A Muddle of Magic

by Alexandra Rushe

  “No, is it?” Raven started, as though noticing Flame for the first time. “I do believe you’re right. Is the market closed?”

  “Aye. Closed at sundown due to the weather.”

  “Excellent. We don’t wish to cause a commotion.” Raven tossed the man several gold coins. “For your trouble with Tiny.”

  “T-tiny, m’ lord?” the man said, gaping at the dragon.

  “The giant. He’ll be back on the morrow. See that he’s well fed.”

  “He’s coming back, m’ lord? But the gate—”

  Raven held up his hand. “Rest assured that the giant will trouble you no further.”

  The gatekeeper looked doubtful but pocketed the gold. A gust of wind tossed a flurry of snowflakes into Flame’s red whiskers. The dragon sneezed, shooting a burst of flame into the air.

  “Gods save us,” the gatekeeper cried, shrinking back. “The rowan must be mad to let a dragon into the city. We’ll be roasted in our beds.”

  Mauric urged Goblin through the gate. “I’ll be sure to share your thoughts with the rowan. I’ve no doubt he’ll be interested in your opinion.” He reined in his horse and looked down at the startled man. “What, nothing else to say? Close your mouth, clod pate. You’re catching snow.”

  They crossed the wide berm between the city walls and stopped before the second gate. This entrance, like the first, was closed and barred. A beefy guard stood on either side of the massive doors.

  The nearest warrior stepped forward, his face set. “Roark,” he said. “We’ve orders to escort the lady to Rowan Fast.”

  “An escort would be welcome,” said Raven, “but we’ve business at the stables, first.”

  “Very good, m’ lord. We will accompany you.”

  The guard rapped on the heavy doors, and they swung open.

  “Ride to Rowan Fast, if you please,” Raven said to Mauric, “and inform the rowan of our delay.”

  “Happy to oblige.” Mauric winked at Flame and pressed his heels into Goblin’s sides. “See you later, scaly mug. Be a good dragon.”

  He trotted off, vanishing into the gathering darkness.

  They rode through the second gate and halted. After some discussion, Flame was placed in the vanguard. Two warriors marched in front and a man flanked the dragon on either side. Raven and Raine followed behind; two more guards brought up the rear. Inside the city, the insistent, hollow thrumming of the Wailing Tree was loud and distinct, despite the blowing wind.

  The narrow streets near the market gate housed the trade district, a jumble of smithies, saddlers, chandleries, barbers and fishmongers, brewers, apothecaries, and tanners. Though businesses had closed for the night, the odors of sulfur, tallow, ammonia, yeast, and spices lingered. Dominating the pungent effluvium was the familiar odor of fish.

  Flame sneezed again. The Silly Dell stinks.

  Yes, it does.

  As they moved up the street, a tavern door opened and a stout man in a stained apron tossed a drunk into the snow. “Pinch another of m’ pies, and I’ll smash your beak,” he said, slamming the door with a loud bang.

  Flame twitched at the noise and whipped about, sweeping one of the guards off his feet with his tail.

  Morven?

  It’s all right, Flame. Turning to the downed warrior, she said, “Sorry, he’s not used to the noise. Are you hurt?”

  The guard, a thick-necked blond fellow with a beard, climbed to his feet. In the sputtering light from the torch by the tavern door, his face was flushed. “No, milady. I’m fine.”

  “Good.” Raine pointed to the prostrate drunk. “Kindly help that man out of the gutter, if you please.”

  The guard nodded and pulled the man to his feet, holding him upright by his tunic.

  The drunk swayed and gave Flame a woozy grin. “Nice doggie.”

  “Dunced,” the guard said. “He reeks of ale.”

  “Where do you live, sir?” Raine asked.

  “You heard the lady, jug worm.” The bearded guard shook the man. “Where do you live?”

  The drunkard mumbled something incomprehensible.

  “What did he say?” Raine asked. “I couldn’t understand him.”

  “I caught part of it, milady, but not all. His accent is bothy.”

  “Bothy?”

