Serpent's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 3)

by D J Salisbury

  “What’d it say, kid?”

  “You do beautiful work.” He’d never had the slightest doubt on that count.

  Tsai’dona sighed.

  “I told you I was meant to join this quest, toad.” If Lorel puffed up any more, her head would explode. He’d never met such a braggart. “I just wish I was as good with my swords as I am with carving knives.”

  Hmm. Maybe she hadn’t intended to brag.

  “The swordling shall become a superior warrior.”

  Lorel grinned.

  The Kyridon rested its head in the sand. “This one is apprehensive the remaining stages of the quest may not be as successful.”

  He reached out and stroked its head. “You know we’ll give your weapons everything we have.”

  The serpent nodded. “This one appreciates the hatchling’s collaboration. But the sproutlings are unfledged. This one fears the schedule is insufficient for the implementation of education. This one does not believe in miracles.”

  “You don’t need no miracles, toad.” Lorel rubbed a suede polishing cloth over the flute. “Just you believe in us. Even if you had yourself a full wizard and a couple of warlords, chances run they wouldn’t never believe you, or even listen to you. You’re better off with us.”

  The Kyridon tilted its head and studied her. It scrutinized Viper and Tsai’dona, and nodded slowly. “Time is the quest’s foremost constraint. The sproutlings must mature more rapidly than is salubrious. This one mourns for them.” The serpent slithered away into the darkness.

  Lorel glanced at Viper and shrugged.

  He shrugged back. Of course he knew they were running out of time. He worried about it daily. But there was so much left to do.

  Tsai’dona clutched her mending to her chest. “It didn’t make any sense.”

  “It never does.” Lorel slid the polishing cloth up and down the flute rhythmically. “No point in listening to it most of the time.”

  Viper shook his head slowly. The serpent wasn’t being obtuse on purpose, he was sure. It just didn’t communicate well.

  Why should it mourn the fact that kids grew up?

  For now, all he could do was finish his pair of weapons. He picked up the broadsword and began carving another mountain on its blade.

  ***

  The next morning Lorel announced, “I’m finished with the flute.”

  He’d figured that out last night.

  The turtle turd completely ignored the blowing rain. For that matter, so did Tsai’dona, who was saddling her little mare. He planned to get inside where it was dry as soon as he talked them into leaving. His serdil-pelt cloak was already soaked.

  Lorel crossed her arms and pouted at him. “I can’t do no more until your magic potion works on the seahorn.” The turybird wasn’t wearing a coat, only a light jacket. Didn’t she ever feel the cold?

  The rain felt like ice pellets peppering his face.

  “It’s not magic,” he muttered, but he knew neither girl was listening. “We’re low on supplies. Go hunting. Bring back anything that looks edible, but don’t taste it until I clear it.”

  Both of them had gotten good at scavenging, though fresh food seemed beyond either of them. He’d go hunting for greens when the weather cleared.

  Lorel whooped and dashed to grab her saddle. “I’ll go north if Tsai’s willing to go south.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Tsai’dona mounted and galloped off in a spray of wet sand.

  Viper shook out his cloak, and ducked behind the wagon until Lorel rode away, too. He was so tired of sand in his hair.

  The ghost – no, Frederick – materialized upon the driver’s bench. “You’ll need a ceremony to awaken the weapons. Have you planned it yet?”

  “A ceremony?” He climbed up to the bench, slid under the door, and hung his soggy cloak on a peg. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  The Kyridon peered down from the top bunk. “This one doubts a ritual is obligatory.”

  Frederick oozed through the hard wood of the door. “Ceremonies make the magic stronger. Helps to direct it.”

  Viper’s stomach writhed. He could barely concentrate on the ghost’s words. “Must you move through solid surfaces?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?” The ghost raised its eyebrows, but his face broke into a grin. “It’s fun. And it’s hilarious to see the expression on your face.”

  “Why does the magician’s spirit believe that a ritual may enhance the hatchling’s magic?”

