“Yes.”
“Well, men have been afflicted with malaise or a cantankerous attitude more than the women. And men who are ready to be independent and start their own families are the most often afflicted. That is why we saw a dozen men striding forth to protect the land and turning on each other instead.”
“Oh, Paladin, are we ever going to conquer such debilitating circumstances? Will Baardack take over Chiril?”
“I don’t know the answer to that. I thought Wulder wanted me to inform the citizens of Chiril of His willingness to accept them as His people. But perhaps He intends for me to be gathering in Baardackians as well.”
Caesannede landed in the open field, followed by the other two dragons, Kelsi and Merry. Paladin yelled to Bealomondore before he dismounted.
“Watch Danto. We don’t want him to escape.”
Danto promptly slid off his dragon, Merry, and ran for the opposite edge of the meadow. The dragon reached out her long blue neck, snagged the back collar of the runaway’s shirt in her teeth, and lifted him off the ground.
Some of the people in the crowd screamed.
Paladin announced, “The dragon won’t hurt him.” He turned to Merry. “Bring him here, Merry. I’ll watch him.”
She lumbered over to Paladin and set the man down carefully in front of him.
“Thank you,” said Paladin. “Danto, do you remember what happened when you lied to me?”
The marione nodded.
“Would you like to experience what happens when you disobey me?”
He shook his head.
“Fine. Stay beside me.”
Someone grabbed Tipper’s shoulders and swung her around. Her father drew her into a crushing embrace. “My girl, my girl. Do you know you look even more mature, elegant, and like a princess?”
She laughed and pulled away, looking down at her tattered apparel and pushing locks of hair off her face. “This is not elegant, Papa.”
Her mother beamed and gave her daughter a quick kiss on the cheek. “It’s the way you carry yourself, my dear. All those years of balancing a book on your head did you some good. Of course, I always found you sitting and reading the book instead of balancing it, but that minor indiscretion didn’t hurt your posture. I’m sure that in the end you may find it addled your eyes. We were just going to set off to find you.”
Tipper hugged her mother. “Addled my brain, Mother.”
“Now, Tipper, don’t contradict. Eggs are scrambled, eyes are addled, and brains should never be eaten.”
“Mother! Where did you ever come across that bit of wisdom?”
Lady Peg lifted her chin, looked down her nose, and employed her fan to demonstrate her disapproval. “Child, I did, upon occasion, open a book or two. You can see why I have chosen to forgo such endeavors. The things in books are quite shocking. I believe it was primitives who were touted as eating parts of animals that are best left undiscussed.”
A smile wiped away Tipper’s outraged expression. “Quite, Mother,” she said around a giggle that threatened to escape. “Some things should not be discussed because they are disgusting.”
Lady Peg turned to Verrin Schope with a triumphant look. “You see? I have done my part in raising her.”
The wizard draped his arm around his wife’s shoulders and pulled her close. “It is completely evident. But we must be about the business at hand.”
“What business?” asked Tipper.
“We are going to war,” said Lady Peg. “Not exactly we, which would mean all of us standing here. This we refers to our country. But not the entire country. The part of the country suited to defending us and banishing evil. And that us, in ‘defending us,’ doesn’t mean all of us standing here either. It’s very complicated, Tipper. I’m so glad you’re back. You and I will go to Byrdschopen, and your father and your suitor”—she glanced over at Bealomondore, who leaned against Kelsi’s side and fanned his face with his hat—“both your suitors will go stop that odious Odidoddex’s army.”
Even as her cheeks warmed, Tipper ignored the reference to her suitors. “Rayn and I prefer to go help with the wounded, Mother.”
Sir Beccaroon pushed closer to Tipper. “Let us go back to the inn.” He gestured with his wing to indicate the crowd of villagers. “Perhaps this isn’t the place to discuss war.”
Lady Peg frowned. “There isn’t a good place to discuss war. There really isn’t.”