  “The name given to the clans in the Far Hold,” Raven explained. “The families in that part of the mountains are sheepherders, mostly, and trappers. Close knit and independent, the bothys, and they keep to themselves. From the stains on his hands, I would say our friend works in a tannery.”

  Raine turned to the guard. “Be so kind as to see him home. We will wait.”

  “You can’t save every drunk in the city, Raine,” Raven said.

  “Perhaps not, but I can save this one. I won’t leave him to freeze to death in the snow.”

  “Do as the lady asks.” Raven sighed. “And be quick about it.”

  “Yes, m’ lord.”

  Taking the inebriated man by the arm, the guard led him down the street.

  Raven turned Lúthon’s head. “Let’s get out of the wind, at least.”

  They retreated to an empty lane near the tavern to wait. The guard returned within a quarter of an hour.

  “He lived but one street over,” he said, trotting up. “I can see now why he drinks. His wife met us at the door. Gave him a bear jaw he won’t soon forget.”

  They left the lane and continued through the snowy streets, stopping at the edge of a yawning square crowded with booths and huts. The market was closed, and the stalls boarded for the night.

  “The market,” Raven said. “Nothing like the Great Market in Gambollia, of course, but it carries a decent assortment of goods.”

  “Is this where Gurnst will deliver the Storm’s cargo?”

  “A portion of it. The largest share is promised to private buyers. The nobles of Finlara are fond of fine wine and Esmallan silks. Do you enjoy shopping?”

  “No…I mean yes.” Raine felt her cheeks heat. “I haven’t had much opportunity.”

  Her last shopping excursion had been a disaster. Bree had taken her to the Great Market in Gambollia to purchase a wizard stone, and she’d blown up the proprietor’s shop. Not on purpose, but the result had been the same.

  “A circumstance soon remedied,” Raven said, unaware of her thoughts. “You can shop to your heart’s content in the market, though not tonight.”

  “Shopping would be fun, but I won’t be buying. I’ve no money.”

  “Happily, I do. I’ve made my fortune at sea and would be pleased to fund you.”

  “Absolutely not,” Raine said, horrified. “Though I thank you for the kind offer. I’ll make my own way.”

  “Ah, yes. You’ve aspirations to be a baker, as I recall.”

  “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Only a little. I admire your determination. Most women of your station disdain work.”

  Raine laughed. “My station? I’m nobody.”

  “You are the rowan’s guest and friends with two powerful wizards and a seer. You are not nobody.”

  “Glory and I aren’t friends. I was rude to her this morning, I’m ashamed to admit. She’s not speaking to me.”

  “Mor would say that’s a good thing. She and my aunt seldom agree.”

  “I’ve noticed. They’re like two badgers in a sack.”

  Raven chuckled, and they rode on into the empty bazaar. Gusts of wind rattled the shutters and lifted the canvas awnings over the booths like a trollop’s skirts. Keeping to the wide lane down the middle of the market, they crossed the square and entered a quiet neighborhood of tall houses with steep roofs. There was an air of quiet prosperity about the area that the east burrow had lacked. Lights gleamed through frosted windows and snow gathered on sturdy stone steps. Violets and snow lilies b
loomed in planters and window boxes, welcoming the coming of spring.

  They plodded on past inns and shops. It was snowing hard now, and most people had taken shelter indoors. The few stragglers they did encounter hurried by without looking, heads down against the wind. As they filed past a bustling tavern, Raine glanced through the mullioned bay window. The taproom was rosy with firelight. People crowded the tables and bar, eating and drinking. A man opened the door to step inside and Raine caught a whiff of something savory. Her stomach rumbled, and she realized suddenly that she hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Fish stew,” Raven said to Raine’s embarrassment. “Every alehouse has its own recipe and the ingredients are closely guarded.” He inhaled. “Onion, celery, and cod, in that one. And clams, I think.”

  As they moved on, wending their way through the snow storm along the dark mountain streets, the keen of the Wailing Tree followed them. The dragon stalked ahead of them, stopping every few blocks to shake the accumulation from his scales.

  Flame is tired of wet and cold.

  Me, too.

  Raine pressed her gloved hands against Lúthon’s warm withers. The elvish horse seemed unfazed by the cold, and radiated heat. “How much farther?” she asked. “Flame is getting cranky.”

