One Realm Beyond (Realm Walkers)

by Donita K. Paul

Bixby did her best to remain still, but restless energy filled her after Dukmee left the table to make his preparations for their mission. He’d made it clear that the men and Bixby would be in the way, but the more time passed, the more she fidgeted. How could she learn if she sat with those who merely passed the time? Cantor and the others seemed content to sit around the table, eating a bit here and there, talking a lot, and waiting.

  Enough of this. Bixby slid from her stool and followed Dukmee into his workroom. Again she noted the endless shelves filled with jars and boxes of who-knew-what. A table in the middle of the room provided a place to mix his potions. Stools of various heights supplied the only seats.

  She took one that looked out of the way. Dukmee glanced up but said nothing.

  She watched him with his herbs and oils, hoping to learn more of the healing arts. After a while, she ventured a question. His answer shook loose an avalanche of further inquiries, until he refused to answer any more and started growling at her when she opened her mouth. She tried again to enter his thoughts, but he threw her a warning glance. Soon after, she switched tiaras to aid her perspicacity. So she watched, just watched, no mind probing. But her mind categorized every move he made, every bottle or bag he picked up. She filed away hours’ worth of intriguing information.

  Many of the herbs he put in a mortar and ground with a pestle. Her offer of help was ignored. He heated the oil above a little contraption that resembled a lantern without the glass globe over the flame. He mixed the crushed herbs in the oil and then stirred that concoction into a bottle of fluid.

  “What’s in there?” she asked, risking his haughty glare.

  The healer surprised her with an answer. “Water.”

  Pleased that he’d answered her question, she asked another. “What does the concoction do?”

  “Causes something to be invisible. A pity I don’t have one that renders vocal cords silent.”

  “Oh, come now.” Bixby sighed. She couldn’t suppress the desire to tease him. “You know you’re as pleased as doodle-bugs in the warm sun. I’m a promising pupil. I have gifts that astound you. You’ve been itching to reveal the secrets of your trade ever since you recognized my potential.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do.” She jumped down and moved to a high stool closer to the table where the healer straightened his equipment. “It is as it always is. I’m introduced to a mentor of one kind or another. They test me in whatever way pleases them. They’re amazed. Shortly thereafter, the poor master suffers from flabbergastation.”

  Dukmee paused a moment in reorganizing his materials. “The symptoms of flabbergastation being . . .?”

  “The victim presents speechless intervals, with a decided glaze of dumbfoundedness marring his normally intelligent expression.”

  “I see.” The healer went back to his work.

  “As I was saying, in the beginning, zeal frizzles, snaps, zings, jazzes in the heart and mind of the learned one. He or she can’t wait to have me under his or her tutelage.”

  “And what blights this happy union?”

  “In every case, they discover I am somewhat incorrigible, and their fervor dies in a flood of exasperation.” She cocked her head to one side and lifted her shoulders in a dismissive shrug. “I got sent home. More than once.”

  Dukmee snapped the clasps shut on three wooden boxes he’d finished packing with various containers from his shelves. “Couldn’t you endeavor to break the trend? You could choose not to be incorrigible. Isn’t your goal to stay longer and learn more?”

  “The problem is I get bored. The first weeks go very well.” She picked a bottle, read the label, then pulled out the stopper to smell it.

  Making a face, she recapped it and replaced it on the shelf. “When I’ve read everything in the master’s library and he’s lectured until I’m at wit’s end . . . well, I start asking questions and trying unapproved experiments without supervision and generally make a nuisance of myself.”

  “So you’ve now come to the age of eighteen and discovered you’re destined to be a realm walker?”

  Bixby didn’t reply. She had a great many answers she could give, but she guarded this part of her life. Not many people knew of her extraordinary talents, and she liked it like that. People could be so weird when she changed the color of a piece of cloth. And she could do things much more astonishing than dye manipulation.

  Yes, she could easily become a realm walker. She saw the portals that most people could not see. Sometimes she could even hear them. And once, it felt as though she had called one into being, although she told no one that tale. Being labeled lunamatory would further hinder her attempts at being respected.

