"Now I have to melt snow down to replace it. If this keeps up, you are going to be the world's most spoiled dragon," she said.
Unslighted by the remark, the dragon padded over to the bedroll and lay down.
"Tired already? You just woke up!" Myranda remarked.
It paid her no mind, curling its tail around its legs and settling its head comfortably onto its folded over neck. Myranda smiled. It was good to have a companion, though a baby dragon would hardly have been her first choice. As she stared at the creature, it shifted to rest its head on her lap. Myranda began to pet dragon in the way it had come to crave. As she did, both sighed in contentment.
"You know, you need a name," Myranda said. "Would you like that?"
The dragon made itself more comfortable and puffed out a breath.
"When I was a little girl, I used to lay like this, with my head on my mother's lap. That was a long time ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday. It was back in a place called Kenvard. You know, down there it isn't always snow that comes down. We actually would get rain for most of the year. Not just rain, but thunder and lightning, too. I was afraid, and when I couldn't sleep, I would come out and lay like this, and she would tell me that it was all going to be all right.
"You know what she called me? Myn. I misspelled my name that way the first time I tried to write it, and she called me that ever after. I think it suits you. After all, I was a lot like you back then. Young, naïve . . . I was not covered with scales, though. I suppose we weren't so alike, but still. I think that is what I will call you. How do you like it?" she asked.
The beast yawned and stretched.
"I suppose I ought to take that as a yes," she said, wedging herself into the bedroll beneath her freshly-named companion, and drifting off into a purposeful sleep.
Chapter 11
Morning came with a sharper than average chill. The dragon had slept the whole night through on top of Myranda. When she awoke, the creature seemed deathly cold. The night had taken quite a toll. Myranda scolded herself for not realizing the danger Myn would have been in, exposed to the elements all night.
"Myn? Are you all right?" she asked desperately, nudging at the frighteningly cold neck of the dragon.
It slowly opened its eyes and yawned sluggishly. The little dragon stood and stretched stiffly. She seemed weak, her tail dragging the ground and her head sagging. Myranda was well and truly fearful for the dragon's health when, suddenly, it puffed out its chest. A moment later a surge of brilliant orange flame erupted from the creature's mouth. Instantly she seemed to perk up. Myranda was more than a bit startled, but the improvement in Myn relieved her.
"So, you can breathe fire," she said, standing and placing a hand on the neck of the dragon. Myn was a good deal warmer, which reminded Myranda just how cold the air was. "I wish I could."
When the bedroll had been packed away they set off. The events of yesterday had set Myranda behind. The food would run out today, leaving them both hungry--with at least another day of travel ahead of them, if they hurried. Myn had no trouble keeping up with the brisk pace that Myranda set, often running ahead to inspect the odd flutter or rustle, disappearing from sight periodically. Sundown brought her much nearer to her goal than she'd expected. Having a friend to talk to, even one that did not understand a word she said, helped the miles pass quickly. They set up camp at a clearing that Tus had described before she had left the headquarters. At the center was a larger tree with an arrow carved into it. The arrow pointed off into the thick of the forest.
"You see that?" Myranda asked Myn. "Tus said his partner carved it. It points in the wrong direction, so that people will not find their trainer. Clever, in a terrible, cruel way. Imagine if we were lost. That arrow would send us off to our end. Isn't that nice of them? It must take a heart of stone to do what they do. And I have joined them! What a lovely turn my life has taken! The good news is that this arrow means that, so long as we wake bright and early, we can make it to Wolloff's by midday tomorrow. It seems a life of restless wandering has made me quite the hiker. That will teach Caya to underestimate me!"
Myn seemed unaffected by the sarcasm that flowed. Myranda tossed the last piece of meat to the dragon, who snatched it easily out of the air. A fire was started, again without the help of the dragon, and Myranda cooked her woefully inadequate share. The whole of the day had been spent at a near run, leaving her exhausted and famished. She had barely finished her food before she nodded off.
