Silver Dragon Codex

by R. D. Henham

  “Food. Right.” Jace stared at her. On his shoulder, the fairy shifted and moaned softly. A faint shimmery dust trickled down from its glistening wings. Jace dropped his voice to a whisper. “What does it eat?”

  “I’m trying to remember.” Cerisse looked from Jace to Ebano, but for once, the usually placid mesmerist seemed as baffled as they. “Milk or honey?” she guessed. “Sweets?”

  “I have some crackers left from breakfast. Maybe it’d like them.” Slowly, Jace pulled a cracker out of his belt pouch and held it up to the fairy. “Hey,” Jace said in as soothing a tone as he could muster. “Want a cracker?”

  The fairy looked at it skeptically, wings fluttering with more little tinkling sounds. Jace held it between forefinger and thumb and pushed it closer to the little fairy balanced on his shoulder. Jace held his breath.

  The tiny creature sniffed, peered, scrabbled forward, and finally reached out delicately and took it. “Thank you.” Its silvery voice was a bit stilted from underuse, but something in the incredibly polite tone reminded Jace of Belen.

  “You’re very welcome,” Jace stammered.

  Only after the pleasantries were done did the fairy eat—and it ate ravenously, stuffing its face with grunts and eager smacks as cracker crumbs dusted Jace’s tunic. A shiver ran through it and it gazed at Jace with tremendous gratitude, brushing a wingtip against his cheek.

  Two more appeared in the air over the stone and a third fluttered to a perch atop Cerisse’s auburn hair. They made soft noises and gestured toward Jace’s belt pouch with grasping little hands. “Are they all hungry?” Jace scrambled to pull out a few more crackers, offering one to each of the little creatures. “I only have a few crackers left. I hope it’s enough. These fairies act like they’re starving.”

  “Pukah,” the one on Jace’s shoulder trilled. “We are pukah. Chislev’s friends. Servants of the stone.” It sounded intelligent, and even better, friendly.

  “How many of you are there?”

  “Six.”

  Six little pukah? To do the chores and grunt work for an entire circus? “My name is Jace. These are my friends, Cerisse and Ebano. Oh … you’ve probably seen us before, since you work for Worver.”

  At the sound of the ringmaster’s name, the fairies hissed and snarled, their wings buzzing like angry bees. Jace backpedaled. “We aren’t here for Worver. We’re here because we’re trying to help Belen. We went to the village of Angvale.”

  Hearing the town’s name, the pukah calmed down, and the one on Jace’s shoulder sat back with a sigh.

  “Home. We miss it. Please … can you take us home?”

  Jace smiled. “We’d love to if we can. But first we need to know more about the stone. Can you move it? Does Worver have a way to control it, or does he have power over it just because he ‘owns’ it?” He struggled to think of questions that had come so easily when he was thinking this plan up.

  The pukah settled down all around the wagon, on windowsills, shoulders and other perches. The one on Cerisse’s shoulder was slowly unweaving her braid, letting the hair slide through her lithe fingers. The little fellow sitting on Jace’s shoulder appeared to be the leader, or at least, the most talkative, and it was the one to answer. “Where stone goes, we go. Who owns stone, owns us. So Chislev bound us, so we serve.”

  “Owns it? So, if I pick it up and take it—”

  The fey creature shook its head. “No. Owns it.” The pukah gestured toward its neck, scratching lightly at the luminescent skin. “Makes us come. Makes us do.”

  “He’s got some sort of necklace? Something that ties him to the stone and makes him the one who can command you? All right, we can handle that. So all we’ve got to do is get that necklace and then take it and the stone back to Angvale. Simple.” Jace beamed, pleased with his logic.

  Cerisse shook her head. “Plus, rescue Belen from Worver’s blackmail, free the pukah, and explain everything to the White Robe. Not so simple.”

  She was right. Worver had Belen and whatever necklace controlled the pukah, and he was currently spinning Mysos whatever tale would get him the most benefit. As much as Jace wanted to take the stone and run, it wouldn’t do them any good. A hero would go and face Worver directly, fight him one on one, and then sweep Belen up and tell her that everything would be all right, everything would be wonderful. She’d be so happy, so excited that she might just—

  Cerisse jabbed Jace in the side with her elbow, triggering a sharp surge of pain. Jace choked, coughing and clutching his injured ribcage. “Hey!” he yelped. The pukah leaped off Jace’s shoulder with a squeal. “That hurt!”

