Later she might be called upon to deal with the evil advancing upon her country. Whether she stood against that malevolent entity depended on what she gleaned from these brushes with Wulder. Deep in her soul, she knew the beauty and power of Wulder would sustain her if she had to enter into those images of devastation she’d seen in Paladin’s mind. Those visions of destruction could not coexist with the present joy of communion with Him and His servants.
32
The Wizard’s Plan
Fenworth did not take the plate Bealomondore offered. Instead he waved the tumanhofer away. Hollee ate her portion in silence. Her wizard worried her. He’d been thoughtful before, and she knew he pondered many weighty matters. His long stretches of stillness, which ended in a treelike state, she’d come to appreciate. But now a frenzy bubbled beneath his atypical commotion.
He drew on a sketch pad of thin paper and muttered. His pencil flew furiously over a clean page and then lost the energy that drove it. As his hand slowed, his muttering increased, until he tore the page out, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it down. At least two dozen wads clustered around his feet.
Librettowit had walked away once Fenworth became noncommunicative. Hollee couldn’t walk away. Whatever the wizard had on his mind, she wanted to be a part of it. She wouldn’t risk wandering away and missing the action. Her mind churned with possibilities.
Would they go to war, face the invading army at the base of the Mordack Mountains? Her wizard liked his comforts, and he tired easily. Should an old man go into battle?
Her eyes narrowed as she watched him. She believed he had strength and power that didn’t surface until he needed them. Her eyes opened wide. He might stride onto the battleground, wave his walking stick, and poof, the enemy would go up in smoke. Or he might be killed while he tried to remember a particular spell.
Would they enter the cities and proclaim the truth? She loved to listen to Wizard Fenworth talk. If she concentrated, she could follow one thread that went through his discourse. She considered this a talent she had cultivated.
Paying close attention gleaned the most marvelous truths about Wulder and life. Fenworth even revealed how He manipulated elements of the natural world to change. Like a cup of ocean water becoming a handful of salt. That was one of the lessons she’d learned while sifting through a muddled monologue on the ocean’s being a salt mine but fish drawn from the ocean still needing to be salted when cooked.
Though most people would grow impatient as bits of recipes, news of oddities he’d seen, and crumbs of history littered Fenworth’s instruction, Hollee thought it the most stimulating mind game she had ever played.
Would the wizard lead her on a quest to acquire necessary equipment for defeating the enemy? Would they whirl to destinations, gather weapons, and then deliver them to King Yellat’s men-at-arms? She thought not. Her wizard didn’t seem the type to go on an errand.
What was he drawing, and what would be her part in whatever grand scheme developed? How long before fruition came from this frantic plotting? Surely he’d dropped a hint when he did that broad gesture and declared they must think in panoramic terms.
She puzzled over the conversation between her wizard and his librarian at that time.
The statues. Librettowit had said the statues must be reunited. Assurance washed through Hollee. She and the wizard would protect the statues. Perhaps Librettowit as well. She studied Wizard Fenworth’s frenzied drawing and cyclic muttering with confidence. The importance of the statues drove this manic planning. When the wizard came to his conclusions, the project would be elaborate, magnificent, so far beyond exceptional that ordinary people would be stunned.
A shiver of anticipation trembled the soft material of light Hollee wore. She picked up a bite of fish and popped it in her mouth. She grinned as she chewed.
Bealomondore eyed first Paladin sitting with Princess Tipper, then Hollee as she watched the wizard. Librettowit sat under one of the many trees with his nose in a book. He went back and forth between two books of architecture—one on chapels, the other on fortresses. Maxon and Taeda Bel helped Bealomondore clean up after their noonmeal.
He shrugged guilt off his shoulders. He was not much help to the two kimens. He picked up the bowl he’d used to mix batter and handed it to Maxon, the designated dishwasher. Bealomondore glanced at the collection of ingredients left from coating the fish and looked over at Fenworth. Most everything needed to be put back in the wizard’s hollows, but the old man was busy.
