One Realm Beyond

by Donita K. Paul

  “Yes, I thought you might.” He touched Bixby’s sleeve. “You can get up now, girl, and tell me what this is all about.”

  Bixby sat up and pivoted on the litter, swinging her legs to dangle over the side. With a hop, she stood on the floor, looking up at the healer.

  “We needed to get into the city, and we needed to look like we were on legitimate business.”

  Dukmee picked up the pillow from the litter, stroked it as he crossed the room, and placed the pillow on the stuffed chair. The pillow reformed into Jesha. She meowed and stretched, then settled in the chair as if she needed a nap.

  “A cat,” said Dukmee. “I couldn’t quite figure that one out.” He sniffed. “Where is the dead thing? I’d like to get that out of my house, if you don’t mind.”

  Bixby slipped her bandaged hand under the sheet that had covered the litter and pulled out a mauled, deceased rat. She held it between two fingers by the tail. The body had been ravaged by some hungry animal. As she displayed the carcass, the tail separated from its rump, and the main part of it landed on the floor with a thud.

  Dukmee’s pinched face showed his distaste for the smelly corpse. “Out the back door, please. A garbage barrel. Put the lid back on tightly.”

  Bixby bent over to pick up the rat. She crinkled her nose. The rodent’s mouth gaped open and yellow teeth showed through the drying flesh. She picked him up by two long front teeth. As soon as she straightened, the rat fell. The two teeth remained in her hand.

  Cantor came to her rescue. “I’ll take it out. Let me have that fake bandage as well.”

  He scooped up the rat remains and departed through a door along the back wall. Bixby followed him. Soon they sailed back into the healer’s examining room minus the nasal offender and the blood-soaked bandage from her hand.

  Dukmee pointed at the litter. “And since you have a dragon, one or both of you must be realm walkers.”

  Cantor grimaced. “We are realm walkers, but Bridger is not our dragon. He’s not a constant for either of us. We just arrived.”

  The healer looked puzzled.

  Cantor tried again. “Bixby and I met this afternoon. I met Bridger this morning. He tags along. He — ” Cantor stopped before saying the dragon was a nuisance. His forming a litter had been a major part of their plan to get into the city.

  “I see,” said the healer. He strode through another curtained doorway and returned with a satchel. Setting it on the floor, he began gathering books. He nodded at Bixby. “Hold it open, will you?”

  The bag should have filled up, but Dukmee managed to put three times as many volumes in as Cantor thought would fit. Dukmee took the satchel from Bixby, closed it, and pulled another case from a cabinet.

  “You can clean up in that room.” He pointed out another door covered with a curtain. This one was half the height of the others. “Bixby, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “Bixby D’Mazeline.”

  “Water and towels and soap.”

  Bixby ducked through the opening and came back out. “It’s dark in there.”

  Dukmee stuck his hand in a pocket and pulled out a fist-sized milky white orb. He shook it, and light radiated from the ball. He tossed it to Bixby. She caught it and grinned. Turning it over and over in her hand, she left to wash up.

  Cantor wondered if asking questions of the healer would be prudent. The sentinel mentioned that this man treated the soldiers, which meant he’d likely know a lot about the location of things within the garrison. He hadn’t given away their ploy to the sentinel, but did that mean he was trustworthy?

  “What are you doing?” asked Cantor as he watched the healer walk back and forth, adding things to another satchel.

  “Packing.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “What?” Cantor shook his head as if to clear water out of his ears. “Why?”

  “I’ve been a prisoner in this city for five years. I’m ready to leave.”

  Cantor let that information sink in. Would they be able to free the captives and get them out of the city? Would one more person complicate their plans enough to cause disaster? Having a healer along might be a great asset should there be a battle.

  He wasn’t sure. The healer might be more recognizable and give them away just by being one of the many. “What makes you think we can smuggle you out? You don’t even know what we came to do.”

  The healer went through another doorway and reappeared with socks and boots in his hand. He sat on the edge of the big chair, being careful not to bother the cat. As he changed his fine, highly polished shoes to the more common footwear, he explained his reasoning.