The dragon joined her on the bedroll and the two slept blissfully until morning. The next day afforded a much slower pace, as the destination was so near. Hunger burned in her stomach, making Myranda wish she had saved her food for breakfast. Myn, on the other hand, seemed more energetic than ever.
"What has gotten into you?" she asked.
Myn merely stopped to look at Myranda, then continued her excited prancing about. A squirrel appeared between two trees ahead and Myn launched herself after it. Despite the tremendous distance between the predator and its prey, Myn was nearly upon the creature in moments. The hapless animal shot up a tree, only to be followed with equal speed by the hungry dragon. Snow rattled from the branches as the chase continued unseen. Just as Myranda reached the base of the tree, the squirrel reappeared, launching itself from one of the upper branches. Myn leapt with all of her might after the morsel, her jaws agape. She snapped them shut just a hair away from the rodent's tail. The lucky squirrel continued on into the next tree. The far heavier dragon did not fare so well. She plunged earthward, colliding with the trunk of the tree and sinking into a pile of snow below. More snow rained down from the shaken branches, thoroughly burying the downed dragon.
Myranda rushed to the landing site, concerned for the little dragon. Myn emerged from the drift, shaking off the snow. All that seemed to be injured by the horrid-looking fall was her pride, as her face bore as near to a look of embarrassment as the reptilian features would allow. After a glance at the tree, the dragon knew her prey was gone. She trudged sheepishly to Myranda's side.
"That was a nasty fall," Myranda said, patting her on the side. "Is this what you've been doing on your little jaunts out of sight? You made a very nice attempt though. If you keep that up, I'll be the only hungry one."
Myranda shook her head.
"You are two days old, and already you've come closer to catching your own meal than I did in my first ten years! Why do I feel as though we humans were not treated fairly in nature's balance?" Myranda wondered.
Before long, a rather precarious-looking structure peeked out above the lower tree tops. As it grew nearer, it became more and more apparent that the tower was standing out of sheer habit. Large sections of the wall had fallen away, planks of wood hastily put in place to patch them. The roof showed the faintest hint of having been painted blue, but time and the elements had wiped it away ages ago. Finally, they reached an equally faded red door with a barred slot at eye level. Myranda gave a knock. After a particularly long wait, the slot slid open and a pair of ancient eyes peered out.
"Aye," came a thickly accented voice.
"I was sent here by Caya," Myranda said.
"I know no one by that name," he said.
"I have this," Myranda said, producing the writ.
"Give it here," came the voice, a pair of withered fingers appearing at the slot.
Myranda offered up the paper Caya had given her. It was snatched away and, after a few moments of irritated muttering, the voice rose again.
"The money?" he asked, or rather, demanded.
"I was not given any. Caya needed time to get the silver together," she said.
"NO! NEVER AGAIN! WE HAD AN AGREEMENT, I AM TO RECEIVE TWO--YE GODS, WHAT IS THAT!?" he ranted.
Myn, intrigued by the new scent and new voice, stood on her hind legs and leaned her front feet against the door. That had just managed to bring her eyes to the slot, and she peered eagerly inside, startling the ranting old man.
"Myn, get down from there! I
'm very sorry, Mr. Wolloff. That is just Myn. She is a dragon," Myranda explained.
"I can see that! I have eyes, haven't I! What is it doing here?" he demanded.
"I . . . It is difficult to explain," she said.
"Never mind. Get inside, but the dragon stays outside," he said.
"I don't know if I can keep the dragon from--" she began.
"The dragon stays outside!" he screamed.
Myn jumped back, startled by the man. The door flew open to reveal a white-haired man. He was precisely as one might imagine a wizard, rendered frail by the mass of years gone by. His clothes were simple, and immaculately white. A brass amulet with a clear crystal hung about his neck. He grasped it and spat out a trio of arcane words. A sharp, brief pulse of light came from the stone within to signify the casting of the spell. Myn dropped to the ground as though struck. She was no longer moving.
