Yenni ached for him, and at the same time she wanted to find that other dragon, Noriago, and drive a spear through his wings. “That . . . that . . .” She launched into a tirade about Noriago in Yirba, cursing him to the depthless shadows at the edges of the world, cursing his stones to shrivel up and fall off, so he could never bear children as horrible as him.

“Whatever you said, I agree completely,” said Harth. “So you’ll visit Weysh?”

Yenni paused “Har-tha, I cannot . . .”

“All right, I don’t know what went on between you two, but”—Harth blew out a breath and ran his fingers through his green hair—“I’ve seen Weysh bounce back from a lot of things, but losing his sense of smell, as a dragon . . . this broke him.”

Yenni put a hand to her chest, trying and failing to shake that image of Dragon flat to the earth, scales dull, deflated and depressed.

“Beat him and berate him when he gets out of line—in fact, I recommend it regularly just to keep him in check—but don’t abandon him.”

“Abandon him?” she repeated, her voice small.

“He needs you. Even just the sound of your voice might, I don’t know, bring him back to life,” said Harth, throwing up his hands. “He’s like the living dead.”

The ache within her grew and grew, until she had to swallow against the swell of it before she could speak. “He won’t want to see me. Not after what I said.”

“He will,” Harth insisted.

Yenni took a step back. “I’ll only make it worse.”

“You won’t!”

Another step back. “I must get to my class.” She pulled on her speed runes.

“Yenni Ajani!” Harth shouted, as angry as she’d ever heard him. But how much angrier would he be if she led on his friend only to abandon him for the good of her tribe? How much worse would the pain be for Dragon? For Weysh?

For her?

“Good-bye, Har-tha,” she said and took off for runelore class.