by Resa Nelson
“I have no dragon meat.” Lopaire kept her gaze on her shelves and continued to search them.
Upset at being ignored, Frandulane raised his voice. “But they told me you could help. Why would I be sent here if you can’t help?”
“I didn’t say I can’t help. I said I have no dragon meat.”
“But that’s what you say I have to eat before I can shift shape! How can I do that if you don’t have any dragon meat?”
Remaining cool and relaxed, Lopaire ran her finger along a row of bottles on one shelf. “Like all meat, dragon meat doesn’t stay fresh for long. No one bothers drying it like cod, because it destroys the power to shapeshift. But there are other things that can be done.”
“Other things?”
“Most alchemists make teas or potions to drink. I would need fresh dragon meat for that. Others make salves that can be applied to the skin and absorbed. For this purpose, a salve would be too messy. I think you would be served quite well by a tincture.”
Calmed by her words, Frandulane sat down on the bench she’d vacated. “Tincture?”
“It’s a concentrate. When dragon meat is cooked down, the juices can be extracted and refined to a potent state that lasts for a good year or longer.” Her finger lingered on a green glass bottle decorated with small bumps. “Ah. This must be it.” She took the bottle from the shelf and removed the stopper. After taking a whiff of its contents, she coughed.
Frandulane held out his hand. “Do I drink it all at once?”
Lopaire spun around, her face knotted in distress. “Not unless you want to kill yourself before anyone else can do it!” She clutched the bottle to her chest. “No, no, no! A tincture is not for drinking. It’s far too potent. You put a small drop on top of your thumb. You lick that drop from your skin and swallow.”
“A drop? That’s all?”
“It’s all you need.” Lopaire took a cautious step toward him. “Then what you must do is imagine in your mind exactly the way you want to look. You must focus with great intent.”
Frandulane became so excited that he scooted to the edge of the bench. “And then what?”
“Then your body will change.”
Frandulane thought he must have misheard the alchemist. “What I mean is, what else do I need to do to shift shape?”
“That’s all. When you imagine how you want to look, your body will change to match what’s in your mind.” Lopaire removed a tiny jar from another shelf and poured a thimble-full of the tincture into it. She stoppered both containers and handed the tiny one to Frandulane. “Remember: you need only one drop to gain the ability to shift. Your new shape will begin to fade every 10 days or so. You can renew it with one drop. This is enough to last you for many months.”
Frandulane accepted the tiny jar as if it were made of gold and handed a few silver rings to the alchemist as payment. But when Lopaire walked toward the door, he said, “Where are you going? Won’t you stay and help me?”
Lopaire recoiled. “Would you change your clothes in my presence?”
Wondering if it might be some kind of trick, Frandulane’s answer sounded more like a question. “No?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t! Changing the way you look is even more private than changing your clothing. You must never do it in the company of anyone.” Lopaire left the room in a huff.
Frandulane decided to follow the alchemist’s instructions and resisted his urge to scarf the entire tincture at once. Instead, he dipped a finger into the jar and placed a drop on the thumb of his opposite hand. He licked the drop from his skin. Frandulane blanched at the sharp and sour taste of the liquid on his tongue. Swallowing that taste made his insides tingle.
Just as Lopaire had advised, Frandulane focused on how he wanted to change his appearance. He closed his eyes to imagine it.
Dark hair. Dark eyes. Olive skin. Not quite so tall.
Frandulane didn’t feel any different. He rolled his shoulders to make them crack. Gathering his hope, he opened his eyes and looked at his hands. Even in the dim light of the alchemist’s home, he could tell his skin had darkened.
It worked!
Frandulane jumped to his feet, elated to see that his pants bagged at his ankles, now far too long for the legs he had shortened.
Looking down, Frandulane saw that with arms at his side, his hands now hung below his knees.
I forgot to change my arms!
Once more, Frandulane closed his eyes and concentrated. He then looked at his arms again.