  Frederick sighed. “You are such a one-pony chariot. A ceremony – any kind of magical showmanship, for that matter – focuses the practitioner on the desired result, and leads the audience to concentrate any magic they contain into the spell. Simply constructing the ceremony forces the mage to plan ahead.”

  “By which the hatchling shall be assisted enormously.” The serpent tilted its head. “Preparation is not the hatchling’s strength.”

  Viper crossed his arms. “Not fair. I’ve been preparing to awaken the weapons for lunars.”

  “Had you noticed the boy is a chanter?” Frederick sat down on the bench behind the door, where Tsai’dona usually slept. The girl would lay a bahtdor egg if she knew. Viper didn’t plan to tell her. She’d probably insist on sleeping outside in the rain.

  “The hatchling prefers verbal enchantments?” The serpent turned its head completely upside down and stared at him like he was some exotic specimen. “This one is indebted. This one had not discerned said preference.”

  “So what if I like chants?” He sat on Lorel’s bed and started to take his boots off, but changed his mind. His stump wasn’t nearly that wet. “Does chanting make me less of a sorcerer?”

  Less of a sorcerer? Thunderer’s dice. He was only a second-level sorcerer, an untested third-level at best. How could he possibly invoke magic strong enough to create powerful weapons?

  Frederic waved his hands dismissively. “Not at all. It gives you a strength to work from while you plan the ceremony.”

  “Except that I don’t know what I’ll need to do.” Another thought hit him, and his stomach sank. “I don’t even know what I’ll need to know for the spell.”

  The Kyridon peered over the edge of the upper mattress. “This one has mentioned that the hatchling will require mage fire.”

  He shuddered. All of his experiments with mage fire had gone wonky. Either he only produced light, or he nearly killed himself accessing the power to awaken fire.

  “You’ll need to summon ghosts, too.” Frederick propped his chin on his transparent hands. “One for each of the weapons.”

  Blast. All he needed was to be overrun with angry spirits. At least his experiment with Trevor’s ghost had gone well. As long as RedAdder’s ghost didn’t show up, the summoning should go easily. “I can handle that.”

  “Which spell did the hatchling use to invite the spirit this one sensed?”

  Oh, no. He wasn’t about to tell the serpent about Trevor. But maybe he could be vague about it. “The simplest summoning spell in RedAdder’s grimoire.”

  “This one is pleased the hatchling overcame its reluctance to utilize the wizard’s grimoire.” The Kyridon pulled its head back up to the top bunk.

  “I’m not.” Frederick leaned forward. “That’s an evil book. He shouldn’t touch it, much less study it.”

  Both of them were making him nervous. To change the subject, he hobbled to his treasure cupboard and pulled out the triangular object he’d found several days ago. “Do either of you know what this is?”

  Frederick gasped, or pretended to gasp, since he didn’t look terribly surprised. “A shark’s tooth. One of the biggest I’ve ever seen. Warriors of the ocean, sharks are.”

  A shark? He’d seen drawing of sharks in the Sedra-Kei library. All he remembered about the fish was it had way too many teeth.

  “If the Ocean Warrior is deceased, its spirit will significantly strengthen the seahorn’s power.” The serpent wrapped its tail around the far edge of his mattress and s
wung its snout close to the tooth, but quickly backed away when the bedding curled upward. “This one is unable to detect a connection with a living creature.”

  “That doesn’t mean it’s dead.” Frederick leaned back until he was sprawled over the bench. “As easily as sharks loose teeth, that one could be old enough to lose any link without the beast needing to die.”

  These turybirds wanted him to invoke an over-toothed warrior? Not if he could avoid it. “I had planned to call on the Hreshith who – donated, if that’s the right word, the spine for the seahorn.”

  The Kyridon shook its head. “The hatchling would be extraordinarily imprudent to utilize any Hreshith spirit. The potency of a Hreshith life force is overwhelming.”

  Thunderer. And he thought just calling on old bones had been bad. After his fiasco with the fire, he didn’t want to meet with a potent ghost.

  It looked like he was stuck with a shark. He shuddered and stored the tooth away.

  Chapter 23.

