The Changeling

by Jerry B. Jenkins

  Despite the children’s worn clothes, their faces were round and they seemed well fed. The girls wore their hair in braids. The boys also had longish hair. Soon Owen and Watcher were surrounded by staring children with dirty hands and faces.

  “You look funny,” one said, pointing at Owen.

  “Stop it, Thomas,” an older girl said. Owen figured this was Thomas’s sister. “It’s not polite to point.”

  Thomas lowered his finger and scrunched up his face. “He does look funny, though. He’s too small to be carrying a big sword. Where’d you get that?”

  Owen laughed and pulled it from his scabbard. “It was a gift from a friend.” He let Thomas feel its weight, then had to let each child have a turn.

  Watcher pawed at the ground as if ready to keep moving, but Owen took off his backpack. The children crowded closer, peering in. The picture of his mother was water damaged and ripped, but it was still clear enough to show the kids. “Have you ever seen her?”

  “That’s Drushka,” a girl said. “At least, I think it is.”

  Several nodded. “She lives in the bread house—the one with all the stones.”

  The children guided them to the house. Owen felt uneasy as he climbed the steps. He had been told that his mother had died the day he was born. He had assumed this was why his father was distant and didn’t show affection. Owen couldn’t blame him. If he had truly loved the woman, and if she’d died giving birth to Owen, that would explain a lot.

  But his father had given him information about his mother just before he traveled to the Lowlands—a book of pictures that included her. Could she still be alive? And could the woman inside this house be his actual mother?

  “Knock,” Watcher said. “What’s wrong?”

  “Well, what do I say? ‘Hello, I’m your son, the Wormling’?”

  “Wormling?” a child squealed behind them. “He said he was the Wormling.”

  Watcher rolled her eyes. “Great, tell everybody.”

  Owen tapped lightly on the heavy wooden door.

  Owen felt his face blanch when a woman opened the door, and he worried he might keel over. This was the woman in his picture. She was larger, perhaps, her face fuller and shiny. But she was still beautiful, with dark hair covered by a shawl and a dress nearly reaching her ankles. Her skin was pale, as if she spent too much time in the dark.

  “Miss Drushka?” Watcher said.

  “Yes,” she said with the hint of an accent. “Call me Drushka.”

  “My friend here thinks he may know you from somewhere. May we come in?”

  Drushka wiped her doughy hands on her apron and stared at Owen. Then she looked past them. “You children leave these two alone. Go and play!”

  She ushered Owen and Watcher into the huge kitchen, where she was baking bread. The smell made Owen’s mouth water.

  “I met you at the fair in Zior years ago,” Watcher said. “You let me touch the soft fabric.”

  “I remember,” Drushka said. “Would you like a crimrose? They’re fresh from the fire.” The woman produced two steaming pastries.

  Owen closed his eyes as he took a bite. “This is like a croissant back home. So flaky and soft, it nearly melts in your mouth.”

  “And where is home?” Drushka said.

  “Watcher here is from the hill country, but I’m actually from the Highlands. I’m a Wormling.”

  Drushka locked her eyes on Owen.

  He pulled a worn book from his backpack, its pages crumpled and warped from moisture. Drushka flipped through it, scanning the pictures until she came to one that made her cover her mouth. Owen handed her another—the one he had shown the children. Drushka ran her fingers over it like a child with a new doll.

  “Is that you?” Owen said.

  She looked overwhelmed. “Where did you get this?”

  “From my father. He runs a bookstore in the Highlands. Our name is Reeder.”

  “He can read,” Watcher said. “He even knows much of The Book of the King.”

  The very mention of the sacred book seemed to startle the woman.

  Owen said, “Do you have a child?”

  Tears came to Drushka’s eyes. “A son.”

  Owen wanted to rush to Drushka and embrace her, so sure was he that she was his mother.

  But she turned away and her shoulders shook. “My son was taken long ago,” she managed, weeping.

  Owen’s heart leaped. “How long ago?”

  “Years.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He left me soon after. I tried to find my son, but I never . . .”

  Owen rifled through his backpack for the picture of him and his father that he had carried with him. Could his father have lived in the Lowlands and somehow made it to the Highlands with him? How? Why? Could the Dragon have known all along that Owen was a Wormling? Maybe he paid Owen’s father to take Owen away and lie about his mother dying.

  When the woman turned around, Owen handed her the picture, trembling. “Mother?” he said. “Is that your husband?”

  “No,” she said. “And my son would be only nine years old.”

  Owen fell into the chair, stunned and disappointed.

  “You poor boy,” Drushka said.

  “My father told me my mother died the day I was born. He gave me this picture of you.”

  “How difficult this must be,” Drushka said. “Let me explain. After the Dragon had burned the books, men came to our village with a strange box that flashed. They said they would give us exotic fabrics and thread as strong as rock if we simply wore the clothes they provided and stood in front of the flashing box.”

  “Then they must have put this book together.”

  “Yes,” Drushka said, pointing. “That is my sister, and those are women from our village.” She moved to a closet and returned with the very outfit she’d worn for the picture. “Older women would not do it. They feared the machine took something from you, shortened your life.” She ran her hands over the length of the dress. “I wish I had not lived long enough to see my son disappear.”

