Wizard squared ra-3

by K. E. Mills

  And then Gerald was asking him about how they’d found him and the portable portal. He explained everything, quickly, but instead of being pleased about it Gerald suddenly looked sick. Said something about a lodestone and how he’d forgotten Lional didn’t reactivate it but before they could sort that out-and before he could stop her-the love of his life was shouting at his horribly altered best friend.

  “What the hell were you thinking, Gerald? Making a dragon?”

  Gerald flinched. “I’m sorry.”

  But Melissande wasn’t in the mood for apologies-and it seemed that Gerald had no intention of defending himself. So he tried to stop her-and the look she gave him was like being stabbed.

  Reg flapped from the cave floor to his shoulder. “Don’t,” she said softly. “With Lional off his rocker and the Butterfly Prince disqualified on grounds of mental health, as in not having any, she’s New Ottosland’s ruler now. She’s got a right to ask.”

  Maybe she did, but he didn’t have to like it. Gerald’s face was scaring him.

  “So what did Lional promise you in return for his dragon?” Her Royal Highness demanded, magnificent in her anger. “Gold? Jewels? Land? What did he promise you?”

  Silence. And then Gerald lifted his sad, shadowed eyes. “You don’t want to know what he promised me, Melissande.”

  Oh God. Oh God. Here it comes. This is the bad part. This is the part I don’t want to know.

  Except he couldn’t turn away from it. Gerald was his best friend. Gerald was here because he’d shown him that advertisement. Whatever had happened, he was partly to blame. So he couldn’t stay silent. He had to speak up.

  “Lional tortured you, Gerald. Didn’t he?”

  On his shoulder, Reg gasped.

  And Melissande, oh Melissande, she didn’t want to hear it either. She didn’t want to be the sister of a man who could do something like that. So she tried to blame Gerald and even though it had been love at first sight he was angry with her, so angry, because Gerald didn’t lie. Was she blind, not to see it? Couldn’t she see he’d been hurt? But when he tried to defend his best friend she turned on him. It was all a mess, such a terrible mess, and he had no idea how to clean any of it up.

  And then he heard-really heard-what Gerald was saying. Like a coward, he wanted to run.

  No. No. I don’t want to hear this.

  But how could he not hear it, after Gerald had lived it?

  Eventually the sickening tale of cruelty and suffering came to an end. Melissande, the love of his life, stood like a weeping marble statue and on his shoulder Reg felt turned to stone.

  He looked at Gerald, and Gerald looked back. The cost of that confession was etched in his face. The price of his endurance-the finding of his limit-was etched deeper still. “There’s something else,” Gerald said tiredly. “Lional’s controlling the dragon using the Tantigliani sympathetico.”

  Melissande smeared a dirty sleeve across her wet face. “What does that mean?”

  So Gerald explained. Melissande swayed, close to folding to the cave’s dirt floor. But she didn’t, because she was Melissande. He wanted to hold her-and kept his hands to himself. She’d never forgive him if he made her look weak.

  Feeling bludgeoned, he shook his head. “Bloody hell, Gerald. Every wizard who’s ever tried that incant has gone mad. Even Tantigliani in the end. You say Lional’s lost himself inside the dragon’s mind? Does that mean…”

  Gerald was like a man cut out of paper. Like a man mere heartbeats from crumbling to ash. “Yes.” He glanced at Melissande. “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I’m pretty sure it’s too late for Lional.”

  Stirring at last, Reg rattled her tail feathers. “Then the only way to stop the dragon is by capturing the king.”

  Monk touched a fingertip to her wing. “He’s as good as half a dragon himself now.”

  “Fine,” she said, shrugging. “Then we don’t capture him. We kill him.”

  And because there hadn’t been enough raw emotion already, her blunt assessment sparked another passionate row. Melissande wept again and this time he did touch her. He put his arms around her-and she didn’t push him away.

  Reg flapped over to Gerald, who cradled her against his chest. “Honestly, Reg. Have you heard of being tactful?”

  “If being tactful will kill that torturing bastard, Gerald, I’ll tact up a storm,” she said grimly. “You see if I don’t.”

  Gerald dropped a kiss to the top of her head, then looked up. “She is right, Monk. Lional and his dragon have to be stopped.”

