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  Nearly a fortnight passed, and the darkness pressed them no further, though the dragons kept constant daylight vigil. It seemed they were waiting for something, or someone. The thoughts haunted Catrin. Prios was busy running a hold in turmoil and under siege, though the times she saw him, there was tenderness in his eyes. As they passed in the hall, he would reach out to her, their hands caressing each other, ever so briefly. Sometimes she'd see Sinjin trailing her husband, watching everything he did. Catrin had seen less of Sinjin, and it pained her. There was guilt in his eyes, and she couldn't seem to convince him that she would forgive him for whatever it was. Something haunted his eyes, and that troubled her more than anything else. Knowing she needed to concentrate, Catrin quieted her mind.

  Squinting, she winced at the pain of pushing her needle through the supple but thick leather once again. She could have given this task to the seamstresses, but it would have been impossible to convey to them the image in her mind. She often wished for Kyrien's skill at communicating in images and feelings. Catrin could see every detail from any angle, as if he had implanted the memory of this object directly into her head. A saddle! Catrin could hardly believe it. She was working on a saddle for Kyrien, and it was unlike any saddle Catrin had ever known. Certainly the seat, cantle, pommel, and horn were similar, but there were no stirrups. Instead there were multiple cups of leather and iron on the flaps that could be used in a similar fashion to stirrups.

  So many details had flowed into Catrin's mind. A collection of girths made with thick strands of wound cotton waited in a corner, but none of Catrin's many straps were complete. First she needed metal rings with a flat edge on one side, which only Strom could provide. Her childhood friend was far too busy, yet he refused to take on an apprentice, saying he was still an apprentice himself, though none would argue his skill with metal and fire. He had mastered the art of bringing things to life from only a picture in his mind. Wielding his hammer like a paintbrush, he created works of art. Now, though, much of his time was spent making pot stands, candleholders, and anything else needed by the hundreds if not thousands of refugees now forced to live in the great hall.

  After draping a roughspun sheet over the saddle, Catrin left her workshop, pulling the rawhide curtain to cover the doorway, not wanting rumors to spread. She also didn't want to worry Sinjin, unable to imagine how he would feel about his mother riding Kyrien with the ferals and demons guarding the valleys.

  The cool air turned warm as Catrin walked toward the forge, and with every step, the heat became more oppressive. Sweat ran into Catrin's eyes well before she reached the smithy. Within stood Strom and a man Catrin knew she should recognize, but she could not recall a single detail about him. Hoping he would not engage her, she stepped into the smithy. She needn't have worried. Though people seemed to fear Catrin less these days, she rarely had to wait for anything. Those in her path leaped to get out of her way, and it sometimes frightened her. What had she become?

  "If one more person asks me when their commission will be done, I'll throttle 'em," Strom said by way of greeting.

  Catrin smiled. "I'm sorry you have to make everyone else wait so that my requests are fulfilled." She turned her head so he would see her grin. "I know that must be terribly difficult for you."

  "What makes you think I've made anyone wait on your account?"

  "Well," Catrin said, knowing she was risking not getting the parts she needed anytime soon. "I figured there must be some reason everyone was asking when their commissions would be ready. Something must be slowing you down. I figured it must be me."

  Strom's dark skin glistened as he breathed heavily, and Catrin saw his face darken even more as he flushed. "You've no idea how much time it takes to do what I do! The next person who questions how long it takes to do things can forge their own cook pots! Ungrateful lot. To the fires with all of you!"

  Catrin could no longer hold back her laughter, which only seemed to fuel Strom's anger.

  "And you just stuff a melon in it. I've heard about enough out of you. Why, I ought to melt these down and put you to the back of the line!" He stuffed a heavy bag into her hands, and she could hear the sound of rings and buckle pieces clinking against one another.

  "Thank you, Strom."

  "Get out of here before I change my mind! If not for the fact that it would just make more work for me, I'd do it. Now git!"

  "I still need a sword, Strom."

  "Don't make swords."

  "Strom."

  "The only thing swords are good for is killin' people. Don't make swords," Strom said and turned his back to Catrin, returning to his anvil and a rod of metal glowing red and white in the forge.

  "Swords can protect as well. You know I don't want to kill anyone. I just need to be able to defend myself."

  "Why not retrieve that staff of yours? It seemed to serve you quite well."

  "I can't," Catrin said. "It's . . . alive now. I can't just yank it up, cut away the growth, and walk off with it, now can I?"

