in her mouth, and juices dripped down her chin, stinging her
cuts. Somebody handed her a tankard, and she drank deeply. The frothy
ale was cold in her throat but warmed her belly.
A
drunkard who sat beside her—his droopy red mustache floated in his
ale—yelped as Tanin yanked him aside. Her brother, that oaf of a
juggler, replaced him on the bench. He pointed at Maev and glared.
"How
much longer do you think you can do this?" he said. "This
is . . . what, your one hundredth fight by now? Over a hundred for
sure."
"Not
counting." She stared at the table, chewing her meat.
"And
how many more fists can you take to the face?" Tanin leaned
forward, forcing himself into her field of vision. "You can't
keep doing this."
She
shoved his face away and gulped down more ale. Blood dripped from her
forehead into the drink. "Somebody's got to support this family.
If it's not smith work, it'll be fist work." She thrust out her
bottom lip, chin raised in defiance. "I was a good smith when
Grizzly still had his shop. But I'm a better fighter."
His
voice softened. "There are other ways. My juggling earns us some
food."
She
snorted. "Your juggling does nothing but land you on your arse
to the sound of jeers. Other ways, brother? Not for us. Not for our
kind. Not for people with our curs—"
"Hush!"
He paled. "Not here."
She
looked around but nobody seemed to be listening. The villagers were
too drunk, too busy eating, or too busy comforting the sour Gorn; the
brute was sitting across the table, his face puffy and lacerated.
"Nobody's
listening. Nobody cares." Maev reached for a turnip and chewed
lustily. "This is how we survive, dear brother. Let Grizzly lead
us. Let Grandpapa heal our wounds. And let me pound faces and earn us
a living."
The
truth she kept to herself. Because
fighting like this eases the pain, she thought, her eyes stinging. Because
fists and kicks drown the memories . . . the memories of banishment,
of a lost younger sister, of who I am. And so she fought, soaking up the bruises and cuts, hiding the wounds
inside her.
Tanin
sighed, head lowered. "We weren't meant to fight like this—with
fists, with kicks." He lowered his voice to a whisper and held
her shoulder. "We were meant to fight as dragons ."
His face lit up. "To fly. To blow fire. To bite with fangs and
lash with claws."
Maev
glanced around again, but if anyone heard, they gave no notice.
"Well, last I checked, dragons are hunted with arrows, rocs, and
poison." She shrugged. "Maybe I can't fly. Not if I want to
live." She pounded the table. "But my fists are still
strong. Now let me be. I'm eating. Go find some pretty shepherd's
daughter to try to charm."
She
turned her back on Tanin and tried to concentrate on her food. Yet
her thoughts kept returning to the fight—to all her fights. Whenever
she lay bloodied, fists raining down upon her, she wanted to shift
into a dragon. Whenever she paced her canyon hideout, her brother and
father and grandfather always nearby, she wanted to shift into a
dragon. When she slept, she dreamed of flying. It was the magic of
her family—some said the curse. All bore the dragon blood, the blood
the world thought diseased.
Weredragons,
they call us, Maev
thought. Monsters to
hunt.
She
bit deep into a leg of lamb stewed in mint leaves, then chewed
vigorously as if she could eat away the pain. Years ago, dragon
hunters had killed her sister; they had poisoned sweet little Requiem
in the fields. Everyone in the family dealt with that pain privately,
desperately. Her father, Jeid Blacksmith, that huge grizzly bear of a
man, had named their canyon home Requiem. He called it a new tribe, a
safe haven for their kind, as if others existed in the world. Her
grandfather, kindly old Eranor, dedicated himself to his gardens of
herbs. Her brother cracked jokes, mocked her, mocked everyone; she
knew it masked his pain.
And
I, well . . . I fight. Maev looked at her torn knuckles. I
hurt myself to drown the pain inside me.
cuts. Somebody handed her a tankard, and she drank deeply. The frothy
ale was cold in her throat but warmed her belly.
A
drunkard who sat beside her—his droopy red mustache floated in his
ale—yelped as Tanin yanked him aside. Her brother, that oaf of a
juggler, replaced him on the bench. He pointed at Maev and glared.
"How
much longer do you think you can do this?" he said. "This
is . . . what, your one hundredth fight by now? Over a hundred for
sure."
"Not
counting." She stared at the table, chewing her meat.
"And
how many more fists can you take to the face?" Tanin leaned
forward, forcing himself into her field of vision. "You can't
keep doing this."
She
shoved his face away and gulped down more ale. Blood dripped from her
forehead into the drink. "Somebody's got to support this family.
If it's not smith work, it'll be fist work." She thrust out her
bottom lip, chin raised in defiance. "I was a good smith when
Grizzly still had his shop. But I'm a better fighter."
His
voice softened. "There are other ways. My juggling earns us some
food."
She
snorted. "Your juggling does nothing but land you on your arse
to the sound of jeers. Other ways, brother? Not for us. Not for our
kind. Not for people with our curs—"
"Hush!"
He paled. "Not here."
She
looked around but nobody seemed to be listening. The villagers were
too drunk, too busy eating, or too busy comforting the sour Gorn; the
brute was sitting across the table, his face puffy and lacerated.
"Nobody's
listening. Nobody cares." Maev reached for a turnip and chewed
lustily. "This is how we survive, dear brother. Let Grizzly lead
us. Let Grandpapa heal our wounds. And let me pound faces and earn us
a living."
The
truth she kept to herself. Because
fighting like this eases the pain, she thought, her eyes stinging. Because
fists and kicks drown the memories . . . the memories of banishment,
of a lost younger sister, of who I am. And so she fought, soaking up the bruises and cuts, hiding the wounds
inside her.
Tanin
sighed, head lowered. "We weren't meant to fight like this—with
fists, with kicks." He lowered his voice to a whisper and held
her shoulder. "We were meant to fight as dragons ."
His face lit up. "To fly. To blow fire. To bite with fangs and
lash with claws."
Maev
glanced around again, but if anyone heard, they gave no notice.
"Well, last I checked, dragons are hunted with arrows, rocs, and
poison." She shrugged. "Maybe I can't fly. Not if I want to
live." She pounded the table. "But my fists are still
strong. Now let me be. I'm eating. Go find some pretty shepherd's
daughter to try to charm."
She
turned her back on Tanin and tried to concentrate on her food. Yet
her thoughts kept returning to the fight—to all her fights. Whenever
she lay bloodied, fists raining down upon her, she wanted to shift
into a dragon. Whenever she paced her canyon hideout, her brother and
father and grandfather always nearby, she wanted to shift into a
dragon. When she slept, she dreamed of flying. It was the magic of
her family—some said the curse. All bore the dragon blood, the blood
the world thought diseased.
Weredragons,
they call us, Maev
thought. Monsters to
hunt.
She
bit deep into a leg of lamb stewed in mint leaves, then chewed
vigorously as if she could eat away the pain. Years ago, dragon
hunters had killed her sister; they had poisoned sweet little Requiem
in the fields. Everyone in the family dealt with that pain privately,
desperately. Her father, Jeid Blacksmith, that huge grizzly bear of a
man, had named their canyon home Requiem. He called it a new tribe, a
safe haven for their kind, as if others existed in the world. Her
grandfather, kindly old Eranor, dedicated himself to his gardens of
herbs. Her brother cracked jokes, mocked her, mocked everyone; she
knew it masked his pain.
And
I, well . . . I fight. Maev looked at her torn knuckles. I
hurt myself to drown the pain inside me.
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