One Realm Beyond (20 page)

Bixby could see she’d chosen the right words. Totobee-Rodolow no longer looked bored.

“Perhaps you’d like to take a tour around your previous sphere of influence. I’d like you to go with me.”

Totobee-Rodolow’s eyes opened wide and the ridges above them arched. “Darling, I don’t want to travel. Traveling is tedious.”

“I understand, but this wouldn’t be anything more than a sort of vacation. Let me explain before you decide not to visit the castles and palaces of the different realms.”

Bixby barely took a breath before plunging on. She didn’t want to give Totobee-Rodolow a chance to say no. “Primen has endowed me with many attributes. Being a realm walker is just one possibility. I’ve other skills, but I’m seeking which is to take precedence. Until I’ve made a choice, or Primen makes clear His choice, I’m at loose ends.”

Bixby looked down at her hands. She had mangled a piece of lace on a front pocket. Forcing her fingers to let loose of the delicate fabric, she clasped her hands at her waist and took a steadying breath. It was necessary to tell Totobee-Rodolow a part of her story, but not all. She was good at telling the truth without including vital information. That was one reason she had been sent.

“Because I’m not sure I’ll be a realm walker, it’s all difficult. I don’t seek the commitment of a constant. But in order to get a taste of what realm walking would be like and whether I’m up to the task, I need the aid of an experienced, sophisticated dragon. Such as yourself.”

Totobee-Rodolow gazed at her circle of friends, casually enjoying the food, the weather, and each other. “They aren’t mor dragons, you see.”

“Your friends are different races of dragons?”

“Yes, there are very few mor dragons left.” She waved a hand, indicating the group of socializing dragons. “These do not recognize the responsibility given to one of my kind. And thus, they tend to dismiss the honor of serving.”

Bixby repeated words she’d often heard from her father. “There are not many who understand in these times.”

Totobee-Rodolow lifted her chin. “Primen is still Primen and will always be. But His followers are no longer
His
followers.”

Bixby nodded. Her parents and Totobee-Rodolow would probably back the same causes, join the same forces, and strain to fulfill similar expectations. Surprised to recognize a kindred spirit, Bixby tamped down her desire to bubble. An ally. Her father had emphasized the need for allies. Instead of revealing her eagerness, she kept herself calm and waited to see if Totobee-Rodolow would be curious enough to join Bixby in her mission.

The dragon’s eyes narrowed as she thought. Bixby held her breath. After a pause much longer than Bixby could bear, Totobee-Rodolow glanced her way.

“No decision should be made on an empty shopping bag. The Newtowne Faire starts today. Shall we go see what they have in their stalls?”

Bixby let out the air she’d held so tightly. This was her kind of female.

Cantor tasted moldy cheese. His tongue felt the size of a pig’s snout. The drought in his mouth might cause permanent attachment of teeth to skin. He tried to swallow and almost gagged.

Water. If he opened his eyes, he might see water. His eyelashes seemed to be glued together. What happened? Where was he?

He moved. Something pinched his arms. Sitting. He sat in
a chair. Tied. Around his arms. Around his legs. Around his waist.

He pulled his head up and felt muscles in his chest and in his neck stretch as if being torn from bones. From stinging lungs, he managed to drag a call for help. He sounded like a wounded cow.

A door scraped open.

“You’re awake. I’ll be back.” A female voice, nasal and unsympathetic.

Light footsteps trotted down the hall. They returned at a slower pace. She stopped a few feet in front of him.

He heard a clatter, then water splashed in his face and down his front. He sputtered and opened his eyes. Images blurred. He wondered if his eyesight was going or coming back.

An out-of-focus Brinswikker woman stood with a bucket in her hand. Short like the male members of her kind, she looked him straight in the eye as he sat in the chair. Her clothes were shades of brown and blue, no patterns in the dye or weave. From what he could tell, all Brinswikkers looked as if a cloth had been wrapped around them, then tied where a tie was needed.

“I saved your life. You owe me one.” She turned and walked out, leaving the door open.

He blinked several times, trying to remove the grit from his dry eyes and restore his sight completely. The blinking helped a little bit.

His room contained the chair he sat on, a cot, a table, and a small threadbare rug covering a patch of rough wood floor beside the bed. He ruled out being caught and in prison when he focused on the view beyond the open door.

Through a window on the opposite side of the hall, Cantor
could see a pond too small for the dozens of ducks paddling around or settled on the shore. He’d never seen so many ducks in one place.

Running footsteps approached, and two giggling children arrived with half-full buckets. From the look of their clothes, the pails might have been full when they started toward his room. The littlest, a girl with bangs and a ponytail, grinned and shrieked, “Close eyes!”

She swung her pail and let it fly. It thunked on the floor in front of Cantor, water splashing, then pouring out as her pail rolled on its side. She put her hands on her mouth and laughed. Bright brown eyes sparkled over chubby fingers.

The other child, a boy, scowled. He stepped closer and took aim. The bucket landed in Cantor’s lap. The water spilled and ran down his legs. The cool, clean water relieved a slow burn on his skin, one he hadn’t acknowledged among all the other discomfort he suffered.

