And then he watched the color drain from Uncle Ralph’s face as his father’s unsympathetic brother saw the impact strike deep in the heart of his formidable, enigmatic colleague.
“Alec?” Uncle Ralph whispered. “Alec, what-”
Sir Alec dropped the recording crystal as though it were a live coal. “What texts did he have access to, Mr. Markham?” he said, ignoring Uncle Ralph. “Do you know?”
“ Grummen’s Lexicon.” His voice was so husky he had to clear his throat. “And-and Pygram’s Pestilences. For starters.”
Briefly, so briefly, Sir Alec’s hard gaze eased. “I’m sorry. And what other grimoires are we dealing with? How many?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“Your Highness-” Sir Alec turned on Melissande. “Have you any idea what-”
“No,” whispered Melissande. “I wasn’t even aware those awful books had been brought into the kingdom. Not until Gerald told me in the cave. After Lional-after he-”
“Forgive me,” said Rupert, “but I don’t have the foggiest idea what you’re talking about.”
“We’re talking about disaster,” said Reg, pulling her head out from under her wing. Her voice was soft and unsteady, sodden with grief. “Mayhem and calamity and catastrophe and woe. My Gerald’s done a foolish thing, Butterfly Boy. He’s sacrificed himself to try and stop your wicked brother.”
Rupert’s mouth dropped open. “ What? You mean he’s dead?”
When Reg didn’t answer, Monk looked at Melissande’s ridiculously-clothed brother. “No, Your Highness. It’d be easier for everyone if he was.”
Bloody hell, Gerald. What were you thinking?
“I’m afraid, sir, that in a misguided attempt to defeat your magically enhanced brother,” said Sir Alec, his voice as gray and chilly as his eyes, that brief compassion fled, “Mr. Dunwoody has followed him down a most unfortunate path. He has taken upon himself aspects of the worst kinds of thaumaturgy. Illegal incantations, perverted and vile.”
“He said the only way he could beat Lional was to fight fire with fire,” said Melissande, her voice unsteady. “He must’ve found where Lional kept Pomodoro Uffitzi’s filthy library and-and-”
“ Grummen’s Lexicon?” Shaken to his bootstraps, Lord Attaby groped for the nearest chair and sat down. “God help us. You’re quite certain of this? There’s absolutely no chance you’ve misread the situation?”
Stooping, Monk retrieved the recording crystal Sir Alec had dropped. Then, biting his lip, flinching in anticipation of what he was about to feel, he sank his mind back inside it. This time he didn’t try to fight the recorded impressions, the series of explosions in the ether as the foulest dark magics known to wizardry ignited Gerald’s untapped, unexplored potentia and sent shockwaves surging through the etheretic plane. Alchemied his desperate friend into something new and terrible.
When he’d felt it all, when he felt as empty as a tomb from which the quiet dead had been stolen, he opened his eyes and looked at Attaby. “No, my lord. We’re not wrong. Whoever Gerald was-I fear that man is gone. And I don’t have the first idea who-or what-has taken his place.”
“Is that all you felt, Monk?” asked Uncle Ralph, breaking the dreadful silence. “It doesn’t seem like enough to melt most of our best equipment. I mean, the long range monitors didn’t pick up on King Lional’s taking in these dark magics, did they? So perhaps something else has happened. Perhaps-perhaps Mr. Dunwoody and King Lional met in a cataclysmic battle and that’s the unprecedented thaumaturgical event our monitoring station recorded.”
“Monk?” said Melissande in a small voice. “Could that be true?”
Helpless, he shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“What d’you mean, you don’t know? How can you not know?” she demanded. “Are you a genius or aren’t you?”
“Melissande-” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “It’s not that simple! I mean, we’re calling this unprecedented for a reason!”
“And-and what about Gerald? Could he still be alive?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions, ducky,” said Reg, her eyes gleaming. “How’s this ridiculous Markham boy supposed to know the answer to that, standing here half a world away from your wretched little kingdom? There’s only one way we’re going to find out exactly what’s happened. We’ve got to go back to New Ottosland-and save that boy from himself before it’s too late.”
CHAPTER SIX
Standing in the palace’s fragrant, lovingly tended gardens, bathed in gentle sunshine and the fires of his reforging, Gerald tipped back his head and searched the sky for Lional’s dragon.
Well. My dragon, really. After all, I made it. That makes it mine.
He smiled.
A rising breeze wafted the unpleasantness of charred bodies towards him. All those unfortunates who’d fallen foul of Lional’s indiscriminate wrath. So many little people in the world, unable to defend themselves against evil men like Melissande’s demented brother. Remembering the loyal guardsman Reggie, vaguely recalling a sense of impotent grief, he snapped his fingers and sprang flowers into life where, throughout the kingdom, those poor souls had collapsed to embers and ash. Every last dead man, woman and child now a rose or a pansy or a searingly sweet freesia.
There. That’s a fitting memorial, I think. Beauty from ugliness. Could there be a better legacy?
That small distraction dealt with, he returned his attention to the question of his dragon. And Lional. He mustn’t forget Lional. A pestilent flea to be cracked between two fingernails. New Ottosland’s mad king had outstayed his welcome. This tiny nation would be well rid of him.
I have so much work to do. So much good. With great power comes great responsibility… and I have more power than any man alive.
The pale blue sky was empty of dragon-and he had no sense of the marvelous creature or Lional in the gardens or nearby. They’d taken themselves off somewhere…
But now it’s time to return.
With as much effort as a hurricane blowing out a candle he sent a thread of his potentia spearing through the ether. His power cleaved the thaumic veil like that well-known hot knife through butter. So easy, so effortless. He felt like a dam with all its confining banks sundered, his undreamt-of powers flowing and flooding through him. Set free at last.
This is me. The true me. Won’t Reg be surprised?
Within heartbeats he’d found both king and dragon, harrying a herd of milch cows on the rural outskirts of the kingdom’s capital. The beasts floundered and foundered and sprawled in bloody death, carcasses littering the green field with profligate abandon. How typically Lional, to take out his frustrated spite on dumb animals who couldn’t fight back.
Really and truly, he’s got to go.
The dragon’s mind was a cauldron roaring with flame. Chained to Lional by inimical magics, it writhed in heartbreaking pain and confusion. With a thought he eased its suffering. Weakened the Tantigliani bond. Recognizing his touch the dragon threw back its scaled head and kissed the sky with fire. Furious, Lional tried to overthrow him. The feeble attempt made him laugh.
Come to me, sweet one, he crooned to the glorious crimson and emerald dragon. I’ll set you free.
While he waited he searched idly for Shugat and Zazoor and their impotent army… and was stung with surprise when he couldn’t find them.
So their silly gods shield them from me, do they? Oh well. It hardly matters. I don’t want their sand and their stupid jeweled tears. And I’ve certainly got no interest in their smelly, uncomfortable camels. If they don’t interfere with me I’ll likely leave them alone.
A shiver in the ether heralded his dragon’s eager approach. Smiling, filled with the kind of excitement that used to fizz him as a boy, when it was his birthday and he was staring at his unwrapped presents on the breakfast