With a huge sigh, Bealomondore gave up the pretense of being useful. He strolled to the river, where the water had slowed to a steady pace, almost still. It looked brown, but he knew better. He cupped his hand and dipped it in the river. The liquid was mostly clear with a tinge of green, like a mint wine. Small particles of dark material floated aimlessly about, disparaging the clean feel of it on his fingers. The silt on the bottom gave the river the illusion of a dark color.
He let the water dribble out of his hand and sat down on a log just inches from the edge of the river. He gazed for a while at the flow beside him. Several yards back, the river tumbled over rocks. He could hear the rush of foamy, tumultuous water. There the collection of rubble in the riverbed came to an end, and the water calmed and spilled into this placid pond. The splash and burble contrasted with birds twittering, leaves rustling, and high grasses rubbing with a swishing sound against each other.
The river went on, and Bealomondore believed that his life would go on as well. This place would remain, but its substance changed even as he sat there. Everything living, and even the river that could not actually claim life, would leave.
He picked up a dried leaf from a platter tree that stood nearby. When it first fell from the tree, the leaf had been huge and round, bigger than both Bealomondore’s hands laid side by side. But in drying, the edges had curled inward so that its bowl-like shape covered only one of his palms.
He placed the brown leaf in the water and watched as it edged away from him. A slight current caught the miniature vessel. Its speed increased slightly as it ventured farther from shore. Bealomondore recognized beauty in the way it dipped, swayed, and occasionally twirled as if performing a ballet on the watery stage.
In his youth, he’d chosen to see beauty. His family owned a mine. They personally managed the work done there and grew wealthy from extracting precious ore from the ground. He felt the disdain of his father keenly, but he pursued the desire of his heart. To look up instead of down, to seek splendor instead of money.
The leaf passed beyond his view, disappearing around the swell of land at the center of the river.
Bealomondore surveyed his companions once again. The other tumanhofer still read. Maxon and Taeda Bel had joined Hollee in a kind of vigilance over the wizard. Fenworth had ceased moving. He stared off into the distance with his pencil still poised over the sketch pad. Paladin, Rayn, and Tipper looked content.
Any one of the groups would have made a good composition for a painting. Even Librettowit, with his nose in the book and only his forehead showing over the top, would have been an interesting study.
Bealomondore’s heart squeezed in his chest. Looming beyond this idyllic scene, an army advanced on the life he loved. He shivered as a slight breeze lifted the hair on his arms. Did the air carry despair? Did he smell the blood soaking into the ground where brave men died? Did he hear the moans of those who would never stand again?
He picked up a handful of dirt and let the excess pour off the sides of his palm as he unclenched his fingers. Grains of sand in various colors mixed with richer soil. One clump contained a sprig that once was a stem and petal of a tiny flower. If he rubbed it between his finger and thumb, the transformation would be complete. A thing of beauty decayed and disseminated to nourish another thing of beauty as it grew.
As an artist, he’d trained himself to notice small things, to see detail, honor beauty, and grasp it in his hand, allowing the structure to flow through his fingertips into the implem
ent of his art. The pen, the pencil, or the brush carried the image to paper or canvas. He recorded symmetry, oblique lines, light, shadow, form. Now that he knew of Wulder, all his art expressed what he learned about the Creator.
He scooped up another fistful of soil, tilted his hand, and watched the dirt cascade to the ground. Nothing was as simple as it first appeared. Nothing remained unchanged, unmoved.
Bealomondore studied the wizard. Leaves, bark, and stems now formed an integral part of the man’s image. A plan was developing under that absurd hat that now sprouted a flowering vine. From the things the old man had said, Bealomondore felt sure the wizard would take charge of the three statues.
He would be relieved of the responsibility of keeping Day’s Deed out of harm’s way. He glanced around at his companions. Because he’d been in the company of these people, because he’d met Wulder, he could not turn from this awful duty and go back to the life of an aspiring artist.
He looked downriver, but the leaf had passed beyond his sight. He feared he would travel to places where beauty perished.
