Calling on Dragons Page 9

  “Do you know what we’d find there?” Morwen asked, ignoring Cimorene’s puzzled expression.

  “No.”

  “Then we’re better off here,” Morwen said in a tone intended to discourage further discussion. “It looks comfortable and quiet, and the next stop might not be either.” She stepped closer to Telemain and murmured, “And we should be careful not to let Cimorene get too tired.”

  “Oh!” Telemain sighed in relief. “Of course. Very well, we’ll camp here, and go on in the morning.”

  Cimorene glanced at Morwen suspiciously, but all she said was, “That’s settled, then. Why don’t you rest for a few minutes while we set things up?”

  Killer’s nose twitched. “Does that mean we’ll get dinner soon? Because I’m hungry.”

  “Again? All those layers of spells must be affecting your metabolism,” Morwen said. “Or didn’t Cimorene’s cook feed you properly before you left the castle?”

  “Oh, he had plenty to eat,” Scorn said. “He was gorging himself when we left, and he had nearly half an hour after that before Telemain brought him and the others to the house. You should have seen him, Morwen. He’s worse than Fiddlesticks with a plate of fish.”

  “It’s not my fault,” Killer said in a plaintive tone. “I can’t help being hungry. I just am.”

  “Well, we can’t get anything for you to eat until after we’ve set up camp,” Morwen said. “Telemain, is there a source of water around anywhere?”

  Telemain directed her to a small pool a short distance away. As Morwen set off, Cimorene fell into step beside her. Once they were too far from the others for anyone to hear, Cimorene said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t more help with Telemain, Morwen. I was so worried about Mendanbar’s sword that I didn’t see how tired he was until he snapped at you. How did you convince him to stay here?”

  “I told him you needed to rest.”

  “You told him I needed to—Morwen! I’m not sick. I’m going to have a baby, that’s all. I feel fine.” Cimorene hesitated. “Well, mostly. Sometimes in the mornings my stomach gets a little queasy. But that’s not the point.”

  “No. The point is that Telemain needs rest.” Morwen pushed aside a low-hanging branch and looked at Cimorene. “Do you really want an overtired magician transporting you? I let someone do that. Once.”

  “What happened?”

  “I ended up forty leagues west of where I wanted to be, and I had an upset stomach for a week afterward. No one had a spare broomstick, so I had to fly home on a borrowed rake. All forty leagues. In the rain. It’s the only time in my life I’ve been airsick.”

  Cimorene shuddered. “I can see why you’d want to keep Telemain from overextending himself. I just wish you’d thought of some other way to do it.”

  Pushing through a sweep of long, prickly pine branches, they found the pool Telemain had described. Morwen pulled the collapsible bucket out of her sleeve and filled it, and they started back to the others.

  Just before they reached the camp, Cimorene paused. “Morwen, how tired is Telemain?”

  “He could probably do one more transport without any problems,” Morwen admitted. “Two more are definitely out of the question. And if we land in the middle of a battle or on top of a troll’s hill—”

  “I see.”

  Morwen nodded. “I prefer not to take chances.”

  “But a smaller spell wouldn’t be a problem for him, would it?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  Cimorene blushed slightly. “Well, I did promise I’d call Mendanbar whenever I could. And even if I’d had room for a full-size magic mirror in my pack, I wouldn’t have brought one because they’re too breakable. I was hoping Telemain . . .”

  “I understand.” Morwen thought for a minute. “The hardest part of Telemain’s magic-mirror spell is making it permanent. He shouldn’t have any difficulty with a temporary speaking spell, especially if he has a chance to rest first. Ask him about it after dinner.”

  “I will,” Cimorene said with a smile.

  Cimorene’s cook had provided plenty of food for the people and cats, so dinner for them was fairly straight-forward. After some initial grumbling, Killer nibbled at low-hanging pine branches and even admitted that they didn’t taste too bad, once he got used to them. Since there was not enough of anything to make a dragon-size meal, Kazul left to forage for herself.

  As soon as she finished eating, Cimorene broached the subject of the speaking spell with Telemain. The magician frowned and patted his pockets.

