The Wyvern's Spur

by Kate Novak

  “You are a fool,” Julia said. “Steele isn’t interested in child’s play anymore. He wants—” Julia bit off her words and paled visibly, obviously afraid she’d said too much.

  “What does he want?” Giogi demanded.

  Julia shook her head. “I can’t tell you,” she insisted. “Steele would be furious.”

  “You will tell me,” Giogi said, shaking her harder.

  “You’re hurting me,” Julia whined.

  Giogi released his cousin suddenly, ashamed of bullying a woman, and so young a woman as Julia. I have to know what Steele’s planning, though, he thought.

  “Julia,” he said, trying to reason calmly with the woman, “I won’t tell Steele that you told me anything. Now, what’s his game?”

  “Why should I tell you?” Julia asked haughtily.

  “If you don’t tell me, I’ll—” Giogi hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he could do to threaten Julia.

  “Run and tattle to Aunt Dorath,” Julia taunted, “like you always did when we were children.”

  Did I? Giogi wondered. Yes, I suppose I did, but only because Steele and Julia were such naughty children. He looked at Julia with annoyance. “Yes,” he said. “That’s exactly what I’ll do. I’m sure she’ll be very disturbed to hear that her grandniece was running around with an assassin’s ring. I’ll give her the ring so she can have Lord Sudacar check that it’s not poisoned.”

  “No! Don’t tell!” Julia begged, obviously more anxious to avoid Aunt Dorath’s wrath than she’d been as a child.

  “Then spit it out, woman,” Giogi demanded. “Everything.”

  “Steele wants to find the wyvern’s spur without you,” Julia explained, “so he can keep it for himself. He wants the power.”

  “Power? What power?” Giogi asked, surprised that Steele and Julia would know something about the spur that not even Uncle Drone could tell him.

  “Steele doesn’t know what the spur’s power is yet,” Julia said, “but when he gets hold of the spur, he’ll find out.”

  Giogi laughed. “Steele’s going to be in for a big disappointment if he finds the spur,” he predicted, shaking his head sagely. “It’s nothing but a hunk of junk.”

  “That’s not what Uncle Drone said last night.”

  “Julia, I love Uncle Drone like—like an uncle, but you may have noticed that he’s not all together up here,” Giogi said, tapping his forehead. “The stairs run to the top of the tower, but there are no landings, don’t you know.”

  Julia stood defiantly before him with her hands on her hips. “The spur does so have some power,” she insisted. “That’s why Cole took it with him whenever he went tramping around the country like a commoner.”

  “My father? What are you talking about? The spur’s been in the crypt since Paton Wyvernspur died.”

  Julia shook her head vehemently. “No, it hasn’t. Your father used to steal it whenever he wanted to use it. He was Uncle Drone’s favorite, so the old fool never told anyone. No one found out about it until Cole died. Uncle Drone was forced to tell the family, because, otherwise, they wouldn’t have gone to so much trouble to bring back his remains. Cole was wearing the spur when he died.”

  “Wearing it?!” Giogi asked incredulously.

  “It’s true,” Julia said with a scornful sniff.

  “Why hasn’t anyone ever told me any of this?”

  “Aunt Dorath said that she would never have approved of your father using the spur if she had known, and no one would ever use it again. We children weren’t to be told about it.”

  “Then how did you find out?”

  Julia hesitated for a moment, then saw the look in Giogi’s eyes.

  “Steele and I were listening at the keyhole when she explained all this to our father.”

  Just what I would expect from a sneaking little witch like you, Olive thought.

  Giogi shook his head, trying to reconcile Julia’s story with his own memories. Whenever Giogi tried to picture his father, though, Cole always looked like his portrait, which hung in Giogi’s bedroom—a portrait that could have been interchanged with nearly every other portrait of Wyvernspur menfolk, including the painting hanging in the carriage house. All Giogi could remember clearly was a tall man who’d tried to teach him to ride, took him swimming, and loved to sing.