  The problem was so many other things besides realm walking appealed to her sense of adventure. Challenging projects drew her interest. Intriguing, mysterious crimes practically roped, tied, and dragged her into the process of solving the puzzle. She also liked art, but that was a hobby. At this moment, the healer’s skill looked enticing.

  “How does this concoction work?” she asked.

  “The old book in which I found the formula did not explain the chemistry of the potion that alters the physics of the cloth. If we had more time, I would make a huge batch, submerge our clothing, and dry them. The effect lasts a great deal longer when done that way. But since the hour is drawing near for our exploit, I’ll use the atomizer. We’ll be covered from head to toe, veil, gloves, and a long cloak.”

  Bixby considered his answer. Instead of a terse reply, he’d explained. Why? Because he didn’t want her to know something else. He focused her attention on something that wasn’t important to keep her from exploring a line of thought that would lead her to something he preferred to keep under wraps. What?

  She squinted and studied the healer. If only he would let her into his mind.

  “Not today.” He winked at her.

  “What are you hiding?”

  “I just don’t believe in letting strangers roam around in my mind.”

  She sat up straighter and tried to make her four-foot frame look intimidating. “You’re hiding something.”

  He returned her gaze, dark eyes latched onto hers. “Aren’t we all? Especially you, Miss D’Mazeline.”

  Well, that hadn’t gotten her anywhere.

  Cantor stepped through the door. “Are we ready to go? The brothers are getting restless.”

  Dukmee held up a fist-sized bottle. A tube with a bulb at the end extended from the container’s metal top. “I’ll spritz Bixby’s clothing and my own. Then, we’ll be on our way.”

  Bixby flashed her brightest smile. “Why not make us all invisible?”

  Dukmee again held the bottle aloft. “I only have enough potion for two.”

  Crouched behind three garbage containers and a wooden crate, Cantor looked over his shoulder. The alley afforded little shelter. The wooden crate was Bridger being useful as additional cover to hide behind. The brothers had gone ahead with Dukmee.

  A warm breath tickled the hairs on Cantor’s neck. Bixby peered over his shoulder, though he couldn’t see her.

  “I can hear you breathing; I know you’re there.”

  “Where else would I be?” She shifted, her boots scooting gravel beneath their soles. “Dukmee told us to stay here and wait for his signal.”

  “You don’t have to crowd me. You don’t have to hide. You’re invisible.”

  “Oh . . . right. I’m invisible.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, and she clutched the cloth of his sleeve, giving his arm a shake. “That’s it. The signal.”

  Cantor pulled away from her hand. Feeling contact without seeing anything gave him goose bumps. “What signal?”

  “Dukmee says to move into position.”

  “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “He’s talking in my head.”

  Cantor could think of nothing to say. Dukmee, the healer, talked to Bixby, the novice realm walker, in her head? Neither Ahma nor Odem had ever said a
nything about people talking without talking. First Bridger spoke to him at the farm, but that was understandable. The dragon was trying to prove that he could be Cantor’s constant.

  After bonding, after years of being together, man and dragon constants read each other’s minds. That was his understanding.

  Since arriving in Effram, Cantor’s thoughts had skittered from one surprising idea to another. With so much information to process, he hadn’t latched on to this wordless communication as something common among certain people. Bixby certainly acted like it was nothing peculiar. So perhaps Bridger’s communication with him at the farm was not so extraordinary. Perhaps it meant nothing. He hoped it meant nothing.

  It didn’t mean he would be stuck with this buffoon of a dragon. As soon as they finished the rescue, he’d make some excuse and detach himself from this motley crew, the whimsical girl, the know-it-all healer, and the boorish dragon.

  Their adventure invigorated his heartbeat, and this realm walker venture was nothing like the staid problem solving he’d expected. Ahma and Odem had never mentioned daring rescues perpetrated under the noses of a region’s lawful, albeit corrupt, authorities.

  He felt a small push against his back.

  “Let’s go,” said Bixby.

  Cantor shook himself out of his stupor, put a hand on the big crate, and said, “Let’s go, Bridger.”