  “You and your band of oddly assorted friends were clever enough to get into the city without raising suspicions. Your subterfuge points to some nefarious deed you wish to accomplish while you are here. I assume that whatever this task may be will not be pleasing to the authorities. Since you’ve been successful so far in your endeavor, you’re the best chance I’ve seen in five years to avoid the King’s Guard and escape.”

  He stood and picked up his traveling cases. The book satchel alone should have bent the slight man double, but he stood without effort.

  Cantor lowered his chin to his chest and studied the floor. Dukmee was not going to be helpful. The healer expected Cantor and crew to provide the wherewithal for their exit from the city. With a large sigh, he lifted his head.

  “We’re going to the barracks to set free the new forced recruits before their minds are locked away and they become cruel puppets under the king’s despotic rule. Lem’s son is among them. Then we’ll leave Gristermeyer. No one, so far, has planned the rescue. No one has even a clue as to how we’ll get out of the garrison, let alone the city.”

  “I see,” said Dukmee.

  He set his satchels down, picked up the cat, and sat in his chair. He placed Jesha in his lap and stroked her. She readily purred, kneaded his waistcoat for a moment, then melted into a puddle of fur. With a hand still petting the cat, Dukmee looked up at Cantor. “May I offer you a meal before we go?”

  MAKING PLANS

  Bixby placed the glowing orb in a cupped wall sconce above a sink in the tiny room. She had ducked through the opening and then straightened, knocking her head on the ceiling. Rubbing the bump, she wondered why the tall healer had a room this short in his establishment.

  She’d ask. One needed questions. One of her mentors had primed her to ask questions.

  “Never give up your whys, whens, and wherefores,” he had said repeatedly as she trained under his tutelage. “Intelligent people never pretend they understand when they do not. Questions are the cure for common stupidity.”

  A small pump beside the sink provided water, not hot or cold, but pleasantly warm. Something else she would ask about.

  The soap smelled like beef stew. She inspected it closely but saw nothing that looked even remotely like carrots, potatoes, or onions. Green flecks dotted the creamy brown bar, but even those couldn’t be parts of a vegetable. The soap lathered just like the soaps she had used everywhere else she’d been. But the fragrance made her stomach growl and reminded her she’d only had a smidgen of the roasted rabbit they’d eaten before coming to Gristermeyer.

  A good scrubbing returned her face and arms to their natural pale color, though she’d thought it would take days for the green and red tints to fade away. Perhaps beef stew soap had superior qualities.

  A mirror showed her she could use freshening in other areas. Stripping off several layers of dresses and shirts and skirts, she reordered them so a tan dress, embroidered with a tiny vine of delicate green leaves, was on top. From her flat bag, she removed a silver crown studded with green jewels and placed it on her head. She scrutinized the effect in the mirror, made a face, and exchanged the modest crown for a smaller gold circlet with dainty leaves on slender vines.

  Satisfied, she bent to pass through a curtain-covered door and enter the larger room behind the shop.

  Po
pping noises drew Bixby’s attention to the examining table. The poles of the litter wiggled, and the expanse between puffed up. The pieces seemed to pull toward the middle, and slowly the shape took the form of a dragon. Bridger’s body fit on the tabletop. In this appearance, his size suited the crowded room.

  Dukmee stood, carrying Jesha, and approached Bridger with his right hand extended. “You must be Bridger.”

  Bixby grinned as the dragon solemnly shook the healer’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said the dragon. “I believe you mentioned food.”

  Dukmee laughed. “I did, indeed.”

  He strode through the curtained door to the front of the shop. Bixby and Cantor followed. Standing in the entrance of his herb store, the healer watched people streaming by.

  Bixby heard the sentinel’s voice and backed into the other room, where she and Bridger peeked through the curtain. They could no longer see out into the street, but they could hear the conversation.

  “How’s that farm girl, healer?”

