Chapter 58: A mother’s price

 

The longer you neglect something, the more likely it is to come at you when you least want it to.

-Leenda

 

Five days. Five days had passed since Leenda had tasted Wrend’s lips and felt him near her. She hated to go much longer without talking with him, but had no idea how to get close.

At the very least, she would need Krack’s help.

“Krack. Time to go. We need to keep up with the caravan.”

He didn’t open his eyes or lift his head. He lay with his body, neck, and tail stretched out on the red dirt, over a patch of ground he’d cleared the night before. He always did that before settling down to sleep: he scratched the shrubbery, grass, and weeds away from the ground, so that he could lie on newly churned dirt, as if he prepared a field to plant himself into. It took nearly an hour each night, but he didn’t seem to mind it. Perhaps because he slept in so late.

Not that she could fault him for sleeping in. She really had no good reason to rouse him at dawn when she awoke. However, at noon she had plenty of reason.

“Come on,” she said. “Wake up.”

She stood on a brownish-red rock about forty feet above him. Other boulders surrounded the one she stood on, creating a pile that curved around the wide bowl in which Krack slept—or pretended to sleep. From the lip of the bowl where she stood, the land spread out around her, rolling in a series of massive stones. Here and there a ridge of rock rose up like the body of a draegon, sometimes with multiple windows piercing their forms. To the west, a massive arch spanned a riverbed.

“Krack!”

Her voice echoed off of the opposite lip of the bowl. As if in response, a duck hawk lit from a juniper that seemed to grow out of the rock. It screeched as it rose up and away.

Annoyed, she began to climb down the rocks, picking her way along the outcroppings and ridges. As always, it was harder to climb down than up, and halfway she nearly slipped, but caught herself by throwing her back against the cold rock and standing there for a moment, breathing hard, heart pounding. It scared her even despite her ability to use Ichor to save herself.

Below, Krack huffed in amusement. He had one eye open.

“That’s right,” she said. “You lay there and laugh while your mother falls off a cliff and kills herself.”

He raised his head, tossing it from side to side. In draegonspeak he said, “You wouldn’t have trouble if you had a draegon body.”

Half a dozen sharp responses came to mind, but Leenda bridled them. With her balance regained, she continued down.

“It’s time to get going. We need to keep up with the army.”

“Why bother?” He rose and shook his body. The fur rippled. “He’s too surrounded by guards. We’ll have to wait.”

He was right, of course, but Leenda didn’t want to wait. She’d already gone into the camp three times in the last three days, and not even caught a glimpse of Wrend. The paladins surrounding him kept her far away.

“We have to keep trying,” she said. “We never know when an opportunity will arise. Besides, we need to get me some food. I haven’t eaten since early yesterday.”

She reached the bottom of the cliff, jumped the last few feet, and turned to face him.

“I can always get you some food,” he said.

He extended his forepaws ahead of him and leaned back, stretching his legs and flexing his paws, extending the claws so that they dug into the ground. His bones creaked at the stretch.

“I’m not eating raw meat,” she said. “I could go for some bread bathed in butter. There was that settlement nearby. You can leave me outside of town, and I’ll go in and get some food.”

“You want to leave me alone?”

He said it nonchalantly, but the way he looked at her from the corner of his eye belied his nervousness at the idea of being alone. He’d been especially nervous five nights before, after the encounter with Athanaric.

“You’ll be fine. We’ll make sure Athanaric isn’t around.”

“I’m not worried about that.”

He said it too quickly, and didn’t look at her as he opened his wings wide and fluttered them, airing them out. As he did, he bent his neck around with his teeth bared, to nip at the joint where the wing met his body: scratching an itch.

“It’s just safer to be together,” he said.

They hadn’t talked about the encounter with Athanaric. She hadn’t dared bring it up, fearing to embarrass him for his reaction. Nothing had really even happened to him—Athanaric hadn’t even touched him—but he’d only flown a mile before the trembling of his body had forced him to land.

