by K. E. Mills
He grinned. “Hear, hear.”
“Monk—” Uncle Ralph joined them. “Enough. If you can read those damn recording crystals then stop messing about and read them. Otherwise—”
“Sorry,” he said. Glanced over at Melissande. “Sorry. All right. Here I go…”
With the original cat-into-lion transmog recording clutched tight in his right hand and the Abercrombie recording crystal folded hard in his left, he closed his eyes to block out extraneous distractions—like the hint of tears in Melissande’s green eyes—and reached out with his potentia.
The vibrations from the transmog set his bones humming anew. He was astonished all over again, recognizing that this was the new Gerald. Before the accident at Stuttley’s his friend had been a tentative, almost apologetic wizard. A man who found it hard to believe he’d earned the right to wield his cherrywood staff and expected at any moment to have it taken away. And no amount of cheerleading from the sidelines—from himself and Reg—had made a difference. In his heart that Gerald had thought of himself as a wizard by mistake. A tailor’s son from Nether Wallop who’d be unmasked as an impostor any tick of the clock.
But now? After his catastrophic thaumic accident? This Gerald felt as confident as—as Errol Haythwaite, and that was saying something.
I don’t understand how nobody saw this coming. He worked for the Department of Thaumaturgy, for crying out loud. Why didn’t they see it?
Then again… why didn’t he?
It was a question he’d been asking himself ever since Gerald had tripped the monitors with that first Level Twelve trick—and he was nowhere near close to any kind of answer.
Some bloody friend I am. Some genius. A genuine thaumaturgic marvel right under my nose and I couldn’t smell it. I’m a bloody disgrace.
“Mr. Markham…”
And that was Sir Alec, playing cattle prod again.
“Nearly done,” he muttered. “Don’t fuss at me.”
With Gerald’s remade thaumic signature fresh in his mind, he focused his attention on the Abercrombie’s recording crystal. Packed full of energy and imagery, the first touch of his potentia to its contents sent him staggering sideways. He heard Reg say something, steady on, something like that, but her words were muffled by the cold and heat and breath-stealing power surging through him.
Suddenly his mind was filled with a darkness he was frightened to touch.
But I have to. I have to know—
Except he knew already. A single glance had told him. He was a genius, after all. That darkness was familiar, its thaumic fingerprints belonging to his kind and gentle friend. Sort of belonging. A version of his friend. Because what he could feel, what his potentia showed him, was a gentle power warped and twisted into something no longer itself. Something hungry and brutal and unfamiliar with loving care. Reeling with shock, he collapsed against a handy desk.
Bloody hell, Gerald. What have you done?
A wind was blowing in his face, through his hair. Shrieking. What the—
No. It was Reg. He opened his eyes.
“—going on, Monk Markham! You tell me right this instant or I’ll be using your eyeballs for marbles, just you see if I don’t!”
She was flapping hysterically in front of him, loosened feathers floating free to drift haphazard into piles of melted copper and goo.
Then someone’s hands seized his shoulders and started shaking him. Started shouting, sounding as upset as Reg.
“Monk! Monk, what did you see? What’s happened? Tell us!”
Melissande.
He let her shake him. He couldn’t pull away, couldn’t argue or complain.
Gerald, you stonking idiot. What have you done?
Letting go of his shoulders, Melissande slapped him hard across the face. “Mr. Markham! For the love of Saint Snodgrass pull yourself together!”
“Steady on there, Your Highness! There’s no need for that!”
Uncle Ralph, coming to the rescue? That was one for the books. His father would need a stiff drink and a lie down when he heard.
“Sir Ralph is right, Melly,” said New Ottosland’s unlikely king. “You really mustn’t slap Mr. Markham, you know. I’m sure he’s doing his very best to help.”
Ignoring them both, Melissande slammed her fists against his chest, leaning into him until her nose and his were practically touching. Her lovely green eyes were terrified, and desperate.
“What did you see, Monk? What did you see?”
He couldn’t keep it a secret. But instead of looking at Melissande he turned his head and looked at Reg, who’d subsided, exhausted, on a cluttered, report-covered desk.