33
What to Do? What to Do?
Yelling like shrieking losibirds, intruders crashed through the bushes. The noise sent blood rushing to Bealomondore’s head. He pulled his sword and twisted to face the attackers. He had time to recognize the crew from the boat stop.
So they hadn’t given up and returned to the way station. I would have, he thought just before one of the mariones targeted him.
The Sword of Valor slashed forward and interrupted a downward swing meant to do him bodily harm. He pushed with all his might and turned the blade away. Jumping aside as Maxon and Taeda Bel had taught him, he managed a backward swing. His sword sliced the attacker’s midriff. The man fell, and Bealomondore turned his attention to a bisonbeck roaring toward him.
Paladin rushed into the fray. He cut off the second renegade bearing down on the artist. Rayn dived from above and spit in the eyes of the enemy. Librettowit charged down the hill, bellowing a tumanhofer war cry, “About, you fiends!”
Bealomondore saw Tipper frantically scooting backward. She used her booted foot to propel her. Taeda Bel stood between her mistress and a charging foe. The tumanhofer artist raced to intercept the villain.
Tipper yelled, “Be careful!”
Of course he aimed to be careful. He wanted to tell her to take cover but didn’t have the time. He pinned his attention on the marione he opposed at the moment.
The young man, who had pretended to be the son of the owner, fought with vigor but not much skill. The tumanhofer worked to keep from stabbing the fellow with a fatal blow. Injuring Danto Posh so that he could no longer fight was Bealomondore’s goal.
The chaos around him grew less frenzied as Librettowit and Paladin downed their opponents.
“Give it up,” said Bealomondore to Danto. “I’ve no wish to kill you.”
With a panicked look around him, the young marione saw that he alone still stood from his party. He cast a glance behind him, where Librettowit now blocked a retreat.
“Don’t run,” commanded Paladin. “Talk to me.”
Danto lowered his weapon.
“Drop it,” said Paladin.
The marione’s knuckles turned white before he loosened his grip and let his sword fall.
Bealomondore heard a rustling behind him and jumped to defend himself. Wizard Fenworth stood a few feet away on the bank of the river. Leaves and vines still clung to his garments. The wizard scowled.
“Pesky invaders. They disturbed my deliberations.” He shook his head as if clearing something from his brain. The usual multitude of tiny bugs flew out of his hair and beard. “No matter. I have a plan completely formed and ready to implement.”
“Really?” Librettowit snorted. “Completely? Ha!”
Bealomondore cleaned his sword and sheathed it. The bisonbeck lying at his feet groaned. Librettowit glared at him.
Fenworth stretched out a hand, pointing at the downed warrior. “So untidy, leaving bodies all around.” He snapped the fingers of his other hand, and the man disappeared.
Bealomondore gulped. He looked at Danto and saw the marione’s eyes widen as his face paled.
The wizard repeated his pointing and finger snapping until only Danto Posh remained of the outfit from the boat stop. The captive’s eyes darted from one of the wizard’s companions to the next. Bealomondore thought he would jump out of his skin.
The tumanhofer artist took a firm grip of Danto’s sleeve.
“Are you going to kill me? Am I a prisoner?” Danto Posh jabbed a finger at the spots where his comrades had fallen. “Where’d they go?” His body jittered, and his tongue kept spewing out questions. “Who are you? You’re not regular citizens of Chiril. You don’t look like an army unit. Who are you?”
Fenworth wagged his head. “Talks too much.”
A long snake slid out from under the wizard’s robe and shot across the grass toward the marione captive. The man screeched. Bealomondore lifted his sword, but the snake shot past him and disappeared into the pond.
Fenworth’s scowl grew deeper, and he wagged his head again. “I can’t abide the excitable people on this side of the globe, Librettowit. I think we should go home.”
“In all fairness,” said his librarian, “the people of Amara also tend to shriek and holler under snakish situations.”
“Quite.”
“And Wulder would not have us leave before our task is done.”
The wizard patted his stomach. “Did we have refreshments?”
