Calling on Dragons

by Patricia C. Wrede

  “Arona Vamist.” Brandel’s eyes narrowed and his fists clenched. “He is the meanest, lowest, most obnoxious, narrow minded, opinionated . . .” With every word Brandel’s voice rose, until he was shouting at the top of his lungs. Then, abruptly, his hair burst into flames.

  After a shocked instant, Morwen relaxed. Fire-witches were supposed to be immune to fire, among their many other gifts, and she found this demonstration extremely interesting. Cimorene, too, seemed more surprised than frightened, but Killer was not so sanguine. He reared back in surprise, forgot to allow for his wings, and almost overbalanced. To keep his footing, he had to flap several times, filling the room with the wind from his wings. The flames brightened briefly, but then the breeze distracted Brandel from his angry tirade, and a moment later his hair went out.

  “That was interesting,” said Trouble.

  “Interesting isn’t the half of it,” said Morwen. “That wouldn’t by any chance have been Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist you were railing at a moment ago, would it?”

  “That’s the one,” Brandel said, nodding vehemently. “And if I ever get my hands on the sneaking little—”

  “Yes, of course,” Morwen interrupted hastily, hoping to forestall another outburst. “If talking about it won’t upset you too much, would you mind telling me exactly how Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist was ‘making life difficult’ for you?”

  “Not just for me. That weasel has it in for the whole family.” The ends of Brandel’s hair began to glow like embers in a high wind. With a visible effort, he controlled himself and went on. “He’d been going on about true magic and traditional forms for a long time, but nobody ever paid much attention. Then he petitioned the Town Council to outlaw all ‘nontraditional’ magic, and somehow he got them to do it.”

  “And fire-witches aren’t on his traditional list,” Morwen said.

  Brandel nodded. “He got us thrown out of our home, and there wasn’t a thing we could do about it.”

  “Nothing?” Cimorene raised an eyebrow. “From what I’ve heard about fire-witches—”

  “Using our magic against him would only have made his arguments to the Town Council sound more reasonable,” Brandel said.

  Cimorene and Morwen just looked at him.

  “All right, we tried!” Brandel hit the arm of his chair with one fist, and little flames flickered in his hair. “Somebody was helping the little creep. He has a really first-class protective spell, one the whole lot of us couldn’t get a handle on. When we found out we couldn’t get at him, the others went to visit my uncle in Oslett. I came here, hoping Rachel would know where the sorceress had gone. I thought maybe she’d help.”

  “Rachel didn’t know, I take it?” said Morwen.

  “No, but she let me have the tower. She even warned me about all the knights and heroes before she left, but I didn’t believe her.” Brandel sighed. “I do now. That’s why I filled in the end of the sorceress’s walkway.”

  “Walkway?” said Cimorene.

  “The one lined with invisible dusk-blooming chokevines. Didn’t you notice?”

  “We noticed the vines. We didn’t notice a walkway. Just mud.”

  Brandel shrugged. “I don’t think she got out much, and when she did, she usually flew.”

  “So you’ve been living here ever since you got thrown out of your hometown?” Morwen asked.

  Brandel nodded.

  “How long is that?”

  “Around four months, I think. I lose track. Not a lot happens, except knights, and the days sort of blur together. I don’t even know what’s been happening outside the swamp.”

  “Arona Michaelear Grinogion Vamist seems to have decided to move on from fire-witches to regular witches,” Morwen said. “As near as I can tell, he’s trying to get everyone to wear pointy hats and cackle a lot.”

  “You watch out,” Brandel said. “He’s up to something.”

  “I’m beginning to regret missing his call,” Morwen said.

  “You got a call from this Vamist person?” said Cim­orene. “What did he want?”

  “The cats didn’t say.”

  Trouble let his eyelids close almost to slits. “Nothing important.”

  “That reminds me,” Cimorene said. “Brandel, have you got a magic mirror around that I could use? I promised Mendanbar I’d let him know how things were going every once in a while.”

  “I think the sorceress left an old one in the storage closet,” Brandel said. “I’ll check.”

