The Vanishing Sculptor

by Donita K. Paul

  Librettowit fell into a long description of his bookrooms. Tipper had to grin when he revealed that the wizard’s castle was a hollow tree. The prince looked with interest at Fenworth, but the wizard made no comment. Perhaps one tower wasn’t a castle in Amara, but a hollow tree did not make a castle in Chiril.

  “This meal was delicious,” said Bealomondore, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. “Where are your servants? I’d like to express my gratitude.”

  “I don’t have servants,” said the prince.

  “You said—” Tipper felt her new trust in their host evaporate.

  “I used the word people. Just as the dragons are mine by their choice, the kimens work the land and keep the castle because they derive pleasure from their tasks. I have never demanded a chore performed.

  “This is a concept I see you do not understand. I am the prince. My relationship with dragons and kimens is a natural result of my position and their perception of what is expected of them. They fulfill who they are by what they do. Just as I fulfill who I am by what I do.”

  “Service!” said Fenworth, banging the table. “An admirable staple to a code of ethics. Service smooths deficiencies. Service stimulates the economy. Service incapacitates hopelessness. Service makes barreling catastrophe inert. Service, Prince Jayrus, comes in handy.”

  The dragon rider’s eyes had narrowed during this speech. He nodded warily.

  “Our request of you is merely a request for a service.”

  The prince’s body stiffened, and he placed both hands on the edge of the table.

  “We require speedy transportation in order to save a man’s life,” the old wizard continued. “Will you oblige?”

  “What do you mean by speedy transportation?”

  “The loan of five riding dragons.”

  “Then I must disoblige,” said the prince. “My dragons stay here in Mercigon.”

  He rose and left the room. Hue, Zabeth, Junkit, and Grandur followed.

  Tipper jumped to her feet. “Wait!”

  Neither the dragon keeper nor the dragons paid her any heed.

  24

  Contrary

  The room filled with silence. Tipper plopped back into her seat. “Now what?”

  Fenworth stood up. “Did that young prince offer us a room? I could use a nap.”

  Librettowit pushed out his chair. “No, he did not, and I thoroughly agree with you. What do you say to putting up a couple of hammocks in that orchard?”

  “I suppose,” said Bealomondore, grinning as he carefully placed his used napkin beside his plate, “that we shall have to abandon our attempt to acquire dragons and resume our quest without them.”

  “Oh no, not at all.” Fenworth stopped on his way out, turned to look back at the table, and leaned on his walking staff. “Tipper will go have a talk with the young prince, and all will be well. Get some rest. We continue our journey in the morning.”

  Tipper’s mouth fell open, and she couldn’t gather her wits fast enough to object to the old mans plan. He and Librettowit walked side by side through the broad archway and into the sunshine.

  “Well,” said Bealomondore, “you need not try too hard on my account. We can ride horses, ride in a carriage, ride in a boat, ride a big sheep, anything but fly high above the ground. Go talk to Prince Jayrus, but don’t feel I will condemn you if you do not succeed in persuading him to lend us a speedy form of transportation.”

  Verrin Schope reached for a pitcher and refilled his goblet. “I, on the other hand, would appreciate the use of his dragons to speed our journey. We’ve interacted with these dragons long enough to know that the creatures are gentle. We’ve seen their cooperation with a rider and know they are adept at carrying our kind. And not to alarm you, my dear, but I’m experiencing some physical difficulties that can only mean my time is running short. We must reunite the three statues.”

  Tipper took a long look at her father, saw the black circles under his eyes, noticed then how he had become thinner, and realized his general air of vitality had diminished. She swallowed the urge to cry and stood.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She walked out the same door the prince had used.

  Tipper followed the only path that led away from the back door of the tower. She crossed the moat and passed through another arch in the hedge. On this side of the prince’s castle, a lawn dotted with small lavender flowers rolled away and ended at the base of a hill. Wild-flowers covered the rise to one large tree. The prince sat on a bench under the widespread branches. Minor dragons flew around him, catching insects but also playing with each other.

