The next few words rolled off his long tongue methodically, one at a time: “What did you say, Mother?”
The Dragon Queen blinked once, then again, more slowly, but said nothing.
And in that moment, Dreqnir launched himself at her in a rage. As Elizabeth watched in amazement, the Dragon Queen shifted form and collapsed back in on herself, becoming much smaller and much... different. Her wings faded and vanished, her scales disappeared, and her color darkened from orange-gold to black. That was the color of a robe she now wore—except that “she” was now a he: a tall and slender man with a long, gray beard that flowed down almost to his waist. In the same instant that Dreqnir flew at him, he raised a crooked wooden staff out in front of him, and the massive dragon seemed to slow down. Dreqnir looked almost suspended in midair as the black-cloaked figure stepped aside and out of his path. Then he pivoted, thrust his staff high into the air, and vanished in a white-hot flash as bright and sudden as lightning crashing down from heaven.
As soon as he was gone, Dreqnir came crashing to the ground, claws slashing and fire flaring from his nostrils. He landed where the robed man had stood a moment earlier, then rose up on his hind legs and let out an ear-splitting roar.
The other dragons were all scrambling around, some of them flying frantically overhead, others scurrying for cover.
The girl stood there and watched it all, unsure how to take any of it.
What had happened?
“My mother is gone!” came the answer, unspoken, in Dreqnir’s mind-voice. “The Time Master kidnapped her and took her place!” The cave floor shook as he dropped back down on all fours.
“The Time Master?”
“Lord Nigel,” he nearly shouted. “Or ‘Father Time,’ as he fashions himself.” He calmed his voice somewhat as he continued: “He has the ability not only to warp time, but to reshape appearances to his own ends. Clearly, he did this, and somehow managed to subdue my mother and take her place upon the throne.”
“But how did you know it was him?” the girl asked.
“Oh, he was very convincing,” Dreqnir admitted. “There was nothing in her—or his—appearance that seemed unusual. It wasn’t anything he did. It was something he said: ‘I cannot abide it.’ I’ve never heard my mother say anything like that; she may stand on formality, but she is never condescending. On the other hand, I have heard Tar Kidron use that very phrase many times. I always thought it strange that he would speak in such a way, as though he were a member of some noble house, and he explained to me that it was something he’d heard from Lord Nigel.”
His voice rose again: “Now Lord Nigel has King Nicholas, he has my mother, and he has the talismans, as well!”
“Not exactly.”
Dreqnir and Elizabeth both turned toward the source of the voice. Karanadreq stood there, holding the map in one hand and the compass in the other.
“How...?” Dreqnir’s voice trailed off.
“Thank you for distracting him,” Karanadreq replied calmly. “While his attention was on you, I was able to... relieve him of the items.” She paused, and then said, “I take my responsibility to curate our inventory very seriously.”
Dreqnir walked over to Karanadreq, opened his wings and wrapped her up in them so completely that she all but disappeared. “Thank you, Karana,” he said warmly. “Thanks to you, we have the means to find my mother. And King Nicholas.”
...
Chapter Fourteen
Bull-Headed
Once again, the boy found himself alone. Likho had demanded that Django get out of his sight and had banished him from the forest. The young Romani had left without protest, hurrying back the way they had come and disappearing into the darkness. Alex wondered idly whether Django would be able to find his way out of the underground maze on his own; he hoped Likho would be lenient enough to let Xander accompany him, although he had to admit the tree-man didn’t seem particularly merciful.
Alex didn’t have time to worry about Django now, though. He sat on a moss-covered stump in the middle of the Black Forest—made blacker than its name by the perpetual night—with no idea where to turn. He had placed all his hope in the compass and the map, and both were now lost to him, presumably forever. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that someone else, somewhere else, might be saved by them. But he did not know the little girl Likho had spoken of, so he couldn’t even picture her in his mind’s eye. She was just a nameless, faceless someone who would be able to find her way home because of him. But he felt farther from home than ever, and more alone than he had felt in his entire life.
