Tod gazed up at the pattern of tiny purple windows with shifting Magykal screens. A few lazy loops of blue and green Magykal lights—known as Sprites—came slowly dropping down; she felt the popping of Magyk on her upturned face and watched as a green Sprite landed at her feet. Mesmerized, she picked it up. She watched it slowly fade until there was nothing left but the warm prickly buzz of Magyk on her palm. Tod smiled. This morning she really felt the power of the Wizard Tower, a repository of so many thousands of years of Magyk. She thought of the huge block of lapis lazuli on which it stood, concentrating the Magyk, increasing it, driving it, and she shivered. Sometimes the place almost overwhelmed her. She shook herself out of her daze and hurried away—she mustn’t be late for Oskar.
Tod strode purposefully out through the Great Arch and into the deserted wide avenue of Wizard Way, which stretched away in front of her. Lit by matching pairs of silver torch posts, Wizard Way was quietly beautiful in the morning twilight. As the tinny chimes of the Drapers Yard Clock drifted over the rooftops, Tod counted five and broke into a jog. She could already see a small figure leaning against the doorway of the Manuscriptorium.
“You’re late,” hissed Oskar, stepping from the shadows. “I was about to go without you.”
“Sorry, Oskie,” Tod whispered. “It always takes longer to get out of the Wizard Tower than I expect.”
Oskar could never be cross with Tod for long. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.”
They walked rapidly down the Way, hurrying from one pool of torchlight to the next. “So what’s this stuff you’ve got, Oskie?” Tod asked.
Oskar took a brown paper bag from his pocket and gave it to Tod. She stopped beneath a torch post, gingerly opened the bag and peered in. It was full of delicate blue balls like little sparkling sugar sweets. “They’re Languid Lizard Charms,” Oskar said proudly. “From the Wild Book Store.”
“The Wild Book Store?” Tod said. “I didn’t know you were allowed in there.”
Oskar looked shifty. “Er, well, it wasn’t me who went in, actually.”
Tod caught Oskar’s expression. “So who did?” she asked.
“Um,” said Oskar. “Well. It was Drammer Makken.”
Tod nearly dropped the bag. “Drammer?”
“He was very helpful,” Oskar said defensively. “He seemed to really care about the Ormlet.”
“Seemed,” Tod said scornfully.
“No, I think he did. He mentioned Ormie first, not me. And the Wild Book Store is a scary place. There were horrible growls when he went in, and a Pteragon tried to bite him. Drammer’s not so bad, you know.”
“You be careful of him, Oskie. I don’t trust him.”
“Oh, he’s over all that Wiz stuff,” Oskar said, referring to the sled race that Drammer had lost his chance to run. “He said seeing as you never finished anyway, it didn’t bother him.”
“Huh,” was Tod’s response.
“I know,” Oskar said sympathetically. “It bugs me that I didn’t finish either. But there’s always next year.”
Tod grinned. “Yeah, we’re going to win next year, Oskie.” She peered again into the little paper bag. “These are lovely. They feel kind of . . . calm. Gentle.”
“Yeah. They were in a book called Draxx.”
“Septimus has a Draxx too,” Tod said. “But there aren’t any Charms in it.”
“There weren’t any in ours either,” Oskar said, “until this one was discovered. Apparently one of the dinosaur books had eaten it ages ago. And then the dinosaur book died and fell apart and the Draxx dropped out—complete with Charms.”
“That is so weird,” Tod said.
Oskar smiled. “It is. That’s why I like it at the Manuscriptorium.”
Tod and Oskar walked companionably down Wizard Way, chatting about the Castle. They were both still new to the place and enjoyed swapping notes, but Oskar’s conversation always came back to the Ormlet. “I so hope this works,” he said. “I just want to get it right for Ormie.”
“Its name is not Ormie, Oskie,” Tod said.
“It’s Ormie to me, whatever anyone says. So there.”
At the end of Wizard Way, they crossed over to a tall fence of iron railings that enclosed some woods. Tod opened a gate and led the way into a dark footpath that ran through the narrow strip of woodland bordering the Palace gardens. The path was overhung by trees and had an uneasy atmosphere due to the fact that it was a regular haunt for members of the Wendron Witch coven, who were keeping watch on the Palace. Tod could feel remnants of the witchy presence and it made her nervous.