  "I'll make you a new staff, then."

  Catrin sighed. They'd had this argument before, and never had she won. "Not even one as talented as you could re-create that staff. It lay dormant for thousands of years and then bloomed when I planted its heel in stone. No. Not even you can replace the Staff of Life." Part of her knew she was being unreasonable.

  "I never said I'd create you another Staff of Life. You must have rocks in your ears, and perhaps between them as well. I said I'd make you a new staff."

  "But a staff is not what I need. Now I need a sword."

  "Did the voices in your head tell you that?" Strom asked, not looking at her.

  "It's not like that. I just know I need a sword. That's all."

  Strom waved a hand and grabbed his tongs. There would be no more words spoken about it today, and she left him to his work, knowing she'd been partly correct about her requests causing him grief from his other customers. If it weren't so important, she would have waited her turn, but this meant everything. She didn't know exactly why; she just knew. With Kyrien so close by, she'd begun to wonder which thoughts were her own and which belonged to her dragon. Though many of these strange, new thoughts surprised her, she always seemed to agree with the course of action Kyrien desired. It didn't seem to matter.

  Strom's comment about her staff had been well aimed. Part of her wanted nothing more than to rest her hands in the grooves left by her own fingers. The memory of her grip biting into the flesh of the staff was one she'd rather not relive, but that event had linked her to the Staff of Life forever. By some magic, she'd planted the Staff of Life within the Grove of the Elders, at the center of the destruction she herself had wrought. The staff had given her the greatest gift of all. It had taken root and bloomed. Twenty-one acorns it had yielded, just enough to replant the mighty trees she had destroyed.

  "I hope the day has greeted you well," Brother Vaughn said as he appeared from around the bend in the hall.

  "It has, and for you as well."

  "How are your hands today? They were so red yesterday, I wanted to make you stop sewing, or at least let someone help you."

  Catrin almost didn't want to bring her hands out of the pockets of her robes. Her knuckles and thumbs were inflamed and swollen, her skin shiny and slick in places. Knowing Brother Vaughn as she did--his persistence was legendary--she pulled her hands out slowly.

  He didn't say anything at first. He just sucked air in through his teeth. "Come with me, young lady. I have something for you."

  Catrin wanted to say no, wanted to get back to her work, but she also knew the pain would hinder her progress. Experience told her it was best to let Brother Vaughn help when he offered. It was difficult to believe any single mind could contain so much knowledge, and he seemed to learn more each day.

  "When I came across this, I didn't believe it would work, and there seemed no place where I could test it, but there is a shelf of rock just outside the viewing chambers where the air
is always moving, always in the same direction. It's a puzzle I haven't yet worked out, but that is beside the point. What's important now is that it works."

  "What works?" Catrin asked, knowing it would do no good. No one loved surprising people with his findings as much as Brother Vaughn. He enjoyed seeing the looks on people's faces as much as he enjoyed solving monumental problems.

  "You'll see," he said.

  When they reached the viewing chamber, Brother Vaughn shot her a look of concern.

  "I'm not going anywhere," she said with a sigh. Perhaps if Kenward had returned with the metal-rich thrones, she might have ventured back onto the astral plane.

  "Young man, come here," Brother Vaughn said, and a teenage boy wearing the livery of Dragonhold rushed to do as the elder statesmen asked. "You're more limber than I. Reach into that hole and stretch your arm as far as you can to the right. You'll feel a gourd bowl covered with sticks. Don't spill it! Just gently retrieve it for me. Keep it right side up! You hear me?"

  "Yes, sir. I'll try, sir."

  "Don't try. Just do."

  "Yes, sir."

  Catrin watched the boy reach out. She was worried that no matter how steady his arm was, his trembling knees would defy his efforts. It took some time for him to stretch far enough and find the bowl with his fingers. Brother Vaughn stood in tense anticipation. A look of extreme relief washed over the teen's face when he handed the bowl to Brother Vaughn, its covering of sticks intact. Catrin watched in silence, curious but trying to be patient.

  "The constant breeze causes the water to evaporate," Brother Vaughn said. "And once I found the right level of airflow using different configurations of twigs, I was able to produce this." He removed the twigs from the top of the gourd bowl and extended it to Catrin. "Wrap this in cloth and rest it on top of your hands until it's melted."

