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passageway, taking care to stay clear of the table. Brea smiled . Rek had sent her things flying on more than one occasion. Once clear, he set off lumbering down the short shaft to the inner chambers. About halfway down, he sneezed again. Brea saw the tunnel walls light up a reddish-orange. She laughed at the sight of it and then watched as her dragon disappeared in the darkness.
    Brea wrapped her arms around her middle. A deep sense of dread welled up until a real sensation of pain rose in her stomach. She knew difficult times lay ahead for her young dragon. That thought alone tugged hard at her heart, for there was one thing she was certain of—she loved that dragon!
    Brea raised her wounded hand and removed the bandage—it was already healing fast. She threw the bloodied rag into the pile of those that caught fire earlier. Picking up her bag, she blew out the candles and made for the entrance, some hundred paces down the shallow slope of the cave. The sound of the trickling stream and the reflections of distant daylight upon the water guided her out of her cave.
    *  *  *
    The cave entrance was a good thirty paces above the open pastureland of the central valley. A steep path wound through the ring of trees that circled the inner fields. It wasn’t until she passed through the thick line of spruce and fir that the view cleared enough for Brea to judge the time. It was dusk, and would be getting dark soon. She had spent more time in the cave than she had thought. The paddocks were empty. Goat and yak alike were all in for the night, doubtless crowded under the open-sided sheds that ran along the edge of Braylair Village. Ducks waddled along the path from the stream and geese—half-flapping, half-walking—seemed to race each other back to their own shed. It was another quiet evening. Brea often found it hard to believe there were a dozen or so dragons not half a mile from her home.
    Looking east, she couldn’t see the other caves. Not that there were many; most of the caves were beyond the ridge—beyond the reach of the valley. And glad of it she was, too . They were the Tunnels of Aldregair and not a place she would wish to live. She’d heard of men who, over a century ago, tried to map those tunnels, heard they were successful with some. But dragons weren’t the only things that liked the dark, and many men lost their lives discovering things they had “no business poking their noses into.” That’s what Brea’s mother, Affrair, told her two years ago when she asked her how they had died. “There are things we’re not meant to know, Brea,” She should have known better than to press her mother for answers. Now, Brea couldn’t look east without feeling a shudder run down her spine.
    Crossing the wide, cobbled track that was the village’s main thoroughfare, She paused a moment to bid Mrs. Miller a good evening. The older woman was saying something to her, but Brea couldn’t hear a word of it. Her husband was busy loading his cart with sacks of flour, and making a real noisy job of it, too. Brea pointed to her ears, and Mrs. Miller laughed, waving her on.
    The Millers lived in the mill, an irony that always amused Brea. Most other folk lived in the houses built along the main road. Made mainly of stone dragged down from the Karan Ridges, the houses had thatched roofs and wide, open porches. They were simple dwellings but well made. The village was small, with thirty-two homes, a mill, a blacksmith, and an inn. Still, Brea was happy there.
    She walked down a narrow passage between her neighbours’ gardens and climbed the wooden steps to her front veranda. After kicking off her boots, she went in.
    The door entered immediately into a simple kitchen with a fireplace at one end, table in the middle, and a few chairs scattered about. Affrair was standing at her chopping board in front of the kitchen window, her long silver hair tied up in a bun and a white apron covering her ample frontage.
    She turned to Brea