Draconas paused, then said steadily, “Once I did. But not anymore. I would not want anything bad to happen to the people of this neighborhood.”

“Good for you, child,” said the monk with a nod. “We may all look forward to a quiet evening at home this night.”

Rosa stood staring from one to the other in confusion.

“Ah,” said Brother Leopold, rising. “Here is our good blacksmith, now! Greetings, Master Anton.”

Anton, considerably astonished, stood stock still in the door. Rosa sidled up to him and nudged him and he came to himself. Mumbling his greetings, he entered the house. When the monk resumed his seat, Anton took the opportunity to flash an alarmed and questioning glance at his wife.

Rosa shook her head and shrugged helplessly.

Both of them looked at Draca.

Draconas knew more than they did. He knew why the monk had come. The monk had made that plain. Draconas was to spend a quiet evening at home this night. If he did not, something bad would happen, not only to Rosa and Anton, but to every human living in this part of the city.

Draconas offered to go lay the table for supper. The monk sat at his ease, talking with a bemused Anton about how his work was coming. Rosa followed Draca into the kitchen to look distractedly at the stew.

Draconas spread the well-worn cloth and set out the crockery bowls and the horn spoons. As he placed the human utensils on the table and prepared to eat the human food, he realized that he had just made his decision. He had declared where he stood in this war between humans and dragons.

He sided with humans against his own kind. He felt a deep and abiding sorrow at this, but he did not regret his decision. His own kind were wrong.

The four of them sat down to the simple meal. Rosa ladled out the stew into the bowls. Draconas dipped his spoon into the broth. He was shoving aside a detested carrot to get at the meat, when Ven came hurtling out of the cave in which he’d hidden himself for all the years of his life.

Ven came running straight at Draconas. Grald chased him. The dragon’s claw reached out for Ven, for his heart . . .

Draconas dropped the spoon in the bowl, splashing hot broth all over the table and startling everyone.

“Draca?” asked Rosa anxiously. “What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

Draconas looked up to find the monk’s sane eyes fixed on him.

“Nothing is wrong, Rosa,” said Draconas, after a pause. “I’m sorry. I’ll clean up the mess I made.”

The irony of the words struck him. All along, it was what he’d been trying to do. Clean up the mess.

He left the table to get a cloth. He could not help Ven. He could not save him. Melisande’s son would have to save himself.