Two Renegade Realms

  “My sister has communicated that our kin are even more reclusive than they were two years ago. Most of the other dragons mix freely with your kind, but our race has always been a bit standoffish.”

  Cantor tipped his head to the side, looking at Bridger with a quizzical expression.

  “Do you mean self-righteous?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean,” said Bridger. “Shall we be on our way?”

  Bixby sat in front of Cantor on Bridger’s back. Even without access to Cantor’s thoughts, she’d sensed his reluctance to let her join him and Bridger in Effram. After what had passed between them, she shared his hesitancy. But Chomountain had quietly repeated that she would go find Totobee-Rodolow. Something about his understated authority was hard to defy.

  Bridger accepted the “suggestion” and adopted his casual, friendly demeanor. Cantor, sitting directly behind her, acted like a wood carving, stiff and unresponsive. She tried to pry into his thinking and again met a barrier. Jesha, sitting between Bridger’s ears, gave her a look that Bixby labeled sympathetic. After all, Jesha was a lady cat and perhaps male cats were as unfathomable as male humans. When she developed the skills her mother had, Cantor would not stand a chance.

  Once in the air, Bixby had time to ponder Cantor’s strange behavior. He often treated Bridger in a cold manner, but since yesterday he had extended that attitude toward her as well. She missed the warmhearted fun of their past adventures. She understood that Cantor wanted to make sure they didn’t get any closer. They would be better warriors without emotional ties. But she wanted emotional ties — warm, cozy, loving ties.

  She brightened. Perhaps she had it all wrong. Perhaps this bout of sullenness grew out of Cantor’s past experiences in this land. Dunked in the poisonous Sea of Joden, he’d endured a long, painful convalescence. And, of course, Effram was where he’d hoped to find his chosen constant . . . but instead wound up with Bridger.

  Before she could come to any definite conclusions, Bridger burst out in song. He chose a rollicking tune about ships, waves, and the mysterious girl who seemed to be in every port. Bixby joined in on the chorus, and then sang along for six more songs of the dragon’s choosing.

  “Save your breath, Bridger,” Cantor commanded at last. “We’ll be going over the Tinendoor mountains soon.”

  Bixby swiveled a bit in order to see Cantor’s expression.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “He gets winded in the thin air at a high altitude. Singing and flying at the same time would be no problem if we were closer to sea level.”

  “You’ve learned a lot about each other.”

  He gave a curt nod and didn’t answer. Bixby sighed heavily and faced forward again.

  Three years earlier, they’d stayed in Tinendoor quite a while, not long after she and Cantor had been through one adventure together. Bridger had already attached himself to Cantor, and they had come to this valley to seek the dragon’s sister. They’d stayed because Cantor got mixed up with the wrong people and got himself thrown into the Sea of Joden. They’d finally found him being tended to by a family of Brinswikkers. She began to laugh at the thought of the rather large Cantor in the home of his very short caretakers. Behind her, Cantor remained stoic.

  Bother Cantor and his morose ways! This was a moment to be happy.

  Bixby allowed herself to feel the thrill of places she remembered as they sailed easily down the inward slope of the mountain. Green grass carpeted most of the valley, except where outcroppings of colorful limestone striped exposed cliffs.

  The treacherous sea — really, a very big lake — stretched out to their left. The vibrant colors of mineral bits in the water sparkled in the sun, making it appear innocently attractive. On closer examination, Bixby saw no bird or animal anywhere near the shore.

  Supposedly, no fish could live in the tainted water. That would have disappointed Old Trout, but Chomountain cared nothing for fishing, a transformation brought about simply because Trout remembered who he was.

  As Neekoh pointed out, Trout didn’t act like a mountain, an immovable standard of Primen, when he didn’t remember he was supposed to act that way. Bixby recalled a multitude of times when her nanny would give her a soft pinch and say, “Remember you’re a princess. Act like one.”

  Farmhouses dotted the land. Scattered along the foothills, small villages kept themselves away from the poisonous waters. Tinendoor boasted only one metropolis, Tidoor, which perched on mountainous terrain in the southern part of the valley. Merchants carried their goods from town to town, going between the designated markets. Tinkers made a fine living by reaching those who had no time or means to travel.

