Dragon's Kin (17 page)

Kindan put the pot down and turned to Zist, holding out his right hand. He pointed to the original scar, barely visible in the dimly lit shed. “Here, please.”

He turned away so he wouldn’t have to look as the Harper steadied his hand in his.

Neither had realized how quickly the hatchling would react. Just as the dizzying pain shot up Kindan’s arm, a wet tongue was licking the blood from his hand—even before Master Zist had released it. The watch-wher mumbled a happy sound as she sucked at the wound.

“Isn’t that enough?” Zist asked just about the time Kindan thought it was more than enough. The thin wound ached. Kindan disengaged the watch-wher and held her away from him as he lobbed a spoonful of porridge into her mouth. That did the trick—she was immediately diverted from Kindan’s still-throbbing wound to sucking down the blood porridge.

“Here, Zenor, wrap this around Kindan’s hand before the creature savages him,” Zist said, passing Zenor the bandage roll. Kindan could feed the creature as easily using his left hand while Zenor wrapped up his right.

“You’ll need some numbweed on that, as well as a healing salve,” Zist said. “I’d no idea the hatchling would be so voracious.”

Kindan hadn’t either. “I wish we knew more about them.”

Zenor gave his friend a surprised look. “You mean you don’t—”

Kindan shushed him. “Not a word to Natalon, Zenor,” he said imploringly. He exchanged looks with Master Zist, then continued with more assurance than he felt, “I’m sure I’ll get it all sorted out when the time comes.”

“Well, I’ll help all I can,” Zenor promised stoutly. Kindan grinned at him.

“And I,” Master Zist added. “First, however, I shall get your things.”

Kindan’s brow puckered in surprise. “My things?”

Master Zist nodded. “Yes, you’ll sleep here from now on. You’ll need your things here, too.”

“Here?” Kindan looked around the shed. It had not been built for warmth; Dask had had a notoriously thick hide that kept him comfortable.

“You need to be around the watch-wher,” Master Zist declared. In a lower voice, he added, “And there’s some that might not wish it well.”

Zenor and Kindan both looked toward Tarik’s house—not more than a dragon’s length from the shed.

With a sigh, Kindan nodded. “But—”

“I’ll have someone check on you regularly to see if the watch-wher needs food,” Master Zist said.

“But—”

“I understand that it will be a hardship for you,” the Harper went on. “But you made your choice when you agreed to raise the hatchling.”

Kindan bit off any more objections and nodded dejectedly. “I suppose I’ve made my nest, now I’ll have to lie in it.”

Master Zist let out a hearty guffaw, drowning out Zenor’s softer laugh. “Good one, lad! Good one.”

“I could come and stay with you for a bit, after my shift,” Zenor suggested.

“Thanks,” Kindan said, shaking his head. “But I can’t ask you to stay too long, you’ve got your own work and—”

“It’ll be no problem,” Zenor declared. “Especially if you let Miner Natalon know that you asked me.”

The new arrangements left Kindan exhausted by the end of the first sevenday. He was constantly fending off visits by the camp’s children, the camp’s miners, and Tarik, with his constant sour prophecies.

“It’ll eat more than it’s worth,” was Tarik’s first dour comment. Later, it was, “And how long before it’s ready to go down the mines?

“When does that ugly creature reach its growth?” was the next snide remark. “Not much use as it is now, is it?”

And yet again, “Natalon paid
how
much coal for that bag of bones?”

Kindan’s hatred of the head miner’s uncle grew steadily greater with each return visit and insulting comment. He found himself afraid to leave the watch-wher unattended, not only for fear of what Tarik might do, but also for fear of what the watch-wher might do out of its own fright. The poor thing had already nearly bitten Zenor once when he arrived early one morning and threw back the heavy curtain draped down behind the door to protect the watch-wher’s delicate eyes.

Kindan was frazzled and bone-tired every day, wondering how he would survive the watch-wher’s fierce and frequent pangs of hunger.

Day by day, he grew more and more red-eyed, less able to stand the least cheerful comment and barely keeping himself civil in his dealings with the Harper. He found himself having the deepest respect for Zenor and could not understand how he could ever have been so thoughtless as to tease his friend when he had complained about losing sleep dealing with his younger sisters.

One morning, near the end of the second sevenday, Kindan woke groggily. Something was different. He looked around in the darkness.