"What did you do?" Myranda insisted.
"Relax, lass. I put the little demon down for a rest. Now get inside before I wake it and sic it on ye!" he said.
Myranda reluctantly moved inside, keeping her gaze locked on the motionless dragon until the door slammed shut.
"Are you certain she will be all right?" Myranda asked.
"Aye, she will be just fine. As for you, I'll expect a bit more speed and obedience from a pupil. That is what you have come for, I trust," he said.
"Yes," she assured him.
"Right, then you will be needing food, I suppose," he said.
"I would appreciate it," she said.
"You will find the kitchen there," he said, pointing a crooked finger at one of the three remaining doors.
Myranda turned to the door. The room she stood in was, to say the least, well used. Books with faded writing lay open upon every surface. Half-empty vessels of strong-smelling powders and liquids were scattered about, making the air stale with the smell of potions. A rickety table with a single chair made up the dining area, it would seem, while the parlor consisted of an overstuffed chair strategically placed between the crackling fireplace and the table. She walked to the flimsy wooden door her host had indicated.
"I shall take my meal in here. When you are finished you may bring it out to me," he called after her.
She stopped in her tracks.
"You want me to prepare food for you?" she said in disbelief.
"Aye. You know how to cook, I assume," he said without looking up.
"Well, I do, but I have just spent days out in the cold, most of them on my feet," she said. He quickly cut her off.
"Then I would imagine you would jump at the chance to spend some time in front of a warm fire," he said with an infuriating cheerfulness.
"I--" began her retort.
"I do not want to hear it. Until that woman sends me my silver, you are not a guest, not a student, not a customer. You are an unwanted tenant! AND RENT IS PAST DUE! You will do what I say, when I say it! That goes double when we are in training! NOW GET TO WORK!" he commanded.
Myranda backed into the kitchen, taken aback by what he had said. As she gathered the meager selection of ingredients, the girl wondered two things. First, why was this man so ill-tempered? Second, how could someone who seemed so fragile be so forceful and commanding? When he spoke one could not help but act. Perhaps learning magic taught such a trait. She half desired and half feared gaining that quality in her time here.
The meal, a simple vegetable stew, was finished and set before Wolloff in one of the plain clay bowls she managed to find in the kitchen. He shoveled the food into his mouth as Myranda cleared the uncushioned chair of books and other debris so that she could join him at the table. By the time she was able to sit, the wizard had nearly finished. When the last of his share was finished, he pushed the bowl across the table, turned back to the fire, and returned to his reading.
Myranda finished her meal and carried the bowls to the kitchen to wash them. By now, she knew better than to expect gratitude from her host. She returned to her seat, sitting quietly and thinking of the dragon sleeping in the cold just outside the door.
"You know, the dragon . . ." Myranda began.
"The dragon stays outside. It breathes fire and my home is filled with sensitive, irreplaceable, flammable objects. The blasted creature lives outside. It does not need to come in!" Wolloff said.
"Well, when will she wake?" she asked.
"In a few hours. Listen, lass, I cannot be answering questions all day. You'll be occupying my time for months, so I'd like to get a wee bit of my own work done tonight. You'll be spending most of your time in the tower. That is where I teach, and that is where you will sleep. Why don't you head up there and make yourself at home? Anything to get you out of my hair!" he said.
Myranda rose and headed quickly to the door, eager to be away from the irritating man. The stairs inside the tower were quite a match for its exterior. Less than a handful of the entire spiraling flight were fully intact. The rest had corners or centers crumbled away or cracked. It was only with great care that she managed to reach the top. There she found a room, perhaps half the size of the room downstairs. It was round, with curved bookcases lining the sections of wall between windows, of which there were three. One faced south, one north, and one west.
