that he would. ‘Can he breathe fire?’ he asked, eyes wide with wonder. To any boy of thirteen, even a cousin to a dragon was worthy of awe.
‘When the mood suits him, he can belch out a flame or two, though he seems rarely in the mood. I think it is due to the rich diet I supply him with, boy. He has not had to hunt for years, so he is something out of practice in the ways of drakes. In truth, I spoil him shamelessly.’
Pug found the notion somehow reassuring. If the magician cared enough to spoil this creature, no matter how outlandish, then he seemed somehow more human, less mysterious. Pug studied Fantus, admiring how the fire brought golden highlights to his emerald scales. About the size of a small hound, the drake possessed a long, sinuous neck atop which rested an alligatorlike head. His wings were folded across his back, and two clawed feet extended before him, aimlessly pawing the air, while Kulgan scratched behind bony eye ridges. His long tail swung back and forth, inches above the floor.
The door opened and the big bowman entered, holding a dressed and spitted loin of pork before him. Without a word he crossed to the fireplace and set the meat to cook. Fantus raised his head, using his long neck to good advantage to peek over the table. With a flick of his forked tongue, the drake jumped down and, in stately fashion, ambled over to the hearth. He selected a warm spot before the fire and curled up to doze away the wait before dinner.
The franklin unfastened his cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. ‘Storm will pass afore dawn, I’m thinking.’ He returned to the fire and prepared a basting of wine and herbs for the pig. Pug was startled to see a large scar that ran down the left side of the man’s face, showing red and angry in the firelight.
Kulgan waved his pipe in the franklin’s direction. ‘Knowing my tightlipped man here, you’ll not have made his proper acquaintance. Meecham, this boy is Pug, from the keep at Castle Crydee.’ Meecham gave a brief nod, then returned to tending the roasting loin.
Pug nodded back, though a bit late for Meecham to notice. ‘I never thought to thank you for saving me from the boar.’
Meecham replied, ‘There’s no need for thanks, boy. Had I not startled the beast, it’s unlikely it would have charged you.’ He left the hearth and crossed over to another part of the room, took some brown dough from a cloth-covered bucket, and started kneading.
‘Well, sir,’ said Pug to Kulgan, ‘it was his arrow that killed the pig. It was indeed fortunate that he was following the animal.’
Kulgan laughed. ‘The poor creature, who is our most welcome guest for dinner, happened to be as much a victim of circumstance as yourself.’
Pug looked perplexed. ‘I don’t follow, sir.’
Kulgan stood and took down an object from the topmost shelf on his bookcase and placed it on the table before the boy. It was wrapped in a cover of dark blue velvet, so Pug knew at once it must be a prize of great value for such an expensive material to be used for covering. Kulgan removed the velvet, revealing an orb of crystal that gleamed in the firelight. Pug gave an ah of pleasure at the beauty of it, for it was without apparent flaw and splendid in its simplicity of form.
Kulgan pointed to the sphere of glass. ‘This device was fashioned as a gift by Althafain of Carse, a most puissant artificer of magic, who thought me worthy of such a present, as I have done him a favor or two in the past – but that is of little matter. Having just this day returned from the company of Master Althafain, I was testing his token. Look deep into the orb, Pug.’
Pug fixed his eyes on the ball and tried to follow the flicker of firelight that seemed to play deep within its structure. The reflections of the room, multiplied a hundredfold, merged and danced as his eyes tried to fasten upon each aspect within the orb. They flowed and blended, then grew cloudy and obscure. A soft white glow at the center of the ball replaced the red of firelight, and Pug felt his gaze become trapped by its pleasing warmth. Like the warmth of the kitchen at the keep, he thought absently.
Suddenly the milky white within the ball vanished, and Pug could see an image of the kitchen before his eyes. Fat Alfan the cook was making pastries, licking the sweet crumbs from his fingers. This brought the wrath of Megar, the head cook, down upon his head, for Megar considered it a disgusting habit. Pug laughed at the scene, one he had witnessed before many times, and it vanished. Suddenly he felt tired.
Kulgan wrapped the orb in the cloth and put it away. ‘You did well, boy,’ he said thoughtfully. He stood watching the boy for a moment, as if considering something, then sat down. ‘I would not have suspected you of being able to fashion such a clear image in one try, but you seem to be more than you first appear to be.’
‘Sir?’
‘Never mind, Pug.’ He paused for a moment, then said, ‘I was using that toy for the first time, judging how far I could send my sight, when I spied you making for the road. From your limp and bruised condition, I judged that you would never reach the town, so I sent Meecham to fetch you.’
Pug looked embarrassed by the unusual attention, color rising to his cheeks. He said, with a thirteen-year-old’s high estimation of his own ability, ‘You needn’t have done that, sir. I would have reached the town in due time.’
Kulgan smiled. ‘Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not. The storm is unseasonably severe and perilous for traveling.’
Pug listened to the soft tattoo of rain on the roof of the cottage. The storm seemed to have slackened, and Pug doubted the magician’s words. As if reading the boy’s thought, Kulgan said, ‘Doubt me not, Pug. This glade is protected by more than the great boles. Should you pass beyond the circle of oaks that marks the edge of my holding, you would feel the storm’s fury. Meecham, how do you gauge this wind?’
Meecham put down the bread dough he was kneading and thought for a moment. ‘Near as bad as the storm that beached six ships three years back.’ He paused for a moment, as if reconsidering the estimate, then nodded his endorsement. ‘Yes, nearly as bad, though it won’t blow so long.’
Pug thought back three years to the storm that had blown a Quegan trading fleet bound for Crydee onto the rocks of Sailor’s Grief. At its height, the guards on the castle walls were forced to stay in the towers, lest they be blown down. If this storm was that severe, then Kulgan’s magic was impressive, for outside the cottage it sounded no worse than a spring rain.
Kulgan sat back on the bench, occupied with trying to light his extinguished pipe. As he produced a large cloud of sweet white smoke, Pug’s attention wandered to a case of books standing behind the magician. His lips moved silently as he tried to discern what was written on the bindings, but could not.
Kulgan lifted an eyebrow and said, ‘So you can read, aye?’
Pug started, alarmed that he might have offended the magician by intruding on his domain. Kulgan, sensing his embarrassment, said, ‘It is all right, boy. It is no crime to know letters.’
Pug felt his discomfort diminish. ‘I can read a little, sir. Megar the cook has shown me how to read the tallies on the stores laid away for the kitchen in the cellars. I know some numbers, as well.’
‘Numbers, too,’ the magician exclaimed good-naturedly. ‘Well, you are something of a rare bird.’ He reached behind himself and pulled out one volume, bound in red-brown leather, from the shelf. He opened it, squinting at one page, then another, and at last found a page that seemed to meet his requirements. He turned the open book around and lay it upon the table before Pug. Kulgan pointed to a page illuminated by a magnificent design of snakes, flowers, and twining vines in a colorful design around a large letter in the upper left corner. ‘Read this, boy.’
Pug had never seen anything remotely like it. His lessons had been on plain parchment with letters fashioned in Megar’s blunt script, using a charcoal stick. He sat, fascinated by the details of the work, then realized the magician was staring at him. Regaining his wits, he began to read.
‘And then there came a sum . . . summons from . . .’ He looked at the word, stumbling over the complex combinations that were new to him. ‘. . . Zacara.’ He paused, looking at Kulgan