Dragon Master by Alan Carr Page B

would calm my suddenly jumpy nerves.
    Everything was as I expected it to be in the front room. Stone Souls were talking loudly, playing games, laughing, and roughhousing. Boe wasn’t there, but he rarely stayed in the front room. I tried to account for the rest of the class but everyone was moving around and I couldn’t keep track. Nobody seemed to have my pages. I started to feel very worried and even a little nauseated. I walked back toward my desk to make sure that I wasn’t mistaken, that my pages weren’t actually there somewhere on the desk, or maybe fallen to the ground somewhere. But as I reached the aisle where the desk was, I felt a lurch in my stomach and fell to my knees. I tried to cry out in alarm, but no sound came out.
    I hit the stone floor of the study, face first, and Flame danced in my head for an instant. Then I saw and felt nothing.
    ***
    When I woke up, I didn’t recognize my surroundings. Even the sound of the calling birds and the smell of—was that celeryroot?—wafting through the room was unexpected. I sat up as best I could but everything ached and creaked and happened in tiny, slow fits. I recognized the room I was in, but I could not place it. It felt like home for some reason. I had been laying back in a sturdy tiger-maple reclining chair, and that was sitting on an ugly brown frayed rug. There were windows in all directions, and bright sunlight came through them, blinding me as my eyes struggled to adjust from the perfect dark of sleep. My mother came in through a door and only then did I realize that not only did my surroundings feel like home, they were home. Or rather, they were the home I had known as a toddler, the only other place I’d ever lived aside from the bunks of the training grounds.
    What was I doing here?
    My mother stood quietly in the doorway and watched me, as if unsure whether she was dreaming.
    I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming. I wasn’t sure of anything.
    My mother spoke. “Are you awake?” It was a strange question to ask, I thought, and it seemed to be a genuine inquiry and not a strange rhetorical statement.
    I didn’t trust my voice just yet, so I grimaced and nodded my head, just a little. She took in a deep, sudden breath before stepping backward to disappear back into the next room. The kitchen, I remembered. The smell of celeryroot was growing stronger and I was starting to pick out other smells as well, smells long forgotten, smells of gingercorn and baswella. My mother reentered the room, gently carrying a large stone bowl with two hands. It was filled to its rim with broth, but my mother’s steady grip ensured that no drops spilled out of it. She held the bowl up to my lips and the full intensity of the mixture’s aroma caused my head to throb and my eyes to water. After a moment, I felt all of my muscles relaxing, like settling into a warm bath after a complete day of hard training. I reveled in the sensation for a full minute before taking a sip of the brew. It was neither warm nor cool, but the taste of it ran bitter through me. My lips puckered involuntarily and my mother used the opportunity to tip the bowl slightly and pour more down my throat. She was still watching me silently. Then she held out the bowl and waited for me to take it before starting back out of the room.
    “Mom,” I said, and she stopped without turning to face me. “Thank you.” A part of me wanted to start asking questions, and I knew I had a hundred or more to ask her, but none of them felt very important at that moment and I was suddenly craving more of the mixture. I brought the bowl to my mouth and drank deeply as my mother quietly stepped out of the room.
    ***
    After half an hour, I’d finished the brew and was feeling much more limber, but I still didn’t trust myself to rise out of the recliner. I felt indentations on my skin and figured that I’d been laying in that recliner for a long time. Days, even, or maybe more. I didn’t want to upset my stomach and