The Vanishing Sculptor

  Fenworth came fully awake as he often did, one minute snoring and the next spouting off whatever was on his mind. He had apparently heard Tipper’s question. “The truth wasn’t going to hurt us, girl.”

  Verrin Schope sat up straighter. “Truth is one of the most important tenets of Wulder’s teachings.”

  Tipper smiled at her father, not really listening to his words. “I’m so glad you’re back.” Her smile dissolved as she thought about all he’d been through. “Why did they kidnap you?”

  “Now that’s a good question,” said Fenworth. “A person who can ask good questions will go far in the world. Provided, of course, she gets answers.”

  She ignored him and kept her eye on her father.

  “Well, as outlandish as it may sound, they wanted to ship me to another country—Maronde, to be exact. King Affron is not above buying an artisan to serve him.”

  Tipper gasped. “A slave?”

  Verrin Schope twisted his face into a grimace. “Yes, and they weren’t too pleased that I was too weak to travel.”

  Bealomondore leaned forward. “How were they going to force you to produce?”

  “That didn’t come up in their conversations, but I imagine their means would not have been pleasant. I am grateful for the rescue, my friends.”

  Beccaroon shuddered and unfurled his wings. “It’s time for me to test this tail.”

  He launched into the air and, as far as Tipper could see, had no problems. The men in the wagon cheered, and she clapped.

  “That’s a good sight,” said Verrin Schope.

  In the distance, Tipper spotted dark spots flying above the horizon. She stood and pointed. “There are the other dragons.”

  Piefer slapped his hat on his knee. “Now, that’s a sight I’ve waited all my life to see.”

  Rowser snapped the reins, and the horses responded by speeding up. Tipper lost her balance and fell back over the driver’s seat, landing in Fenworth’s lap.

  “Umph! Girl!” He struggled to sit up.

  “Whoa,” said Rowser, and the wagon stopped.

  “Prince Jayrus! Verrin Schope! Remove this woman from my lap. She’s squishing some furry creature, and it’s as frantic as a drowning rabbit.” He pushed ineffectively at Tipper’s wriggling form. “It is a rabbit! Get this girl off me.”

  Bealomondore grabbed one of her arms and started hauling her upward. Prince Jayrus put his hands around her small waist and lifted her easily. He set her on her feet but did not let her go. The young tumanhofer resumed his seat beside Librettowit, and they exchanged a knowing look.

  From the safety of one of the prince’s strong arms encircling her waist, Tipper addressed the imposed-upon old man. “I’m so sorry, Wizard Fenworth. Are you all right?”

  He threw her a sour glare.

  She swallowed. “Is the rabbit all right?”

  His expression softened. “You are a tender-hearted gal. Excitable. Clumsy. But tender-hearted.” He gave a nod. “The rabbit is fine and has retreated to a hollow.”

  “I’m glad.” Tipper glanced around. “Where’s Papa?”

  Librettowit picked Verrin Schope’s board up off the floor. “He was here when Beccaroon took off.”

  Fenworth stretched out his hand, and his librarian handed over the piece of closet. The wizard turned it over and over in his lap. “Not here,” he said.

  A slight pressure to her waist, pulling her back against the prince, reminded Tipper to stay calm.

  The wizard placed the board across his knees. “I don’t think we need be alarmed.” He turned to Librettowit. “Have you been keeping records of Verrin Schope’s stability status?”

  “Did you ask me to?”

  The wizard sat up straighter. “You’ve been my librarian for hundreds of years. Now I have to start telling you how to do your job?”

  The old tumanhofer stood, a profound glower darkening his features. He stepped forward, casting a shadow on the board in Wizard Fenworth’s lap. Librettowit didn’t move again, but the shadow twisted, thickened, and grew in mass. In another moment, Verrin Schope sat on his board on Fenworth’s lap.

  The old man bristled. “What is it with you, Schope? My lap is too old to hold cumbersome emerlindians.”

  With one nimble move, Verrin Schope slipped off the board and stood. Tipper broke from the prince’s embrace and threw her arms around her father. “Papa! What took so long? I thought—I thought you were gone.”