  The fire-witch disappeared down the staircase. Morwen and Cimorene looked at each other.

  “This is not going well,” Cimorene said.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Morwen replied. “We have somewhere dry to spend the night. Under the circumstances . . .”

  “That’s just it. The circumstances. We’re goodness-knows-how-many leagues from where we ought to be, Telemain’s hurt, and we still don’t have any idea where Mendanbar’s sword is. And we’ve wasted a whole day. Any minute now, that sword may start leaking magic, and—”

  “—and fretting yourself into fits won’t help a bit,” Morwen said. “Magical pressure takes time to build up, and it’s only been a day and a half since the sword was stolen. We probably have at least another day before the magic of the Enchanted Forest starts draining out.”

  “Probably. But what if we don’t?”

  Morwen sighed. “Perhaps we’re approaching the problem from the wrong direction. Let me think about it.”

  “With Telemain to take care of, when will you have time?”

  “I’ll manage,” Morwen said.

  A muffled thump echoed from the stairwell. Another followed, then some scraping noises. “Ow!” said Brandel’s voice. A moment later, the carved wooden rim of an enormous old mirror thrust up out of the stairwell.

  “My goodness, it’s large.” Cimorene rose hastily and went over to help. “You should have said something.”

  “I’d forgotten how big it is,” Brandel panted.

  Together, they hoisted the mirror the last few feet up the stairs and propped it against the wall. “Will it do?” Brandel asked.

  “I don’t see why not,” Cimorene said, but she sounded doubtful.

  Morwen couldn’t blame her. The sorceress’s magic mirror was so old that the glass had uneven areas that distorted the reflection. Tarnish mottled the silver backing like black moss, and the wooden frame had deep cracks.

  “Well, there’s no point in waiting,” Cimorene said.

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

  I would like to make a call.”

  Leaning forward, she waited eagerly for the mirror’s response.

  15

  In Which They Have Difficulties with a Mirror

  SLOWLY, THE SPLOTCHY REFLECTION of the room faded into a smooth, even white. Then a voice from the mirror said, “Really?” It sounded hoarse, as if it hadn’t been used in a long time. “Are you sure you don’t want to leave me down in that storeroom for another twenty or thirty years, gathering dust and cobwebs and talking to the magic cloaks for company? Not that I’m complaining, mind, but cloaks don’t have much in the way of conver­sation.”

  “I wish to speak to Mendanbar, the King of the Enchanted Forest,” Cimorene said firmly.

  “You’re supposed to specify that in the verse, you know,” the mirror said. “Though I guess I can make an exception, this once. Especially since you know exactly who you want to talk to. None of this ‘fairest of them all’ silliness. I hate that. I have to hunt through seven or eight hundred people, and in the end it’s a matter of opinion anyway, and nobody is ever happy with the results. Now, you are clearly a woman of decision. ‘I wish to speak to Mendanbar, King of—’ Wait a minute. King? Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure,” said Cimorene. “Put me through to him, please.”

  “If you insist,” said the mirror, “but I should warn you that in my experience kings don’t talk to just anyone.”

  “He’ll talk to me. I’m
his wife.”

  “Well, sorry, Your Majesty,” said the mirror in a huffy tone. “I’ll get right to it. I suppose you know that there’s mud on your cheek.”

  Before Cimorene could reply, the mirror filled with slowly swirling colors, and from it came the sound of someone humming a soft melody ever-so-slightly off key. “Mirror!” said Cimorene. “Mirror?”

  The mirror did not respond. “I think you just have to wait until it comes back,” said Brandel.

  “Isn’t there some way to make it stop humming?” said Cimorene. “Morwen? You know about magic mirrors.”

  “Not enough to do that,” Morwen said regretfully.

  Finally, the humming stopped and the mirror cleared, but instead of the grinning face of the gargoyle in Mendanbar’s study, or Mendanbar himself, they saw only the same milky whiteness as they had before. “I’m sorry,” said the mirror. “I don’t seem to be able to get through.”

  Cimorene and Morwen stared at the mirror for a moment in appalled silence. Then Cimorene said, “Can’t get through? Why not?”

