Drying his soggy, matted hair on the rough wool blanket seemed like an exercise in futility. Why not cut it off?
He opened a kitchen drawer, looking for a sharp knife.
What were his saikeris doing in there? He swore he’d left him at the bottom of his clothing chest. Lorel wouldn’t have bothered with his pair of three-pronged weapons. They were much too small for her large hands. Maybe she showed them to Tsai’dona and forgot where she’d found them.
He’d put them away later. And he’d make the time to practice with them. He was too short to be any good with a sword, but with saikeris he could hold off a swordsman until Lorel rescued him.
He pushed the saikeris aside, grabbed a bronze knife, and tried to pull it out of its sheath. It felt stuck. Which was odd. He yanked at the hilt.
Several tugs later the knife shuddered free.
The bronze blade had a huge dent in it. How had those turybirds managed that? It must have been Lorel. Tsai’dona took better care of his tools.
Not worth worrying about. He tilted his head forward and sliced his hair off in one thick mass.
Muddy, tangled, amber tresses splatted onto the floor.
What a relief. His head felt ten pounds lighter.
After cleaning and replacing the knife, he rubbed body and his soggy, three-inch-long mane with tickly wool until he felt reasonably dry.
Big swathes of the beige blanket turned granite gray. Had he really been that dirty? Yuck. He scooped the mess of filthy, hacked-off hair onto the wet blanket. No point in ruining the wagon’s floor.
Lorel would be back soon. Time to get dressed. He tugged the shirt over his head.
Blast. His turybird had forgotten to give him any smallclothes.
He stood, hopped over to the bunks, and pulled himself up to his bed.
It looked pathetically empty, without the Kyridon coiled up there. He was surprised it hadn’t followed him inside.
He was more surprised at the magical weapons stored on his bed.
The broadsword was so long it lay cattycorner, wedged from corner to corner of the mattress. It still gleamed as if it were made of gold-engraved black granite. Runes and mountains glimmered up its length, as did a pattern of hoofprints. Nightshade’s hoofprints.
Was it his fault Lorel’s stallion had died? It was certainly the Kyridon’s.
The three-foot-long flute shimmered like a fist-wide alabaster lantern illuminated with soft mage light. Indigo dragons and white clouds spiraled around its length, moving under their own power. Three cobalt-blue, inch-long claws sprouted out of each end.
He wouldn’t want to be hit with that thing. It was a weapon both magically and physically.
The seahorn still imitated a coiled, glistening snake as green as the ocean depths, but as clear as blown glass. Wave-like scales covered its surface. Shark teeth lined the creature’s mouth. No, the instrument’s bell. It wasn’t alive.
One garnet eye winked at him.
He wished it wouldn’t do that.
No way was he sleeping up here with those weapons. Lorel would have to find another place to store them.
Maybe that was why the Kyridon wasn’t up here. There simply wasn’t enough room.
He grabbed smallclothes out of his clothing chest, yanked them on, and slithered back to the floor.
The serdil cub stared at him without blinking.
Sandblasted creature. He liked serdils best while he was dissecting them. Where had Lorel stored his notes?
Wait, what happened to his books? They were all out of order, as if they’d been shelved at random. He couldn’t believe either of the girls had read them. Furry leather straps crossed in front of his shelves. What were they doing there?
So many questions to ask. Maybe he could use them to distract Lorel when she started nursemaiding him.
He pulled on his trousers – he’d lost so much weight the wool didn’t drag on his damp skin. In fact, when he released them, they slid back down to the floor. Sandblast it, he needed a belt.
He slipped the long serdil-fur vest over his shirt, but only to stop Lorel from nagging him. The air was only brisk. He could barely see his breath.
Blast. Tsai’dona had taken his boots. Hopping around on one foot would be a pain in the neck. He hated walking on his ankle stump. And he didn’t have the strength or concentration to solidify his ghost foot.
With a bang and a thud, Lorel lifted the wagon’s door and swung inside, a saucer-covered bowl in one hand. “Here you go, Baby. I’ll have breakfast for you right quick.” She grinned at Viper. “I have two bunnies outside for our dinner.”