  “I didn’t have to amputate her hand. Tell the father he can come in now. And that other man. You can run along and give your report. I’ll be keeping the girl here until I’m satisfied she’ll recover.”

  “How long will that be?”

  Dukmee put his hand to his chin and paused as if considering. “Up to seven days. But her initial response to my treatment looks promising, so it may be sooner.”

  “Fine.” His voice sounded gruff, as if he had left off his friendly demeanor and returned to a guard’s mindset. “See that this family doesn’t leave without checking in at headquarters.”

  “Not my concern,” said the healer. “I’m only responsible for their health, not their whereabouts. You’ll have to find someone else for that job.”

  “Take care to be cooperative, Dukmee. You know how badly things can turn out for those who have a disobliging spirit.”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  A gap in the conversation made Bixby want to run into the room to find out what was happening. She waited, holding her breath. What was going on in the street? Dukmee stood silently. Cantor stood behind him. Dukmee’s posture denied anything was amiss, but Cantor looked ready to spring into a fray. Beside her, Bridger moaned.

  Suddenly, the two men took a step back from the open door. Bixby cringed, waiting for something bad to happen. Lem and Ruese appeared in the door and entered. She sighed with relief. Now they stood in the way, conversing with Cantor, and she couldn’t see the healer.

  She vaguely heard them as they compared notes about what had happened during the interval they were out of sight from one another. Bixby closed her eyes and reached with her mind. The circlet warmed on her forehead. She couldn’t enter the healer’s thoughts, but she did hear him speak.

  “Pen, take this coin and go to Widow Apar. Ask her to fix me a lunch for six and wait for her to prepare a basket. Bring the basket back, and there will be a coin for you.”

  “Yes, sir,” said a young voice.

  The healer closed his door and ushered the three men into the back room. Bixby abandoned the use of her crown to listen in on Dukmee.

  He gave Bixby a scrutinizing stare. “I see,” he mumbled. Turning away, Dukmee directed the men to help him lower the examining table and set it up as a place for dining.

  Bixby’s list of questions bubbled inside her, demanding satisfaction.

  “Why was that sentinel so different?”

  “How was he different?” asked Dukmee.

  “He had personality. He seemed like a friendly sort and not a ruthless killer.”

  “Don’t let his demeanor fool you. He’s as coldblooded as the rest of them. And he is not a common soldier. He’s one who chose to be a servant to the king. That makes him worse than the conscripted men who lose the life they know and are transformed into mindless instruments of terror.”

  “You mean he’s evil because he wants to be evil, not because something was done to his mind that removed his conscience.”

  “Exactly. He’s the king’s man because of the power and fortune it gives him.”

  The front door opened, and Pen called, “I have your lunch, Healer. There’s a second basket, so my friend Tando carried it.”

  Dukmee hurried through the curtain. “Good job, boys. Here’s a coin for each of you. Run along now and buy something good for your families to share. Don’t buy candy . . .. . . . . . Sausages! Sausages are cheap and taste good. Here’s another coin for bread. Surprise your mums!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The front door slammed. Dukmee came into the room carrying a basket in each hand.

  “That was quick,” said Bridger with a greedy eye on the food.

  “Widow Apar’s shop is only two doors down.”

  Dukmee planted his burden on the table and gestured for everyone to sit. Cantor visibly startled when their host indicated the dragon should have a specific chair close to his own.

  Bixby offered thanks aloud for their little band of comrades, the food, and their safe entry into the city. She also requested that Primen inspire them with a brilliant plan to rescue the men and help the healer escape the city.

  Bixby tried not to laugh when she realized Cantor seemed uneasy about Bridger’s joining them at the table. The dragon showed some sophistication. In fact, she’d known courtiers who could have learned a lesson or two about table etiquette from the dragon. The only breach he made was slurping his drink, and given the shape of his mouth, Bixby didn’t know whether he was capable of drinking without the noise.

  When the first edge of hunger was satisfied, and the party slowed down, Bixby settled back to survey the room and her companions.