“Go on,” the bird said, her voice ragged. “I can take it. What’s that fool boy gone and done now?”
She might be able to take it, but he couldn’t. His eyes were burning, hot tears blurring his vision. He could feel Sir Alec’s cold gaze on him, waiting for an excuse to start cleaning up.
“What do you think, Reg?” he said dully. “He’s done what he wanted to do in the first place. What we thought you’d talked him out of doing.”
“But—what? No,” said Melissande, uncertain, as Reg covered her face with one wing. “No—no, he couldn’t have. Not when he knew—not after the cave—no, Monk. You’re wrong. You’ve made a mistake. He wouldn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Lord Attaby. “What is it you think Mr. Dunwoody has done?”
Sir Alec held out his hand. “May I, Mr. Markham?”
There was no hope of protecting Gerald now. Barely able to meet Sir Alec’s almost compassionate gaze, he handed over the recording of New Ottosland’s unprecedented thaumaturgic event. Watched Sir Alec close his fingers around the crystal, close his eyes and open himself to the images and impressions contained within it. Watched the shock shudder through him, and the pain, and the horror.
And then he watched the color drain from Uncle Ralph’s face as his father’s unsympathetic brother saw the impact strike deep in the heart of his formidable, enigmatic colleague.
“Alec?” Uncle Ralph whispered. “Alec, what—”
Sir Alec dropped the recording crystal as though it were a live coal. “What texts did he have access to, Mr. Markham?” he said, ignoring Uncle Ralph. “Do you know?”
“Grummen’s Lexicon.” His voice was so husky he had to clear his throat. “And—and Pygram’s Pestilences. For starters.”
Briefly, so briefly, Sir Alec’s hard gaze eased. “I’m sorry. And what other grimoires are we dealing with? How many?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Your Highness—” Sir Alec turned on Melissande. “Have you any idea what—”
“No,” whispered Melissande. “I wasn’t even aware those awful books had been brought into the kingdom. Not until Gerald told me in the cave. After Lional—after he—”
“Forgive me,” said Rupert, “but I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“We’re talking about disaster,” said Reg, pulling her head out from under her wing. Her voice was soft and unsteady, sodden with grief. “Mayhem and calamity and catastrophe and woe. My Gerald’s done a foolish thing, Butterfly Boy. He’s sacrificed himself to try and stop your wicked brother.”
Rupert’s mouth dropped open. “What? You mean he’s dead?”
When Reg didn’t answer, Monk looked at Melissande’s ridiculously-clothed brother. “No, Your Highness. It’d be easier for everyone if he was.”
Bloody hell, Gerald. What were you thinking?
“I’m afraid, sir, that in a misguided attempt to defeat your magically enhanced brother,” said Sir Alec, his voice as gray and chilly as his eyes, that brief compassion fled, “Mr. Dunwoody has followed him down a most unfortunate path. He has taken upon himself aspects of the worst kinds of thaumaturgy. Illegal incantations, perverted and vile.”
“He said the only way he could beat Lional was to fight fire with fire,” said Melissande, her voice unsteady.
“He must’ve found where Lional kept Pomodoro Uffitzi’s filthy library and—and—”
“Grummen’s Lexicon?” Shaken to his bootstraps, Lord Attaby groped for the nearest chair and sat down. “God help us. You’re quite certain of this? There’s absolutely no chance you’ve misread the situation?”
Stooping, Monk retrieved the recording crystal Sir Alec had dropped. Then, biting his lip, flinching in anticipation of what he was about to feel, he sank his mind back inside it. This time he didn’t try to fight the recorded impressions, the series of explosions in the ether as the foulest dark magics known to wizardry ignited Gerald’s untapped, unexplored potentia and sent shockwaves surging through the etheretic plane. Alchemied his desperate friend into something new and terrible.
When he’d felt it all, when he felt as empty as a tomb from which the quiet dead had been stolen, he opened his eyes and looked at Attaby. “No, my lord. We’re not wrong. Whoever Gerald was—I fear that man is gone. And I don’t have the first idea who—or what—has taken his place.”