  Watcher said, “The Wormling can help you find him.”

  Owen gave her a sharp look.

  “I heard there was a Wormling in the land,” Drushka said. “Is he near?”

  Watcher nodded at Owen.

  Drushka drew close. “But the Wormling is as tall as a tree and a great warrior.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Owen said.

  “He has killed demon flyers with one hand,” Watcher said. “And he paves the way for the Son.”

  “I am the Wormling,” Owen said. “Guardian of The Book of the King, though I’m currently failing at that. And a motherless son. I’m right back where I started.”

  “No,” Watcher said. “You have learned this is not your mother. That is valuable.”

  “Great. I’ve eliminated one person from the Lowlands. I’ll throw a party.”

  Watcher’s mouth formed an O. “Well, you came to this world thinking your mother was dead. Now there is a chance you could find her.”

  Owen sat in silence, drinking in Watcher’s thoughts.

  “And if your father lied to you about me,” Drushka said softly, “perhaps he is not your father at all.”

  “Unlikely,” Owen said. “I look like him.”

  “That man in the picture?” Watcher said. “You don’t look a thing like him.”

  “Sure I do. The mouth. The eyes. Our house cleaner even said I look like him. We even sound alike.”

  “What kind of a father would lie to his own child about the most precious thing in his life?” Drushka said.

  Owen felt like an orphan, with questions for parents. Why would his father give him a book that led nowhere? Could his mother still be alive in his own world, the Highlands?

  Owen resolved to find the King’s Son and then go on a search of his own. For his past. He had to know where he belonged and to whom.

  The Dragon scratched the inside of his leg surreptitiously (which means he
did not want anyone to know he was doing it). He had told no one about the scar left by the Wormling, nor had he described his encounter with the youngster, not even to his trusted (as much as a Dragon can trust anyone) aide, RHM.

  When the aide entered with the Changeling, the Dragon quickly resumed his perch on his new golden throne. He had tried four throne makers before the drawings met his desires and the chair was carved. The first three throne makers—how shall we say it?—did not survive.

  “The Changeling brings news, sire,” RHM said. “He made contact with the Wormling.”

  “But you did not bring him back,” the Dragon said, eyes turning red and boring a hole through the Changeling.

  The Dragon’s stare did not seem to bother the Changeling, who merely examined his own nails, chewed them, and disregarded the Dragon’s belches of fire. “I performed the task you assigned, subdued the Watcher, and seduced the Wormling. I did not bring him back because I believe he is of more use to you where he is.”

  “You believe?” the Dragon roared. “It is not your job to think. It is your job to obey.”

  “True, Your Dragonhood, but let me tell you what happened—”

  “What did he say when you told him what I would give?”

  “He had questions, seemed interested at first. Then he shut himself off. Nothing I tried worked.”

  “Why didn’t he kill you?” the Dragon said, fuming.

  The Changeling turned into a female dragon, with long eyelashes and pearly teeth. “I suppose it was my charm and my—”

  The Dragon grabbed the Changeling’s neck and squeezed. “Do not trifle with me.”

  “Ckk . . . ahh . . . ackkkkk . . .” When the Dragon let go, the Changeling gasped. “I can still be of service to you, Your Rulerness. I have abilities I have not shown you.”

  “Why didn’t you use them on the Wormling?”

  “I wanted to get back here in one piece.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was this close, had him hanging over a cliff. Another second and he would have been a stain on the valley floor. But that cursed sword came flying up and—”

  “What abilities?” the Dragon thundered. “What did you do?”

  The Changeling turned into the Wormling, complete with backpack and sword.

  The Dragon flinched, recalling how the sword in the expert hands of the Wormling had injured him.

  “I made his mind race,” the Changeling said. “I took the form of his father, a young girl from his school, and a younger friend. I read from his mind several passages from The Book of the King—quite inspiring, actually—and learned of this Scribe they search for.”

  The Dragon perked up. “Scribe?”

  “In some mountain hamlet on the other side of the White Mountain.”

  “Yodom,” RHM said. “That has to be where he’s headed.”

  “Or already is,” the Dragon said.

  “He is obsessed with this Son business. If he can find him, the worlds will unite and blah, blah, blah, happily ever after, gag me.”

  “He will get nothing from the Scribe, correct?” RHM said.

  “There is not much left of his brain, if that’s what you’re asking,” the Dragon said. “Nothing but gibberish should come from him.”

  “It would be best,” the Changeling said, “to trap your pesky foe in some unconventional way.”

  “Like what?”

  “The Watcher is a problem, of course. She senses temperature changes and can detect the invisibles. Unless . . .”

  “Unless what? Stop toying with me, man!”

  “Unless beings attack from under the earth. She cannot sense those.”

  “The iskeks,” RHM said. “A striking idea.”

  “I thought of that long ago,” the Dragon said.

  “Before the Wormling realizes what’s happening,” the Changeling said, “he will be entwined and immobilized. Then you can simply swoop down and toast him. Barbecued human. End of story.”