  Her feet swung as they dangled from the high stool. She relaxed, willing to watch Cantor do the interview. She’d learn a lot from his opinions while he asked diplomatic questions.

  “What have they done to imprison you? What would we have to do to get past their guards?”

  “Wards,” answered the healer. “Wards on each of the gates.”

  The word startled a grunt out of Ruese. “Wards? You mean a spell cast by a wizard? How can that be?”

  Bixby focused on the healer.

  Dukmee’s deep voice carried his information wrapped in solemnity. “Contrary to what we’ve been told, there are wizards about. The king has several under his influence. I suspect the Croguer is a powerful wizard, but not under the influence of the king. Quite the opposite.”

  “But the minor wizards are under the king’s influence?” asked Bixby. “Do you mean in the same way the recruits are rendered incapable of their own thoughts? And these wizards succumb to the same influence?”

  “No. The king can’t use the same treatment on the wizards. The process would destroy their ability to do his bidding. They have to believe they’re still in control of their decisions in order to work spells.”

  Bridger leaned over the table. “But they’re not. I’ve seen one at work.”

  Lem and Ruese exchanged a look. Lem took a swig of his drink. Ruese pushed back his plate and folded his hands on the table. Everyone at the table listened intently to Bridger’s tale, even Cantor.

  “This wizard blighted a field of corn. A songbird flew by and distracted him. You could see on his face that he was confused. But as he took a step to leave, he regained his focus. He strode into the middle of the field and smote the plants. Then he walked away with a smile on his face.”

  Bridger’s smile radiated a smug impression. “This is one of the reasons I’m glad to be Cantor D’Ahma’s constant.”

  “The fact remains,” said Cantor, “that Cantor D’Ahma is not glad to have you as his constant.”

  Without paying any regard to the realm walker’s interruption, the dragon continued. “Perhaps we’ll return when our bond is stronger and right the wrongs that are committed here.”

  Growling his words, Cantor disputed the dragon’s claim. “You are not my constant. I have not chosen my constant.”

&nbs
p; The dragon ignored him and passed a small piece of meat down to Jesha, who sat at Bridger’s feet.

  Ruese closed his mouth, then with a light hand, popped his brother on the shoulder. “A realm walker and his dragon, Lem. We’ll rescue the boys for sure.”

  Cantor looked down at his plate and muttered, “Not my dragon.”

  No one answered his comment and after a moment, Dukmee cleared his throat. “Tell me the news outside the city walls. My sources are unreliable at present.”

  The conversation continued around the table. They spoke of the food shortage in the larger cities, the immodest clothing style of the king’s court that outraged those who followed Primen, and the sudden lack of trade between districts.

  Dukmee withdrew his attention and seemed to ponder some deep thought. Bixby tried again to use the crown and enter his mind. He tossed her a look of annoyance, and she quit.

  Lem, too, soon dropped out of the exchange of ideas and pushed his bowl away. Gloom descended on him as evening deepened the shadows in the healer’s home.

  Ruese noticed his brother’s despair and put an arm around his shoulder.

  Bixby’s sympathy welled and spilled out with the aid of her tongue. “What are we going to do? We need to be planning our mission, not discussing food and clothing and trade and such.”

  Dukmee smiled and nodded. “Indeed, we do. I have an idea, if you would allow me to be your counselor.”

  “We’ll consider anything you have to say,” said Cantor. “I believe you’re in a good position to know what will work and what will not. Tell us your idea.”

  “Merely invisibility for two, freedom for many, escape for me. I think I’ve done a rather good job of covering all the aspects.” He spoke to Bridger. “Tell me, my friend, are you the type of dragon who can blow fire? Or are you of the fireless breed?”

  With a smug glance at Cantor, Bridger nodded. “Oh, yes, I can breathe fire, and I don’t even have to be in dragon skin to do so.”

  Cantor mumbled, “That statement is entirely true.”

  Dukmee clapped his hands together. “Then I believe our difficulties shall be addressed this night. Tomorrow’s moon will look down on a happy resolution of our plight.”