  “How should I know? I’m just a mirror.”

  “Try again,” said Morwen.

  “And no humming this time!” Cimorene added, but she was too late. The swirling colors—and the humming—were back.

  This time the wait seemed interminable. Cimorene paced back and forth in front of the mirror, frowning and biting her lower lip. Finally, the humming stopped and the mirror cleared.

  “Nope,” it said. “There’s nothing to communicate with. Are you sure he has a magic mirror?”

  “He did when we left,” Cimorene said.

  “Maybe someone broke it,” Killer suggested.

  “Unlikely, but possible,” Morwen told him. “Still, I think the difficulty is probably at this end.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with me!” said the mirror indignantly. “I’ve had no complaints, not one, in all the years since I was first enchanted.”

  “That was, however, a long time ago.” Morwen turned to Cimorene. “Telemain did the spell on the mirror at the castle, didn’t he?”

  Cimorene nodded. “Last year, as a wedding present. He updated it just a few weeks ago.”

  “Then it is possible that the two mirrors are incompatible,” Morwen said.

  “Ridiculous,” said the mirror. “I’m very easygoing. I get along with everyone, even that dreadful woman who spied on her stepdaughter all the time. Now, that woman was incompatible with everyone. Honestly, the things she did—”

  “Go to sleep,” Morwen said.

  “Phooey,” said the mirror, and the milk white surface faded back into blotchy silver.

  “Do you really think it’s just a problem with the different spells?” Cimorene asked doubtfully, but her expression had lightened a little already.

  “It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen,” Morwen said. “We can ask Telemain about it tomorrow morning. Maybe he’ll have some suggestions.”

  “I don’t know.” Cimorene chewed gently on her lower lip. “I think I need to talk to Kazul. Killer—”

  “Oh no,” said the donkey. “Not me. Flying is too much work. And I haven’t had any dinner yet.”

  “He does sound like Fiddlesticks,” said Trouble.

  “I suppose I should get you something,” Brandel said without much enthusiasm. “What would you like?”

  Killer’s eyes lit up. “Clover. With sweet flowers and slightly tart leaves, for a nicely balanced mix of flavors, and maybe a little parsley as a palate cleanser. Not the kind of parsley that crinkles up, the kind with the flat leaves.”

  “I’ll see what I have,” Brandel said, sounding slightly stunned.

  “Well, if Killer won’t help, I’ll have to take the laundry basket,” Cimorene said with a shrug. “Will you show me how to use it, Morwen?”

  “Certainly,” Morwen said. “Just bear in mind that the balance is a little tricky.”

  “It can’t be any worse than the magic carpet Mendanbar and I had to ride when we were looking for Kazul,” Cimorene replied. “I’ll manage.”

  Morwen nodded, and she gave Cimorene the short list of basket-control commands. Together, the two women wrestled the basket out the window and set it hovering. Then Morwen held it while Cimorene climbed carefully into it. To make sure nothing went wrong, Morwen watched as Cimorene started down, then she turned away from the window with a smile. Cimorene was right. She could manage.

  A new series of thumps and scrapes echoed up the stairwell, and Brandel appeared, carrying a bushel basket heaped full of clover.

  “Now, where did you find that?” Morwen asked.

  “The sorceress didn’t like running to town for groceries,” Brandel said, setting the basket in front of Killer. “So she enchanted her pantry so it would always have whatever she needed, for herself or for any visitors who happened to stop by.”

  “I thought she didn’t have visitors,” Morwen said.

  “She didn’t have many. I suppose she thought having company was bad enough without having to go shopping to feed them, too.”

  Killer’s ears stiffened, and he paused in midbite. “Enchanted?” he said around a mouthful of clover. “This is more enchanted food?”

  “No, no, it’s the pantry that’s enchanted. The food is perfectly normal,” said Brandel. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “You’ll have to pardon him,” Morwen said. “He’s trying to be cautious because he’s had a bad experience. A series of bad experiences.”

  “You’re sure this is safe?” Killer said anxiously. “I’m getting tired of all these changes.”