  “I shall not trouble myself with finishing him off,” the Dragon intoned. He flicked a hand at RHM. “After I assign the iskeks, send a squadron of vaxors to confirm his death.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  The Dragon smiled wryly and scratched his leg again. “I’ve changed my mind about killing you, Changeling. You do have special abilities.” He crawled off his throne and slithered toward a black, globelike object in the corner. He belched fire that made the orb glow.

  “Foul one of the underworld, hear my cry.

  Rise to my bidding; the time is nigh.

  Slither and shake, the Wormling meet,

  Break through the ground beneath his feet.”

  The orb grew clear, and a sand-colored path appeared. Swirling like a tornado, the orb went dark except for two gray eyes in the midst of the torrent.

  What were these men like, Drushka?” Owen said. “The ones with the flashing box.”

  “Tall, with hooded garments, so I never saw their faces. Long, snakelike fingers. Repulsive. And the smell—the awful, smoky smell.”

  “Describe your son.”

  With a warm smile, she said, “He had the whitest hair—pure white. It was long and flowed down his back as smooth and silky as any woman’s in the land. Deep blue eyes that could see right through you.” She chuckled. “His ears stuck out like the wings of a bird. I wish I had a picture of him.”

  “What about your husband?”

  Drushka’s face fell. “I thought he was such a good man. And then he left. You don’t know what that does to a person. Well, perhaps you do. . . .”

  “What did he look like?”

  She said he was of average height and had thinning hair with a bald spot and a large scar on his forehead. “He told me he had gotten the wound when a demon flyer tried to grab him, but I’m not sure that’s true.”

  “Any idea where he might have gone?”

  Drushka shrugged. “At first I thought he went to find our son. He seemed as upset as I was. The men he worked with at the stable said he was distraught. But one day he packed a bag and left. I never saw him or heard from him again.”

  When their questions were answered, including whether Yodom held a man known as the Scribe, Drushka filled a basket with pastries and breads for Owen and Watcher. “This will last you a few days.” She put a hand on Owen’s shoulder. “You have great strength of heart. I pray you find what you are looking for—and soon.”

  As Owen and Watcher walked to the middle of town, a horde of children followed. They found crude shops and a square where people gathered to talk, trade, and water their livestock near the stable—again a crude building with a distinct odor.

  “So you’re the one the children are so excited about,” the owner of the stable said, scowling. He sported a white beard, black teeth, and a patch over one eye. “Why don’t you leave us in peace?”

  “We mean no harm,” Owen said.

  “Like you meant no harm to the people of Shoam before they were washed away? Or the clan of Erol before the Dragon blasted them from their dwellings?”

  “What?” Owen said.

  “You heard me. They had lived in peace for how long before you came and helped them? We were told they have been destroyed. You flit around here in the open, begging for an attack, not caring what happens or who gets carried off when you leave.”

  Owen was shaken by the news of Erol’s clan. He drew close to the man. “We’ll be gone as soon as you answer a question about Drushka’s husband. You worked with him?”

  “Aye. Many years. More than you are now.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  The man cocked his head. “Now there’s a question I don’t suppose has been asked more than a thousand times.”

  “You’re hiding something,” Watcher said. Her brows were furrowed, and the fur on her back stood up.

  Owen spoke softly. “You can’t fool her. She’s a Watcher. Tell us what you know, what you haven’t told Drushka.”

  The man let his iron clank in the fir
e and began rubbing a horse down with a coarse brush. “He was upset about the boy. The night before he left, he told me his wife had met hooded figures who used a flashing box. He believed they took the boy. He didn’t want her to know, fearing she would blame herself.” The man turned and glared. “And if you tell her, so help me I’ll burn you with a brand so hot—”

  “Just tell me where he went looking.”

  “How would I know? I assumed he went to the White Mountain. But if you bring the wrath of the Dragon down on us, I’ll personally cut out your heart.”

  Owen smiled. “When the battle between the Dragon and the Son begins, I want you at my side.”

  The old man sneered. “Don’t count on it.”

  I hope I don’t get that mean when I’m old,” Watcher said as she and Owen left the town.

  Children followed them to the edge of the forest, waving good-bye as they disappeared. The trees were so thick that Owen had to lead his horse.

  “If we’re not careful,” Owen said, “we may never get that old.”

  “Why did he have to be so nasty?”

  “Maybe deep down he’s more sad than mad. Who knows what he’s been through?”

  “Yeah,” Watcher said, giggling. “Maybe he was a Wormling as a child. Sometimes you can be mean yourself. Maybe you’re just sad. Or it could be all the jargid meat.”

  Owen’s horse pulled away and walked off the path. “Come on, boy,” Owen said. “Why can’t horses talk here? Almost every other animal can.”

  Watcher turned to the horse and made a noise in her throat.

  The horse whinnied, shook his head, and pawed at the ground.

  “What did you say?” Owen said.

  “I asked if he wanted us to name him.”

  “And . . . ?”

  Watcher shrugged. “I don’t understand horse, but he seems upset.”

  “All I need is a picky horse.”

  As Watcher led the way, Owen’s thoughts turned to Erol and his family. Had they been wiped out by the Dragon, or were they on the run, searching for a safe place to live? Owen feared he had been responsible for their being attacked.