“We did,” said Hollee. “I saved you some.”
“What a good kimen you are.” He smiled benevolently at them all. “I shall eat, then be on my way. Librettowit, I shall ask you to accompany me on this urgent venture.”
The librarian closed his eyes, as if drawing on inner strength. “It’s not a quest, is it?”
“No, a building project.” Wizard Fenworth beamed and gave his tumanhofer friend a wink. “And the outside is already made.”
Librettowit sighed. “I’ll go.”
“Me too,” said Hollee.
“Of course,” said the wizard.
Hollee frowned. “Where did you send those others?”
“An island. A pleasant sort of place. A few hungry predators, but other than that, a wonderful vacation spot. I deemed those fellows to be too intense, in need of hours and hours of peaceful meditation. I daresay they shan’t bother us again.”
He turned to address Paladin. “You wanted to question this man?”
“Yes.”
“He’s likely to tell you a lot of nonsense.”
“I’m expecting that.”
“Well, if you venture into his mind, try to avoid the self-righteous rigmarole. It’s sticky stuff and can ruin your attitude.”
“I will avoid all rigmarole, sir.”
“Where’s this leftover fish, Hollee? We’ve got whirling to do. But first I must eat.”
Librettowit followed Hollee as she led the way to the campfire. The branches had settled into a bed of coals.
“Just right for warming buns. A bit of jam and nordy rolls.” He searched his hollows and brought out a lumpy cloth bag.
“Yes,” said Fenworth. “Hollee, you are going to like nordy rolls.”
Bealomondore handed Danto Posh over to Paladin and sat on the boulder next to Tipper to watch the interrogation.
Paladin clamped a hand on the shorter man’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. “You will tell me the truth.”
Danto Posh nodded.
“Who sent you to the boat stop?”
“My mother”—at the second word he drooled an oily black substance with his speech—“bought the boat stop, and we came together.”
Danto wiped the slime from his chin and looked at it in horror. “What is this?”
“Why don’t you tell me the truth and see if it goes away?”
Danto gulped, then made a horrible face as if he had swallowed something foul. He r
ubbed his mouth on his sleeve.
Blinking his eyes rapidly, he began again. “Things are pretty bad back home—”
“Where is back home?”
“Baardack.”
“Continue.”
“And I got this opportunity for some work. So I took it.”
Bealomondore watched carefully. So far nothing more oozed from Danto’s mouth.
“A job?” asked Paladin.
Danto nodded.
“An honest job?”
He nodded again with his lips clamped together. He barely kept the black bile in his mouth for two seconds before he gagged and spit it out.
He glared at Paladin. “What are you doing to me?”
Paladin shrugged. “I’m not doing a thing. You’re the one who controls what comes out of your mouth.”
Danto sputtered. “This is impossible.”
“Why don’t you tell me about the job you were hired to do?”
Posh heaved in a deep breath and let it out slowly, taking the time to examine those watching. Bealomondore gave him a supportive nod when their eyes met.
The artist felt sympathy for the man’s confusion. Dealing with Fenworth, Verrin Schope, and Paladin had often left the tumanhofer befuddled.
“It’s better to accept,” he said by way of encouragement, “that the ruler of these people is much more powerful than your King Odidoddex.”
“King Yellat?” Danto sounded doubtful.
“No,” said Paladin. “I serve Wulder, and He doesn’t like deception.”
Danto looked like he would ask another question but thought better of it.
Paladin guided him over to a fallen log. “Have a seat. Have you eaten lately? I know that bile leaves an awful taste in your mouth. Perhaps Taeda Bel and Tipper will fix you something to eat while we have a pleasant conversation.”
Tipper rose to her feet and exclaimed, “The pain is gone! All gone.” She tapped her foot on the ground. “I’ll have to find my boot. Where is it, Taeda Bel?”
Taeda Bel jumped up and turned a somersault in the air. The kimen grabbed Tipper’s high top shoe and helped her get it on and laced. They went off together toward the campfire.
Dragons of the Valley Page 20
