A Natural History of Dragons (16 page)

I immediately saw possibilities in this. “Illness might interfere with the operation of their extraordinary breath. Could it be the dragons are sick? But no—they aren’t defending their territory, not unless one was lairing near the road by which we came.”

“It depends on the size of the territory,” Jacob said. “But from what the smugglers told us, the range for such attacks is fairly small.”

I sat to take the weight off my complaining feet, and propped my elbows on my knees to think. “How
many
dragons have been attacking people, anyway? If it’s only one or two, it might be something exceptional—some kind of degeneration, perhaps, that causes them to run mad. If it seems widespread, though…”

“Then the entire local population might be diseased,” Lord Hilford said.

This grim possibility put us all into silence for a few moments. My experience thus far with dragons in the wild had given me no reason to feel kindly toward them, but I did not like the notion of so many falling victim to contagion.

Of course, we had no proof of the theory; only the speculation of smugglers. We did, however, have information that might let us proceed. “Now that we have the map,” I asked, “what next?”

Lord Hilford levered himself out of his chair and went to study the map. “We confirm these reports—carefully, mind you—and then get on with the work we should have been doing a fortnight ago, if Gritelkin hadn’t gone haring off. I think, under the circumstances, that we might turn our attention first to anatomical study.”

Mr. Wilker frowned at him. “Observation? Or do you mean to hunt one of them?”

The earl tapped the map, frowning as he weighed one location against another. “Hunting, I should think; we can catch two wolves with one snare. We’ve brought an artist with us; well, she needs a specimen to draw, at closer range than on the wing. And if there
is
some kind of disease among them, we may find signs of it.”

I was sadly slow to catch his meaning about the artist. “You mean—I am to help you?”

He gave me a conspiratorial smile. “It’s why we brought you, isn’t it? That and to file papers—but we don’t yet have any, so there you have it.”

Is it any wonder I developed such reckless habits later in life? Chase after smugglers in the middle of the night; achieve information and a chance to further my dreams. With rewards such as those, I naturally concluded that such behavior was a splendid idea.

Blisters and scrapes forgotten, I stood, unable to contain my grin. “I should gather my materials, then.”

ELEVEN

The dragon hunt — The application of my skills — Conversations with a skull — An unexpected loss — Carrion-eaters

Yes, we shot a dragon.

I find it fascinating that so many people take exception to this. Not simply in light of my later attitudes on the matter; no, the objections began long before then, as soon as the book detailing our research in Vystrana was published. People exclaimed over our “monstrous” actions, destroying a dragon simply so that we might understand how it worked.

These same people do not seem to care in the least that at the height of the Great Sparkling Inquiry, I had no less than six hundred and fourteen specimens in my shed—very few of them dead from natural causes. Entomologists trap insects in their killing jars and then pin their corpses to cards, and no one utters a single squeak of protest. For that matter, let a gentleman hunt a tiger for its skin, and everyone applauds his courage. But to shoot a dragon for science? That, for some reason, is cruel.

Mind you, these objections come exclusively from men and women in Scirland and similar countries, most of them (I imagine) extolling the sanctity of dragons from the comfort of their homes, far from any actual beast of the breed. Indeed, few of those letter-writers seem to have seen a single dragon in their lives. They certainly have not spent days among Vystrani shepherds, for whom dragons are neither sacred nor even likable, but rather troublesome predators who all too often make off with the shepherds’ livelihood in their jaws. The men of Drustanev did not hesitate to shoot dragons, I assure you. We might even have waited for one of them to do the deed, at which point my letter-writers might have been better satisfied with our virtue. But Vystrani shepherds try very hard to
avoid
dragons when possible, and we were impatient to get on with our work. So the gentlemen of our party studied the map, shouldered their guns, and went out to find their prey.

And I went with them. It was not at all like my first journey out from Drustanev; this time I was fully dressed and properly shod, and the piercing mountain sun illuminated our path. This second expedition did much to improve my feelings toward the region: by my standards the air was still bitterly cold for the season, but the brilliance and life of my surroundings could not be denied. We saw eagles and thrushes, rabbits and deer, and even one bear lumbering down the far side of the valley. When I stepped apart from the men to take care of a certain biological matter, I startled a lynx, which stared at me with flat, unfriendly eyes before melting away into the trees.

