by K. E. Mills
She might be able to take it, but he couldn’t. His eyes were burning, hot tears blurring his vision. He could feel Sir Alec’s cold gaze on him, waiting for an excuse to start cleaning up.
“What do you think, Reg?” he said dully. “He’s done what he wanted to do in the first place. What we thought you’d talked him out of doing.”
“But-what? No,” said Melissande, uncertain, as Reg covered her face with one wing. “No-no, he couldn’t have. Not when he knew-not after the cave-no, Monk. You’re wrong. You’ve made a mistake. He wouldn’t.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Lord Attaby. “What is it you think Mr. Dunwoody has done?”
Sir Alec held out his hand. “May I, Mr. Markham?”
There was no hope of protecting Gerald now. Barely able to meet Sir Alec’s almost compassionate gaze, he handed over the recording of New Ottosland’s unprecedented thaumaturgic event. Watched Sir Alec close his fingers around the crystal, close his eyes and open himself to the images and impressions contained within it. Watched the shock shudder through him, and the pain, and the horror.
And then he watched the color drain from Uncle Ralph’s face as his father’s unsympathetic brother saw the impact strike deep in the heart of his formidable, enigmatic colleague.
“Alec?” Uncle Ralph whispered. “Alec, what-”
Sir Alec dropped the recording crystal as though it were a live coal. “What texts did he have access to, Mr. Markham?” he said, ignoring Uncle Ralph. “Do you know?”
“ Grummen’s Lexicon.” His voice was so husky he had to clear his throat. “And-and Pygram’s Pestilences. For starters.”
Briefly, so briefly, Sir Alec’s hard gaze eased. “I’m sorry. And what other grimoires are we dealing with? How many?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Your Highness-” Sir Alec turned on Melissande. “Have you any idea what-”
“No,” whispered Melissande. “I wasn’t even aware those awful books had been brought into the kingdom. Not until Gerald told me in the cave. After Lional-after he-”
“Forgive me,” said Rupert, “but I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“We’re talking about disaster,” said Reg, pulling her head out from under her wing. Her voice was soft and unsteady, sodden with grief. “Mayhem and calamity and catastrophe and woe. My Gerald’s done a foolish thing, Butterfly Boy. He’s sacrificed himself to try and stop your wicked brother.”
Rupert’s mouth dropped open. “ What? You mean he’s dead?”
When Reg didn’t answer, Monk looked at Melissande’s ridiculously-clothed brother. “No, Your Highness. It’d be easier for everyone if he was.”
Bloody hell, Gerald. What were you thinking?
“I’m afraid, sir, that in a misguided attempt to defeat your magically enhanced brother,” said Sir Alec, his voice as gray and chilly as his eyes, that brief compassion fled, “Mr. Dunwoody has followed him down a most unfortunate path. He has taken upon himself aspects of the worst kinds of thaumaturgy. Illegal incantations, perverted and vile.”
“He said the only way he could beat Lional was to fight fire with fire,” said Melissande, her voice unsteady. “He must’ve found where Lional kept Pomodoro Uffitzi’s filthy library and-and-”
“ Grummen’s Lexicon?” Shaken to his bootstraps, Lord Attaby groped for the nearest chair and sat down. “God help us. You’re quite certain of this? There’s absolutely no chance you’ve misread the situation?”
Stooping, Monk retrieved the recording crystal Sir Alec had dropped. Then, biting his lip, flinching in anticipation of what he was about to feel, he sank his mind back inside it. This time he didn’t try to fight the recorded impressions, the series of explosions in the ether as the foulest dark magics known to wizardry ignited Gerald’s untapped, unexplored potentia and sent shockwaves surging through the etheretic plane. Alchemied his desperate friend into something new and terrible.
When he’d felt it all, when he felt as empty as a tomb from which the quiet dead had been stolen, he opened his eyes and looked at Attaby. “No, my lord. We’re not wrong. Whoever Gerald was-I fear that man is gone. And I don’t have the first idea who-or what-has taken his place.”