His turybird actually caught something? He might faint from shock.
The serdil cub wiggled to the edge of the bed.
Lavender mist oozed around Lorel’s hand.
She whisked the wood saucer off the bowl. Red-streaked milk swirled inside. Chopped-up coney guts floated in a pool of rich milk and fresh blood.
Lavender haze drifted toward him, seeking him.
Blood magic.
Viper squeaked and frantically pushed the magic away. Lightning blast it, he hadn’t been harassed by blood magic in… in…
Since Leysamura started protecting him. Why hadn’t she taught him how to protect himself?
“What’s wrong with you, kid?” Lorel paused and studied him. “You’re all white all the sudden.”
Thunderer protect him! He didn’t want to become a blood mage. Or worse, a necromancer. He’d used death magic once, accidentally. Or rather, it had used him when blood magic had overwhelmed him. No way would he risk killing his friends. Sucking the life out of them. Out of everything around them.
“Kid?”
What could he do? Run? Some sorcerer he’d be if he went into hiding every time someone killed a coney. Or whenever people cut themselves.
He had to get control of the magic.
The serdil cub whined and wiggled. And let out a piercing, whistling howl. “Wheeou!”
Lorel turned to the creature and knelt beside it. “Easy, Baby. Dinner’s coming.”
He could do this. He’d gotten rid of blood magic before. Even when he’d been this tired.
Blood magic must not control him. There was too much riding on him. The Kyridon was counting on him. The girls needed him. They had to stop the Mindbender before it took over the world.
He strengthened his will and thrust the blood magic away.
Sweat broke out across his forehead, across his chest. Breath scurried into his lungs and dashed out again. He ignored the distractions and pushed against the magic.
The mist dissipated. Slowly, reluctantly, but it left him. Left the wagon.
Viper sagged back onto the chair-chest.
Lorel looked up from the serdil cub, which was licking the bottom of the now-clean bowl. “What’s wrong with you? You got something against milk all the sudden?”
The turybird didn’t need to know about his problems. He waved one limp hand. “Too tired. Got dizzy for a minute.”
She jumped up. “I’ll put you to bed.”
“No you won’t. Not until you find a better place for the quest weapons.” He pointed at the serdil cub. “Shouldn’t you take it outside?”
“Oh. Yeah. Gets stinky if I don’t.” She scooped up the cub, stood, thunked her skull on the ceiling, and headed for the door.
No complaints about hitting her head? She must be sick. Or obsessed with the cub. How appalling. She treated the creature as if it were a human baby. As if it might love her back. As if it could think.
Blast. The serdil that tried to steal the quest weapons could think. Or one of them could. It even did some magic.
It had been black and white, like this cub, instead of the usual gray. He’d wondered at the time if it was a serdil sorcerer. Maybe Lorel’s babying had some cause.
Hmm. He should encourage her maternal instincts toward the cub, if only to keep her from nursemaiding him.
If he didn’t want to be coddled, he’d better act
stronger.
And he better check on the dragon. He was surprised she hadn’t attacked again.
He hopped to the long, padded chest in front of the doorway – Tsai’dona’s bed, come to think of it – and slid under the swinging door.
No one was waiting for him outside, praise the Thunderer.
His former Boot bounced up from the driver’s platform to the bench. Did Boot count as a person? It was acting like one. “What did you call this thing?”
Lorel glanced up from playing with the serdil cub. “That’s Izzy.”
She had to be kidding. “Why name it that?”
“Nobody else would name him. I asked myself, ‘What is he?’ Sounded like a good name to me.”
Tsai’dona snickered. “And here I thought it was a normal Zedisti name.”
Lorel batted at her friend. “It is now.” She turned and looked over her shoulder. “You all right, toad?”
The serpent was coiled loosely around the campfire, laying as limp as overcooked noodles. The tip of its tail twitched. Once.
“What happened to the Kyridon?” He’d never seen it look so exhausted.
“Kyri talked a mama elk into letting me milk it.” Lorel ruffed the cub’s ears. “Baby Bear needs milk to grow up strong.”