To make matters worse, Likho had promised to direct him to the next talisman in his quest—the Flute of Pan’s Third Daughter—but had neglected to do so, and the boy had forgotten to remind him.
Now he had nowhere to go and no one to help him.
He leaned over, put his head in his hands, and cried, his body shaking silently with each new sob as tears poured down from his eyes.
His sorrow was such that he barely noticed a rustling of leaves off to his left, or the woman who emerged from the underbrush just a few steps away.
At last, he raised his head, and gasped in surprise, hurriedly wiping his tears away.
Alamina looked somehow taller than she had before, perhaps because the boy himself felt so very small. Once she knew that he had seen her, she nodded once and smiled slightly in greeting.
Alex scrambled to his feet. “Are you looking for Django?” he asked.
She shook her head and laughed. “Oh, no. He can find his way home,” she said, in a tone that sounded unconcerned, disappointed and a bit annoyed all at once. “I have contacted Likho, and he has promised no harm will befall my child.” She paused briefly. “Though I do worry about Django’s lack of judgement. I did tell him I would be watching the two of you!”
She sighed. “He is still young and in need of instruction. Fortunately, that is something we can provide.”
Alex wondered who she meant by “we,” but said nothing, she continued: “I did not come here to find him. I came here to find you.”
Then it dawned on Alex: She wanted the compass back.
“I don’t have the talisman,” he said in a worried voice.
Alamina laughed again. “I know,” she said. “Remember, I was watching you!”
“Oh.”
“I don’t want the compass back,” she assured him. “It was freely given and freely accepted. It was therefore yours to do with as you saw fit. If it helps at all, I approve of your decision more than you could possibly know.”
Alex relaxed a little.
“I am only here,” she said, “because you looked so very alone. I thought you might appreciate some company.”
The boy’s face brightened. “Are you coming with me?”
But Alamina shook her head. “No, child. I have children who need me, and many others, as well. I cannot leave them unattended. They would have no idea what to do with themselves if I weren’t there to take care of them.” Her tone was not haughty, but straightforward. “Besides, I want to be there when Django returns.
“No,” she continued, “I will not be coming with you. But I brought you two companions to keep you from being so lonely—and, perhaps, to help you in your quest.”
As if on cue, a flash of gray fur came zipping out of the underbrush, followed closely by a loudly panting, droopy-faced dog. The gray blur ran rings around the bloodhound, seemingly taunting him with its speed. It moved so quickly, it took a moment for Alex to realize exactly what it was: a large gray-and-black tabby cat. But this was no ordinary feline. It had more than one tail—although it was moving so fast that he couldn’t tell exactly how many tails there were. The tabby dashed about in circles and figure-eights, occasionally leaping over her pursuer, until the bloodhound grew so dizzy he fell down in a heap on the ground. There he lay, panting and whining softly, as the cat leapt into Alamina’s arms.
She began petting the tabby softly.
; “This,” she said, “is Isis.” Then, nodding toward the boy, she said, “Isis, this is Alexander.”
The cat opened her mouth and yawned, then began licking her left paw.
“Pardon her rudeness,” Alamina said. “She is, after all, a cat. She is named after a goddess because she thinks she is one.”
Isis hissed and began waving her multiple tails about indignantly. “That is not nice,” she said. “I am who I am, and I like myself that way.”
The fact that Isis spoke did not surprise the boy, who had so far encountered a scarecrow, a crow and a tree-man, all of whom could talk. What did surprise him was how many tails Isis had: He could count them now and saw that there were nine of them, all waving about in a distracting but somehow hypnotic manner.
“Isis is a cat of nine tails,” Alamina explained.
“She thinks she’s special.” The low, deep voice belonged to the dog, whose tone was decidedly sardonic.
“And this,” Alamina said, “is Ruffus. He is a bloodhound.”