“Is that all you felt, Monk?” asked Uncle Ralph, breaking the dreadful silence. “It doesn’t seem like enough to melt most of our best equipment. I mean, the long range monitors didn’t pick up on King Lional’s taking in these dark magics, did they? So perhaps something else has happened. Perhaps-perhaps Mr. Dunwoody and King Lional met in a cataclysmic battle and that’s the unprecedented thaumaturgical event our monitoring station recorded.”
“Monk?” said Melissande in a small voice. “Could that be true?”
Helpless, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?” she demanded. “Are you a genius or aren’t you?”
“Melissande-” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “It’s not that simple! I mean, we’re calling this unprecedented for a reason!”
“And-and what about Gerald? Could he still be alive?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, ducky,” said Reg, her eyes gleaming. “How’s this ridiculous Markham boy supposed to know the answer to that, standing here half a world away from your wretched little kingdom? There’s only one way we’re going to find out exactly what’s happened. We’ve got to go back to New Ottosland-and save that boy from himself before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER SIX
Standing in the palace’s fragrant, lovingly tended gardens, bathed in gentle sunshine and the fires of his reforging, Gerald tipped back his head and searched the sky for Lional’s dragon.
Well. My dragon, really. After all, I made it. That makes it mine.
He smiled.
A rising breeze wafted the unpleasantness of charred bodies towards him. All those unfortunates who’d fallen foul of Lional’s indiscriminate wrath. So many little people in the world, unable to defend themselves against evil men like Melissande’s demented brother. Remembering the loyal guardsman Reggie, vaguely recalling a sense of impotent grief, he snapped his fingers and sprang flowers into life where, throughout the kingdom, those poor souls had collapsed to embers and ash. Every last dead man, woman and child now a rose or a pansy or a searingly sweet freesia.
There. That’s a fitting memorial, I think. Beauty from ugliness. Could there be a better legacy?
That small distraction dealt with, he returned his attention to the question of his dragon. And Lional. He mustn’t forget Lional. A pestilent flea to be cracked between two fingernails. New Ottosland’s mad king had outstayed his welcome. This tiny nation would be well rid of him.
I have so much work to do. So much good. With great power comes great responsibility… and I have more power than any man alive.
The pale blue sky was empty of dragon-and he had no sense of the marvelous creature or Lional in the gardens or nearby. They’d taken themselves off somewhere…
But now it’s time to return.
With as much effort as a hurricane blowing out a candle he sent a thread of his potentia spearing through the ether. His power cleaved the thaumic veil like that well-known hot knife through butter. So easy, so effortless. He felt like a dam with all its confining banks sundered, his undreamt-of powers flowing and flooding through him. Set free at last.
This is me. The true me. Won’t Reg be surprised?
Within heartbeats he’d found both king and dragon, harrying a herd of milch cows on the rural outskirts of the kingdom’s capital. The beasts floundered and foundered and sprawled in bloody death, carcasses littering the green field with profligate abandon. How typically Lional, to take out his frustrated spite on dumb animals who couldn’t fight back.
Really and truly, he’s got to go.
The dragon’s mind was a cauldron roaring with flame. Chained to Lional by inimical magics, it writhed in heartbreaking pain and confusion.
With a thought he eased its suffering. Weakened the Tantigliani bond. Recognizing his touch the dragon threw back its scaled head and kissed the sky with fire. Furious, Lional tried to overthrow him. The feeble attempt made him laugh.
Come to me, sweet one, he crooned to the glorious crimson and emerald dragon. I’ll set you free.
While he waited he searched idly for Shugat and Zazoor and their impotent army… and was stung with surprise when he couldn’t find them.
So their silly gods shield them from me, do they? Oh well. It hardly matters. I don’t want their sand and their stupid jeweled tears. And I’ve certainly got no interest in their smelly, uncomfortable camels. If they don’t interfere with me I’ll likely leave them alone.
A shiver in the ether heralded his dragon’s eager approach. Smiling, filled with the kind of excitement that used to fizz him as a boy, when it was his birthday and he was staring at his unwrapped presents on the breakfast table, he watched the empty sky and looked for it to fill.
And there it was, the dragon. His miracle. His gift. Heart lifting, throat tightening, he watched the magnificent creature tread the air lightly towards him. Its vast wings were dulcet, caressing the sunlight like a shy lover’s kiss. Spoiling the picture, Lional-his beautiful face ugly with temper, perched behind the dragon’s wings and clutching its elegant neck like a bully holding onto some stolen trifle.