  Cold wind whipped inside Viper’s fur hood, chilling his ears. He needed the cold. His temper was at the edge of boiling. “Don’t be stubborn, turybird.”

  If only Tsai’dona were here to distract the overgrown chunk of bahtdor bait. But she’d gone foraging, and he didn’t expect her back for hours. He was on his own this morning.

  “Come on, don’t be stubborn, Loom lint.” Lorel hovered over him like a black-haired thundercloud, all dark looks and noise, with a promise of lightning. The Thunderer would adore this turybird. “At least let me test it.”

  “Ten days aren’t up yet.” He fought to keep his face serene. Arguing with her was like tacking into the north wind. Only evasive action worked, but he was running out of ploys.

  “No, only nine and a half days are up.” She shoved her hands on her hips and glared down at him. “You’re still mad at me. After all this time, you’re still trying to get back at me for punching you.”

  “I am not.” He’d long since gotten over her insult to his dignity. More or less. He rolled the broadsword off his lap and stood up. “I just want it to be right. If you bend it and it breaks, you’ll kill me.”

  If she broke it, she’d need to make a different weapon. And they only had two days left until the spring equinox. He pushed that thought away.

  “I won’t. I swear it.” Lorel put her fist to her forehead and held it there. Where had she picked up a Fedan salute?

  It didn’t matter. Whatever he said, he’d lose this battle. He shrugged and sighed. “It’s your work. Do whatever you want.”

  “Sing to the Weaver.” She galloped over to the trough and shoveled the coals away from the sides with a flat chunk of driftwood.

  He groaned and plodded after her.

  She flung back the bone lids and stuck her hands into the reddish-black liquid.

  Vinegar fumes seethed out of the trough. Viper coughed and stepped back. Even at this distance, tears poured down his face.

  Lorel didn’t seem to notice the stench, though her eyes watered, too. How could she breath, leaning over the hot potion like that?

  More importantly, what would she think of his chemistry experiment?

  She carefully lifted the spine out of the vinegar bath. Thick red liquid dripped from it, but the seahorn itself glistened a dark sea green. Lorel’s eyes widened. “It’s green!” Her hands convulsed, and she fumbled the spine, nearly dropping it, but grabbed it before it fell back into the vinegar.

  Viper laughed. He’d hoped for that reaction. “That was my potion, more than the vinegar. The ocean’s weapon should be sea green.”

  “Shuttle on the Loom.” She admired the color for a moment. “It’s perfect. I’m gonna see if I can bend it.”

  He swallowed hard and held his breath. If they’d had more time, he’d have told her fifteen days, just to be sure the spine would be flexible enough. If only they had more time. He wasn’t ready. For anything.

  She took a deep breath and began to curl the bone at the thicker end, beginning a foot from the head-shaped bell. The spine bent slowly, and it did not break. Praise the Thunderer.

  Lorel crowed like a turybird on its first mating hunt. “This is it, kid!” She laid the seahorn across the trough, bent down, and hugged him hard, stinky hands and all. “I’m gonna finish this thing.”

  “There’s just one problem.” He wiggled out of her bear hug. Squirming free might be an insult, but she was mashing his ribs. “It’s already uncurling.”

  She shrugged and turned back to the instrument. Yup, he’d offended her. “Go get me some rags. I’ll tie it together until it dries hard. And if that don’t work, you’ll figure a way to make it stay.”

  Send him on an errand, would she? Unfortunately, complying would be faster than arguing with her. And he had too much work to finish before the equinox.

  He limped back to the wagon, considering the problem. Serdil pelt strips might work best. Leather would contract as it dried, holding the loops tighter, and the fur would protect the carvings from being crushed. He hoped.

  He dragged a driftwood log behind the wagon to serve as a step stool, rummaged through the middle trunk, pulled out several long strips of hide, and slung them over his shoulder. The turybird’s obsession with serdil pelts would be useful, after all.

  Something nudged him in the middle of his back.

  “I’m working on it, turybird,” he growled without turning around.

  Nightshade’s long black head slid over his shoulder and peered into the trunk.