  The nobleman sighed. Everyone in the Realms except me knew that my father was an adventurer. Most of the members of my family knew he used the spur, but I didn’t. Maybe I should have tried listening at a few keyholes. Giogi turned back to the mausoleum, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

  “Giogioni,” Julia continued, “Frefford has the family title. You have all your mother’s money. Why shouldn’t Steele get the spur?”

  Giogi turned around thoughtfully. It wasn’t hard to come up with an answer to that question. “Julia,” he said, “do you know what Steele said to me when Uncle Drone gave me my father’s key to the crypt? He said he wished your father would hurry and die so he could have his own key. Steele was a jealous, mean little boy, and as far as I can tell, he’s grown into a jealous, cruel man. Did it ever occur to you that he doesn’t deserve the spur?”

  “What have you done to deserve it?” Julia asked with venom.

  “Julia, I don’t want the spur. I just want to return it to the crypt, where it belongs.”

  “Then why has Uncle Drone been secretly nagging Aunt Dorath all winter to let you have it?”

  “Listening at keyholes again, are we?” Giogi asked, using the question to hide his own surprise.

  “I have servants to do that for me now,” Julia said coolly.

  Too lazy to do your own dirty work, eh? Olive thought.

  Giogi sighed again. “Look, this whole argument is moot if we don’t find the spur. I’m going into the crypt after Steele. You should be back helping Aunt Dorath and Frefford with Gaylyn.”

  “Steele will find the thief before you do. He’s an hour ahead of you, and he knows how to use his weapon. He isn’t bogged down by some overgrown pack rat, either.”

  Olive brayed loudly, jerked her halter from Giogi’s hand, and charged at Julia.

  Not used to being charged upon by burros, the noblewoman retreated with a yell and almost toppled over a headstone. Olive herded Julia out of the graveyard and waited at the entrance until the woman had fled down the path.

  Giogi grinned as the little burro trotted back to his side. He scratched behind her ears. “Don’t you pay any attention to her, Birdie. Julia’s too foolish to see what a superior burro you are. She doesn’t even realize I’m better with a foil than Steele is. Steele only used to win by thwacking at me with the flat of the blade. That’s cheating, you know.”

  Giogi picked Olive’s lead rope off the ground and pulled her through the door into the family mausoleum. He closed and locked the door behind them. Olive shivered. It was colder inside than out, and, naturally, as dark as a tomb.

  Giogi drew a shining crystal from his boot. Olive stared at it with astonishment. It was a finder’s stone, just like the one Elminster had given Alias. Olive had spent many hours guessing at its value before it was lost near Westgate. Olive remembered now that Alias had run into Giogi again, outside of Westgate. If this is the same stone, Olive thought, then there are more coincidences in my life than in one of those bad operas in Raven’s Bluff, the Living City.

  Whatever its origins, the finder’s stone filled the mausoleum with a warm, rich glow. The twinkle of precious metal attracted Olive’s attention to the tomb itself. Giogi was busy lighting torches set in gold-plated sconces. The flames’ reflections danced on every surface around them. The floor was checkered with black and white squares of polished marble, and the walls and ceiling were covered with solid plates of a dull gray metal, which Olive presumed was lead. Two white marble benches, inlaid with runes of gold and platinum, were the only other decor in the room. The husks of long-dead flowers lay on one bench. Olive could see no other exit besides the one Giogi had just locked.

>   Giogi finished with the torches and began hopping like a child along the squares of marble laid out on the floor. Right foot on white, left foot on black, two jumps diagonally on white with the left, then back one jump with both feet.

  Olive was just thinking how Uncle Drone might not be the only Wyvernspur “not all together upstairs,” when a large section of the floor at the far end dropped a foot and slid silently beneath the rest of the floor. A narrow staircase led down into the dark hole revealed by the secret door. Nice workmanship, Olive thought. Invisible, quiet, no vibrations.

  “Come on, Birdie,” Giogi said, taking Olive’s lead rope. “The secret door doesn’t stay open very long.”

  Olive grudgingly followed the nobleman down the steps. Giogi used the finder’s stone to light their way. The walls on either side were of rough-cut stone fitted together by expert masons. The stone was cool but dry. The air was less chill than in the mausoleum and grew even warmer as they descended.