The boy gave a jump of triumph, then dashed in to retrieve his sister’s bucket and his own. Their feet on the wooden floor sounded like a half-dozen children instead of only two.

The rascals made two more trips and became a trifle more efficient in dousing their prisoner. Cantor tried to speak, but his swollen tongue still clung to his dry mouth. He’d have said thank you if he could. Every drop of water brought relief to his tortured skin.

When they didn’t come back, he strained his ears for clues as to where he was. Outside, a stubby-legged, long-haired cow with curly horns walked between him and the ducks. He could hear chickens and sheep.

A farm.

Children.

And a woman who saved his life.

A head that felt like a broken pot.

A body that burned where it didn’t ache.

He knew exactly where he was.

Just past real trouble.

Stymied in the aftermath.

The trouble hadn’t killed him.

Perhaps the aftermath wouldn’t kill him either.

THE FAIRE

B
ixby held a length of loosely woven cloth, the color of pink fading as sunset met starry night. Her mind filled with ideas to incorporate the lightweight piece into one of her garments. Contrasting narrow ribbons could be trailed through the weave. The same ribbon, folded and stitched into elaborate flowers, would add the lovely touch of nature to her design. Perhaps a cluster at the waist, and a cascade of smaller flowers to the hem. She raised her head, looking in this stall and along the corridor of vendors for ribbons.

“I’ll take this,” she said, “and the dusty green silk I chose earlier.”

She caught a glimpse of Totobee-Rodolow and waved a brightly colored scarf above her head. Her dragon companion spotted her and leisurely strolled in her direction.

Bixby finished with her purchase, folded the material, and tucked it into a hamper. Then she waltzed in and out of the crowd, making her way to her friend.

The dragon wore new jewelry: rings, bracelets, and a necklace. All glittery and on heavy gold findings. “Oh, Totobee-Rodolow, they’re beautiful.”

Because of her dainty size, Bixby could not wear massive ornaments, but they certainly looked good on the feminine dragon.

“And I got them for a song, dear.” Totobee-Rodolow fingered the large topaz pendant hanging against her chest. Her scales reflected the light of the sun’s bright rays.

Bixby squinted. Totobee-Rodolow chuckled, then enclosed the bauble in the palm of her hand. “I thought the stone might be useful under stressful situations.”

Bixby frowned and started to ask what she meant, but a young man rushed up to her dragon friend and bowed.

“I can’t believe you are in Newtowne.” He doffed his hat and bowed again. “I was told you stayed in Tinendoor.”

“Bixby D’Mazeline, this is Marcher Limpa, a page in the town hall. Marcher, Bixby D’Mazeline.”

“Pleased to meet you, Miss.” He bobbed again.

Bixby nodded politely and continued to watch the nervous young man. His hat would never be the same. She had been schooled to keep from fidgeting, and occasionally she lost control of her fingers. She could sympathize with Marcher. He twisted and folded and stretched his poor hat until it started dropping loose pieces of felt.

Totobee-Rodolow’s eyes narrowed. She placed a gentle hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Tell me, friend. What troubles you?”

He licked his lips. “There’s a rumor.”

Totobee-Rodolow nodded.

“From Tinendoor.”

Totobee-Rodolow’s quiet yes spurred the page on.

“A realm walker seeking a mor dragon has been waylaid by Brinswikkers.”

“I see.” The dragon took a big breath. “Anything else to tell?”

Marcher looked disconcerted for a moment. He swallowed hard. “He’s not dead.”

“That’s a pleasant end to your tale.”

Bixby grasped the dragon’s arm. Anxiety tightened her throat. She whispered, “Cantor?”

“Undoubtedly so.” She stood erect. Purpose stiffening her casual air. “Bridger must be told.”

Voices brought Cantor back from oblivion, but he had no idea how long he’d been out. Sunshine still brightened the yard outside. He concluded either it hadn’t been long, or it had been a full twenty-four hours. Puddles covered most of the floor of his room. A few scattered towels soaked up some of the water.

The two children, this time without buckets, barreled around the corner and skidded to a stop.

“My brudder’s coming,” said the brown-eyed moptop.

She giggled and twirled but remained far enough away that Cantor knew she’d been warned to keep clear of the prisoner.

Her brother frowned. “Stop that, Marta.”

She gave an extra swift spin with her chubby arms reaching over her head. “No.”

“Stop.”

She circled him. “Yo don’t like my dance, Gimo? Go stick yo nose in a hole.”

She stopped to pound her feet in place in a ratta-tat-tat that made Cantor wince.

“Please, Little Miss Marta,” he said, “you’re hurting my injured ears.”

She jumped and landed in one spot. With a sassy grin, she said, “Yo can talk. Good.”

She ran to the doorway, held on to the frame and leaned out, then hollered with a voice much too big for such a tiny body. “Come, Ma. Come, Rutzen. He talks.”

Heavier footsteps approached. Gimo still scowled, but moved quickly out of the center of the room. The woman who claimed to have saved Cantor’s life and an older boy swept into the room. They stopped and studied him.