“Is that all you felt, Monk?” asked Uncle Ralph, breaking the dreadful silence. “It doesn’t seem like enough to melt most of our best equipment. I mean, the long range monitors didn’t pick up on King Lional’s taking in these dark magics, did they? So perhaps something else has happened. Perhaps—perhaps Mr. Dunwoody and King Lional met in a cataclysmic battle and that’s the unprecedented thaumaturgical event our monitoring station recorded.”
“Monk?” said Melissande in a small voice. “Could that be true?”
Helpless, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?” she demanded. “Are you a genius or aren’t you?”
“Melissande—” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “It’s not that simple! I mean, we’re calling this unprecedented for a reason!”
“And—and what about Gerald? Could he still be alive?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, ducky,” said Reg, her eyes gleaming. “How’s this ridiculous Markham boy supposed to know the answer to that, standing here half a world away from your wretched little kingdom? There’s only one way we’re going to find out exactly what’s happened. We’ve got to go back to New Ottosland—and save that boy from himself before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER SIX
Standing in the palace’s fragrant, lovingly tended gardens, bathed in gentle sunshine and the fires of his reforging, Gerald tipped back his head and searched the sky for Lional’s dragon.
Well. My dragon, really. After all, I made it. That makes it mine.
He smiled.
A rising breeze wafted the unpleasantness of charred bodies towards him. All those unfortunates who’d fallen foul of Lional’s indiscriminate wrath. So many little people in the world, unable to defend themselves against evil men like Melissande’s demented brother. Remembering the loyal guardsman Reggie, vaguely recalling a sense of impotent grief, he snapped his fingers and sprang flowers into life where, throughout the kingdom, those poor souls had collapsed to embers and ash. Every last dead man, woman and child now a rose or a pansy or a searingly sweet freesia.
There. That’s a fitting memorial, I think. Beauty from ugliness. Could there be a better legacy?
That small distraction dealt with, he returned his attention to the question of his dragon. And Lional. He mustn’t forget Lional. A pestilent flea to be cracked between two fingernails. New Ottosland’s mad king had outstayed his welcome. This tiny nation would be well rid of him.
I have so much work to do. So much good. With great power comes great responsibility… and I have more power than any man alive.
The pale blue sky was empty of dragon—and he had no sense of the marvelous creature or Lional in the gardens or nearby. They’d taken themselves off somewhere…
But now it’s time to return.
With as much effort as a hurricane blowing out a candle he sent a thread of his potentia spearing through the ether. His power cleaved the thaumic veil like that well-known hot knife through butter. So easy, so effortless. He felt like a dam with all its confining banks sundered, his undreamt-of powers flowing and flooding through him. Set free at last.
This is me. The true me. Won’t Reg be surprised?
Within heartbeats he’d found both king and dragon, harrying a herd of milch cows on the rural outskirts of the kingdom’s capital. The beasts floundered and foundered and sprawled in bloody death, carcasses littering the green field with profligate abandon. How typically Lional, to take out his frustrated spite on dumb animals who couldn’t fight back.
Really and truly, he’s got to go.
The dragon’s mind was a cauldron roaring with flame. Chained to Lional by inimical magics, it writhed in heartbreaking pain and confusion. With a thought he eased its suffering. Weakened the Tantigliani bond. Recognizing his touch the dragon threw back its scaled head and kissed the sky with fire. Furious, Lional tried to overthrow him. The feeble attempt made him laugh.
Come to me, sweet one, he crooned to the glorious crimson and emerald dragon. I’ll set you free.
While he waited he searched idly for Shugat and Zazoor and their impotent army… and was stung with surprise when he couldn’t find them.
So their silly gods shield them from me, do they? Oh well. It hardly matters. I don’t want their sand and their stupid jeweled tears. And I’ve certainly got no interest in their smelly, uncomfortable camels. If they don’t interfere with me I’ll likely leave them alone.
A shiver in the ether heralded his dragon’s eager approach. Smiling, filled with the kind of excitement that used to fizz him as a boy, when it was his birthday and he was staring at his unwrapped presents on the breakfast table, he watched the empty sky and looked for it to fill.
