Page 55 of Enslaved

“I have, yes. Thank you for noticing.” To my relief, Oasuroa closes her eye again and rolls her head to one side. Her lips curl back from her sword-sharp teeth in a grimace. “No one ever seems to care aboutmypain, do they? All the tiny people. All those elfkins and menlings andadventurers”—this last spoken with venom. “Creeping insects! Consumed by their insignificant problems, here today, gone tomorrow, while I remain suffering the endless pain of a martyr, over and over, without reprieve. And all they can say is, ‘Well, it’s just a dragon, isn’t it?’” She opens her eye and fixes a hard glare on me. “Dragons feel pain the same as anyone! More so, I daresay. The greater the being, the greater the agony, would you not agree, little snack?”

It’s hard even to entertain the idea of contradicting someone who refers to you in such terms. I nod at once, taking care my face expresses nothing but utmost sympathy. “You carry a mighty burden, O Mighty One.”

“I do.” Another heaving sigh. “And all in silence, long-suffering to the end. Ever devoted to my great duty.”

“You are an inspiration.”

“An inspiration? I like that.” She tips her big head, crest fluttering faintly despite her pain. “Thank you for understanding. It’s nice when you insects have something like common decency about you.” Then, with a roll of her one eye, she slumps her head back down on her crossed forepaws. “I suppose you want to ask for a sip of the waters now, don’t you?”

“Oh, I . . . well . . .”

“No point denying it. You’re polite enough, I’ll grant you, but politeness will only carry so far. Besides, I grow bored with you.” She yawns hugely, displaying many rows of teeth, a long, purple tongue, and a glow of flame in the back of her throat. It’s like peering into hell’s own furnace. When she’s through, she smacks her lips a few times, licks her snout, and blinks at me again. “Let’s get on with business then. Tell me, why do you deserve to taste of the gods’ blessing? Is your heart pure of motive and intent?”

“Yes,” I answer at once. Perhaps conviction will go some way toward convincing the great beast. “I do not come seeking the waters for myself but for a boy. A young man, the merqueen’s son, who suffers from a rot for which there is no cure. I would bring the Water of Life to him so that he may—”

The dragon growls something which, despite the depth and reverberation of her voice, sounds an awful lot like,“Hogwash”to me. She flutters her crest again, this time with irritation. “Listen to the snackling! Going on about some boy whose name she doesn’t even know!” She fixes her terrible one-eyed stare on me again. Fire dances in the depths of her pupil. “Tell me why you’ve really come, or I’ll put an end to this interview here and now.”

My lungs constrict so tight with terror, I fear I won’t be able to find the words. At last I manage to stammer, “My . . . my friend is . . . he’s been enslaved . . .” Then I stop. Because this isn’t about Danny. It never was, not really. “My brother,” I whisper. The words come out in a whisper, almost lost in the murmur of falling sand and the gurgle of the fountain waters. “My brother . . . he needs help.”

The dragon narrows her eye. “He’s sick?”

“Yes. But not with a sickness these waters can cure.”

“Curious.” The dragon pushes up onto her haunches, sitting tall and upright before me. “Explain yourself.”

So I do. In stumbling words, I tell her how I intend to save Oscar. How I found myself on this mad quest, journeying across Eledria, making bargain after bargain. “And so I came here,” I finish at last. “The Water of Life is the only chance Seraphine’s son has, as there is no cure for his rot. If I can save him, then the rest should come together and then . . . and then . . .”

“And then you’ll be right back where you started.”

“What?”

Oasuroa chuckles. It’s such a terrifying, cacophonous sound, it makes me leap back several paces, hands over my head in defense. She neither notices nor cares. “Did you never stop to think, little snackling?” she continues, shaking her head with something between bemusement and weariness. “All this just to land you back in the same place you were at the start of your journey. Striving always to help a brother who cannot be bothered to help himself. Running a race that never ends for which there can be no winner. And why? Why do you do this?”

The moment of truth. The moment that will decide my fate.

“Because I love him,” I whisper, lowering my lashes and staring down at the floor. “Because that’s what you do for the people you love. You fight for them. Even when they haven’t the strength to fight for themselves. Especially then. Because they’re your family. Because, in the end, they’re all you have.”

“Ah!” The dragon lifts one gnarled hand, pointing a claw at me. It gleams in the air, mere inches from my chest. It’s so razor sharp, it would take but a single quick flick for her to rip my heart out, skewered on the tip of that nail. “There’s the ugly truth at last.”

“There’s nothing ugly about love.” I tear my gaze from that claw and look up into Oasuroa’s curse-ravaged face. “My love for Oscar is the purest—”

“One more word, little snack, and I’ll eat you where you stand.” The dragon shakes her head. The tattered wings at her back open wide, stretch, and close once more. “I can stomach no more of these lies.”

I hesitate. But some compulsion drives me to say, “I speak only truth, O Great One.”

She snorts, emitting a spurt of red fire and a coil of inky smoke. “Oh, I’m sure you think so. But as you must have learned by now, a perceived truth is often not the same as truth itself. In fact, it may be the very worst of lies. And no matter how firmly believed,”—she leans in closer, her lip curling to reveal a flash of teeth—“you cannot slip such lies under a dragon’s nose. I’ll sniff out the falsehood every time. The truth is, little snackling, you don’t really love your brother. Not the way you think you do. What you love is theidea.Of saving him, of controlling him. Of forcing him into the health and happiness you have decided he needs. And in so doing, of proving to everyone around you how you were strong enough, smart enough, caring enough, loving enough. Where others failed, you succeeded. Indeed, you’re very much like every other human I’ve ever encountered. Obsessed with power and position. With dominance.”

Her words fall upon me like a stream of sand, soft and gentle at first, but soon heavy, suffocating. I struggle to breathe, struggle to think. Struggle merely to stand there before that monstrosity. That ancient, angry, wounded, fire-breathing being of terrible power, who stares down at me with her one eye burning straight to my core.

She can’t be right. She can’t be.

“I . . . I love him,” I whisper.

“Maybe you do. Maybe you don’t.” Oasuroa shrugs. “But you certainly don’t love him enough. And you’re not taking a drop of the fountain. Not so long as I am living. Now”—she leans forward, snaking her enormous head toward me, breathing her hot breath into my face until beads of sweat line my brow—“are you going to fight me? I fancy a little brawl before supper. You did bring weapons, did you not?”

Mutely I shake my head. My body is too numb even to feel proper terror.

“Ah, well,” Oasuroa sighs. “I have no appetite for devouring weakling prey. If you can’t bring yourself to give me battle, be on your way. I feel a headache coming on.” She claws at her face again, whimpering sadly.

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