“What are you doing, Gerald?” Lional shouted as the dragon settled sweetly on the grass. “What are you playing at?”
“Playing?” He frowned, reproving. “I’m not playing, Lional, I’m perfectly serious. Can’t you tell?”
There were blotches of cow’s blood on the dragon’s iridescent hide. Horrible. With a wave of his hand he removed them. Removed Lional while he was at it, tumbling Melissande’s mad brother off the dragon’s back into an ungainly sprawl on the ground. The dragon lowered its head and looked at him, crimson eyes banked with fire.
Lional scrambled awkwardly to his feet. There was cow’s blood on him too. It could stay there. And if he wasn’t very careful his own would soon be joining it.
“Dunwoody-”
Puzzled, Gerald stared at him.
I was afraid of him once. Not so long ago he made me soil myself with fear. How odd. And what a relief, to be done with that Gerald.
“It’s over, Lional,” he said quietly. Men of power had no need to shout. “Your reign is at an end. If you surrender yourself peacefully I’ll see you come to no harm. You’ll be imprisoned, of course, but you’ll still be alive. But if you don’t surrender peacefully-” He shrugged. “Well. Then life will become rather unpleasant and you’ll only have yourself to blame.”
“ What? ” Lional laughed, incredulous. Beneath his smooth, pale skin a ripple of crimson scales. The Tantigliani still held. “Gerald, have you gone mad?”
He shrugged again. “Not at all. That’s what you did, Lional. What I’ve done is… find myself.”
Lional stared at him, ferociously silent. And then he reached out with his stolen potentias, with the magic that would never truly be his no matter how hard he tried to pretend.
“ Tagruknik!” he swore in a tongue that wasn’t his, either. What a thief he was, this mad king of New Ottosland. “Gerald-what the hell have you done?”
Oh and it was sweet, it was delightful, tasting Lional’s stark fear. The dragon, still chained to him, poor thing, lashed its tail and roared in frightened sympathy, flame shriveling the flower beds, poison dripping to corrode and char the clipped grass.
He rolled his eyes. “Oh come on, Lional. You know bloody well.”
The healthy color drained from Lional’s beautiful face, leaving it gray and sickly. “You can’t have. It’s not possible.”
“Not for the old Gerald, no,” he agreed. “But thanks to you and the cave I’m not the old Gerald any more. Thanks to you and the cave I’m an entirely new man. With your help I’ve found a fresh focus.” He smiled. “New purpose.”
Another ripple in the ether as Lional pushed with his potentias. Pushed to no avail. He really was wasting his time. Eyes wide, his breathing harsh, he stared. “No. It’s not possible. I left those grimoires guarded. Warded beyond any hope of breaching. No wizard could-”
“No ordinary wizard, true,” he said, and shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “But come on, Lional. You’ve known since your failure in the woods that I’m anything but an ordinary wizard.”
Sweating, Lional stepped back. The dragon hesitated, then echoed him. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “This is a trick.”
Gerald sighed. “Lional, Lional. Tell me, what did you think you were doing when you were torturing me in that cave of yours?”
Lional didn’t answer. Just stared at him, his sky blue eyes narrowed. One hand reached out to touch the dragon’s breathing side. As though touch confirmed ownership. As though he had the right.
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know? Or is it you just can’t bring yourself to admit it? Never mind. I’ll admit it for you. What you did, Lional, old chum, was murder me. The old me, that is. And the Gerald you replaced him with, you made that Gerald into a murderer-like you. And-well-the thing is, you see, I couldn’t live with that. I couldn’t live with being that. Being you. So now there’s me, Lional. A third Gerald. A Gerald who’s going to put a stop to your nonsense once and for all.”
“You think so?” said Lional, teeth bared in a feral smile. “Then you’re an idiot, Gerald. A doltard, like Rupert. You’re no match for me and my dragon.”
“Actually, Lional?” He pulled his right hand from his pocket and held it up, fingers spread wide. “It’s my dragon. And I’d like it back now, if you don’t mind.”