The sleeves of his shirt now dangled beyond his fingertips, making it look as if his shirt had swallowed up his arms. Frandulane pushed his sleeves up, relieved to see his hands intact and his arms an appropriate length to match the rest of his altered body.
Reaching back, Frandulane grasped his long hair at the nape of his neck and brought it over his shoulders to inspect. Elated to see his hair had turned black and shiny, Frandulane felt hope.
But he’d forgotten to ask the alchemist if she had a mirror. A quick look around her home didn’t reveal one.
Frandulane noticed a bottle with a silvery surface on a lower shelf. He took the bottle and held it up to his face.
Its silvery surface confirmed that his lavender eyes had turned brown.
Now I can blend in among the Midlanders. No one will know I’m a Scalding. No one who meets me will know that I’m the one Skallagrim wants dead.
Frandulane felt so light that he wondered if he might float up toward the ceiling. Because he now looked like a Midlander, he didn’t have to worry about being recognized. He no longer saw the need to hide in some desolate region of the Midlands. Because he no longer had to hide, he could go anywhere and do anything he wanted.
I’m finally free of Skallagrim.
CHAPTER 22
The next morning, Bruni walked Madam Po to the ship ready to sail to the Far East—the first Northlander ship of the new spring season. Its low profile and carved reptilian figurehead and curving tail made it look like a dragon lurking among the Midlander and Southlander ships that had high rails and multiple masts for clusters of sails.
“You could stay until we find Mandulane,” Bruni said, wishing Madam Po would change her mind.
“It’s impossible to know when that will be.” Madam Po craned her neck to look at the length of the mast, knowing her promise that the emperor himself would pay her fare would hold true. The dragonslayers had vouched for her, and everyone trusted the word of a dragonslayer.
“Your portents didn’t tell you when we’d find him?”
Madam Po shook her head. “It could be days or weeks or months or years. But send word to the city of Zangcheen when you find him, and I will come back.”
Bruni worried about the warning Madam Po had given about Mandulane. “Maybe we should pull some dragonslayers from the Northlands to help look for Mandulane. Or take those in training away from their teachers to help us comb the Midlands and the Southlands.”
“Do whatever you can. It is imperative to find Mandulane before he becomes a threat.” Madam Po gave a brief bow. “I thank you for listening and believing what I say.”
Surprised, Bruni said, “Why wouldn’t I believe you?”
“I am a Far Easterner. You are a Northlander.”
Still flummoxed, Bruni said, “What does that have to do with anything?”
Madam Po smiled. “You prove my point. Most Northlanders would not believe me, because they see me as a foreigner.”
“But I’ve known you since my training days at Bellesguard. You and Benzel of the Wolf. He always trusted you. Why wouldn’t I?”
Madam Po’s eyes sparkled. “You are a fine dragonslayer, Bruni. Do not lose hope. Let me know when Mandulane is found.” She turned and then climbed onto a plank to board her ship.
Bruni stayed to watch the ship sail away, making sure she saw Madam Po on board before returning to the rented tavern room where Bruni stayed with her husband Seph, their young son, and Skallagrim’s two children before makin
g her way to the Northlands for dragon season.
When Bruni entered the room, she stopped short at the sight of Skallagrim’s parents sitting on a bench with Seph and all the children nearby. “Snip,” Bruni said. “Sven. I haven’t seen you since your last visit at Bellesguard.”
Snip cradled Skallagrim’s infant daughter, sleeping in her arms. “You were just a youngster then. Look how you’ve grown up with a child of your own.”
Baffled about their presence, Bruni glanced at her husband, but his expression revealed no clues. “Skallagrim isn’t here,” Bruni said. “He left the tavern last night, and no one has seen him since.”
“I told them what happened,” her husband Seph said. He walked to the room’s sole window and stared outside as if standing guard. “They know about Skallagrim.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Bruni blew out a mouthful of air and sat on another bench. “I don’t know what happened to Skallagrim. He’s not the dragonslayer I thought I knew.”