We had chosen for our destination the nearest and most isolated of the dragon lairs the smugglers had identified, in the hopes of disturbing only one beast. (While we might have gotten a great deal of observational data from having three or four wyrms descend upon us at once, I feared it would all be lost to science ten minutes later.) With us came the servant lad Iljish and another, Relesku, to act as our porters; they carried food and tents, for this expedition was expected to keep us out for several days. The gentlemen carried their guns and other tools, and I had my artistic materials, which I insisted upon carrying myself.

I had studied the map a great deal before we left, and formed a private theory as to where the smugglers’ camp was, based on my recollection of the climb down. Our hunt took us westward of that place, over a sharp ridge and into another valley, bisected by a snowmelt stream. Pausing for breath at the top of the ridge, I thought I saw something in the lower distance: a shape too far and too shrouded in trees to be made out clearly, but also too blocky to be mistaken for an ordinary mountain. I squinted, to very little effect; the field glass was in Lord Hilford’s keeping. And the others had gotten ahead of me, so that there was no one nearby to ask about it. By the time I puffed my way down to them, I had grown too embarrassed by my slowness to ask any questions; but as it turned out, the answers came to me a few days later, and so I will return to the mysterious shape in time.

We were not going tremendously far—only seven miles or so. Lord Hilford stopped us mid-afternoon, in a steep little defile too narrow and overhung with trees for a rock-wyrm to stoop on us from above. “You will stay here, Mrs. Camherst, with Iljish and the tents,” he said. “I trust we can leave the arrangement of the camp in your capable hands? Many thanks. We’ll scout out the place before the light fades, and pick a location for our blind; then, with any luck, we’ll nail the beast tomorrow morning.”

Being no kind of hunter myself, I accepted this with grace. The men departed; Iljish began erecting the tents, and I set about making the camp, if not comfortable, then at least an efficient place from which to work.

Lord Hilford, Jacob, and Relesku returned shortly before sunset, with the news that they had found both the lair and sufficient sign as to persuade them it was in current use. Mr. Wilker had stayed behind to wait for the dragon’s return, so as to forestall the possibility of the men watching an empty hole come morning.

The food—garlic-laden sausages, bread, and a spicy bean paste I was growing tolerant of—required little in the way of preparation, so I tugged Jacob’s sleeve until he bent to listen. “Could we not see the dragon from here?”

“In the sky, perhaps—but there’s more than one cave nearby, and we didn’t have time to check them all,” Jacob said, frowning. “That’s why it was necessary to leave Wilker keeping watch.”

I waved this away with an impatient hand. “No, I meant—
I
wish to see the dragon, Jacob. Before you’ve shot it and laid it out for me to draw. See that boulder up there?” I directed his attention to a rock I’d had my eye on since we arrived at the gully. “If we cut a few branches to hide ourselves, and sat
very
still…”

I expected him to protest. But Jacob gave me an amused look and kissed the top of my head. “I knew the moment I saw that rock that you would not rest until you could perch atop it and watch for dragons. Yes, as long as we take precautions, it should be safe. They say dragons see movement better than shapes, and pine boughs should hide our scent.”

So it was that, when sunset came, I was seated on a lofty boulder, with the sharp bite of pine sap in my nose and my husband’s arms encircling my shoulders. The fading light flamed across the tops of the ridges, sending the valleys into deep shadow, and the stark contrast was breathtaking.

And then the dragon came.

It flew in from the west, so that all I truly saw at first was a black silhouette against the fiery sky. Then it caught an updraft and skimmed up the mountain’s slope, barely above the trees, and that gave me a better view: the blocky plates of the hide; the close-tucked legs and trailing tail; the enormous expanse of wings dwarfing the body they bore.

I did not realize I had stopped breathing until the dragon backwinged to land in some clearing hidden from my view, and Jacob kissed the top of my head once more. Then I let out my stale air in a wavering breath, drew in fresh, and leaned back to return my husband’s kiss.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Thank
you,
” he murmured. “Were it not for your prodding, I likely would not be here.”

