There is nothing like prolonged periods of privation to make the barest of human essentials feel like a grand indulgence. Our hosts are graced with neither an overabundance of skill in cooking nor a predisposition for hospitality, but we feel like royalty regardless. After the desert, a wooden pallet out of the sun is as good as the finest canopied mattress. For a while...

Even as it grows apparent that their generosity is waning, we laze about the peak in no rush to leave our newfound haven. Gratitude, in time, subsides, and I hear Mab wonder aloud if these people eat anything but red meat.

It is true that the variety is lacking—I haven't seen a vegetable in weeks (to my body's immense dissatisfaction)—but the locals do not seem to register that anything is amiss. This land is simply not suited for farming. I have to don my improvised climbing gear just to get to the Great Hall. It is no wonder that the Intean's have such impressive upper body strength. Even the children can best me in an arm wrestling contest... which they often do, to everyone's excessive amusement.

Still, I manage to enjoy it. The residents are admittedly friendlier to me than the others, and Wart has amassed a loyal fanbase. I can hardly take my eyes off of him without worry that he will be snatched. He tolerates the wide eyes and curious prodding, though I suspect they would be just as happy with a display of rage.

As if nourished by the attention, Wart grows more impressive by the day. Lustrous scales gleam in the sunlight, and on the rare occasions that his teeth are bared, it is enough to strike fear into whichever unfortunate soul has earned his displeasure. His tail is heavy and barbed, his wingspan impressive enough to cast my full frame into shadow. He feasts on game and entire tree limbs indiscriminately. His claws are the length of my hand. I am as afraid as I am in awe of him, though he has made no move to ever hurt me. Well, not lately.

As relieved as I am to be here, the days do grow tiresome. In the morning, those able bodies depart en masse to the mines or the valleys or the forges, only returning long after dark covered in soot and blood. While I applaud their lack of gender discrimination (women joining in the hunt or the trade just as readily as the men), it does leave us without mature civilization for the bulk of the day.

After a few close calls, I am no longer welcome as an apprentice to the blacksmiths (though I do glean a few spells from them before they can cast me out), and I have had a lifetime's fill of the mines. The children oblige me half-heartedly with games, but it is clear that they have grown bored of letting me win.

A group of older boys has thus far proved the most patient with my inadequacies. Though they spar with real swords, they occasionally let me join with a whittled branch. Long-sufferingly, they correct my stance and movements.

I am not what anyone would call skilled, but I have learned to swing at something without toppling, which is a decided improvement. When they finally grant me use of a proper longsword, it takes me two arms to heft it with as much force as my mentor. I hesitate to even ask his age, but I fear it is less than twelve.

When a shout halts all games, I fear that I have done something wrong. A stern-looking guard calls for me from the top of a precipice, and I drop the sword in my haste to reach him. I have seen friendlier expressions on a charging bull.

"Come with me."

I follow without question, wondering all the while what I have done. Trepidation only increases when we reach the Great Hall. He stops at the door and motions for me to enter. I do so warily.

After the glare of the sun, it takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust. I blink rapidly in a futile effort to regain my vision, but a voice reaches me first. At the head of the table sits the chief.

He is not what I would have imagined for the leader of such a prosperous tribe. He is neither wise and wizened, nor does he bear the roundness of riches. The chief is lean, and, though his face is lined, I suspect this comes more from a hard life than a long one.

"Kalyn," he says again, and I drop to my knees in reverence as I have seen the others do. He gestures for me to rise, and I obey.

"Tell me," he begins, his voice gravelly from years of smoke and fire. "Why are you here?"

I frown at him as if I have misunderstood. The story of our exile has been told often. Surely, he has heard, but I begin again.

"No," the man interrupts, impatient. "Why are you here?" I start to see his meaning. Inte was hardly the closest or most appealing destination we could have chosen. Rather than tell him that it was the suggestion of a crazed old man in the woods, I search for a more concrete explanation.

"Kari was headed here. To trade," I assume, though I realize that she has done nothing of the sort since we arrived.

"You are here, because you belong here," he tells me. "You need only look at yourself to see that." For reasons unknown, I find myself shifting uncomfortably. I have wanted all my life to belong, but I realize only now that I had hoped it would be for reasons less superficial.

"What about my friends?"

"They will go back where they belong." I want to argue that it's not so simple, that one can't belong where they are not welcome, but he doesn't seem interested in hearing.

"You look just like your father." The idea silences me as much as the present tense.

"My father," I repeat, dumbfounded.

"Yes," the chief continues as if he has not rocked my world. "Even your dragon has similar markings. I didn't want to believe it at first, but..."

"You know my father?"

"I know both of your parents."

I open my mouth to demand answers, but nothing comes. Of course I came hoping for some word of them, but I had never allowed myself to expect it. Now that I had the opportunity to ask, I couldn't fathom where to begin.

"They were here at the last new moon. They are due to return with the next."