the blue,
yellow, and orange clothes Kyra was sewing together for
him. “When will my new cape be finished?” he asked.
“I told you it would take six months,” she said. “It’s
only been four.”
“You know only humans count time,” he replied with a