The path took them down to the riverbank and then along to the Palace Landing Stage where blazing torches lit the stone quay. They stopped and looked out at the mist hovering over the sluggish waters of the river and listened to the quiet peeping of the river birds searching the mud for worms.
“It’s going to be a beautiful day,” Oskar whispered. “You can tell by the mist. It’s already evaporating off the surface. And I so want Ormie to enjoy it. She’s not got long now before . . . well, you know.”
You know referred to the next stage of the Ormlet’s development: Stasis. According to Orm Fancier’s Factoids—a short version of which had recently been printed for the public and was generally referred to as the OFF—Stasis was a state of coma. It would occur toward the end of the first six months of the Ormlet’s life, which the OFF called the larval stage. Once in Stasis, a cocoon would form around the young Orm. About one hundred hours later the cocoon would explode, and a small, fragile, hollow tube with a ferocious cutting tool at one end would emerge and immediately burrow down into the earth. From that moment on, it would eat its way through rock, turning it to lapis lazuli. Why it did this, the OFF had no idea.
Tod and Oskar walked on toward a very tall hedge, dark and dense. Beyond this lay the Dragon Field, where the Ormlet resided with its Imprinted Orm-Mother, Septimus’s dragon, Spit Fyre. They opened the gate and followed the path to what was known as the Dragon Kennel—a long, tall, stone building with a line of windows just below the roofline, set high enough for a dragon to look out of. Nervously they approached a ramp leading up to a set of battered double doors, secured with a broad iron bar. Above was a sign painted in green and outlined in gold: Dragon Kennel, beneath which Orm Nursery had been added. From within came the unmistakable sound of a sleeping dragon: long, slow breaths like the wind sighing in the treetops.
Tod and Oskar skirted the ramp and headed for a small door in the side of the Dragon Kennel. Oskar took off his rucksack. “I’ve got her a chicken,” he said. “She loves chicken.”
Tod was touched by Oskar’s devotion to the Ormlet, but she didn’t share it. The Ormlet’s very existence had nearly led to the loss of her home village and the death of her father. And now its presence in the Castle had caused a rift between two people of whom Tod was extremely fond: Septimus and the previous ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Marcia Overstrand. Septimus had been diplomatic about their differences, but Tod knew he and Marcia had fallen out over the consequences of putting the Ormlet beneath the Wizard Tower. After a particularly angry exchange with Septimus ten days ago, Marcia had walked out and had not been seen since—and the cause of all the strife and unhappiness was the snappy, spiteful little Ormlet that Oskar unaccountably loved. Tod’s thoughts were rudely interrupted by a cold roast chicken hurtling toward her. She caught it, protesting. “Oh, yuck, Oskie.”
“Hang on to it while I get the Charms out,” Oskar said. “I’m going to put them into the chicken like stuffing. Ormie’s going to love it.”
Tod held the chicken and felt the crackle of Magyk as Oskar poured a stream of sparkling blue balls into it. “That’s a lot of Charms,” she said. “Are you sure you need so many? Oops, that one missed.”
Tod picked up the tiny Charm and held it between her finger and thumb, feeling the buzz of Magyk zipping through her hand. “Can I keep it?” she asked.
Oskar peered into the chicken. It was almost overflowing with
the Charms. He nodded. “I reckon we’ve got plenty here. Drammer says you need one for each pound of weight and there were fifty-five. Fifty-four is easily okay.”
Tod bit back a comment about Drammer saying whatever suited him and put the Charm into the pocket of her Apprentice belt.
“Time for Ormie’s breakfast,” Oskar said jauntily. “Do you suppose she’s awake yet?”
As if in answer a tremendous thud came from inside the Dragon Kennel.
“Well, someone is,” Tod said.
“All set?” Oskar said a little anxiously.
“Yep,” Tod replied. “In we go.”
THE DRAGON KENNEL
Tod switched her FlashLight to red—a color considered soothing for reptiles. Oskar pushed open the door and he and Tod slipped inside. The Dragon Kennel was dark, musty and full of dragon. Tod and Oskar stood knee-deep in straw, staring at the serrated shape of Spit Fyre’s back, a glowing black in the red light. Spit Fyre’s mouth watered; he adored roast chicken. He raised his head and his brilliant green eye ringed with a circle of red regarded the bringers of the feast. Spit Fyre took in the familiar forms of the two young humans who had been with him at the hatching of the Ormlet and had helped to save it from the clutches of a particularly nasty sorcerer. They were always welcome. Especially when they brought roast chicken.
