The Changeling (2 page)

The Changeling was the only being ever to actually saunter into the Dragon's lair. Most cowered, and some even fainted at the possibility of being consumed by the Dragon.

“You know, my brother does some decorating on the side,” the Changeling said, picking up a thighbone from the floor. “He could spruce this place up. Maybe a couch over here . . .”

A rattle formed in the Dragon's throat.

“A coat of paint can do wonders, you know?” the Changeling said, suddenly wearing an actual coat dripping with paint. “Or perhaps you'd be more impressed with a coat of arms?”

But instead of a knight's outfit, the Changeling turned and pulled on a coat with several sleeves sticking out the front and back, all filled with actual arms.

The Dragon harrumphed.

“I came as soon as I heard you needed someone with . . . my special abilities,” the Changeling said. “What can I do you for, Your Lowness?”

The Dragon could have incinerated the Changeling on the spot, but he looked amused. “What else can you do?”

Immediately the Changeling took the form of RHM and put his arm around the Dragon's aide. “It's all in a day's work, sire.”

The Dragon raised his eyebrows. “You sound just like him.”

“All I have to do is observe someone, and I can change into that person. Or I can pick up cues from their memory.” The Changeling treated the Dragon to impressions of several members of his council, including the deceased Dreadwart.

“Splendid,” the Dragon said. “This will work nicely.”

The Changeling bowed. “I'm pleased to have gained your favor, sire. I saved my best for last.”

With a whirl, the Changeling stood face-to-face with the Dragon—
as
the Dragon. The two circled each other, squinting.

RHM blinked and looked on as if he didn't know which was which.

When the Dragon spat fire, the Changeling transformed himself into a stick with a piece of meat sizzling and glowing.

“That was not in the least amusing,” the Dragon said.

The Changeling reverted to himself. “Begging your pardon, Your Dragon-ness, but I had to show you my abilities.” He held up an index finger. “I have many talents—many of which you still have not seen.”

“I will admit that,” the Dragon said. “Now to our agreement and the task before you.”

The three huddled over their plans. The Changeling asked questions as they studied a map of the kingdom.

“Easy as taking candy from a baby,” the Changeling said, transforming himself into a baby in a carriage. He cried as RHM wheeled him from the room.

Watcher awoke when the first rays of sunlight peeked into the cave she and the Wormling had chosen for shelter on their journey to find the Scribe. They had heard from townspeople that a man fitting the description lived near the White Mountain, and this was the direction they journeyed now.

The Wormling lay fast asleep, his eyebrows knitted and cheeks ruddy. He had grown stronger, and now his arms tensed as if he were in some battle.

She shook her head. “Keep up the fight, good Wormling,” she whispered as she slipped out of the cave.

Watcher carried their drinking gourd in her mouth to bring back some water from the nearby brook for the Wormling. She set it down and lapped at the cool water, letting it refresh her. It was all she could do to resist jumping in.

She had dipped the gourd and stepped away when she noticed a man standing next to a tree along the path to the cave, his back to her. He hadn't been there when she passed . . . or had he? He wore the familiar tunic of the hill people she had grown up with. She stepped closer, studying him. The figure seemed familiar, but she couldn't place him.

“You there,” she said softly, her words muffled by the gourd.

When the man turned, Watcher dropped the gourd, and it split on a rock. She rushed to him. “Is it really you? Can it be?”

“Ah, Watcher,” the man said, opening his arms wide. “It's been such a long time.”

Watcher buried her face in the man's chest as he embraced her. “Bardig,” she said. “I can't believe it.”

Watcher?” Owen said softly as he sat up. He was alone in the dark cave, only the glowing embers from last night's fire giving any light.

It was not strange for Watcher to wander off. But it had been a while since she had done that, especially after their narrow escape from the Dragon. Watcher had not let Owen out of her sight.

Owen felt uneasy as he stretched, and his sword clanged against a rock. He could not imagine life without the weapon now. It empowered him and made him battle ready. He had proved himself again and again—even surprised himself against the venomous beasts guarding the book at the castle.

The book.

Pain shot through his chest each time he thought of it. To think of the Dragon in custody of that precious tome . . . Owen vowed to get it back. But how?

“Watcher!” he called, louder now, annoyed that she was not close. It was enough to keep himself safe, let alone having to worry about her.

Owen wandered outside to soaring pine trees and others with white bark and small leaves turning from green to yellow. The whole countryside looked golden with these trees clumped in the midst of the pines. It was beautiful, but with Watcher missing, he couldn't enjoy it.

Owen lumbered down the path, yawning and rubbing his eyes. Finding the broken gourd, he called for Watcher again.

She's probably looking for another gourd. But we have to be going.

Owen knelt by the stream and cupped a hand to the water. It was cool and refreshing. His hair and body felt dirty. For the moment, he was glad that Watcher was gone, because he peeled off his tunic and clothes and plunged in, coming up for air and shaking his hair like a dog. The cold water was invigorating, bringing to mind his life before in the Highlands, as these people called it. Would anyone in
his
world believe him if he returned and told them of this world? That animals could talk? That he plunged into a cold stream after spending the night in a cave? That his sword bore magical powers?

Owen took one last dive before surfacing and wading to the bank. Clouds rolled in, engulfing the sun, and a mist covered the trees. He quickly dried and dressed and strapped on his sword, alert for any sign of Watcher.

As he headed back to the cave via the path, the mist suddenly swallowed the landscape, and the world turned white. Squinting to avoid bumping into something, he gasped.