  “Not far.” Raven pointed to a golden haze in the distance. “See the lights above us? That’s Rowan Fast. The old mews are just below.”

  They slogged on, coming at last to the abandoned stables, a massive building with thick stone walls, a sagging thatched roof, and double doors large enough to accommodate a certain frost giant. A door creaked open and a huge man stood silhouetted in the light. Lanterns glowed inside the barn and a bevy of stable hands scurried about, tidying stalls, laying fresh straw, and filling the long trough in the center with fresh water.

  Flame made a noise between a grunt and a growl, and lunged at the colossus in the doorway, bowling aside the guards. With a startled yelp, the big man back pedaled into the stable. Flame bounded after him and they heard another yelp.

  “Flame, stop.” Raine slid off Lúthon’s back and ran after the dragon. “Come back here.”

  Inside the stable, it was blessedly warm. Heat steamed from vents in the stone floor. The stable hands had scattered and were nowhere in sight. Flame had the big man backed into a corner, licking his boots.

  “Flame, no.” Rushing over, Raine wrapped her arms around the dragon’s snaky neck and led him into an empty stall. “Lie down,” she said, pointing to the floor. Flame snorted and plopped onto the thick bed of straw. “There’s a good boy.”

  Flame is hungry. Flame wants sheep.

  And you shall have them, soon. Stay here. I’ll be back.

  Raine left the stall and returned to the shaken man. “I’m sorry if he frightened you. He’s harmless, I promise.”

  “Harmless? He tried to eat me.”

  “No, no. It’s been a long day and he’s hungry. What do you use to clean your boots?”

  “I put a bit of sheep fat in the blacking.”

  “That explains it,” Raine said. “Flame is partial to sheep.”

  Raven strode into byre. “Clegg,” he said, nodding to the big man. “I see you’ve met your charge.”

  “Aye, m’ lord, though why the rowan thinks I’m up to the task, I’m sure I don’t know.” Clegg wiped his brow with the sleeve of his tunic. “Centaurs and trolls, I’ve dealt with, and giants and fairies. Ogres and harpies, too, but dragons? I’m at a loss, m’ lord, and no lie. Pray, what am I to feed the creature?”

  “I told you,” Raine said. “Sheep. Two head, for a start. That’s what he’s been promised, in any event, and never think he can’t count. But no birds. Birds give him gas. Trust me, you do not want a dragon with a belly ache.”

  “No birds,” Clegg repeated.

  “He doesn’t eat but once a week, so a couple of sheep should hold him for a while.” Pausing, Raine added, “Of course, he is growing, so his appetite could increase.”

  “Then he shall have three sheep,” Raven said. “The dragon is the lady’s companion, Clegg. See that no harm comes to him, and, for god’s sake, don’t let him wander.”

  “Begging your pardon, m’ lord, but I’ve no experience herding dragons.”

  “The lady will explain things to him. He’s fond of her. He will do as she bids.”

  “As you say, m’ lord,” Clegg said, though he looked doubtful.

  Giving Raven a grateful smile, Raine went back into the stall where she’d left Flame. She found him crouched in the straw, head down. He looked so miserable that Raine wanted to cry.

  “I have to go now,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”

  Flame’s ears drooped. Morven is leaving, because Flame has been bad.

  No, no. Raine knelt beside him and pressed a kiss on his gnarled brow. You just can’t stay in the fast with me. You’ve grown too large.

  If Flame were smaller, could he go with Morven?

  Perhaps, but I don’t want you to be smaller. I like you the way you are.

  The rowan doesn’t like Flame. He tried to send Flame away.

  The rowan doesn’t dislike you, and he’s not going to send you away. You’re the only dragon in a very long time, and that makes you special.

  Where did the other dragons go? Flame doesn’t like being the only.

  I don’t know. The loneliness in Flame’s voice made Raine’s heart ache. I don’t think anyone does. She stroked the dragon’s rough snout. I need to ask you something. What did you mean this morning when you said you could see through the rowan’s—

  “Ready?” Raven asked from the door. “We’ve left the guards waiting in the cold.”