36
Decisions
Bealomondore followed Verrin Schope into the inn with the others. They passed through the small entryway with its registry desk and entered the tavern. A dozen men and a few women sat at the tables eating their noonmeal. Only three customers stood at the bar. Verrin Schope asked the innkeeper to join several tables so his party could sit together. Paladin, Tipper, Verrin Schope and Lady Peg, Taeda Bel, Maxon, Sir Beccaroon, and the artist took their seats. Danto had been left under Merry’s watch. The wizard’s four dragons and Rayn flew out the back window, probably in search of something palatable to their small appetites. Verrin Schope ordered beet, carrot, and onion stew for the table.
“It’s called chukkajoop in Amara,” he told the Chirilians surrounding him. “We’ve introduced it to the cooking staff here, and it has become a favorite among the villagers.”
“It is very pretty.” Lady Peg glanced around the table. “I’m sure you’ll like it.”
Bealomondore had seen pretty soups before. The chefs in some of the fancy houses he had visited drew pictures on the top of creamed bisque with a sauce that complemented the soup.
The wizard artist crossed his arms over his chest. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll set up a sound shield so we may speak comfortably.”
He closed his eyes. The conversations around them faded. Bealomondore looked around the room and realized people still chatted, laughed, and carried on with their activities, but no noise penetrated Verrin Schope’s barrier.
The tumanhofer leaned toward the wizard. “Can they hear us?”
Verrin Schope relaxed his posture and opened his eyes. He smiled as he looked around the room. “Ah yes, they can hear us, but they will overhear our lengthy discussion of the peculiarities of weather. We are free to speak of anything we want, but they will only hear tales of various climates.”
The serving girl came back with bowls and spoons to pass around. Behind her, a sturdy servant carried a large tureen of rich, red soup. Verrin Schope said a blessing, and Lady Peg ladled the chukkajoop into the bowls. The maid brought individual loaves of bread.
Bealomondore’s stomach gurgled in response to the wonderful fragrance of their meal. With no competition from the noise outside the arena of their table, the rumble rolled through the silence. Tipper looked up from across the table and smiled at him. “Me too, Bealomondore. I think I shall starve.”
Paladin nodded. “Flying always butters my appetite.”
Lady Peg picked up a small dish of butter from the center of the table and passed it down to Paladin.
He leaned forward to see around Tipper and Verrin Schope. “Thank you, Lady Peg, but the comment was figurative.”
Bealomondore saw Verrin Schope wink at the young ruler. From behind his napkin, the tumanhofer hid a smile. He waited for Lady Peg’s response, speculating on how she would interpret the provoking statement.
“I agree wholeheartedly, Prince Jayrus,” said the lady. She tasted the soup.
Bealomondore let out his breath. She’d missed a chance to insert a note of inanity. Was she ill? worried? distracted? That wouldn’t make a difference. She was always distracted. He lifted his own spoon and relished the wonderful flavor of beets, carrots, and onions.
Lady Peg frowned. “I do wish one’s figure did not reflect the love of good food. It’s so annoying to butter your bread and find rolls around your middle.”
As he tried to swallow the soup in his mouth, Bealomondore snorted and choked. Maxon jumped from his chair and stood on the back of Bealomondore’s chair. With tiny h
ands, he pummeled him between his shoulder blades. When that didn’t work, Verrin Schope rose and came around to his side of the table and placed a hand on his throat, lifted his chin, and pressed firmly. The muscles in the tumanhofer’s throat loosened, and the spasm ended.
“Thank you,” Bealomondore croaked.
The wizard patted him on the shoulder and mindspoke, “I couldn’t let my wife’s comment murder a man we shall desperately need in the days to come.”
The words sent a chill down his spine. These people expected great things of him. If they expected a masterpiece on canvas, the pressure would be minimal. Why couldn’t they understand he wasn’t suitable for heroic deeds? He put his hand on the hilt of his weapon and felt warmth radiating from the Sword of Valor.
He noticed that Paladin had taken his glass and raised it. Verrin Schope returned to his seat and lifted his own. Reluctantly, Bealomondore did the same, without a clue as to what they would be toasting.
“To Wulder,” said Paladin, “who gives us all we need even when we don’t know what that could be. May He lead us to defeat His foes.”
