by Resa Nelson
Pingzi continued. “At first I had the same feelings as Skallagrim. I wanted nothing more than to kill Frandulane myself.”
She paused to let her words sink in, like rain on parched earth.
A Midlander spoke up. “What changed your mind? Why aren’t you helping Skallagrim?”
“I’m a demon queller. Since I was a little girl, I have spent my life studying men and women who show signs of turning into demons.”
A young Southlander piped up. “Why do you have to look for signs? I thought demons look like monsters. Isn’t it obvious when you meet a demon just by the way he looks?”
“That is a fine question,” Pingzi said. “The stories you’ve heard about how demons look are fairy tales. When someone turns into a demon, it happens on the inside, not the outside. Think about Skallagrim. Did he look any different to you just now?”
The young Southlander shook his head. “Skallagrim looked like he always does.”
“And yet everything he said tells you he’s turning into a demon. Skallagrim loves being a dragonslayer more than anything, and yet he gave up his sword for the sake of killing his brother. He gave up his children.”
“Seph,” Bruni said with a start. “Skallagrim’s children are still upstairs with Seph.”
“We must think with care about what to do with them,” Pingzi said. “Just as we must think carefully about Frandulane’s son.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” the Midlander said.
Pingzi arranged her thoughts as if preparing to play a strategic game. “As some of you know, I am blessed with the gift of portents.”
“Portents?” said the young Southlander. “What does that mean?”
“She can see into the future,” Bruni said. “And it’s something she rarely speaks about. Madam Po, why are you telling us about Frandulane’s son?”
“Because he matters,” Pingzi said. “My portent showed me that Frandulane abandoned his wife and son.”
“Just like Skallagrim,” a Southlander said in disdain.
“Forget Skallagrim,” Pingzi commanded. “He is lost to us now!”
Bruni’s voice trembled with sorrow. “Then what would you have us do?”
“My portent showed that the abandonment of Frandulane’s son has put him on a perilous path. He faces great challenges that are too difficult for a young boy to conquer.”
“Like the way you conquered the murder of your husband,” said the Southlander who had asked her to talk about that murder. “You could have succumbed to anger like Skallagrim but you didn’t.”
Pingzi nodded. “As you saw with Skallagrim, it is very difficult for a grown man to resist the urge to give into his rage and longing for vengeance. Can you imagine how much more difficult it is for a young boy to succeed when most men cannot?”
Bruni wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Are you saying that when Skallagrim kills Frandulane, the boy will turn into a demon?”
“Mandulane is the boy’s name,” Pingzi said. “But no—I cannot see whether or not Frandulane will be killed, much less whether Skallagrim will be the one to do it.”
A Southlander said, “Then what do you see?”
“Tragedy upon tragedy,” Pingzi said. “Mandulane will gain a good step-father, but death will claim his mother and step-father. He will be left with a relative who does no good for him. The boy’s mind will twist and turn will sorrow, much like what is happening with Skallagrim now. But Mandulane will have no one to help him navigate those twists and turns. The consequences of Skallagrim’s rage are simple: he wants to kill Frandulane. But the consequences of Mandulane’s rage will be far more complex. He will have no one man to blame. Because many people will bring tragedy upon him, Mandulane will see all people as those who either have already harmed him or will harm him. That is why I ask for your help.”
“But we don’t know him,” the Midlander said. “How can we help?”
“Some of you will stay behind in the Midlands and Southlands. I ask that you travel wide and far. I can tell you what Mandulane and his mother look like. Enquire everywhere you go. Interrogate everyone you meet. And when dragon season ends and the winter route begins, those of you who work in the Northlands will come back to the Southlands. During the winter route, I ask you to comb the Midlands instead. We must find the boy before it’s too late.”
“Too late?” Bruni said with a frown. “Too late for what?”