  He hugged her. “No, Tipper, my dear. I’ve been practicing to slowly dissipate and reform. This time I was taken by surprise in the excitement of your fall. I flashed out, but I was able to slow down the reappearance.”

  “I thought you wanted to do it quickly.”

  “My mistake was thinking faster is better. I believe that is what drained me to the point of disability. I believe the combination of low exertion, the remedy Fenworth and Rowser and Piefer concocted, and common sense will keep me alive while we gather the second and third statues.”

  “You believe? You’re not sure?”

  He kissed her forehead. “I shall believe very diligently.” He leaned back and looked at her face. “I also believe that Wulder will allow me to stay with you long enough to tell you His story.”

  Doubt seized Tipper’s throat. Wulder? They relied on a fable like Boscamon to give her father time? Even children knew the whims of Boscamon were not to be trusted. Children listened to the stories of his trickery and then made up tales of their own. She leaned against her father and melted into his embrace, yearning for facts instead of fairy tales.

  36

  Dressing Up

  Beccaroon could not sustain flight for as long as he had before losing his tail. He hoped that with time, the manipulation of the new tail would become less arduous. For now, he had to think through each motion. He joined the dragons when they landed to pick up the other questers.

  Rowser and Piefer were enthralled by the riding dragons. They circled them, drew closer, and ended up helping groom the mighty beasts.

  Beccaroon stood to one side, resting after his brief flight and feeling strangely emotional. Gratitude mixed with relief pushed against his chest, making it hard to breathe. If grand parrots were capable of weeping, he would have disgraced himself completely. As it was, the bustle of getting everything ready to depart covered his lack of composure.

  Fenworth and Librettowit pulled riding gear out of the wizard’s hollows. The prince insisted on a thorough grooming of all four dragons. The minor dragons flew about the field in a wild game of chase, as if energy poured into them through the sun’s rays.

  Beccaroon needed only to keep to himself and let the others ignore him, but necessity forced him to seek out the only member of the questing party who might be able to help.

  “Prince Jayrus.” Beccaroon tried to sound casual. “May I have a word in private?”

  “Of course, Sir Beccaroon.”

  The two gentlemen walked away from the others.

  Before the prince could deliver his “What can I do for you?” line, Beccaroon jumped in. “I have a problem with which I need your assistance.”

  Jayrus remained silent. Bec looked up to see concern on the young man’s face and a kindness in his eyes that twisted Beccaroon’s heart.

  Bec snorted and looked away. “My little jaunt in the sky this afternoon has proven to me that I am not up to a long flight. Not yet.”

  Still the young prince did not speak.

  “Neither can I abandon the quest. The two people I care about most need me.”

  “I agree,” said Prince Jayrus. “They need you, and you should not abandon the quest.”

  His words made it easier for Beccaroon to broach the central issue of his request. “I shall have to prevail upon you to request a dragon to allow me to ride upon his or her back.”

  The prince’s voice returned the answer quietly, with a deep resonance that soothed Beccaroon like a bass tune. “That shall be no problem. I thank you for confiding in me and allowing m
e to be of service. Will you ride with me? I would be honored, and so would Caesannede.”

  Beccaroon nodded, cleared his throat, and spoke. “I shall fly from time to time to strengthen my muscles and adjust to the usage of this excellent tail.”

  “Yes,” the prince said somberly, then lightened his tone. “Shall we be off? The next leg of our journey should be interesting. Although I hope it is not interesting in the same perilous way as the first.”

  They said good-bye to Rowser and Piefer. Beccaroon managed to thank them for their part in acquiring the materials for his new tail. He’d wanted to avoid the emotional encounter, but good manners dictated a formal leave-taking, complete with an expression of gratitude.

  He launched into the sky as soon as was politely feasible and flew for the first three miles or so. He then settled behind Prince Jayrus on Caesannede. A ridge on the dragons back provided an excellent perch, almost as if made for the size of Bec’s feet. Sitting directly behind Prince Jayrus gave him some shelter from the wind so that he did not have to expend as much energy to stay seated.