  Without waiting to formulate some kind of persuasive speech, Tipper began the long walk. As she trod on the ankle-deep grasses with tiny flowers in profuse numbers, a spicy-sweet fragrance rose around her. Phrases popped into her head.

  Service to mankind.

  For the good of all.

  Life or death for my father.

  Selfish, stingy, unfeeling, mule-headed…

  Well, the last certainly described his attitude. But he didn’t know the circumstances, and once he did, surely he’d see the need and agree to help. She panted as she climbed the hill.

  No one allows another to suffer if aid can be given.

  Your help is needed.

  No one else can come to my father’s rescue.

  Do you want something in return?

  Are you a beast with a heart of stone?

  He stood as she came into his circle beneath the spreading tree and gave her his polished bow.

  She liked the way he did that. For some reason, it made her feel very special. But he didn’t speak. When he looked her in the eye, she saw he’d frozen his face into a noncommittal, though pleasant, mask. And that made her feel like kicking him.

  She tamped down her ire. For her father’s sake, she must be diplomatic.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He gestured to the bench. “Please, have a seat.”

  She sat and waited, expecting him to urge her to begin. He didn’t. She looked down at her hands to hide the fierce scowl she knew occupied her face. She wished she had the same control over her features that he maintained over his.

  When she felt she had her face schooled and her voice under control, she looked up at him.

  “We are on a quest,” she said. “Years ago, my father accidentally stepped through a contraption called a gateway. He ended up on the other side of the world where Wizard Fenworth and Librettowit live. The gateway was an experiment and never very stable. My father was trapped in Amara. For years, the three men—Fenworth, Librettowit, and my father—have been trying to fix whatever it is that went wrong. I’m not very clear about the technical things.”

  She gave a sigh and studied his face, hoping to see some interest in his expression. He still wore a cool, polite mask.

  The urge to show her impatience almost got the better of her, but she continued in an even tone. “They were able to repair the gateway to the point that my father could visit home, but after a few hours, he was pulled back through the hole to Amara. If he didn’t go willingly, he came apart. He still comes apart, but now the gateway is entirely shattered.”

  Surely Prince Jayrus would ask how someone came apart. But he remained silent. Tipper balled her fists in her lap. Rather than look at his incredibly handsome and nonexpressive face, she stared at one of the minor dragons sitting on a limb of the tree. At least the little pink dragon looked interested in her tale.

  “The problem is a marble stone my father used to sculpt three statues. The wizard had tied the framework of the gateway to that stone, and since it is in three pieces, the frame didn’t hold.”

  The pink dragon tilted his head, and Tipper felt him urging her to continue. “I sold the three statues, so we have to find them and put them back together. Not like they were, of course. My father created the statues so they stood separately, but if you place them together, they look like three people dancing in a ring while embracing one anot
her.”

  She smiled at the dragon, a young male named Vanz. “Yes, yes,” she answered him. “Very clever. My father works wonders with stone and clay.” She paused and spoke again. “I sold them because, without my father there to make a living, we had no way to support the manor and the people who lived there. Eventually most of the servants had to seek employment elsewhere.”

  She nodded. “Yes, he still comes apart. He looks like he’s fading. Then he comes back together in the vortex of the gateway, which fortunately he is able to carry with him. The problem is that it is not good for his health to be coming apart two or three times a day.”

  She stood and walked over to speak directly to Vanz. “I totally agree with you. An extremely unpleasant business. I must do something to help my father, and although Bealomondore knows where he last saw each statue, traveling by conventional means is much too slow. He says we must get to Fayetopolis, Hunthaven, and Ohidae. Ohidae is very far away. It will all take too long.”

  Movement in a far field caught her eye. Several huge dragons grazed peacefully. “No,” she whispered. “I’ve never ridden a dragon.”

