The Vanishing Sculptor
Page 16
She looked into his face, attempted a smile, and mouthed, “Thank you.”
He winked.
“Tipper,” said Beccaroon. “I’d like to talk to you.”
Bealomondore pulled the bundle from her arms. “I’ll take this over to Fenworth.”
She let him go and turned to face the inquiring eyes of her mentor.
“Talk to me.” He settled on a fallen log.
She sighed and sat beside him. “The ease and comfort of our journey has been destroyed. That one ill-mannered ruffian, that dragon keeper, had the power to turn the tide.”
Beccaroon chuckled and shook his head. “You amaze me, my girl. We’ve had a sheriff look down his nose at us, we’ve dealt with frantic sheep and a catastrophic fire, and you label this quest with words like ease and comfort”
“This quest has been a lot more fun than figuring out where to get more seeds after an insect infestation, or how to get a new pane of glass for a broken window, or how to pay the butcher. Climbing a mountain trail is more exciting than hoeing the garden. Sleeping under the stars is better than mending old, old tattered sheets. Dancing in the streets is definitely preferable to dusting a whole library full of books that nobody reads.”
Beccaroon held up the tip of one wing and silenced her outpouring. “I have explained to you the way of life, and you have experienced it on a small scale at Byrdschopen. Our quest will involve the same things. Beauty and ugliness. Feast and famine. Fortune and misfortune. A balance. Why do you expect life with no death? Why do you welcome rain and curse the flood? You must accept both the good and the bad to claim maturity.”
“I could quote that speech, Bec. You’ve said it often enough.”
“Because it’s true. If you struggle against truth, you will be dissatisfied and, ultimately, unhappy.”
“It all seems so haphazard. We should have more control over… everything.” She hung her head, knowing Beccaroon would likely point out the futility of such a desire. Her bird friend said nothing, and Tipper peeked at his face. He stared off into the nearby woods.
Tipper examined the trees but saw nothing. Nervous twinges pulled at her, making her tense, ready to run. What had captured Beccaroon’s full attention? She searched the trees again.
“Do you see something?” she asked.
“No, I don’t see at all.” He shook out his feathers. “And that bothers me.” He hopped off the log and strutted to where the others worked.
Tipper looked back at the small forest, then at Beccaroon’s retreating back. She tilted her head, puzzled. “I don’t think he was talking about things you can see.” Her head bobbed a nod as she came to a conclusion. “He’s bothered by Papa’s ideas.”
Thinking about their conversation, she could not determine what had reminded Beccaroon of her Papa’s strange devotion to that Wulder. She pulled in a deep breath and let it out, wishing there was someone to question besides herself
Bealomondore walked alongside Tipper, and she marveled that he had chosen her as a companion on their hike. She also wondered that he turned out to be the one she preferred as well.
Glad that her mother was not with them to complicate matters, she kept pace with the shorter man. With mother safely at Aunt Soo’s, Tipper didn’t have to explain over and over that she and the tumanhofer were not stepping out together. Just walking. She grinned.
“What are you thinking?” asked Bealomondore.
“That walking is pleasant. We’ve only had small knolls to trudge up. Some of those mountain passes were too steep to be enjoyable.”
“Ah yes, but the views!” He smiled in memory, then gestured back toward Librettowit and Fenworth. “I wish we could get them a ride. They’re too old to be tramping through mountains. And I don’t think it’s right that the wizard carries so much of the camping gear.”
Tipper watched Fenworth for a moment. The old man leaned on his walking stick and breathed heavily. Birds circled his head from time to time or rested on his shoulder. She knew that bugs of all kinds, and even snakes and lizards, roamed through his clothing with the same comfort with which they inhabited the alpine terrain.
She turned back to the tumanhofer. “I don’t think he really carries it. I know he puts it in those pockets—”
“Hollows.”
“Hollows. But I don’t think it exists until he takes it out again.”
Bealomondore chuckled. “That doesn’t make any more sense than his explanation.” He winked at her. “Or the librarian’s.”