  They camped in the countryside the first night. The second night they stayed in a small tavern, The Bell and the Ball. The hostel sat at a crossroads and had a number of customers and patrons who liked the conversation of the brother and sister owners. Even as tired as they were, the questing party stayed up to listen to the tales of the pair.

  Two men came in late and demanded the others listen.

  “You won’t believe what’s happened,” said the younger man, a marione.

  The older o’rant man interrupted. “Over by Bill Gritt’s farm, a ridge has just popped up out of the ground.”

  “And the strange thing is that Bliddye Moscar’s got a new ravine.” The marione waited for the listeners to encourage him to continue. He took his hat off and thumped it against his palm for emphasis. “Formed right under his barn, so’s the animals and everything fell in.”

  “We’ve been there all day, helping rescue the cows and pigs.”

  “But,” said the younger one, “here’s the kicker. If you were to take that ridge and turn it upside down, it would fit in that ravine. I swear it! We didn’t measure or anything, but you could see with the naked eye it was just like someone pulled out a long chunk of earth and turned it upside down two miles away.”

  The crowd reacted with suitable remarks of amazement.

  Librettowit leaned over the table and spoke quietly to his companions. “Just the sort of thing that might happen should a malfunctioning gateway stretch out and try to right itself.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Tipper.

  “Can’t blame you for that,” said Wizard Fenworth. “We’ve been studying it for fifteen years, and our most recent conclusion is that we don’t understand either.”

  The report of the two men gave their quest an added sense of urgency.

  By noonmeal the next day, they sighted Hunthaven Manor. From their height, they could see beyond to the stately gray mansion of Runan Hill. When they landed in a pasture near the manor, farmhands came running to see the sight. The master of the house came out to greet them on horseback.

  “Bealomondore!” greeted Garamond Hunt. “You of all people, arriving on dragonback! Ho! Ho! I suppose this heralds the coming news.”

  Beccaroon accompanied the young tumanhofer as he strode across the field with his hand shielding his eyes against the sun.

  The bird eyed the man. “Of what do you speak?”

  The jolly marione laughed and waved a hand as if to dismiss his comments. “A nursery rhyme, nothing more. Introduce me, please. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to a grand parrot.”

  “Garamond Hunt, my friend Sir Beccaroon of the Indigo Forest.”

  The landowner tipped his hat, and Bec bowed.

  “I’ve heard of you, of course,” said Master Hunt. “Are you acquainted with Rudyard of Hollow Hills?”

  “I am.”

  “He’s a grand fellow. Quite a wit. I went to school with him a few years back.”

  The grand parrot nodded, remembering a recent encounter. “I saw him just last summer at my aunt’s one hundredth birthday party. He’s well and still tells a good joke.”

  Hunt’s smile wrinkled his entire face. A bigger grin would have collapsed his nose between his mouth and his brow. Beccaroon felt the corners of his eyes twitch, which meant his own expression was at its joyful maximum. Recalling Rudyard and his shenanigans brightened an already agreeable meeting.

  “Well, Bealomondore, you always keep enjoyable company.” Master Hunt gestured with his hand to indicate the others in the questing party. “Who are your other friends?”

  “Travelers from afar, Chiril’s own Verrin Schope and his daughter, and a prince of dragons.”

  Garamond Hunt laughed again, loud and hard. “You keep lofty company, as well.” He turned and pointed to one of the youngsters in the crowd. “You, boy go fetch a carriage for our guests.”

  “Thank you, Master Hunt,” said Bealomondore. “First, we’ll make the dragons comfortable. They’ve carried us here from Fayetopolis.”

  The marione whooped, making his mount sidestep. He brought the mare quickly under control and peered down at Bealomondore. “That’s six hundred miles! How long did it take you?”

  “The afternoon of the first day, all of the second, and this is our third.”

  “Amazing, amazing. I’ll go tell Gienella you’re here. She’ll be delighted. My dear wife has had a soft spot in her heart for you ever since you painted her portrait. Silly woman doesn’t believe she’s as pretty as the gal in the picture. The smile and the sparkle and that bush of red hair make her vastly flattered.” Hunt pushed his hat brim so that his hat sat farther back on his gray and flaxen hair. He winked. “You and I know better, though. She’s prettier than your fancy painting.”