  Viper jumped, and laughed sheepishly. “There’s nothing in here for you, horse. Go off and play or I’ll put you to work.”

  The young stallion nickered softly and nudged him again.

  “All right, have it your way.” He closed the trunk, turned around on his driftwood stepstool, and swung his leg over the horse’s back. The stallion’s thick fur warmed the insides of his thighs and calves, even through his serdil-leather trousers. Maybe riding wasn’t so bad.

  Nightshade danced away from the wagon.

  He clutched at the black mane. “Easy, you.” Thunderer protect him. He hadn’t sat on a horse since he left Zedista, and he’d only done it one miserable time even then. “Slow down before I fall off. Thunderer’s dice, this was a dumb idea. Lorel!”

  The young horse plunged forward and settled into a fast canter.

  He clung to the mane and tried to wrap his legs around the muscular neck. “Stop! Halt! Whoa! Help!”

  Nightshade ignored him and cantered onward, but the horse turned toward Lorel. Praise the Thunderer, the monster splashed through the brook beside their camp instead of jumping it. He’d be rolling in the sand if the creature bounced any more.

  “Whatcha doing up there, kid?” She laid the partially curled spine on the trough and walked over to rub Nightshade’s nose. “Sure enough you don’t know how to ride.”

  The horse snorted and backed away from her vinegary hands.

  Viper gripped the black mane even tighter. “Stop that!”

  “Oops, sorry, my lad.” She rubbed her palms down her jacket front. “I’m stinky, and all green, too.”

  “Don’t worry about that. Just get me down.” Seeing the top of her head felt odd. In fact, it made him feel even shorter than he usually did. “Make him stand still for a minute so I can fall off without getting smashed.”

  Lorel laughed. “Don’t fall off, turtle brain. Hold on to his mane and slide off. Nightshade won’t step on you.”

  “You can say that.” He huffed and grumbled, but succeeded in sliding off without further damaging his person or his dignity. It was a thundering long way to the ground. What had possessed him to climb on that long-legged whirlwind?

  The rotten chunk of bahtdor bait tried to hide a smirk by leaning into the horse’s neck. “I gotta teach you how to ride, kid.”

  He shuddered and limped toward the uncoiling seahorn. “No thank you. Not as long as I have the wagon.”

  “It won’t be there forever.” She stroked Nightshade�
��s back, brushing off sand and loose fur. “What if there’s an emergency?”

  The turybird would come up with a good reason. But it would take a major disaster before he got up on a horse again. “Maybe after the weapons are all finished.”

  She touched her honor sword. “We’ll do it.” She swatted Nightshade playfully, sending him prancing away. “I gotta ride him more. I gotta take the time to ride him.” She watched the stallion run, affection in her eyes. She shook herself and turned back to him. “Why’d you bring serdil hide? You think them strips’ll be strong enough?”

  “Absolutely.” He limped back to the stream. “I need to soak them for a couple minutes first. When they dry, they’ll tighten and stiffen, and hold all the loops in place. Bring along the seahorn and rinse it off before you commit yourself. It reeks of vinegar.”

  She followed him to the stream, rinsed the instrument, and sat on the sand beside their campfire. “Likely it always will stink.”

  It better not. Magical weapons shouldn’t smell of something as prosaic as spoiled wine. If the ceremony didn’t burn off the stench, he’d figure out some other way.

  Lorel finished bending the horn while he soaked the leather. She had him wrap a strip here, another there, and soon she had an amazing series of loops bends, and spirals. In spite of the furry restraints and the fingering holes on its back, the seahorn looked like a living, coiled sea snake.

  “Thunderdrums!” Viper shook his head – and kept his distance. It looked too much like a real snake for comfort, even with its wide-open mouth. Maybe because of the mouth. Praise the Thunderer she hadn’t added any teeth. “That is incredible.”

  Lorel grinned and bowed theatrically.

  The Kyridon raised its head from the driver’s bench. “This one lauds the swordling.”

  He hadn’t noticed it up there. How long had it been watching them?