  “I believe I have the necessary materials,” he said. “All I need is an object.”

  Waving at her pack, the various cups and containers Morwen had produced from her sleeves, and the half-empty water bucket, Cimorene said, “Aren’t there plenty of things around?”

  “No, I mean an object for the enchantment. Something with the correct reflective properties. To be compatible with the existing enchantment on the castle mirror, a provisional communications spell must employ the same similarities and reversals of congruence as the original. Therefore—”

  “You need a mirror, right?” Cimorene guessed.

  “No,” Morwen said. “He needs something like a mirror. Something you can see your reflection in.”

  “Maybe if we polish the dishes?” Cimorene said, eyeing the dented metal dubiously.

  The castle cook had sent along four of the oldest tin plates Morwen had ever seen. They were suitable for camping, but not, Morwen thought, for spell making.

  “What about this?” Scorn said, circling the water bucket.

  “Yes, that might do.” Hastily, Morwen picked up the bucket, barely in time to keep Trouble from setting his paws on the rim to peer in and collapsing it. “What do you think, Telemain?”

  “Between the metallic surfaces and the water, the reflective properties appear to be adequate,” Telemain said after a moment’s inspection. “As long as there is no previous enchantment, it should do.”

  “Does carrying it in my sleeve count?”

  “Since the bucket is no longer inside the spell’s sphere of influence, it should have no impact on the application of a transitory enchantment.”

  “What does he mean?” Killer asked.

  “It doesn’t count—as long as the bucket isn’t in my sleeve when he tries to enchant it,” Morwen said. “How long will the spell last, Telemain?”

  “About a quarter of an hour.” Telemain set the bucket in front of him and began removing things from his pockets. “It should return to its base state by dawn tomorrow.”

  Setting up the speaking spell did not take long. Morwen watched Telemain closely as he crouched over the bucket, for he still seemed unusually tired, but he had no difficulty in casting the enchantment.

  “There,” he said finally, sitting back on his heels. “You can go ahead now, Cimorene. Just don’t move the bucket.”

  “All right, then,” Cimorene said, though she looked as if she felt a little silly.

  “Mirror, mirror, on the wall,

  I would like to make a call.”

  The water in the bucket turned white. “Tell it who to find,” Morwen said softly.

  “I wish to speak to Mendanbar, the King of the Enchanted Forest,” Cimorene said.

  With a swish and a gurgling noise, the milky color cleared. “Who’s there?” snarled the wooden gargoyle. “Nobody’s home and they can’t be bothered, so—oh, hello, Your Majesty.”

  “Hello. Is Mendanbar at home?” said Cimorene.

  “Sure. Hey, King! There’s somebody on the mirror you should talk to!” the gargoyle shouted.

  “Tell him who it is,” Cimorene commanded.

  “Aw, you spoil all my fun,” grumbled the gargoyle, but it yelled, “It’s Queen Cimorene!”

  An instant later, the picture in the water shifted rapidly, then steadied to show King Mendanbar. “Cim­orene! Is everything all right?”

  “Everything’s fine,” Cimorene said. “We’re halfway to the Great Southern
Desert—”

  “About three-fifths of the way, actually,” said Telemain.

  “—and we decided to stop for the night. How are things at home?”

  “I caught a couple of wizards prowling around the forest right after you left,” Mendanbar said. “You can tell Telemain that his wizard-melting spell works just fine.”

  “Kazul will be disappointed,” Cimorene said. “We haven’t seen any traces of wizards, and I think she’s been hoping for a good fight.”

  “Well, tell her to be careful if you do run across them,” Mendanbar said. “One of the ones I melted was carrying dragonsbane.”

  “Oh, dear. Maybe I should send Kazul home.”

  “You can try.”

  They both paused. In the brief silence, Morwen caught Telemain’s eye and nodded toward the far side of the clearing. Telemain looked puzzled, then suddenly his expression changed and he rose hastily and joined her.

  “We might as well give them a few moments’ privacy,” said Morwen when they were out of earshot. “Unless you have to stay nearby to maintain the mirror spell?”