  The wooden box glided forward, making a lot less noise than the dragon did in his own form. At the end of the alley, when Bridger abruptly stopped, Cantor and Bixby paused.

  Cantor leaned sideways and peered around the box. Two men stood talking under a lantern next to the barracks gate.

  “Two? I thought Dukmee said a solitary soldier stood guard at each checkpoint.” Cantor pulled back behind Bridger. “I suppose with the conscripted men in the barracks, they’re taking extra precautions.”

  Bixby’s voice whispered at his shoulder. “Or it’s the changing of the guard. But whatever the case, we’re fine. I’ll take care of them.”

  Cantor’s ear tickled from her breath, so he stuck a finger in the hole and wiggled away the uncomfortable feeling. “How are you going to do that?”

  “We were in such a hurry to leave, Dukmee didn’t get a chance to tell you the particulars of his plan.”

  “Or,” said Cantor, allowing sarcasm to spice his words, “he didn’t think we needed to know. He’s got a pretty arrogant manner.”

  “I won’t fight with you on that one. Right now he’s urging us to hurry. When the guards fall, go for the gate.”

  He heard the slight swish of clothing and knew Bixby had gone ahead. He watched the guards. One man looked astonished as the other fell like a rock to the ground. Then his eyes bugged, and he too collapsed. Wondering what Bixby had done, Cantor urged Bridger forward. “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Bridger made a wood-twisting-against-wood sound. Cantor answered the crate’s unspoken question. “I’ll explain later.”

  Exasperated alarm rattled his thoughts. No, I can’t be so in tune with this crazy dragon, this wooden box, that I know what he’s thinking. It’s too soon, and . . . No! not and. This dragon is not my dragon. I haven’t chosen a dragon yet. I’m not even going to travel with these people after tonight.

  One guard’s shoulders lifted from the ground with his head lolling back. Cantor dashed forward to help Bixby drag the unconscious man into the shadows. Then they pulled the other man out of the way.

  Bridger, as a crate, was too big to go through the gate. He transformed into himself, then leaned down and sniffed the man closest to him. “What did you do to the guards?”

  Cantor heard Bixby move, then heard her voice. “Dukmee says they’ll sleep until morning and then wake up with a headache.” A bottle floated in front of Cantor and Bridger. “This is something Dukmee gave me. I wave it under — ”

  Bridger thrust his face forward, and his nose passed over the uncorked bottle.

  “No!” squealed Bixby.

  “What?” Bridger looked puzzled.

  “Did you smell it?” Bixby’s voice trembled.

  “Sure,” said the dragon, his word slurring. “It smells baaa . . . ”

  Cantor grabbed Bridger’s arm as the dragon’s big eyes rolled upward. He broke the creature’s fall and gave Bixby a glare.

  “What is that stuff?”

  “It’s a potion that makes whoever sniffs it black out.”

  “The guards dropped like stones. Bridger held out for a moment. Maybe it won’t last until morning.”

  “We’d better find the others and get those men out of the lockup.” A cork came out of nowhere and jammed into the bottle’s neck. “You and I alone could never carry a full-grown, incapacitated dragon.”

  Cantor searched the corners and dark shadows. “Where’s his cat?”

  “The cat won’t help haul the dragon.”

  “But she can stand watch while we’re busy elsewhere.” Cantor picked up Bridger’s feet and started to pull him toward some crates. “Get his tail and help pull.”

  “Is it all right to pull a dragon’s tail?”

  “When he’s drugged, I think it’s safe.”

  “Right.” The tail rose in the air. “I hope he doesn’t snore. He doesn’t need to attract attention.”

  Cantor nodded to the hiding place they’d chosen. “There’s the cat.”

  They tugged a little more and hid Bridger in the dark shadows behind the crates.

  “Here, Jesha,” said Bixby. “Here, kitty, kitty. Come keep your dragon out of trouble while we’re away.”

  The cat, with tail high, sauntered over and sat next to Bridger’s snout. Her regal stance looked like a lion statue next to the entrance of a palace.

  Cantor shook his head at the sight. “Come on. Let’s go.”