But she had to bring it up. They had to talk about it. He needed to face that fear down, because they could very well confront Athanaric again. She was building up her Ichor reserves for it, and had instructed him to do the same.

She had the problem, however, of how to start the conversation. Wrend—Cuchorack—had handled this type of thing with their children. Plus, since their last discussion about his behavior, back with the cows, he’d been sensitive to any observation about how he acted. Though he said he would stay and help her, she didn’t know how firm his resolve was and didn’t want to scare him off.

Yet, something had to be said. He needed to resolve it.

“Krack . . .”

“What?” he said.

He paused his stretching and sat back on his haunches the way he always did when ready for an argument.

“I don’t like your tone,” he said.

She sighed, and her shoulders sagged. Why wasn’t she any good at talking with him?

“It’s understandable for you to be afraid of Athanaric.”

The fur on his neck and body stood on end, and his neck stiffened.

“That’s not why I don’t want to get father. He’s just too well protected.”

“Krack, you can’t fool me. I was riding you. I could feel your body shaking. You’ve never been like that. There’s only one reason for a draegon’s body to shake like that.”

“Yes,” he said, his voice grew angry and hard. He swung his head low, and she stepped back from how close he brought his snout to her face. He spoke in quick growls and short grunts—methodically, as if he’d rehearsed what he would say. “Because he encounters the god who captured and tortured him as an infant—and defeated his mother and killed his father. That is the only reason for a draegon to tremble with fear.”

His intensity—the raw anger and emotion—caught her off guard. She stepped back again, and her heel hit a rock at the base of the cliff; she only kept herself from falling by throwing a hand back against the stone.

He kept his face close to hers, so it nearly blocked all of her vision. But it couldn’t hide how his body began to shake. Ripples ran along his furry back. Waves ran down his neck. His wings opened just a bit as they fluttered like canvas in the wind. A dull pain invaded his eyes. If a draegon could weep, he would’ve done so right then. She blinked back her own tears.

“Krack, I . . . “

She had nothing to say as she realized that she’d never talked with him about his experience seventeen years before—not even right after. She’d been too absorbed in her loss to think about what he’d endured and help him address it.

Athanaric had bound him—just a pup—in chains, and held him there for hours until she and Cuchorack had returned from their hunting. What terror had he endured then? What loss at the bereavement of his father compounded by the abandonment by his mother? She’d never asked, and he’d never brought it up—no doubt because he feared looking like a coward.

She choked on the swelling tears, and brought a hand to her mouth. How hypocritical of her to demand that he play the noble draegon, when she had acted most un-draegonlike and ignoble.

The strength in her legs faltered. She felt like she would collapse. But she fought it. She couldn’t do this—she couldn’t, again, become consumed in her own world. She had to be a mother.

“You see,” Krack said. “I’m right.”

He lifted his head back up, straightening his neck and standing on his hind legs. He turned his head to the right and left, looking out over the edge of the bowl.

“I’m going hunting.”

“No!” She stepped forward and reached up to him, though he stood twenty feet back. “We’ve broached the topic. We should talk about it.”

He didn’t look down, but spread his wings so they nearly touched rock on both sides and blocked the sun from her view. It became a round ball silhouetted through his wings.

“Krack, I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know what else to say, but nevertheless words spilled out of her lips, forming even as the thoughts burgeoned in her head. Her mind, opened by the realization of her own selfishness, loosened from shackles, and she saw herself as he must’ve seen her.

“I haven’t considered you in all of this. I’ve only thought about me and myself, and what I need. It’s been that way since the day we lost your father. It’s been all me, me, me; and not only have I not considered you in all of it, but I’ve completely disregarded the fact that you might need something different than me.”

He remained there, his head high and turned away from her. He didn’t even direct his gaze at her. His body shook as if an earthquake had struck at his heart. His wings tensed, stretching just a bit further.

“I understand, now,” she said. “I see what kind of draegon I’ve been—exactly the opposite from what I’ve asked you to be.”

