his mind.
The unfamiliar melody of the Sharoani language spoken in Kalai’s smooth voice startled Tauran to silence. He looked between them. The woman’s narrowed eyes seemed to pierce Kalai’s, but she lowered the pistol just a fraction. After a moment of silence, she answered him with a few words.
Kalai hesitated. His eyes flicked to Tauran before he spoke again and Tauran heard Catria’s and Emilian’s names among the foreign words.
Tauran had no hope of understanding what went on between them, but whatever Kalai said, it seemed to work. The woman sighed deeply and secured the pistol, sticking it into the waistband of her trousers. She looked at Tauran. “Your friend is hurt,” she stated, her accent coloring her words.
“Can he rest inside for a moment?” Kalai asked, in Kykarosi.
Slowly, she nodded, casting a glance at their dragons over their shoulders before she stepped aside. She didn’t seem fazed at the sight of them, as if she was looking at sheep, and not massive, man-eating predators.
When she disappeared inside, Tauran exchanged a glance with Kalai, who shrugged.
Tauran let Kalai take some of his weight as they followed.
The house was more of a hut. A table, a fireplace, two chairs and a makeshift kitchen counter crowded the small space. To the left, a closed door led into what Tauran suspected was the only other room in the building. He flinched when his head bumped a bundle of dried flowers hung from the ceiling, sending a small cascade of seeds down the back of his neck and under his shirt.
The woman pulled out one of the chairs and Tauran took it as a sign to sit. He slid his arm awkwardly off Kalai’s shoulder and dropped into the chair with a groan. It creaked precariously under him, earning him a glance from the woman. Tauran murmured an apology, but she turned away and went through the door, closing it after herself.
Tauran looked up at Kalai. “What is this place?” Tauran whispered. He struggled to see what answers they were meant to find here, but at least the woman seemed to recognize Catria’s and Emilian’s names. That had to mean something.
“No clue,” Kalai said, dusting a few seeds from Tauran’s hair.
They waited for a moment, but when nothing more happened, Kalai turned, opening cupboards until he found a small clay cup and a cloth. He filled the cup with water from the bottle at his hip, then he handed the cup to Tauran. Wetting the cloth, he wiped his hands and face, rinsed it over the sink, then passed it to Tauran. The cut on his brow wasn’t deep, but would likely still leave a scar.
“I hope we aren’t about to be murdered and fed to the bog beasts,” Tauran murmured, raising the cup to his lips. The water soothed his dry throat. If only it could do something about his leg, too. The pain sent a wave of heat through him and he tugged the front of his jacket open, a stray curl of hair sticking to his brow. The cool, wet cloth helped a little, but not much.
“She seemed nice enough,” Kalai whispered back. He lingered a little awkwardly between the table and the fireplace. Tauran wasn’t sure how he could stand the heat of the fire against the backs of his legs, but he clearly didn’t want to stray too far from Tauran’s side. The small hut felt like an oven.
Quiet voices filtered from the other room and they both quieted, tilting their heads to listen. So the woman didn’t live here alone.
Tauran was about to speak again when the door opened. The woman entered, then stepped aside. She looked between them for a moment before saying, “He will speak to you.”
Tauran didn’t get a chance to ask who she meant before another figure appeared in the doorway. It was a man, his body oddly crooked, leaning heavily on a crutch propped under one arm. One foot dragged against the floor, the leg curving unnaturally. A large scar traveled up the man’s neck to his head, making it look like a bite had been taken out of his right cheek. The eye above his mangled cheek was dull and milky, but the other eye was a clear, piercing blue. It focused on Tauran, and although the man looked easily sixty, his one blue eye betrayed that his true age was at least ten years less.
Recognition struck like pistol flint inside Tauran, fury rising like an erupting volcano, the screams of a