  Well, yes, obviously, but “I know you want to be the one to stop them, Gerald,” said Melissande. Stepping away, she smoothed her hands down the front of her shirt, putting her armor back in place. “But Lional broke you once. He could break you again.”

  Gerald’s flinch was like a sword running through his own body. “ Melissande.”

  She turned on him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Markham, but I can’t afford kindness just now. My kingdom’s at stake. Or are you going to tell me you think he’s up to it?”

  Damn. Damn. She had to ask him that, didn’t she? With Gerald standing there, after everything he’d just said… after everything he’d endured. Days and days of unspeakable torment. Gerald, the Third Grade wizard who could turn lizards into dragons. Who’d tried and tried not to…

  And who did break. He did.

  With an effort Monk met his best friend’s sad, quiet gaze. “I don’t think we can decide anything stuck in this cave,” he said, his voice rough. “I think we need to portal out of here and see what’s happening back at the palace.”

  Reg nodded. “Good idea, sunshine. And then we can-”

  “No,” said Gerald. “Reg and I can portal to the palace. You and Melissande should go back to Ottosland, to the Department. Corner your Uncle Ralph, Monk, and kick up the biggest stink the place has ever seen until those hidebound bureaucrats get off their asses and send some help.”

  “Absolutely not,” Melissande snapped. “I’m staying here. I have to be seen. The people need me. I won’t be the second person in my family to let them down on the same damned day!”

  “No-Melissande-the only hope your people have is if you stay safe!” Gerald insisted. “Let Rupert fly the family flag, he-”

  Her expression changed. “Oh, lord. Rupert. I forgot about Rupert! I have to find him, he’ll be terrified. And if Lional finds him…” She spun around. “Well, Monk, don’t just stand there. Get that portable portal of yours working and take us out of here! Now!”

  By a minor miracle he managed to get them onto the palace’s roof. The dragon was nowhere in sight. Neither was Lional. But what they could see struck them all to grieving silence.

  In every direction distant pillars of black smoke churned into the sky. Closer to the palace, outbuildings not reduced to mounds of rubble smoldered and burned; the greedy crackling of flames reached them in fits and starts on the erratic, smoke-laden breeze. Staring over the roof’s balustrade they saw great burned patches in the gravel and on the grass edging the palace forecourt, as though someone had upended huge barrels of acid onto them. Even at this height they could smell the acrid stench of the dragon’s poison. See the remains of what once had been people, laughing living New Ottoslanders, reduced to charred and stinking carcasses.

  There were fresh tears on Melissande’s cheeks. “Is one of them Rupert? One of them could be Rupert, he could be dead down there, or in his butterfly house. I have to go and-”

  Monk reached for her, but Gerald grabbed her first. “No, Melissande, think. If Rupert is dead there’s nothing you can do for him. And if he isn’t that means he’s hiding. Either way you’ve got a lot more to worry about than the fate of one man.”

  A creak and flap of wings and Reg landed on the balustrade beside distraught Melissande. “He’s right, ducky,” she said sternly. “The only man you need to be thinking about is Lional. Because strictly speaking he’s not a man any more. He’s an abomination. And abominations have to be de
stroyed.”

  Oh God. Reg, you really need to learn tact.

  Melissande walked away and he went after her, leaving Gerald and Reg to do what they liked. “Your Highness-Melissande- please, Melissande. Wait.”

  She slowed, then stopped. Turned. Not weeping now, but white-faced beneath her scattered freckles and shivering with distress. “What?”

  Helpless, he looked at her. Spread his hands wide, then let them fall. “I don’t know. I don’t know. Just… don’t walk away.”

  “From you?” she said, incredulous. “Monk Markham, I barely know you. Why do you care?”

  If I tell her I love her she’ll pitch me off this roof. Or she’ll laugh in my face, and then I’ll have to jump.

  “I don’t know,” he said again, shrugging. “I just do.” He tried to smile. “Do you mind?”

  Behind him, Reg and Gerald were arguing. Snatches of pain blowing fitful in the breeze. Something about stopping Lional. Fighting fire with fire. Reg was furious. Gerald sounded despairing. This was turning into one hell of a day.