“You milked an elk. Like a cow?”
Lorel nodded and snuck a grin in his direction.
The girl was full of unexpected talents. And the Kyridon’s willingness to enchant wildlife to feed a serdil cub was even more astonishing.
Tsai’dona sheathed her knife, scooped up several fragments of serdil fur, and hustled over to him. “Hold up your foot.”
Now what was she up to?
“Your toes are blue. Don’t you worry about frostbite?” Favoring her broken arm a little, she compared the strip of fur to his sole.
Oh, she must be making boots. “It’s a lot warmer here than in the dragon’s cavern.”
Both Tsai’dona and Lorel shuddered. “We got here as quick as we could.”
His turybird’s wounded eyes pierced his soul. “I know. I’m not complaining.” He grinned at both girls. “I’m thrilled to be this warm.”
Tsai’dona shook her head. “You fell in the bog. Hold up your other leg.”
He fell where? She wanted to look at his stump? He tried to scoot farther back on the driver’s bench.
She grabbed his good ankle and dragged him closer. “Hold still.” She measured the distance from his anklebone to the bottom of his heel, switched legs, and, without flinching, measured the circumference of his stump. “You’ll have new boots by morning.”
Lorel lolled in the grass, play-wrestling with the cub. “Good. We can start out in the morning.”
If he could convince Rizhanara to stop attacking them. The green dragon had fallen off the Deathsinger’s cliff, in his opinion. Wait, maybe ‘fell into a bog’ meant she was acting crazy, too. He’d figure out Tsai’dona’s idioms yet.
They couldn’t be any worse than Lorel’s. He swore the girl used equally bad grammar no matter which language she was speaking. It wouldn’t surprise him she did it on purpose.
Tsai’dona stuffed the leather scraps into her pocket and held out her hand. “Come sit in the sun with us. You’re too pale.”
“Good idea.” He slid off the edge of the platform to the ground.
His trousers slid to the ground, too.
Face flaming, he squatted, grabbed the waistband, and yanked them back up over his smallclothes. “Could you make me a belt?” His handsome, red, dragon-egg-lining belt was too wide to fit through the loops. He should have thought about that little detail when he made it.
“I’ll make one after dinner.” Tsai’dona held his free hand and helped him hop closer to the fire.
He didn’t need the help, but the thought was kind. Maybe she was finally beginning to trust him. His own fault if she didn’t. Fighting against her traveling with them had been one of his dumber stances.
He sank into the warm grass and tapped the nearest section of the Kyridon. The serpent didn’t even twitch.
A pair of coneys sizzled in a large skillet. And a pair of fresh rabbit skins decorated the side of his wagon, along with several older ones.
More putrid pelts. Hadn’t he talked her out of doing that? He turned and glared at Lorel. “There’s no point in me trying to hide the wagon with an illusion when she can smell those stinky hides.” Though he had to admit, his illusions hadn’t fooled Leysamura. Not even once.
She grinned at him and shrugged. “Dragon’ll just make the trip more fun.”
He rolled his eyes.
Tsai’dona grabbed a fork, reached over the Kyridon, and turned the coney chunks over.
“No grease. No salt. No spices?” He glanced at each girl. “Do you really enjoy food like this?”
Lorel shrugged again. “Didn’t much like food doused in vinegar.”
“We ran out of grease.” Tsai’dona’s face turned pink. “I forgot about the salt.” She jumped up and dashed into the wagon.
“Bring out my spice box while you’re at it,” he shouted. He wasn’t about to eat any more unseasoned meat. He’d had enough of that as the dragon’s captive. Hopefully there was sufficient fat on spring coneys to fry them without burning them.
Tsai’dona bustled back and handed him the box and the jar of salt. Which was quite as full as it had been when he’d been kidnapped.
It really was a miracle they’d gotten this far without him.
He leaned over the Kyridon’s limp body and salted the meat. Added a little pepper and a sprinkle of dried basil. Supplies of herbs were running low. He’d watch for them at their camps each night.
He picked up the fork and turned the coney pieces over. Juices sizzled, meat browned, and the heady scent of a well-cooked meal floated across the meadow.