Someone was in the shed.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a voice said. “It’s about time. I think she’s getting hungry. Why don’t you go get her breakfast while I stay here?”

“Nuella?” Kindan said in surprise.

“Who else?” she replied. “Go on, get. She’s stirring. Ahh, the lovely thing.”

Kindan rushed out of the shed and up to the Harper’s cothold. It was still dark, although there was a hint of dawn on the horizon. He let himself in, stoked up the fire, and began to heat the porridge.

“Who’s there?” Master Zist asked irritably from the room beyond.

“It’s me. Kindan. I’m just making breakfast for the watch-wher.”

“Oh.” Kindan heard the Harper rumble about in his room for his robe and slippers. “Wait a minute! Who’s with the watch-wher?”

“Nuella,” Kindan said.

“Ah,” the Harper responded abstractedly, clearly still not entirely awake, “good.”

Kindan grinned and rooted about the cabinet for
klah
bark. “I’ll put on some
klah
,” he shouted.

“Good idea,” Master Zist boomed back, entering the kitchen. Then he blinked. “Did you say Nuella was with the watch-wher?”

Kindan nodded.

“Mmm. That’s not good. What if something happens?”

“She can hide in the shadows,” Kindan suggested.

“But what if she has to raise the alarm?” Master Zist returned.

Kindan started to make a number of different replies before he finally stopped and shook his head. “I see what you mean.”

“I’m glad you do,” the Harper replied testily. “Go get the blood from Ima, the porridge is nearly hot.”

Kindan was nearly frantic by the time Ima delivered his pitcher of blood. He raced back to the Harper’s cothold, nearly spilling the pitcher in his haste. Panting, he made the mix and ran down to the watch-wher’s shed.

“Where were you?” Nuella asked testily when he returned. “You took forever.”

“Sorry,” Kindan gasped.

“You sound as if you’ve been running all over the place.”

“I have,” Kindan replied, pouring the noxious mix into a bowl for the wakening watch-wher.

Nuella crinkled her nose at the smell. “You know, it’s really surprising that something as pretty as her would eat something as awful as that.”

“Pretty?” Kindan exclaimed.

“Yes, pretty,” Nuella repeated emphatically. “You see pretty with the heart, not with the eyes, you know.” She paused, giving Kindan a chance to argue and, when he didn’t, reverted to her original topic. “Wouldn’t meat scraps make more sense?”

“But Master Aleesa said—”

“She’s the one you got the egg from, right?” Nuella asked.

“Yes,” Kindan agreed.

“What did your father’s watch-wher eat?”

“Well,” Kindan considered, “mostly meat scraps. But Dask was much older, and she’s still young.”

Nuella cocked her head at the watch-wher, who had already begun to eat, and stroked the soft neck gently. “Hmm,” she muttered to herself. She clucked at the watch-wher, diverting the creature’s attention long enough to dip a finger into the bowl. Nuella sniffed at the blood-porridge mix on her fingertip and then, much to Kindan’s astonishment, licked it clean. She made a face at the taste and then said, “If I were you, I’d try meat scraps. It’d be much easier all around.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try,” Kindan admitted.

“And what are you going to call her?” Nuella asked impatiently.

“Well, I was hoping her name would suggest itself,” Kindan said.

Gingerly Nuella ran her hands over the watch-wher. Kindan was surprised and a little abashed to realize that he had not yet done so himself.

“She’s beautiful,” Nuella said.

Kindan grinned. “She is, isn’t she?” The watch-wher was an ugly lump of muscle scantily clad with skin, her oversized eyes looking even bigger in her young head—but she was his and he wouldn’t trade her for anything.

“So what’s her name?”

“I’ll tell you this evening,” Kindan promised. “Or the next time you come here.”

Nuella nodded. “It might not be this evening, but I’ll see what I can do.” She rose, feeling her way toward the curtain and the shed door.

“The sun’s up,” Kindan told her warningly.

“That’s why I borrowed Dalor’s clothes, silly,” Nuella replied. “Help me put his hood on right. It’s cold enough this morning that no one will think it odd if I’m wearing it.”

Kindan rose and helped her settle the hood on her head. Nuella pushed her long hair back out of sight and rubbed her face with her hands, dirtying it.

“How do I look?” she asked him.