  Now Melissande looked helpless. “Do I mind?” she muttered, harassed, pressing a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know. I suppose not. I mean, all right, strictly speaking, it’s presumptuous and a terrible breach of royal etiquette and protocol and-”

  “Does all that claptrap really matter?”

  She opened her mouth, then closed it again. “No. Not really. But if I am going to be queen then I should at least notice it. You know. In passing.”

  The breeze swirled again, laden with more painful argument and the raw stench of death. Flinching, Melissande closed her eyes.

  “I don’t know how this happened,” she whispered. “How did this happen?”

  To hell with protocol and etiquette. Monk wrapped his arms around her and let her hold on tight.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, rocking her. “But we’ll fix this, Melissande. All right? We’ll fix it.”

  With a shuddering sigh she relaxed against him. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  She tipped her head back. Looked up. Beneath her shock he caught a glimpse of humor and breathtaking strength. “You realize I’ve no sane reason to believe that?”

  “In my line of work, Your Highness, sanity is overrated,” he said… and would’ve said something else, something truly crazy, only Reg’s sharply raised voice stopped him.

  “-Lional dead, Gerald, you’d be the danger. And whoever tried to stop you, well, they’d need to read the Lexicon too. And it wouldn’t end there, I promise you that. Say this hypothetical wizard succeeded and managed to kill you. All it means is there’d be another rotten wizard who’d have to die… and so the Lexicon would be used again… and again… and again. Is that what you want, sunshine? Every last good wizard in the world dead because of you?”

  His altered face still chalky-white, fired up with an awful, unfamiliar desperation, Gerald turned on her. “What else can I do? The magic I know doesn’t have teeth, it doesn’t have talons, it can’t kill Lional or his damned dragon! I have to use the Lexicon, Reg!”

  “ No!” Wings wildly flapping she launched herself into the air to hover furiously above him. “I’d rather see you dead-I’d rather kill you myself than see you-”

  Now what? With a chill of foreboding, Monk followed interrupted Reg’s outraged stare. What the hell? Camels? Were those camels? And those glinting things-were they swords?

  “Oh blimey!” Reg groaned. “That’s all we need!” Dropping back to the balustrade she glared at Melissande. “Oy! You! Madam-Queen-in-Waiting! Front and center, ducky, New Ottosland’s got visitors!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Monk stared at the mighty army of Kallarap, gathered in the grounds of Melissande’s palace. Then he glanced at Gerald, unnervingly calm and silent beside him.

  “You know-that’s a lot of camels.”

  Perched on Gerald’s shoulder, Reg snorted. “And warriors. And swords. And spears.”

  True. But that wasn’t the most disturbing thing. The Kallarapi holy man was making his skin crawl. Power roiled off him like heat from the sun. The sultan was powerful too. An absolute ruler, comfortable with his authority and not afraid to use it. Growing up a Markham meant he could spot the genuine article with both eyes closed.

  Be careful, Melissande. If you let them, these men will swallow you alive.

  “Don’t worry,” said Gerald. “She’ll be fine.”

  Melissande- his Melissande-was giving Zazoor a piece of her mind. Small and vulnerable and so very badly dressed, she was staring down Shugat and Zazoor like a warrior queen from the mythic past.

  Of course she’ll be fine. I’m an idiot to doubt her.

  He glanced again at Gerald. “I know. But what about you?”

  Pale and tired, Gerald pulled a face. “What about me?”

  How could he answer that? What could he say? They needed a bathtub full of brandy and two straws for that conversation. “Gerald…”

  “Never mind,” said Gerald, so remote. So changed. “It doesn’t matter. Now shut up, would you? I want to hear what they’re saying.”

  Yes, well, what they were saying was good old diplomatic double-speak as Melissande, Zazoor and Shugat quickstepped around the mess Melissande’s mad brother had made. Like fencers testing for a likely opening, they parried words and dodged lunges and sought for a face-saving way to retreat from the brink.

  When they got to the bit about Melissande marrying Zazoor he came damned close to swallowing his tongue.

  “Settle down, sunshine,” said Reg, leaning close. “Zazoor’s safe. Not even the Kallarapi are that desperate.”

  “Reg!” he said. “How can you-”

  And then he forgot what he was going to say, because Zazoor was smiling.

