The Thinking Woman's Guide to Real Magic (17 page)

The magician came over to them and took his cloak from Mrs. Toristel. “We're ready to go.” He gave Nora a sweeping glance, taking in her dusty clogs, the dress that was either a dingy brown or a rusty gray (Nora had given up trying to decide), a bit of chicken fluff clinging to her hem. “She's hardly dressed for court,” he said to Mrs. Toristel with an air of testy pleasure, as though he had finally found a good reason to leave her behind.

“That's all I've got,” Nora said. “My other dress is about the same.” Although she could say with certainty that it was several shades grayer than the other.

Not bothering to suppress a sigh, Aruendiel turned to the winged contraption and carefully lowered himself to sit astride the central branch. Nora clambered onto the branch behind him. There was just enough room to hook her legs in front of the great wings. “I'll have to hold on to you,” she said to the back of Aruendiel's head.

“Hold on to the back of my cloak, if you must.”

The huge wings began to beat, slowly at first, then faster. Dust rose around them. The housekeeper stepped back a few paces.

“Thank you, Mrs. Toristel,” said Aruendiel. “I will see you in a few days.”

He hadn't said
we
, Nora noticed. “Good-bye,” she said, lifting her free hand. The winged branch lifted off, tilting backward as it rose, and Nora felt herself slide rearward. Uttering a little shriek, she tightened her grip on Aruendiel's cloak with one hand and grabbed at his shoulder with the other. He tensed slightly under her clutch, but seemed to be too occupied with guiding their flight to protest.

The white speck that was Mrs. Toristel's face, the slates of the roof, the yellowing fields outside the castle walls, all revolved under Nora's feet as she and Aruendiel circled, gaining altitude. But not too much altitude. The immense wings, she could somehow tell, were ready to test their power, to keep climbing until they were miles above the earth, but the magician was leaning forward, holding the branch with both hands and fighting to force it down onto a level path, not much higher than the treetops. That was fine with Nora. She watched the village pass below, with more white dots looking up at them, and then more fields.

They were headed southwest, Nora guessed from the angle of the sun. It was hard to enjoy herself, exactly, but overall this was an easier flight than the one from Ilissa's castle, if only because this time she could see and feel what was keeping her aloft. The great wings pumped away in a rhythm that she began to find almost restful. She was also relieved to note that Aruendiel seemed to have no interest in flying especially fast.

By midafternoon, they had passed half a dozen villages and one good-size town, but the only people who seemed to notice were some children who ran along below, trying to outrace them. Despite the breeze, the sun was warm on her face and shoulders, and it was beginning to make her squint as it sank lower in the sky. Nora yawned.

They were flying roughly along the course of a river that looped through a marsh, leading to a lake just visible ahead. On the river a man fished from a rowboat, the brim of his conical hat tilting as he looked up at them. He was close enough that Nora could tell his mouth had opened in a small O of surprise. But as they flew over, she noticed, the fisherman's gaze did not follow them. He was looking back at the way they had come.

With sudden disquiet, she twisted back to scan the air. A movement above registered as familiar even before she consciously identified it: The powerful sweep of leathery wings, less than a hundred yards away and gaining.

Nora shook Aruendiel's shoulder. “It's Raclin!” She had a quick, irrational fear that the magician had fallen asleep, but no, he had turned his head. She felt his shoulder tighten. Raclin was diving straight at them.

Wings thrusting, their flying contraption torqued upward and to the left, so abruptly that Nora thought she might slide off. The Raclin monster missed them. At once it recovered, turning to climb.

Aruendiel urged their mount into a sort of roller-coaster maneuver—arcing up, dropping down—but Raclin clipped one of their wings as he rocketed past. The wooden mount did a vertiginous half roll before regaining its equilibrium. Now Raclin swooped over their heads, so close that Nora instinctively ducked.

It was painfully obvious that Raclin was both faster and more agile in the air than they were.

“Can't you do something to him?” Nora cried in Aruendiel's ear. “The way you did yesterday?”

He snorted. “If I raise a thunderstorm, we'll be in the middle of it, too.”

“Just make him stop!”

Aruendiel pulled his flying contrivance into a steep climb, trying to outrun Raclin. They were already at least a thousand feet above the ground. But Raclin kept up easily, baring his teeth at them as he flew.