  Olive tried counting the number of steps, but she got confused by her extra feet. There were three landings where the staircase turned, but the steps were all even and not too steep or narrow for her hooves. Olive caught glimpses of shimmering lines on the walls, but whenever she looked directly at them, the lines disappeared. More magical glyphs, she realized. I must be immune to their power because I’m in Giogi’s company. Or because I’m just an ass, she added.

  Finally they reached the bottom. Their way was blocked by another door plated with the same gray metal used in the mausoleum. Emblazoned across the door was a painting of a great red wyvern. The words, “None but Wyvernspurs shall pass this door and live,” were inscribed in the Common tongue over the door.

  Once again Giogi pulled out his silver key. He stared at it for a moment, took a deep breath, then exhaled, puffing out his cheeks. “Now, don’t be frightened, Birdie,” Giogi said as he turned the key in the lock. “I’ll protect you from the guardian.”

  Much obliged, Olive thought, but who’s going to protect you? The halfling burro could smell fear on the nobleman.

  Giogi took another deep breath, gathered his courage, and pushed open the door. He took a step into the room, then another. Olive followed alongside him, which Giogi took as an indication that the little burro was a fearless creature. In reality, Olive was simply anxious to stay within the finder’s stone sphere of light.

  “Hello, hello,” Giogi said, at first softly, then with more volume. “Steele, are you here?” the nobleman called out. His voice echoed back, but there was no living response. Giogi pushed the door closed behind them and locked it.

  They stood in the Wyvernspur family crypt—a vast tunneled chamber with straight walls and a vaulted ceiling. Both walls and ceiling were lined, as the staircase had been, with fitted, cut stone. Every so many feet, in place of a stone, was a block of marble engraved with the name of a Wyvernspur, with—so Olive presumed—the remains of a Wyvernspur buried behind it.

  In the center of the crypt was a single cylindrical pedestal ringed with concentric circles of letters carved into the floor. Each circle repeated the same warning in a different language. Olive couldn’t read all the tongues, but the outer and most prominent warning was written in Common. The words, “painful, lingering death,” stood out clearly in the finder’s stone light. Olive did not feel compelled to read any more.

  The pedestal stood higher than Olive’s line of sight. She could see only the swatch of black velvet draped over the top of the pedestal and which hung down about a foot all around.

  Giogi, from his adult human height, looked down on the top of the pedestal. “It’s missing, all right,” he muttered.

  “Giogioni,” a voice whispered from the other end of the hall. The echo repeated the whisper.

  Olive shivered. She was willing to bet that that wasn’t Giogi’s Cousin Steele. The voice had a sensuous, husky quality, but it also conveyed to Olive the unpleasant sensation of something sawing at her bones. The voice had to belong to the guardian. Olive understood immediately Giogi’s childhood terror of the creature.

  Giogi froze, like a man held by magic. He moved his mouth, wetted his lips, and moved his mouth again, but no words came out.

  Patches of darkness broke through the edges of the light cast by the finder’s stone and swirled together until they coalesced into one large shadow, which sprouted legs, a serpentine neck and head, a sinuous tail, and huge reptilian wings. The shadow spread out against the far wall, covering the detail of the stonework in an inky pool.

  Olive had no trouble recognizing the silhouette as the shadow cast by a monstrously large wyvern. Yet, there was no wyvern in the room. Olive began to back up slowly. She had had frightening ordeals with dragons before, but at least those dragons had been visible and alive. The creature dwelling in this place, Olive realized, was neither.

  “Giogioni,” the disembodied voice whispered again. The shadow of the wyvern head moved as the voice spoke. “You’ve come back at last.”

  “I’m only passing through, guardian,” Giogi said. “Don’t bother—” Giogi’s voice cracked. He swallowed hard to wet his throat before continuing. “Don’t bother yourself on my account.”

  “Is this little morsel for me?” the guardian asked as a shadowy talon elongated and traveled across the ceiling and down the wall toward Olive.