Atop this boulder? Or in Vystrana at all? I didn’t ask, because in the end it didn’t matter. He had come—both of us had—and I felt a surge of emotion I can only describe as terrified joy at the thought of having missed this. Had we not met Lord Hilford—had Jacob refused to let me join the expedition—

I might have missed my chance at the life I was always meant to live.

I must have spoken that thought aloud, for Jacob’s hands stilled on my shoulders, and then he said, “You truly mean that, don’t you.”

My mouth opened silently, as if hoping the right words would alight on my tongue, and give me some way of explaining the fierce, indescribable
thing
that swelled in my heart. No such happy incident occurred, but I tried anyway. “Ever since I was a girl. I want to understand things, Jacob; and we understand dragons so very little. We can’t breed them, we can barely keep them in captivity—” I stopped, for my tongue was leading me down intellectual paths, when it was passion I needed to explain. “This will sound very silly.”

He squeezed my shoulders, as if supporting me. “I promise not to laugh.”

“It’s—it’s as if there is a dragon inside me. I don’t know how big she is; she may still be growing. But she has wings, and
strength,
and—and I can’t keep her in a cage. She’ll die.
I’ll
die. I know it isn’t modest to say these things, but I
know
I’m capable of more than life in Scirland will allow. It’s all right for women to study theology, or literature, but nothing so rough and ready as this. And yet this is what I
want.
Even if it’s hard, even if it’s dangerous. I don’t care. I need to see where my wings can carry me.”

I had reason to be glad that I was leaning back against Jacob; it meant I did not have to look in his face as I said these things, which sounded like pure foolishness to my own prosaic ears.

But it also meant I could feel the tension in his body, resisting my declaration of unconcern for danger. Our society did not only dictate the boundaries of my life; it also circumscribed him, saying he would fail as a man and a husband if he permitted me to risk myself in such fashion.

He was holding his breath, I realized, and a moment later released it in a long gust. “Oh, Isabella,” he murmured. “I thought—at times, while we were planning this journey, I thought I was like an indulgent father, who could not bear to see a child unhappy. But that was a disservice to us both. You are no child. You—” Something shook his body. I was surprised to identify it as a suppressed laugh. “This will sound terrible.”

“Tell me.”

“Do you remember the Vystrani runt in the menagerie?”

“The albino? Of course.” Lord Hilford’s prize, and in so many ways, the reason both Jacob and I were here.

“You remind me of that dragon.”

Now I sat up and twisted to face him, torn between outrage and hilarity. “I’m a pale, sexless
runt
?!”

He fended me off with his hands, laughter getting the better of him. “Not in the least. But Mr. Swargin always said it was surprisingly robust. I think if Hilford hadn’t captured it, the creature would have lived a fine life somewhere in these mountains.” Jacob sobered, hands sliding down my arms to grip my hands. “I don’t want you to pine away, Isabella. If it’s my job, as your husband, to take care of you, then I will do so—by giving you the life you need.”

Something else swelled in my heart, then, that was not in the least dragonlike. I could not bring myself to let it free, though; it was too personal, with our companions so close. I swallowed down three different responses, and finally managed to say, “Thank you. I should not like to be neighbours with a Moulish swamp-wyrm.”

We stared at each other for a moment, then burst into laughter that must have scared off every nonhuman animal for half a mile around.

Once we had regained our composure, we climbed back down, ate our sausages reeking of garlic, and welcomed Mr. Wilker when he returned bearing word that the dragon had indeed gone where expected. The men retired immediately, for theirs would be a very early rising, and if it were not for the exertion of carrying my artistic materials across miles of mountain terrain, I would not have slept a wink that night.

I certainly roused with ease when the men did, and chewed my fingernails to nubs after they were gone. Vystrani rock-wyrms are primarily crepuscular hunters, hunting in the morning and evening, but subsiding into wary sleep during the brightest part of the day. Catching one napping is extremely difficult; far easier to accost one in the awkward moment of leaving its lair, before it can take to wing.