  “It’s a little late to worry about it now,” Trouble told him. “You’ve already eaten some. I don’t suppose Brandel thought to bring a saucer of cream along with all that rabbit food?”

  “Yes, about the rest of us . . . ,” Morwen said.

  “Oh, sorry.” Brandel looked embarrassed. “I guess I’m not used to having company. What would you like?”

  “Let’s see what you have,” said Morwen, and started for the stairs.

  By the time Cimorene returned, Morwen and Brandel had laid out a substantial supper, including roast boar, baked potatoes, carrots, green beans and tiny onions, and spring water for the people; and sardines with cream for the cats. Killer had finished his first basket of clover, the second was half gone, and he was beginning to slow down. It looked as if he might, for once, have enough to eat at a meal.

  “Did you have a nice chat with your dragon?” Brandel asked as Cimorene pushed the laundry basket into a corner where it would be out of the way.

  Cimorene rolled her eyes. “Kazul is not, and never has been, my dragon. I was her princess for a while, but now we’re just friends.”

  “Oh. Well, did you have a nice chat with your friend, then?”

  “Sort of.” Cimorene looked at Morwen. “Kazul is leaving.”

  Morwen considered. “When? And why?”

  “Right away. She—”

  Something large whooshed past the window outside. “There she goes,” Cimorene said.

  “That still leaves why.” Morwen pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. “You can explain over dinner.”

  “Something smells good up here,” Scorn said from the staircase, poking her black nose over the top of the last step. “Hey, Horatio, there’s cream!”

  “If I don’t get any, I will be very upset,” said Trouble, lashing his tail for emphasis as the other two cats bounded out of the stairwell and headed for the bowls Brandel had left on the floor.

  Cimorene smiled absently at the cats and joined Morwen at the table. “It’s—well, dragons aren’t very patient at the best of times. And we haven’t run into any wizards yet, and Kazul wasn’t sure your enchanted pantry would be up to feeding a dragon. So since I was worried about Mendanbar—”

  “And since Mendanbar said something about wizards in the Enchanted Forest when you talked to him last night—” Morwen said.

  “And since there’s not muc
h dragon food in the swamp—” Killer put in.

  “—Kazul offered to go home and—and see what’s going on.” Cimorene took a large helping of the roast boar and dug in with relish.

  “It may be just as well.” Morwen took a much smaller portion of the boar and looked at it doubtfully, wondering whether her stomach was up to it. “Once we have the sword, we’ll want to return to the Enchanted Forest immediately. Telemain won’t be fit for much for a day or so, but—”

  “Oh no! Morwen, we can’t afford to sit around here for a whole day!”

  “If you have a better idea, I’d like to hear it,” said Morwen. “Besides, we haven’t got the slightest idea where we’re going, so rushing off won’t get us there any quicker. We’ll be better off if we take time to plan.”

  “I suppose so,” Cimorene said, but she didn’t sound happy about it.

  “As I was saying: By tomorrow morning, I’ll have some idea when Telemain will be able to do a proper transport spell again. Without Kazul, he can take us considerably farther each time and still stay within the safety limits.”

  Cimorene swallowed a mouthful of potato. “That’s good. The faster we go, the sooner we’ll get the sword back to the Enchanted Forest.”

  “Exactly.” With some regret, Morwen set down her fork. “For tonight, the best thing we all can do is rest. Brandel, will you help us with Telemain?”

  “I don’t need help,” Telemain said unexpectedly from the floor in front of the fire. “I need dinner. Where are we, and why is there a cat on my chest?”

  “He was supposed to be making sure you stayed asleep,” Morwen said, turning to give Trouble a reproving look.

  “It’s not my fault,” Trouble said. “He doesn’t react right. I’ve never had to use that spell on a magician before; maybe that’s why.” He rose and stepped carefully down from Telemain’s chest. “Are there any sardines left?”

  Telemain sat up and looked at Trouble with dislike. “That animal is remarkably heavy for something that looks that skinny.”

  “That’s gratitude for you,” said Trouble. “He should be glad I’m not Chaos.”