The Book of Air: Volume Four of the Dragon Quartet by Marjorie B. Kellogg

Luther along. The Tinkers are extremely resourceful, and Luther is a man of piety and principle. “Thank you, Luther! Will you really come?”
    “Betcha!”
    With that, the matter is settled. Baron Köthen turns away to talk strategy with the Cauldwells. Gerrasch bends over his keypad, the chatty disembodied voice of the machine called House nattering in his ear. The wall again fills with ranks of moving pictures from the Citadel. For a moment, Erde could almost weep from loneliness, so she calls to the only being whose love she is sure of.
    Oh, dragon! I am so weary!
    YOU NEED FOOD AND REST, CHILD.
    And when shall I find them?
    SOON.
    But not yet
.
    FOOD, PERHAPS. BUT NOT REST. NOT YET. NO REST FOR ANY OF US UNTIL OUR SISTER AIR IS FOUND AND LIBERATED. ASK LUTHER IF FOOD CAN BE SPARED FOR OUR JOURNEY.
    And you, dear dragon? How long since you’ve eaten?
    TOO LONG. THE LAND HERE IS BARREN. NOTHING LIVING BUT HUMANS AND THE TAME CREATURES LEFT TO THEM.
    Lady Water chimes in impatiently. I’LL TAKE YOU FISHING WHEN WE GET THERE!
    Erde hopes the dragon can wait just a little while longer. For time is of the essence and since everyone is so sure that N’Doch can handle his situation, she plans to head to Deep Moor first. She can warn the women about Lord Fire’s threats, and tell them of her vision of flames. They will understand. Then she can rush back to N’Doch’s time with a clear conscience. It’s a good plan. But to forestallfurther argument, she’ll not inform the other humans of this minor alteration.
    While the warriors gather to plan the assault on the Citadel, Erde draws Luther aside, fingering his thin shirt and woven string vest. “You’ll need some warmer clothing when we get to Deep Moor. Would N’Doch’s fit you? I think his pack is put away somewhere in your wagon.”
    Stoksie has tagged along to help them prepare. “I know weah dat is.”
    Luther says, “Cold deah, izzit? Mebbe snow, eben?”
    “Snow, for sure.”
    “Snow. Dat I wanna see.” Luther elbows the smaller man. “Yu wanna make da trip, Stokes?”
    “Nah. My daddy saw’t, wontime. Leas’ das what he sed. But den, he sed a lotta t’ings.” Stoksie grins and trots off to find N’Doch’s pack.
    Erde worries that these cheerful men have no real idea of the frigid dangers of true winter. Heat and drought are their only reference points. “I’m sure you have never been as cold as you will be in Deep Moor,” she tells Luther earnestly.
    But Luther is sweating by the time he’s tried on as many layers of N’Doch’s heavy clothing as will fit him. Erde shakes out her own woolens and slides her feet into her sheepskin boots. They make her feel safer, like putting on armor, or some sort of shell, though she’s no longer ashamed to be seen in the scant, loose clothing that’s the only sensible thing in this desiccated future. She’s gotten used to being so aware of her body—and of everyone else’s—all the time. For the sake of her little deception, she lets Stoksie fold all the clothing away again in N’Doch’s pack. She will carry it, and Luther will shoulder the sturdy sack of food Stoksie has thrown together while up in the caverns. Blind Rachel provisions, she’s sure, and gladly given, from wagons recently restocked from the sale of Erde’s dragon brooch, which also purchased the fine and venerable sword that Baron Köthen wears across his back.
    Does she now regret that sacrifice? She doesn’t think so. Despite her failure to make events turn out the way she wanted, Erde von Alte retains her belief that what is meant to happen, will happen. Destiny is too essential a force tobe turned aside by one man’s stubborn perversity, or for that matter, by the stubborn scheming of a perverse dragon.
    As if aware of her thoughts, Köthen glances up from his huddle with the Cauldwells. “Don’t be long.”
    She looks for a trace of gloating or victory or whatever she imagines a man might feel. But all that is gone now.