  One of the fairgrounds decorated the landscape ahead. The bright colors of banners, tarps, and canvas enclosures couldn’t be missed from above.

  Bridger, gliding lower, made a small, excited jump in his smooth flight. “That would be a good place to start looking for Totobee-Rodolow.”

  Anticipation zinged Bixby’s nervous system, running a pleasant shiver up and down her spine. She smiled at the prospect of seeing Totobee-Rodolow again, and at the chance to wander up and down the aisles of the open-air market.

  Some of the vendors had colorful canopies over their stalls, but most merchandise lay out on tables with no sun shelter. Bridger flew low as Cantor and Bixby did a spot check of the crowd. They sighted no mor dragons, but they did encounter the tantalizing smell of the food stalls.

  “This faire requires a closer examination.” Bridger banked and landed in the field adjacent to an area where buggies, wagons, carts, and horses waited for their owners to return.

  Bixby and Cantor slid to the ground. Bridger shape-shifted the saddle out of his back and slimmed down his bulk. He could easily roam through the faire at a size no bigger than Cantor.

  Cantor pointedly nodded toward Bridger’s back. “Mind your tail.”

  Bridger’s tail thinned and snaked out eight feet. Then he pulled the ropelike appendage up and wrapped it around his waist twice. As a final restraint, he tucked the end in behind the broader part below his chest.

  Cantor and Bridger started toward the hustling crowd. Jesha trotted to catch up and chose Cantor’s shoulder to perch upon.

  “Wait!” Bixby almost stomped her foot at her male companions. “I need to change.”

  “You look fine to me.” Cantor paused and grinned. “What do you say, Bridge?”

  Bridger’s nose was in the air, his nostrils flexing as he smelled different faire foods. “We’ll wait for you in front of the fried pastry booth.”

  She lost sight of them as soon as they passed the first perimeter markers.

  Turning around in one spot, she searched for a private place to take care of her grooming. She probably wouldn’t be able to pass a comb through her curls, even though she’d worn a cloche hat that fit closely to her head.

  She spied some covered wagons parked close to each other and headed that way. Just as she suspected, someone had set up two privacy chambers complete with toilet.

  The old woman outside the first canvas cubicle took her coin. “You’ve got ten minutes. Every minute after ten costs you a pintrap more.”

  “That’s very reasonable.” Bixby smiled at the woman. “You probably see most of the people who come to the faire.”

  “I do.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked more closely at Bixby. “You ain’t from the King’s Guard, are you?”

  “Oh, no. I’m here to find my friend Totobee-Rodolow. She’s a mor dragon.”

  The old woman’s mouth twisted. “Of course I know who Totobee-Rodolow is. She was here this week.” She flapped a hand above her head. Her action implied she had better things to think about. “She might come again. They sell fine-quality goods at this faire.”

  “I hope she does come again. If you see her, would you tell her Bixby is here?”

  To the woman’s indifferent shrug, Bixby said, “Thank you,” and lifted the tent flap to enter the shelter.

  The woman kept the space clean.
Bixby had no problem with pulling her layers of clothing off and piling them on a chair.

  She opened her clothes hamper and withdrew more colorful garments. Smiling with anticipation, she then folded and stored the multi-shaded brown, white, and peachy skirts and dresses she had been wearing.

  Her fifteen minutes in the tent satisfied her need to match her clothing to the joyful feeling she had. She looked forward to seeing Totobee-Rodolow, and perhaps she’d find some bits and pieces to add to her wardrobe. Plus, paired with a small amount of black, the colorful garments made a wonderful dancing costume. She hoped this faire had a dance every evening. She hoped they’d still be here.

  Out of one hamper she rarely used, Bixby pulled three long, mirrored panels. Propped against the chair in a row, they made a decent looking glass. She inspected her selection of clothing, adjusted a hemline that was too straight, and then began the important business of finding the right crowns.