Flying to Semr was a complete mistake, Nora thought savagely. Aruendiel should have realized that Raclin would attack them in the air—he had the advantage there. Raclin was just playing with them now. She thought briefly of how lovely it would be to be a geranium, safely anchored in a big pot in a sunny corner of the castle courtyard.

Apparently deciding that they had climbed high enough, Aruendiel changed tactics. They headed into a dive almost as sharp as their previous ascent. Raclin sped after them, claws out. Every time she looked back, he was closer. And so was the ground, crazy-quilted with bright green marshland and golden fields and deep green forest.

“Where is he now?” Aruendiel shouted, his eyes fixed on their downward path.

“Right behind us.” Surely it was time to pull out of their dive now—right now—

“Good,” Aruendiel said, jerking the branch upward with a sudden effort. With a jolt that almost unseated Nora, they straightened into a fast, level flight path that skimmed the treetops.

Nora looked over her shoulder. If Aruendiel had hoped to outmaneuver Raclin, he had miscalculated. The creature swooped after them, dipping its wings with a flourish. Nora had the distinct impression that Raclin was enjoying himself.

“He's still there,” she said. Aruendiel didn't answer. Now they had run out of trees and were flying low over water: the lake that Nora had seen earlier. The wooden wings kept touching the water, throwing up white sprays of foam. Perhaps Aruendiel was preparing for a water landing—another terrible idea, Nora thought, since the Raclin monster looked as though he'd be nearly as comfortable in the water as in the air.

To her alarm, she realized that their speed had slackened. A look back: Raclin was no more than thirty feet behind.

Nora had opened her mouth to warn Aruendiel—couldn't they go any faster?—when she noticed an agitation in the lake dead ahead. She had the impression of shadowy movement under the surface of the water, something long and black and supple. As they flew over it, on an impulse she raised her dangling feet.

She heard a loud splash behind them, as though Raclin had dipped a wing in the water, too. She twisted to look back.

But there was nothing to see, just a white churning in the water. Raclin had vanished. She twisted around in her seat, looking around the lake and up at the sky. It must be a trick; any minute now he would drop out of the air from some unexpected angle or surge up from the lake water.

“Is he gone?” Aruendiel said after a while.

Nora exhaled. “Yes.”

They reached the other side of the lake and flew on for about a mile. Then Aruendiel guided their mount to the ground, landing with a bump near a small stream.

“A rest,” he said.

“Shouldn't we go on?” Nora objected. “We're not far enough away yet. Or is he dead?” she asked hopefully.

“That would be nice,” Aruendiel agreed. “More likely, he is only distracted.”

“With what?”

“Something larger than he is, although less ill-tempered.” The magician untangled himself from the flying contraption and walked over to the stream. He cupped his hands, gulped down some water, and then stood up. He rubbed his shoulder, then regarded his hand with mild curiosity, as though checking for a tremor or some other sign of weakness.

Nora's mouth and throat were dry, a little sore. Had she been screaming the whole time? She couldn't remember. She went over to the stream, too, and drank until her hands were chilled from ladling up the cool water.

Aruendiel was rummaging in the leather bag lashed to the branch. He came back with a couple of hard-boiled eggs, the last of the batch from the morning. He tossed Nora an egg and sat down cross-legged to peel the other. They ate in silence.

“Is he a dragon?” she asked finally.

Aruendiel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The lake guardian? No.”

“Raclin.”

“Ah. It's hard to say what he is.” He seemed disinclined to go on, but she looked at him expectantly until he spoke again. “There's no such thing as a pure Faitoren. Raclin might have some dragon in him. If so, it's weak. Raclin can't make fire when he's flying—fortunately for us.” He added, after a moment's thought: “Ilissa never said anything to you about Raclin's father?”

“No. I never even thought to ask. Who was he?”

Aruendiel shook his head. “She's always been coy about that. Probably with good reason.”

“But it would be impossible, a dragon and a human—”

“Ilissa's not human.”

“I am, though,” Nora pointed out. “The baby I lost. Raclin's baby. What would it—?”

“Children tend to resemble their parents. In your case, as I told you before, you would have been dead before you could notice the resemblance,” he said, standing up. “We'd best be moving along. I don't want to have to fly this thing after dark.”