  “It’s impossible,” said Prince Jayrus, his voice like another whoosh of the breeze through the leaves above them. “I would break a covenant generations old. Those who are given dominion over the Mercigon dragons are charged to keep them here and keep them safe. I and the dragons will never leave this valley.”

  She turned to face him. “My father will die. The world is in danger as well. Librettowit says the gateway is trying to fix itself. It reaches out and takes hold of something physical, dissolves it, then reforms it in a ludicrous copy. This is done at random and will ultimately destroy everything. Everything, Prince Jayrus.”

  “I did not cause this. I’m not the one to fix it.”

  She believed his regret. His face had lost the cold, hard, closed expression. His warm voice and sincere eyes said he felt for her cause. Just one more push, and perhaps he would agree.

  She touched his arm. “But you can prevent my father’s death.”

  His gaze dropped to her pale fingers resting on the amber-colored cloth of his sleeve. “It is not allowed.”

  “Who stops you?”

  He turned and walked away.

  “Where is the prince?” Beccaroon asked as soon as his girl reentered the central garden.

  “Out in a pasture, talking to his dragons. At least I assume that’s what he’s doing. He was certainly finished listening to me.” She detailed her conversation with him. “I actually spoke more with the pink dragon, Vanz. He seemed to understand our dilemma.” She looked over her shoulder toward the back pastures of the tower. “I’m sure there is a reasonable explanation for why Prince Jayrus won’t help. I think he’s a good person under that royal standoffishness.”

  “Arrogance.”

  Tipper looked back at her friend. “I don’t think it’s arrogance.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Awk! I’ll go talk to him.”

  Tipper shrugged. “Thank you, Bec. I don’t see that it will do any good. But please try.”

  Beccaroon couldn’t decide which emotion reigned as he flew across the fields between the tower and the meadow where Prince Jayrus sat with his dragons. These were not the same dragons they had met earlier. He wondered how many occupied the high mountain valley. The scarcity of people baffled him. Apparently, there were kimens who served the prince, but where were they? He knew a few kimens from his own forest, and although shy, they were never invisible.

  Through the tangle of mystery, a thread of distrust colored his analysis of the situation. And he knew it. He brought with him doubts about the wizard and the librarian. Although Librettowit had gained some respect, Beccaroon held on to his skepticism toward the leaf-and varmint-shedding wizard. He even doubted Verrin Schope’s good judgment in this affair.

  Now they had to deal with a prince with no ancestry that he knew of and dragons that enjoyed toying with their attempts to develop a partnership.

  Frustration grew in his chest and stirred up anger, an emotion Beccaroon rarely had to deal with. And the realization that Tipper obviously could be smitten by the young prince’s courtly ways and handsome face fueled that ire. For the most part, she behaved with the correct amount of reserve, but he’d seen a look of admiration come over her when she sat talking to this self-proclaimed monarch. Having some time alone to talk to this rapscallion suited Beccaroon’s protective instincts. He’d get to the bottom of things.

  He landed next to Prince Jayrus. The young man stood, showing good manners but not impressing Beccaroon. Even a dolt could imitate a gentleman given the right instruction.

  “Perhaps,” said the grand parrot in a controlled voice, “if you were to tell me something about yourself, this valley, and your kingdom, I could understand your perversity.”

  “I think not.”

  One of the large dragons lumbered over to them. The prince mounted the steed, scaling its side by putting one foot after another in convenient folds of skin and clinging to a wing that the beast had put within his reach. As soon as he sat astride the dragon’s shoulders, the beast took off

  “Well, he can’t fly away from me.” Beccaroon launched into the air and caught up to the bigger animal with ease.

  The prince looked over at him with surprise first in his eyes, and then a smile curved his lips, demonstrating that he’d seen the humor in the situation.

  A sense of relief eased Beccaroon’s irritation. At least the young man was a good sport and took the thwarting of his plans with grace.