At least Alex knew what a bloodhound was.
“Isis and Ruffus each have a special talent that you may find helpful in your journey. Ruffus is no ordinary bloodhound. He can recognize any scent, whether he has encountered it before or not.”
Isis meowed. “He thinks he’s special,” she purred in mock admiration, her voice so syrupy that it might have come from a maple tree.
Alamina ignored her.
“Isis, on the other hand, has a talent for misdirection.”
“So, they’re kind of opposites,” the boy said.
Alamina chuckled. “I suppose so. And in more ways than one. But Isis is every bit as helpful as Ruffus: Her tails are not only many, but they are magical. She can use them to distract and mesmerize an adversary at a crucial moment.”
Isis began purring, and Alamina ran her fingers through the feline’s soft, warm fur. The woman cupped her hand to one side of her mouth conspiratorially. “She likes her ego stroked, too.”
She winked.
Alex couldn’t help but thinking that Django would be dismayed to find Isis gone when he returned, just as he had been distressed that his mother had parted with the compass. Isis, he imagined, could be a powerful ally to anyone intent on... acquiring things.
“Yeah. Special,” Ruffus said.
Isis purred all more loudly.
“Can they get along?” Alex wondered aloud.
“We don’t get along very well with children who speak in our presence as though we weren’t here,” Isis quipped.
“Sorry,” said the boy.
“Apology accepted,” said the cat.
“I can get along with her, as long as she stops trying to throw me off the scent,” Ruffus said, then glared at Isis. “You can’t, you know.”
“We’ll see about that,” Isis tittered.
Ruffus howled, then stopped suddenly, stuck his nose in the air, and began sniffing excitedly. Then, just as suddenly, he stopped, turned toward a particularly dense section of woodland, and bounded away.
“You’d better follow him,” Alamina said. “When he latches onto a scent, he forgets about everything else.”
Isis yawned, unconcerned. “Not that he knew all that much to begin with,” she said, then sighed. “But Mina’s right. We’d better go after him.” The cat hopped up on the boy’s shoulder. “You’re my ride.”
“Thank you!” Alex said to Alamina, who merely nodded in the direction Ruffus had gone.
And the boy followed, leaving her behind.
...
“He’s so impetuous,” Isis complained, trying to groom herself as the boy trotted along. “No need to jostle me so,” she added. “I’m a delicate creature.”
The term “high maintenance” jumped into the boy’s thoughts. He didn’t know where he’d heard it, but he was certain it applied to Isis.
Fortunately, bloodhounds are meticulous about following their scent and not particularly fast, so they were able to catch up to Ruffus without too much trouble. He was standing on the bank of a river, staring across into the darkness. Alex thought it must be the river that Django had mentioned, but it was like none he had ever imagined. Its waters were glassy black, even where they should have foamed up as they ran over rocks. It was so wide he couldn’t see the far side of it: No wonder Django had despaired of getting across.
Nonetheless, Ruffus was pointing his nose directly at it, indicating that the scent ended there.
“You expect me to get my fur wet in that?” said Isis, incredulous.
“I’ll keep you on my shoulders,” Alex said, trying to reassure her.
“Until you go under,” she scoffed.
“I could try to carry you,” Ruffus suggested.
Isis sighed a catty sigh. “I’ll take my chances with the human.”
Alex took a step into the water. It didn’t seem to swift here, so he took another step and, feeling more confident, began to wade into the river. Ruffus, being a typical dog, bounded directly in—and was swept so far into the darkness that Alex immediately lost sight of him.
“What—? he started to say, but before he could get anything else out of his mouth, a strong current grabbed him, catapulting him head-over-heels downstream. It was almost like being hit by an ocean wave. It thrust him like a human pinwheel in a wild whirl that forced him underwater, pulled him out again, and thrust him down once more in a dizzying spin. Water invaded his windpipe; he coughed and spat it out. Isis’s claws dug deep into his shoulder and then were gone as she was ripped away from him in the rapids. Alex had always thought of himself as a capable swimmer, but this current was too ferocious even for him. He knew better than to panic, but began to panic anyway, arms and legs flailing as he was carried inexorably forward, toward he knew not what.
