added pointedly, following
his gaze into the dark sky, “your paintings - all of them - will be worth a great deal
more.”
“You have your answer,” said Seron to his brother.
“This is ridiculous,” insisted Cheb. “I found a willing buyer and you turn me down. But
I'll be magnanimous. I'll raise the offer to a full ten percent. Now what do you say?”
“No,” Seron answered emphatically. “You'd best be on your way,” he added, afraid that his
rage was beginning to break through his calm exterior.
The two brothers glared at each other. Cheb could not understand such an empty-headed
artist, while Seron knew, from sad experience, that he could never explain himself to such
a money-hungry man.
“Here, take a candle,” offered Kyra. “You can light one of our torches outside and use it
to find your way along the path.”
Seron led the grumbling Cheb to the door. “If you hurry,” he said, “you'll still find a
bed at the Sea Master Inn. Tell the owner that I sent you. He knows me.”
Cheb was already out the door, lighting his torch, when he realized he'd left his satchel
in the hut. He rushed back in with the torch aflame and reached for the bag on the floor
by the chair.
At the same time, Kyra said, “Here, let me help you.”
They accidentally collided while both reached for the satchel, and Cheb lost his balance.
Falling over backward, the torch went flying out of his grasp.
The burning torch landed in the comer of the hut, right in the middle of Seron's paints.
They exploded in a ball of bright orange flame!
Cheb quickly scrambled to his feet. “Run for your lives!” he cried. He snatched up his
satchel and ran out the door without ever looking back.
“Get out! Save yourself!” Seron shouted to his wife, who was trying to drag the heavy
wooden crate out from beneath the bed.
“I'm not leaving without your painting,” she cried. The fire quickly spread far beyond the
comer of the hut. Soon, the bed and all the rest of their furniture were burning. Two of
the walls were aflame, as was part of the roof; a heavy, deadly smoke filled their
one-room home.
Seron grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled her to her feet. Both of them were
coughing, their eyes were tearing, and their skin was beginning to blister. The fire snapped at the edges of their clothing as he carried his wife to the door of the hut
and threw her onto the soft grass outside the door.
But he didn't follow her out into the safety of the night. Instead, he rushed back into
the burning hut, diving to the floor next to the bed. The wooden crate was beginning to
char, but he knew there was still time; the painting inside had not yet been damaged. He
hauled the crate out from beneath the bed and lifted it. The door was just a few yards
away. . . .
Though the doorway was open, the smoke and flames were too thick for Kyra to see inside
the hut. “Forget the painting!” she screamed. “Seron! Get out of there! Hurry!” she begged.
The roof caved in. The hut collapsed. Seron was buried in an avalanche of fire, and Kyra
gave out an anguished cry of pain that stretched on for minutes. When there was nothing
left inside her, she crumpled to the dew-wet grass.
Kyra didn't move. There was no reason. Much later, in the darkest hour of the night, a
voice whispered in her ear. . ..
“Am I late?”
At first, Kyra was startled. She lifted her head and saw Tosch. The familiar sight of the
brass dragon set Kyra crying all over again. He did his best to comfort her, nestling her
frail, shivering frame between his right wing and his body. But he couldn't see what was
so upsetting.
As best she could, she told Tosch what had happened. Then she wept throughout the rest of
the night. Finally, just before dawn, Kyra fell into an exhausted sleep. The dragon
sighed. The sun would be coming up soon - and he supposed he had better take her with
Learning to Kill: Stories