He looked down at her, but stayed standing with his neck and wings extended.

“It’s not that I don’t want to rescue him.” If it could happen to a draegon, his eyes grew distant. “I remember father, you know. Even though I was just a pup. I remember when he taught me to fly—how he caught me when I faltered. I would’ve broken my wing. I remember a lot about him.”

Leenda felt light-headed. She stepped over to a waist-high rock and leaned on it with one hand. She had no idea what to say or do. Her heart told her to continue on after Wrend, but it also told her she needed to be a mother, to help her child. Could she do both, or was forcing Krack to go with her abusive?

Her guilt made her want to tell him to go away, to return to the caves so she wouldn’t expose him to Athanaric any more. Yet, she couldn’t do that. She was right. A noble draegon would face down his fears and take back what was his—especially if that thing was his father.

But what right did she have to hold him to a draegon code of conduct? Goat guts!

“And I remember . . .” Krack said. He squatted back on his hind legs, with his body upright. His wings folded just a little. “I remember when Athanaric came.” A growl drifted from his throat. He stared off into nowhere. “He wasn’t even as big as me, and I thought I could fight him, but he tackled me and pinned me down. He was so strong. I nipped at his face, but he moved too fast, and threw that muzzle over my snout. I couldn’t even call for you then. Or warn you.”

His fur rippled again as his body trembled. His wings shook, and he folded them against his back.

She wanted to reach out to him, to stroke his face and neck, and wrap her arms around him. As a pup, he’d been so rambunctious and such a troublemaker, but also so tender-hearted. Once he hurt a paw and came whimpering to her, and she put her wing about him and licked his face to comfort him. His crying ended fast, and soon he climbed on her back and ordered her around like some kind of draegon-rider of old.

But she couldn’t do that now. What could a tiny human body do? What was she to do?

She stepped toward him, reaching out for him.

“And he put his arms around my neck,” Krack said.

He fell forward to his front legs, into the dirt he’d cleared the night before. Leenda had to jump aside to avoid being crushed as he settled his belly against the ground.

“And he said he would break my neck if I fought him. So I did what he wanted. I was weaker than him, and he hit so hard and he tied me up, all the while telling me what he was going to do with my father. He was going to take his soul and put the soul of a dog into his body. A common dog. My father was going to become a dog.”

She stepped around his front paws to his side, and placed a hand on his body, below his wings. His flesh shook—whether from her touch or from his memories, she couldn’t tell. She craned her neck to see his face, but couldn’t read it. He stared blankly at the rocky wall. She had no idea what she should do, how she could possibly make it up to him or heal his wounds. But she had to do something. She rubbed his fur.

“Krack, what can I do for you?”

He twisted his neck around, and for a moment looked at her from above. But then he lowered his face down to her, so she could feel the hot breath from his snout.

“You think I can help you get father back? You think I can help you fight Athanaric? Maybe I can. I’m bigger now. Stronger. I can use Ichor better. But I can’t face the body of my father. I can’t do that, and I know that is what it will come to. Every time we’ve been near the camp these past days, he’s been riding that zombie. Have you seen those horns? I can’t fight them. I only have these little horns.”

He rolled his eyes as if to look at the horns that extended down from the top of his head, just past the corner of his mouth. Cuchorack’s horns went down past his lower jaw and the end of his snout.

Still pressing her hand against his side, she reached out with the other hand and touched his snout. It was nearly as big as her entire body. As she’d learned a week before, he could gobble her up in a few quick chomps. And she would deserve it.

He flinched at her touch, pulled back. She stepped forward, sliding one hand over a rib and again touching his face.

“Krack. I’m so sorry. What can I do to make amends? Is it even possible?”

He didn’t pull back this time, but narrowed his eyes at her and growled softly from deep in his throat.

“No. I don’t think you can. Unless you can alter the past.”

She couldn’t alter the past, of course. And it broke her heart. Because he was right.

In the end, there was really only one thing she could do to make it up to him.