“No need to say anything,” Sven said. “What happened is something that happened long ago. Those boys never got along. I should have known it would come to this one day.”
Those boys. He’s talking about Skallagrim and his brother Frandulane.
“It never made any sense to us,” Snip said. “Frandulane always gave Skallagrim grief, saying he wasn’t a true Scalding. Of course, Frandulane was right, but we saw no need for him to hurt Skallagrim’s feelings. Frandulane thought he should be the dragonslayer of Tower Island, but he never had the temperament for it. Skallagrim may not be a Scalding, but he had the perfect temperament for dragonslaying. Until now.”
“I’m sorry about what happened,” Bruni said. “But Skallagrim has lost his good temperament. He’s no longer fit for dragonslaying. We made him choose between dragonslaying and handing in his sword.”
“We know,” Snip said. “We understand.”
“No one can convince him to go back to Tower Island,” Bruni said. “He won’t listen to you.”
“We didn’t come for Skallagrim,” Sven said.
“I don’t understand.” Bruni frowned. “Frandulane isn’t here either. No one knows where he is.”
“We didn’t come for our children,” Snip said. “We came for our grandchildren.”
Bruni took another look at the infant girl in Snip’s arms. Bruni noticed that Skallagrim’s son Drageen played with a wooden horse on the floor at his grandfather’s feet. “Skallagrim asked Seph and me to care for his children. You know Seph. He’s a dragonslayer, too.”
“We know Seph,” Sven said. “We know you have the best of intentions. But these children are our family, not yours.”
On one hand, Bruni felt relieved at the idea of handing Skallagrim’s children over to Snip and Sven. She knew them to be good people who would provide the greatest care.
On the other hand, Bruni had given her promise to Skallagrim, and she never broke a promise. She knew how he felt about Tower Island and that he hated the idea of his children ever setting foot there again.
“I don’t care whose family they belong to,” Bruni said. “The children will be better off here. They’re staying with us.”
When Sven stood, he was so much taller than Bruni that his hair brushed the ceiling of the small room. “Didn’t you hear what I said?”
In addition to her loyalty to Skallagrim, Bruni agreed with his desire to keep his children away from Tower Island. She felt a keen need to protect them. “Yes,” Bruni said. “But did you hear what I said?”
Silence fell in the room. Bruni’s skin buzzed with tension.
Bruni considered the space in which she stood. The room had a size far too small to allow her to withdraw her dragonslayer sword, much less use it.
She placed one hand on the hilt of the dagger tucked under her belt.
Snip gasped in surprise.
Sven drew his dagger and pointed it at Bruni. “We’re taking our grandchildren.”
Bruni’s husband Seph spoke up. “According to Northlander law, they have the right. Skallagrim isn’t here. He won’t be coming back. The next blood relative has the right to claim the children.”
Bruni stood her ground. “I don’t care. Skallagrim wants us to keep them.”
“If need be,” Sven said to Bruni, “I will challenge you to trial by combat.” He kept the dagger pointed at her. “Let our Northlander gods prove which one of us is right.”
The infant daughter in Snip’s arms whined in her sleep.
Like most people her age, Bruni didn’t put much stock in the Northlander gods or trial by combat. She found it difficult to believe the gods ensured that the winner of every battle was always the one in the right. Bruni found it easy to believe that the strongest or most dangerous combatant won, no matter how right or wrong that person might be.
Bruni observed the tremor in Sven’s hands and the way they had knotted and gnarled with age. Although he kept a tight grip on his dagger, it shook noticeably.
If he’d been younger and stronger, Bruni would have given serious thought to facing him in a trial by combat for the sake of the children.
But agreeing to combat such an aged man made her stomach turn.
Unlike other countries, the Midlander rules for trial by combat insisted that the two participants fight until one killed the other.
She knew how easy it would be to kill Sven.
Even if he could hold a sword properly, Sven knows he stands no chance against a dragonslayer sword. Even if I could find a smaller sword, I could defeat him with my eyes closed.