“If the boy is left without help, he will become the most treacherous demon ever known in this world.” Pingzi made sure to look straight into the eyes of every dragonslayer before she continued. “My portent showed that Mandulane is on a path that will lead to the destruction of the world.”
“Destruction?” The Midlander scoffed. “That’s impossible.”
“I saw it in my portent. Great floods will destroy the Northlands, Midlands, and Southlands. A great fire will decimate the Far East. My portent showed me other countries in the world swept apart by terrible winds or torn apart by the earth itself. If we do nothing to stop it, we will live to see everyone in this world die.”
The Midlander said, “I don’t believe it. The gods would never allow it.”
“The gods,” Pingzi said, “are part of the problem. The dragon gods of the Far East took me to meet with the Northlander gods. I didn’t fully understand their lack of interest in protecting this world, but I believe I now do.”
“I can’t believe my gods would allow this,” the Midlander said.
“Your gods are tree spirits,” Bruni said. “You don’t understand the power of the Northlander gods.”
“Do not argue about the gods!” Pingzi insisted. “It will solve nothing!”
“She’s right,” a Southlander said. “Those of us who trained with Benzel of the Wolf have known Madam Po for a long time. We know about the power of her portents. The wisest thing we can do is believe her and do as she asks.”
“What do we do when we find Mandulane?” the Midlander said. “How do we help him?”
“Give him to me,” Pingzi said. “I will take him to the Far East where I can quell him before the demon inside him takes hold.”
“What if we can’t find him?” a Southlander said. “Or what if it takes so many years to find him that he’s as lost as Skallagrim?”
A chill ran through Pingzi, and she shuddered. “Then it will be too late for all of us.”
CHAPTER 21
The moment Frandulane’s ship landed in the Midlander port city, he slipped away and hurried to find a smaller merchant ship that could take him to Daneland. Frandulane worried as the weight from the silver bracelets on his arms became lighter when he traded them, but he took care to remember that he still carried a short sword that would bring him a great deal more silver should he need it.
The merchant ship traveled along the Midlands western coast, ranging from rocky cliffs to wetlands patrolled by birds wading on long legs in search of fish. The ship stopped at far too many ports for Frandulane’s taste. But by the third day at sea, he arrived in Daneland and then made arrangements to travel on a young merchant’s cart to Copenville, a small village south and east of Daneland.
Frandulane remembered this region of the Midlands because he’d traveled through it years ago when he spent a winter here and met his milkmaid wife. The farmland spread so far and wide over flat terrain that trekking through it felt akin to being in the middle of the ocean. Recently prepared for the planting season, freshly turned rows of black earth rippled across the pale land like waves.
Maybe I’m meant to live in the Midlands. Why would I spend the winter here, return to the Northlands, and then have no choice but to come back here to get away from Skallagrim?
Frandulane sighed in frustration. Skallagrim acted as if no one had ever been killed before. And why should he be so concerned over the death of his wife? Frandulane wouldn’t blink twice if someone killed his wife. He didn’t understand why it mattered.
Within a few hou
rs, the road headed toward a slight clump of a pine forest situated in the middle of the farmland. When the cart followed the road into the forest, the shade provided from the canopy made the air pleasantly cool. Up in the branches, songbirds flitted about with twigs in their beaks, thick in the task of building nests.
The young merchant pulled the horse drawing the cart to halt at the center of a small village of wattle-and-daub houses scattered around a central well. “This is Copenville.”
Frandulane hopped off the cart. “And Lopaire? Do you know where I can find her?”
The young merchant pointed to a house they’d already passed, one at the edge of the village. “She lives there with her mother. The father died years ago. Killed by brigands when walking alone on this same road to Daneland. Don’t expect her to be at home. Lopaire goes into the woods to look for things.”
“Things? What type of things?
“Things she needs. Whatever she can’t find on her own, she buys from me.” The young merchant climbed out of the cart and tied up his horse. “When you find her, tell her I’m here.”