The windward side of the tower bore no window, keeping the stiff breeze mercifully outside. As a result, the meager heat from the fire below, which ran up a column of chimney that marked the center of the tower, was quite enough to heat the room. There was an old bench, a table scattered with various mystical apparatus and books, and a trio of chairs, one of which was broken. The entire room was covered with a layer of dust. It was clear that no one had put this room to use in some time. There were shutters over the windows, though like everything else here, they were in various states of disrepair. The southern one did not even close tightly, instead knocking erratically in the breeze.
Myranda dropped her packs onto the bed, coughing at the plume of dust it stirred. She sat down on the bed's edge and wrestled the nearly worn-through boots from her feet. With only the use of her left arm, it proved to be quite a task, as cooking had been. She contemplated asking Wolloff to heal her shoulder immediately, but the thought of having to deal with him again bothered her more than the wound, the ever-present pain of which had come to be bearable simply through familiarity. In truth, with any luck, the temperament of Wolloff would lose its edge in the same way.
The tired traveler rubbed her feet. They'd not felt fresh air in a week. Her knees and hips were sore, as was her back from the packs she'd had to carry. All things considered, she had been through an ordeal, and she could tell it would take some time to recover. A smile came to her face as she fell back onto the bed. She realized that, at least for the time being, she had a home. Her travels were over. For a time she rested, but it was not long before her thoughts turned to Myn.
She hoisted herself to her ailing feet and hobbled to the clattering shutter, pushing it wide open and holding it. Two stories down, she saw the prone form of the dragon, still asleep. She seemed to be comfortable enough, perhaps because of the hint of sun that had broken through the clouds to lend her its warmth. Even so, the shadow of the mountain was creeping closer as the sun descended. She resolved to be sure that if the little dragon had not woken by the time the sun had disappeared entirely, she would see to it that Myn was brought inside, regardless of what Wolloff had to say. Until then, she actually had some time with nothing to fill it.
Myranda took a seat at the table, looking over the contents of one of the dusty books. The pages were filled with intricate symbols that she could not understand. Though their meaning was hidden to her, there was an aura of power about them that was undeniable. She ran her fingers across the page, feeling the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She put down the book and turned her attention to the half-dozen jewel shards that were scattered here and there. They were similar to the one that adorned Wolloff's amulet, but varied in color. Most were a dark blue, though some of the sma
ller pieces were a murky red. In stark contrast to the other gems was a single, perfectly clear, colorless crystal in a cloth-lined case.
Toward the center of the table was a sophisticated apparatus of glass tubes and vials. Some had blackness staining them, as though they had spent time over a flame. Next she looked to the other books. The aged tomes could be found not only lining the walls, but in mounds on the floor, piled high in chests, and even under the bed. She approached one of the bookcases. Hundreds of leather-bound books, the gold leaf or hand-inked names long since flaked away, stood awaiting the trained eye of a wizard to unlock their secrets. Finally, she found a book, apparently a newer one, which had a name that was not only intact, but also in her native tongue.
She pulled the thin book from its place and opened it. The title read The White Magics of the Northern Alliance. Inside, the pages displayed the very same runes that had populated the pages of the other books, though these were drawn with less care, or perhaps less skill. Above the dense blocks of runes were names accrediting the spell crafters, like Talia's Poison Guard or Merick's Touch of Soothing. Each spell was further accompanied by lengthy descriptions of the effects, as well as recommendations of when they were to be used. Her untrained eye could make no sense of the spells themselves, but she eagerly read over the descriptions of the wondrous incantations. With each sentence she became more excited about the months to come. She would be able to produce such effects in time!
Just when she thought she was as thrilled as she could be, she came upon a page that seized her attention. It was labeled Celeste Spell of Cure Affliction. Celeste! In all of her travels, she had never encountered another person who shared her family name. That meant that this spell had been crafted by her own flesh and blood! Some forgotten ancestor or distant cousin. She read over the description, hungry for more information. Alas, nothing more was said of the author. However, the indication of the spell was identical to her shoulder's malady. It told of wounds twice as bad as hers healed fully in minutes, usefulness restored to limbs rendered immobile.
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 13