  In the gourd was a nearly solid block of ice. Ice in the warmer months was something they had all lived without since they no longer had the luxury of storing it in the cold caves. The loss of that resource was among the things Catrin most regretted. At times the thought of taking back the lands in the south had become almost appealing enough to warrant the violence, but Catrin abhorred war, and she had no wish to see her own people killed. That point chafed. Her people had divided themselves and taken what was rightfully hers. Only the luck of the gods had provided sufficient shelter for everyone. The discovery of Dragonhold remained one of the things Catrin was most thankful for. Another was Kyrien's recovery. His wounds had been many, and some had required the efforts of every healer within the hold, and Catrin was proud of what everyone had done.

  The feral dragon attacks created fear of dragons, and Catrin had worried the people would turn on Kyrien, but instead they seemed to have hung their hopes on him. Not all dragons were evil killers, and many hoped Kyrien's kind would be their saviors. Catrin wondered the same, especially given her compulsion to create the saddle, riding clothes, and even the large, leather flaps whose purpose Catrin had yet to fathom. In truth, there were parts of the saddle and riding clothes she didn't understand, but she knew enough to create what she saw in her vision, a vision that showed little but her astride Kyrien. Only fog surrounded them, and Catrin could not glean a single hint as to what the future would hold.

  "Keep them dry and that should help," Brother Vaughn said and Catrin came back to herself.

  "Thank you, Brother Vaughn. You constantly amaze me."

  The older man flushed. "I do what I can."

  "I must get back to work on the saddle. Thank you again," Catrin said, and when she turned to pick up the bag from Strom, she knocked it over. Two rings and a buckle slid out. On top of them rested a thimble.

  Brother Vaughn smiled. "I knew Strom would take good care of you."

  "He always does," she agreed.

  There was a thrumming of life within the hold now, far different than it had been before the ferals and demons came. Though the uniting of their purpose was something Catrin had always hoped for, it would have been far better had it happened before the need was so great; now they found themselves grossly unprepared. All the work Catrin and her followers had done for nearly a decade now seemed insignificant in the face of their current circumstances. Unless something changed, they would eventually starve and be forced out of the hold, which was the only thing protecting them from the darkness.

  Going out of her way, Catrin made certain to pass by the main entrance, where she could momentarily catch a glimpse of Kyrien, who rested below, still mending from his wounds. Around him had sprung up a bristling compound. Men wielding spears surrounded him, and walls of sharpened spikes had been erected around a wide perimeter, leaving enough room for Kyrien to move. It had been a rude awakening after the first fortifications had been raised and Kyrien turning himself had brought it all crashing down. Within the new fortifications rested four massive ballistae, designed to resemble the ones the Zjhon had mounted on their ships. Catrin remembered the fear they had instilled in her, and she hoped it had the same effect on the ferals. Already the dragons knew the feel of their bite, and the bones of the unlucky littered the valley floor.

  No one liked eating dragon, but almost every part of the dragon carcasses had been claimed for some purpose. Many of the men guarding Kyrien wore shields made from massive scales, and the teeth had become highly valued as spear tips--far more effective than their iron counterparts. Kyrien seemed ready to climb his way out of the valley. Catrin could feel his impatient desire as if it were her own; in many ways it was. The visions of her riding Kyrien had brought with them an intense desire to fly, to see the world from above. Part of her knew it was crazy and that flying meant facing the ferals. The monsters seemed to be multiplying, and every passing day, the danger they presented became greater.

  With conscious effort, Catrin pulled herself back into the hold, back to her workshop. It seemed strange now to be working on the saddle when there was dragon ore once again within the hold. Guilt stabbed at her whenever she looked at it. Kyrien had given so much of himself to be here for her and to protect her, and as if that were not enough, he also managed to bring her more of the precious stone. Now Catrin had no desire to create herald globes, and no more trade would fill their coffers. The dragons and demons effectively prevented that, even if they didn't stop the steady stream of refugees who came from the south in the night. Though Catrin loved her people as a whole, those who had opposed her in good times and now sought her help in bad times angered her. She was tempted to turn them away, to send them back, but she simply could not.

  Every new body that entered the hold presented new challenges and changed the rationing requirements. There were those who vehemently objected to allowing the refugees in, but Catrin had had the final word so far. She knew there would come a time when she would need to change her stance, but for the moment she put those thoughts aside. Again the desire to finish her saddle came to the fore. Though she considered returning straight to work, she took the time to make good use of Brother Vaughn's gift and iced her aching hands.