  It wasn’t a good smile.

  “Highness,” the sultan said, silky with polite menace. “The payment of debt is a good thing, but Kallarap will not starve without your pennies. I am sent to you by my gods, who would have me speak with you of sacrilege. And treachery. And yes, indeed: of honesty.”

  Oh, damn. Damn, damn, damn.

  But before he could leap to the rescue Gerald shoved Reg at him and marched into the fray. “Sultan Zazoor, your quarrel is with me.”

  “What? What?” Reg thrashed in his grasp, trying to get free. “What is that idiot boy doing now?”

  Monk felt an unfamiliar sting in his eyes. Had to clear his throat before he could speak. “What does it look like, Reg? He’s being Gerald.”

  Abruptly still, Reg moaned softly, the smallest sound of distress. “I want to bloody kill that Lional.”

  “You and me both, ducky,” he said, close to snarling. “You and me both.”

  Heartsick, they watched Gerald throw himself on the mercy of the merciless Kallarapi. Confess his sins and take all the blame, not a word in his own defense, no attempt to explain. “I made the dragon because I’m weak.”

  “All right, that’s it! ” Reg shrieked, and in a wild flurry of wings and tail feathers flailed her furious way to Gerald’s shoulder. “Weak my granny’s bunions! Now you listen to me, Zazoor! If you knew what that bastard Lional did to my Gerald to get that dragon you’d-”

  “The bird?” Zazoor said to Shugat.

  Shugat nodded. “The bird.”

  Zazoor considered her. “ Not, I think, trained.”

  “Trained?” screeched Reg. “What do you think I am, a bloody circus act?”

  Monk kept out of it. Not even he could defend Gerald the way Reg could. And she was defending him, fearlessly tongue-lashing Zazoor and the holy man. Interestingly they let her, indulging her tirade without interruption. Melissande glanced at him once, eyebrows raised. Should I chime in, do you think? He shook his head. Reg was doing just fine on her own.

  But then Shugat climbed down off his camel and pressed his gnarled hand over Gerald’s heart. His own heart stopped beating. If this was retribution there was nothing he could do…

  It wasn’t. Wit
h a great burst of light from the crystal in his forehead the Kallarapi holy man stepped back. “The bird does not lie, my sultan. The wizard has suffered. His blood still stinks of foul enchantments.”

  His heart started beating again and he was able to breathe-until Zazoor’s dark gaze stabbed him, one hand beckoning.

  Bloody hell. This’ll teach me to poke my nose outside R amp;D.

  Zazoor wasn’t smiling now. “And who are you? Another wizard?”

  “Yes, Magnificence. I’m-”

  “A friend,” said Gerald, and burned him silent with a look. “Innocent of these doings. He’s not to be harmed.”

  Zazoor almost laughed. “You would stop me?”

  “I’d try.”

  The sultan’s flickering glance indicated his army, and Shugat. “You would fail.”

  Monk held his breath. Was he the only one who could tell just how shaken Gerald really was? How close he’d been pushed to losing his mind?

  Back down, mate. Back down. I can take care of myself.

  Gerald’s attention was focused solely on Zazoor. “Yes. I might fail. But not before I’d tried.”

  Zazoor laughed. “Holy Shugat. This wizard asks us to help him destroy the dragon. What is our answer?”

  As it turned out, not the one they were hoping for. Outright rejection. A refusal of aid. To be honest he wasn’t surprised-but Melissande was. She raged, she argued, she threw herself against Kallarap’s indifference. Gerald threw himself after her, but it was no use.

  “He who made the dragon must now unmake it,” Shugat pronounced, eyes rolled to slivered white crescents. “So say The Three, whose words are holy and cannot be denied.”

  And then Gerald, the mad bastard, the crazy fool, the damned hero, shrugged Reg off his shoulder and dropped to his knees. Offered himself to the Kallarapi in exchange for Melissande’s kingdom kept safe.

  Holding Reg again, standing with Melissande, the world shifted and smeared as his eyes filled with proud grief.

  Bloody hell, Gerald. Oh, bloody bloody hell.

  Then two things happened and everything changed. Melissande’s loopy brother Rupert burst among them, covered in dead butterflies, making her cry…