  THE MEN IN THE BARRACKS

  Dukmee crept forward, his slow, even breaths hot against his face beneath the veil he wore over his hooded cloak. Invisibility was never a comfortable situation — too close and too warm for his taste. Inside the barrack’s walls, the buildings scrunched together in the manner of a small town. Narrow streets and even tighter alleys crisscrossed between the shabby and shabbier structures. Behind Dukmee, the two farmers trailed him closely, watching a small rod he held for them to see. When Dukmee paused to get his bearings, Ruese stepped on his heel.

  “Ouch.”

  Ruese jerked back.

  Dukmee hopped on one foot, reaching down to replace the shoe that had slipped off when the farmer’s big boot scraped against his heel. He scowled at Ruese, hoping the fine kid leather hadn’t been scarred. He’d chosen this pair for their silent tread, not sturdiness. He hadn’t chosen these men at all, and they had proven to be clumsy, not silent. They looked sturdy, but they hadn’t been tested against the King’s Guard.

  In the dimly lit passages, Lem bumped into his brother. “Hey, Ruese! I can’t be running into you like that. The guards will hear us.”

  “Tell him.” Ruese pointed in front of him and gingerly explored the space ahead with an outstretched hand. “I can’t see when he stops sudden-like.”

  Dukmee spoke softly to the two farmers, “Quiet. We’ll remain here for a moment while I survey the route ahead.”

  Lem, the father of the kidnapped boy, touched his cap and bobbed his head as if acknowledging someone from a higher class. “Right. We’ll wait for you here.”

  Dukmee frowned and shook his head. Remembering that Lem couldn’t see his gestures, he spoke. “You don’t have to be subservient to me, Lem.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t tip your hat,” explained Ruese.

  Lem shook his head. “I didn’t.”

  “You touched the brim. It’s the same thing.”

  “It’s not, you know.” Lem faced his brother and glared. “It’s not nearly as subs-zer, whatever, as doffing my hat.”

  Dukmee’s whisper hissed one word. “Silence.”

  Both men jumped.

  Ruese narrowed his eyes as
if that would help him see Dukmee. “Shouldn’t whisper, you know. All the hissing travels farther than the sounds of words spoken quiet-like. You learn that hunting in the woods.” He firmed his lips in a straight line as if keeping back more words. With a sigh, he relaxed. “Weren’t you going to scout the route?”

  “I can do that from here.” For a moment, Dukmee considered surrounding them with a sound bubble so that these loud farmers would not be heard. He discarded the idea as too time-consuming. “I’m using my senses to locate the people inside the castle, as well as the barracks. I can tell if they’re moving, if they’re sleeping, and if they’re directly in our path.”

  Ruese scratched his head. “How?”

  “It would take me too long to explain. Simply put, I smell, hear, or taste what is in that tunnel and beyond. The tunnel leads to a more secure part of the barracks. So far, we’ve not encountered any formidable resistance to our meandering within these confines.”

  Lem scratched his head. “What’d that mean?”

  “I don’t know. But I can smell the sewage.” Ruese shrugged. “Not as fragrant as manure in a hot barn.”

  Lem pushed his brother aside and addressed the empty space before him. “Do you know where my son is?”

  Dukmee nodded, then scoffed at himself. Stupid mistake. It had been way too long since he’d been invisible.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “By that sensing thing, smelling him?”

  “No, I already knew where prisoners are kept.”

  “He’s no prisoner,” objected the father. “He committed no crime.”

  Ruese agreed. “Except being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Dukmee closed his eyes, gathering patience. Perhaps he should have left these two back in his healer’s shop. “Be quiet now. I have to concentrate.”

  The farmers obeyed to the point that they scarcely moved to breathe. For a moment, the healer noticed the acrid scent of anxiety surrounding the two men, underpinned by the earthy smell of determination. They were scared, but their mission to save Arend would carry them through.

  Pushing the farmers and their problems aside, Dukmee focused his attention in the other direction. His perceptive skill slid through the sewage tunnel where fluid sludged in a canal down the center.