The Boon of Alon

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

"Gods have mercy," Suthi sighs as soon as Iamon is out of sight. She's wearing a thin jacket or shirt over her regular shirt, unbuttoned, and she shrugs it off now and comes and drapes it over my shoulders. I hope that doesn't mean my tunic is torn up beyond repair.

"That went well," I tell her, and look at Tack, too. I push my arms through the sleeves of Suthi's shirt—it's too big for me, of course, and thin, but I appreciate getting the wind off my back.

"Did it?" says Tack. "Shit, I'm going to have to tell Chama about this." They shake their head and turn away.

"He didn't eat me! He saved my life!" I call after them. They lift a hand in acknowledgement and disappear into the crowd of dragons. There's a lot of other people—human and dragon both—turning away now, too. I guess my chat with Iamon had an audience.

That's fine. I finally got some answers—not all, but some, and hope that more are coming. I know now that Iamon isn't lying about seeing the future. And he did save me, so not all his intentions are suspect, but the fact remains that we only have his word.

He was right about something, though. I haven't been very kind to Suthi.

"Thanks," I tell her, tugging on the shirt. The shirt she wore underneath leaves her thick forearms bare, so she's got to be chilly, but once she starts oiling somebody she should be fine.

"Of course," she says. Like it's that simple. Maybe it is.

"And...sorry," I say, because it needs to be said. "I've been pretty mean to you."

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm used to it."

That doesn't make me feel better. "And you just take it? Don't, I don't want to be mean to you. If I am, tell me, okay?"

Now she's got both eyebrows raised. "You don't want to be mean to me?"

"I don't really want to be mean to anybody," I say, with the sinking feeling that maybe I'm mean to everyone. "But especially not people who don't deserve it."

She smiles tentatively. "When did I stop deserving it?"

"I...dunno?" Was my lashing out at her ever rational? "Probably when you stopped trying to kill me."

Her smile grows into a grin. "So you've been mean to me for quite a while, huh? And you knew I didn't deserve it?"

I groan. "Look, okay, you were being mean too, but I could've been the bigger person and I wasn't. So, sorry."

"Find it hard to believe you could ever be bigger than me." She crosses her arms, which just happens to show off her biceps, too. I can see the cords of muscle in her bare forearms and suddenly it doesn't feel that cold out here anymore.

"Gods, shut up." I drag my eyes away from her arms only by covering my face with my hands. She laughs.

"You're being mean to me again, Della," she says.

"Gods," I groan again. "Go oil a dragon, will you?"

She leaves, still chuckling, and I retrieve my bucket and, with a deep breath to try to regain some sense of equilibrium, go to get more oil.

I feel like I'm still being watched as I fill my bucket; the people who brought the oil up, a couple of boys who definitely aren't any older than me and I suspect are actually teenagers, apologize profusely to me as they refill the tank. For not realizing their companions had an ulterior motive, I guess. I reassure them there was no harm done—except to my shirt—but I keep an eye on the cluster of riders and rebels still down the road. Are the rebels going to be held in the monastery, in close proximity? Or down in one of the villages at the base of the mountain, where it's harder to keep an eye on them? Are they going to be held at all, or ultimately released—back to the rebels, or to the forces they fight against?