One Realm Beyond

by Donita K. Paul

  After thirty days, Cantor stood on the cusp of a narrow plain blanketed with high grasses and crowded woods and bordered to the west by the Sea of Joden.

  Tinendoor.

  The word had become a refrain in his conversations with friendly locals as he passed from one region to another. The farther he wandered from the center of the king’s power, the more talkative the citizens became, and nearly all of them said the same thing: Most mor dragons now occupied Tinendoor to the exclusion of all other areas on Effram. He heard this so many times in so many taverns that he stopped pointing out the obvious error: that he had encountered Bridger some distance from the Tinendoor region.

  Now, unable to keep the grin from his face, Cantor plunged into the valley at a jog. At the base of the foothill, he entered a narrow grove of frichelmarsh trees. No marsh swamped the intricate interweaving of roots from the randomly spaced trees; instead their soft canopy of tiny leaves extended only a few feet from a sizeable stream that washed out of a stone gully coming from the mountains.

  He paused to refill his water flask, wash dust off his face and hands, and rest his weary feet in the slow-flowing brook. With his back against a tree and a biscuit and an apple in his hands, he allowed his mind to ramble through bits of information.

  Tinendoor had two organized villages, both small and both nestled in the foothills. No farms, industries, or hamlets edged the Sea of Joden, and for good reason. Although the waves sparkled iridescent blue, the harsh minerals suspended in the thick water corroded anything it touched. An hour’s swim would be fatal. A sip to ease an undeniable thirst sent an agony of poison through the drinker’s body. If a rain cloud formed over the sea and then drifted over dry land, the people went to extremes to protect property and people from the tainted raindrops.

  Having been forewarned, Cantor had sought relief for his aching feet in water from the peaks, not from the sea. When he dried his feet and put on his socks and boots, he traveled close to the mountains, a comfortable distance from the dangerous waters.

  As the sun disappeared beyond the Sea of Joden, a golden path beckoned the uninformed traveler to draw near. Whenever Cantor’s path took him to the top of a hill, he could look out to the west and see the beach curving along the seashore. The sandy composition of multicolored crystals sparkled in the dying sunlight, its innocent-looking beauty luring visitors to come too close.

  Resolute, Cantor kept his eyes to the north, hoping to spot lights from one of two hostels he’d heard of in the last town he’d passed through before entering the mountains. One was recommended, and the other was disparaged.

  An hour later, Cantor wondered if he’d misunderstood the directions. He’d seen nothing of human habitats, no houses, no roads, and no cultivated fields. And what was more, no dragons. Had he wandered off course? Had the man said south instead of north?

  Coming to the edge of a forested area, he decided the hostel would have to wait ’til morning. One more night in the open wouldn’t hurt him. He dropped his pack under a tree and looked all around. The scenery thickened with woods.

  Stay on the fringe or move to take advantage of the shelter under the boughs?

  He surveyed the sky. No clouds, no halo around the moon. A mild night. As he turned toward the woods, a glimmer in the air caught his eye. Over the trees about a half mile from where he stood, the moon lit up a thin column of smoke. He snatched up his pack. He’d have company, after all, this night.

  As he approached the long log building at last, he tried to remember every scrap of information he’d heard about the two hostels. One was hostile, the other hospitable.

  The lodging defamed with tales of evil had no flower beds on the premises, a crude barn to one side and slightly behind the primary building, and a foul, smoldering hill of refuse. Cantor squinted, peering into the shadows around the building. The rising moon cast uneven lighting upon the objects scattered before him.

  A large structure to the side could be the barn, but he couldn’t determine the level of craftsmanship. He didn’t see a burning dump, and only a faint hint of rotting vegetables tainted the air.

  He saw what he thought might be a patch of land dedicated to zinnias. The flowers showed no color in the neutralizing light of the moon.

  He tuned his ear to the noises coming from within. Someone had lifted several of the many windows. Golden lamplight spilled out between the curtains. A strummer instrument and a reed pipe didn’t quite play at the same tempo. Nonetheless, he recognized the tune, “Rainy Memories of a Sunny Day.” The piper lagged behind the strummer, and while Cantor listened, he skipped ahead in his part to rejoin the faster musician.