  She would want to be able to tell if someone represented the truth or not. Or even if they fashioned lies out of half-truths. She picked out a slim circlet of woven vines embellished with emeralds and peridot stones. The vine was dotted with blue, red, and yellow gemstone flowers. She settled it on her abundant curls. Very pretty, and useful too.

  She had the listening diadem in her hand when voices drifted through the canvas at the back of the little room. Plopping the circle of small bronze flowers atop the other crown, Bixby leaned in the direction of the conversation and tuned her hearing to catch every word.

  “Bridger’s here.” The male voice sent a chill down her spine. Errd Tos, the leader of the Kernfuedal.

  “We’ve got his sister tidily tucked away.” This woman’s voice Bixby had never heard before. Malice coated her words to the point Bixby could almost see a spiteful smile on the lips that spoke them. She knew, if she put on a different crown, that could be a reality. The problem was that the picture she would capture would be the woman’s image of herself. Rarely was such an image accurate.

  The woman spoke again. “Who’s with him?”

  “Cantor, the unauthorized realm walker.”

  “Should we let them wander around, or do you want them out of the way?”

  “Oh, out of the way, my dear.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “Do so.”

  Just like Errd Tos to send someone else to do his dirty work. I’ve got to warn Bridger and Cantor.

  With quick, jerky movements, she tidied up the mess she’d made. Then, with the extra pintraps she needed in her hand, she pushed out the tent door.

  The old woman lay stretched out on the ground.

  “Oh!” Bixby dropped the coins and knelt beside her. “Are you ill? Hurt? Can you hear me?”

  “Doubt she can,” said a voice from behind, just as a cloth bag slipped over Bixby’s head.

  PLANS FOR DEFENSE

  Bixby had positioned herself beside the fallen woman to the best advantage. With her weight on one bent leg, she anticipated the attack from behind. As the hood came down over her eyes, she whipped her right leg out in a high sweep and caught her attacker’s knee. The thwack her leg made against his was a satisfying sound. So was his grunt. As he went down in one direction, she rolled to her feet in the other. By the time she stood facing him, she’d dispensed with the hood, throwing it down on the ground.

  A quick glance told her she had accurately perceived the situation. Only one had been sent to ambush her. He stood, anger in his eyes and in his stance. Too much anger. He wouldn’t be thinking clearly.

  She smiled at him, and that brought him charging right into the knife she’d turned out at the last moment. His eyes bulged, and he jerked backward, tripped over the old woman, and landed on his backside. The impact jarred a grunt out of him.

  He clamped his hand on his thigh. Blood trickled between his fingers. She heard a low growl as he rolled into a crouch. He’d managed to get himself stuck in the same leg where her blow to his knee already impaired his movement.

  Bixby took a good look at him while he was struggling to get up. Dressed in ordinary clothes, he could have been a farmer. Except he was cleaner than any farmer she’d ever met on a weekday. They cleaned up well for Sanctuary, but why get spiffy in the middle of the week?

  Her attacker had overworked biceps, and his thigh muscles bulged. Clean light brown hair nicely cut belied his role as ruffian. Overall, he didn’t have the appearance of any tough she’d ever met.

  “Who are you? Why did you try to kidnap me?”

  He gritted his teeth as he stood and let out a hiss. With that gust of air, all the anger and belligerence seemed to leak out of him as well.

  “Name’s Tegan. I’m looking for a wife.”

  Bixby cleaned her blade on a rag and tucked it back in the hidden sheath between her skirts. “Your proposal needs some work.”

  “No maid on Effram would have me.” Tegan’s fine, broad shoulders had slumped. He stared at the ground. With his brow furrowed, he looked confused.

  Bixby studied him. Her crown indicated he told the truth. Unfortunately, the information didn’t come with any elaboration. She knew he was unmarried, but she didn’t know why. He was a handsome man. She decided to resort to the direct approach. “Why?”

  “Because I’m . . . odd.”

  Again, she took a moment, trying to see what would be so repellant that the man had to forcibly capture a bride. His strategy was odd, certainly, but the rest of him seemed normal enough.