He clenched his fingers hard and fast, wrapping his potentia around the Tantigliani ’s tight strands. Shrieking, Lional dropped to his knees. Beside him the dragon roared, fresh flame burning the flower-scented air, head thrashing in wild protest as the binding incant cut deep.
He winced. “Sorry, my beauty. Sorry. Be strong. It’ll be over soon, I promise.”
Teeth gritted, blood trickling from both nostrils, Lional fought back. His magic may have been stolen but that didn’t mean it wasn’t formidable.
“No-you can’t have her-you won’t have her-we won’t let you-we are one!”
The punch of Lional’s resistance was hard enough to rock him on his heels. Bones thrumming, blood surging, he punched back. Felt a sizzle of pleasure as Lional cried out and fell onto his hands and knees. Felt a trickle of guilt as the dragon’s roar echoed his pain.
“It’ll only hurt worse if you resist me, Lional,” he warned. “Let go. Stop fighting. I won’t tell you again.”
But of course Lional didn’t listen. He was mad, after all. With an outraged howl he lurched back to his feet and spat out a slew of filthy curses. So foul were the incants that the air between them caught fire, drowning the scent of flowers with the stench of putrid death.
Gerald extinguished the hexes with three unbinding words.
“I swear, Lional, you’re the doltard,” he said, as Lional recoiled in shock. “Compared to you Rupert’s a bloody genius. Now for the love of Saint Snodgrass, you fool, stop this nonsense and-”
With another furious howl Lional launched a fresh attack. This time the dragon attacked with him, teeth and claws and flame and poison unleashed.
No time for kindness or a delicate touch. With both fists clenched now, with a word and a vicious push of his potentia, he severed the unnatural bonds of the Tantigliani sympathetico. Severed Lional from the dragon and set the beautiful creature free.
Lional collapsed, screaming as though he’d just been eviscerated. Half his face and his right arm were turned to blackened lizard scales. The dragon screamed with him, lethal tail lashing, thrashing the surrounding flower beds to shreds.
Gerald leaped forward. “No! No! It’s all right! It’s all right! He can’t hurt you now! I’ve saved you!”
Dazed and confused, the dragon swung its hea
d side to side, looking first at himself and then at screaming Lional. One luminous crimson eye was clouded gray and weeping blood. Blood dripped from its wide nostrils and fell scorching on the ground.
Hating himself for hurting the creature, Lional’s victim like so many others, heedless of the green poison oozing from its mouth, he risked a hand to the dragon’s shoulder. Wrapped its pain in a soothing hex and forced it to calm.
“There, there,” he crooned. “Stand still. Stand quiet. You’ll be all right soon, I promise.”
The dragon looked at him with its one good eye, tail continuing to thrash. The flower beds Lional’s father had so lovingly cultivated were ruined, reduced to churned dirt and torn foliage. Bits and pieces of blossom. All that diligent work, destroyed in scant heartbeats.
Well, it serves him right for raising such a horrible son.
Slowly, slowly, the dragon’s tail ceased its thrashing. Its head lowered, drooping groundwards, as its anger surrendered to magic.
“That’s better,” he told it. “Poor thing. You be quiet now. I’m your friend. I won’t hurt you.”
“But I will, you treacherous bitch!”
And too quickly for stopping, Lional blasted the dragon with a mordicanto majora from Stanza Seventeen of Madam Bartholomew’s Little Surprise.
The dragon shrieked once and fell dead at his feet.
Gerald spun around. “ Lional! What the hell did you do that for?”
Lional rolled over and sat up. His right eye was burst and bubbled in its socket, the lizard scales where his cheek had been now dribbled with gore. His left eye was turned dragonfire crimson, glaring with a rage as hot as the sun.
“The dragon was mine,” he growled. “You had no right to touch it.”
Poor thing, poor thing. I should’ve known. I should’ve saved it. “No, it was mine, Lional,” he said, shaking. “I made it. You only stole it. You steal everything. You’re just a petty thief.”
Lional got his feet under him and stood, drunkenly swaying. “I am a king. The King of New Ottosland. Everything contained within this kingdom is mine-including you, Professor. To do with as I will.”