  “Oh! You are hurt?” The pukah cocked its head, hovering up and down above Jace’s shoulder. “I fix.” It swooped down over the stone, landing on the rugged top with a gentle graze. It stood awkwardly atop the rough stone, reaching out for Jace’s hand with both of its small, delicate ones. Atop Cerisse’s head, the one that had been playing with her braid began squawking and tugging on her hair, gesturing for her to do the same. “Come here, I will fix all.”

  Remembering how Ebano’s terrible wound had been restored, Jace lifted his hand and reached out three fingers to the pukah. Cerisse did the same, following his lead. Ebano smiled. The pukah grabbed Jace’s fingers in one hand, and Cerisse’s in the other, and closed its eyes. With a swoosh, everything turned as white as snow. Brilliant, flaming light blinded Jace, turning the world pale and glittery. He didn’t remember Ebano’s healing causing this much glare, but then again, perhaps this was how healing looked from the inside. He heard Cerisse gasp as warmth flooded over them, wrapping them in comfort and joy. The stone radiated life and love as much as a mother’s hug or his father’s smile. Jace laughed out loud, feeling it deep in his bones, and somehow he knew that everything was going to be all right.

  When the light faded, the chief of the pukah was on his shoulder, smiling blissfully at him. Jace’s ribs didn’t hurt anymore, and he didn’t even feel hungry. Jace grinned and then realized his hand was still outstretched—and his fingers were entwined with Cerisse’s over the stone. Her hand was warm and sturdy, calloused from juggling but still soft to the touch. It felt … nice.

  Jace jerked his hand away and blushed. Cerisse flexed her fingers, untying the bandage that bound her forearm. The wound where the chimera had hurt her was nothing more than a thin red line tracing the contour of her bone. Her fingers moved freely without any sign of poison or stiffness. “Amazing.”

  “Hang on!” Startled, Jace waved his hand at the little creature, causing it to do loops in the air around his fingers. “You healed us!”

  The pukah stared at him as if Jace had suddenly turned into cheese. It avoided Jace’s swoops with a cheerful trill, flipping between his palms and doing backflips in the air. Jace felt a weight lift off his conscience. “Now we have to stop Worver from enslaving Belen the same way he’s enslaved the pukah,” he said.

  Cerisse frowned. “We’ve got to stop her from signing that document.”

  “That won’t be easy,” Jace mused. “Belen promised to sign the contract. She going to go through with her promise because she gave her word. We have to stop Mysos from signing it!”

  The juggler’s eyes widened. “You’re right. Either way, though, we’ve got to get there fast and … and … uh… fix the … uh, fight the … uh … help me out here.”

  “Do something.” Jace finished her sentence. “Yeah, that’s the hard part. Still, we may be working without a net again, but this time I’m not afraid.” He grinned at her. “I’m also not alone.”

  “I’m not afraid either, Jace.” She beamed. “Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ace and Cerisse crept up to the ringmaster’s red wagon with Ebano in tow, darting from hiding spot to hiding spot along the way. When they got there, they hid beneath the window as they’d done before, listening carefully and peering in to watch those inside. Jace hushed Cerisse again, wishing that she could just calm down for once in her life, and kept a
n eye on the proceedings. In order for their plan to work, they had to wait until Belen had fulfilled her word—or else she’d work against them out of honor.

  “Ebano needs a moment to rest,” Cerisse told him. “His wounds and that fight against Mysos took a lot out of him.”

  “All right. He can sit here behind these barrels. I’ll keep an eye on what’s going on inside, and we’ll go in as soon as he’s ready.”

  Ebano nodded and tried to catch his breath. The mystic’s dark skin was sallow, his steps weary. If this turned into a fight—and knowing Worver it would—Jace would need Ebano to be as rested as possible. Cerisse had picked up a few throwing darts along the way, and now tested their tips with a steady smile.

  “Don’t take too long,” Jace told them. “We have to get Belen out of there before the contract is fully signed.”