  “I’m sorry. You look fine to me.”

  His face relaxed, and good-looking turned into strikingly attractive. “Then will you marry me?”

  “No, I’m busy.”

  She bent to take another peek at the woman. “What did you do to her?”

  “A whiff of Starnaut juice.”

  Bixby stood. “She’ll not be too happy when she comes around.”

  “I didn’t want to hurt her.”

  “Well, you didn’t.” Bixby glanced at the woman. She didn’t trust this man enough to take her eyes off of him for more than a second. “Starnaut juice wears off quickly. You might have damaged her some when you fell.”

  “I didn’t land on her.”

  She dismissed his statement with a frown and listened to the chatter from the faire. She needed to find her friends, and she didn’t need Tegan coming along. “You should stay here until she wakes.”

  Bixby’s skirts flared as she twirled around to march past the wounded man and between two tents. The old woman groaned but Bixby refused to be delayed any longer. Moments later, she heard the limping gait of Tegan behind her.

  He caught up to her. “She’s all right.”

  Her head almost came to his shoulder, which was a nice change from Cantor and Dukmee, who towered over her.

  “Could you slow down a bit?” he asked. “Or stop while I bind up this wound? It’s just a scratch. It won’t take but a minute.”

  Bixby stopped and stared at him. Her tiara helped her define his general character — basically a moral man with a high level of frustration. She discerned intelligence stifled by something she could not identify.

  And she didn’t have the time to explore his temperament!

  “You’re going to tag along behind me, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  He couldn’t attack her in the crowded faire. And her friends would defend her if he got unruly. She didn’t really need his help, but he was big, and it never hurt to have help.

  She sighed. “Sit on that barrel, and I’ll fix your leg. Be quick. I have to tell someone something.”

  Tegan sat. Bixby knelt beside him and pulled out her hamper for illness and injury.

  As she cut away the material around his wound, she noticed he hadn’t given the hamper a second glance. A flat bag containing bulky objects sometimes disturbed people. Obviously, he’d seen hampers before. That would mean association with more than cows and chickens.

  She put aside her assumption that he was a farmer.

>   The knife had sliced along his lower thigh and had not plunged into the flesh. Stitches would make the scar less noticeable but weren’t absolutely necessary. She wiped the blood away, applied a cleanser, then smoothed a creamy ointment over the long cut.

  Bixby tidied away the things she had used so far and extracted a roll of linen from her hamper. Again, she wondered at his lack of curiosity. Surely he didn’t know many people who carried a hamper specifically for ministering to medical needs. But Tegan showed no interest. Not one word of inquiry. Actually, he didn’t speak at all.

  She cut a length of the linen and folded it to make a pad to absorb the oozing blood.

  Taking his hand, she put it over the bandage. “Hold that wadding against the wound.”

  He did as he was told.

  She wrapped the cloth strip around his thigh, tightly enough to keep pressure on the wound, then tied it off. She stood, looking at the top of his head as he examined her work.

  “I really have to go.” She rammed the last of the scattered supplies into the hamper and turned to sprint away.

  She intended to leave him behind, but Tegan kept pace with her. Bixby stopped at the perimeter barrier. Tegan plopped down on the wooden rail and leaned forward, panting. Bixby surveyed the immediate area, then shut her eyes to reach out to her friends.

  “What is it?” asked Cantor, dropping some of his barriers.

  “Errd Tos is here, and he’s ordered your capture.”

  “Are you coming to join us?”

  “Yes, we’ll be right there.”

  She felt Cantor’s confusion. “We?”

  As Bixby moved into the faire, her companion pushed away from the rail and caught up with her.

  She gave a resigned shrug. “Tegan is with me.”

  “Tegan?”

  “He wants to marry me.”

  She giggled at the strength of Cantor’s bewilderment.

  “Don’t worry, Cantor. I told him I was too busy.”

  Bixby let go of her connection with Cantor so she could concentrate on moving through the crowd, keeping her eye out for brutes working for Errd Tos. Far more weary, lonely, hopeless people roamed through the faire than those who were looking for trouble.