A hooded specter appeared before him, enshrouded in the mist. “I've been waiting for you, Owen.”

That voice. Could it be?

“Oh, it's me all right, young friend.” The hood came off, and Owen found himself looking into the face of his mentor.

“Mordecai! How did you find us?”

The man laughed. “It wasn't easy; I can tell you. Where is Watcher?”

Owen frowned. “Off looking for food, I suppose. Come wait in the cave with me.”

Mordecai threw his arm around Owen. When they reached the cave, Owen rushed for the spit and tore off what was left of the jargid from the night before, handing it to Mordecai.

Mordecai turned up his nose. “No, thank you. I'm queasy this morning.”

“But you love jargid!”

“Oh! I didn't recognize it the way you cooked it.” Mordecai accepted the meat and ripped it with his teeth, chuckling. His face shone.

Warmth washed over Owen. “I didn't think I'd ever see you again. How did you get off the island?”

“You underestimate me,” Mordecai said. “A little tree cutting and vine lashing, and I had a skiff. The question is not how I got here but how you escaped the Dragon.”

“How did you hear about that?”

Mordecai smiled, blackened jargid meat stuck between his teeth. “Tales of the Wormling are flooding the land. You are quite the celebrity, especially after defeating those demon vipers.” He touched Owen's sword. “I don't suppose you could have done it without this.”

“No,” Owen said. “But the best weapon in the world would not have helped without your instruction.”

Mordecai rolled his eyes, his thick beard glistening with jargid juice. His lips were like cherries, his eyebrows as bushy as ever. “I didn't have to teach you much.”

Owen's heart sank. If Mordecai had heard what happened at the castle, he must have heard about the death of his own son, Qwamay. But it didn't seem so.

Owen moved near the entrance. “Watcher will be so excited to see you. We talk about you every day.”

Mordecai tossed the jargid carcass on the coals. “You have a good friend in her, Wormling. I can't wait to see her.”

“Uh, Mordecai? There's something I must tell you. Something terrible.”

Mordecai furrowed his brow and sat, crossing his ankles. “You haven't lost
The Book of the King
, have you?”

Owen nodded. “I'm afraid the Dragon has it, but awful as that is, I have even worse news.”

Mordecai stroked his beard. “I can't imagine, but I'm listening.”

“I got into a cell in the castle, believing I was releasing the King's Son.”

“You did? And . . .”

“Mordecai, I'm so sorry. The prisoner turned out to be Qwamay.”

Mordecai squinted, breathless. “
He's
not the King's Son! He's
my
son! Where is he?”

Owen told him the whole story, except for the fact that the young man had temporarily been in league with the Dragon.

“We escaped with the help of friends, but Qwamay was shot by an archer. By the time we realized it, the wound was too far gone for even the magic of the sword. I'm so sorry, my friend. He died and we buried him.”

The news didn't seem to register with Mordecai, and he merely gazed into Owen's eyes.

Owen knelt before him and took one of Mordecai's big hands in his own. “Your son loved you very much.”

Finally Mordecai wailed, “My son!” He rose, threw his hands in the air, and pressed his face against the wall of the cave. His crying became a howl, and Owen was sure some demon flyer would hear.

“Oh, Qwamay!” Mordecai moaned, weeping. “I should have come for you long ago.” He turned, chin quivering. “Tell me it was a peaceful death.”

“It was a courageous death,” Owen said, but Mordecai rushed out. Owen followed, noticing that the mist had lifted. The man sat in a bed of brown pine needles, grabbed two handfuls of pinecones, and brought them to his face. Owen had never seen such a hopeless figure.

Where was Watcher when he needed her?

“Mordecai?” Owen said quietly, hands on the big man's shoulders. “I'm sorry, but we're not safe out here.”

Mordecai rose slowly and followed Owen back inside, wiping his face and sobbing.

“Can I get you anything?” Owen said gently.

Mordecai shook his head. “It is enough to know that my son spent his last moments with you—that he knew the Wormling had come.” He patted Owen on the back. “I'm sure you and your friends were a comfort to him.”

“We tried to be. You can be proud of him.”

Mordecai took a deep breath. “I'm sure my life confused him.”

“I'm sorry?”

“Because I was loyal to the King and then betrayed him.” He lifted his eyes to Owen. “Sometimes I think it would have been better to make a truce with the Dragon than to have an all-out fight. No one wins.”

“I don't understand.”

Mordecai scanned the cave's ceiling. “The book says something about the King knowing the end from the beginning, doesn't it?”

“It is unsearchable,” Owen said. “Inexhaustible. It never ends.”

“And if the King knows everything, he knew I would fail to protect him and his family. He knew I would slip up, that his Son would be taken, and that all these years would pass before you came onto the scene.”

“Which is why I believe the King still loves you and wants you to serve him.”

Mordecai waved. “Not my point. My point is that there is so much pain and difficulty, and this cannot be what the King wants. Look what happened when Bardig went up against Dreadwart. He was killed needlessly.”

“He gave his life for us.”

“But wouldn't it be better for his family if they could have old Bardig around? better to have him when the battle really counted?”

“
The Book of the King
is clear,” Owen said. “We are to allow the Dragon no room to reign.”

“Yes, but isn't your main purpose to find the King's Son and thereby unite the worlds and create peace? Wouldn't it be best to live to see that happen?”

“I believe it will happen, because I've read it in the book.”