  Unexpectedly enticing, the aroma of stew laden with garlic and onions invited him to open the door on the chance that he’d found the hospitable hostel.

  Men sat around tables close to the floor. The first clue he was in the wrong place.

  All conversation ceased, along with the clatter of dishes and the slightly off music of pipe and strummer. The second clue.

  No women anywhere. The entire male gathering stood and inched toward him. Third clue.

  Each man bared his teeth in a wide and bright, white grimace that held no joy and plenty of menace. Fourth.

  In unison, a growl emanated from the stout throats of the very short tribe. No more clues needed.

  Words of wisdom drifted back through his thoughts. “Avoid the hostel that caters to Brinswikkers. They are short, irritable, unstable, rude, and aggressive. And they won’t take kindly to your being over five feet tall. Their women don’t like the men much, and you’ll never see a male and female Brinswikker together outside of their own homes.”

  A chortle from another informer. “And you won’t be invited into one of their homes. Leastwise, no one’s ever come out of a Brinkswikker get-together and told a tale of congeniality.”

  Cantor searched the faces for a hint of benevolence in the sea of hard expressions. Perhaps he could get away with a polite inquiry. He didn’t doubt he’d win an unpleasant encounter with one of these Brinkswikkers. He could probably conquer three or four. But not fifteen.

  First he needed to burst this bubble of tension. With all eyes focused on him, there’d be no escape. Cantor cleared his throat. “I was looking for a place to stay for the night.”

  The grin on the burly little man right in front of him managed to stretch farther into his ruddy cheeks. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”

  “I was thinking that.”

  TROUBLE

  Beauty appealed to Bixby. She loved fine threads, intricately woven fabric, elaborate lace, delicate tatting, refined patterns of crochet, and artful combinations of color and textures. Hats, shoes, and tiaras fascinated her. And she took great pleasure in adorning her diminutive self with an abundance of clothing in her own distinctive style.

  She also favored delicate jewelry and delighted in wearing as much as possible. No one would say she was averse to glitz and glimmer.

  Therefore, when Bridger called his sister out of a gathering of dragons at a country al fresco, Bixby felt the curls in her blonde hair tighten in a severe case of fashion envy. Totobee-Rodolow sashayed from the crowd. Her shining, iridescent scales chimed like a tree full of exquisite, petite bells.

  The dragon’s coloring undulated in shades of red, pink, purple, silver, and ivory. At the tip of every ridge of her wings, embedded gems gleamed in her skin. The jewels caught the sun and reflected the colors back into the air. Spots of rainbows hovered around Totobee-Rodolow. Bixby set her mind to figuring out how the refracted light hung in the air.

  Underlining both the dragon’s eyes, emeralds dotted a curved row in graduated sizes, starting with tiny cut stones just below her tear ducts and ending with a coin-sized glittering rock at the height of each cheekbone.

  Totobee-Rodolow’s figure tapered from narrow shoulders to understated hips. Bixby blinked twice, trying to determine how the large dragon managed to maintain coordination on such a slim foundation. She laughed to her
self when she realized the shape-shifter had shifted herself into a shape she deemed attractive.

  If Bixby could shape-shift, she’d bulk up. Her body type was more twiggy than willowy and on the lanky side of lithe. She had been blown away by the wind. And she had fallen through a crack in the pavement. Being slender had drawbacks.

  Totobee-Rodolow extended her hand for a greeting just long enough to be polite. “Bridger tells me you’re looking for a constant. I don’t suppose he told you I’ve already had my opportunity. I’m content with my present life. My constant died.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.” Bixby raised her fingertips to her lips. “Not that you’re content, but that your constant died.”

  “Don’t be. He was pompous and not a real realm walker by any means. He’d bought the power. Can you imagine the cheekiness of thinking you could pay for another realm walker to do your bidding?

  “Then the man had the audacity to think he could engage me as a constant and I wouldn’t be clever enough to figure out his sham.”