  Bealomondore smiled broadly. “That she is, sir.”

  Hunt turned his horse and waved. “Come up when you’re ready, but don’t keep my Gienella waiting too long.”

  “Yes sir!”

  Tipper relished the chance to wear yet another beautiful gown. And the room she was given for her chambers had a lovely long mirror on a stand that reflected her image without the splotches that had grown on the mirrors at Byrdschopen. Her mother said the mirrors needed to be re-silvered and that she would have it done as soon as a certain tinker came that way again.

  Tipper sat on the edge of a cushioned armchair and held its decorative pillow in her lap. A sense of loneliness descended upon her. She wished her mother could be with them. Even knowing that Lady Peg didn’t always understand simple things, Tipper knew her mother and father belonged together.

  A knock on the door disturbed her musings. When Tipper opened the door, Gienella Hunt swept into the room, hugged her, then stood back to give her a thorough examination. She clasped her hands in front of her and wagged her head, her face never losing its enthusiastic expression. “You are gorgeous. But how could I expect the granddaughter of King Yellat and Queen Venmarie to be anything else? We go to court twice a year.”

  Madam Hunt took hold of Tipper’s shoulders and guided her to a vanity. Stunned, Tipper allowed herself to be led by her enthusiastic hostess. Her mother had never made a secret of her royal lineage, but since the king and queen had never been a part of Tipper’s life and had not once invited her to their home in Ragar, it was hard to relate to being of the royal family herself

  Surely a princess shouldn’t be selling off the family heirlooms to pay the butcher. A small coal of anger burned in her breast. Her grandparents could have helped had they so desired.

  As Gienella pushed her down on the cushioned bench, Tipper tamped down her irritating thought and spoke calmly. “I’ve never been to the palace.”

  The mistress of the house ignored her comment. “I’m just going to put your hair up, little princess.” Gienella’s long fingers combed through Tipper’s waist-length tresses. “Two—no, four—braids. Then we’ll twist them
around each other and wrap them around your head like a crown. And I have some jeweled hairpins to hold them in place. You’ll look like royalty.”

  Tipper sat up straighter, stretching her neck in a manner her mother used. “I’m not exactly little. And no one has ever called me princess.”

  Madam Hunt pulled back for a moment, and her eyes met Tipper’s in the mirror. The friendly smile did not change. “My dear, have you not kept track of the lineage of our rulers?”

  “Only as a school assignment.”

  The woman behind her went back to work, separating her hair into even locks. “You are the next in line.” She tsked. “Just like your mother and father not to care for such societal conventions. But you have been the talk of the court for years. Your grandfather issued an edict that you were to be left alone. I see Bealomondore broke that quite nicely.”

  “He came to visit my father.”

  “Another edict broken. Your father was consigned to solitude as well.”

  “Why?”

  Madam Hunt’s nimble fingers ceased twisting Tipper’s hair. Tipper looked in the mirror and saw her hostess staring at the ceiling with a puzzled expression on her face.

  She clicked her tongue against her teeth and looked at Tipper in the mirror once more. “I think it was a statue. One with a double chin. Your grandfather took exception to it, but I don’t remember if it was a depiction of His Highness or Her Highness.” She leaned over and whispered in Tipper’s ear. “It could have been either. They both like feasts.” She stood erect and resumed the elaborate braiding of the tresses in her hands. “The number of holidays requiring celebration has doubled during King Yellat’s reign.”

  “Do you know my mother?” asked Tipper.

  Madam Hunt paused again. Her face reflected what must have been wonderful memories. “Yes, I do.” She lightly rapped Tipper on the shoulder with a comb. “Do you sing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, now that is fine. I do too. We shall have a musicale this evening.” Holding four long, thin braids in one hand, Gienella searched through the drawers of the vanity with her other. “Aha! Here they are.” She pulled out a flat bowl of hairpins, each tipped with a small gem. “This will look perfect.”