She got to her feet as a harsh chorus of bird calls began to sound in the forest bordering the meadow—the scornful, furious accents of blue jays and the hoarse alarms of crows. Then, just as suddenly, the birds fell silent. A long, winged shadow appeared over the treetops.

Nora thought: I knew we shouldn't have stopped. She took a few steps toward the forest, as though that would do any good. Aruendiel stood unmoving, his lifted face pale—frozen with fear, Nora decided, her own hope draining away.

Raclin bulleted toward them, back and wings still slick with lake water. There was no more circling or swooping now, no idle threats, no wicked playfulness in his flight. Only as he closed in—thirty yards, now twenty yards away—did he unsheathe the reptilian grin, allowing himself a jaw-snap in Nora's direction.

She dropped to the ground, shielding her head with her arms. Against the rush of jagged wings, Aruendiel's lean figure looked as frail as a twig.

The magician gave a slight, decisive nod, as though, after long consideration, he had finally made up his mind on a difficult point.

The huge wings wilted. The yellow eyes closed. Raclin dropped to the ground.

For a long, stunned moment, Nora waited, still prone, her eyes on the creature's slumped bulk. One of its wings was flat on the ground, while the other poked upward, askew, like a collapsing tent. A muscular forelimb was flung outward, the claws relaxed, looking almost like a human hand, if you ignored its inhuman size.

Aruendiel walked around the creature slowly. Taking care not to step on the outstretched wings, he tilted his head to view the monster critically from different angles, like a workman inspecting a finished job.

Shakily, she scrambled to her feet. Now she could see that the long, toothy jaw hung slightly open, letting a thread of saliva descend toward the ground. The eyelid facing upward was not entirely closed, either, but the eyeball underneath was as still as glass. Only the surface of Raclin's torso moved up and down in a sluggish rhythm.

“He's asleep!” Nora said. “He's not dead.”

Aruendiel gave a short bark of laughter. “You sound disappointed. Anyone would think you didn't love your husband.”

“I don't love him, and he's not my husband,” she snapped. “Why don't you just kill him?”

The magician grinned darkly at her. “It's not so easy to kill Raclin, as you may have noticed. Especially in this form.”

“But he could wake up at any time,” she said. “You said that iron could kill the Faitoren. If we only had a knife or something, couldn't we simply stab him?”

By way of answer, Aruendiel went over to the leather satchel tied to the flying branch. Nora heard the scrape of metal against metal as, somehow, from a sack that seemed only large enough for a lunch and a change of clothes, he produced a sword as long as his arm. It was doubled-sided, with a plain grip of black-hued steel, and looked heavy, but Aruendiel handled it comfortably enough. He walked back to the sleeping monster and aimed a sharp blow at Raclin's torso. The tip of the sword bit straight at the heart, but as it touched the lizard hide, it bounced off harmlessly, with a metallic groan.

“Let me try,” Nora surprised herself by saying. Aruendiel looked even more surprised, but after a moment, with an odd smile, he handed her the sword. Lifting it with two hands—it
was
heavy—she slashed at Raclin. The sword recoiled violently; her stinging hands dropped it.

Aruendiel smiled again, off-kilter. He picked up the sword and ran his finger along the blade to make sure that the steel was undamaged. Raclin stirred uneasily.

“He's waking up,” Nora exclaimed.

Aruendiel shook his head. “Not with that spell. It's the hundred years' sleep—at least, it would be for a human. Raclin might sleep as little as a day. A week or two, more likely.

“The problem, of course, is that when he does wake up, he'll be extremely well rested and eager to exact revenge. It would be prudent to ensure that he doesn't wake up.”

“So you are going to kill him.”

“Not exactly. It would not be honorable, while he is sleeping.” Aruendiel was quiet for a moment, motionless. Only when Nora felt butterflies in her stomach, the momentary giddiness that she was beginning to associate with magic, did she realize that he was doing a spell. She looked more closely at Raclin. His grayish green skin had turned darker and had taken on a dull, matte texture. The wet gash of his mouth, the black, serrated rows of teeth, the shining crescents of his partly closed eyes—all were now the same leaden color. She counted to ten, twenty, thirty, but the muscled torso was no longer rising and falling.