  Bixby slowly shook her head in incredulous sympathy. What a horrible experience. No wonder Bridger had been skeptical of his sister’s willingness to help.

  Totobee-Rodolow continued, talking softly at a great speed and tossing her hands around in a profusion of gestures. “And even the realm walker he had tied to a leash was an old, worn-out, second-rate has-been.” The dragon’s eyes rolled expressively toward the sky.

  “He could barely locate a portal, and more than once the imbecile only just managed to squeeze us through before it slammed shut. I nearly lost my tail between Dairine and Richra. I saw Rackama had lost his hold and jerked my beautiful tail out before it was smashed.” She sighed. “A girl must look out for herself.”

  Bixby felt she should contribute a bit more to the conversation. “Rackama was the name of the realm walker?”

  “An old, worn-out, second-rate, has-been realm walker. Hilarill was supposedly my constant, but an imposter.”

  “Hilarill died?”

  “Yes. I believe I’ve told you that.”

  “And Rackama did not die?”

  “I left as soon as possible, so I don’t know for sure.” Her face brightened. “I did hear he’s settled in the court of Algore. No one will notice him there.” She shifted her shoulders, and her wings fluttered and settled like a glamorous shawl.

  “I keep my finger in the pie, just for the gossip and social schemes, you know. I really do not want to participate in the intrigues, but would rather watch from the sidelines. Humph. Not even the sidelines, but more remotely, from the fringe. ’Tis better to be a distance from all the smoldering conspiracies.”

  Bixby leapt for the opening to her real purpose. “Bridger tells me you are an exceptional dragon.”

  “In beauty and intellect only, my child.” She used one clawed fingertip to tap her chin. The gesture brought attention to fingers encrusted with jewels and a beauty mark next to her lips. The beauty mark looked like a pea-sized purple onyx.

  “He says you know about the ins and outs of the various kingdoms, the politics of all the courts and governments, and the temperament of influential citizens in all seven planes.”

  “Ha! He makes me sound like an old busybody.”

  “No, that isn’t his intention.”

  A glance at Bridger revealed Cantor’s dragon had found something to interest him. He’d acquired a plateful of cheeses, fruits, sandwiches, and nuts. A month with the mor dragon had revealed Bridger’s insatiable appetite. He loved food and loved variety.

  Jesha sat on his shoulder. Her delicate nose twitched, and she batted the dragon’s ear with a white paw. Bridger picked up a piece of cheese and offered it to his cat.

  Bixby returned her attention to the beautiful dragon and smiled. “He’s quite proud of your head for details and the vast knowledge you’ve accumulated in such a short time. He believes you have the mind of a prime minister and a more discerning instinct than any premier in history.”

  Bixby could see she’d chosen the right words. Totobee-Rodolow no longer looked bored.

  “Perhaps you’d like to take a tour around your previous sphere of influence. I’d like you to go with me.”

  Totobee-Rodolow’s eyes opened wide and the ridges above them arched. “Darling, I don’t want to travel. Traveling is tedious.”

  “I understand, but this wouldn’t be anything more than a sort of vacation. Let me explain before you decide not to visit the castles and palaces of the different realms.”

  Bixby barely took a breath before plunging on. She didn’t want to give Totobee-Rodolow a chance to say no. “Primen has endowed me with many attributes. Being a realm walker is just one possibility. I’ve other skills, but I’m seeking which is to take precedence. Until I’ve made a choice, or Primen makes clear His choice, I’m at loose ends.”

  Bixby looked down at her hands. She had mangled a piece of lace on a front pocket. Forcing her fingers to let loose of the delicate fabric, she clasped her hands at her waist and took a steadying breath. It was necessary to tell Totobee-Rodolow a part of her story, but not all. She was good at telling the truth without including vital information. That was one reason she had been sent.

  “Because I’m not sure I’ll be a realm walker, it’s all difficult. I don’t seek the commitment of a constant. But in order to get a taste of what realm walking would be like and whether I’m up to the task, I need the aid of an experienced, sophisticated dragon. Such as yourself.”

  Totobee-Rodolow gazed at her circle of friends, casually enjoying the food, the weather, and each other. “They aren’t mor dragons, you see.”