Glasses clinked. Bealomondore sipped, his mind on the unusual wording of the toast. Wulder’s foes? Odidoddex was the enemy of Chiril. Did that make him an enemy of Wulder?
He still had a lot to learn about being a follower of the God of the Universe. So far he’d found a whole lot of things to delight in and some very prickly issues that he’d rather leave to someone else. He appreciated with new vigor the beauty he saw around him. He appreciated being accepted without having to prove himself. He’d never found that anywhere else.
But now he was called to do things. He thought of his father. As a young man, Bealomondore had turned his back on the Bealomondore Mine and done what he wanted to do. Business didn’t interest him. Dirty, money-grubbing business filled him with disgust.
He’d shunned his family’s friends and moved himself up in society through his art. He loved his sisters and aunt. He ignored his brother and parents. Now he’d attached himself to Someone who wanted more of him. He’d gotten the message—Wulder expected him to shed his selfish ways. This truth was not as palatable as “Wulder loves lowly tumanhofers and provides good things.”
The group ate and talked of minor issues until the maids cleared the table and brought huge slices of razterberry pie and steaming mugs of amaloot. Then the conversation turned to the serious business of strategy.
Bealomondore listened to the talk of war and felt his soul cringing, pulling back as a turtle might withdraw into its shell. Lady Peg said nothing. The tumanhofer joined her silence. Her eyes grew wide, and she clutched her husband’s arm. Verrin Schope patted her hand. His touch smoothed some of the anxiety from her expression.
Bealomondore watched Tipper’s face when she offered an opinion in the conversation. He brought a pencil out of his pocket and reached into a hollow to retrieve a sketch pad. He sought first to capture impressions of Tipper’s mobile features. With a page full of her face from different angles and varying expressions, he moved on to a clean sheet and recorded the others at the table. His fear subsided as his hand worked. He took in the facts and ideas presented while he drew, but he did not engage his emotions, fearing they would overwhelm him.
Rayn reentered the room through the window and perched on Paladin’s shoulder. He chittered.
“Ah,” said Paladin.
The minor dragon trilled a note of pleasure, then hopped over to Tipper’s shoulder, where he cooed and rubbed his head against her jaw.
Bealomondore looked to where the dragonkeeper pointed. Four kimens entered the tavern and came straight to the table.
Paladin greeted them, then explained to his friends. “I sent for minor dragons from the valley.”
Bealomondore blinked, and in that short second, a dozen or so dragons leaped out of the folds of the kimens’ clothing and onto the table. They raced among the leftover dishes, gathering up crumbs. One of the other patrons in the tavern shrieked. The dragons stopped, sat up, and looked around in puzzlement. Paladin and Verrin Schope laughed.
Lady Peg said, “Manners. They’ll need etiquette instructions. I volunteer for that. I’m quite good at knowing when it is proper to run on your host’s table and when it is not.”
Rayn jumped from Tipper’s shoulder to make the acquaintance of the new arrivals. He moved from one to the next as if he were a host circulating at a party. The scene lightened Bealomondore’s mood, and he found himself grinning at the ritual greeting. The dragons first touched forepaws, then noses. Then they slid heads forward, rubbing cheeks. The pose was held for a moment before broken. Not quite a handshake but definitely the accepted formal salutation between minor dragons.
Paladin waited until Rayn had moved through the crowded table. Then with a glance, he communicated something to them that Bealomondore could not fathom. Each dragon circled the table, touched each person sitting there, then lined up in front of the dragonkeeper, prince, paladin.
“I asked some of the dragons from the valley to come to our assistance. This watch is the first to arrive. Our efforts to repel the invasion are greatly improved by their presence. They will willingly serve the needs of the army, carrying messages, scouting the enemy’s entrenchment, healing wounds, soothing shattered minds, providing light, maintaining equipment, and encouraging our warriors in any way they can.” He dipped his head as if acknowledging his appreciation of their willingness to help.
The line of minor dragons bowed in a similar gesture. Bealomondore resisted the urge to grab his pencil.