Tipper grinned. “Not much those two do makes any sense to me.”
He squinted at the long narrow meadow through which they traveled. “We aren’t going to reach the tower tonight.”
She agreed, and the idea worried her. “Do you suppose the longer he has our dragons, the harder it will be to get them back?”
“I didn’t see any leashes. I don’t think he has them captured. Once we get close to them, they’ll want to come back to the ones they know best.”
Tipper shook her head. “Papa said that when he tried to get Grandur to return, the little dragon just acted annoyed to be interrupted. He was excited over the dragon keeper. Fascinated. His little brain frantically reflected image after image of the dragon rider to the exclusion of all else.”
“That certainly doesn’t sound normal.”
“It’s not.”
“So what are our learned leaders going to do about it?”
Tipper pointed to the tower. “They are going to talk to the source of the problem.”
23
Disobliging
“I didn’t sleep for more than ten minutes at a time, and I ache all over,” Tipper complained as she stood holding two corners of a sleeping bag.
Her father walked toward her, holding the other end. He joined his corners with hers, pulled them out of her hands, and finished making the cumbersome item ready to be stored. She watched as it decreased in bulk each time he folded the material. By the time he handed it back to her, it fit in her hand like a large potato.
She hefted the sleeping bag, testing its heaviness against its small size. The bundle weighed more like a heavy rock.
“Are you going to teach me how to do things like this?”
Verrin Schope continued packing the gear from his tent. “If Wulder has given you the talent, I would be pleased to help you expand your gift.”
Tipper thought of all the talents her father exhibited. Painting, sculpting, architecture, languages, music, the analytical sciences. The list went on forever.
“I don’t believe Wulder gave me a talent.”
Her father stopped putting large objects in a small bag. With his arms crossed over his chest, he studied her. She stood still for a moment, then shifted her feet. He continued to stare, and the longer he examined her, the more uncomfortable she became.
What should she do with her arms? She crossed them in imitation of his stance. That didn’t feel right. She clasped her hands behind her back. That was better.
She looked at his face and caught him still looking at hers. She swiftly focused on Fenworth and Librettowit chatting on the other side of the camp.
Her father’s voice interrupted her discomfort. “Your most obvious talent is singing.” He picked up his small bag of belongings. “Music is a wonderful tool for so many other endeavors. For instance, a song may bolster a deficiency in the heart. A rousing march builds courage for soldiers headed to war. A ballad may help a frozen heart express grief. Music lifts the spirits, expresses true emotion, heals, and fortifies. Ah yes, your talent for song is an incredible gift and worth investing in to develop.”
He held up a finger, indicating he had more to say on the topic. “The quest should bring out more of your talents that are presently unrecognized.”
He grinned and made a face that reminded Tipper of Wizard Fenworth, then spoke in the old man’s voice. “Quests are uncomfortable. You know that, don’t you? But if you’re hiding talents, they’ll come jumping out of you during a ques
t. Kind of like bubble beetles when they hear water running. That can be uncomfortable too, all that talent leaping around.”
Verrin Schope came to his daughter and gathered her in a tight embrace. He kissed the top of her head. “You’re to be careful. Bubble beetles sometimes drown in the water they converged upon with such zeal.”
He leaned back and looked her in the eye. “Did you say something earlier about not sleeping? You’re sore?”
“Yes. I went to bed without Grandur working his wonders on my poor feet and tired legs. And I missed Hue’s nighttime hums. His music is soothing.”
“Two weeks ago you ignored Junkit and Zabeth. Now you know our little friends’ usefulness. I’d say they spoiled you.”
“I didn’t totally ignore the house dragons. I think I did pretty much ignore Trisoda.”
“Trisoda?”
“The barn dragon. He’s new. Beccaroon brought him to us when I was twelve.”
“Ah.” Sadness pulled at her father’s face, making him look older. “I missed a lot.” He planted another kiss on her forehead and lightened his tone. “But we shall find the three statues and allow them to embrace, and I shall stay at home, read books, and drink hot amaloot.”