“Dirty,” Kindan told her.

She frowned at him.

“You don’t look like Dalor when you take on that sour look,” he commented. “And you won’t be able to play at being a boy too much longer.”

“I know,” she said softly, lips downcast. “I’ve heard Father talking to Mother late nights when they think I’m asleep, wondering what will become of me.” She raised her head and gave Kindan a determined look. She was about to say more when they heard voices outside the shed.

“You’d better go,” Kindan said. “Do you know the way?”

Nuella snorted. “Kindan, I’m blind, not stupid.” And before Kindan could apologize, she slipped through the curtain and headed out into the early morning light. Spurred by the watch-wher’s alarmed squeals, Kindan hastily pulled the curtain back in place.

After his eyes readjusted to the darkness, he returned to his watch of his watch-wher. Sated with the morning feed, the little green had curled up again, but she was happy to lay her head in his lap before falling asleep once more.

Idly, Kindan used the width of his hand to measure her length. She measured about ten hands-widths from nose to tail—slightly more than a meter—as near as he could make out, and she would stand about three hands high at the shoulder. He grinned down at her sleeping head, feeling full of pride and a little awed that she seemed to trust him so much.

“What are we going to call you?” he murmured to her as he stroked her ungainly head. The small watch-wher raised her head and peered straight at him intently. Kindan stared back, feeling as though he could almost
hear
her talking to him. After a long moment, the watch-wher let out a little murfle and laid her head on his lap again.

“Kisk,” Kindan said. The watch-wher opened one eye, shook her head, and closed the eye again. “Your name is Kisk.” The watch-wher shifted her weight, once more oblivious to everything around her. But Kindan
felt
Kisk’s acceptance of her name.

Kisk was quite happy to try some meat scraps with her next meal. Master Zist fretted that it might be too soon, but Kindan made sure the scraps were all small and contained no bone or gristle, and he could
feel
how happy Kisk was with the new diet. Her rubbing her head against his leg contentedly and making small
merrble
-ing sounds only confirmed his opinion.

Certainly Ima was much happier to be asked to make ready a supply of scrap meat instead of fresh blood “at all hours of the day.” Supplying the growing watch-wher with scraps was much easier on everyone than the time-consuming blood-porridge.

In fact, as the watch-wher reached her first month, Kindan found himself wondering how much Master Aleesa really knew about the raising of young watch-whers—or whether the whole blood-porridge idea had been a joke on the part of the cranky “WherMaster.”

Master Zist came down to the shed every spare moment he had. He insisted that Kindan learn all the songs there were about dragons on the principle that because dragons and watch-whers were related, the songs about dragons would provide insights into raising watch-whers.

“But there’s not all that many songs about raising dragons, is there?” Kindan said after several days.

Master Zist frowned, shaking his head. “You’re right. Most of the songs are about fighting Thread and chewing firestone.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “And there’s the bit about how they grow—”

“And when a dragon’s old enough to ride,” Zenor, who had joined them earlier, added.

“Well that should be about the same for watch-whers, shouldn’t it?” Nuella asked.

Nuella, Zenor, and the Harper had established a routine of meeting in the shed just after the end of the day shift. Zenor would arrive at the Harper’s, and he and Kindan would escort Nuella down to the shed, keeping her well hooded and away from probing eyes.

“That seems likely,” Kindan agreed.

“That would be a Turn and a half,” Master Zist said. Kindan groaned.

“That long!” Zenor exclaimed.

“But how long until you can start training her?” Nuella wondered.

“I don’t know,” Kindan confessed.

“Well,” Master Zist said consideringly, “she’s too young to start training right now. It’ll be months before she’s ready, I’m sure.”

“Is it just me, or is she more active at night?” Zenor asked.

“She should be, she’s nocturnal,” Nuella snapped before Kindan could respond.

“I wonder if I should take her out at night,” Kindan said.

Master Zist shook his head. “Not yet. I think when she’s ready to leave her lair, she’ll let you know.”

Nuella cocked her head thoughtfully. “You might want to put a collar on her, with bells. I’d hate for you to be asleep the first time she decided to go for a stroll.”

“Isn’t that what happened with you?” Zenor asked Nuella. “I mean, when we first met.”

Nuella smiled impishly at him. “I wasn’t wearing a collar, but I
did
manage to go for a stroll.”