  They flew on together for some time. When they reached the lake, the prince pointed to an island and led the way to a landing.

  Beccaroon didn’t waste any time. He was growing tired of the young man avoiding the subject. “Are you going to tell me why you will not aid our quest?”

  He nodded. “I am charged to hold the fort, not to lead the advance.”

  “I suppose that means something.”

  “It does to me.”

  “And why are we here?”

  “To consult the oldest dragon in the valley. Let me go first. He’s a bit blind, and I don’t want him to mistake you for a plump pheasant, one of his favorite meals.”

  25

  Old Sage

  “I’m not all that fond of water in dark places,” Beccaroon said as he peeked into the gloomy opening. Hot, moist air hung in the mouth of the cave, and in the distance he could hear a constant drip.

  “Sage lives in here because of the moisture. And because it is warm year-round.” The prince moved inside.

  “Fed by a hot spring?”

  Prince Jayrus nodded. “I apologize, but if you want to go with me, you will get wet.”

  Beccaroon shrugged. “I live in a tropical forest. We have showers frequently, but I can see where it is coming from and know where it will go.”

  “I understand.” Prince Jayrus glanced into the recesses of the dark cave. “There’s no standing water and only a trickle about an inch deep that we will have to cross. And we have lightrocks positioned along the way.”

  “Those were the glowing blue crystals in the tower hall?”

  “Yes.”

  The prince’s comments showed real consideration for Beccaroon’s concern. The bird pushed aside the feeling of relief and, along with it, appreciation for the young ruler’s compassion. He wasn’t ready to concede that Jayrus might be a suitable companion for his girl.

  “Well, let’s get on with this. How far behind do you want me to be? Now that I know I won’t drown, I want to be assured I won’t get eaten instead.”

  The prince chuckled, and Beccaroon saw his charm, that intangible quality that toyed with his girl’s sensible heart. This young man had better watch his step. Neither he nor Tipper’s father would let a ne’er-do-well tamper with her happiness.

  “A few feet,” the prince answered. “Not more than ten. I don’t want to lose you do
wn in the part that twists and turns.”

  “I will keep you in sight. I have no desire to be lost.”

  Prince Jayrus now sang as they made their way through the narrow corridors of the cave.

  “Is there a reason for your song?” asked Beccaroon.

  “Yes, Sage does not like to be startled. He was a fire-breathing dragon, and although his flame is but a sputter, it still singes.”

  “By all means, sing.”

  Beccaroon followed the tall emerlindian, grateful that he did not have to bend over to keep from scraping his head on the ceiling. He did have to remember to keep the tip of his tail raised a tad to keep it from dragging on the wet floor.

  “We’ve gone down quite a bit,” he remarked.

  The prince interrupted his song to answer. “Yes, we’re probably under the lake now.” He resumed singing.

  Beccaroon concentrated on the words of the ditty. He preferred that over contemplating whether or not the sodden rock walls would hold.

  The merry tune brightened the atmosphere more than the blue crystals. And the prince had a very fine voice.

  Three sailors, three, went out to sea

  In a slip of a ship meant not for the deep.

  They sailed away for many a day, many a day, many a day.

  Maidens they sought that they might keep.

  Trillalee, trillalee, a wife for me.

  Chugaroo, chugaroo, wives for me and you.

  Chugaroon for a wife, the love of my life, to cuddle ’neath the

  moon, ’neath the moon, ’neath the moon. Chugaroon, chugaroon, chugaroon, chugaroo, a wife for me and you and you.

  The first sailor man bent iron in his hand,

  Into bows and shoes and frilly pans too.

  He found his girlie to be his sweet, be his sweet, be his sweet.

  And she spoke in naught but tweet, tweet, tweet.

  Trillalee, trillalee, a wife for me.

  Chugaroo, chugaroo, wives for me and you.

  Chugaroon for a wife, the love of my life, to cuddle ’neath the