Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

“No, it wasn’t a Seeker. I know how their mindspeak feels and this wasn’t like that. This truly felt ancient. I could sense that. What I saw was something that had happened long ago, maybe even before the Dragon Kings, the Seekers, and the Quel had ever been, although I didn’t think humans went back that far in the history of the Dragonrealm.”

His reply seemed to relieve her. She kissed him lightly, then cupped his chin in one hand. “Very well, but if it happens again, I want to know.”

“Agreed.”

They walked slowly down the hallway, their conversation turning to the more mundane concerns of managing what was turning into a small village. Both Toos the Regent, ruler of Penacles, and the Green Dragon, who controlled the vast forest region surrounding their home, insisted on adding to their already vast number of servants. With some effort, the Bedlams had increased the area covered by the protective spell of the Manor. The humans and drakes in their service already needed to build new homes, for the smaller buildings that made up the Manor estate could no longer hold everyone. Once Cabe had joked about slowly becoming master of a tiny but growing kingdom. Now, he was beginning to think that the joke was becoming fact.

Their conversation came to an abrupt stop as something small dashed across the hall.

“What was that?” Gwen’s brow furrowed in thought. “It almost looked like a . . . like a . . .”

A twin of the first creature raced past in the same direction. This time, the two had a better look.

“Were you going to say ‘a stick man’?” Cabe asked in innocent tones.

Yet a third darted into the hall. This one paused and stared at the two huge figures despite having no eyes to speak of. Like the others, its head was merely an extension of the stick that made up its torso. Its arms and legs were twigs that someone had tied to the larger stick with string.

Its curiosity apparently assuaged, the ludicrous figure scurried off after its brethren.

“We have enough folk living here without adding these now,” the enchantress decided. “It might be a good idea to see where they’re going.”

“Or where they came from,” added Cabe. “Do you want to follow them or should I?”

“I’ll follow them. You find out who’s responsible, although I think we both know.”

He did not reply. She was likely right. When tiny men made of twigs wandered the hallways of the Manor or bronze statues turned into large and lethal flying missiles, there could only be one person responsible.

The stick men had come from the stairway leading to the ground floor. Cabe descended as swiftly as was safe; there was no telling if he might trip over yet another tiny figure. He reached the bottom of the stairway easily enough, but perhaps a bit too much at ease because of that, the warlock almost did not notice the living wall coming from his right.

“Do pardon me, my Lord Bedlam. I must admit my eyes and my mind were elsewhere or I would have certainly made note of you.”

Benjin Traske stood before Cabe, an imposing sight if ever there was one. Traske was more than six feet in height and had the girth to match. His face was full and round and on any other person would have seemed the jovial kind. On the scholar, however, it was more reminiscent of a judge about to pass sentence. He wore a cowled scholar’s cloak, a gray, enveloping thing with gold trim at the collar, and the ebony robes of his profession. Traske also wore a blade, not part of the usual fare for a man of his occupation, but the warlock had learned the day of the tutor’s arrival that he was a survivor of Mito Pica, a city razed to the ground by the armies of the Dragon Emperor in their search for one young Cabe Bedlam. Benjin Traske had seen his wife and child die because he had only had his bare hands with which to protect them. He himself had barely survived a wound to his stomach. The blade had remained with him since then, a symbol of his willingness to defend those under his care at the cost of his own life.

There had been some question as to whether he would be able to live among drakes, much less teach their young, but the Dragon King Green, who had discovered him, had assured the Bedlams that Benjin Traske saw cooperation between the two races as the only possible future.

Even when he was not tutoring, Traske sounded as if he were lecturing. Cabe found he could never listen to the man without feeling like one of his charges. “No apologies, Master Traske! I was hardly paying attention myself.”

The tutor ran a hand through thin gray hair peppered slightly with silver. An expression of exasperation crossed his face. “You have seen your prodigy’s latest effort, then. I feared as much. They have journeyed upstairs, I take it?”

Cabe nodded. “All three of them. The Lady Gwen is hunting them down now.”

“Only three of them? There should be five.”

Such knowledge in no way encouraged Cabe in the efforts of his son. “We saw only three.”

Traske sighed. “Then, if you will excuse me, Lord Bedlam, I will hunt out the other two while your good bride deals with the three above. I feel at some fault, for when he lost control, my mind was elsewhere.”

“You were teaching him magic?” While there was a hint of sorcery about the tutor, he had never struck Cabe as an adept.

His remark seemed to amuse the man. “Teach him magic? Only if young Master Aurim desires to know how to lift a feather for the space of three seconds. No, my lord, my skills will never be much more than wishful thought. If I were an adept, the fall of Mito Pica might have taken a different turn. I was merely his audience. I believe your son was trying to impress the teacher, so to speak. No, the magic of mathematics and history is the only magic I can teach.”

“Well, I think I’d better teach him a little about concentration and patience . . . again. Where is he?”

“In the center of the garden.” Benjin Traske performed a bow, a momentous achievement for one of his build. “If you will excuse me, my lord, I do not want my quarry getting too far afield and if the other two are not upstairs, then that means they must be headed in the direction of the kitchen.”

“Mistress Belima will have a fit if she sees one.” Belima was the peasant woman who ran the kitchens as her own kingdom. Considering the results she achieved, Cabe was more than willing to grant her that territory.

“Indeed.” The hefty scholar departed, moving with a swiftness and grace that the warlock could only marvel at.

It took only minutes for Cabe to reach the location where Traske had said his son would be. Aurim was seated by himself on one of the many stone benches located here and there around the garden. His head was bowed and his face was buried in his hands. The silver streak across the middle of his head contrasted sharply to his shoulder-length, golden hair. He wore a robe similar to his father’s, save that it was of dark red.

“You’ll never find them like that.”

Aurim looked up, his expression changing from one of frustration to embarrassment. Overall, he resembled his father, but fortunately, as far as Cabe was concerned, he had inherited from his mother’s side a more noble chin and a straighter nose. Although only a few years older than Valea, he was generally able to pass for someone several years into adulthood . . . except when failure reared its ugly head.

“You know.”

“I saw them. So did your mother.”

The boy rose. He could already meet Cabe at eye level even if he could not meet Cabe’s eyes themselves. “It was a simple thing! You and Scholar Traske are always telling me my problem is patience or concentration! I made the stick men to practice. There’s ten different routines I can make them do, all to prove I’m being more careful and concentrating better!”

“And so?” He tried to be encouraging. Unlike Aurim, Cabe had come into his powers almost full-flung. The experience and patience that his grandfather, Nathan, had literally passed on to him had given him an advantage no other spellcaster had ever had. Even then, his own inexperience and uncertainty had made for a constant battle of wits with himself playing both sides. He still had much to learn. His son had no such advantage; everything he learned he learned from the beginning. Sorcery, while it looked simple to understand and utilize, was anything but.

“And so I lost control again! Halfway through the second set. They just ran off.” A sullen look crossed the lad’s countenance. “And now you can lecture me again.”

“Aurim . . .”

His son clenched fists. “If that stupid vision hadn’t-”