Tsai’dona sniffed appreciatively.
Lorel scooped up the serdil cub and wandered closer. “I’ll grab the plates.”
The Kyridon lifted its head.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.” Lorel darted to the wagon’s middle trunk and snatched a dead coney out of it. “I saved a bunny for you.”
Viper’s jaw dropped.
The serpent eyed the carcass without enthusiasm. “This one appreciates the anchor’s courtesy.” It gingerly mouthed the rabbit from her hand and wiggled, very slowly, toward the forest.
He forced his mouth to shut. He’d never dreamed those two could get along. But their truce had less chance of surviving than a leaf in a firestorm. Neither of them knew anything about diplomacy.
Still lugging the serdil cub in one arm, Lorel bounded up to the driver’s bench, slid under the door, and returned with three wooden plates.
Tsai’dona hurried to the bottom trunk – how much stuff did they have stored in those trunks? – and returned with a huge basket.
A basket full of brilliant green leaves. “A salad? I’ll love you forever.”
Tsai’dona snorted. “Love the horses. They showed me where to find it.”
Lorel wrinkled her nose. “Green crap. You can have my share.”
“Happily.” He hadn’t eaten anything greener than a single strand of seaweed in all the time he’d existed in the dragon’s cavern.
Tsai’dona shuffled greenery onto two plates while Lorel divided up the coney, a half carcass to Tsai’dona and himself each, and a full one to herself.
He scooted a chunk of his meat onto her plate.
“Thanks.” She balanced her plate on the opposite knee from the serdil cub and bit into a coney leg. “Hey, this is good!”
Did she have to sound so surprised?
He dug into his own meal.
Crisp leaves crunched between his teeth, spreading the sweetness of spring through his senses. The coney’s outer layer crackled as he bit through it. Hot meat juices squirted across his tongue. It tasted better than he’d thought possible after an eternity of eating half-cooked meat and cave-grown fungus. Maybe he craved the salt? He sprinkled
a little on his salad.
Tsai’dona held out her hand for the jar and did the same.
Lorel was so busy gnawing on bones she didn’t even notice.
After the meal was finished, Tsai’dona packed the skillet and plates into the basket. She noticed him watching her, said, “My turn to clean up,” and sauntered in the direction of the creek.
Rubbing her full belly, and still carrying the cub, Lorel staggered to her feet. “I better check on the horses.”
The creature would never learn to walk if she carried it everywhere.
What sort of chore could he do to be useful? The fire was burning low. He added a few short branches to its center.
His newly-finished belt and pouch still lay under the wagon, where he’d tossed them before his ‘bath’. He hopped over to retrieve them (one hand holding up his traitorous trousers) and carried them back to the fire.
He dug through the red purse cautiously – most of the diamonds inside it had knife-sharp edges – until he found the palm-sized, flat crystal he needed. Shading his eyes against sun and firelight, he peered into the diamond’s depths with his darksight.
It must be night, wherever she was. His green-eyed girl slept on her side in a darkened room. Her pale hair drifted over her face. One delicate hand rested under her cheek. She looked incredibly peaceful.
Whispering leaves rustled not far away, moving closer to him.
Viper shoved the diamond into his trousers pocket and searched for the source of the noise. Praise the Thunderer, it wasn’t the girls sneaking up on him. They’d tease him forever if they caught him mooning over a vision.
The Kyridon slithered back into camp and coiled next to him.
The serpent’s quirks he could handle with a little flattery. “You’re looking better. I was worried about you.” Not very worried, admittedly, but concerned. He’d need its directions to complete its quest. If it could be bothered to talk to him. It never told him anything important.
Besides, he’d stopped trusting it after it engineered Nightshade’s death because it needed one more ghost for the quest weapons. The stallion didn’t deserve to die. Lorel didn’t deserve the heartache.
“This one values the hatchling’s apprehension.” The serpent dipped its head.
Maybe it was in the mood to answer questions for a change. “What do orange and silver added to an aura mean?”
Alchemy's Child (The Mindbender's Rise Book 5) Page 2