Frandulane trudged toward the simple house. He wondered why the crewman on the ship from the Northlands had suggested this alchemist in this village, of all places. If Lopaire were a skilled alchemist, she could live a grand life in a large port city. Her skills would be in demand.
What kind of alchemist lives in a tiny village like this?
Frandulane approached the house, ready to call out the alchemist’s name to find out if she happened to be home. But he spotted something on the ground that stopped him in his tracks.
Several stones, each the size of a fist, were arranged to form an arrow that pointed toward the woods to the right of the house.
Unsure of what the stone arrow meant, Frandulane called out the alchemist’s name.
No one answered. No one emerged from the house.
Curiosity won.
Frandulane followed the direction of the stone arrow, only to find another that changed his path. He entered a thicket so dense that he worried about getting lost and never finding his way out. He’d assumed the woods were small, but now they seemed to close in around him, threatening to swallow Frandulane whole.
Terror clutched at him. Most people knew how to navigate a forest, but Frandulane had grown up on a small island. He might as well be lost in the middle of the ocean.
“Help!” he cried out in panic.
The sound of snapping twigs made Frandulane jump.
Are there bears here?
He stifled a scream, wanting to run but not knowing which way to go among the crowded trees.
A girl in the gawky throes of adolescence stepped into view. Taller than most Midlanders, she lifted her skirt to walk, exposing skinny legs. She wore her dark hair up in a messy bun. Her face glowed pink, but Frandulane couldn’t tell if it was from exertion or too much sun. “There you are,” the girl said. “You found my arrows.”
“Your arrows?”
The girl walked up to Frandulane and studied him as if he were a horse for sale. “The stone arrows pointing to the woods. I didn’t have time to wait. I have things to do.” She still held her skirt up with both hands.
Frandulane realized she hadn’t hiked up her skirt for the sake of walking with ease. Instead, the girl had gathered a collection of mushrooms, moss, and odd things that looked like seed pods and kept them in a bowl created by the way she held her skirt.
“I’m looking for Lopaire. Are you helping her?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “I’m Lopaire. You shouldn’t make such bad assumptions.” She pushed her way past Frandulane and walked away.
“Wait!” Frandulane said, hurrying to catch up. But Lopaire made her way swiftly through the forest and disappeared behind trees when Frandulane made the mistake of blinking.
Lopaire’s voice drifted and became faint. “I don’t like people who make bad assumptions. Especially when they’re about me.”
Frandulane rushed, desperate to catch her before she vanished. He followed the sound of her voice and stumbled when he nearly bumped into her.
Lopaire stood at the edge of the forest. “Why me?”
Her question dumbfounded Frandulane. “What?”
She looked him up and down. “You come from the Northlands. Any fool can see that from your yellow hair, your freakish height, and your Northlander clothing. You must have come through at least one of the big port cities before you met up with Davies.”
Frandulane felt more confounded by the moment. “What is Davies?”
Lopaire turned stone-faced. “The merchant who brought you here. You didn’t bother to learn his name?”
Frandulane responded with as many excuses as he could think of. “I’m tired. I was at sea for days. I’ve hardly slept. It’s hard to think straight, much less learn names.” He paused and tried to impress the girl. “But I know yours is Lopaire.”
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I’m the one who just now told you my name!”
“But I knew it before I met you. A crewman on the ship I took from the Northlands said you could help me.” For good measure, Frandulane shook his arm that wore most of his silver. “I can pay you well.”
“That’s not what I care about.” Lopaire stomped from the edge of the forest into the village.
Frandulane followed. He had to convince Lopaire to help him. “Then what do you care about?”
Lopaire spun around so quickly that Frandulane bumped into her and then took a step back with an apology. Lopaire said, “I care about helping people who truly need help.” She leaned toward Frandulane and sniffed at him. “And I don’t think that’s you.”
Before she could take a step away from him, Frandulane caught her by the arm. “Someone is trying to kill me. That’s why I need your help.”
