Tomaaz wasn’t sure how long he cried, but suddenly there was snuffling at the hole in the wall. A tongue flicked through.
Shards, the beast. It might make a ruckus and bring tharuks running. Sighing, Tomaaz pulled some clear-mind from his pocket, placing it on the tip of the shovel, and held it by the hole. The beast made short work of the berries, then shoved its eye against the aperture, observing him. Was the gray film over its eye growing thinner? Probably just his imagination. It was hard to see in the half dark.
Tomaaz took out his calling stone and rubbed it. Nothing. Dread rushed through him. If Pa was dead, there would be no chance of getting Ma out of here—no chance of saving himself.
He should get back. Tharuks might notice he was missing. But somehow, nothing mattered anymore.
Tomaaz lay on the cold stone floor next to his mother’s corpse, staring into the dark.
§
Dawn stole through the cave, waking Tomaaz. His mouth was dry and his hands and feet were numb with cold. Blearily, he gazed at Ma, his thoughts pushing through sludge. It was hopeless. He rolled over and drifted back into a nightmare-plagued sleep.
A grunt woke him.
Tharuks?
He fumbled for the shovel. There, near the hole in the wall. Tomaaz lurched over and grabbed it, then faced the cave entrance.
Another grunt—behind him.
He spun. It wasn’t a tharuk, just the beast, watching him again. “Hungry?” Tomaaz’s voice cracked. “I don’t have any food, but here you go, have these.” He passed the beast some clear-mind. He didn’t have many berries left, but who cared? Maybe it would be better to be numlocked than stay alert in this hell, with death lurking in every shadow.
He tried the calling stone again. No luck. He was on his own. Putting the stone back in his pocket, Tomaaz caught a glimpse of his pink fingernails. He took a pinch of dragon’s scale and went back over to Ma in the corner.
How had she died? He touched the blood-encrusted gash on her head. Wait. Her skin was still warm.
His breath hitched. Impossible.
Tentatively, Tomaaz touched her neck, then slid his hand under her jerkin to touch her shoulder. Definitely warm. But then why were her lips and fingertips blue, her eyes glassy, and face as white as goat’s cheese?
He splayed one hand by her mouth and nose, the other on her torso, waiting. Was that a faint tickle on his hand? There, a minuscule movement in her chest? Hard to tell. He held his own breath, waiting. Again, the softest whisper of breath on his hand, the barest movement of her torso.
His fingers moved to her neck. He cocked his head, concentrating. Please. There, a slight tremor against his fingers … it seemed like forever until he felt it again.
Shards! Ma was alive.
She was existing on a few shallow breaths and a faint heartbeat, but barely. He had to act fast or he’d lose her.
Tomaaz lifted her jerkin and found her healer’s pouch at her waist. Pulling out her remedies, he piled them on the floor, looking for something that might help. Clear-mind berries wrapped in brown paper, dragon’s scale, owl-wort, warm weed, dragon’s breath, healing salve and … what were these? He held up a stem with two dried blue berries on it, and nubs where other berries had been plucked.
Piaua berries—they looked different, dried and shriveled, but they had to be piaua. He’d never seen another plant with blue oval berries with pointed ends. Right at the bottom of Ma’s pouch, he found a slim vial of clear light-green fluid—piaua juice. A memory flashed through his head.
Ma was crouched near the base of the piaua, her hands on the trunk, whispering solemn words. A sudden strange breeze stirred only the piaua’s leaves. A rushing sound, like a thousand waters, whooshed around the clearing. There was silence as the tree’s leaves stilled. Ma spoke again. Again, the piaua’s leaves moved and the rushing resumed.
Even though they were only littlings, Ezaara had been the first to realize what was happening. “Ma’s talking to the tree,” she said. “The piaua is answering.”
Tomaaz and Ezaara watched Ma harvest piaua juice from the tree’s leaves.
“I’m hungry. Can I eat those blue berries, Ma?” Tomaaz asked, pointing at the pretty oval berries with poky ends.
“Tomaaz,” Ma said, taking his face in her hands, “you must never eat those berries. They’re dangerous. Promise me, both of you, that you’ll never touch them.”
They nodded.
“Can I feed them to tharuks?” Ezaara asked. “Will the berries kill them?”
That made Ma laugh. “And have them in comas? Yes, you can.”
He hadn’t understood what comas meant, but he was still hungry. “What about the juice? Can I drink that?” Tomaaz asked.
Ma knelt in the grass with them, among the wildflowers. “Piaua juice can heal anything except poison, but there is a cost. Every time we use the juice, it steals life force from the piaua trees. If we guzzle down piaua juice, then the mighty piauas scattered across Dragons’ Realm will fail, and we will have no healing remedies for our people. That’s why the juice is sacred, and only a tree speaker can harvest it.”
“I’m going to be a tree speaker when I grow up,” Ezaara declared.
“Me too,” Tomaaz said.
The berries caused comas. Is this what had happened to Ma? Did a coma slow your body down until your breathing and heartbeat were barely there? If piaua berries had caused this state, then perhaps the juice could cure it. It was worth trying, as piaua was a strong remedy for many things.
He had to try.
Resting Ma’s head and shoulders on his