  Ebano sat back, crossing his arms and legs. Within a moment, his eyes were closed, his lips moving in breathless prayer. Whatever he was doing, his color was improving, and the shaking in his hands was beginning to ease. Jace risked another peep into Worver’s wagon, trying to gauge how long they had before it was too late.

  “Now, Master Mysos, if you will simply sign this official contract certifying that I am Belen’s guardian and completely in charge of her rehabilitation, we can consider the matter resolved.” Worver took the quill from Belen’s hand and blew on her signature, scattering a bit of sand over the paper to dry the ink. The mage was tapping his fingers on the table top, staring at Belen intently and ignoring Worver’s fumbling hands. The ringmaster placed the contract, ink, and quill directly in front of the mage.

  Belen sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, head bowed. She hadn’t argued even once during the entire procedure, from Worver’s wheedling to Mysos’s stoic recitation of her crimes against the village of Angvale. When Worver announced the deal he had been hoping for, Mysos had expected to hear her either approve or disapprove—but she’d sat there in silence. “When I sign this,” Mysos informed her once more, “you will be magically bound. You will be tied to its terms. You will remain here among the circus folk, and you will work off your debt to society as we see fit, through giving away your salary, assisting Worver with his charity performances, and the like. Beyond that, you will have no freedoms. You will have no independence. Should you leave the circus or fail to provide payment for your crimes, you will be hunted down and destroyed by all of the White Robes of Palanthas.”

  “Exactly how long did you say this contract would be good, master mage?” Worver sidled up to him with the pen and ink.

  “One year for every resident of that tragic, lost village.”

  “And, er, how long is that, if you don’t mind?”

  “There were seventy-three residents lost when the village of Angvale was attacked.” Mysos asserted.

  “Seventy-three years, you say!” Worver pressed the quill into Mysos’s hand and then sat forward in his leather-covered traveling chair. “Plenty of time, plenty of time. The circus will be rich!” Worver was practically glowing. “I mean, rich at heart!” he amended quickly under Mysos’s glare. “With a great deal of money given to the poor and homeless in Palanthas, of course.”

  “Hmph. Of course.” Mysos tapped the quill against the parchment, scraping the surface slightly. “Belen, you are agreed?”

  She nodded.

  Mysos hesitated, and Worver wheedled, “Is something wrong, my dear wizard?”

  The pen wavered above the paper. “It seems something of a waste to leave a dragon to dance for pennies, but the judgment is fair, and the contract is legal according to the law in Palanthas. If this is the punishment that Belen wants, then I am willing to be reasonable, as she did turn herself in for the crimes. The best punishment must be one that serves the community and betters the lives of others.”

  “Yes, yes, that’s exactly right!” Worver crowed, pushing subtly against Mysos’s wrist. The mage glared at him and jerked away, making the ringmaster shrink back. “Let me get you a glass of water, sir. That’ll quench your thirst. Justice—it’s a thirsty business!”

  Jace grimaced. Thirstiness wasn’t the reason Mysos was hesitating, if Jace was any judge of the mage’s character. What made him pause was the greedy leer in the ringmaster’s smile. The White Robe was trying to think of other options. Mysos couldn’t afford to stay here and watch over Belen, and despite his bluff, if the dragon refused to come to Palanthas, it would take more than just one wizard to force her. This deal, distasteful as it was, fulfilled all the requirements of law, and Mysos knew it.

  Jace hoped that the wizard would be equally happy to be offered another way out of the deal. “That’s it, that’s all the time we have. We’ve got to go now.” He shook Ebano’s shoulder. “He’s about to sign!”

  “Very well, then.” Mysos began to draw the pen across the paper as Worver sat back to pet his twisted little pet.

  Before he could complete the first stroke, Jace and the others threw open the door.

  “Ahja. Za-fayn ha’alikk hamza Ebano Bakr Sayf al-Din ibn Ceham.” The mesmerist’s robes were torn and bloodied, frayed by acid and ragged at his wrists, but his regal bearing and intense purple eyes made these seem embellishments worthy of a king. “Greetings.”

  “Not again! He’s a madman!” Mysos surged up out of the chair, readying his spells. Ebano did not flinch, his purple eyes flashing as if eager for the challenge—but he also did not draw his hands out or speak words in the magical tongue. Mysos paused in his casting, unwilling to start throwing spells around in such a small space, and Jace seized upon the opportunity to leap past Ebano toward Belen’s side.