Lopaire peered at him with questioning eyes. “Come with me.” She then headed toward her home, and Frandulane followed her inside.
The hearth stood at the center of the single room, and an opening in the roof allowed smoke to escape. Instead of benches, two sleeping pallets squeezed next to one wall, and the others were covered with shelves displaying all manner of containers.
With a start, Frandulane thought about the small stones he’d seen arranged in the formation of arrows on the ground. “Did someone tell you I was coming?” The possibility terrified him.
If someone had sent word to Lopaire, that same word could reach Skallagrim.
Lopaire took time and care in putting away all the items she had gathered in the forest, tucking them into jars and bottles. “Of course not.”
Her answer made Frandulane’s skin crawl. “Then how did you know I was coming?”
“I smelled you.”
Frandulane lifted his arm and sniffed at his armpit. “I don’t smell so bad.”
“No one said you did.” Lopaire sat on a bench. She took her shoes off and stretched her toes. “Everyone has their own unique scent. I know the smell of every merchant who comes to Copenville. I know the odor of every horse the merchants use. The wind came in strong today, and I recognized everything it brought except for one.” She gave Frandulane a pointed stare.
“You’re saying you didn’t recognize the way I smell.”
“That’s right.”
Frandulane puzzled over her words. “But if you didn’t recognize me, how did you know to make arrows out of stones to point the way to where I could find you? How did you know I was coming to see you?”
Lopaire gave a shrug. “Why else would anyone come to Copenville?”
Frandulane supposed she had a point. The village consisted of nothing more than several houses and the farmland around it. He imagined even brigands would pass it by.
“Tell me,” Lopaire said. “What is it you need that you can’t get from any accomplished alchemist in the port cities you must have traveled through?”
“I heard you can give me what I need to shift shape.”
Lopaire pursed her lips and studied him
. “You’re a Northlander. Why come to Copenville when you could stay at home and wait for your dragonslayer to bring what you need?”
Dragonslayer?
Under normal circumstances, Frandulane would have bluffed past his lack of knowledge and pretended he understood what the alchemist said.
He didn’t have that luxury of time.
Pretending could create a delay that might cost his life.
“I don’t know anything about shifting shape,” Frandulane said. “I need you to teach me how to do it.”
Lopaire laughed. “What kind of Northlander doesn’t know how to shapeshift?” When Frandulane looked down in shame, she stopped laughing. “I’d like to know. Why aren’t you already schooled in shapeshifting? Did your village have no dragonslayer?”
Frandulane continued staring at the ground. “I’m from Tower Island. No need for dragonslayers there.” He looked up sharply. “Tell me what a dragonslayer has to do with shifting shape. Does a dragonslayer have to be present to make it happen?”
Lopaire sat up straight and spoke in a matter-of-fact tone. “No. But it’s a dragonslayer that brings a slain dragon to villages. Northlanders eat dragon meat. That’s what gives them the power to change the way they look.”
When Frandulane tried to interrupt, she held up a finger to silence him. “But it’s not huge changes you can make, it’s small ones. Like your height or weight. Or the color of your hair or eyes. So, don’t go thinking you can shift into the shape of a tree or an animal, because it’s not going to happen. You have to understand that before we begin.”
“Dragon meat?” Frandulane said in disbelief. “That’s all it takes? Why isn’t this common knowledge?”
“It is! Certainly, in the Northlands, not so much in other countries. Maybe Tower Island is so isolated that it might as well be another country, even though it belongs to the Northlands.”
Frandulane thought about growing up on the island and having little contact with the outside world. He’d been entrenched in the Scalding family. Talking with the occasional merchant who ventured to Tower Island equaled his only exposure to anyone outside his family or the people who worked for them. To add insult to injury, Tower Island had its own dragonslayer in Skallagrim, but he’d spent his life roaming the Northlands because dragons never bothered with Tower Island. Skallagrim never had the means or reason to bring dragon meat to Tower Island.
