To Hold a Dragon Tamer

He snuck into her room at night after everyone had fallen asleep. At first, he had been unaccustomed to navigating in the dark. His work as a cartographer started with the dawn and ended at dusk. But the Collective knew of his nighttime endeavor and supported it. Their maps were for all to use. They applied that philosophy to all things. In this case, it was the knowledge of herbs, where they grew and when to harvest them, and their relationship with the Conjurer and his bevy of aides.

Her body trembled. He drew her in tighter to his chest. She no longer expended the energy to hold her hand over her mouth as she coughed. He reached into the pouch he carried at his waist and withdrew a pinch of poultice. He applied it to her lips. Even in her exhaustion, she stiffened a bit. He didn’t dare actually touch it to her tongue. What she really needed was to go to the Conjurer where his aides would provide round the clock care and steam treatments, and where she’d receive the benefit of his brews and their aromas.

With the next coughing spell, a bit of the poultice slipped into her mouth. He tilted her head such that it wouldn’t come back out. She willingly laid her head back on his shoulder. He placed more of the poultice on her lips. This time she licked it off. Every night of the coughs he did this for her. Every night it brought sleep.

“Come with me,” he beckoned in her own language.

Only the women of the Collective had been able to work in the Ebon region. Women, being smaller, could carry less and climbed and ran slower. But, being lighter, they could move with great stealth. The Ebon men were fierce warriors, makers of weapons, who seized every opportunity to sharpen their skills. The Collective had hoped that if the Ebons caught a women, they’d be kinder to her than to a man. However, Toro thought with pride, none had ever been caught. While meticulously making measurements and sketches, the women also studied culture. They’d learned the language and had even written it down, which is more than the Ebons themselves did. While the Ebon men protected, the women did all else, except for the women who enjoyed holding positions at the highest levels of the social strata because they were descended from and married to the strongest warriors. These women and their daughters were to do nothing but spin, weave, embroider, make lace and perfume, and adorn themselves with their wares. And there was a cold competitiveness to it.

Now that Toro made regular visits to an actual Ebon dwelling, he wondered how ground dwellers could produce such finery. The Collective lived in tree houses underneath of which were cement patios and walkways. This hut of Genest’s was nothing but mud. Stick walls caked with mud, stick roofs on which moss grew out of mud, and a dirt floor. They lived on the ground with lizards, droppings, and mud.

Genest’s head rolled on Toro’s shoulder. He eased her down to her pillows but before she succumbed to sleep, she pressed something into his hand. “Thank you,” she mumbled. Toro barely caught the syllables.

He climbed back through her window and up into the nearest tree. He made his way, as he did every night, through the tops of trees then climbed up the rock face to get out of the Ebon valley without detection. When he pulled up his thick hemp cord, he noticed that the edge of the sky was already brightening. Each night of the coughs, he held her longer. Each time it took more poultice. He withdrew the scope from its pocket on the small pack he carried and peered through it into her window. Already she was beginning to stir. He’d wait here, where he blended into foliage on the edge of the cliff, to see if she would go to meet her dragon who would take her away from that murky valley.

One day, perhaps, she would trust him instead of Avion.

In the dim light of dawn, he smoothed out her gift against his thigh. He stared at it a long time. His skin was light-colored compared to hers but this sample of her craft was so white it made his leg look dark.

He thought of the papyrus on which his people painstakingly drew their maps. But maps weren’t the only good use for papyrus. It also held poetry and lyric. Verse beautifully written, beautifully spoken, and beautifully preserved.

The lace stretched longer than his hand and was wider than his longest finger. The intricacy was stunning – no less frivolous, or beautiful, than poetry or song.