  Belen and Worver rose up out of their chairs, equally surprised. “What … but you … Hautos!” Worver called, pressing his hands to either side of his head as if the steam of anger might blow his top hat right off.

  “Hautos is busy, ringmaster.” Jace smirked. It felt good to have all the advantages on his side this time! Cerisse held two throwing darts ready, two more tucked into her belt, and Ebano folded his arms in a picture of supreme unconcern.

  “Jace?” the White Robe looked even more confused. “Jace Pettier, the tightrope walker?”

  “At your service, wizard of Palanthas.” The boy’s eyes moved from the wizard to the ringmaster, and settled gently on Belen. “Are you all right?” he asked her.

  “Jace, you shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

  “Because you made a deal with the ringmaster? I know. But you should know that he didn’t just tell Hautos to heal Ebano. He also told him to kill Ebano—right after the contract was signed.”

  “I think you should stay and hear the story, ringmaster.” Cerisse moved in closer, pressing the sharp end of her throwing dart an inch from Worver’s throat. While Mysos was listening to the boy, Worver had been moving slowly toward the back door—only to find himself stopped point first by the half-elf’s weapons.

  “What is going on here?” Mysos demanded. “I won’t have these proceedings interrupted with exaggerations. If Worver treats you poorly or doesn’t pay you enough, then that is a separate issue. I will be happy to discuss it after the issues with Belen and Angvale are finished, but this is a matter of Solamnian law—”

  “This is about Belen and Angvale,” the boy insisted. Jace straightened, hurling a harsh stare at the ringmaster. “Belen attacked that village.”

  Mysos threw his hands into the air. “I already know that! The dragon has confessed—”

  “To the attack yes, but she didn’t kill anyone!” Jace clenched his fists.

  Ebano stepped forward, the scrape of the mystic’s patterned slippers on the wood floor keeping Mysos’s attention divided. The mesmerist locked eyes with Mysos, returning the White Robe’s angry stare with a somber peace. Whatever was going on, Ebano wanted Mysos to pay attention to this boy. Out of respect for the other wizard’s power—or perhaps to get to the bottom of this—Mysos stopped protesting. “Tell me.”

  “The people who lived in Angva
le are still alive. They’ve just been changed into werewolves, cursed by a powerful magic because they failed to protect a sacred stone. Belen didn’t kill anyone! But there’s more—the attack wasn’t her fault. She was tricked into thinking that the village stole her egg—threatened her child—and she went there to get it back. She thought she was doing the right thing. Belen was thinking like a mother, not like a killer.”

  “Do you have any idea who would do such a thing?” Mysos asked.

  “I do.”

  “How terrible that those poor people are still alive! And cursed too!” Worver interrupted swiftly. He tsk-tsked, waving his hands in the air. His pet, Tsusu, climbed up into the wagon’s rafters, hissing softly. Worver snatched up the contract on the table and fluttered it at the wizard. “Master Mysos, let’s finish what we were doing. Once the contract is signed, we’ll have plenty of time to sit down and discuss this. As you know, Jace fell from quite a height the other day. I think he struck his head, you see—”

  Mysos shushed the ringmaster with a sharp gesture of his hand. “Jace?”

  “Worver did it all, sir. He lied to Belen about her egg—it was taken by the evil dragons—and he stole Angvale’s magic stone. He enslaved the pukah who serve it, just like he’s enslaving those werewolves he had performing today. The pukah have been doing work for the circus for five years, ever since he took the stone. Worver did all of this for his own benefit. He’s known about this the whole time, even when he found Belen in the woods, and he’s been keeping it secret. Even now, he wants you and Belen to sign that contract”—Jace pointed at it—“and make her a slave too.”

  “Do you have any proof?”

  “He’s got the stone in one of the circus wagons, sir.” Jace insisted. “He’s got some kind of key around his neck, something that makes him officially the owner of the stone.”

  Mysos turned to Worver, stepping past Belen and, perhaps foolishly, turning his back on the dark foreign mage. If this was some sort of a trick, he’d know it soon enough. “Well, Worver?”