  “No, the spell is self-maintaining once it’s established,” Telemain said. “If someone wants to make another call, I’ll have to reset everything, but she and Mendanbar can talk as long as they like without worrying about any sudden termination.”

  Trouble appeared around the trunk of a pine and leaned against it, scratching his back against the bark. “Well, I hope they don’t go on much longer. You wouldn’t believe how mushy they’re getting.”

  “I don’t want to hear about it,” Morwen said.

  “What’s that?” Telemain asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “Only a cat’s usual refusal to let morals interfere with satisfying his curiosity,” Morwen said. “Don’t ask. It only encourages him.”

  Fortunately, Cimorene and Mendanbar did not chat for very much longer. Later, when Cimorene reported the conversation to Kazul, the dragon refused to consider leaving.

  “I want some wizards, and one way or another I am going to get them,” Kazul said. “If I don’t go on to the central office of the Society of Wizards, I’ll go back to the Enchanted Forest and hunt up a few of them there, dragonsbane or no dragonsbane.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Cimorene said quickly. “Mendanbar seems to have everything under control.”

  “For now,” said Scorn.

  Not for the first time, Morwen was glad that Cim­orene and Telemain, at least, could not understand what her cats were saying.

  11

  In Which They Make an Unexpected Detour

  THE NEXT MORNING, much to Morwen’s relief, Telemain appeared to have recovered: Without tiring, he walked briskly to and from the stream to wash up, and his color was nearly normal. After breakfast, he arranged everyone to his satisfaction and muttered the transportation spell.

  They materialized on a sunny, grass-covered hillside, and as soon as their feet were firmly planted, Telemain sat down.

  “Telemain?” Morwen said with concern. The magician looked a little gray.

  “I’m all right,” Telemain said. “I just need a minute to catch my breath.”

  Killer’s long blue ears pricked up. “How long a minute? Have I got time for a snack? Because I think I smell a patch of clover off to the left there, and I’m hungry.”

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Kazul said. “You had plenty of breakfast. Four cheese sandwiches aren’t much of a meal for a dragon.”

  “Five,” said Trouble.

  “Pine needles are not very filling,” Killer said with dignity. “Besides, I want to see what the clover is like outside the Enchanted Forest. I may not get the chance again.”

  Flicking a look at Telemain, Morwen said, “Go ahead, Killer. Just don’t get out of sight.”

  Killer ambled off, his hooves just grazing the tips of the waving grasses. “What a good thing you got him stabilized,” Morwen said to Telemain. “Otherwise he’d be walking around Kazul’s head by now.”

  “It would serve him right,” Scorn said, switching her tail. “That idiot rabbit is worse than Fiddlesticks.”

  “Nobody’s worse than Fiddlesticks,” said Trouble.

  Scorn gave him a green glare, then bounded over to Kazul. Two seconds later, both cats were perched on the dragon’s back, basking in the sun. Smiling slightly, Morwen found a sun-warmed rock and sat down. Cimorene joined her at once, and though Telemain gave them both a suspicious frown, he did not comment.

  “It’s so nice to be able to just sit down, without worrying about what you’re sitting on,” Cimorene said. “In the Enchanted Forest, you have to be careful that you don’t land on someone who’s been transformed into a flower or a rock.”

  “Or sit on something that will transform you into a flower or a rock,” Telemain added. He appeared to have his breath back, but he still looked a little pale, so Morwen did not suggest that they continue.

  The drowsy silence was broken by an earsplitting bray. “Eee-augh! Go away!” yelled Killer. “Morwen said I could eat this, and I’m going to. Leave me alone!”

  Morwen looked up. The curve of the hill hid the donkey from sight, along with whatever he was shouting at.

  “Blast that creature,” Morwen muttered, getting to her feet. “I told him to stay in sight. No, you stay here, Telemain,” she added as the magician started to follow. “There’s no need to let him inconvenience both of us.”

  Nodding, Telemain settled back.

  He must really be tired, or he’d disagree, Morwen thought. Perhaps I can get Kazul or Cimorene to override his objections to staying here, or—no, it will be better if Trouble gets conveniently lost for a few hours. I’ll have to speak to him as soon as I’m done with Killer.

