The tomb looked very old. The stone dome resting on the columns was still well preserved, but there was some damage to the burial chamber underneath it, and here and there the walls had fallen in. Carvings of flowers and tendrils of leaves adorned the white stone.

When Firedrake came up the steps, the two ravens perched on the dome rose and flew away, cawing. But they stayed quite close, two black dots in the cloudless sky. The monkeys sitting on the top steps ran away, screeching, and climbed the trees at the foot of the hill. Firedrake stepped between the columns of the tomb, accompanied by Zubeida, and bent his neck low before the professor’s wife.

Vita Greenbloom returned his bow. She was almost as tall and thin as her husband, and her dark hair was turning gray. Smiling, she put her arms around her daughter and looked first at the dragon, then at Sorrel.

“How wonderful to see you all,” she said. “And where is the dragon rider?”

“Here, my dear. This is Ben,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, coming up the steps with him. “He was just asking me why this place is known as the tomb of the dragon rider. Would you like to tell him?”

“No, I think Zubeida should do that,” replied Vita Greenbloom. Smiling at Ben, she sat down with him on the back of a stone dragon that stood guard outside the tomb. “The story of the dragon rider had almost been forgotten, you see,” she told the boy quietly, “until Zubeida rediscovered it.”

“Yes, that’s right, but it’s a true story all the same.” Zubeida glanced up at the sky. “We must keep an eye on those ravens,” she murmured. “They weren’t at all scared of the cats. But now for the story.” She stood leaning against the head of the stone dragon and looked at Ben. “Well, about three hundred years ago,” she began, “a boy lived down there in the village, a boy no older than you. Every night when the moon was full, he sat on the beach and watched the dragons come down from the mountains to bathe in the moonlight. Then one night the boy jumped into the sea, swam out to the dragons, and climbed onto the back of one of them. The dragon didn’t mind, and the boy sat there until it rose from the water and flew away with him. His family was very sad at first, but whenever the dragons came back so did the boy, year after year, until he was a grown man, and he lived to be so old that his hair turned white. Only then did he come back to visit his brothers and sisters in the village and see their children and grandchildren. But no sooner was he back than he fell ill, so ill that no one could help him. On a night when the dragon rider’s fever was particularly bad, a solitary dragon came down from the mountains, even though there was no moon. He settled outside the dragon rider’s hut and breathed gentle blue fire all over it. When morning came the dragon flew away again. But the dragon rider was cured, and he lived for many, many more years — so many that there came a time when everyone lost count of them. And as long as he lived, enough rain fell on the village fields every year, and the fishermen’s nets were always full. When at last he died, the villagers built this tomb in honor of the dragon rider and the dragons. And once more, the night after his funeral, a solitary dragon came down from the mountains and breathed dragon-fire over these white walls. Since then, they say, any sick person who touches the stones of these walls will be cured, too. When the land is cold by night and people are freezing, they can find a warm place here, for the stones are always as warm as if the dragon-fire lived on in them.”

“Is that really true?” asked Ben. “The part about the warm stones, I mean? Have you tried it out?”

Zubeida Ghalib smiled. “Of course,” she said. “It’s just as the story says.”

Ben touched the ancient wall and put his hand inside one of the carved stone flowers. Then he looked at Firedrake. “You never told me you had such powers,” he said. “Have you ever cured anyone, Firedrake?”

The dragon nodded, bending his head down to the boy. “Of course. I’ve cured brownies, injured animals, and anyone else I’ve breathed dragon-fire on. Never humans, though. Where Sorrel and I come from, human beings believe that dragon-fire will burn and destroy them. You thought so yourself, didn’t you?”

Ben nodded.

“I don’t want to break up this cozy storytelling session,” growled Sorrel, “but take a look at the sky, will you?”

The ravens had come closer and were circling above the stone dome of the tomb, croaking hoarsely.

“Time to drive those two away.” Sorrel sat down beside Ben on the stone dragon and put a hand inside her backpack. “Ever since we had to get rid of that raven over the sea, I’ve gone nowhere without a good pawful of suitable stones.”

“Ah, you’re going to try the brownie saliva trick,” said Vita Greenbloom.

Sorrel grinned at her. “Dead right I am. Watch this.”

She was about to spit on the stones she held in her paw when Twigleg suddenly jumped off Ben’s shoulder and landed on hers.

“Sorrel!” he cried in agitation. “Let Firedrake breathe dragon-fire on the stones.”

“Why?” Sorrel looked at him in surprise and wrinkled her nose suspiciously. “What do you mean, little titch? Don’t meddle with what you don’t understand. This is brownie magic, get it?” And she pursed her lips again to spit on her stones.

“Oh, you pig-headed pointy-eared brownie!” cried Twigleg desperately. “Can’t you see those are no ordinary ravens? Or do you only ever open your eyes to tell one mushroom from another?”

Sorrel growled at him angrily. “What are you going on about? A raven is a raven is a raven.”

“Oh, no, it’s not!” cried Twigleg, flailing his arms around so excitedly that he almost fell off her shoulder. “A raven is not always just a raven, Miss Cleverclogs! And your silly little stones will only put those birds up there in a bad mood. Then they’ll fly away and tell their master. They’ll tell him where we are, and he’ll find us, and —”

“Calm down, Twigleg,” said Ben, patting the homunculus soothingly on the back. “What do you suggest we do, then?”

“The dragon-fire!” cried Twigleg. “I read about it in that book. The book the professor gave you. It can —”

“It can turn enchanted creatures back into their real shapes,” said Barnabas Greenbloom, looking thoughtfully up at the sky. “Yes, so they say. But what makes you think those are enchanted ravens, my dear Twigleg?”

“I … I …” Twigleg sensed Sorrel looking at him distrustfully. He made haste to climb back on Ben’s shoulder.

But the boy, too, was looking at him curiously.

“Yes, what makes you think so, Twigleg?” he asked. “Is it just their red eyes?”

“Exactly!” cried the homunculus, in relief. “Their red eyes. Precisely. Everyone knows that enchanted creatures have red eyes.”

“Really?” Vita Greenbloom looked at her husband. “Have you ever heard such a thing, Barnabas?”

The professor shook his head.

“You have red eyes yourself,” growled Sorrel, looking at the manikin.

“Of course I do!” Twigleg snapped back at her. “A homunculus is an enchanted creature, right?”

Sorrel was still looking at him suspiciously.