  Raine nodded and got to her feet. “Promise me you won’t leave the stable, Flame,” she said, regarding the dragon anxiously. “Something might happen to you.”

  Flame turned his head to the wall. Flame promises.

  With a heavy heart, Raine left the stall.

  “Does he understand?” Raven asked.

  “I think so, but he’s very unhappy.”

  “Stop worrying. Flame is safe and warm. We, on the other hand, must brave the snow a little longer.”

  They bade Clegg goodbye and left the barn. Their escort waited in the yard.

  Raven tossed her onto Lúthon’s back and sprang up behind her. “I hope you remembered to mention that Flame cooks his sheep before he eats them?”

  “No, I forgot.”

  “Too bad. Hay and dragons aren’t a good mix, but Clegg has plenty of helpers to put out the blaze.”

  “That’s not funny,” Raine said.

  “I wasn’t joking.”

  They set out for Rowan Fast with their escort. It was snowing still harder, the white flurries whirling along the dark road like ghostly dancers. The emotional ups and downs of the day had taken their toll on Raine. She was saddened at leaving Flame behind, cold and hungry, and weary to the bone. She wanted a hot bath and a warm bed. She wanted the Wailing Tree to stop singing. It hadn’t bothered her at first, but now it was like the wind chime from hell.

  Raven bent his head close to hers. “Knackered?” he asked.

  Raine nodded, too tired to speak. Up ahead, Rowan Fast was a blur of lights, a glowing monster crouched above the city. Lúthon shook his head and gave an eager whinny.

  One of the guards laughed. “He smells his oats.”

  “Aye, he’s ready to be out of the storm, as am I,” Raven said. “I’m looking forward to a hot meal.”

  “Aye,” said the guard. “Let’s hope the watch doesn’t keep us waiting at the gates.”

  They climbed the slope and rounded a curve, and the sprawling fortress came into view. The iron-bound entrance stood open.

  “We’re in luck, soldier,” Raven said, urging Lúthon i
nto a trot. “ʼTwould seem we are expected.”

  They were just inside the gates when the attack came.

  Chapter 10

  Rowan Fast

  The fight was short, but ugly. The assailants rose from the shadows inside the gates, more than a dozen brawny men in gray and black cloaks. A guard shouted a warning and swords clanged in the darkness. Raven jerked Lúthon about. The guard who’d cried the alarm fell to the ground, clutching his belly. Blood seeped between his fingers, blackening the pristine snow.

  “Go,” Raven said to the horse as the attackers rushed them.

  Lúthon snorted and plunged through the melee, trampling a man beneath his churning hooves. The stallion clattered across the snowy courtyard and up the stone steps of the fast without slowing. At the top of the stairs was a wide landing. Raven sprang from the horse and drew his sword from the scabbard at his back. In the courtyard below, a brutal battle waged.

  “Stay here,” Raven told Raine, leaping down the steps.

  A group of attackers raced across the yard and up the stairs. The man in the lead was a brutish fellow with a shock of sandy blond hair and a lantern jaw. Raven struck him in the shoulder. His blade sliced through the warrior’s leather mail and sank deep into his torso. He jerked the blade free and spun, decapitating another soldier in a fluid motion. The man’s head hit the steps and rolled away. His body folded, and blood spurted onto the stairs. The warrior behind him slipped in the gore and went to his knees. Raven struck him in the head with the hilt of his sword, knocking him unconscious.

  Two men veered around Raven and ran up the steps. They lunged at Lúthon. Raine caught a brief glimpse of their snarling faces before Lúthon reared. She grabbed his mane and held on. The stallion lashed out with his front feet. There was a thud and the crunch of bone. Lúthon brought his front legs down. A man was lying on the stone dais, his face caved in. His legs and arms twitched horribly and went still. With a howl of rage, his companion charged the golden horse, sword raised, his hateful gaze fixed upon Raine. He jerked in mid step and crumpled, face down, on the stone terrace, a knife protruding from the back of his skull.

  Mauric bent to retrieve his weapon. “Welcome to Rowan Fast, lass.”