“We should let her sleep,” Jeryon says. “Big day and all. First day.”
The poth grabs his wrist. “We will be found before then, right? How far south could we be? We weren’t in the river that long.”
He sits back. “Remember when you asked how big the Xs would have to be?”
“Yes.” Her nails bite into his wrist.
“Half a mile,” he says. “A mile would be better.”
She throws his wrist away. “How far south are we?”
“We really should be thinking about—”
“Plotting a course?” she says. “How far?”
“More than a hundred miles,” he whispers. “Maybe two. My cross-staff isn’t precise.”
She nods. “Your failed experiment.” She nods some more. “You knew. And you lied to me. No one is coming.”
“We’re too far south,” he says, “which is why I can’t let you inhibit her training.”
“Don’t turn this around on me.” She stands up. Her plate falls off her lap. “I never should have trusted you. This is what Hanoshi do: You lie to get what you want. Your mates did. Your whole crew did. You did in Chorem, not telling them there was plague in Hanosh. How many sailors went to Hanosh and risked catching the flox so you could keep the price of shield down?”
“I wanted to give you hope.”
“While you hoped I wouldn’t notice we’re still here?” She snorts. “I see what you meant by desperation.”
He stands up and takes her arm. “I didn’t lie. It’ll just take longer than I thought to get you home.”
“Not me.” She pulls away. “My testimony. And for what? Justice?”
“Yes. The Trust will make things right.”
“Years from now? They’ve got their share of the dragon. They’ve probably forgotten you already.” She mimics washing her hands.
“Never,” he says. “I’ve given them everything. They must be searching. If they can’t find me, it’s my fault. I got our position wrong. I got us lost. It’s my fault, not theirs.”
He grabs at her arm again. She steps back. He nearly falls like a man whose cane has slipped.
“Believe with me,” he says.
She steps forward. She lets him clutch her sleeve.
“I can’t,” she says.
He steadies himself. He lets go. “I won’t lie to you again.”
“I won’t forget that.”
Gray wakes and opens her mouth. Everlyn reaches out and grabs another firefly. She holds it in front of the wyrmling. When she sits, the poth lets it go. The wyrmling snaps it out of the air.
“At least you’re not Ynessi,” she says. “They’d want to butcher your mates in their beds. I didn’t refuse a part in your murder to take one in theirs.” She looks at him. “That’s not justice. I’d sooner stay here than help you do that.”
“I do things by the book,” Jeryon says. “I trust the book. I trust the people who wrote the book.”
Everlyn goes to her orange moss bed, lies down facing away from him, and wraps herself around her sword. Gray climbs atop a corner post to watch her before turning to Jeryon.
He finishes assembling the lid. It’s a difficult task with shaking hands. What would he do if he found his mates helpless in bed? What if the book is wrong again? Jeryon flicks Gray into the pen, sits the lid, and weighs it down with rocks.
For a long while Gray squeals inside while he stirs the fire. He can’t get it to burn exactly as he would like it.
Jeryon wakes before dawn to a crunching near camp. He grabs a spear and crouches, but doesn’t see anyone. He peers through the screen of branches. The poth is asleep.
The lid is on the pen, but he checks anyway. The wyrmling is gone, as is the bottom of a slat, chewed to flinders. Why, Jeryon thinks, do I permit myself to sleep?
More crunching draws him to the pond, where a long line of beetles troops across dead leaves. He follows.
Where the poth buried Gray’s scat, the wyrmling’s created more, a formidable mound of it, drawing the beetles. The wyrmling stands beside it, plucking the beetles as they approach the mound, twisting them in two, then popping the halves into her mouth. When she sees Jeryon, Gray sits and looks at him. He’s hardly placated, especially when the poth appears behind him.
“Apparently she wants to control her own food,” the poth says.
“She’ll have to learn,” he says, picks the wyrmling up by its scruff, and carries it kicking to camp. He puts her in the pen and piles stones around it to prevent any more breakouts.
The next night Jeryon sleeps beside the pen. He’s worn out from spending the day killing blue crabs, gathering with the poth, and constructing a box to keep beetles as training treats. When he wakes up, he finds a hole scratched through the lid of the pen and another through the beetle box. Fortunately, the wyrmling has created enough dung in the beetle box that more training treats are already crawling toward it.
“I think she’s mocking you,” the poth says.
“You were a willful child, weren’t you?”