  “Your friends are different races of dragons?”

  “Yes, there are very few mor dragons left.” She waved a hand, indicating the group of socializing dragons. “These do not recognize the responsibility given to one of my kind. And thus, they tend to dismiss the honor of serving.”

  Bixby repeated words she’d often heard from her father. “There are not many who understand in these times.”

  Totobee-Rodolow lifted her chin. “Primen is still Primen and will always be. But His followers are no longer His followers.”

  Bixby nodded. Her parents and Totobee-Rodolow would probably back the same causes, join the same forces, and strain to fulfill similar expectations. Surprised to recognize a kindred spirit, Bixby tamped down her desire to bubble. An ally. Her father had emphasized the need for allies. Instead of revealing her eagerness, she kept herself calm and waited to see if Totobee-Rodolow would be curious enough to join Bixby in her mission.

  The dragon’s eyes narrowed as she thought. Bixby held her breath. After a pause much longer than Bixby could bear, Totobee-Rodolow glanced her way.

  “No decision should be made on an empty shopping bag. The Newtowne Faire starts today. Shall we go see what they have in their stalls?”

  Bixby let out the air she’d held so tightly. This was her kind of female.

  Cantor tasted moldy cheese. His tongue felt the size of a pig’s snout. The drought in his mouth might cause permanent attachment of teeth to skin. He tried to swallow and almost gagged.

  Water. If he opened his eyes, he might see water. His eyelashes seemed to be glued together. What happened? Where was he?

  He moved. Something pinched his arms. Sitting. He sat in a chair. Tied. Around his arms. Around his legs. Around his waist.

  He pulled his head up and felt muscles in his chest and in his neck stretch as if being torn from bones. From stinging lungs, he managed to drag a call for help. He sounded like a wounded cow.

  A door scraped open.

  “You’re awake. I’ll be back.” A female voice, nasal and unsympathetic.

  Light footsteps trotted down the hall. They returned at a slower pace. She stopped a few feet in front of him.

  He heard a clatter, then water splashed in his face and down his front. He sputtered and opened his eyes. Images blurred. He wondered if his eyesight was going or coming back.

 
An out-of-focus Brinswikker woman stood with a bucket in her hand. Short like the male members of her kind, she looked him straight in the eye as he sat in the chair. Her clothes were shades of brown and blue, no patterns in the dye or weave. From what he could tell, all Brinswikkers looked as if a cloth had been wrapped around them, then tied where a tie was needed.

  “I saved your life. You owe me one.” She turned and walked out, leaving the door open.

  He blinked several times, trying to remove the grit from his dry eyes and restore his sight completely. The blinking helped a little bit.

  His room contained the chair he sat on, a cot, a table, and a small threadbare rug covering a patch of rough wood floor beside the bed. He ruled out being caught and in prison when he focused on the view beyond the open door.

  Through a window on the opposite side of the hall, Cantor could see a pond too small for the dozens of ducks paddling around or settled on the shore. He’d never seen so many ducks in one place.

  Running footsteps approached, and two giggling children arrived with half-full buckets. From the look of their clothes, the pails might have been full when they started toward his room. The littlest, a girl with bangs and a ponytail, grinned and shrieked, “Close eyes!”

  She swung her pail and let it fly. It thunked on the floor in front of Cantor, water splashing, then pouring out as her pail rolled on its side. She put her hands on her mouth and laughed. Bright brown eyes sparkled over chubby fingers.

  The other child, a boy, scowled. He stepped closer and took aim. The bucket landed in Cantor’s lap. The water spilled and ran down his legs. The cool, clean water relieved a slow burn on his skin, one he hadn’t acknowledged among all the other discomfort he suffered.

  The boy gave a jump of triumph, then dashed in to retrieve his sister’s bucket and his own. Their feet on the wooden floor sounded like a half-dozen children instead of only two.

  The rascals made two more trips and became a trifle more efficient in dousing their prisoner. Cantor tried to speak, but his swollen tongue still clung to his dry mouth. He’d have said thank you if he could. Every drop of water brought relief to his tortured skin.