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effort as he could muster. Like a child playing for sympathy, he circled his jaw around the medicine, doubtless trying to edge it past his taste buds and straight down his throat, all the while eyeing Brea with a pitiful gaze.
    “Don’t look at me like that,” she said. “If you’re going to go falling asleep neck deep in the Moon Pool, then you’re bound to catch a cold, my little one. There is nothing so sure.”
    Rek coughed on his medicine and gave a loud sneeze. A small ball of flame came forth from his one unblocked nostril and hit a pile of rags gathered in a heap on the cave floor, immediately setting them ablaze. Brea ran over to the small fire and stamped it out. “Be more careful!” she said while laughing. A dragon sneezing was a comical sight, as long as it was aimed somewhere safe.
    Brea slapped her ash-covered shoe on the damp cave floor. She paused a moment to listen; a bubbling, spitting sound was coming from her table. It was the Lier’sinn. The large silver bowl, full of a murky, oily liquid, was coming to a boil—or so it seemed, as there was no flame beneath it. Steam rose from the slick surface and a sulphurous smell filled the air.
    Brea and the dragon both looked at it. Rek knew what it was for, just as much as she did. Still, knowing what it was for did not mean either of them liked what it did. She had hoped to get away without having to deal with it today. After all, it was supposed to be her day off. Brea’s shoulders stooped as she sighed. Rek curled a lip and dipped his head.
    Gathering herself, Brea huffed and took a deliberate step forward. She waved her hand over t he top of the bowl, wafting the steam away, and peered over the rim. The foul brew spat, bubbled, and popped ferociously. With every burst of a bubble, a small wisp of stinking, nauseating vapour rose up. Brea backed away from the stench and grabbed a cloth to cover her nose. She paused a moment to brace herself before looking again.
    The bubbling gradually settled and, after a few seconds, a blurry image began to form on the slick, oily surface: a faint picture of two men walking along a narrow , sloping track. It appeared the two were travelling together. The track levelled and followed a river through wide grassland, tapering off into a misty horizon. The two figures approached a small town. One man was tall—very tall—a giant of a man, massively broad across the shoulders. The other was older, with maybe a cane or staff by his side. The taller man carried a hefty pack strapped across his shoulders. The two walked a hundred paces behind a horse and cart, led by another two men. Again, one looked older than the other did. The picture began to fade. Brea squinted around for signs of any landmarks—nothing. Only the shadows gave a bearing. They were travelling south, but that could mean anything. It may well be a southerly turning of an otherwise westerly road.
    Brea looked across at Rek . His head was by her shoulder, his eyes staring down at the near-faded image in the bowl. “Not long now!” she said in a soft voice as she patted the dragon under his chin.
    Rek moaned as though understanding her words—he couldn’t yet answer Brea in her own tongue. A dragon’s voice didn’t mature until they were at least thirty, and Rek was barely eighteen. He gently rubbed his cheek against Brea’s side and whimpered like a lost puppy.
    Brea threw her arms around his neck and hugged him close. “Never mind, my brave boy. All will be fine,” she said, rubbing his cheek softly. “If he comes, if he will help, all will be well. You’ll see!”
    Brea caught the sound of a distant roar coming from the tunnel opposite. “That sounds like your mother, young man. I think maybe Father has brought you a goat—or perhaps half a goat—yummy!” She rubbed a rag around Rek’s runny nose. “Besides … I must be off myself soon, or I’ll be late for my own supper.”
    Rek turned his slender, twenty-foot body slowly towards the