  As she came around the hill, she saw a tall, gray-haired man in baggy blue overalls with a length of rope in one hand and an empty bucket in the other. Standing at the far edge of the clover patch, he stared expressionlessly at Killer and Morwen.

  “This your donkey, ma’am?” the man asked.

  “Not exactly,” Morwen said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “He says I can’t eat any more,” Killer complained. “And I’d only just figured out how to get at it, too.”

  Morwen glanced down. Below Killer’s front hooves, a double handspan of grass and clover had been trimmed several inches below the surrounding meadow. “So I see. How did you manage it?”

  “Well, if I kneel down and stretch way out—”

  “Excuse me, ma’am,” said the man in the overalls, setting his bucket at his feet, “but if this ain’t your donkey, whose is it?”

  “He doesn’t belong to anyone in particular,” Morwen said. “And he’s not actually a donkey. Why?”

  The man in the overalls, who had begun uncoiling the length of rope, paused. “Not a donkey, eh?” He studied Killer intently for a moment. “Blue is kind of an unusual color for a donkey.”

  “What’s he getting at, Morwen?” Killer’s ears waggled nervously.

  “Quiet, Killer,” Morwen said.

  “And I got to admit that donkeys don’t normally talk much,” the man added. “So what is he? Enchanted prince? Knight? Circus sideshow performer?”

  “Rabbit,” Morwen said. “Judging from his behavior, a permanently hungry rabbit.”

  “Huh.” The man in the overalls eyed Killer speculatively. “A rabbit named Killer. Amazing, the things people come up with. How’d he end up a blue donkey?”

  “It’s a long story,” Morwen said. “Killer, why don’t you go back to the others?”

  “But what about the clover? I was just getting started. And it is different—not so crunchy, and not as sweet, and there’s sort of a cinnamon undertaste that—”

  “Not now, Killer. Go let the others know what’s happening.”

  “Oh, all right.” Muttering sullenly, Killer started back around the hill.

  “What’s this about others?” demanded the man in th
e overalls as Morwen turned back to him. “How many of you are there?”

  “Seven, altogether,” Morwen said.

  “There are seven of you trampling across my fields and ruining the harvest?” the farmer asked, plainly appalled.

  “Not exactly. Killer couldn’t trample anything right now if he tried, and the rest of us haven’t moved around much.”

  The farmer shook his head. “It was bad enough having that donkey or rabbit or whatever eating up my crops, but this! I want the lot of you out, right now.”

  “Crops?” Morwen looked pointedly to the left, then to the right, then raised her chin and stared directly at the man in the overalls. “Grass and clover?”

  “Hay,” the man said, unperturbed.

  “Hey what?” said Cimorene’s voice. “Morwen, who is this and what is going on? Killer said something about trespassers, but then he got into an argument with your cats, and it’s a little hard to follow when you can’t understand half of the conversation.”

  “This appears to be the man who owns this hill,” Morwen said.

  “Name of MacDonald, ma’am,” the man said, nodding politely. “And this is my farm, and I’d appreciate it if you’d take your friend and your donkey and your cats elsewhere.”

  “I’m Cimorene, the Queen of the Enchanted Forest,” Cimorene said. “Pleased to meet you, Farmer MacDonald. And we’ll be leaving just as soon as our magician recovers a bit more. I’m sorry if we’ve caused a problem.”

  “Queen, eh?” MacDonald’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “Little unusual to find a queen out adventuring. Mostly it’s princes and younger sons, and once in a while a princess.”

  “So I’m unusual,” Cimorene said.

  “I wasn’t criticizing,” MacDonald said peaceably. “I just wondered if you’d be in the market for some vegetables.”

  “Vegetables? Why would I—”

  “I got a full line of specialty crops,” the farmer went on. “My peas are perfectly round, and hard as rock. I sell ’em by the bag if you want to scatter them on the floor for maidens disguised as huntsmen to walk on, or you can buy one at a time for sticking under the mattress of a visiting princess.”