She didn’t want to do it.
Bruni considered that the goodness in Sven and Snip outweighed any harm that might otherwise threaten the children on Tower Island. It was a gamble she was willing to take.
Bruni shook her head. “I’m not going to fight you, Sven.”
Sven spoke in the same matter-of-fact tone he would use if asking what Bruni would like to have for breakfast. “I’m not afraid.”
“I know,” Bruni said. She placed her dagger back under her belt.
Satisfied, Sven did likewise.
Bruni spoke with resolve. “But know this: I will grill every merchant I encounter. Whenever I meet one who has been to Tower Island, he will tell me about you and these children. I will tell all merchants to check on the children from now on. If I ever hear anything that gives me reason to question their well-being and safety, I will come to Tower Island and do whatever is necessary to take them back.” She looked at her husband. “Agreed?”
Seph nodded. “Both of us will come to Tower Island. If these children ever need our help, we will risk our lives for them.”
Snip sat back in surprise. “They’re not your children.”
“No,” Bruni said. “But they’re the children of a dragonslayer.”
Seph walked away from the window and stood next to his wife. He placed a hand on her shoulder. “The children of any dragonslayer might as well be our own.”
“Everything will be fine,” Snip said. “Have those merchants enquire away, but there will never be any reason for you to come to Tower Island.”
Usually, Bruni would have been calmed by Snip’s response. But the older woman’s words gave Bruni the strangest feeling.
There will never be any reason for you to come to Tower Island.
She didn’t know why, but Bruni’s innards shivered as if she’d realized too late that she’d just swallowed a mouthful of poison.
CHAPTER 23
Skallagrim woke up to find his body draped over a table. The sizzling scent of roasting meat filled the stale morning air and sickened him. His head felt thick from the aftereffects of too many mugs of mead. When he sat up, the dizziness forced him to steady his hands against the table to keep from falling off the bench on which he sat.
The tavern keeper slammed his hand on the top, making the table rattle. “Rise and shine. Time to leave.” He shook his head in disappointment. “I let you stay because you’re a dragonslayer, but if yo
u want to sleep another night here, you’ll have to rent a room.”
It took all the effort Skallagrim could muster just to speak. “I’m fine.”
Unconvinced, the tavern keeper hauled Skallagrim to his feet and escorted him to the door. “If this is who’s protecting the Northlanders from dragons these days, may the gods help us all.”
Skallagrim flinched at the unforgiving light of day when the tavern keeper opened the door and pushed him outside.
Before letting the door slam shut, the tavern keeper said, “And good luck finding your sword.”
My sword!
Flooded with panic, Skallagrim reached over his shoulder to make sure his sword was still sheathed in place, only to find it missing.
Skallagrim snapped wide awake. He then remembered what happened the night before. He remembered how his fellow dragonslayers—including his closest friend and ally, Bruni—had confronted him and demanded that he give his sword to them.
How could I have been so stupid?
At the same time, Skallagrim remembered how close he’d come to getting his revenge for his wife’s death when Frandulane had arrived in Gott, only to see him slip away.
I have to find Frandulane. I can’t let him get away again. I can’t let him live.
Skallagrim stood in front of the tavern and watched the city bustling all around him.
Merchants walked toward the city center, where they’d set up their wares to sell. Sleepy-eyed crewmen wandered the streets in search of some fun before leaving on their next voyage. Teenage apprentices for blacksmiths—identifiable by the black smudges on their hands and faces—delivered small items to locals.
The cry of a gull perched on the thatched roof of the tavern made Skallagrim wince in pain. Even from this far away, Skallagrim imagined he could smell the tainted scent of rancid shellfish on the bird’s breath.
In a port city like this one, tavern keepers were the best sources of information. Skallagrim knew he’d already antagonized at least two tavern keepers: the one from last night where his fellow dragonslayers confronted him and the one who had just kicked him out. He decided he wouldn’t risk antagonizing a third.