  Olive could’ve sworn the air grew colder as the shadow claw drew near her.

  Giogi interposed himself between his burro and the darkness. “This is Birdie, and I need her to search the catacombs, so I would appreciate it if you would leave her undisturbed.”

  The voice laughed. “Not too little anymore, are you? I shall respect your wish. But you’ve come too late, my Giogioni. The spur has been taken.”

  “I know that,” Giogi said. He could feel a bead of sweat trickling down his face as he mustered all his courage and asked, “Why didn’t you stop the thief?”

  “My charge is to let Wyvernspurs pass unslain,” the guardian replied matter-of-factly.

  “So which of us took the spur?” Giogi demanded.

  “I have no idea. Wyvernspurs are all alike to me. Like shadows on a wall.”

  “Great,” Giogi muttered.

  “Except you, Giogioni. You are different. Like Cole, like Paton. Kissed by Selune.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Do you remember what we spoke of when you were here last?”

  “I’ve been trying to forget it, actually.”

  “You can never forget the death cry of prey, nor the taste of warm blood, nor the crunch of bone.”

  Olive’s ears pricked up at the unusual pattern of words. Wyvern poetry? she wondered.

  “I have to go,” Giogi insisted. He tugged on the burro’s halter. Olive needed no further coaxing. She trotted across the chamber at the nobleman’s side, keeping him between her and the silhouette. As the only source of light in the room—Giogi’s finder’s stone—moved, the shadow did not shift position but remained looming on the far wall.

  In that wall, beneath the shadow of the guardian’s wing, was a small archway opening onto a downward staircase. As they neared the arch, Olive again felt the chill of the guardian. They passed through the archway unharmed, though, and the chill did not extend beyond the crypt. They had passed out of the guardian’s realm.

  Behind them, the creature called out in its bone-grating whisper, “You will always dream of these things, Giogi. You will dream of them until you’ve joined me forever.”

  Giogi hurried down the stairs, but at the first landing he slumped against the wall, trembling, with his hands covering his face.

  Olive nuzzled him gently, concerned that he might go to pieces if she didn’t keep him moving, and anxious to put another flight of stairs between them and the guardian.

  Giogi pulled his hands away from his face, took a deep breath, and looked down at the burro. Olive could see tears in the corners of his eyes. “I was wrong,” he said. “She is just as terrible as I remembered. It
’s her horrible dream. If I could just stop dreaming that damned dream.”

  Cat

  Giogi stood up straight and took a few deep breaths to compose himself. He was over the worst of it. While the catacombs were no doubt more deadly, they did not hold the same terror for him as the crypt. “Come on, Birdie,” he said, heading down the next flight of steps.

  Olive let out her breath in relief and followed.

  The passage descending into the catacombs was hewn out of the rock. No marble or cut and fitted stone lined it, and the bare rock was rough and dirty. Water dripped from the ceiling, seeped from the walls, and trickled down the stairs. The steps were crumbling in places and were slick with mud and slimy fungus. Someone heading down the stairs had left large, deep boot impressions in the muck.

  “Steele’s footprints,” Giogi muttered unhappily as he plodded down the stairs alongside them. He didn’t really want to join his cousin. Steele didn’t want his company, and if, as Uncle Drone had said, the thief wasn’t down here, Steele was very likely to lose his temper with Giogi. He had to join Steele, anyway, because Uncle Drone had insisted on it. Giogi was just now beginning to suspect why—considering the old wizard’s confession last night and Julia’s revelation this morning.

  It looks as if Uncle Drone has been up to skullduggery on my behalf, Giogi thought uneasily. He wants me to pretend to look for the thief so no one blames me for the theft.

  Giogi sighed, and the sound echoed up and down the stairway. “Have you ever noticed, Birdie,” he asked philosophically, “that as soon as one’s life has settled down, when there’s nothing but clear sailing ahead, one’s relatives steer one into the shoals, so to speak?”

  Olive, whose concentration was riveted on descending the broken, slippery stairs while carrying enough provisions for an adventuring party of twelve, naturally did not reply.