And there it was, the dragon. His miracle. His gift. Heart lifting, throat tightening, he watched the magnificent creature tread the air lightly towards him. Its vast wings were dulcet, caressing the sunlight like a shy lover’s kiss. Spoiling the picture, Lional—his beautiful face ugly with temper, perched behind the dragon’s wings and clutching its elegant neck like a bully holding onto some stolen trifle.
“What are you doing, Gerald?” Lional shouted as the dragon settled sweetly on the grass. “What are you playing at?”
“Playing?” He frowned, reproving. “I’m not playing, Lional, I’m perfectly serious. Can’t you tell?”
There were blotches of cow’s blood on the dragon’s iridescent hide. Horrible. With a wave of his hand he removed them. Removed Lional while he was at it, tumbling Melissande’s mad brother off the dragon’s back into an ungainly sprawl on the ground. The dragon lowered its head and looked at him, crimson eyes banked with fire.
Lional scrambled awkwardly to his feet. There was cow’s blood on him too. It could stay there. And if he wasn’t very careful his own would soon be joining it.
“Dunwoody—”
Puzzled, Gerald stared at him.
I was afraid of him once. Not so long ago he made me soil myself with fear. How odd. And what a relief, to be done with that Gerald.
“It’s over, Lional,” he said quietly. Men of power had no need to shout. “Your reign is at an end. If you surrender yourself peacefully I’ll see you come to no harm. You’ll be imprisoned, of course, but you’ll still be alive. But if you don’t surrender peacefully—” He shrugged. “Well. Then life will become rather unpleasant and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”
“What?” Lional laughed, incredulous. Beneath his smooth, pale skin a ripple of crimson scales. The Tantigliani still held. “Gerald, have you gone mad?”
He shrugged again. “Not at all. That’s what you did, Lional. What I’ve done is… find myself.”
Lional stared at him, ferociously silent. And then he reached out with his stolen potentias, with the magic that would never truly be his no matter how hard he tried to pretend.
“Tagruknik!” he swore in a tongue that wasn’t his, either. What a thief he
was, this mad king of New Ottosland. “Gerald—what the hell have you done?”
Oh and it was sweet, it was delightful, tasting Lional’s stark fear. The dragon, still chained to him, poor thing, lashed its tail and roared in frightened sympathy, flame shriveling the flower beds, poison dripping to corrode and char the clipped grass.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Lional. You know bloody well.”
The healthy color drained from Lional’s beautiful face, leaving it gray and sickly. “You can’t have. It’s not possible.”
“Not for the old Gerald, no,” he agreed. “But thanks to you and the cave I’m not the old Gerald any more. Thanks to you and the cave I’m an entirely new man. With your help I’ve found a fresh focus.” He smiled. “New purpose.”
Another ripple in the ether as Lional pushed with his potentias. Pushed to no avail. He really was wasting his time. Eyes wide, his breathing harsh, he stared. “No. It’s not possible. I left those grimoires guarded. Warded beyond any hope of breaching. No wizard could—”
“No ordinary wizard, true,” he said, and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “But come on, Lional. You’ve known since your failure in the woods that I’m anything but an ordinary wizard.”
Sweating, Lional stepped back. The dragon hesitated, then echoed him. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “This is a trick.”
Gerald sighed. “Lional, Lional. Tell me, what did you think you were doing when you were torturing me in that cave of yours?”
Lional didn’t answer. Just stared at him, his sky blue eyes narrowed. One hand reached out to touch the dragon’s breathing side. As though touch confirmed ownership. As though he had the right.
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Or is it you just can’t bring yourself to admit it? Never mind. I’ll admit it for you. What you did, Lional, old chum, was murder me. The old me, that is. And the Gerald you replaced him with, you made that Gerald into a murderer—like you. And—well—the thing is, you see, I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t live with being that. Being you. So now there’s me, Lional. A third Gerald. A Gerald who’s going to put a stop to your nonsense once and for all.”