All of a sudden, something hit him in the chest: a branch that had fallen across the watercourse, knocking what was left of his breath out of him.
Instinctively, he grabbed it and clung on in desperation, pulling himself up out of the water and climbing across it, hand over hand, like a jungle gym, with his feet still dangling down into the river.
Somehow, amazingly, he managed to reach the shore, where he collapsed in a heap near a mossy rock.
“Fancy meeting you here.”
Alex tried to catch his breath as he turned his head toward the sound of the voice. It was Isis. The feline had apparently grabbed hold of the branch and made her way to shore, as well. Her fur was drenched and clung to her body, making her appear about half the size she had seemed when she’d been dry. Her nine tails whipped and waved in deep annoyance.
“Where’s Ruffus?” said Alex.
Just then, the bloodhound bounded up out of the river, shaking himself emphatically the way dogs do when they get wet.
“I’ve never been in a river like that,” he said. “It was a bit unnerving.”
“Water in general is ‘unnerving,’ as you put it,” Isis sneered, and she started grooming herself.
Ruffus ignored her. “I smell something.”
“It’s probably your body odor,” said Isis.
The bloodhound continued to ignore her, and trotted over to a nearby tree. He zigged and zagged a bit on his way, trying to regain his equilibrium after being tossed and turned unmercifully in the current. But despite this, he knew exactly where he was going. He stopped at the trunk of the tree, which was particularly large and stood at the edge of a dense thicket. There, he put his nose to the ground and began circling the tree intently, first one direction, then back the other way.
“What is it, boy?” Alex asked.
Ruffus raised his head momentarily. “Don’t call me boy,” he said, voice full of disdain. Isis wasn’t the only one who was high maintenance.
“Sorry,” the boy said.
“To answer your question, I’m not sure what it is,” the bloodhound replied. “But I do know it’s something.”
That much, the boy thought, was obvious. The question was whether it was something
important.
Ruffus resumed his task, continuing in circles around the tree, which was wide enough that he disappeared entirely when he went around the other side, only to re-emerge a moment later. The tree itself looked dead, having been struck by lightning at some point and hollowed out, either by the thunderbolt itself or by insects. Alex hoped it was the former. He didn’t like bugs much.
He followed Ruffus around the trunk.
“There’s a hole here in the side of it,” he said. “Maybe whatever you’re smelling is inside.”
“A logical conclusion,” said Isis. “Plain as the nose on his face.” She nodded toward the bloodhound. “But he would rather chase his tail.”
Ruffus snorted. “Just making sure,” he said scornfully. “Someone might be trying to throw us off the scent.”
The cat’s eyes widened as if to say, “Who? Me?” Then she decided to ignore him and resumed her grooming.
Alex stepped through the mossy hole and into the tree. Ruffus followed, then moved back in front of him and started sniffing again. The tree seemed somehow larger on the inside than it had on the outside. Much larger, as a matter of fact. It no longer seemed so much a tree as a grand hall, with banners hung on walls illumined by flickering torches. This struck the boy as rather dangerous, considering trees are made of wood. Perhaps, he thought to himself, the tree hadn’t been hit by lightning at all, but burned by one of these torches.
Isis paused her grooming and looked up momentarily. She seemed to know what he’d been thinking. “The walls are coated with a resin that keeps them from catching fire,” she observed.
“Yes,” confirmed Ruffus. “I can smell it.”
“Oh, you’re so talented!” Isis mocked. “Even I can smell it.”
“Cats,” the bloodhound muttered, and put his nose back on the floor again.
The Talismans of Time (Academy of the Lost Labyrinth Book 1) Page 12