“Are you coming?” barked Fenworth.
Beccaroon strutted toward Tipper and her father. “I’m going on ahead. I’ll meet you at the tower.”
“Be careful,” Tipper warned, and the big bird rewarded her with one of his grouchiest looks before he took off
With mixed feelings, Tipper walked with the others to the beautiful tower. Someone cultivated the land around the tower. Small fields contained corn and wheat, and an orchard lined up in even rows. Closer to the stone building, vegetables grew in neat plots. The place looked more prosperous than Byrdschopen.
Beccaroon waited for them at an arched entryway in a thick hedge. A few feet beyond, a moat surrounded the base of the tower. When they crossed a dainty wooden bridge over the circular splashing brook, they entered a flower garden.
Tipper could name most of the plants, but at the far end of the walkway, one unusual shrub caught her attention. The beauty of this bush fascinated Tipper. Tiny dark green leaves provided the backdrop to large, brilliant blooms. She had never seen a plant that put forth flowers in such a variety of colors.
She hurried down the path to examine it and stopped in shock as the blossoms uncurled and flew away. “Minor dragons!”
Dozens of minor dragons inhabited the foliage. She wandered the intertwining lanes in the expansive garden. Birds, butterflies, and dragons flitted from hedges to stands of miniature trees to flower beds.
“Hello!”
The word caused Tipper to jump. She whirled around to glare at the speaker.
The dragon rider stood ten feet away, a smile on his face, blue eyes sparkling, his shoulder-length blond hair combed, his white and tawny-gold clothing neat, and his arms hanging loosely by his side. Tipper caught her breath. The man was stunning.
“I’m glad you came.” He walked forward. “I hoped your visit would be today. We’re having a sort of celebration. May I introduce myself?” He stopped before her and bowed.
When she first met Bealomondore, he had performed a formal court bow with a flourish, complete with the clicking of heels. The dragon rider merely bowed his head and bent slightly at his waist, putting one arm behind his back and crossing the other over his middle. The gesture made Tipper’s toes curl inside her boots.
She extended her hand. He took it and clasped it lightly. “I am Prince Jayrus.” He nodded to the lone tower. “This is my castle.”
Tipper’s eyes flitted to the stone wall, where, on a windowsill, sat the four minor dragons belonging to her questing party. She jerked back her hand and used it to point at the deserters.
“What are you doing with our dragons?”
His head whipped around to see where she pointed. “You’re speaking of Hue, Grandur, Junkit, and Zabeth?”
“Yes!” She stepped around him, closer to the window. “How do you know their names? Are you a wizard?”
Prince Jayrus laughed. “Being a prince and a dragon keeper is enough to keep me busy. I’m not sure I’d want to add wizard, even if I had a clear idea what one was.” He gestured to his home. “The castle is filled with books, and I’ve seen the term used. But I’ve never met a wizard.”
The gravel crunched as Wizard Fenworth, with Librettowit, came to join them. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “As far as I know, there are only two in Chiril.”
The dragon rider turned and greeted the old man. “May I get you a seat, sir? Your journey has been long. I anticipated your arrival, and there are refreshments in the castle.”
“Castle?” Fenworth looked around hastily. “I seem to have overlooked the castle.”
Prince Jayrus pointed out the tower.
Fenworth scratched his cheek through the long beard. “Young man, one tower does not a castle make.”
The dragon rider looked confused.
“Tut, tut, oh dear,” said Fenworth. “Lots of new concepts for you today, no doubt. I’m a wizard, and my friend here, Librettowit, is my librarian. You say you have books. He’ll like that.”
Fenworth stepped closer and took Tipper’s arm. “And this young lady is Tipper. The two men joining us from that direction,” he said, indicating one of the longer garden paths, “are artists. Verrin Schope is every kind of artist. Give him a twig, and he’ll whittle a figurine. The man can’t seem to leave things alone. Has to create art!