This historic moment would have to go unrecorded. Who would believe him anyway? Most Chirilians believed that the small dragons ranked with feral cats. A few of the elite kept them as house pets. His own attitude had been changed by his association with the people at this table.
“Bealomondore.” Paladin’s serious voice broke into his thoughts. “Laddin and Det have decided to travel with you.”
Two dragons, a green mottled with blue and a plain green one, came to stand before the tumanhofer.
“Laddin is a healing dragon. Det will help you with directions. He has a head full of maps and geographical details. Tipper, Sheran, Pennek, Bevlo, and Trincum will accompany you and Rayn.”
Tipper raised her eyebrows as four green dragons lined up before her.
“You did say you wanted to help the wounded at the battlegrounds?”
She nodded.
A rather ugly fifth dragon, mottled gray and dirty white, scooted into the middle of the green crowd.
“This is Valo. He provides light.”
Lady Peg pulled on her husband’s sleeve. “I understand why this nice young man is not giving you more dragons, but I think I should like to have another dragon friend. One who talks to me. You know, Junkit and Zabeth do not.”
“Lady Peg, I asked particularly for a minor dragon with a talent that will be of benefit to you,” said Paladin. “I would like you to meet Bar Besta.”
A pale blue dragon with thin purple stripes came to sit in front of the wizard’s scatterbrained wife.
“Are you a he or a she dragon?” she asked.
She beamed and laid her hand on her husband’s arm to give him a shake. “Bar Besta is male, and he spoke to me. I heard his voice in my head, but his lips didn’t move. Isn’t that clever? Is that his talent?”
“Partly,” said her husband. “He’s skilled at communication.”
Lady Peg looked back and forth from her husband to her new dragon friend. “What else?”
Verrin Schope rubbed his chin. “I think we shall let you become acquainted with Bar Besta, and you will no doubt guess his talent.”
Rather than being offended, Lady Peg looked pleased. “A guessing game. I shall try very hard, but I must warn you, Bar Besta, that I am not very good at guessing. Well, I am actually very good at guessing but not good at guessing the right thing. Only the wrong thing. But I am very proficient at guessing the wrong thing, and that should make up for not coming
up with the right thing.”
She cocked her head, then smiled. “Verrin Schope, he says that his secret talent will come in very handy. Do you suppose he guesses the right thing? That would be very helpful.”
The wizard put his arm around his wife and gave her a hug. “My dear, you astound me. You have deduced his role in protecting you. Bar Besta’s talent is, indeed, the art of guessing the right thing.”
She reached out and touched the small dragon’s shoulder with one lightly placed fingertip. “Oh, I see how that would be handy. Thank you, Bar Besta, for deciding to come with me. I didn’t really want to go to war. But I suppose you already guessed that.”
The dragon performed a slight bow.
“And he has manners,” said Lady Peg. “I thoroughly approve of manners.”
37
Research
The Grawl sat at the large table in his study with books open and spread out within easy reach. A stack of plain paper sat on one side, and papers filled with notes cluttered the other side. He’d shed his fine brocade longcoat and unbuttoned his vest. The lamp reflected off the white of his silk shirt.
A servant in livery entered with a tray. “Your dinner, sir?”
“Bring up the side table. There’s no room where I’m working.”
The man placed the tray on an ornate end table, went to a huge upholstered chair, and emptied the small table beside it. With effort, he lifted the sturdy piece of furniture and placed it at his master’s elbow. He then retrieved the tray. He poured a drink from a carafe and removed a cover from a bowl of soup and a larger silver cover from a rack of lamb elegantly arranged as a crown with fresh fruit surrounding the base and paper tassels capping each bone.
“Do you require anything else, sir?”
The Grawl grunted.
The servant nodded and left.
With a big sigh, The Grawl leaned back in his chair, stretched his arms above his head, then lowered them slowly. He made a face as he picked up the food offered to him. The hot bowl warmed his hands, but the soup inside left him cold. He’d eat it, relishing the heat of temperature and spice, but he preferred the meals he foraged when out in the wild.