“Hello, Spit Fyre,” Tod whispered.
Spit Fyre practiced a recently acquired skill—he winked.
“We’ve come to see Ormie,” Oskar added. “I’ve got a chicken for her.”
Spit Fyre suppressed a sigh. His baby must come first, even with chicken. Resigned, he laid his head back down on the straw and closed his eyes.
Tod peered into the gloom, looking for the Ormlet. Suddenly her FlashLight caught a glimpse of gold. She crept forward and saw the blue of the Ormlet curled up against the pale whiteness of Spit Fyre’s stomach. Wedged at a jauntily crooked angle upon its flat head was Jenna’s golden circlet. “Oskie,” she whispered. “It’s here.”
Oskar remembered Barney Pot’s toes and felt suddenly nervous. The Ormlet had a tendency to snap. And when it snapped it did damage, for the Orm had a line of sharp, curved bone in its mouth like a solid row of teeth, which acted like a guillotine. Holding the roast chicken out in front of him like a shield, Oskar crept around the bulge of Spit Fyre’s belly and, taking care to hold the chicken upright so that the Languid Lizard Charms stayed inside, he nervously waved the bird beneath the flared nostrils of the sleeping Ormlet. It opened one brilliant blue eye and looked at him. “Hello, Ormie,” Oskar whispered.
The Ormlet had mixed feelings associated with Oskar Sarn. Oskar had been present at its hatching but so had a lot of humans, and one of them had pulled its tail off. The Ormlet was pretty sure that wasn’t Oskar, but an Orm always knows where its tail is, and the Ormlet knew that Oskar had it. That did not please the Ormlet at all, despite the fact it had grown a perfect new tail. However, the Ormlet also knew that its Orm-Mother (Spit Fyre) had saved Oskar from a fatal fall, and it suspected that if it tried to eat Oskar, its mother would be angry. And the Ormlet did not want that.
Oskar looked into the clear blue eye of the Ormlet. He was aware that something was going on inside its flat little brain, but luckily he was unaware that he was treading a narrow line between friend and food.
It was the roast chicken that decided the Ormlet. Food did not bring more food. Therefore Oskar was friend. And so very delicately, the Ormlet took the chicken between its prehensile lips, threw it up into the air, opened its mouth so it gaped like a snake’s, and the chicken—along with its cargo of fifty-four Languid Lizard Charms—disappeared into oblivion.
The Ormlet licked its lips and awaited chicken number two: Barney Pot always fed it three. The Ormlet had reached its counting-to-three milestone only a few days ago and it was enjoying its newfound skill. It opened its mouth for Oskar to pop the next chicken in.
Oskar gazed back at the Orm happily. It looked so sweet, he thought. Like a little baby bird.
Tod thought otherwise. In her opinion the Orm looked dangerously hungry. “Oskar,” she hissed urgently, “we need to get out of here.”
“Okay,” Oskar said. “I’ll just get the circlet.” He reached out to lift it from the Ormlet’s head only for Tod to grab his arm—hard.
“Ouch,” Oskar protested. “What are you doing?”
“Oskie, don’t. It’ll bite.”
“No, it won’t. It’s eaten all the Charms now.”
“Eaten them, yes, but not digested them.”
Oskar turned around. “It needs to digest them? Don’t they work at once? You know, like Magyk?”
“No, Oskie, they don’t,” Tod said. “Edible Charms have to be digested. Didn’t Drammer tell you that?”
“No,” Oskar replied grumpily. “He didn’t mention that. At all.” He broke off as something wet and rasping touched his hand. “Oh look, Ormie’s trying to lick me . . . Oh! Hey! Get off!”
The Ormlet had grown tired of waiting for chicken number two and had decided to eat Oskar’s hand, which smelled quite chickeny. Oskar managed to snatch his hand away but the Ormlet snapped at his sleeve, pulling Oskar toward it, then it put a clawed foot on Oskar’s stomach and began to shake Oskar’s arm violently.