“The young tumanhofer with him paints. Two artists. Oh, and Verrin Schope is a wizard as well. Said two, didn’t I? Verrin Schope and I make two wizards in Chiril. Sounds like a musical, Two Wizards in Chiril”
Wizard Fenworth hailed the two companions. “Verrin Schope, Bealomondore, come meet our host, who has offered us a light repast.”
Verrin Schope strode up confidently and shook hands with the younger emerlindian. “Pleased to meet you.”
“He’s Prince Jayrus,” said Librettowit.
Verrin Schope’s eyebrows shot up. “A prince? I didn’t know there were any outside my wife’s family in Chiril.”
The dragon rider’s face shuttered, his emotions suddenly hidden from his guests. Tipper’s curiosity tingled. Her eyes widened, and she studied the prince. His proper mask crept back in place, but his hospitable smile didn’t reach his eyes.
“This way. My people have been lavish in their preparations. We do not often have guests.”
Tipper paused. “Where is Beccaroon?”
“Here I am.” He stepped from behind a large bush, and Tipper had the odd notion that he had been standing there watching all the time.
She cast him a puzzled look, and he returned it with a slight shake of his head. Putting aside her question for her old friend, she fell into step beside the prince and quizzed him.
“Why won’t our dragons return to us? What have you done to them?”
“Done?” His easy manner returned in full. “I haven’t done a thing. I welcomed them just as I have welcomed you. I can see you are encountering concepts that are new to you.” His glance toward Wizard Fenworth held a shadow of unease. “I am a dragon keeper. It is natural that the dragons prefer to keep my company.”
“You stole them.”
“That is absurd.” He said the words without rancor.
Tipper changed tactics. “What is the celebration?”
“My ascension to the throne was five years ago today.”
She stole a sideways glance at him. His profile was just as striking as looking full in his face. She caught her breath. Not only were his features perfect, but he oozed self-confidence and a dignity that went with self-assurance. How had she considered him a show-off? The memory of his aerobatic stunts brought back the appraisal she’d made the day before.
For a fleeting moment she felt again that irritation. “Prince of what? I know you aren’t part of the royal family of Chiril. I’ve studied the lineage.”
“Does that mean your father died five years ago?”
His expression changed, the shadow of sorrow dimming his light-hearted charm. “Not my father.”
“Your mother?”
“No.” He turned to address the others. “I welcome you to Castle Dragon Eyre.”
They entered through an archway that had no door. Odd crystals glowing with a blue light illuminated the cool interior. A long table set with china and silver graced the middle of the round room. A circular staircase followed one wall and disappeared into the ceiling.
“Come.” The prince urged his guests to gather around the feast. He seated Tipper in a chair to the left of the head, and the others chose their places. The prince sat in the elaborately carved wooden chair at the end, between Tipper and Wizard Fenworth.
“I do thank you,” said the old wizard. “I’ve grown quite tired of my own cooking. This is far more than refreshments—more like a meal. Nothing looks to be poisoned, so we’ll gladly partake.”
The young prince raised his eyebrows but made no comment.
“Do you mind,” asked Verrin Schope, “if we bless this food and your hospitality in the name of our Creator?”
“This is your custom?” asked Prince Jayrus.
“It is a courtesy to Wulder. It is not required but gives pleasure to us and to Him.”
The dragon keeper nodded. “This, I understand.”
Although Tipper bowed her head as her father had instructed her, she watched Jayrus out of the corner of her eye. He stayed alert and turned his eyes to one after another of his visitors. When he came to the grand parrot, he found Beccaroon staring back at him. With remarkable composure, Jayrus nodded and continued his scrutiny until the brief prayer ended.
The delicious food occupied much of their time, and their host asked many questions, keeping each of them talking in turn. Tipper found herself relaxing and enjoying his enthusiasm. He graciously inquired of their homes and expressed such a genuine interest that even Librettowit and Beccaroon returned amiable answers.