“Tod!” Oskar cried in dismay.
Tod seized Oskar’s jacket and pulled him back. In reply, the Ormlet tugged him forward. Spit Fyre, used to the Ormlet’s wrigglings, paid no attention. The Ormlet had come to the conclusion that Oskar was food—he was the chicken-number-two substitute and the other human was the chicken-number-three substitute. The Ormlet licked its lips, opened its mouth, and a spurt of saliva shot into the air.
Oskar, who had read everything possible about Orms, knew exactly what that meant. “Help!” he yelled. “Help!”
In one deft movement, Tod spun Oskar around, pulling him out of his jacket, and propelled him toward the side door. As a disappointed Ormlet munched on the jacket and the packet of FrootLumps left in the pocket, Tod pushed Oskar out into the fresh air and slammed the door behind them.
“Thanks, Tod,” Oskar said, pale and trembling.
“I don’t know what you see in that creature,” Tod said. “It would be much better for everyone if it was locked up safely beneath the Wizard Tower.”
But Oskar loved the Ormlet no matter what. “Better for everyone,” he said, “except Ormie.”
PART IV
A LETTER
Tod slipped back into the Wizard Tower and was relieved to see that no one was around. She went off to the canteen to find some breakfast.
Some twenty floors above, Septimus Heap was sitting at his writing desk in his study. Septimus was not a great letter writer, but there was one letter he could put off no longer. He selected his favorite pen—one that Marcia had given him on his induction as ExtraOrdinary Wizard—and, with a twinge of regret about his last irritable words to the giver of the pen, he began the final copy of many attempts. It read:
The Wizard Tower
The Castle
From the desk of the ExtraOrdinary Wizard, Septimus Heap
By the hand of Benhira-Benhara Grula-Grula
Dear Princess Driffa,
I hope you are well.
I had hoped to be able to bring you your precious Orm Egg as I promised to do, but unfortunately, due to circumstances beyond my control, the Egg has hatched. However, all is not lost. We managed to get to the Egg for the very moment of hatching and my dragon, Spit Fyre, Imprinted it. We now have the baby Orm residing at the Castle, and I hope soon to place it beneath the Wizard Tower for the benefit of us all.
I sincerely hope that in the fullness of time, this Orm will lay another Egg, which I will be able to bring you and once more your beautiful Chamber of the Great Orm will be complete.
Septimus paused and reread the letter. It seemed rather stilted, but he was unused to writing to princesses, especially attractive yet haughty ones. He sat for some minutes staring out of the windo
w, and then picked up his pen and added:
I wonder if you would like to visit the former occupant of your Egg? It is healthy and growing fast and I am sure would prove interesting for you to see. I would be happy to escort you through the Ways to our Wizard Tower, where we do have some very pleasant guest accommodations.
Septimus broke off and thought of the ratty little guest room at the end of the Apprentice corridor. That would not do for a princess. He must do something about that at once. He picked up the pen again.
You would be most welcome. Please send your reply by the hand of the deliverer of this letter, and I will meet you at your convenience.
With very best wishes,
Septimus Heap, EOW
Septimus reread the letter and sighed. It wasn’t witty, it wasn’t amusing and it didn’t even sound like he had written it, but it was the best he could do. He folded it into three, sealed it with the ExtraOrdinary Wizard Seal and took it down to the Great Hall.
A bowl of oatmeal in one hand and a mug of hot cinnamon milk in the other, Tod was heading across the canteen toward Rose, who was sitting at a corner table near a noisy group of Senior Apprentices, members of the notorious Knights of Knee gang.
Rose tucked her long brown plait over her shoulder and smiled up at Tod. “Hey, Tod,” she said. “Come and join me.”
“Hey.” Tod faltered, aware of being stared at.
“Hay?” one of the Knights of Knee mimicked in a high voice.
“Neigh . . . neigh . . .” another whinnied, to the great amusement of the rest of the gang.
Rose wheeled around and eyeballed them. “Stop that right now,” she said.
One of the gang snorted like a horse.
“Newt Makken,” Rose said. “I Name you.”
Tod felt very awkward. If a Wizard Named an Apprentice they had to make themselves available for cleanup duties in the evening—and that evening Tod knew there was a party at the old Infirmary. She guessed the Knights of Knee had been planning to go.